Today the grace of the fells. Mist rising from the valleys in torn sheets, a steady rain. The cave at Ryland Water, the vast arc of it, angles of shale protruding from the ceiling and the walls of its interior. The dimness in its inner reaches, water dripping from above, the pool of dank water at the entrance.
Bluebells in carpet over the hills and in the forest, where vast, thick trees wound their roots through eroding soil, contorted hands holding the landscape together. A solitary flowering rhododendron on the hill, glowing white, contrasting to the straight pines behind it black with water. We walked, rain slowly soaking us through, breathing in the wet England air. Paused, at one point when the road met us, at a small bus stop, temporary shelter under concrete on a bench, where we had a cup of tea from the flask and blocks of gingerbread from Grasmere. Attracted amused stares from within passing cars as we sat soddenly with our plastic mugs.
Outside, now, a fog hangs over the dark fields. The owls stopped calling when I went out - the near ones, at least - far off, the clear whinny of a different type of owl continued to softly ornament the night. But I found one nonetheless, a pale smudge in my torchlight, high up and indistinct in a tree.
The creek behind our tent talks quietly. The low bleat of a mother sheep sounds over the higher one of her lamb. Paul's soft breathing purrs in the night.
This countryside is calm and yet magical, here in the Lake District. The fields roll out tamely, the town sits quaint (an American word, objects Paul) and cozy by the lake. Flowers bloom in the flowerboxes. But the surrounding rock lifts fiercely into these severe flanking fells. The lake lies black and secretive, as though cloaking an Arthurian legend. The woodlands hold their still and separate enchantment, conjured into silence on a secret they would speak. The heights are umber and dull red, the lakeshores rocky. A heathery yellow-flowered bush clings to the slopes and banks in hardy tangles.
And so I crawl back into the inner room of the tent, from this enclosed awning where I sit now in a camp chair and write. I close my eyes among the night sounds. I listen to their promises, their voices, murmuring their spells and incantations, speaking to me softly of my dreams.
Coniston Old Man, the destination of today. We hiked up on the footpath past the dry stone walls; paused for coffee by a little glittering creek among the grass and low trees. In the lower country, we passed cottages and small farms, the path wending up through the green lowlands. Sycamores and feathery pines leaned up above us, greening with spring.
The mountain itself had windy, bare slopes, covered in grass, with slate bedrock thrusting up. I wrote:
Climbing Old Man Coniston, Lake District, England
Green slopes cut by chattering streams, the flat planes of bedrock slate jutting up among uneven hills
Very few trees here at altitude, except in the stream cuts, though these are stunted and wizened from wind.
Goatswater Tarn - small dark blue lake surrounded by steep talus-covered slopes. Looming over the far slope: Dow Crag (see photos)
We walked with I- and L-, Paul's parents, and L- kept us going at a good clip, though with frequent stops for tea and coffee from the thermoses of hot water, and for banana cake and sandwiches and flapjacks and chocolate biscuits. Most of the time, though, she marched a little ways ahead of us, her body compact and economical in blue slacks and boots, two aluminum walking sticks keeping her steady.
Boulders and talus on the slopes, the bigger ones "like a giant had thrown them downslope as a game," said Paul; the streams on the far side of the summit tumbling down a steeper slope and making little waterfalls in the brilliantly sunny day. Our vista from the top more clear, said Paul, than he'd ever seen it. I- gloated, pointed out various landmarks at distance - the nuclear power plant, the miniature Eiffel Tower lookalike on the point going out to sea. I- likes details, and chattered all while I walked near him, a running commentary on technical, local, and cultural curiosities.
We thumped on down the steep mountainside. The ground, either hummocked grass or broken rock, took concentration to navigate. We descending to Levers Tarn, pausing at the dam for tea and cake and crisps. Below, the streams gathered together beside a still-working mine, glinting greenish with the copper in the water, the stream boulders stained white. Sheep browsed and bleated alongside.
Down in the farm fields, Paul and I stopped to search for a woodpecker on a knoll of trees: several enormous ancient beeches among a stand of slimmer, though still mature and elegant, other trees. The woodpecker's hammering had rung out over the fields, arresting another couple on the path, passers by. "That's not too common, is it?" said the fellow, as he stopped us to point out the sound. So Paul and I went chasing, with my binoculars. On the knoll itself, the woodpecker went silent when we approached, and remained stubbornly so, except once, briefly, to tease us. We could not find it.
A few details: Coniston Old Man, 803 meters. The yellow-flowered bush that grows abundant on the lower slopes and by Coniston water: gorse, otherwise known as furze, whose flowers have an odor reminiscent of coconut. The English robin: sings like a song sparrow or a goldfinch, a rapid, varied bubbling and chattering call. Very territorial, L- tells me. A few of them peered at us with sprightly eyes from perches on the wire fences as we came back to camp.
Yorkshire
Slugs and snails. Of various sizes, though the most impressive ones are the black slugs, as long as my palm and as thick as my pinky finger, shiny and ribbed; as well as the largest snails, big colorful knots of spiraled shell, the muscular beasts within slinking with determination along the leaves. Both are abundant here. A constant commentary of "look out! slug" or "another one" accompanied our walk along the muddy footpath, our boots sliding as we made our way with deep descending forest on one side and the grassy farm fields on the other. They thrive on the wet that is among this country's most fundamental features.
Meanwhile, out over the fields, pheasants, their creaking grate call periodically screeching into the grey afternoon air. And sheep, of course, dotting the slopes of the hills, and their voices carrying up - low bleats of the ewes, and the higher replies of their lambs.
We wended through the fields and through woodland, dipping and rising with the countryside, and dropping down at last to the hedgerow lined farm road. Then spent a few hours at the Rivaulx Abbey. Ancient stone, great arches high overhead, a construction from the 1100's, a half-unbelievable feat.
Then slugs and snails again. And a pint, at the pub.
Wales
The hills rose about us to either side as we made our way down the footpath, that ran through the cut alongside a brook and a marsh. We passed through a tangled forest, mossy, dark and littered with dank, fallen trees. Mirkwood. Near the sea the landscape opened again - open coastal heath in the fading evening, and a wooden gate. "Do not feed or approach the ponies," it read. "Welsh mountain ponies are chosen for this area especially for their hardy nature, and they thrive on the coastal grasses that make up their diet. Their grazing helps maintain the native coastal vegetation in a natural way."
Their heads rose up at the hilltop as we walked on, three proud necks, then four, then a group of them, pacing along the path. We walked up the hillside, following.
And such a landscape they led us to. Cliffs down to the sea, cloaked by flowers. Deep inlets, wave-cut caves into the flat planes of shale. We trailed the ponies along the footpath, watching them groom each other, vie for dominance, and canter through the heath, their hooves pounding. The sea crawled into the gaps between the cliffs, dark and greenish and white with surf. The farther promontories of the peninsula hulked round and dim in the humid air.
Night followed slowly on, sinking down over the rise; a scattered twinkling of lights briefly visible of the far town. Then we walked back along the footpath as the moon rose. It left a long white streak on the water, illuminating a path to us from a great jutting rock in the sea, as though an ancient civilization had designed it - to measure this day of the calendar, this Welsh spring, this darkening moment by the surf and by the tossing, thundering sprytes of the Welsh ponies.
We descended into the dim, leaving behind that lonely landscape. The bats flitted on over us, and we moved into a deep heavy dusk, between the trees that swallowed us again.
