Happy New Year to Sheila and Philip and how we are delighted to be travelling again with them, this time to the Lake District. What a beautiful part of the UK and I am sure we shall enjoy our adventures over the next three weeks. It will touch us even more because of lockdown and our isolation.
Each year Sheila and I try to have a week in the Lake District, staying at Coniston, a village on the shores of Coniston Water and surrounded by fells and one of the Lake District's iconic peaks, the Old Man of Coniston. Whereas in the past we have climbed high on the fells, now we prefer more lowland walks around the lakes. For the next series of videos, we feature some short walks from Coniston.
The first is to Monk Coniston with its walled garden and tree collection, then following the picturesque route created by the 19th century industrialist J G Marshall to impress visitors to his estate to Tarn Hows, one of the Lake District's most popular area. As you can see, we walked in brilliant March sunshine - but the next day we were snowed in when, as Sheila says on the video, it was like being in Narnia.
Coniston to Tarn Hows along the Cumbria Way
Wasn't that lovely? It did feel cold! The skies, even the reflections in the water and the trees all echoed the March chill. I personally loved the shadows caused by clouds scudding past and the tricks of the light. But it did look so different under the snow laden skies the following day and indeed Narnia surrounding you.
Thank you both for quite a different walking trip and we look forward to next week now with bated breath - no cheating though to peek ahead!
Around Tarn Hows
by Sandra Moran
part of a poem based on the landscape and weather around Tarn Hows
"From the top car park, on a wet and murky day,
the clockwise circular path we take.
As we walk on the rain ceases, and there
in front of us is reflection in the lake.
It sits so still, with spots of water
making circles small
Dark lines so straight don’t mimic
the trees standing tall.
Gaps of light appear, amongst the mist
that obscurs our view.
The ground beneath our feet is spongy,
soggy, not morning dew.
The stream meanders, full of life
but remaining unseen
The vegetation grows wild, an artist’s
palette of many greens
The rowan tree hands with branches, leaves
swimming in the water.
And across the lake are many
sons and daughters
The moss and lichen have lived here
for many a year.
And high above a baby rowan nestles
on the pine, no one stirs
Deep in the bracken, brambles are left
untouched, unpicked
I try to steal a taste, but leave
with fingerspricked
A green bearded branch, old knarled fingers
clawing the ground
And from up above a slow, steady
dripping sound
The oak leaves are crying from the
weight of the rain
And a knobbly gremlin sits hidden, it is
too feeling the pain
The rain again ceases but water still trickles,
streams and fall run and run."