"Those Poor Girls!"

The Haworth church

Church interior

In memory...

Some of the authors' personal possessions

Emily's bedroom

Thornfield chest

Cemetery and Parsonage

So exclaimed the proprietess of the farm campsite we stayed at Monday night, when I told her we were headed next for Haworth. She went on to extol their genius and achievement, despite the dreadful circumstances. I had been to Haworth before, in 1989, but had forgotten just how sad and tragic their story was. The "In Memory" plaque in the church conveys much of it. Mother and six children all died prematurely, the two elder girls before adolescence, Emily and Anne before 30, Charlotte at 39, a year married and pregnant. The son, Branwell, who was thought to be the talented one (the son, of course), drank and drugged himself to death by 31. The father outlived them all, to the the age of 85. A minister, he must have known the Book of Job by heart. The story is all the sadder, indeed, when one considers the genius and achievement.

Swinside Circle

Swinside Stone Circle

A section of the circle and environs

Me, at the entry way

Right there, on the south 40

More beatiful countryside; an estuary of the Irish Sea is

perhaps a mile away

Our last day in the Lake District was Monday, the 5th, and we drove south from Coniston to beyond Broughton-on-Furness to the Swinside stone circle. Everyone knows of Stonehenge and Avebury, but it has been extraordinary to us how many other fine monuments there are throughout these islands. And we have barely scratched the surface. Swinside is a little harder to get to. You can drive right up to most of these sites, park in the carpark, maybe read a kiosk or even go to the visitor center. Swinside, a marveously preserved and large site, 55 of the 60 medium-sized stones still standing, is out there on somebody's sheep/cattle ranch, right on the the south forty, so to speak. A mile-and-a half walk along the farm track takes you to it. (Decent blackberries). No sign, no carpark, no visitor center. And it is all the more interesting for its remoteness.

We had lunch at the circle, examined all the stones--a few possible cup-marks, an interesting four-stone entry way, three pointy stones marking the compass points--then walked back to the camper and drove off in the direction of Yorkshire, staying at a farm campsite that evening.

Ruskin

After the Old Man, or 2/3rds of the Old Man, I visited the Ruskin Museum in Coniston. John Ruskin was the great Victorian artist/critic/educator/social reformer, one of Britain's most impressive and influential thinkers. It is another small, provincial museum, but it conveyed, at least for me, much of what the man was about, as well as the intersections between his interests and mine (Turner, mountains (“nature's cathedrals”), landscapes, geology, touring, representation and interpretation, preservation, education and the people, and on and on). On display were many of his notebooks and sketches and drafts. The man's industry—he must never have spent a waking moment not sketching or writing—is incredible. After the museum I visited his gravesite in the Coniston churchyard. He was offered Westminster Abbey but stayed in the Lake country.

We drove back to Hawkshead to buy a winter Tilley hat I had been admiring (I am a Tilley man, and it was 45 degrees last night) and then camped, as it nearly always were, at a tarn trail carpark on the summit "High Cross" between Hawkshead and Coniston.

Ruskin Museum

Portrait

In his study, in Coniston; sort of a St. Jerome pose...

Rock Band; well, Ruskin's harmonicon, a rock (hornfel)

dulcimer, made for him by the Till family in Coniston,

who were touring world-wide to popularize this form of

music; evidently it was not Elvis who invented Rock

Grave at Coniston churchyard

No Foul-Weather Fell-Walkers, We

We awoke October 4, after another stormy night, now in Coniston Water, to a strange, brilliant, golden orb in the sky; a strangely blue sky, too. It was not raining. 

With this good fortune we decided to walk again among the fells, this time up the Old Man of Coniston, the 3,000 foot peak that towers above Coniston Water. We got as far as lunch, gathering grey clouds, and a few drops of rain. Unlike the Brits, who seem to spend their lives in mountain gear shops, buying water-proof garments and gear, and then, occasionally, using them, we elected not to use ours and to walk back down the Old Man, after only getting 2/3rds the way up. It did not seem a worthy peak to me, in the impending inclemence, and, although the trail was very good up to the slate quarry, it became difficult, more so than we thought prudent for Vicki's Routeburn-wrenched knees. (Was it just a year ago we were landing at Lukla and beginning the march up to Namche Bazaar, Tengboche, and Kala Pattar?). Our descent was lengthened by another extended bout of blackberry picking. But now we are learning the meaning of the British term “September blackberries.” They look ripe and lucious, but best to leave them for the birds and insects, and winter. It never did really rain.

