Windermere in the southern Lake District.
Don't let the ordinary name fool you: The Lake District is about as ordinary as a rose in full bloom. Though we only spent one night, we saw enough to know why the place inspired poets. Wordsworth, who wandered lonely as a cloud among the green fells and lakes, admonished travelers to "covet not the abode" but our abode was owned by the National Trust and hardly felt our covetous glances.
We stayed the night near Hawkshead at Low Loanthwaite Farm, built in the 16th century during the reign of the first Queen Elizabeth. The woods surrounding the home at the time belonged to the Queen, and were reserved for ship building. (There was that business with the Spanish Armada, remember.) Since the timber had to be reclaimed from other structures, it's quite possible the original beam in the sitting room is a thousand years old. The walls are five feet thick in some places, which might just deter the ghosts from walking through them. (I'll never again ridicule British plumbing after seeing the obstacles a pipe encounters, including National Trust guidelines. We're lucky we could flush at all.)
Our farmhouse was once owned by Beatrix Potter, but is now managed by Susan Barr and her husband Pip, who live at the farm. Their retired working dog Lassie welcomes visitors, especially if you speak to her in a Lake Country voice. When my friend Sue called "Come, Lassie" with an American accent the dog ignored her, but when she tried "Coom Lassie" the dog trotted right over.
The next day we toured the Lake District before heading toward Carlisle. My car, still determined to be a 4x4, inched up Kirkstone Pass and then squealed with delight on the way down, at least until I downshifted. At Glenridding we caught a nineteenth century steamer to Howtown and Pooley Bridge. A cold wind kept us wimps inside at the bar, but we had a wonderful view of the surrounding fells and shared the ride with fell walkers and their dogs.
Not far away we parked at Gowbarrow and trekked to Aira Force. (The Lakes have their own language. A "fell" is a mountain, a "force" is a waterfall, and a "thwaite" is a clearing. A small lake is a "tarn.") Huge conifers, planted in the 19th century by the Howard family of Greystroke Castle, break through the rocky soil. In a sunny clearing are the daffodils that supposedly inspired Wordsworth, though their bouncy yellow heads have turned brown by now. Two paths lead to the 70-foot force, which can be viewed from a stone bridge above or beside the suddenly calm water below.
We ended up in Carlisle, a city in northern Cumbria that desperately needs an influx of tourists. We seemed to be the only ones there, or perhaps the others were still searching for the castle that eluded us until almost closing time. (Note to Carlisle Tourism Board: vagueness has its place, but not on signs.) Not wanting to be locked in with the ghosts of Jacobites (forced to lick the stones in the dungeons to survive) we hurried through the keep and didn't get to see where Mary Queen of Scots spent several months before her cousin Liz moved her further south.
That night we stayed on Hadrian's Wall, but that's a whole 'nother post. Stay tuned.
For more info, go here. If you go to the Lake District, be prepared. Wear good walking shoes, bring a walking stick to hike the fells, and a sturdy dog is also nice. There's an internet café in Glenridding, but the cash machines I encountered were iffy about taking American cards, so bring plenty of pounds. You'll walk them off, I promise.
