Mist over Windermere Mist defines Windermere- a soft silver-blue toward the distant fells. The morning grows warm and a peacock butterfly settles on stone. Shots ring out in the stillness: a pheasant shoot below the escarpment. A beautiful, hazy morning attracts lone runners and a few walkers. The woods colour- up and the day seems unremarkable.
A long line of runners bursts onto the escarpment, organised by the Kendal Mountain Festival. ' What shall I do with this bottle?' asks a girl. 'There isn't a litter bin.'
A long line of runners bursts onto the escarpment, organised by the Kendal Mountain Festival. ' What shall I do with this bottle?' asks a girl. 'There isn't a litter bin.'
Runners have paint-sprayed messages on the road along their route. ' The hill begins here,' reads one, gratuitously. Someone forgot to remind them of the countryside code: leave no trace.
The day seems unremarkable. Up here, the turbulence of the last week at Westminster is blessedly left behind. If we can leave it behind.
Last Sunday, 11 November 2018 marked a hundred years since the guns fell silent. Our MP, Tim Farron, marched from the war memorial to the Town Hall with local dignitaries. Amidst a sea of umbrellas, he walked bare-headed and besuited in the pouring rain. The young boys and girls in the marching bands shivered. The war memorial commemorates the fallen. A town trail indicated individual homes where someone was lost.
Standing on Scout Scar escarpment, I wonder through the ages who has come here seeking peace and solitude. Seeking solace, an escape from the story of our times. Seeking something beyond history.
Not long ago I met a stranger up on Scout Scar and we stood looking toward Morecambe Bay in the south, then sweeping across the Lyth Valley and following the panorama of the fells. All of England is here in this view, he said. All of Britain. Of our United Kingdom: the sea, pastoral and the fells. He spoke the comfort of long tradition, of belonging.
Last Sunday, 11 November 2018 marked a hundred years since the guns fell silent. Our MP, Tim Farron, marched from the war memorial to the Town Hall with local dignitaries. Amidst a sea of umbrellas, he walked bare-headed and besuited in the pouring rain. The young boys and girls in the marching bands shivered. The war memorial commemorates the fallen. A town trail indicated individual homes where someone was lost.
Standing on Scout Scar escarpment, I wonder through the ages who has come here seeking peace and solitude. Seeking solace, an escape from the story of our times. Seeking something beyond history.
Not long ago I met a stranger up on Scout Scar and we stood looking toward Morecambe Bay in the south, then sweeping across the Lyth Valley and following the panorama of the fells. All of England is here in this view, he said. All of Britain. Of our United Kingdom: the sea, pastoral and the fells. He spoke the comfort of long tradition, of belonging.
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