The Old Man of Coniston, seen from town

A six-foot high fence crosses the valley before the mountain

"On belay!" Sunday morning rock climbing

class at Coniston

Tailings from the huge slate quarry, disused since 1955

View back toward town

Coniston Water scenery

Not all that far away, the Irish Sea

With Flopsy, Mopsy, Cottontail and Peter at Hill Top

Our hoped-for quiet night at Skelwith Fold was interrupted, quite early, by an all-night/all morning gale—make that, now, all-day gale—30-40 mph winds, with gusts to 70, according to the weather service. It's remarkable to me there are any trees left standing, but apparently this is not unusual weather, and the trees, large, old, and varied, are well adapted for it. I am not. The Grey Wanderer buffeted violently, even more than at the North Cape or more recently on the Isle of Skye. All this in a large holiday park in a Fold (hollow?). We slept in, it being pointless to go out. At length we gathered things together and tied them down and set forth for Hill Top, Beatrix Potter's cottage/studio, as well as the gallery of her work in Hawkshead, a few miles back down the road.

It is a surpassingly beautiful countryside, even in a gale, and hers is a relatively beautiful story. The daughter of a wealthy family, she set herself to writing and illustration after an early marriage fell through; her fiance died unexpectedly. She did not marry until age 47, the local solicitor, and by this time her literary career was largely behind her. And she was by this time a very wealthy woman. She became associated with the National Trust and continued buying up Lake Country farms—ultimately a couple dozen farms and thousands of acres, which she managed for conservation and then, upon her death in 1943, donated it all, sheep and buildings and book royalties and land and all, to the Trust. All this was news to me. I had read many of her works to Rebecca and Rachel when they were quite young and probably thought Beatrix Potter was just another Victorian eccentric who wrote children's books. Wrong again. Further, her prime was more Edwardian than Victorian, FWIW.

Anyhow, the cottage and gallery are both quite well done. She actually left instructions for which possessions were to be displayed when the property came to the Trust. In every room of the cottage are copies of the relevant books for visitors to look at and then look at the actual chest, or hearth, or table depicted in the book.

Interestingly, there were no children in her life, none of her own, nor even any nieces or nephews. Peter Rabbit began as an illustrated letter to her governess' child, Noel Moore, I think. The original letter is right there on the desk in her study; as well as a rejection letter from a publisher for subsequent submission. She wrote as she did, she said, because she herself “never grew up.” The gallery, in Hawkshead, is actually her husband's law firm building, also donated to the Trust. He was her legal counsel as she acquired more and more and donated it all to the Trust. It contains many of the original watercolors and other items. You must see both the gallery and the cottage.

The National Trust: if you come to the UK for more than a lay-over, you must join. Membership gives you free admission and free parking at the something like 2,000 of Britain's finest historic properties and lands, which they own and manage, caringly and competently. They are also the world's largest non-profit.

I still have not figured out the relationship between Beatrix and Harry but assume there must be some. These things do not just happen....

View from Beatrix Potter cottage Hill Top

Beatrix Potter cottage from garden

Vicki in the garden

The gallery in Hawkshead

One of the watercolors at the gallery, my

favorite, Squirrel Nutkin

==================================
Vicki adds:

Lake District, England October 3, 2009

Raining, fancy that. I now fully understand why the British Isles are known for their rainy weather. Mark and I feel like we are growing moss. We have been able to enjoy the area though. I can see why the English love it. It is truly one of the most beautiful parts of the world, and we are getting to be fair judges of world scenary. It is in no way spectacular like the Alps, New Zealand or Norway—just bucolic, peaceful and absolutely lovely. Huge oak, fir and other trees set out in outrageously green fields divided by dark gray slate fences. Add the craggy mountains and the lakes and occasional villages and farms—it looks exactly like you want it to look.

Rebecca and I were here about 7 years ago but only brushed the edge of the area and it was high season and the crowds were not appealing. I think late May and early June would be the best time—before the crowds but warmer then now, with Wordworth's daffadils blooming with the rhododendron. We wish we had better weather to do more walking. Somehow I just can't get into the English/Scottish attitude that there is no bad weather, only inappropriate attire. I did buy a lined pair of walking pants today though, since we can't run the heater non stop in the camper. But at least there is no interior rain. I must admit I have never seen a wider selection of waterproof clothing than in the outdoor stores here. And every other store is an outdoor store!

A Spot of Time with Bill and Dottie in Grasmere

We awoke October 2 at the Airy Force car park, cleared out again little noticed, and drove on past Ullswater, over the huge 1,500 foot Kirkstone Pass, and then into Windermere, where we nosed around briefly, and then on to Grasmere and Wordworth's Dove Cottage. We visited the museum and did the fine cottage tour. It is Holy Ground, indeed, and a really fine literary center—not just Wordswoth, but also his pals, Coleridge and DeQuincy and others, and successors too. The Wordsworth Trust keeps a small bouquet of dried poppies on the mantel beneath DeQuincey's portrait, a nice touch, I think. (DeQuincey wrote Confessions of an English Opium-Eater, among other things).

