Roamin’ Detour – Part V

 

If we planned to make it to Midgley before nightfall…

we needed to make a
beeline outta Windermere

Sure H had logged over 800 miles of English roadways.

Huzzah!

And yah there’d been some close calls…

Like startling of wildlife

…or flattening of poorly-placed objects.

The point was, H truly dreaded
driving at night.

And though her lefty driving skills
had blossomed into confidence,

 

Sari and I were stunned
when she pulled a 180 on
our itinerary that morning.

Hellbent on squeezing in
a Cumbrian castle
hours off course….

…utterly convinced
we’d still make Midgley
before nightfall…

**    **    **

Thanks to H’s risky bearing
S and I were soon preparing to
circumvent a handsome region once
overrun by Roman legions.

Located in its namesake township,
Carlisle Castle was 5 hours round-trip.
Totally opposite from our route,
yet fearless H displayed no doubt.

And since she was the only brave soul
willing to tackle the driving role,
Sari and I stayed Mum
pardon the pun.

Excitingly, a landmark of
Roman ruins roosted near the town

Hadrian’s Wall !

Commissioned in 122 AD,
the Wall was designed to
keep Northern wildlings OUT ~~

T’was Hadrian’s most dearest wish
to barricade marauding Picts.

Building fancy wall-ish border
in the name of peace and order.

Over roller coaster lands
labored foreign legion hands
Blessed with Roman aptitude,
earning Hadrian’s gratitude.

It took five years to engineer
a snaking super fort to fear.

With observation towers high
Soaring broadly, piercing sky.

And oh so functional to boot
sporting turrets, toilets,
and laundry chutes.

[Impressive considering there were
no Home Depots or Ace hardwares.]

 

Through timely raids,
foes wrought destruction,
rupturing the wall’s construction

Patiently did peoples wait
as Roman rule did dissipate

 As wall and turret tumbled down
Locals smartly swiped those stones

With hostilities long suspended
Scots’ invasions go unmentioned.

(If we don’t mention the ruckus in
London pubs from Scottish football fans…

or the recent calls
for Scottish independence)

 

A Prescient Hadrian

Hadrian is fascinating —
a Roman leader who invested in peace
when he commissioned that wall,
Respecting the multi-cultural peoples
across his expansive Empire.

And most remarkably,
in an unprogressive era
he was openly gay, or at least not afraid
to hide his long-time love from
public scrutiny or judgment.

Clearly a man of balls… balls of Roman stone

 

Hikers’ Paradise

Nicked by farmers, churches, stocks
those heathen-Roman building blocks
were oft re-cycled far and wide
enhancing English countryside.

The overcast skies were spitting down
when H rolled our rental into town

 

It seemed so surreal cause
just across from our parking lot….

lay this fantastic medieval castle….

Carlisle’s ground stone was laid in 1092 –
a mere thousand years after Hadrian’s rule !

Etchings of the past
decorate the Keep

Believed to be chip-chipped
by prisoners, guards and
other unknown peeps.

 

The Dungeon

Because it’s never been unoccupied
since its 11th Century construction,
Carlisle Castle is a rarity among medieval castles

