Nothing is quite so green as the Lake District. It drizzled off and on yesterday, on our hike along the fells from Ambleside to Grasmere, northern England. Peaks on the left-hand side, steep mountain leading down to the lakes on the right. We stopped in a little cafe for lunch, soaked and shivering, needing a warm up. Upon commenting on the constant drizzle, the lady serving us goat cheese and chicken sandwiches (with a side of red onion marmalade...breathtaking) said how much they needed a good rain. I wanted to ask her what it had been doing for the last few days we've been here... Apparently unless it creates flash flooding, they just call this "humidity." I don't think she's been to Arizona.
The journey home was delightfully easy, in comparison with the hike to Grasmere. Rolling country roads through a farmer's field, picturesque sheep creating quite the ruckus when a farmer drove through in his Land Rover. I felt like I was in Babe. We took the liberty to stop at Wordsworth's home (both Dove Cottage and Rydal Mount), but didn't want to spend the pounds to get a tour. If you've seen The Holiday there isn't a need to. Same thing really. Just with a dead person's things still lying around...poetically...
Everything is green, everything is stone, and everything is wet. And absolutely fantastic. It'd probably be harder to live here and not write poetry than to do so.
And so... "I wandered lonely as a cloud that floats on high o'er vales and hills, when all at once I saw a crowd, a host of golden daffodils; beside the lake beneath the tress, fluttering and dancing in the breeze." Here's to Bill Wordsworth.
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