May 23. High Portinscale in the Lake District

Thursday May 23. High Portinscale. Pre-dawn solo walk to Castlerigg stone circle. Late morning hike with Chris to Catsbell (451 meters). Total 15 miles. 

Dear Trail Friends,

I woke up spontaneously this morning about 3:30am and started walking around 4am. I was able to reach the Castlerigg stone circle just after sunset. I was not alone - two men with cameras set up on tripods were also there. But it felt fine. It was a gorgeous morning sunrise and wonderful to watch the stones in the bright slanted morning light. I especially loved watching the young lambs stand on the rocks. 

Photo 1 shows the circle in the dawn light. 

I sat with my back against one of the stones and watched the changing light and the sheep and lambs who seem to be very much at home in the stone circle before all the tourists arrive. 

Photo 2 is a collage of lambs and sheep near the stone circle. 

When I walk up I received an email about a dear friend having a medical procedure that I was concerned about. So I made the morning a walking prayer and I really felt the sacredness of the time of day and the place. I was thinking what a miracle it is that the sun comes up, that this stone circle exists, that I am here to witness it. Given the miracle of what is, why should medical miracles surprise us? So I prayed for a miraculous healing. 

Photo 3 is a collage of my walk to the stone circle and photo 4 of my walk back home. 

To do them justice you need to hear some sound effects - lots of predawn bird song on the trip out, and on the way back the rooster crowing, to celebrate and to make very clear whose day it is. 

I was particularly aware at the stone circle of the sheep mum calling out “baaaa” and the lamb crying “maaaa” and running to nurse. I found myself wondering if we humans learned our earliest sounds (perhaps “mama” and “baby” ?) and the whole concept of call and answer, and of naming, from the animals around us. What a strange and extraordinary miracle that we evolved tongues and larynx and the anatomy of making sounds, and forebrains and the anatomy of speech and verbal thought - and how grateful I am to have language and the joy of reflection. 

When I got home I tried very hard to talk myself into going to Dove Cottage and the Wordsworth Museum. But try as I might I couldn’t stir up any desire and I wasn’t willing to go out of duty. So instead Chris and I set off to climb Catbells and Judy went in an independent adventure. Catbells turned out to have quite a lot of irregular sloping rock steps that were awkward for Chris and she decided to stop but urged me to go on. I reluctantly agreed but in the end was glad I did - it was a very challenging hike for me and I got a thrill from doing something that wasn’t easy for me to do. Photo 5 is me at the top of Catbells. 

On the way home from Catbells Chrissy and I stopped at the Lindholm estate, which turned out to be a place Beatrix Potter had spent 10 summer or fall vacations. She fallen in love with the Lake District in those years, at the same time she was writing her earliest stories. We visited the garden that had been the inspiration for Mr MacGregor’s garden. Photo 6 is a collage of Peter Rabbit, a scarecrow, and a flower from the estate garden of never seen before. 

Judy in one of those cases of parallel evolution had discovered Beatrix Potter’s role in the breeding and conservation of the Herdwick sheep that have been such an important part of the Lake District ambiance for us.  Judy learned that a condition of Potter’s bequest of her extensive farmlands to the National Trust was that the Herdwick sheep continue to be raised on them. She also learned that this breed is born black and gradually turns white as it matures, which helped satisfy our curiosity about all the white mums with black lambs. Also that it has very stiff wool that is better for rugs than clothes. 

I’m starting to fall asleep. Let me just post our drawings and say goodnight. Photos 6 and 7 are mine (6 the photibtgat inspired me, 7 my drawing). 

As I look at it now I realize I mistook a lamb for a rock lit up by morning light! But I had a great time doing the drawing and studying the angles and relationships of the rocks and their lighting. 

Judy woke up early and was inspired by the pre-dawn light too. Photo 8 is her photo of the early morning sky, and photo 9 (when I get it) will be the drawing it inspired. Turns out I don’t have a copy of the drawing yet so I will post it later. 

That’s it for tonight. I won’t tell you about our disappointing dinner - below average food and below average service but by very sweet staff who tried to make it all better by giving us free desserts. Especially endearing was the cashier from Hungary (his first day in the job) who had failed to write type in half of our order (Chris and my entrees), who when asked about the impact Brexit might have said it shouldn’t affect him but if it did (shrugging) he’d just move somewhere else and find a job. It didn’t really matter where he was or what he did just so long as he had a job and could contribute a little to the love. 

