A Rambler’s Trek to Windermere
This trip had been brewing in my mind for quite some time, long before I left the cozy confines of my home. They said the place was the bee's knees – rolling hills, tranquil lakes, and all that jolly good stuff. The plan to trek the hills of Windermere, to put a pep in my step and a sparkle in my eye, as they say, was carefully plotted and so, on a brisk, sunny morning there I was, on platform 5 at Waverley station waiting for the TransPennine Express.
With a hiss of steam and a clang of the bell, that iron behemoth commenced its 2.5-hour journey, carrying me deeper and deeper into the heart of the English countryside. Now I must add that the aforementioned hissin’ and puffin’ metaphor refers to something else entirely: while I bided my time and sipped my coffee on that station platform, I had the pleasure of witnessing a sidesplitting showdown between a Japanese gentleman and a Scottish railway employee. You see, the Scot was in charge of announcing the numbering of our coaches, from A to E, but with that unmistakable Scottish twist on the letter "E." The Japanese fellow, a tad befuddled, had his sights set on coach A. So, with an air of polite confusion, he inquired, "Is that coach A?" To which the Scot, his patience wearing thin, retorted, "Yea, coach EIII." Well, our Japanese friend wasn't one to let a linguistic riddle go unsolved. "Is it A or E?" he pressed, as if unveiling the mystery hidden beneath a Scottish kilt. The Scot, now wearing a look of sheer bewilderment, mustered all his linguistic prowess and declared, "It's Aiiiii!" As I stood there, trying my best not to double over with laughter, I looked at the Japanese gentleman, his expression a perfect blend of resignation and determination, glancing at his ticket, then at the train, then at his wife and finally making a brave leap into what he fervently hoped was Coach A. Or was it Aiii?! The Scot might have had the last word in this linguistic tango, but our Japanese fellow wasn't one to be discouraged by a few perplexing vowels. And so we went.
It's fair to say that there were no significant incidents or unexpected surprises during the trip. My curiosity kept me busy, and I spent my time gazing out of the train window, taking in the passing scenery with a sense of quiet appreciation. Along the route, the hills were peppered with tiny fluffy monochrome dots looking right back at us with a curious yet placid demeanour, seemingly unperturbed. Their contemplative presence added to the serene atmosphere of the journey, making it a peaceful and uneventful passage.
[…]
Upon my arrival in Windermere, having made a pitstop at Oxenholme (or so my memory insists), I found myself amidst a curious throng of travellers. Most folks seemed inclined to hop onto a waiting bus, leaving me momentarily befuddled and contemplating my next move. It was a classic case of "follow the crowd" or "forge your own path." Well, I've never been one to resist a good old-fashioned ramble; after all, that was the very purpose of my holiday. So, after recalibrating my internal compass, I spotted a series of signs pointing the way to various hiking routes. And that was the cue I'd been waiting for. While others might have been making a beeline for the village centre or the shores of the lake, ferry tickets clutched tightly, I had a different notion in mind – to explore this land on foot. So, off I set, down the Orrest Head public footpath.
The path stretched ahead, resembling a tunnel through a dense beech woodland, with moss underfoot so thick it hinted at the region's palpable humidity. Alongside it, a long stone wall stood tall on the left-hand side, steadfast as an old sentinel of these woodlands. Everywhere I turned, nature's greenery greeted, lush and vivacious. Now, I won't lie; the path wasn't the longest I've ever taken, but it had its charm. Later on I crossed paths with a few fellow trekkers, exchanging nods of camaraderie along the way. At some point I got distracted by a little commotion, two little girls, mum, and dad. The little girls pointed at a tiny creature scurrying away, shouting, "Look, Mummy! A snake!", with the littlest one almost grabbing it by the tail. Well, bless their hearts, mum went full-on panic mode. "It's a snake, Harry!" she yelled, while dad raised an eyebrow, studying the critter. "It's just a small lizard, mum, chill out," he mumbled, like he'd seen stranger things before breakfast.
Before I knew it, I stood atop a hill and like the little conquerer I was, I started surveying my domain. What lay before me was a scene so magnificent it could make a seasoned poet stumble over his verses. There, the lake sprawled out, serene and captivating, while the green hills rolled and tumbled with delightful abandon. Here and there, clusters of heather bushes painted the landscape with wonderful hues that even the most skilled artist would envy. Now, I must admit, my description may sound poetic and pretentious, but it's the truest way I can convey the splendour that stretched out before me. Later down I will leave the pictures speak for themselves.
