Rowing boats by Lake Windermere ...

I can remember rowing upon Lake Windermere when I was young and untested - the image is a small jewel from my memory hoard - there I am, with my thin wrists and pale skin, dipping the oars into a still lake - when I looked up into the sky, I saw only the promise of happiness -

The boat had a slender hull - it was clinker built, made of light brown varnished wood - the oars fitted into fancy wrought iron rowlocks - I rowed round a small wooded island - I was in my early twenties, brimful of dreams - 

How wonderful, then, to see what seemed to be the very same boat - years afterwards, when so much had happened to me - I felt as though I might see my former self, rowing towards me, with a bright, trusting, face -

Perhaps I was wearing the same tweed jacket as I'd worn that morning - I'd found it, a few years back, at the bottom of a green suitcase - it was the one my dad had bought me, a thick Harris Tweed, drenched once in peaty water - 

The idle boy in the boat hire office said that the lake was too choppy to venture out in a rowboat - we could go out in a motor boat - 

We did so - the wretched craft was the size of a bath tub - it wallowed and lurched about in the waves - but in the lee of Belle Isle, we motored serenely, between lines of yachts - 

I thought of myself again, in the past, being here, under a different sky - perhaps we were all followed by our former selves, bright shadows, just out of sight ...

Sitting in Coleridge's bedroom at Allan Bank ...

It took us a while to find Allan Bank - we'd parked the wounded Peugeot in a tricksy car park in Grassmere - we edged past the muzzles of vicious Range Rovers -

The Grassmere Guzzler Beer and Music Festival was well under way - young men in rain soaked tee shirts flocked to Tweedies Bar - later, the willowy Polish girl would tell us - there are eighteen restaurants in Grassmere - 

We'd driven past the lake on our way here - the water was an oval of stippled glass - icy rain drops fell from the low clouds - I looked at the island in the middle of the lake - I saw there, in my mind's eye, Wordsworth and Coleridge, dancing round their glorious bonfire - there was Dorothy Wordsworth, with her clear, perceptive, gaze -

We stepped inside the National Trust shop to ask the way - the crotchety woman, with her arras of tea towels, was terse with her directions - perhaps the rain water dripping from our cagoules offended her, or my rug was too wild -

The house was reached by a steeply sloping track - we stared up at its white walls and huge windows -

Once inside, we were embraced by a warm, disordered, world - the rooms had distressed, roughly plastered, walls - worn Persian rugs covered creaking floor boards - there were shelves of children's books, with artless, vivid, covers -

We made our way around the house - there had been a fire here, a few years ago - charred beams, like dark, half chewed, bones were on display upstairs -

Visitors could paint water colours, draw, doze in comfortable armchairs, drink tea, snarf luscious chunks of coffee cake - kids could play hide and seek in the bedrooms, play with ragged toys - I drew a kindly donkey upon a blackboard -

I sat, in Coleridge's bedroom, reading mountaineering journals - from the windows, you could see the lake, the wooded fells, the turbulent clouds -

I remembered how Coleridge had gone fell walking - he'd lost his way down Scafell Pike - but, stranded upon a narrow ledge, he'd lain there - in a state of almost prophetic Trance & Delight -

I imagined Coleridge, staying here, at Allan Bank, writing in his Notebooks, covering page after page with heartfelt words -

Reading Wainwright in Lancrigg Hotel ...

I have always enjoyed staying in hotels, especially those blessed with raffish guests - I imagine myself engaging in shy conversation with a charming rogue, or smouldering chanteuse - I relish the moment when I see, opening up before me, a lounge with slowly revolving fans -

Once, when I was in Venice, I stayed for a few brooding nights in a small hotel, near the Fenice - my room was approached through a dim labyrinth - narrow lurching stairs took me almost onto the leads - I had the most fearful dreams there - each morning, I would emerge, shaken, into the merciful sunlight -

We came across the Lancrigg Hotel on the lower slopes of Helm Crag - we'd climbed to the summit, high over the lake - all around were other, higher, fells - we saw brave fell walkers, negotiating wind swept ridges - clouds came towards us, bringing rain - their chill vapour shrouded the heights -

We were making our way down, past ruined sheep folds - dry stone walls were half hidden by icy delicate ferns - a wrought iron gate opened onto an avenue of immense pines - their trunks were marked with the shapes of eyes -

Then we saw a hidden velvety lawn, with a roller - pergolas dripped rainwater - there was the hotel - we left our sodden boots in the porch - prints and eccentric statuary decorated the hall - we entered a room heated by ornate radiators - an archipelago of sofas stretched out before us -

I lolled at my ease, scribbling in my diary - the slender Polish girl told me she'd kept a diary - you have beautiful handwriting - what are you writing - she had shining blonde hair -

After a lunch fit for a jaded pasha, I read my Wainwright - tea things gleamed on a silver tray - rain drops coursed down the ceiling high sash windows -

Later, I roamed around the hotel - to my delight, there were secret corridors, mysterious landings - I saw two girls making up a bed in a room filled with dark wooden furniture -

I returned to my table downstairs, picking up my Wainwright, content -

The steam gondola ...

