The Lakes: Climbs, Poets, Blisters

Ahhhh, the Lakes. Beloved hills and vales, honored by early 19th century poets William Wordsworth, Samuel Coleridge and Robert Southey. A land brought to life by Beatrix Potter’s heroes, Peter Rabbit and Jemimah Puddle-duck. The 10-mile walk to the Lake District’s crown jewel – Grasmere – gave us lovely views back toward Rosthwaite as we climbed Lining Crag to Greenup Pass before crossing the peaty bog that drops down to the valley. On the day of the Grasmere hike, we enjoyed blue skies and sunshine for most of the morning, highlighting the chartreuse contours flanking Stonethwaite Beck. Soon, the skies began to get heavy with clouds just as the junction between high-level and valley route was reached. Without the promise of clear views, the valley trail won our favor.

Now, thus far in my musings, all reports of this trek across Northern England have painted quite a delightful scenario to all. In the spirit of transparency, I feel I should disclose a few details of my experience as objectively as possible. You deserve it, dear reader. First, the weather this particular summer in all of England has been wet. In the North, it is rainy and gray virtually every day. And soggy. I mean really, really wet. Sometimes the winds and mists at the top of peak hikes (like Kidsty Peak) conspire to blind us and send us tumbling down the hillside. We have had moments of clearing, with warm sunshine, thankfully.

But this does nothing to drain the ground we are traversing. And do you know what happens when feet walk over trails-turned-streams persistently for hours and miles? Feet get wet and blisters develop wherever skin meets shoe. So, I’m not complaining, but you should know that THIS walker requires a ritual of slapping Compeed plasters over increasingly blister-covered tootsies every single morning. This, before pulling on layers of socks and moderately-damp boots for another day’s go. Again, I am not complaining. And still the blisters multiply.

At the end of the day, there was a well-earned cappuccino awaiting us in a lovely cafe. Grasmere proved to be a very special place. We dined and nested at Glenthorne – a Quaker retreat center – where meals began with silence and were shared in lively conversation on topics ranging from London’s Olympics to comparisons between Parliament and American government to Quaker history. A visit to William and sister Dorothy Wordsworth’s home and museum at Dove Cottage soothed my soul.

“I wandered lonely as a Cloud

That floats on high o’er Vales and Hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd

A host of dancing Daffodils;

Along the Lake beneath the trees,

Ten thousand dancing in the breeze.

The waves beside them danced, but they

Outdid the sparkling waves in glee;-

A poet could not but be gay

In such a laughing company:

I gazed – and gazed – but little thought

What wealth the shew to me had brought:

For oft when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood.

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude,

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the Daffodils.”

-William Wordsworth (1804)