It put the lousy food and service into perspective and makes me think of a Wordsworth poem set in this very neighborhood. 

A Narrow Girdle of Rough Stones and Crags

William Wordsworth

A narrow girdle of rough stones and crags, 

A rude and natural causeway, interposed 

Between the water and a winding slope 

Of copse and thicket, leaves the eastern shore 

Of Grasmere safe in its own privacy:

And there myself and two beloved Friends, 

One calm September morning, ere the mist

Had altogether yielded to the sun,

Sauntered on this retired and difficult way.

----Ill suits the road with one in haste; but we 

Played with our time; and, as we strolled along,

It was our occupation to observe

Such objects as the waves had tossed ashore-

Feather, or leaf, or weed, or withered bough,

Each on the other heaped, along the line

Of the dry wreck. And, in our vacant mood,

Not seldom did we stop to watch some tuft

Of dandelion seed or thistle's beard,

That skimmed the surface of the dead calm lake,

Suddenly halting now--a lifeless stand!

And starting off again with freak as sudden;

In all its sportive wanderings, all the while,

Making report of an invisible breeze

That was its wings, its chariot, and its horse,

Its playmate, rather say, its moving soul.

--And often, trifling with a privilege

Alike indulged to all, we paused, one now,

And now the other, to point out, perchance

To pluck, some flower or water-weed, too fair

Either to be divided from the place

On which it grew, or to be left alone

To its own beauty. Many such there are,

Fair ferns and flowers, and chiefly that tall fern,

So stately, of the queen Osmunda named;

Plant lovelier, in its own retired abode 

On Grasmere's beach, than Naiad by the side

Of Grecian brook, or Lady of the Mere,

Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.

--So fared we that bright morning: from the fields 

Meanwhile, a noise was heard, the busy mirth

Of reapers, men and women, boys and girls.

Delighted much to listen to those sounds,

And feeding thus our fancies, we advanced

Along the indented shore; when suddenly,

Through a thin veil of glittering haze was seen

Before us, on a point of jutting land,

The tall and upright figure of a Man

Attired in peasant's garb, who stood alone,

Angling beside the margin of the lake.

"Improvident and reckless," we exclaimed,

"The Man must be, who thus can lose a day 

Of the mid harvest, when the labourer's hire 

Is ample, and some little might be stored 

Wherewith to cheer him in the winter time." 

Thus talking of that Peasant, we approached 

Close to the spot where with his rod and line 

He stood alone; whereat he turned his head 

To greet us--and we saw a Mam worn down 

By sickness, gaunt and lean, with sunken cheeks 

And wasted limbs, his legs so long and lean 

That for my single self I looked at them, 

Forgetful of the body they sustained.- 

Too weak to labour in the harvest field, 

The Man was using his best skill to gain 

A pittance from the dead unfeeling lake 

That knew not of his wants. I will not say 

What thoughts immediately were ours, nor how 

The happy idleness of that sweet morn, 

With all its lovely images, was changed 

To serious musing and to self-reproach.

Nor did we fail to see within ourselves 

What need there is to be reserved in speech,

And temper all our thoughts with charity.

--Therefore, unwilling to forget that day,

My Friend, Myself, and She who then received

The same admonishment, have called the place

By a memorial name, uncouth indeed

As e'er by mariner was given to bay

Or foreland, on a new-discovered coast;

And POINT RASH-JUDGMENT is the name it bears

The character of the eastern shore of Grasmere lake is quite changed, since these verses were written, by the public road being carried along its side. The friends spoken of were Coleridge and my Sister, and the facts occurred strictly as recorded.

Incidentally when I got home from the hike to Catbells I checked the hours for Dove Cottage and the Wordsworth Museum, only to discover both are closed for renovation. So I found myself blessing my lack of libido. It would have been disappointing indeed to plan an outing that involved an hour’s walk and bus trip each way, only to discover that they were closed. 

So maybe I shouldn’t judge my unconscious so rashly either. “I’d be upset too, if I were in your shoes,” the Hungarian cashier had told me. “If I were in your shoes,” I told this very earnest young man (on his first day in a new job) “I would appreciate a little patience and understanding from my customers.”

Okay. Time to stop. See you on the trail tomorrow. Our last day here.