Just realised I forgot to post this in August. I apologise sincerely to those whose lives have been irretrievably ruined by the transgression, and will undertake to have myself ritually flogged with an electric eel as soon as I can be bothered.
I’ve been visiting the Lake District regularly (at least once a year) for the past few years now, though only for camping trips to Grizedale, set nicely between Coniston and Windermere in the South Lakes. Last year, the trip was memorable for the wrong reasons – it was abandoned after half of the campsite nearly ended up as part of Morcambe Bay after a downpour that even surprised the local farmer. This year we decided on August instead of June in the hope of better weather, but I’d decided to test the humour of the weather gods by adding a stay in the North Lakes – Keswick, to be precise. I’d been once before, but then only for an afternoon about fourteen years previously – and a town with its own pencil museum cannot be disregarded so lightly.
The journey from Sunderland began with the A1 south as an entrée that I’m quite used to by now, nothing spectacular there. The main course of the A66 over the Pennines was still familiar, but much more beautiful as the Backbone of England rose on either side. Once into Cumbria, dessert was sumptuous. Huge green hills and valleys to the left and right; I have to admit that I was keeping somewhat under the speed limit to be able to appreciate it all (while keeping eyes on the road, obviously). Past Penrith and heading toward Keswick, all else seemed dwarfed by Skiddaw and other local peaks. Just before hitting Keswick centre, I stopped at the Castlerigg stone circle – a prehistoric site of the Stonehenge sort, just with smaller stones and no crossbars (which changed prehistoric football forever). But of more interest is the view – mountains all around: Causey Pike, The Catbells, Blencathra, Castlerigg Fell and Helvellyn – the best name of an English mountain ever.
That evening saw the first of three trips I’d planned to the Theatre by the Lake – this for See How They Run, a classic farce by Philip King with the standard mistaken identities and fast-paced comings and goings. Plus a bishop who looked a little like Bishop Brennan. A very good production, and a humorous way to begin the holiday.
Wednesday morning saw a trip to the Pencil Museum, Keswick having been the first pencil-producing place on the planet. Small, but perfectly formed, which is more than you could say for the Puzzling Place – a small museum about optical illusions. Probably more for kids, to be fair. The weather put the kibosh on plans to do a bit of walking, but another trip to the theatre later on proved a treat – Vincent in Brixton, a studio play about Van Gogh’s early adulthood in London, has to be one the finest pieces of theatre I’ve ever seen – acting spot on, set perfectly detailed and a captivating story.
Thursday’s weather was a lot better, so I took a trip to Ullswater in the hope of seeing those daffodils of Wordsworth fame – failed there. Maybe the wrong time or the wrong place, but I wandered lonely as a cloud around Glenridding anyway. Stunning views around Ullswater in the bright sunshine. I really need to go back to the lakes at some point and do some proper fell walking. The evening saw a walk around the Derwent close to sunset, before a final trip to the theatre – this time for ‘Tis Pity She’s a Whore – a revenge tragedy in the Shakespeare mould, but with more sex and violence. And blood. I’m sure that was a real heart and blood in the final scene, though we’ll assume not human. But effective nonetheless.
So, that was three plays in three nights, all excellent productions drawing upon similar casts (six plays to choose from over the week; a good number of their actors appeared in three shows each). If I’m ever back in Keswick, I’ll have to visit again.
On Friday I checked out of the hotel, and headed for Grizedale, with some Wordsworth tourism on the way. Grasmere is home to his grave, as well as those of a number of his family, including his noted sister Dorothy. I saw those, and then headed to Dove Cottage and the Wordsworth Museum, both worth a look if you’re a fan of the poet, or even of Dorothy. Grasmere is also home to Sarah Nelson’s Gingerbread shop. I’m no gingerbread connoisseur, but it was fine, fine gingerbread. Then, onto Grizedale to hope for great weather, which the BBC was not promising.
But the BBC weather people once again proved as useful as a sundial in Castle Dracula. Saturday was nice and sunny, so it was back off to Grasmere for a swim in the lake. Not too cold – certainly better than the North Sea was the previous month, and made all the better by beautiful mountainous surroundings. An hour’s dip was followed by pub lunch in the Eagle’s Head at Satterthwaite – the game pie there is one of the miracles of the modern world. It was the highlight of our ill-fated trip last year, and was no less wondrous this time around.
The downpours forecast by the BBC even stayed away on Sunday, when the weather was even better – only one cloud in the sky, wandering as lonely as Wordsworth. Thus a second swim in Rydal was enjoyed, again with mountains and trees and pastures and other assorted greenery all around. And again, followed by a pub lunch, and finally, the trip home. A wonderful few days spent in what I believe is the most beautiful part of the country.