[004] The Rainy Lakes
I'm travelling in South America. Here's what I'm up to, some photos and other bits
Distance in the Lake District feels greater than anywhere else. The valley opposite so far away, the face of the fells so vast - a great slab of hill. Your senses are confused in this world. It can feel freeing but overwhelming. It takes time to reconfigure.
The Lakes are just a three (and a bit) hour train ride from London. I think this is part of it. I'd been operating in a world of closeness up until 9am - my phone 30cm away, my laptop 50cm away, the bloke opposite me on the tube 2m away. By midday I was removed from the snow globe of the capital and walking in a world of kilometres and hectares.
It opens the mind being here. It's part of the reason I couldn't say no to a weekend up here for my Dad's birthday, despite a wet forecast. And wet it was. Storm Debi blew off the Irish Sea and sent 60mph winds hurtling down Crummock Water and Buttermere. It dumped inch upon inch of rain, drenching the fells and seeping through our over-capacity waterproofs.
You don't have much choice when you visit in November - you just have to get out in it. You know it will be wet, it's just a question of how wet. And the place comes alive in this weather. The rolling clouds add an atmosphere you don't get under blue skies - they frame the hills, concealing then revealing them.
The toughest characters up in these fells are also the cutest: the Herdwick sheep. 99% of the breed are farmed in the central and western Lakes. They graze freely on the fells over the winter, and their hardiness is a reason farmers value them so much. Herdwicks have survived under a blanket of snow for three days while eating their own wool. The lambs are born black and, after a year, they lighten to a dark brown colour. After the first shearing, their fleece lightens further to grey.
Humans aren't as tough as the Herdwick. After the rain we ducked into a warm pub to watch the Chelsea-City game. 4-4, a humdinger, even if it didn't interest Mum so much.
The night before The Lakes I saw Porridge Radio (great name) at Pitchfork Festival London. 'Waterslide, Diving Board, Ladder to the Sky' has been such an important album to me this year. It stumbled into my life and gave me power through it's despairing energy and captivating lyrics.
But their song '7 Seconds' was what first hooked me:
The riff is fun but the lyrics are so damn frustrated:
Because you can’t hear me, you can’t hear me
You can’t hear a word I’m saying
And you’re not here, but your body’s getting closer every day
And I wade
Until I’m knee deep in water, I can’t breathe
Cheers,
from a much drier
George