Bill and Dottie were an interesting pair. Something really special, filially. Bill and Mary had been married 10 years before Bill wrote her a letter that was not also addressed to his sister. Maybe the postal rates were really, really high. His infatuation with social justice, the Revolution, and then his inward turn, are of interest. As well his fathering a French child in 1792-93, but never quite getting around to marrying the French mother of his child, whom he professed to love, etc. Too busy with his poetry, I guess. And with Dottie. I assume 10,000 or more doctoral dissertations have already looked into this.

We walked about Grasmere in the rain for a bit, visiting the church and Bill's grave, and Dottie's, more mountain gear and souvenir shops, did some grocery shopping at the Coop, and then moved on to Ambleside and the Skelwith Fold Caravan Park. Skelwith Fold is apparently another noble's deer park turned into a holiday park for the commoners—well, the more affluent commoners. We stay in such places about once a week now...fresh water, the wash, the trading library, the sewage, maybe some internet, etc., then back to rough but scenic and free camping the rest of the week. But the former deer parks are nice—old, seral forests, often with old, exotic trees. Someone had to do it.

Dove Cottage, where William and Dorothy Wordsworth, and

others, lived in the early 1800s, before he became really

famous

This is the proclamation from Victoria

Regina (well, her Lord Chamberlain)

appointing Wordsworth Poet Laureate;

he had twice before refused, feeling

uncomfortable with the requirement

of writing state poems on demand;

even for money; poets are like that

A stone bench found by Coleridge while puttering around

in the garden, ever since known as the Coleridge Bench;

he was a frequent visitor

The Wordsworth Steps, which he put in himself, they said

Gravesite

Worsdworth's actual grave, Dottie on his right,

Mary on his left

"Not raised in nice proportion was the pile.

But large and massy; for duration built.

With pillars crowded, and the roof upheld,

By naked rafters intricately crossed."

Gentle Landscape

It's a beautiful landscape, the Lake District,

as beautiful as any I have seen, the play of

colors and shapes, light and cloud, lakes,

streams, waterfalls, mountains, cliffs

(whatever they call them)

But, at least to someone from the American West, it seems

like everything is on a miniature scale

There is a major campaign on to save the red squirrel, the

largest remaining predator :-) 

"None shall pass!"

The Lake District is only 30 miles in radius, yet it receives some 18 million visitors annually. That's six times what Yellowstone gets.

Ascent of Gowbarrow Fell; or, A Fulfilling and Fun-Filled Fall Fell-Walk

After a couple days off, doing internet and then installing insulation all over the exterior of the Grey Wanderer, we found ourselves back on the Ullswater, at Airy Force (where we spent three nights ultimately), and in the land of waters, becks, forces and fells, glades and glens, and also meres. Why can't these people speak plain decent English? It was Thursday, the promised day of fine weather, and we decided to do the walk up Airy Beck to Airy Force, then High Force, and then the village of Dockray, a round-trip of five miles, without a map or glossary or even our GPS (which they call a SatNav). Just before getting to Dockray, we decided instead to ascend nearby Gowbarrow Fell (about 1,500 feet, maybe) for the views of Ullswater and environs. The trail grew more challenging, but we made it in time for a breezy but scenic lunch at the summit. Trailing a nice Northumberland couple we befriended along the way, we walked back down the lake-side of the fell, with incredible views. All in all it was about 7 miles, but one of the two or three best day-trips we've ever done, including the Rob Roy Glacier in NZ. Plus, no one fell.

Airy Force (waterfall) along Airy Beck (creek)

The village of Dockray, from Gowbarrow Fell

Gowbarrow Fell summit

Another fixer-upper; to-die-for view

Ullswater from above

Someone's vanity castle?

Sitka Spruces and a Monkey Puzzle tree in

the canyon; formerly, some lord's deer park...

Hadrian's Wall Out-takes

Your empire needs you...

Wall-walkers can avail themselves of the free bus and not

have to endure return-walks; sort of like the water taxis at Abel

Tasman

Chain mail curtains at the visitor center

Once Brewed...when you have been naming towns for a

1,000 years or so, you start getting really inventive

Next down the road was Twice Brewed; we never saw

Thrice Brewed, but in Devonshire we will be looking for

Baked, Half Baked, and Twice Baked; forgot to post

these a few days ago.

Sorting It Out

The British are renowned for "sorting it out." Everything gets "sorted out." At Wickes Trade and DIY Superstore in Penrith, they have even sorted out which kind of trolley (shopping cart) to choose. If only Home Depot were so well sorted out.... I remember, with regret, so many occasions on which, uninformed, and certainly unsorted, I chose the wrong trolley.

Please choose, carefully, among: the flat bed trolley, the 

basket trolley, the board trolley, or the insulation trolley

Some of the bewildering variety of trolleys