To the Vale of Lune and Cautley Spout

Nine years had passed since I'd last seen my Friend in the North, Jill. And when I say North, I mean North: the woman who for many years lived up the road from me in the Cotswolds has long been based in County Durham. 

But since we were holidaying a mere 67.7 miles away in Lancaster - or to be precise, Dolphinholme - it would be easy to rendezvous half way, with Sedbergh, which somehow manages to be in the Yorkshire Dales and Cumbria simultaneously, the agreed meeting point. First, though, a quick visit to St Gregory's Church at Marthwaite in the Vale of Lune, which has connections with the Arts and Crafts Movement. 

Not the most prepossessing of buildings - although instantly familiar to someone like me, who was raised Methodist - St Gregory's was built in the 1860s as a Mission Chapel for the navvies building the London and North Western Railway, and so it didn't have to be fancy. This doesn't mean it wasn't fitted out with care and an eye for detail following its refurbishment in the 1900s,  the wooden fittings and furniture being supplied by the prestigious firm of Waring & Gillow of Lancaster. 

William Holman Hunt's 'The Light of the World'

It's the stained glass windows, though, that are the real glory here. Installed when the church was enlarged in the 1900s, they were designed by Frederick George Simon and, for the most part, feature local rivers, hills, trees, plants and wildlife.

The church also contains three beautiful windows designed by Morris & Co.

Justice

Fortitude

Peace

It was time to be getting on, however, our destination the National Trust-owned Cross Keys Temperance Inn at Cautley on the other side of Sedbergh. 

A temperance pub? Why yes, the story being that alcohol ceased to be sold there quite abruptly, following a raucous night in 1902 when a drunken customer by the name of Buck was being helped home by the then landlord. Buck fell down the bank of the River Rawthey, only for the landlord, while trying to help him, to fall right in and drown. The pub was subsequently sold, the liquor licence removed, and that was that. 

I didn't mind, I was driving. And our Friday pie and peas were washed down quite nicely by tea and ginger beer. 

Since, having met up with Jill and her partner Paul, there were three dogs in our party and an actual, real-life and quite noisy children's party going on inside, we were more than happy to sit out in the back garden overlooking the Howgill Fells, which were very beautiful indeed. 

No, you can't herd them, Cwtch.

For our walk, we crossed a very placid-looking River Rawthey via a rather grand new footbridge, and made our way up the track towards the cascade up ahead of us, which has the rather wonderful name of Cautley Spout. 

The views were lovely, but I was struck by how dry and crackly the vegetation was, even in areas where rushes and sphagnum moss were growing that you would expect to be boggy.

Paul remarked that a dry summer such as this one probably wasn't the best time to go gallivanting after waterfalls, but the Spout was pretty all the same, even if on other occasions, it's a lot more dramatic. 

Sadly, the inn was closed by the time we got back, otherwise we might have felt entitled to some cake after our walk, but nothing could spoil a lovely day in the beautiful part of the North. 

Ee, but it were grand! 

Tea and cake with the Wordsworths and the Old Man of Coniston

Most years the furthest north I get are places like Bridgnorth in Shropshire, or Hinckley in Leicestershire, though two years ago, quite spectacularly, I made it to Manchester for my Masters graduation. To be on holiday as far north as Lancaster, then, was a feat, being quite a bit further north than the Northerner's hometown of Barnsley. And since we'd made it that far, why not go further north again, to the Lakes, for the day? So we did.

First stop, the monolith that is Wordsworth Grasmere. I say monolith because I couldn't help comparing it with the rather more modest commemoration of Coleridge in the wilds of Somerset, where the cottage he and Sarah rented has been owned by the National Trust for the last 116 years, and boasts a tea room, shop and garden, with parking available in the pub car park over the road. 

In comparison, Wordsworth Grasmere offers an 'immersive family experience', and comprises Dove Cottage, which William rented with his sister Dorothy, and later also his wife; a garden, orchard and woodland; a cafe; a gift shop; its own car park; a purpose-built museum housing the collections of the Wordsworth Trust; a library; an archive; a Reading Room; an art collection of the Lake District; and a viewing platform offering panoramic views of the surrounding area. Plus, a lot of the neighbouring cottages seemed to be part of the enterprise in some capacity or other as well. Phew. 

Helm Crag from outside Dove Cottage

Since we had Cwtch with us, and would have to go on the guided tour one after the other, we restricted ourselves to the cafe, cottage and garden. More than anything else, I'm interested in how poets lived. 

As I awaited my turn to go into the cottage, I heard some rather subdued singing at my shoulder and turned to find a robin serenading me with its wistful subsong. Turns out robins are really good at ventriloquy - who knew?

I loved the cottage, with its dim light, though I suspect I'd have found myself chopping my fingers instead of onions if I had to cook in that kitchen.

Poor Dorothy. Beds everywhere as her brother's family grew in size. 

The walls of the small bedroom were covered in newspaper in 1800, in an attempt to insulate it.

the garden giving way to woodland

looking towards Silver How

I left Wordsworth Grasmere impressed, but privately yearning for the simplicity of Coleridge Cottage and a rather less grand day out.

Our second and final stop of the day was Coniston Water, where we'd done another über-touristy thing and booked ourselves onto a boat trip. Since neither of us could bear the Swallows and Amazons stories as children, we avoided the one that visits 'Wild Cat Island' - which is actually Peel Island, at the southern end of the lake - though we were still given some information about the gruesome sixsome, along with details about Donald Campbell, the Omaze house that was in the draw last Christmas, and John Ruskin, which seem to be the area's chief claims to fame.

The guide on our boat announced that while the normal length of time required to climb the Old Man of Coniston is three to four hours, with another two to three hours to get back down, the record time is a shade over an hour, with twelve minutes for the descent. Which makes you wonder what would happen if they rolled a cheese down it.

Brantwood, former home of John Ruskin

the Steam Yacht gondola, owned by the National Trust

Something I didn't even know existed: not sea glass, but lake glass.