Tag Archives: The Lake District

The Good, the Bad and the Sad

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On the last day in Nether Wasdale it rains steadily for the entire morning, then brightens up for us to get out walking in the afternoon.

This time we take a route around to the other side of the lake and it’s beautiful with woods, lanes and spectacular views. Part of our route follows the lake then up through some overgrown paths on to the narrow road. I spend some time attempting to photograph the butterflies on the brambles, without success as they have a tendency to flutter away while I’m trying to focus!

In the evening we stroll across to the pub to get a meal and it turns out to be exceptional for pub food. It’s also busy and characterful- surprising for such an out-of-the-way hostelry- and many of the customers are locals.

Next morning it’s time to go, although I’ve a soft spot for this tiny backwater. We have to dodge rain to pack up and as we leave the heavens really do open. There’s a hiatus while we get in a muddle and go the wrong way, confused by the very narrow roads and turnings, but at last we’re out and away.

The motorway M6 is never a pleasant journey at the best of times and as we negotiate the busy junctions and ‘spaghetti’ that is Birmingham we are dogged by traffic jams. I feel bad for those who must drive routes like these every day.

It’s a long day. Following a protracted search for a stopover to break our journey I found a pub site a camping field in Staffordshire, ‘The New Broom’. The route takes us through some of Stoke-on-Trent, which has historically been a pottery town but has suffered huge economic blows in later years, mainly I suppose from cheaper, imported pottery. I’ve never visited and I’m sure Stoke has some lovely, historic sights but what we see as we pass through is run down and unlovely.

After the early morning rain, the day turns hot and sticky. In the pub’s field, several units are already set up. It’s near to the popular theme park, Alton Towers, so there are families with caravans or vans and excited children. The bar is thronged with customers when we go to check in- some kind of ‘do’…a wedding. perhaps? I ask the barman. No- it’s a wake…

The New Broom pub is by a busy road but the portacabin showers are clean and acceptable, although later, when we go to take advantage of the bar meals, we are obliged to wait a very long time to be served despite the very few fellow diners and when it does arrive, the meal is disappointing,

There’s a noticeable increase in the price of UK sites and stopovers, reflecting, perhaps the general state of the UK economy?

A slew of traffic holdups when we left has forced us to rethink our route home. The weather turns hotter still. We stop at a small service station outside Warminster and I go to get us an ice cream as a pick-me-up. I make tea. We go to set off again- except that we’re going nowhere- there’s no way to get the van into gear. We’re at the roundabout by the garage. Husband forces the gearbox into first gear so that we can limp round into the car park- which also happens to be the Travelodge car park- and there we stop, our only option the insurance recovery, which I ring, receiving a promise of a 2 hour wait.

Six hours later I ring again. It’s now almost 10 o’clock, which is the time by which you must book if you want to reserve a room at the Travelodge, which we do. The recovery call handler expresses shocked disbelief that nobody has come and assures me that someone will be here in the morning. There’s nothing else for it- it’s a night in the dubious splendour of the Travelodge with a choice of Burger King, Greggs or Subway. Luckily we have bread and cheese in the van and in any case- Subway, as the apologetic server explains, has no bread left.

Next morning the AA man arrives promptly to tell us what we already knew. We need a recovery vehicle to get us and the poor van home. Ho Hum…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Off the Beaten Lakes Track

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At Hillcroft campsite, Pooley Bridge, Ullswater, we are directed to the top of the steep, terraced hill, where we are almost in splendid isolation with just two fellow tourers in our area.

The fine weather has departed, leaving us with scudding, intermittent rain, although it’s not cold. It’s a long walk down through the site [and back up!] but once down at road level there’s only a couple of minutes more to get into the village, which is small and cute and has just about everything you might need, from groceries to books as well as coffee shops, pubs and hotels.

We can’t see the lake from our pitch but it is visible from further down the site, where there’s a camping field and pods. Down in the village, a footpath before the bridge takes us to the lake’s edge where we can see a small pier. There should be steamers running but they aren’t stopping at Pooley Bridge at present,

The tiny gift shop has some lovely, locally made items but no jewellery, which I was looking forward to getting for a family birthday. We conduct a short survey of the village pub/restaurants for the following night, choosing the ‘Pooley Bridge’ itself, which gets good reviews. We are to find that the reviews are not entirely accurate, since although it’s pleasant inside and popular with diners, my steak is disappointing and flavourless and the meals overall lacklustre.

