Thursday 9th August 2013: Keswick

It's over 24 hours since my parents left our beautiful apartment in Keswick. We are are really missing them although I am happy that there are 2 less people to compete against for the red chair in the bay window. A red, mock-leather single chair set against a sash window where you can watch the world and its wife walking by.

Whether walking towards Keswick town-centre or preparing for a day walking on the Lakeland fells, you can peacefully people-watch from that window all day. Actually, 'peacefully' is a little bit of an exaggeration when you have 2 children under 4 years old running around, also peering out of the window and asking why that "bad man is being shouted at by that angry woman". It was difficult to explain to Bethan why these people were having a domestic and beating each other with their Ordnance Survey maps. 

Rob, the assigned cartographer expert for our trip did try to explain to our daughter that "rookies often have this inflamatory argument when hill-walking for the first-time" an answer which seemed to confuse but satisfy her as she immediately asked afterwards if she could watch 'Princess Stories' for the zillionth time.

Yes, it was obvious that although we didn't want as frenetic a week as we did in Consiton, like wise, we didn't want to sit in our Keswick apartment all day people-watching and listening to Princess Jasmine telling us, yet again, how wonderful bloody Aladdin is.

The Red Chair. A Source of competitiveness
as well as a source of some serious
 people-watching

Keswick really is my idyllic place. Rob and I allowed ourselves some me-time whilst in the Northern Lakes. I chose to spend that time in an antique bookshop searching out original Beatrix Potter books. Rob used his me-time to wonder along the fells and take some breath-taking pictures of some breath-taking landscapes. 

Indeed, I found a copy of Beatrix Potter's "Tale of Pigling Bland" in the book shop which I was thrilled with because it was the 100th anniversary of its first publishing. Usually, it is very difficult to date Ms Potter's books as you have to look at the art work on the inside to ascertain when it might have been published. However, I knew this was from 1942 as inscribed it said, "To my beautiful daughter, love Daddy, 1942". 

There are lots of reasons why people are against writing in books but this particular inscription set my imagination on fire. In 1942 the Allies were being pummeled by the Nazis. Was this a final gift from a father to his daughter whilst on leave from the War? Was this a gift simply to celebrate her birthday? All of that night I kept wondering about who bought the book and who the book was intended for. 

That's the beauty of books, it's not only what is inside them that sparks your imagination but also what they represent on the outside to different people. The history of Beatrix writing 'The Tale of Pigling Bland' and the history of the relationship between the person who sent the book and the person who received it is one of my highlights of being in Keswick. 

What a place...what a picture...well done Rob!

Wednesday 30th July: Part 2; Dove Cottage and Rydal Mount (just!)

By the time we reached Dove Cottage (which was quite some time after leaving Grasmere as we got lost a number of times on the way, which is weird considering that the cottage is literally 5 minutes down the road from the centre of the village), it was clear that the children were losing the will to live in the back of the car. I sensed this when James started screaming, "Ageee!!!" and Bethan kept repeating, "Are we in Coniston Daddy?" "Mummy, are we in Coniston?"

Observing the pained look on my face knowing that I would be so close to Wordsworth's cottage, yet so far, Rob suggested that although it wouldn't be quite the same as visiting and wondering around his beloved home, I should run out of the car and quickly take some pictures of the cottage and dash back. This would then mean that we could go and have a look around Rydal Mount, where hopefully, the children could have a run around. Ok, I conceded and ran out of the car into...a coach full of tourists that had just pulled up into the car park too.

As I ran past them in the rain, posh camera around my neck in tow, I began to feel like I was in a damp version of dodge-ball. Undeterred, I continue to run up the slippery cobbled streets, flashing the aforementioned camera at anything along the way. At least, I thought to myself, that I would be able to look at Dove Cottage and its surroundings through the screen bit of my camera later on over a glass of Chenin Blanc.

Another sign; just in case...

Pictures taken on the way up to Dove Cottage. Unfortunately,
a rogue tourist ran ahead of me just as I had
thought that I had the game of dodge-ball in the bag!

Finally, Dove Cottage. I might not have had chance to
get in the cottage but I did some serious damage to my credit card in
the gift shop! You can never have too many Wordsworth
fridge magnets

Next stop was Rydal Mount. By our calculations we would be there approximately 10 minutes after leaving the car park at Dove Cottage. Wrong! Again we got lost and the noise in the back of the car got louder and Louder and LOUDER!!! It was like a noisy version of Total Wipeout; trying to work through all of the obstacles just to get to the prize - to sit on a chair in one of Wordsworth's Houses.

