Lake District- Part II

Base of the stream

The next morning Jeff  and I decided to explore some of the local trails before grabbing the first bus out of town. After staring out the window during breakfast at a stream bisecting a nearby hill, we decided it was worth seeing up close. Twenty minutes later we were at the base of it and decided that the series of barren patches in the vegetation might constitute a path, so we should find out where it went. After forty minutes of scrambling up rocks and through decaying ferns, I feel comfortable concluding that it was not supposed to be a trail but we may have successful bushwhacked a route for others to follow in the future. Although boots would be in order, as the springy vegetation that looks like a cross between moss and grass often turned out to be disguising several inches of standing water. By the time we got to the top, we were dripping with sweat and running late for the outbound bus so we hastily slipped and slid out way down. I must admit that after walking all the way from Keswick to Buttermere it was a bit aggravating that we had to take a bus back to Keswick before we could catch another bus to Windermere. But at least the bus was dry and warm and we got to a scenic tour of a new section of the Lake District.

Buttermere from above

Windermere is a rather substantial town and obviously a hot tourist destination during the summer. In addition to water sports and hiking it boasts many coveted attractions such as the World of Beatrix Potter, which must be giving stiff competition to Keswick’s Pencil Museum. Clearly this part of England is making an effort to target the 18-29 year-old demographic. Upon arriving we made the tough choice to pass up seeing Beatrix Potter and popped into a café just in time for the post-church Sunday lunch rush. We manages to secure a tiny table in the corner that provided the perfect vantage point for people-watching and an intimate look into small-town England. The 80-year-old woman at the table across from us appeared to be having her weekly lunch date with her son and his wife.  It was fascinating to watch as she slowly dissected her quiche with the precision of a surgeon and rearranged her chips (i.e. French fries) with the concentration of a general assembling his troops for battle. On the other side of us there were six women dressed to the nines who took turns venting about the aggravating behavior of their grown-children and yet lamenting how infrequently their children come to visit. Elements of the environment were decidedly foreign but I imagine that mothers have these conversations all over the world.

We spent the afternoon wandering around Lake Windermere and headed out of town with the last hour of sunshine. The hostel was a good 50-minute walk outside of Windermere and the driveway alone must have been longer than Orange Avenue. But it was a beautiful walk- crisscrossing tree boughs and mossy stone walls formed a primeval tunnel that eventually opened up onto on overlook of intersecting hedge groves rolling across the surrounding hills. Fortunately, we had the foresight to buy dinner provisions before leaving town and made tortellini in the hostel’s self-catering kitchen. For dessert, Jeff introduced me to Hob Knobs, a delightful and addicting cross between a tea biscuit and an oatmeal cookie. There must be something very relaxing about staying in rural areas, or perhaps it is the lack of access to a computer, because normally I struggle to go to bed before midnight and in the Lake District it was hard to keep my eyes open past 9:30. The next morning was Monday so it was time to head back to Oxford, Of course, it was raining again, but in the first display of true hospitality I have seen in England, some kind soul pulled over to the side of the road about 15 minutes into our walk back to Windermere and offered us a ride to the train station. Three train changes and a few screaming children later and we were back in Oxford in time for lunch. All in all it was a great weekend but I think the next time I feel the need to get out of Oxford, I will take a page from Elizabeth Bennet’s playbook and try the Peak District instead.