St Oswald's churchyard, Grassmere, reflections on poets' graves ...

After we'd lolled in Allan Bank, myself gulping fine coffee, Anne sipping tea like a dowager, we knew that we had to visit Saint Oswald's Church, down in Grassmere -

We'd just meet two elderly women in the kitchen, still in their walking boots - they were staying in a cottage - they had wry, clever, expressive faces - one had been a teacher - I imagined her refereeing a hockey match - I could see the beautiful wild girls, like Maenads, racing across the school fields -

Walking down the drive, we called in, briefly, at the chapel, behind the house - we turned away quickly from the sad wreckage inside - I was, however, charmed by the sign in there which read - Magic Lantern Cinema and Restaurant - 

Saint Oswald's was a church of ancient foundation, established during the heptarchy - I remembered the maps I'd seen of those furious, transient, kingdoms -

I was a little disappointed, in truth, by the outward appearance of the church - it appeared to be coated in grey pebble dash - but the interior was soothing, with its worn flagstones and dark pews -

Outside, in the gentle churchyard, we saw the graves of the Wordsworths - I stared for a long time at the severe lettering, carved into the pale stones - poets' graves, I thought, were like sewn up mouths -

Town End Farmhouse, memory and shadow ...

We visited Town End Farmhouse late one chill, darkening, afternoon - we'd driven from Lowood, along a tricksy lane - the route took us up a steep hillside, with glimpses of a deep, wooded, valley, half hidden by mist - there were passing places every hundred yards or so - Anne drove with the skill and daring of an X 3 rocket plane pilot -

The farmhouse overlooked the valley - it had slate roofs and high chimneys - small windows pierced thick stone walls - the same family had lived here for over four centuries - inevitably, I thought of the Starkadders - 

There was a small garden - it started to rain - a wonderful tangle of flowers and tender greenery caught the eye - there were necklaces of raindrops upon the mossy stones - 

Once inside, we wandered through a series of dark, unsettling, rooms - everything was left as it was since the last daughter of the house died - 

There were carvings everywhere - strange troll like figures adorned the fireplace - magnificent pieces of wooden furniture exuded memory - to my joy, I saw a shelf of Annual Registers for the 1770's - in a hallway, I saw wicked antlers, decorating a wall - 

In one mysterious bedroom, a linen smock lay crumpled upon a narrow bed - the air throughout the house smelled of wood smoke - 

We were told that the house would be closed by mid afternoon in the winter - the rooms get so dark - 

I wondered what it would be like to spend the night here - I would sit by the fire, watching the carvings, waiting to see them move -

Sitting in the garden of Dove Cottage, thinking about Dorothy Wordsworth ...

Before I went to sleep in the Duomo, my dreams haunted by owls, I would read two or three pages of Holme's biography of Coleridge - I would stoke up the fiery stove, gaze at portraits of the poet - he and Wordsworth, I thought, were like two planets, whirling around each other - one was a glorious disc of clouds and fire, the other, dark and sombre, ringed with vast mountain ranges -

We had, therefore, to visit Dove Cottage - I had been there, before, with Russell - he had swaggered through the low ceilinged rooms - he idolised Byron and Shelley - I listened to him reciting The Mask of Anarchy in the cigarette smoke filled Triumph Herald -

We were shown round the house by a clever slender girl - the floorboards lurched beneath our feet - one tiny icy room had been wallpapered with copies of The Times - an grizzled American asked about the panelling in the houseplace - I was sure that I could smell sea coal smoke -

The shadowy, numinous, house delighted me - I could have stayed there for hours, listening for voices, snuffing the air - but the guide moved us on, out into the drizzly late afternoon -

We sat in the garden, where Dorothy Wordsworth had sat, looking down at the house - a row of three storied stone houses blocked her view of the lake - we'd been told these houses were built in the 1860's, to lodge Victorian tourists -

I thought about the mysterious, quicksilver, sister of the poet - Coleridge wrote - her manners are simple, ardent, impressive - 

I  imagined her, walking upon the fells by moonlight, a shining spirit, her feet hardly touching the grass -

Stickle Tarn ...

Before we left for the Lake District, Jay posted a breezy face book message - we should climb Dungeon Ghyll, then, by way of Jack's Rake, make the ascent to Pavey Ark -

I thought the names were taken from the pages of some sword and sorcery paperback, perhaps a lost story by Clark Ashton Smith - I could see the foxed volume in my hand - I could smell its spicy, yellowed, pages -

But the names were real - I saw them in Wainwright's Central Fells - we decided, at the least, to climb Dungeon Ghyll -

Driving up Langdale, we listened to some Cape Jazz - we stopped for chocolate in Chapel Stile - the dour houses were built of dark stone - the shop was empty apart from us - the taciturn woman behind the counter pored over her Westmoreland Gazette - I remembered a phrase of Ron Henson's - tea rooms on the edge of the Gobi Desert - 

We moored the red Peugeot opposite the new Dungeon Ghyll Hotel - serious walkers were checking their routes - their keen eyes scanned the sky -

