Looking back, over my shoulder
It is a Thursday in mid-January. Already people have stopped referring to 2022 as the new year. The dull grey fug of Christmas is all but forgotten. The sky is a wall of solid blue pierced by a cold winter sun. The pull is irresistible. Well wrapped in several thermal layers and carrying yet more in my rucksack, I head north along the M6. Destination Cumbria, Rydal Water and Grasmere. Two of the smaller lakes with easier hills, I think. I hope.
Expecting only a few hardier fools to have made the trip, I am surprised that there are very few spaces in the car park. Making my way to the machine for the over-priced Pay-and-Display ticket, I glance around at the other visitors, the other walkers. I doubt any of them were under sixty. Old men with beards of every shade of grey. Women in kagouls, hiking sticks, knitted Nordic hats and matching socks, boots and shades. These are my peers, the group to which I belong. I feel sick and old. They are me. I am them.
I suppose it makes some sort of sense. It’s only logical that the people with the time to engage in such activities on a sunny Thursday in January would be the retired, the elderly, the not-needed-elsewhere.
Putting such soul-sucking thoughts from my mind, I press on, following the prescribed route around my chosen lakes. Aware that I had explored these parts many years ago, I now have little memory of it and so it is all as new to me.
Leaving the centre of Grasmere village, walking through woodland and along dull, weather-damaged lanes, I eventually arrive at the lakeside. This leg of the walk has taken me longer than expected. I am now wondering if I have been over-optimistic about buying a four-hour parking ticket. Do I even have time to stop for lunch?
Following the southern shore of Grasmere to where it meets the River Rothay connecting it with Rydal Water, I lose my way. My sense of direction and navigation skills have always been poor and, even with my Sat-Nav to hand, I wander off the trail. This, as it turns out, was fortuitous. I am getting further away from Rydal Water and climbing still higher. I am headed directly for Rydal Cave and it is looking more and more likely that I will be over-staying my welcome at Grasmere car park. This is not on my route and though I had originally intended to go there, my old brain has totally forgotten that part of the plan.
“Is this the way to Rydal Cave?”, a fellow traveller asks. “Yes”, I reply, as if I knew, and with all the confidence of an experienced and proficient Lakeland hiker.
The cave is flooded and dark. A broken pavement of uninviting stepping stones leads into the interior and out of sight. The danger of collapse from above is evident in the rubble mounds. My hollow thoughts reverberate in its inner dankness. To me, it is just an echo chamber. I leave in anguish and haste.
Down from the cave, I stop at the edge of Rydal Water. Relaxing on a rock, I open my flask of still-warm tea. The vapour rises into the cold air as I empty the contents into a plastic beaker. I am calm and untroubled. My mindful moment is broken by the sound of laughter. I watch a small group of young people, the first I had seen all day. They have stripped down to near nakedness. Moving cautiously, tentatively, yelping and howling like puppies, they step into the icy water of the lake. The bravest submerges and swims a few strokes. They are not long in the lake. Wrapped in towels, they shiver at the water’s edge. I feel snug in my triple layers and long underwear, sipping my green tea and tut-tutting at their carefree youthful antics, as an old person should.
Leaving the lakeside, again, I lose my way, wandering into a small copse. The path leads me up to a style in a tumbling drystone wall. The way through is blocked by ribbons of yellow tape. It looks like an abandoned crime scene. The pathway and style are closed and cordoned off, though the tattered tapes have long since been ignored by walkers before me. I push ahead along the treacherous pathway blind to the warning notices. Do not use. Safety Hazard.
A wooden bridge over the River Rothay takes me to the Church of St Mary, Rydal. An unfriendly couple walking in the opposite direction ignore my cheery greeting. I press on to the steep, leg-aching, upward slog past Rydal Mount, one of William Wordsworth’s old retreats. I half-remember visiting there many years ago. Back then, did my calves ache, my lungs rasp, my heart pound? Rydal Mount is closed. Out of season or because of the pandemic, they never said. I carry on upward, quietly cursing with each painful step.
Checking my Sat-Nav, I see I am on course for the last leg of my lakeside odyssey. I am now on the path called The Coffin Route, I think mine must surely be waiting for me somewhere ahead, comfortably lined, lid open.
The path follows the northern edge of Rydal Water and Grasmere. It was the funeral route in days long gone, connecting Grasmere with St Mary’s in Rydal. No time to stop and die, I am feeling confident I will make it back to the car park in Grasmere before the ticket expires.
Approaching the village, I become aware of the vehicles parked outside the small stone cottages; Mercedes Benz, BMW and Range Rover, all SUVs. What would young William have made of that? Maybe he would have owned one too. Looking around, I am surprised to find myself standing right outside another of his old homes; Dove Cottage. The Coffin Route leads straight to it. I linger awhile as memories come flooding back, in that way that memories often do. Yes, I had been here before. Stood on this very spot, but back then I was not alone. I was thirty years younger and my legs almost certainly didn’t ache. Still believing there was so much ahead, I could even say I was probably happy. Maybe. An old photograph comes vividly to mind. I wonder if I still have it? I still have it. She’s still there, at Dove Cottage, looking back, over her shoulder.