I have always been fascinated by steam engines - whenever I see a traction engine at a Steam Fair, I feel that I am in the presence of a brave beast - I can smell its oil, sense the living flames in the fire box - the men in their pungent overalls are heroic beings -

I am sure that I can remember travelling to London by steam train - I was very young, an innocent boy - I was wearing a little coat - I can still see, as though through frosted glass, the stern shapes of locomotives - smoke is billowing over long platforms - but these memories may be false ones, wistfully imagined -

But in Lake Coniston, there was a steam gondola, moving swiftly and smoothly over the slate grey water - she was approaching the shore - a pilot jack flew over her stern - a gentle breeze ruffled the surface of the lake -

As soon as we saw her sleek shape, with the slender blue funnel, we were beguiled - we had to board her -

The marineros spoke of the vessel with passion and affection - the gleaming engine was pristine - there was no vibration, no shuddering hull, no reek of diesel - we slid away from the pier, picking up speed, racing up the lake, as though in a dream -

Inside the cabin, there were gilt pillars and soft red couches to loll upon - brass fittings shone - we saw the noble fells, their lower slopes covered with dark trees - we passed the spot where Campbell had perished - I remembered seeing the photographs - there was no sign, now, of that monstrous flower of spray -

I caught a glimpse of Ruskin's house - I had a worn copy, somewhere, of Stones of Venice - I wondered, once again, about his life -

The gondola approached the pier once more - there was the Bluebird Cafe - soon we would be eating coffee cake - I stopped thinking sad thoughts -

The Duomo by the lake ...

Our home for the last week has been a geodesic dome, by the shore of Lake Windermere - I had hoped for a yurt - I imagined myself, in a different life, leaping onto a tireless pony, my skin brown and leathery under the Mongolian skies - a hawk with ruthless eyes would be circling over my head - I would ride for days across an ocean of wind blown grass - 

But we were happy enough with the dome, which I soon christened the Duomo - it was sited amongst trees, not far from the shores of Lake Windermere - the camp site was at the northern end of the lake, at Low Wray - each morning, I would go to the lake shore, a few minutes walk away - I would stare, spellbound, at the mirror of the lake - low lying clouds were like smoke, drifting over the wooded fells - 

Each night, in the Duomo, I would light the wood burning stove - within moments, it would be as hot as the sun - we would drink Wainwright Ale - I would brood over Wordsworth's treatment of Coleridge - how could he write - the Poem of my Friend has indeed great defects - 

Soon, an owl would hoot in the branches above the Duomo - rain would fall, rattling upon the canvas - I would fall asleep, dreaming that I was meeting the poet, captivated by his talk and glowing sensibility - 

Looking at Wainwright's "Central Fells" ...

This Friday, Deo volente, we'll be driving northwards, to the shores of Lake Windermere - we'll be staying at Low Wray, in a yurt - I've gazed for some time already at the Ordnance Survey maps, delighting in the writhing contour lines, the evocative names of the fells -

I've been to the Lake District a number of times, most recently with Jay - we stayed with a friend of his, Paul, who lived in Penrith - we climbed Blencathra - Paul strolled up the mountain with his hands in his pockets - Jay followed Paul, long legged, with walking poles - we had a feast, overlooking a tarn - Paul's wife smiled her gentle smile - I looked at the icy blue water of the tarn, the brilliant green stars of moss underfoot - we sat upon lichened rocks -

Later, back in Penrith, we took part in a pub quiz - I was amazed by how seriously everyone behaved - each team was determined to win, at any cost - the scoring was determined by arcane rules - our team won - luckily I had intimate knowledge of the horror films of the seventies - we celebrated our victory with music and ale -

So, now, I'm opening up my Wainright's Central Fells - I've watched a documentary about this quirky curmudgeon - Anne reckons he was unhappy at home - but his guides are a marvel - I'm fascinated by the beautiful line drawings, the intricate pictorial maps, the sly asides in the prose -

I reckon on climbing Loughrigg Fell first - the prickly master says it has a wealth of interests and delights - that's good enough for me, I think -

Maize fields at Kimmeridge ...

I have always found something spooky about fields of wheat, or barley - I climb over a stile, and walk through the maturing crop, following the gnomic directions given in my book of walks - I can hear no sounds but the dry, unsettling, rustling of the stalks - I look up, to see a buzzard flying, with its slow wing beat, over a wicked thorn hedgerow - the footpath takes me through the heart of this mysterious domain -

But I find fields of maize especially troubling - there's something, to my mind, exotic and creepy about a field of maize - I imagine that I might find a Mayan temple, lapped by the maize - I think of the film Signs - I am sure that I can see dark figures, skittering amongst the man high plants -

Walking up from Kimmeridge Bay, we passed a field of maize - I paused, and stroked a broad bladed leaf - I could feel the green life pulsing in the field, archaic, remorseless - the wind suddenly stirred the maize - I could feel my heart, quivering in my chest - I hurried on, up the footpath, to catch up with Anne and Penny -