As I stood there, taking in this panoramic masterpiece, I started taking some photos hoping to immortalise a fraction of this breathtaking beauty. I realised quickly as I was taking those snapshots that my brief visit was but a mere dip of the toes into the vast natural expanse of the Lake District. This place beckoned with such allure that it was impossible not to feel that I was merely scratching the surface.
With Windermere at my feet, I decided to descend from the hilltop throne and continue my exploration of this charming countryside. In the same time, there was a place tugging at my heartstrings that I wanted to visit since I got there, and I was certainly hoping I’d find it in a heartbeat. You see, in my childhood, I had been captivated by the wonders of nature, the art of illustration, and, last but certainly not least, a series of enchanting children's stories that had found their way to my homeland: "The Tale of Peter Rabbit." Windermere, it turns out, was the very world of Beatrix Potter, the brilliant mind behind Peter Rabbit's adventures. And tucked away in this picturesque corner of England was a small local attraction – a children's museum dedicated to Beatrix Potter's art. It was a place where one could sit down, perhaps with a soothing cup of chamomile tea, and engage in a delightful conversation with none other than Peter himself.
As I trekked up and down the hills, my eyes captivated by the picturesque landscapes and the charming stone houses of the village, I couldn't help but hope that, amidst my meandering through this enchanting place, the doors to that beloved museum would remain open just long enough for me to lose myself in the world of Peter Rabbit once more.
With the natural distractions of Windermere's beauty constantly revealing themselves, several hours slipped away unnoticed. The rolling hills and charming stone houses had an uncanny ability to make time seem as fluid as a river's current. I couldn't have been more content, even as I took a slight detour to ensure I'd reach Potter's museum in good time. However, as I glanced at my watch, I was met with a rather unwelcome surprise. It was already perilously close to 5 PM. Now, under ordinary circumstances, that might have been perfectly fine, but as fate would have it, this particular day was the one when the museum chose to close its doors promptly at 5 o'clock. So, picture this: here I stood, at the entrance to the museum, all locked up and closed for the day, much like Peter Rabbit when he realised he'd ventured too far into Mr. McGregor's garden. I couldn't help but emit a heavy sigh, a touch of chagrin creeping into my otherwise cheerful day. But I made myself a solemn promise, right then and there, that I'd return to this charming corner of the world and commune once more with the mischievous spirit of Peter Rabbit. After all, every adventure should have a touch of whimsy, even when it comes with a dose of "should've checked the museum's closing time" hindsight.
In my pursuit of solace after the museum's untimely closing, I decided to drown my sorrows in Windermere's most celebrated drinking establishment. This pub, renowned as Britain's finest, wasn't exactly a needle in a haystack. You see, you just had to follow the stream of tourists, much like a flock of sheep obediently following their ram. The pub in question? Well, it bore the fitting name of "The Crafty Baa", a nod to the region's woolly inhabitants and the delightful puns that filled its walls. And if you think I'm kidding about the sheep puns, let me assure you that this place was brimming with them. Even the two young bartenders behind the counter had a joke or two up their sleeves.
As I stepped inside "The Crafty Baa," the atmosphere was as warm and welcoming as a sheepdog's nuzzle. The place was renowned for its impressive selection of craft beers, both local and international. Each drink came with a side of laughter and banter, as the patrons reveled in the playful ambiance. I couldn't help but raise my glass to Windermere's most whimsical watering hole, where even the most serious of sippers couldn't escape the infectious charm of sheep-themed puns and hearty laughter.
Later on, as the evening sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm, amber glow over Windermere, I decided to put an exclamation mark on my day of delightful exploration. And what better way to do so than with a hearty meal of fish and chips, the crowning jewel of Britain's culinary treasures? And so, I found myself at "Brown Sugar", a quaint and cozy restaurant nestled in the heart of Windermere. What's more, it was a haven for our four-legged friends, as the sign at the door proudly proclaimed its dog-friendliness. Outside, on the terrace, I was greeted not only by the mouthwatering scent of my impending meal but also by a friendly little black fluff wagging its tail. As the photos below will attest, the restaurant was abuzz with furry joy.
As I tucked into my plate of fish and chips, I couldn't help but smile at the camaraderie outside. The restaurant's motto seemed to be, "Good food is best enjoyed with good company, be it human or hound." And so, with a satisfied belly and a heart full of warmth, I bid adieu to Windermere, its enchanting landscapes, playful pubs, and dog-loving dining establishments. For in this corner of the world, even a simple meal became an unforgettable experience, seasoned with a dash of British humour and a pinch of canine charm.
