Okay, need to finish up this log.
It was mid-October and time to say goodbye to the Lake District. It is, really, the only bad thing about being there—having to leave.
Goodbye to the enchanting tarns, like something from a storybook, and impossible trails, rising out of slate, sometimes in sliding patchworks under your feet, sometimes in “steps” two or more feet high, sometimes in slabs like rungs on a ladder up mountain sides.
Goodbye to the views, to Coniston, my favorite place in the world, and my own memories of what seems like lifetimes ago.
To the lakes themselves; Windermere (below), Coniston Water, Thirlmere, Ullswater, Derwentwater (above), and the rest.
To the clotted cream. I know clotted cream is divine, but I did not expect it to be the subject of the most questions and interesest from my American friends reading this!
For the record, clotted cream is basically like a cross between heavy cream and pure, unsalted butter. Yet, unlike either. It can be eaten on either savory or sweet baked goods, on potatoes or with fruit, or—if you happen to need the calories while traveling and only get clotted cream every few years—by the spoonful straight from the carton.
Here’s the clotted cream story.
And goodbye to my friends there. This story has been mostly about the scenery, but I could not have gone at all without D and L. A cheap plane ticket is like a cheap car. Now you have to replace the transmission, the tires, the brakes. . . .
If not for having a place to stay, and wonderful hosts, this chapter would not exist in my life. Thank you.
Looking forward to seeing you—and you too, K, A, and M—on this side of the pond.