We stopped in Carlisle’s awesome
little Castle gift shop,

where H began hustling us out
very suddenly…

~~~

As reality hit her that
we had to speed post-haste…
to Yorkshire’s west sigh-eede

Besides outracing the darkness
another concern niggled…

 

 The forecast…

Which called for rain, rain
and a sprinkling of more rain 

 

Many months later,
H still shuddered
recalling the drive
that set nerves aflutter.

See, Trouble reared its ugly head
when our GPS done lost all cred.

 

Code-named Sir Richard, he’d done fine
till he converted to Mr. Hyde.

Maniacally directing H up and down
suspicious roads of iffy renown.

The crazed Sir Richard preferred
the nearly impassable,
the roguest of roads….

 

As daylight dimmed,
and dusk descended,

H’s pupils were at maximum dilation,
and sweat glands at high production…

To add insult to stressbomb, turned out there were two Midgleys within miles of each other !  Who knew??  Not our GPS Sir Richard — who had diabolically routed us to the wrong Midgley !  Over Hill and Dale (poor Dale)

Needless to say,
Sari had to re-calibrate Sir Round-About.

 

As we closed in on our destination,
H began to turn upwards into what looked,
in the darkness, like just another
tiny town road.

But which we later learned
had an infamous local history.

We’re talking a roadway capable of
sandwiching one vehicle.

A road a Local had once driven up
and accidentally wedged themselves in !

And which Local, to their national shame,
had to be yanked out professionally,
according to Patroosha.

This factoid we did not yet know
as H gamely tried to snake in,
finally sputtering,  “I think I’m
goin’ up someone’s driveway!”

Intuitively escaping from that indignity, H carefully crept up another more sizeable road and braked when Sir Richard suddenly announced our arrival.  We had stopped at the crest of a hill, and appeared to have reached “New House Farm” the 300+ year old historic stone cottage…  Or had we?  It was dark, People !  And it was spooky…

Just in case it was another doppelgänger Midgley, I was dispatched as scout.   Standing in the quaint alcove, I held me breath and knocked.  When the door tentatively opened — Eureka ! there she was, framed in doorway, awash in amber streetlight, Patricia’s lovely wide-eyed what-the-hell visage.

In keeping with tradition, we had arrived at New House Farm four hours late for dinner -and thankfully, in true Village tradition, the girls had kept a farmhouse table laden with savory English fare …

Villagers arrive for Patricia’s big night

Our trip was extra-special since we’d timed our stay to coincide with a
major Midgley shindig — Patricia’s milestone October birthday!

And one with a tantalizing theme – featuring the Swedish kings and queens of the 80’s – ABBA – in all their flamboyant moon-booted, silver disco-balled glory.

Oh yes –  t’would be a raucous village affair —

*    *    *
Join us please, for our next installment, when for four tornadic days, three Americans harass two English hosts, and meet their three organically-raised Piglets — One, Two and Three, respectively, not to mention attend a rowdy village-fueled celebration…

 

Party survivors Sari and Patricia pose prettily before Polkadot Lane

And now, a look back at a special UK round-about moment—

We get off here! No — not there!  We’ve passed it… Isn’t it the second turn off?   It’s right here, Gah! We’ve missed it – again!!!  But Sir Richard is pointing over heah !!!   And from the plaintive driver:  How am I suppose to gerroff when there’s cars in me way!?!

Basking in the Cotswolds sun
Just outside Sari’s terrifying haunt —
400-year old Hoo House…

 

Meanwhile, back in Montana,
the Master Mind in the Middle is
caught posing with his hairy posse…..

*        *        *

Many months later, H reminisced,
lower lip quivering…
—

“I cannot tell you how happy I was to get to Patricia’s
and not have to drive again!”

*         *        *

Transatlantic Antics – Part IV – Cumbrian Caramba

Thanks to H’s steely resolve,
we made it to the Lake District.

A once northern outpost
of the Roman Empire

Now bustling with lakeside towns

and teeming with tourists.

We were one stop closer
to Patricia and Eileen
in Yorkshire.

Meanwhile,
Sari booked us a cottage in a
cozy corner of Windermere.

Bluebell Brook Cottage

With a fireplace,
modern kitchen, and a
babbling brook below.

“It’s a cacophony!”

More like raging rapids
but who’s quibbling.

Not to mention a
pub next door!

Things looked pretty sweet.

Until we noticed a strange absence

of certain essentials.

Self-catering is one thing,
but this was ridick…

Our search couldn’t even
cough up a dish towel.

*     *     *

It was time to alert the media.

But the cottage phone
couldn’t dial out!

So I tromped to the pub next door
where grizzly locals were juicing

and left a plaintive
voice mail for the
home office.

 *     *     *

The pub owner offered to
dry us with bar towels.

Either way, we couldn’t
afford to get soaked.

In the meantime,
we set off for town,
a ten minute walk from
Bluebell Brook Cottage.

I confess with great contrition
we worship British nutrition