We headed up the Ghyll - I was awed by the icy heartless beauty of the torrent - we climbed upwards, past savage waterfalls - furious glittering masses of water coursed downwards -

At one point, about half way up the fell, we had to cross the torrent - there were three boulders, rising above the foam - we jumped from one boulder to the next -

As we climbed higher and higher, we could see, below us, the bright green ribbon of the valley floor - far beyond, was the silver shard of a lake - clouds swirled above the fells - we were entering a wonderful upper world of crags, hail swept ridges and remote tarns -

Then, there we were - before us stretched the dark waters of Stickle Tarn - suddenly, freezing rain lashed our faces - we sheltered behind a low wall, in front of the tarn - we ate our Snickers bars in triumph -

The landing below Wray Castle, the idea of departure ...

Late one afternoon, we walked along the lake shore towards Wray Castle - the sky was a bright blue, though full of bold fleets of clouds - there were intervals of marvellous sunlight - enormous shadows moved over the wooded fells - we unzipped our cagoules -

The path led us from the camp site, away from the louche camper vans, with their sleepy eyed occupants, the pea pod tents, the billowing family tents - soon we were by the lakeside, stepping over the roots of statuesque oak trees, watching Canada Geese fly low over the water - there was a single white canoe, far out in the lake -

We had to pass through a dark wood to enter the velvet parklands of Wray Castle - we sat upon a smooth bank, overlooking the lake - long shadows were cast by the sun -

Anne paddled in the lake - she said that the water was very cold -

On our way back, near a majestic gothic boathouse, we came across a wooden landing stage - it was sited in a small inlet - barely perceptible ripples caught the waning sunlight - all was still, frozen, it seemed, in the moment -

I thought of how the idea of departure had haunted me - seeing dear faces grow smaller in the mirror -

I imagined the pleasure boat, which landed visitors here, becoming a silent barge - I might watch its shining hull, vanishing in a chilly mist - what voices would I hear then, singing to me, over the water?

The votive tree by the shore of Tarn Hows ...

The path to Tarn Hows was a stairway of dark glistening stones, overlooking an icy torrent - our ears were filled with the ceaseless noise of water coursing over slabs of rock - the beck plunged downwards, over a series of waterfalls - foaming pools were half hidden by lichened oaks - ferns dripped rainwater - spider webs were sinister lace - there were banks of small, shapely, purple flowers -

A fallen tree bridged the ravine - I thought of Coleridge's words, when he saw such a tree, whilst climbing up Scale Force - Oh God! - to think of a poor Wretch hanging with one arm from it - 

The air was mild and damp - I brushed my finger tips over silky pelts of moss - I looked up at the clearing sky - I no longer felt the woods to be sinister, as I had, down in the car park - I'd imagined the Wendigo, stalking through the trees - 

I looked down at the shining turbulent water - perhaps there was a genius loci here - but I knew the spirit could be appeased or even loved - soon a sinuous shape might emerge from the spray - 

Above lay the tarn - we passed through a gate - still water reflected the silent trees and sky - there were clusters of lily pads near the shore - I wondered if other walkers had sensed the strangeness of the place -

A wind blown pine lay across the path - from a distance, it appeared decorated with shining metal scales - when we got closer, we saw that it was studded with coins, mostly English, but from all nations - 

These were votive offerings, I thought - but what prayers had been said, or vows made, here, beside the mysterious water? -

Anne straightened up, after hammering in her coin with a stone - you mustn't say - if you do, the wish won't work - 

The fireplace in Wray Castle ...

Towards the end of our tour of Wray Castle, we were shown what had been the morning room - here, Mrs Dawson could warm herself in the crazy, icy, folly she and her husband had dreamt up - the mock gothic castle was extraordinary - as you approached, along the shores of the lake, you saw crenellated towers, then a great dark iceberg of stone -

Once inside, you entered a vast hall - a staircase led up to a dark wooden gallery - you stood on glowing tiles, a sudden glimpse of beauty in this shadowy place -

Our guide was a cheery northern girl - she took us upstairs - even in the summer, you can see your breath inside - 

We wandered through huge cheerless rooms - there was the billiards room, with its scoring rack - the gentleman would stay here for hours - 

We looked at the servants' quarters, going down the narrow servants' stairs - we shivered inside the tiny rooms - in the time of the Dawsons, these windows were arrow slits - 

Mr Dawson had been a successful surgeon - I imagined his frock coat, stiff with blood - his wife inherited a fortune derived from gin - I looked at their daguerreotypes - there were Mrs Dawson's ringlets - there was Mr Dawson's whiskery chin - 

But I forgave them their bizarre self indulgences when I saw the fireplace in the morning room - for there, bordered by blue tiles, were the figures of two slender women, with grave, calm, faces - one was painting, one was playing a violin - 

I fell in love with them at once, with their delicate shapes, their slim necks - I was sure that I felt their warm breath upon my cheek -