(Hill Top Farm)Either I tired myself out the previous two days or the quiet country nights were growing on me because I woke up refreshed and ready to take on the day. The first priority was the visiting of Beatrix Potter’s home, Hill Top Farm, which we briefly discussed earlier. The ticket office opens at 9:30 and the first tours of the house begin at 10 so following the advice of the guest house hosts and my new friends and co-guests I planned on going down to the ticket office at a quarter past. Luckily my room overlooked the ticket office (see I literally was staying in Beatrix’s back yard!) and around nine I glanced out the window to find a queue of about 20 people had already formed. Taken aback by the popularity I reasoned that it was a Saturday at the beginning of the big tourist rush so I quickly grabbed my rucksack and ran down the stairs passed the parlor where my three older English friends sat sipping their morning coffee. After a brief mental calculation I decided to go inform them of my discovery concerning the seemingly exponential growth of the queue at this rather early hour. The four of us then proceeded to make our way next door to make our place in the queue. The property is timed in order to attempt to conserve the fragile house and its belongings so when I handed over my National Trust membership card I was given a ticket to enter the house at 10:55 giving me a whole hour before my turn.
(Beatrix Potter Gallery, Hawkshead)In the mean time I returned to my room to grab some things I had forgotten and then stood outside the house perusing the guidebook I impulsively purchased. When it finally came time I hurriedly joined the new short queue of other 10:55-ers to enter the house. It’s rather small with only a handful of rooms in the ground and upper floors being shown as north wing of the house is still used as a home for the farmer who works the land, one of the stipulations left in Beatrix’s will upon giving the house over to the National Trust all those many years ago. I read about each room and tried to soak in everything I could from it, each painting, each piece of furniture and thought of how it would have been used or admired by Ms Potter. This became increasingly difficult, as the rooms got smaller and more crowded by the many people admiring the home. I wondered what had caused them all to venture to this part of the Lake District. Was it the four star rating in a guidebook diligently followed? Was it a dream of seeing the home of a beloved children’s book author? Was it for them, as it was for me, a pilgrimage? Did they enter the garden and feel their pulse quicken, their hearts swell with the prospect of seeing the place where one woman created a new life for herself and helped to preserve for a nation one beautiful and sustainable bit of countryside? I highly doubted most of them came to this place with the same awed reverence that I now exhibited. My hand lingering on doorknobs, sitting in window seats gazing into the busy garden and breathing in the scent of the place. No, I believe that for me in was special and incomprehensible to most of the other visitors that day. After I’d lingered as long as I could before the pressure of more timed ticket holders pressed against me, I escaped into the fresh air and made my way to the mountain goat bus stop that would take me back to Hawkshead.
At Hawkshead I visited the Beatrix Potter Gallery housed in the former law offices of her husband, William Heelis. It showed part of the building, as it would have been when Mr. Heelis worked there as a country solicitor and the rest featured a selection of original works done by Beatrix from the various stories and other works. I also spent some time chatting with two of the volunteers working at the front of house about the gallery, Beatrix and the National Trust in general. I told them about my research and walked out of the gallery with the card of the gallery curator who, at some point in time I may email with further questions when I find the time. Feeling the rumble of my stomach I stopped into a café attached to an outdoors store, very odd but I suppose sensible, where I had the most expensive jacket potato I’ve ever encountered. It was then that I made a quick decision to change my plans. I had planned on walking a circuitous route to Wray Castle and then down the banks of Lake Windermere and back to Sawrey but the forecast predicted rain in the afternoon and I thought I might head west instead to Coniston. Still going back and forth, the decision was made for me when the bus to Coniston pulled up outside and having had my fill of the £8 potato I grabbed my backpack, water and maps in a hurry and ran towards the bus to my next destination.
