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Sam A cloudless sunny day saluted our first morning in the fabled Lake District. By the time we packed up, the sky had clouded over significantly and only a few patches of sunlight broke through. Four kilometers later in Dalston, the sky was entirely overcast. At the store Sharon learned directions to a wooden bench down a dead-end road above the river. It was a great spot shared only with other cyclists and folks walking their dogs. People were curious and stopped to ask us questions about our trip; England had the friendliest people. People in Ireland were friendly, but in a standoffish manner. Maybe it was just because it wasn't always pouring rain and people were outside to talk to us. Rain began to spatter down. Under the cover of a tree we met Sam and his dog walker. While Sam went off to chase rabbits, his owner trumpted up various routes in the Lake District. His crackling dry sense of humor entertained us. Sam's master told us, "If there's lakes, it means rain is close by to fill 'em up." While that may not hold true in all parts of the world, it held true for England. The rain let up and while Sam chased another scurrying rabbit, we continued on our way. The hilly terrain became steeper. Some goats looked like Billy Goat Gruff expecting a toll. We passed sheep with white bodies and black heads. Their inward swept horns curled in a half-circle towards their eyes. Most sheep swerved away from us when we approached, but one ran directly across the road in front of me, putting a dent in my sheep-o-meter predictability factor. A black and white horse, split right down the middle of its eyes to its mouth, half of its face white and the other black. Startling strange, appearing like two horses morphed into one. We could see the Lake District mountains ahead and, as promised, it was raining. We waited in a farmer's lane beneath some trees while the cloud passed. We rode a few more kilometers and it rained harder. We attempted our usual tactic of dodging from tree to tree, but we still got soaked. Finally, we sheltered under a leafy tree alongside the road. I sat on a bough reading, until the rain saturated the leaves and began to drip on my pages. The worst passed and we set off into a soft mist. We pumped up a steep hill near Uldale and had a panoramic view of the sweeping bald hills. Fences of piled rock divided the valley pastures below into checkerboard squares. The Lake District mountains formed a sedate backdrop. Between soft rain and perspiration we reached Cockermouth thoroughly and miserably soaked. My old raincoat was totally drenched; it hung off me like a wet dish rag. Sharon asked why I never wore my new rain coat when it was raining so hard? The only thing I could think of was, "I didn't want to get it wet." We missed the bakery. The staff gathered up the day's non-sale remnants as Sharon pressed her nose to the window. No one even glanced in her direction, let alone made a motion to reopen the door. We shivered in our wet clothing; tourists sprinted from store awning to awning clad only in tee shirts and shorts. Fortunately, the grocery store was still open. Sharon squished and oozed her way up and down aisles to pick up a few supplies. At long last, I glimpsed Sharon at the checkout counter. Judging by the stack of goods she had amassed, I imagined the store must be giving the stuff away for free. It came to £20 and weighed at least as much: two liters of milk, fifteen eggs, forty-eight Weetabix, Muesli, potatoes, two chicken breasts, two loaves of bread, a Swiss roll, jam doughnuts, four Snickers bars and a sundry assortment of fruits and vegetables. Sharon derided me, "You still have the grocery buying record, from that time you spent seventy-five dollars in Eureka, California." It was true. There, I had filled a shopping buggy to overflowing, and we sat in the parking lot to eat some of my bargains before we managed to stuff the remainder into our yawning panniers. Somehow we managed to cram all Sharon's goodies onto our burgeoning machines and tottered off to the nearest gas station to fill two large plastic water bottles and get more gas for the stove. Cyclists "all the way from Canada" amazed the couple running the station. They came out to examine our gear and cracked jokes I could only half understand due to their heavy accents. The man said his wife would ride Sharon's bike back to Canada. They wanted to know if our legs and butts got sore. Still shaking their heads we pulled away and waved good-bye. We headed for Loweswater Lake, a small lake about two-and-a-half kilometers in length, set high in the mountains where little Lake District vehicles traveled off busy motorway M6. The non-existent traffic may have been due to the fact our one-lane road of two small tire tracks vaguely reminiscent of asphalt posted a sign: Not Suitable For Motors. The track became a mixture of rock, mud and potholes. A complementary growth of lush grass grew down the road's center. The value of fenders became apparent as I slipped through a section of soupy mud, laced with bountiful quantities of cow manure. Sheep grazed contentedly... until we passed. Two, with horns, stuck their heads through the square wire fence and happily munched grass. They proved the old adage "the grass is greener on the other side of the fence." They tried, too quickly, to forcibly extract their heads through the fencing as we approached. It made me wince to watch. An extremely steep section had me panting for oxygen; I thought I was back in Italy. The view at the top was an incredible fairy tale view. At the end of the valley closest to us, the lake below shone like a perfect blue sapphire set in a rolling tapestry of velvet green hills. Higher blue mountains closed the opposite end of the valley. A few well-spaced farmhouse windows glowed in the valley. I gazed at the encompassing beauty and imagined how easily Wordsworth must have received poetic inspiration. An abrupt downhill had me squeezing my brake levers so severely I thought my cables would snap. We checked out a farmer's open gate for a possible site. Through the gate, overlooking the entire panorama, we settled on a cloistered spot beneath a shale slide. Now, what was there to eat? |
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