a zissis in london: The Lake District, or Of English Writers and Sore Muscles (Part 3)

The third day was mostly spent going "ooh" and "ahh" and "oh god it hurts", the first two being utterances of awe at all the prettiness and the last relating to injuries and muscle sprains incured the previous day.

I took the intrepid little rent-a-car back into the fray of the country roads and up to Grasmere. First stop, home of William Wordsworth, Rydal Mount.

So. Very. Lovely. I mean, really. Imagine having those gardens to wander in and basically enjoy the hell out of every day? Of course he was a poet. Actually he designed the gardens himself, with individual terraces and gardens for each member of the family. Plus he had his own little private lake view: Rydalmere.

I mean, this was the bottom of his garden:

What a great place for his kids to grow up. Not quite as many daffodils as you might have expected, but for all you gardening enthusiasts, I found these weird pink leaves:

I did ask what they were, but have completely forgotten the answer. Something, something, acid in the soil... I was too busy getting all giggling and swoony over Wordsworth's study:

Just visible is a note on the chair that says: "Please do not sit on this chair". Guess what I had just been about to do? But then one doesn't want to be responsible for breaking Wordsworth's chair.

There's also an amusing patch of ground described as a beacon lawn; to be lit on fire in case warning needs to be sent of...invasion, I suppose. It's almost worth starting a false alarm to see it done.

Once I'd spent a little longer enjoying the gardens it was time to continue on to Grasmere, home of the famous Gingerbred. Oh yes, tis famous! And delicious! (not pictured: me pigging out on gingerbred) Oh, and Wordsworth was buried there, too.

Hello William!

Also found this, which gave a bit of a shock:

Wait. Who?

Here are a few more pretty shots from the cemetery, including this awesome cross:

Had lunch at this cafe overlooking the river (never sure what to eat while on holiday - seems to be an obligation to eat the local produce, but I'd just had that for breakfast [sausage, if you're wondering, and eggs, but not black pudding. I'm not crazy...]. Anyway, for the starved of entertainment, I had chicken and corn soup).

Off I tootled, to the home of another famous writer: Hill Top Farm, of Beatrix Potter. Squee!

It was all so lovely and wee and it had the vegetable patch where Peter got caught, the staircase with the grandfather clock where Tom Kitten was caught and rolled in a patty pan, the parlour where Tabitha Twitchett served tea, and out the window, this view of a gorgeous windy road that I can't find anywhere, and this, the front door:

Consider your minds blown.

The aforementioned winding road is featured in one of the books which a guide showed me - it is a view from the upstairs window at Hill Top, but I can't for the life of me remember which book. Gingerbread to the person who figures it out! (On a side note, this guide confided to me that her name was in fact Mrs MacGregor, but I wasn't to mention this to the children coming through the house.)