especially the malty matter
of fish ‘n chips with crispy batter.

Resistance is futile

In Little Chippy,
the sizzling ambiance
was intoxicating.

Just as H and S
were debating the
age-old question,

cod or haddock?

a head snapped up
behind the fish counter.

“Are you taking pictures?”

“Er, no,” I lied.

Suspicious, he slapped
mushy peas directly over
my crispy fish.

Oh the humanity!

Mushy peas are a treat
but not when used to assault
innocent fish n’ chips.

To recap:

Correct placement.

Incorrect placement.

And proper foot placement

*    *    *

Window shopping

 It was dark when we returned
to the cottage.  In time to be
startled by the doorbell.

Sari raced to the door emitting
puffs of noxious gases
in her wake.

Thanks to her tummy’s
24-7 processing of her
10-Coke a day habit.

Heedless of danger
to herself – or the visitor –
she flung the door open.

Revealing a tall shadow
lugging a ginormous trash bag.

Dispatched by the home bureau,
our hero was delivering
with a vengeance.

Seriously, he unloaded
like seventy towels!

*     *     *

That night, while H and S slept
soundly through the noisy rapids,

others couldn’t help
suffer an odd re-play
of the day…

*     *     *

For over 500 years,
ferries have criss-crossed
Lake Windermere’s ten
and a half-mile stretch.

To take advantage of
this fine transport,
H drove to the dock
at Ambleside one day.

Our mission:

Visit the historic farmhouse
of one phenomenal lady.

Hiya!

The plan:

Take the ferry to Far Sawrey,
then hike to Near Sawrey.

The trick:

Keep those dyslexic
directions straight.

And dodge a criminal element
patrolling the shorelines.

Who’d declared open
season on snackers.

H barely escaped
with her ice cream
and 99 flake.

On board, passengers buzzed

with curiosity,

excitement,

Comforting Mum

and post-traumatic stress.

The crossing was lovely.

Later that week, Patricia would
tell us we’d technically been on the
butt end of the Lake District.

Because UK insiders holiday on a
more stunning side of Windermere.

Sacre bleu !

In any case,
our ferry dumped us onto
this inferior landscape

where the footpath gradually
veered from the lake.

Past multitasking sheep

looming castles,

Tomfoolery

and cryptic sculptures.

Exciting!

A half hour later,

we hopped on a mini bus
to speed the journey.

It shuttled up a steep ascent…

climbing and curving
before depositing us
atop a pretty hill.

In Near Sawrey!

The gate
was framed by
greenery.

 

The famous garden path
lead us to the house.

*     *     *

Dubbed a Victorian genius,
the lady was a naturalist and
conservationist, far ahead
of her time.

Helen Beatrix Potter

In an era when women
were unwelcome in
male-dominated institutions,
she was a true
Renaissance woman.

Her lifelong passion
for nature led to
self-development in many
areas of science.

No country critters
were too small or creepy
to study for illustration.

Her sketches were
renowned for their scientific
accuracy.

Born in London
of well-to-do parents,
she and baby brother
enjoyed holiday visits
to the Lake District.

As an adult,
she reveled in country life
in her self-adopted village.

But it was this publication,
starring a thieving
jacketed rabbit,

that propelled her
into stratospheric success
and fame.

She bought “Castle Cottage”
across from the farmhouse.

Where she and her country
lawyer husband, William,
lived for the next 30 years.

In later years, she chucked the children’s
books, much to the dismay of her
bazillions of fans,

but blossomed as a botanist
and mycologist (fungi expert).

She gave lectures at London’s School
of Economics, but when she submitted
scientific papers, she had to publish
them under her uncle’s name.

As was women’s lot in that time,
certain penis-heavy organizations
contracted the vapors
knowing a woman penned
an authoritative missive,

or discovered a cure for
diseased sheep,

or became a champion
sheep breeder to boot,

or demonstrated
a savvy business sense by
patenting a Peter Rabbit
doll in 1903.

But possibly her finest legacy
came when she…

invested in large swaths
of Cumbrian countryside,

and bequeathed 4,000 acres
to the National Trust,
protecting her beloved
lake land for perpetuity.

Josh’s lens still has that schmutz…

We couldn’t help admiring
her visionary choices.

Nor sampling pea pods
from her garden.

Earning a triple
stink eye from beyond.

With bro Walter, shep Kep and fur-faced Papa

*    *    *

When Sari chose not to join us on the farmhouse tour, we suspected she may have been a  bit spooked…  Since Hill Top House dates from the 17th Century, and S had shown a distinct sensitivity to history-soaked real estate !

*    *    *

In any case, it was fitting we were in the village of Sawrey.  Because no one was more sawrey than H for what happened next.

Halfway into the tour, H realized her ticket price was off.  The ticket taker explained, “Oh, we thought you had your child with you.”

Quietly, adjustments were made and H returned to the tour…

The farmhouse appears
as if Beatrix just stepped out.

Her straw hat hangs by the fireplace,
and tools, coat, and garden boots
