A Ramble About The Lakes

(50-odd Years of all too infrequent visits to 'Cumberland' )

While I was putting together the Reddish Newtown book, I began reading a book by Hunter Davies, entitled 'A Walk Around The Lakes'. What I read inspired me to write some of my own experiences of visits to the Lake District and in particular, the county which used to be called 'Cumberland'.

I and many others, regard with disdain, the decision to lump together the two very different traditions, both of which are in their own way, noble and worthy, of Cumberland and Westmorland. Whilst I, myself am not acquainted with the minutii of those traditions, unlike Hunter Davies, whose book is an essential read for those interested in those different parts which make up the Lake District; Hunter's book, in my opinion, is the difinitive publication for all students of Lakeland life. It is also a good source for those who study the so called 'Lakeland Poets'. Hunter's book is still available from various sources and has an ISBN No. - sISBN=0752833901

Having relatives in one of the two, Cumberland, I feel I have a connection with the place, which goes beyond being a mere visitor, or tourist. It is when faceless beurocrats, who have little affinity with the place, take decisions which go against the wishes of the local inhabitants, which incurs mine and their ire. 'Cumbria' Bah! (or should that be Baa!) See, even the sheep don't like it!

Whilst racking my brains for a title, eventually, inspired by the title of Hunter Davies' book, I thought of the above title, 'A Ramble About The Lakes' which, in a way could have two meanings, 'Ramble' as in walking, or hiking, if you like; Or the other meaning, which is me, 'rambling on' about the place.

In those days, I was a novice at writing. 'Reddish Newtown' was my first book and I had considerable help in the editing process, from David Reid, who runs Stockport Heritage Library. However, When I wrote 'Ramble' I had not learned those editing 'tricks' and finished up with a manuscript which was just double spaced throughout.

So for the purpose of this web page, I am going back to the beginning and this time, I'll do it properly and make a better job of it. So watch this space in the near future!

A few years ago, I picked up a copy of 'A Walk Around The Lakes', I think it was from a jumble sale. Over the next few months I kept picking it up and reading a chapter or two at a time. I would take it with me and read it in the pub over a pint. Often, there would be a disco on and music blasting down my ear, but while I was reading the book, I was somewhere else. It was as if I had been transported to the particular scene described in the  book and I was totally absorbed by it.

The essence of any good book is its ability to  do just that, to take you away, or transport you to the scene. Tolkien was able to do that with 'Lord of the Rings', another book I read, which took ages, but which I found totally absorbing.

I decided I would like to write of my own experiences, of visits to Cumberland over a 50-odd year period. Now, it would not be as comprehensive as Hunter's book, nor as knowledgeable or factual, for having never actually lived there and having only visited, I cannot in all honesty, say that I know the place at all. All I can say is, that I love it.

Returning from holidays was always a wrench for me. As we went over the rise near to Castlerigg, I knew I  was going home and I had often to suppress a tear as a child, even though I knew there were many miles to go before we left the central part of the lakes. For me, the holiday was over and dark days of depression would set in. (Back to School!) Although Stockport was my physical home, Cumberland was my 'spiritual' one and still is and ever will be. When I die, I hope my spirit will be there, for it is my idea  of 'Heaven', as it was Wordsworth's.

One other who felt the same, was Alfred Wainwright, 'AW', who said he would like, when the time came, to have his ashes spread on 'Inominate Tarn'. This was avery practical request, because the elements which made up his physical body, which religous folk call 'the dust', would be returned to the land, whence they came, to be recycled into plants, or whatever. It is all part of the cycle of life, but what of the spirit, the essence of what we are? Where are 'we' in all of this, when we have passed through the 'Valley of death'. It is an interesting concept, that life continues beyond death, in one form or another. The hope that we live on, is the notion of 'faith' and it is our hope for some kind of future, beyond this physical world. Enough of the religious aspect, that is Iris's department !

Hunter's book is not just about walks in the Lake District, he also covers the literary aspect of it, through the eyes of the so called Lakeland Poets. Much of it is carried out with a good deal of humour, as he quotes from various sources, much of it written in that curious old style language of the day, for example, he quotes Thomas De Quincey, who began as an admirer of Wordsworth's works and who was so overawed on one occasion when he was supposed to meet Wordsworth, that he 'bottled out' at the last minute. On eventually meeting the man himself and getting to know him, he became less than complementary. As that old saying goes, 'familiarity breeds contempt', although he remained a great admirer of his works if not the man himself. In the matter of the observation of Wordsworth's legs, for example he said,

"He was, upon the whole, not a well made man. His legs were pointedly condemned by all female connoisseurs in legs; not that they were bad in any way which would force itself upon your notice - there was no obvious deformity about them; and undoubtedly they had been serviceable legs beyond the average standard of human requisition; for I calculate, upon good data, that with these identical legs Wordsworth must have traversed a distance of 175,000 to 180,000 English miles - a mode of excercise which, to him, stood in the stead of alcohol and other stimulants; to which indeed he was indebted for a life of unclouded happiness, and we for much of what is excellent in his writings. But, useful as they have proved themselves, Wordsworth's legs were certainly not ornamental; and it was really a pity, as I agreed with a lady in thinking, that he had not another pair for evening dress parties-when no boots lend their friendly aid to mask out imperfections from the eyes of female rigorists.