Nearly there...Crap! As we were driving up a steep hill to Rydal Mount there was a funny smell emanating from inside the car and no, it wasn't wafting from James' nappy. Shock! Horror! It was  a burning smell coming from the engine! Now this was a regular occurrence with our previous car, a Rover 25; in fact, if there wasn't a funny smell on a daily basis I would worry. But the C-Max??!! This could not be happening!

Again, undeterred, I told Rob that he would have to look after the car (and subsequently the safety of our children) whilst I attempted to get in Rydal Mount. In the distance, as I ran across more soggy cobbles I could see Rob's head under the bonnet whilst the windows in the car had got very steamy. However, I knew I couldn't let Wordsworth down, I had to reach the entrance to Rydal Mount! It truly was an epic moment!

Unfortunately, Rydal Mount was closing so I had to settle for taking a picture of the sign :-s

Another sign :-s

Wednesday 30th July 2013: Part 1: Grasmere

"I wondered lonely as a cloud..."

Straight into the 'Bags are Good" shop in the centre of Grasmere (that's not strictly true; we had lunch first as has been the custom on this family holiday - eat first; sight-see later).

Oh yes, Grasmere; surely the most beautiful of the Lake District villages? I completely understand why Wordsworth would choose this picturesque utopia to be his home and final resting place. However, it bemuses me to think what he must be thinking about all of the Daffodil-related memorabilia and tat on sale up and down the main street in Grasmere.

As we were pottering around, I wondered when he wrote this, possibly his most famous poem, that he would have ever conceived that it would be immortalised on a magnet which is stuck to fridges up and down the land (including my own - it certainly does a better job of holding up the Chinese menus than the Peter Rabbit one).

After eating lunch at the quaint "Heidi's of Grasmere" and pointing out to the staff that they are in The Lonely Planet, I ventured straight to the shop that said you could buy 3 'Bags are Good' for £10 (cash only). They were simple bags with a simple print and I chose the following: Grandmas are Good, Stewdents (geddit!) are Good and last but not least, Grasmere is Good (surely the understatement of the year).

Bags and £10 in hand, I stood patiently at the till which was basically one that looked liked Arkwright's in Open all Hours and  tentatively balanced on a plinth in the middle of the shop. But no one was behind the till; in fact, there seemed to be nobody looking after the shop at all. After embarrassingly approaching several strangers and asking them if they would they like my £10 for my 3 bags, Rob finally pointed to a door near the till.

Initially I knocked on the door quite courteously but that soon turned to a frustrating bang and culminated in me shouting, "Excuse me! is there anybody in there?"

The door swung abruptly open and a very stern looking woman with a strong west-coast Scottish accent cried out, "For the love of God! I never get a break and can never go for a pee in peace! Every bloody day!". Stunned (and slightly scared), I handed the 'customer assistant' the money and promptly shuffled all four of us out of the shop.

Like lost sheep, we walked around a little shell-shocked and I thought it would be a good idea to see where Wordsworth was buried. There is nothing like visiting a graveyard after being scared to death by a customer assistant, I think.

Once we had scrambled past all of the tourists to get to see where he was buried, it was difficult to ascertain which one was indeed his grave because a) there were lots of grave stones with W Wordsworth on it and b) Bethan kept shouting out that she was bored and hungry (Hungry! We's only just filled our faces an hour earlier!).

I had hoped that my pilgrimage to Wordsworth's grave, the local lad from Cockermouth who had done good, would be a peaceful and romantic one. But it wasn't. Instead, I placed all of my hopes on our next port of call - Dove Cottage. Finally, I get to visit Dove Cottage! Surely this will be the most exciting moment of my adult literary life? Nothing can go wrong...

My need to take pictures of signs on this holiday reached fever-pitch in Grasmere. Sarah Nelson's Original Celebrated Grasmere Gingerbread was delicious, mind.

Tuesday 29th July 2013: Hill Top Cottage, The Lake Disctrict

As The Magical Literary Tour continues, I am mindful of the fact that it may not be to the liking to all of those taking part (i.e. Rob, Bethan and James). With 50% of the Tour being under the age of 4, I thought I would strike a happy medium between books and children and that could only mean one thing in The Lake District; visiting Hill Top Cottage - House of Beatrix Potter (See sign at the left - I'm not sure why but I felt the need to take pictures of signs wherever we went).


