Springing into action…
…at the crack of a rather beautiful dawn!
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I didn’t need my alarms in the end – a complicated sequence of three, set on my Apple Watch, all with different snooze settings, that could probably (hopefully) shake me out of bed… – as I was awake well before the first one was due. Plus, going back to bed was obviously out of the question, as I was utterly wide awake, even after only three hours of sleep.
This latter fact, though, scuppered the plan I had mapped out before going to bed: which involved a long drive (the plan; not the going to bed). So where to go? If I wanted only a short journey, there was only really one obvious location… – Ennerdale! I know I have been there a lot, recently: but, as I commented to Paul Besley, “there is something about [the place] that keeps pulling me back”. Plus, it is only fifteen minutes drive to the Bleach Green car park (which is ten minutes nearer than the Bowness Knott one: which has been my wonted destination over the last few months).
I found my way downstairs and drank a cup1 of coffee; ate a bowl of cereal; and took the day’s first pile of pills – all while Pixel acted miffed at my intrusion into her routine – now that she (also infected by spring) is active during the night again – telling me in no uncertain terms that I was getting in her way, while she got in mine! Eventually, she gave up slamming in and out of the cat-flap like a moody teenager2 – trying to make her point, I think… – and retired to her bed in the study (which is where I found her when I returned, nearly three hours later, very deeply asleeply).
I had other things to worry about…. However, as long as my body was behaving (which it was, for a change), then everything was basically okay: especially as I keep my camera and walking ‘stuff’ ready for action by the front door. The weather forecast promised clear skies, and temperatures between 6 and 9°C, feeling like 2 to 6°C – but I grabbed my gilet, to go over my fleece, just in case… – then threw everything (including myself) very gently into the car.
As I enter the valley, two things happen: the temperature falls – ending up at just 1°C, as I park – and the sky begins to lighten, despite it being twenty minutes until civil dawn, and nearly an hour still to sunrise. I put my fingerless gloves on, zip my gilet up, pull my woolly beanie over my ears, and tighten up the laces on my boots; wrap my hiking pack (a posh name for a large-capacity bum-bag) around my waist; hang my camera from my neck; grab my indispensable walking stick; and head for the lake (although it is formally named Ennerdale Water).3
“Ooh!” I say to myself, quite loudly.
No-one else is here. Two walkers with head-torches (why?) pulled into the car park just before I did: but they are halfway up Anglers’ Crag by the time I reach the water. I will see no-one else until I am almost back at the car, two hours later. You may call me anti-social (go on: you know you want to!) – but there is something incredibly special about being alone in an area this beautiful. (And yes, there are probably a dozen sleeping bodies steaming up all those iced-up vans in the car park: but it’s not your fault they’re having a lie-in!)
The sky isn’t just getting slowly brighter, but blushing, as well; and the show it is putting on lasts the whole hour or so until dawn. I am engrossed: and hunt for the most minute of changes with the lens. Once I am satisfied that I have captured every single facet of this morganite dawn, I take a break at the spot where the Angler’s Hotel was unnecessarily demolished in the year of my birth; and toast Henry and Winifred Oliver, its last owners, with a sip of water from my bottle (and, somewhat ironically, before that, from Thirlmere).
There have been robins, song thrushes, blackbirds and wrens accompanying me ever since I arrived; but now they are joined by the odd quack from a handful of mallards – although I also spot two pairs of tufted ducks – and honking from several greylag geese. The only other sound is water. After one of the wettest winters I remember, there is just so much of it contained in the land around Ennerdale that all the streams are at full spate, and the ground either side of the path is extremely squelchy (where it isn’t frozen). There is little breeze, however: and the trees stand preternaturally still.
Scattered around what used to be the hotel’s once-beautiful gardens – along with two large broken boughs at the edge of the lake – are several massive fallen ones, though. (It seems that Buttermere isn’t the only place that has suffered in recent storms.) Spring is most definitely sprung, however – daffodils surround me, echoed by the gorse bushes that proliferate along this north-western shore.
As I turn back to trace the way I came, it is noticeable that most of the reds, pinks and peaches have faded, leaving a beautiful blue sky to bless the day. The sunlight, however, is warm, and starting to ease the chill I arrived to: and I am beginning to feel overdressed.4
No espresso machine, this time, as I am so close to home; but I do remove my gloves, hat, gilet, and boots (replaced by trainers); and set the car’s air-vents to blow some fresh air on my face. I do not encounter any traffic at all on my return journey; and my parking space is exactly as I left it. I have had such a rich and absorbing day, so far… – long before most others have even had their breakfasts. And I feel smug fine!
She is actually approaching middle-age, in human years; but thankfully does not act it.
The only lake in the Lake District National Park – despite there officially being sixteen main, large bodies of water – is Bassenthwaite Lake. The remainder comprise eleven ‘waters’ and four ‘meres’.
It is at this point that I pass the only other human being I encounter. He is wearing shorts.
That looks like a beautiful peaceful place, lovely photos and thanks for sharing
What stunning images! I can absolutely feel that sense of tranquillity. It makes me want to experience can too, next time I can't sleep!