Loweswater

Monday, our last day, was a day of sharp frost and bright sunshine.  We decided on a walk through the woods along the side of Loweswater to the Kirkstile Inn for lunch.

It was one of those days when everything seems lit from the inside, as though seen for the first time.  We have walked this path many times of course.

Looking towards Grasmoor.

The beeches still clung to their leaves, although fall is far advanced.

Barely a ripple on the lake, creating these amazing optical effects.

Hedgerow trees in full berry.  Something suggests a harsh winter to come.

On the way back, and this was still early afternoon, dark shadows were already being cast by the fell behind.  The sun sets early in some of these valleys.

Deep Fall

A woodland walk through Lanthwaite woods at the bottom end of Crummock Water.  Bird-life was much in evidence: great tits, chaffinches, nut-hatches, a tree creeper and a goldcrest  seen within a few minutes.

We took a rising turn in the path, very muddy underfoot, becoming increasingly aware of current forestry activities.  A convoy of three vehicles heading for the higher woodland convinced us to retrace our steps to the lower fork.

Three metre lengths of harvested wood, probably destined for Iggesund out on the coast, a wood-pulping operation.

While many trees were already bare, the beeches were still clinging on, lighting up the path.

We left the woodland and walked out to the road and the bridleway leading to Brackenthwaite How.

From the top, a view of Red Pike and High Stile, just crested with snow.  In its day, this was a regular Viewing Point for visitors to the lakes.  You can see why.

Litfest

To Maryport, for the annual Literary festival at the Senhouse Roman Museum.  This is an event not typical of the working-class community who live in Maryport, to say the least.  A night out at the Rugby club would be nearer the mark.

In the museum, over twenty of these red sandstone altars, excavated from the site of the Roman fort.  Some were used as rubble in the foundations of a Christian temple on the same site.

Essentially, these are thank offerings to specific gods for favours received.

The Serpent stone, phallic in more ways than one.  

A carving of a boar, now used as the emblem for the museum itself.

We heard talks from people with books to promote: a retired doctor who had examined post mortem reports to answer the question "Who killed Percy Topliss?"

 A train-driver's son who had written a novel about a local rail tragedy. 

 A lady who had set herself to walk around Morecambe Bay, chronicling its edgelands. 

 And a retired professor who had looked closely at the landscape and place-names in Lorton, one of our favourite haunts.  

A whole winter's reading lies ahead.

Boston

Thank you for your kind comments on my last post.  Before the digital camera and the "crop" function, my photographs were very often duds: lots of foreground, heads cut off, out of focus...  But I do try to look for the appealing image now.

To Boston, Lincolnshire, to visit friends for lunch.  Those who think that the country has lost its distinctiveness should visit Lincolnshire where the landscape, intersected by drainage ditches, is laid out in crop fields harvested on an industrial scale by migrants from eastern Europe.  Polish is a second language here, but obviously a first language for many of the workers.

Walking around the town one imagines what it must have been like a hundred, two hundred years ago.  The riversides are lined with Georgian warehouses and everywhere there is Georgian detail in the fanlights and windows.  It must have been a busy port.

This rare survivor from 1718,  fitted between a  Polish food shop and an off-licence.

Dominating the whole town, of course, and visible for miles around, is the famous Boston Stump.  Nothing stumpy about this spectacular tower.

Like many other places, the town centre has ancient buildings repurposed as pizza houses or nail bars.

Here Dessert City and Tattoo City, next to each other.  What can Dessert City be?  I never found out.