On our final day at Pooley Bridge we head off into the village and on to a riverside footpath which leads us across fields, up through a farm/campsite, across more fields, along a road, back to the river and returning to the village for tea and cake at the coffee shop overlooking the river.

The campsite, Hillcroft Farm, has new modern, huge showers and even a dishwasher! But I’m mystified by the games room, which has slot machines and other games plus a vending machine for snacks- and yet there is no bar or cafe and only a tiny, ill-stocked shop, both of which would be much more popular with visitors.

But we’re off next day, leaving Pooley Bridge and following the lakeside towards Keswick. We can’t stay there as the lovely lakeside site is full, but we need some groceries so we’ll make a stop for a supermarket. I’d forgotten all about Booths, although we must have shopped there the last time we came, so when it pops up on our SATNAV shopping chip, we pull in to the car park.

Booths is an exceptional supermarket. I f you thought Waitrose was posh, you haven’t visited Booths. Everything in this spacious, upmarket store is top quality- from the [very expensive] butcher’s counter to the delectable bakery items. Faced with such an array of delicious and tempting foods, we decide on some eye-wateringly expensive steaks [to make up for the tasteless offering at Pooley Bridge]. Following this and after stowing everything, we stay and have lunch before getting back en route.

The final part of the journey to Nether Wasdale is tortuous, with tiny, bendy lanes but at last we arrive to the miniscule village, which has very little, seemingly and it’s easy to spot the site- at another working farm…

ovels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

A Heady Romp in the Fields of Yesteryear

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                When I was a young child my family undertook intrepid camping excursions into the extremities of the UK. I don’t recall there being any such luxury as a camp site or a holiday park, or if there were we didn’t venture into any. We camped at farms. We’d meander along the lanes in my father’s old ‘Commer’ or whatever vehicle he had, until he spotted a likely farm, then he’d knock on the door and request a corner of a field for us. Whether we were ever refused entry I don’t know, but we always found somewhere to pitch up. We all had to help out with the tents, old ex-army structures, notably a bell tent in which we all slept, two adults and three children, around the central pole. This bell tent was reversible-snowy white on the inside and camouflage green and brown splodges on the outside. It was accessed via low tunnels-easy for small children but presumably less so for my parents.

                My father was a little like Allie Fox in Paul Theroux’s ‘Mosquito Coast’, in that he hatched the ideas and liked to ‘go native’, pulling us all along with him. Once the tent was erected he’d take the spade he’d brought along and dig a pit for the toilet tent he’d specially constructed from four poles and some sacking. We slept on ex-army, canvas camp beds, the assembly of which was an acquired skill, and in ex-army, camouflage, kapok sleeping bags that my mother had cut down to size for us on her treadle sewing machine.

                Cooking was executed on two primus stoves housed in biscuit tins-always outside, even in a howling gale. We ate and drank from enamel plates and mugs. Whenever it was deemed necessary for us to bathe we made excursions to local towns where we would find a public bathing house. You would be shown to a steamy cubicle and handed a towel and a small wafer of soap.

                There were, of course, times when the weather was inclement [even in the summers of childhood]. Most farmers would take pity on us, allowing us to sleep in a hayloft or a barn or once, as I recall on the floor of a milking shed, where the concave channels for drainage made for an uncomfortable night. During periods of sustained rain we’d sometimes go to the cinema, a treat that would be followed up by fish and chips in a newspaper wrapper, consumed whilst sitting, all five of us squashed into a car with steamy windows. Occasionally the parents felt the need to visit the local pub and we’d be brought out bottles of lemonade and packets of crisps, since in those days children did not enter such establishments.

                We travelled to Scotland, Wales, the Lake District, the Peak District, camped within sight of Ben Nevis, on the moors, next to pubs, next to rocky streams.

                What a contrast the modern equivalent of camping is! These days I feel grumpy if there is no internet access, the water in the showers is less than piping hot or the electric hook-up fails. Even UK camp sites have managed to acquire the sophisticated facilities offered by continental sites. Some would say it isn’t ‘real’ camping if you don’t build an open fire or catch your own food but I’ll stick with the comforts the van provides, miniature though they may be!