Saturday 13 August 2011

Still in Wordsworth country


In the only local hostelry with wifi. I am looking out over their lawn where the table umbrellas are gathered like grey witches of distinctly ill omen. But there are people at tables and glasses next to them. Mild weather. Matt Monro on the lobby speakers.

I can't quite get used to mountains, even those of relatively modest size, as here in Grasmere. I love the fact that they are comprehensible mountains covered in green, and rugged rather than absolute. To have the land buckle around you is exciting. There must be so many places to hide! It's childhood again, like playing with toy soldiers in bed, raising your knees and placing figures at the top. It is comforting without being too peachy.

Folk come here to walk or climb. Some like fell running, like Helen Mort who is resident here but away just at the moment. There is a pun on 'fell' rumbling in the background. The verse: I do not love thee, Dr Fell, / The reason why I cannot tell, / But this alone I know full well: / I do not love thee, Dr Fell. And somehow I am sure I would not love him either. All that in four lines of which two are the same. Dr Fell is fell, a felon, a defile. I'd keep clear of Dr Fell.

All these travels like interstices in what could be the seamless fabric of home life - rising early, sitting at desk for hours, then retiring with just a short walk and a meal or two in between to interrupt the even tenor of an all but featureless way, apart from the interior landscape which remains thankfully unpredictable. A few fells and Fells there too.

At home C is kitten sitting while our two homies go into grouch and terror states. Somehow I can't see cats running a comfy B&B.

Home tomorrow, another seven and a half hours in the very lining of the those interstices with its sense of suspended time.



4 comments:

Diane said...

Time for you to go home and enjoy the exquisite pleasures of quiet and delicious company and perhaps a rest from the travels. (Treasure "home".)

James Hamilton said...

"I can't quite get used to mountains, even those of relatively modest size, as here in Grasmere. I love the fact that they are comprehensible mountains covered in green, and rugged rather than absolute. To have the land buckle around you is exciting. There must be so many places to hide!"

Yes, and yes - so too Scotland, after a childhood on the Bedford Levels. Childhood excitement and freshness at the sudden arrival of mountains in your life, and the longing never to have to stop looking at them again.

George S said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
George S said...

Home and hills, both good things. The landscape has flattened out now we have passed Preston. The train is running late and I am likely to miss the connection. That is to say it is running 25 minutes late. Richard Branson is on the phone right now, desperately saying sorry. 'No use, Branson,' I reply. 'You've had your chance and blown it.' He whimpers and weeps. It is a pitiful sound.