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 is in the care of the National Trust, 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 trying to get a feel of 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. I don't want to cast aspersions on the intentions behind Wordsorth Grasmere, but I don't know how possible it is to feel what the Wordsworths must have felt in a place that's so organised and single-minded, somehow, though I'm sure a longer visit outside of the summer season, with the opportunity to walk, would be a start.

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 this West Countrywoman 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.

A springful of robins

It started at the turn of the year - robins everywhere, coming up close, singing right in my ear. And they do lighten my mood as I stomp about, trying not to brood about the state of the world.

And now we're on the verge of bluebell season, and garlickry, and that will be all I'll be able to think about, so before that glorious interval, some early walks as spring unfurls - gently, as it turns out. 

We've only been back to our habitual walking place - the Field of the Hollowing Oak - once since the shock of it being trashed by the golf club, who have rented it for five years, to turn it back into a practice field. 

In my previous post about this special place, I noted the lies we were fobbed off with, about who owns the field, which council is responsible for the right of way, and the route of the footpath. As we entered it last time, a further lie - that the golf club were going to leave half of it as it was for the wildlife, also became evident.  

The Northerner mentioned going there again recently, but all I can think of is that at this time of spring in previous years it's been full of cuckoo flowers and cowslips, and last year I sat in the grass and watched the orange-tip butterflies mate, and it breaks my heart just to think about the desecration, let alone witness it all over again, so we've stayed away. I miss the lovely oak, though, and am glad it won't be missing me (because it's a tree).

So, I've been driving a bit further afield for Cwtch's walks. First, the Trym valley, and my old favourite, Badock's Wood, where the garlic isn't quite in flower yet, but very soon will be ...

... and the badgers kindly dug up two tiny bits of blue and white hoggin for me and left them at the entrance of their sett (bottom right, both photos). 

And I was really pleased to spot these hedgehogs that seem to have evaded the vandals, unlike almost all the other carvings in Badock's Wood. 

I felt a bit guilty when I saw Cwtch's face upon arrival at Blaise Castle, as it was wearing that look of delighted incredulity she always has when she goes somewhere new, and I realised that although we've had her four and a half years almost, this was the first time she'd been there. Which is ridiculous because it's very lovely ... 

 ... except that every time I go there, I relive the disappointment of a five-year-old, who remembers driving across the newly-built (now old) Severn Bridge and through Chepstow (wow!), has heard her parents mention the word ‘castle’ on the way here, and can’t believe this toy in front of her is actually it. (Of course, Bristol’s own, real castle was destroyed by Oliver Cromwell. The meanie.)

And we walked to the viewing point, where you can just make out the tower of St Edyth's Church in Sea Mills ... 

... and through the woods with their magnificent trees and steep drops ... 

... and the pretend Robber's Cave and grotto.

Then down to Hazel Brook, which joins with the River Trym further down the valley. We walked a little way beyond Stratford Mill but not too far, as I also wanted to head in the opposite direction, towards Henbury. 

Hazel Brook bridge

Stratford Mill

Spring squill lining the banks of the Trym

View of St Mary's Church, Henbury, from the far side of the River Trym

Blaise Museum

Cwtch and the blackthorn

Above the Trym valley, Kings Weston Down runs almost as far as Avonmouth, with lovely walks through the woods, so we headed there too. 

Kings Weston House

We saw a heron fly over while we were walking; the second time this has happened this spring. 

The Compass Dial at Penpole Point

View of Avonmouth and the River Severn

The other valley Cwtch and I have visited repeatedly is the Frome Valley, also in north Bristol. 

We've had a good fossick along the river and also up and down the old, mostly walled lanes that drop down into the valley.

 

An old sign on the scrap of land off Ham Lane, that reads DANGER UNFENCED CLIFF, where there are now houses

View of the Frome from the steps leading down to Snuff Mills from Ham Lane

Lane up from the river (a much more pleasant alternative to the steps)

Gothic gateway in Wickham Glen 

(Cwtch is auditioning for a role as Mrs Danvers)

Squeeze-belly stile leading onto Park Road

Cwtch did a bit of paw-planting when we were in the Snuff Mills section of the valley - I'm not sure why - but was happy to visit the old quarries with their coloured rocks ... 

... that are sometimes accessorised with paint.

I also find fascinating the way rock interacts with brick and becomes wall.

There's something about this section of the Frome valley, between Snuff Mills and Eastville Park Lake. I've mentioned a double child-murder that happened here before, and it could be the inherited memory of this incident, but whatever the cause, it's somewhere that makes me shiver ...

... even on bright, sunny mornings in spring. 

Wickham Bridge

I've learnt from my friends on the canal that it's a foolish endeavour to count ducklings, as so many are lost to predators.  

Down in Eastville Park, the hornbeam that fell in January and is now lying partly in the lake has come into leaf, and is full of moorhen and coot activity. 

The cormorants are still hanging out in the same tree I saw them in previously, but the most exciting thing on the river right now is a pair of little egrets puddling in the water. Let's hope there'll be the patter of tiny great big yellow feet soon. 

Eighteenth-century Beech House, which was called Stapleton Grove when Indian reformer and writer Raja Rammohun Roy Bahadoor lived - and died - there, 1829 - 1833

Linden House, formerly a farmhouse with a tower that was part of a folly called Stapleton Castle

And finally Purdown, which has become my go-to place following the loss of the Field of the Hollowing Oak. It's not in the least bit wild, but there's a horizon, lots of trees and plenty of space for a small collie to run ... 

... although not anywhere near Duchess Pond or the dew ponds, because there are water fowl that don't want to be chased there. 

Up in the woods, my favourite trees are coming to life with the rising of their sap. Here's my favourite Purdown oak sporting rainbows ... 

... and a month later, buds, plus bluebells and celandines around its feet.

Holm oak

grey willow

When trees have been coppiced, it can take a bit longer to appreciate how  magnficent they are.

In Barn Wood, at the end nearest the Dower House, I came across a chamber pot, positioned as an outside toilet for a fox den in the roots of a tree. 

It's made me wonder if this area of the woods was used as a bit of a rubbish dump by the previous dwellers, given the large number of potsherds I've found there. Of course, it's the best season for finding hoggin - winter mud diminished, leaf litter rotted, undergrowth not yet grown and earth not yet baked so hard you can't dig it out. Here's what I've found on our walks during the last month, along with some lengths of pipe stem.

I love willow pattern, so was delighted to find the tiny sherd with the faces of the doves on it (bottom right). And I'm rather taken by the marble and the piece of slipware too. 

As for the piece with the crest and partial motto (top left), I did a bit of research: in full, it reads 'autem in nomine domini' and appears to come from St Vincent's College in Castleknock, Dublin, which is odd. What on earth is it doing here, in Stoke Park, Bristol? 

'Maybe a woman got pregnant in Ireland and the Church sent her over here to be locked up in the Dower House,' the Northerner suggested, 'and before she left, they gave her a souvenir mug.'

And here are the flowers so far: primroses, violets, marsh stitchwort, white violets, alkanet, comfrey, cuckoo flower, cow parsley, celandines and ... yes, just starting, the bluebells.

Plus, wood anemones, which have really flourished locally this year. I loved these, still going strong despite the tree they used to grow under having fallen.

And fungi, including a dishwasher's worth of scarlet elf cup, which are as cheering as the robins (though less tuneful).

But now it's time to go swimming in bluebells.