await her return.

Her legion of fans
balloon with each
generation.

After the tour, we found Sari
by the doorway, leafing through the
essential Squirrel Nutkin.

whereupon H leaned down to hiss,

 “They thought you were a child – a child!”

Tom-Who-Me?-Kitten

Later, out of public earshot,
S asked,

“Mom!  Why didn’t you just
come and get me??”

H was temporarily stymied,
having unintentionally tossed
the child-ticket opportunity
out the rabbit hutch.

And as is the sacrificial
nature of mothers, had
to resign herself to
periodic ribbing:

“A Child!  A Child!!
They thought you were
a Child!!”

Tee hee

*    *    *

Sari’s efforts to shoot
her Mum and Auntie
in Beatrix’s doorway
is foiled again and again,

by a tenacious family
of photo bombers

who orbited in and around
the viewfinder.

Domo arigato!

*    *    *

We wandered a literary map
highlighting all the locales
in BP’s little tales.

Privileged to walk in
the great lady’s footsteps.

Thank you for coming.

Now shove off.

*     *     *

A five-minute walk brought us to
neighboring Hawkshead,

where more of Beatrix’s
water colours and sketches
are dimly displayed.

Seriously, leave already.

*    *    *

Ambleside huddle

*     *     *

Another day
we faced a dilemma on
Windermere’s high street.

Whether to invest in some
serious English gear

…in this quaint little shop.

Where patterned
wellies had Sari transfixed
and an elbow-patched riding
jacket whinnied at me.

We were awful close
to hitting the streets garbed
somewhere between…

a tweedy Sherlock Holmes

and a Dickensian flash mob.

Luckily, the prices were over-blown.

Much like the spectacle
we’d have created
had we succumbed.

But we weren’t
through drooling over
English fashion…

Wistful window shopper

Oh no,
not by a long shot.

*     *     *

Inspired by Eileen’s goal to crash
a hundred English gardens
that summer, H lobbied
for a visit to nearby
Holehird Garden.

Naturally the child
wandered off…

We were privy to
Holehird’s autumnal splendor.

Quieter than its summer radiance.

Rapprochement

Volunteers keep
the place spruced
and camera ready.

*      *      *

With another garden
under her belt, H was
temporarily sated.

*      *      *

Passing Windermere Library,
we spotted a poster one day.

A special exhibit
of children’s artwork
on display.

In August 1945,
300 Jewish children were
flown to the Lake District.

Holocaust survivors, and almost
all orphans, they were whisked from
a ravaged homeland to an area
they described as “Paradise.”

For the transition
to their post-war lives,
they were housed in hostels
near Windermere.

In a world where everything
had been taken away from them,
their artwork and poignant
testimonials slapped life
into perspective.

*    *    *

We were one day away from
P and E’s sanctuary in
Midgley, West Yorkshire…

if we could avoid being creamed
by traffic as we exited the cottage,

since the front door basically
spits you onto the main road.

We had some close calls
is what I’m sayin’.

*   *   *

Since the start of our UK trip,
we’d been tormented by a peculiar
English appliance.

I’m talking the
dual washer-dryer found in
every self-catering cottage
we’d booked so far.

From Cornwall to the Cotswolds
from the Midlands to the Lake District.

The device was impossible to figure out!!

Meaning our laundry was often
held captive for hours in either a
hellish heating or manic washing cycle.

Until suddenly,
for no rhyme or reason,
the door latch would release.

Not unlike the doorway to H-E-
Double Hockey sticks.

*     *      *

That night,
P successfully rang us
on our one-way cottage phone.

We’d been in touch with our
Yorkshire pal all along,
but finding wi fi hot spots
was a challenge in the UK.

As P calmly listened to our
whinging on towel-less cottages,
mushy pea slingers, and
demonic washer-dryers,

she mused thoughtfully,

“Ah, they’ve gone downhill,
haven’t they?”

And more candidly:

“Don’t feel bad!
We can’t figure out those
washer-dryers either!”

*     *     *

Lazy Daisy Breakfast

H and S ordered an English breakfast
our last morning in Windermere,
Lazy-Daisy style.

While I opted for oatmeal with
English cream and berries.

Heaven!

But the veggie sausage nipped
from S’s plate was delicious.

*    *    *

On our last night,
my threat to pen a scathing
cottage review was roundly
discouraged.

But clearly no one
discouraged my insistence
on spray tanning.

Gaahh !!

*    *    *

Our bellies full,
off we set for Yorkshire.

But not before H had
one of her zany impulses
to squeeze in a trip to
Carlyle Castle, the total
opposite direction,

Which would create a
serious challenge to
arriving in Yorkshire
before nightfall.

Since driving at night
was something
H dreaded !

But S and I
weren’t complaining,

Our GPS navigator,
Sir Richard, was back
in the saddle, so to speak…

Stay tuned,

Would we make it to Yorkshire
before nightfall?  Or would P’s
specific directions to Midgley
be wantonly disregarded
by Sir Richard and
Sir Helen…

*     *     *

leading us into some, er,
tight spots to say
the least.

PS   Helen Beatrix Potter Heelis
rocks!

PPS:  Elementary, Dr. Watson.