(Coniston Lake)The thing is I hadn’t really looked at Coniston so I wasn’t sure what exactly to do. There were a few walking routes but I didn’t see any that I thought worth while in the short time that I had seeing as how my plans were always dictated by the bloody bus timetables. I stood in line at the tourist office for nearly an hour (this is an exaggeration obviously it was really probably about 5 minutes but honestly people, I was on a tight schedule) behind an older couple who seemed to enjoy asking the same question to the only woman behind the counter who equally enjoyed relaying to them the same answer but in different tones and using slightly varied word combinations. By this time I had decided to go on the ferry cruise around Lake Coniston but needed directions to the launch and a ticket. So by the time I got to the woman and she, very slowly and using a similar combination of words that she had recently expressed to the old couple, fixed me with my boat ticket, directions and a Kendal Mint Cake (my patience had worn thin and the damn thing was staring me in the eye the entire time I waited) I had missed the next ferry time. I walked the 2 miles to the boat launch and watched the activity on the lake while munching on my mint cake and waiting for the next boat. It ended up being rather pleasant and informative about the area and the lake, which had many claims to fame including the location for the record breaking speed boat speed and the location of Ruskin’s home. Mostly I just enjoyed being near the water. I spent the rest of my time walking through the small town where I encountered a church book sale where I purchased a copy of Swallows and Amazons that happened to use Coniston as a backdrop. I sampled the local ale at the Black Bull pub and then made my way to the bus stop towards Hawskead and then back to Near Sawrey. I wandered around the village, which didn’t take much time seeing as how there were only two shooting streets off the main road. It seemed like the storm that was forecast to hit in the afternoon but had held off might blow in from the southwest in the early evening so I decided to enjoy the last of my Lakeland sun by writing a letter and reading my book on the back terrace of the hotel overlooking the sweeping lawns and sheep pastures sloping down to Esthwaite Water. I was joined by others including my three friends with whom I chatted amiably about the day’s events and what we thought of the house while sipping on our pre-dinner drinks. Just before dinner when everyone else had gone inside I stayed out to feel the first drops of rain hit my face and book with the freshness of the country. I love the first hint of rain when it gives off a scent of freshness when hitting the pavement and bare earth. Dinner again proved to be a notable affair and again I retired with the rest of the guests to the lounge for coffee and mints. It seemed like some sort of routine that had been ingrained in us from a young age, the procession of the evening meal. This must be what it is like for those royal and aristocratic families in their fine old manors with nothing better to do than linger over dinner for upwards of three hours. I must say, I am a bit jealous for it is something I managed to get used to in just three days. With a full belly and a heart that didn’t quite want to go to bed for the knowledge that morning would bring my departure from this Eden I trudged up to bed.
(Fisherman on Esthwaite Water)In the morning I took breakfast at the first chance and then proceeded for one last walk down to the far side of Esthwaite Water, passing by the ever friendly sheep who bah-ed me farewell and crossing over the Ees Bridge that Beatrix Potter had commissioned to have rebuilt a century ago. It was like saying goodbye to an old friend whom you weren’t sure when you would next meet but with certainty that you would meet again. Perhaps those are the best goodbyes for they hold passion without the pulling sense that you’re losing something forever. I lingered by the bank of the water watching the fishermen until it was time to head back and move on. I waved to the sheep and turned my back upon the scene that had first taken my breath away on the day of my arrival. I purchased a mountain goat tickets that would take me by bus to the ferry landing and then by boat across Lake Windermere to Bowness pier and from there to Windermere station. Being a Sunday the train timetables were slightly different giving me a jumble of combinations for making my way back to York. It proved to be rather interesting and entertaining but only because I have a good grasp of the train system and the geography of Britain, in another case it probably would have been hellish. My journey ended up taking me from Windermere to Oxenholme where my train to Lancaster was delayed making me miss my connection to Leeds in Lancaster so I boarded the next train to Preston, which by the way was where the train I had previously been on was headed anyway, where I was able to catch the next train directly to York after a mere half an hour wait. Needless to say it was quite the train hop but that’s partly what I love about train journeys and train stations, especially this particular journey because I wasn’t on any time or route restriction. I arrived home about four hours later exhausted but happy with my trip and glad I had taken the time to make my way to the heart of British conservationism.
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