Well The Dog and I didn’t get as far as Gloucester. We didn’t need to really, there was quite enough action in our own back yard. If any one says “What does the Lake District mean to you?” You might be tempted to mention the mountains and the scenery, perhaps the walks and the wildlife and of course you would, without a doubt, mention the lakes.
These last few days have brought The Lakes into sharp focus for us. Where do you think all the water to fill those lakes comes from? Underground springs? Nul Point. No, it falls out of the sky, a lakefull at a time.
Braving the tropical (not) downpour and the howling gales this morning, The Intrepid Dog and I set out. Just as we got, thoroughly soaked, to the top road, the rain eased off and I was able to put my hood down and look around. The waist high grasses on the verges where all lying flat, all pointing in the same direction and the road was a series of islands protruding from the undeniable evidence that we are in The Lake District. In the ditches at the side of the road the water draining from the fields hurried on down with a deep throaty chuckle that we hadn’t heard since winter. Needing to tie my shoelace, fumbling with the laces with fingers clumsy and numb with the cold, made me wonder if it really was November again.
None of the puddles came up to our middle but The Dog insisted on tasting each one as we waded through. You’ve heard the one about Drink Canada Dry, haven’t you?