See what I mean, the literary style of writing and the subject matter, Wordsworth's legs. It reminds me of a goon show script! Although he still manages to complement his writings. In a later part, he remarks upon Wordsworth's skating prowess, or lack of it, in equally caustic manner. In those days, the lakes froze over in winter, unlike nowadays and they went skating on Esthwaite Water, for example. Of Wordsworth skating he said acidly:-

"He sprawled upon the ice like a cow dancing a cotillion".

When I read that part, I laughed out loud and it took me a while to regain my composure!

But enough of Hunter's book, except, GET A COPY!!!. These are my humbler experiences of visits to the area, which is more to do with having relatives there, than fell walking and studying poets.

I was born in 1949. Mother came from Workington. Dad met mam in Woolworth's in Carlisle. He was stationed there during the war, at Hadrian's Camp. Mam and a friend were trying to get a cup of tea from the cafe, but couldn't because of all the soldiers in there. "We'll never get a cup of tea with all these soldiers in here," she said. Dad, who had overheard, stepped in gallantly. "Do you and your friend take sugar?" he said and he shouted above the melee; "TWO TEAS PLEASE LIDYA!". It was his standing joke in the family, that he met his wife in Woolworths and in those days it was 'Nothing over a tanner!'

Dad was subsequently sent to Northern Ireland and some time later he went to Burma and India, but it was at the latter end of the war, when it was literally all over bar the shouting.

After the war they were married in Workington and Dad brought Mam back to Stockport. Then I arrived on the scene and then began a long series of trips to Workington and back, visiting and staying with relatives.

In those days, we travelled by train. It was the peak of the steam era, when everything that could be done with steam power, had been done. They were steam-hauled journeys, taking many hours, up through the towns of Lancashire and passing the sad spectacle of steam engines being cut up for scrap, at the end of their working lives, somewhere near Bolton. Then up into Westmorland and Cumberland and around the Cumberland coast and for a young boy, it was an adventure!

The only problem with rail travel is that you can only look out of one side of a train or the other and it always makes me wonder whether whilst looking out of one side, I had missed something on the other. I love train journeys even now; looking through the window at the passing scene and always seeing something new and interesting passing by, like a constantly moving and changing art gallery. Little back gardens, fields, hills, rivers and roads leading where? I often wondered. It gave me a sense of somewhere new to be explored. Often I would leave the compartment in the carriage and go up and down the corridor, just for a change of scene. How I envy those early travellers who rode in open topped wagons all the way to Windermere, in the early days of rail travel, such as I read in a book I found at another jumble sale, about a visit to Loweswater, by a group of Quaker friends in 1865. They would have had an all-round view, but I wouldn't fancy it in bad weather!

That book is called 'Excursion To Loweswater' (ISBN: 0356145417) and is a modern reproduction of a hand written book, which gives an account of the journey, one weekend, all those years ago, when rail travel was very different to today. It was written in poetry and prose, with illustrations, by Mary Hodgson and Lydia Lunt, as a thank-you present to friends at Waterend, Robert and Rachel Jackson. It was reproduced by Christopher Newsom, with wonderful illustrations and text from the original. The book gives a fascinating insight into travel in those times. 

I have thought on occasion, of retracing the journey. Maybe I will do that some time; will anybody join me ? I doubt it.

Our journey form Stockport began with a trip across Manchester to Victoria Station. Then, I was fascinated by the old map on the wall, showing the rail network as it was in those days, set out in tiles. Just a few years later, that network was decimated in the so-called 'Beeching era', when many lines were closed. But at the time, it was possible to travel even relatively short distances by train. But the road network was relatively underdeveloped, with no motorways.

Travelling by train was an almost hypnotic experience. The tracks were not welded as they are nowadays, giving a smooth ride, they were short sections, with a gap between to allow for expansion, so when the wheels went over the gaps, they made that familiar clickety-clack sound and as the train speeded up, so did that sound. Then as you looked out of the carriage window at the ground speeding by, it imprinted itself on your brain and when you alighted from the train, everything was still moving, walls ground etc. and this went on for some time after and took a while for the effect to wear off.

Workington Main was and still is, the nearest station to the docks and the sea, as the line hugged the coastline on its way up to Carlisle. But just a few yard from the station entrance was Gladstone Street and number 18, where my grandparents lived. there were to be many visits to their house, from being a small firstborn child, to later visits with my sister and two younger brothers. The house at Gladstone Street had once been a shop and still had a counter in the front room. As you went through the entrance, the counter was on the right. My uncle Bobby used the counter to make balsa wood model planes. Grandma used to complain about the smell of the 'dope' he used to stiffen the wings, but the dangers of solvents were not widely known then.

As you went through the corridor, past the staircase going up to the right, you entered the parlour and over in the right hand corner was a door to the kitchen, or 'back kitchen' as grandma called it. As we went through, there was the table laden with food, sandwiches, cakes and teapot, cups and saucers and bottles of pop for us kids. Grandparents love their grandkids and they spoilt us rotten!

Theirs was a traditional relationship very much borne of the time, where grandad went out to work and grandma did the housework. Grandad had a good job at the steelworks and was probably relatively well paid for what he did. His job, from what I gather, was to clean out the steam engine smoke boxes, amongst his other duties. Of course, the health and safety aspect was not as rigorous then and the job later affected  his health very badly, as he ended up with emphysema, through many years of breathing in the dust.