Tuesday, July 16, 2019

Foxglove summer




To Cumbria, by train, for a week of rest and relaxation.  From what? I hear you ask.  Some weeks recently have seen me serving up the cream teas on five days out of seven, and the thought of a few days of being out on the fells or along the shore was very tempting.


The forecast was not promising: rain, light rain and flood warnings after thunderstorms were on the cards.  We began by getting very wet indeed around the ankles because the growth of grass was quite different to last year when everything was burnt out.  We booked a leisurely lunch for ourselves on the day where the most rain was threatened.  But then we found that the weather smiled on us for once, so all our planned walks were possible.


A new footpath has opened up to the top of Brackenthwaite Fell, so we had to try it out.  We parked at Lanthwaite woods and enjoyed a stroll along the river bank and through the woods.  The ascent of the fell was a gentle slope, unlike the descent where the path seemed to be steps cut into a cliff.  We felt for those who had been lured to this point by the gentle approach.


The views from the top were very rewarding, given the low level of the hill. We will be doing this walk again.


Another day took us up Rannerdale Knotts, with its long slow incline up the valley.  Sitting at the top here, eating our sandwiches, is one of the great pleasures in life.


To vary things we cycled up the coast towards Silloth.  It was a dull day when we set off.  Just a dab of suncream on the nose, I thought.  Big mistake!  The day brightened and I caught the sun.


On our last day we drove over the fell to Caldbeck, back of Skiddaw.  There is a lovely little walk along a river gorge through limestone cliffs to a mill now in ruins.  Once it used water power to drive the lathes for wood-turning, making bobbins for the textile industry.


And that evening we took a stroll along the cycle path up the coast, the low evening light catching the colours of a sequence of yellow-hammers displaying from their perches, trilling their distinctive song: "A little bit of bread and no cheeeese."  Magical.