The Lakes. – Storkwrite

It was going to be a long day, but a pleasant, exceptional one. To be in the company of my younger Brother was treat enough, but the fact that he’d, set aside, and devoted the full day, to me, personally, magnified the enjoyment of my day out, ten fold.
My disability, made accessing the fells, to seek out those Alfred Wainwright MBE, panoramas, impossible, but the great mans writing brilliance, brought all that was beyond me, into the palms of my hands, today he was, my eyes.
Although unable to walk, just being amongst such magnificent scenery, enveloped by 5 million years worth of geology, brought back memory’s of; Checking zips and pockets, adjusting boots and Bergen, map, and the all important, compass. All the preparation and anticipation, experienced before crossing the start line, of any walk, flooded into my mind, washing away any stress or anger, and replaced them with bewilderment and awe.
Even being restricted to the passenger seat of the car, couldn’t diminish the feelings of, joy and contentment that I felt.
The road was smooth, and snaked, undulating, along the shore-line of Thirlmere, the soothing sound of rain water swishing under the tyres, and the gentle warmth omitting from the dash, lulled my mind. I was safe, I was happy.
The dark inky surface of the lake was chopped by a cold westerly, a stark reminder, that just beyond that piece of glass, lay a totally different world of seasonal experiences.
My belly rumbled, “Soon my pet”, I said, rubbing my paunch. Fish ‘n’ Chips by the Sea was on the itinerary, but I needed a snack, like now.
“Chuck a right, Bro!”
“Here!” Shrieked Brodle, turning the steering with all the urgency, of a Helmsman, in a force 10.
We turned into Pye lane, as we drove across the river Rothay, I peeled my face from the cold glass, the wipers crossed the screen, clearing my view, revealing the post card setting that was in front of us. Grasmere.
Like Brigadoon, this quintessential Lakeland village, the grey colour of the stone houses, saturated, by the steadily falling rain, appeared, as if by magic.
Trees, native and naked, except for the green of winter moss, stretched into every available space, softening the sharp edges of their stone neighbours, blending the entire scene, into one of breath-taking natural beauty.
People, not cars, occupied the very narrow streets, using them as a foot paths, going about their business, looking upon us, and our mode of transport, with a silent, disgust, hidden behind false smiles of acknowledgment. Obviously not locals, I could tell by their attire, which was a mix of, do I look the part in this, and, a Go Outdoors mannequin, bushy beards, also seem to be a part of the outdoor vogue, a must have, even for the women.
The heart of the village, was taken over, by the outdoor pursuits dealers, killing the character, and uniqueness of this Cumbrian gem, turning it into a Betsy-Coed or similar place look-alike, great, if woolly knickers are what you are after, but a piping hot, spicy, Cumberland sausage, wrapped in flakey, golden pastry, no chance, rarer than hens teeth.
My pangs of hunger faded, stilled by my thoughts of good, old-fashioned, fish ‘n’ chips, dampened with a splash of vinegar, sprinkled with a shake of salt, then wrapped to form a parcel, warming my lap, until a suitable view-point is found to enjoy their crisp, freshness
Join me ‘The Bugs’ for more gripping tales, as I continue my search for all things nice.

Once clear of the congested urbanization, that is Greater Manchester, the journey northward to the lakes along the M6, was quite a pleasant one.
As we drove across the River Ribble, day break slowly seeped into the landscape, revealing the switch from heavy industry, to a softer, more traditional, land management approach to making a living.
The green, undulating, low-lands, their area now partitioned by dry stone walls, instead of the more familiar hedgerows of the south, was home to Sheep. Tough as old boots, and hard as nails, these Icons of the Fells, dotted the landscape, sharing their daily food supplement with flocks of ravenous crows, and chattering Jackdaws.
From Kendal, the Motorway climbed, steadily, but noticeably, forming the Eastern border of this Unesco site. Teasing glimpses of the high fells were revealed as if giving us a sneaky peek, as we rose from the valley bottoms, as if to whet our appetites, sharpen our senses and intensify our expectancy of what lay ahead.
Snow blanketed the hills, fluffy grey clouds rested along the tops of the highest peaks, stealing the view from anyone walking the ridges.
Exposed granite, forming formidable crags, that housed Falcons and Ravens, added depth and character to the white, winter canvas.
The temperature dropped by 2 degrees, the wind ticing displaying Buzzards onto the wing. This truly beautiful enviroment, has the potential to astound, mesmerize, and kill.
During the harsh winter months, dancing Daffodils, are a long way off.