The Lake District or Up the Kirkstone Pass (Part 4)

Before I left the Lakes District I went to visit the place I'd stayed last time - a youth hostel on top of a hill with fields of wildflowers stretching below and down to Windermere. Here it is:

Also a quick and illicit park at a hotel to stop and photograph Grasmere...After which I found a dog lying behind my car, blocking my escape while his crony barked to alert the owner to my presence. Made a hasty escape via a (illegal) left-hand turn and set off for Northumberland.

I chose the route up the Kirkstone Pass because I'd once seen a photograph of the view and thought it'd be lovely to drive. It was, but it certainly made me glad that a) I was driving a small car, b) I was not towing a trailer and c) I met very few cars on the way up a stretch that I would later find was called The Struggle (not an exaggeration).

Anyway, I pretended like I knew what gears are about and made safely it to the summit. From the top of the pass, it's all (incredibly steep and narrow) downhill and a gorgeous view towards Ullswater:

You can see by the sky that it's clearly an appropriate day for beach activity (the Brits taking every opportunity of it Not Raining to get outside), and many a family was out in force. This guy, however, was the only swimmer.

Nut.

With surprising ease (given that I had the barest of information on my maps) I found my way to Place To Stay #2: Wydon Farm in Haltwhistle, where I was housed in a converted barn and told to make myself at home on the farm. Much chasing of chickens and startling of cows ensued.
Couldn't use the flash here (poor kitty) but it had beautiful eyes - one blue, one green.
This is quite a bleak photograph. Like Wuthering Heights, for cows.

Here, also, is a lovely paint called Tokyo, who enjoyed the grass I fed him from the other side of the fence more than he did my company.

Here is a VERY guilty looking sheeplet who has ducked under the fence.

Another sheep, looking insecure about his painted behind.

Here are some cows, their sentries standing guard as I sat on the fence and watched them.

Here are some cows advancing, shortly after which I got down off the fence and left them alone.

Here is a grassy field, which for some reason I found oddly photogenic.

And here is Wydon Farmhouse, in a variety of composition shots:

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.)

Add to that lots of flowers...

A familiar looking vegetable patch...

A real life Tom Kitten in residence...

And some likely looking holes in the orchard...

And a splendid time was had by all.

Oh. Here's a random picture of a westie I saw. WESTIE!

The Lake District, or Just How Big IS A Clydesdale? (Part 2)

And on the second day, she went horse riding.

Negotiating my way from the B&B to the riding centre was pretty interesting. What with the roads being measured for car widths by someone squinting and tilting their head and saying "Yeah, I'm pretty sure two cars can fit through there", conveniently leaving out the caveat "if they both have their wing mirrors tucked in and one of them is a bicycle". Let's just say there was a lot of squealing and praying to the powers that be that I and my rental car would get through each pass alive. Particularly humourous were the signs that indicated the road was about to get narrower. Ha. Ahahaha!

Anyway. Horse riding. This was an exclusively clydesdale stable, and it was kind of exciting to stand looking up (and up, and up) at these massive animals, wondering how the heck you were going to get on it. Fortunately there were correspondingly massive stepladders (I still managed to flop rather ungracefully over the horse's back. How is it that I've been riding for as many years as I have without yet mastering the mounting procedure?). Anyway, here's Gypsy:

You can see the step ladder at the horse behind her.

Having arrived in my usual completely-unprepared-for-the-elements style, I was properly kitted out and covered head to toe in waterproof gear and boots. Snug as the proverbial bug.

Hmm. Doesn't look as big here as she did from the ground. Anyway. Gypsy was also the trail leader Andy's favourite horse/thing in the world, so I had no choice but to be delighted. I pretty much was anyway. Andy took us through some nearby paddocks so that we could try out the clydesdale canter - I can tell you right now, it's intense. Imagine wheeling down a field of green with the thunder of dinner-plate-sized hooves all around you.

So now that we were familiar with our horses (phrases like "have control over" were bandied about and I can tell you for free that there was no such thing. Gypsy figured out pretty early (probably at the mounting stage) that she was bigger 'n me, and I had to point her in the opposite direction if I wanted to stop her from just moseying on) we set out over farm lands, through streams, and with many, MANY a canter. It. Was. Marvellous.
I didn't get many photos but whenever we stopped I tried to snap something while Andy wasn't looking.
The high point (so to speak) of our ride was climbing the fell - to the layperson this meant urging our horses up incredibly steep and narrow tracks to the top of a mountain. Hurrah! Look how atmospheric!
Once at the top we were allowed (some of us [me] grinning to our heart's content) to canter around the flat top of the mountain. We need a new word for "intense".
(I believe at this point I was heard to utter: "Seriously? We're allowed to do this? Whee!")

Of course, while all this is going on, there was a problem with my saddle.

It was all my own fault, really. See, whenever I go riding and there's someone who talks just that bit too much about all the riding they've done and all the horses they've ridden, you just know that reality isn't going to quite match up with expectation. Maybe there's some nervousness behind it all. Anyway. I did it. I committed the cardinal sin of Talking Too Much.

As soon as I was up someone came over to point out that my saddle was drifting to the right. This, they explained, was either due to me not sitting right (i.e., leaning too far to the right) or the horse not standing right (i.e., leaning too far to the right) or some combination of the two. The solution, apparently, was for me to try to shift it back every now and then by putting all my weight on my left leg and jumping around. You can bet this went down really well in practice, with Gypsy taking any kind of movement from me at all to mean "Let's go now!"

While this was pretty annoying, it held up well until we'd gotten to the bottom of the fell again. My leg muscles were non-existent and playing around with weight while looking at a steep drop seemed a very stupid idea. At any rate, we made it to a flat little valley and were offered one more canter. It was only at the end of this that I felt something was not right. Something, in fact, was Wrong.

Cue, my worst nightmare, and a flashback of the time I broke my shoulder blade. Saddle tipping, world tipping, should've fished my feet out of the stirrups but no time and PLOP! What a long way towards the ground! This all happened, I should point out, while Gypsy was more or less completely stationary and slightly confused. By sheer luck (absolutely no horsewomanship of my own here, at ALL) I fell onto an uphill slope and the ground was nice and soft.

Once I'd gotten my breath back and managed to get into a standing position (nothing broken! And this despite falling on the same previously-wounded shoulder. YAY!) the dilemma remained of how to get back on the horse without any giant stepladders. Poor Andy had to dismount (no one else had done so and I don't blame them in the slightest) and give me a leg up. Thus began the second and much more embarassing part of the debacle.

He asked if I had gotten a leg up before. I said yes, because at one long-distant pony lesson, I had been given a leg up onto a small white pony. I'll leave Irony to point and laugh. My understanding is that the person is supposed to swing their leg over and climb lightly onto the horse. This, of course, once you've taken into account a) how short my legs are and b) how large Gypsy's back was. It did Not Go Well.

So there I was, sitting on Gypsy's back. Just not on the saddle. That was still in front of me, and had to be clambered over on all fours. Absolutely no sympathy from my fellow riders, who were lucky to still be on their horses, given how hard they were laughing.

Made it back to the farm in time to beat most of the rain, took the horses through a stream to wash their feet and stopped to tell the story of How I Fell Off to everyone else at the stable.

Ah well. In the future I shall riding shetland poines and telling people that I have done "some riding", and leaving it at that.