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 soon found myself chopping my fingers instead of onions.
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 overwhelming 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!
No comments:
Post a Comment