Aside from the commercial faux-attraction that is called The World of Beatrix Potter in Bowness, we finally sought out Hill Top which is the real-deal; a National Trust Treasure. In fact, I loved the fact that Beatrix Potter was so intrinsic to the setting up of the NT because of her love of the Lakeland Fells and her desire to preserve them from development, that I decided to join! (Well, that and the fact that you got two months free if you signed up there and then).

According to the lovely Guide (who seemed to pop up everywhere on our Literary Tour) whose admiration for Beatrix was infectious, Ms Potter had left the house as if she had gone for a walk as she wanted people to get a real sense of what it is like. This excited me so much because it meant that most of what we would see wouldn't be behind ropes and we could get a real feel for what the Cottage would have felt like when she actually lived there. My excitement was a little tainted by the posh guy next to me who said to his companion in his best received pronunciation voice, "Well Serge; I think that is quite arrogant". Rob managed to stop me from calling him a tit and ushered me through the small door of the homely cottage.

Watch out Peter Rabbit! The Fun Police (aka
as the posh guy) are out to ruin the children's fun and will
probably try to eat your radishes!

When you go into the cottage another well-versed and enthusiastic tour guide handed Bethan a copy of "The Tale of Pigglin Bland" as 2013 is the centenary of its original publication. The task for the children is to find which parts of the cottage have inspired the illustrations in Beatrix's books.

Bethan was in her element and it was delightful to see.
Although we were asked not to put our bums on the intricate furniture, we could sit on the cottage's beautiful window benches. It was here that Bethan decided to sit down and read the book in her own unique way.

Unfortunately, it was also the same time that the posh guy came into the room who decided to tell Serge that the piano in the room was actually "a long piano" or something. He did it so everyone could hear his knowledge of the musical instrument and seemed to stop when he heard Bethan reading. No, it wasn't to remark on how Beatrix Potter would have loved to see a child sit down and read one of her books in her revered cottage; oh no, it was to sshh her so that he could continue to discuss the instrument before him.

All I can say is thank goodness the artifacts and furniture in the cottage are protected by the National Trust otherwise he would have ended up suffering an injury and helping to create a new Chapter in The Hill Top saga.

 

Monday 28th July 2013: Hawkshead, The Lake District

Roll up, Roll up for the Magical Literary Tour! (See what happened there ;-)

Twelve years after graduating with a degree in English Literature, I finally managed to visit some of the stomping grounds of The Romantics. After explaining to Rob that I didn't mean we had to start looking for Simon-le-Bon and Tony Hadley, we began our Magical Literary Tour. First Stop: Hawkshead.

We decided to pay Hawkshead Grammar School a quick visit which initially felt a little like a Busman's Holiday until I walked through the door and realised that education in eighteenth century Britain did not remotely look like education today. 10 hours of lessons; on wooden benches; full of males. I could only imagine what the National Union of Teachers would say about such a set up.

Wordsworth - you rebel you!

I also discovered that Hawkshead Grammar School's most famous pupil, William Wordsworth, was a bit of a rebel as there was graffiti at his desk where he had carved his name into the wooden bench where he studied. At least he only carved his name into the wooden bench. More often than not, I have taught in classrooms where the graffiti often involves expletives and a few poor spelling mistakes (this is very disheartening for an English teacher when a pupil spells the word 'phuck' on the back of someone else's chair).

Hawkshead truly personified the quaint, beautiful yet under-stated English village. Among the quirky shops and pubs which are shrouded and protected by the beauty of the mountains, there is a special sense of history about it. This adventure is really beginning to heat up!

A very proud moment at Wordsworth's desk

Sunday 3rd March 2013

Considering the fuss in getting there and the fact that we were late, the ballet dancing went well, I think. The teacher said she was fine and Bethan seemed pretty nonchalant about the whole thing. When she came out into the waiting room I asked her what she had done to which she replied, "dancing" and then for the next 10 minutes she started wittering on about "Falling Overs (aka 'You've been Framed').

Despite my earlier prejudices about the class and what it involved in terms of being an Alpha Mum, everyone was absolutely lovely. Ok, to begin with it felt like a film called "Attack of the Pink Clones". However, they all looked very cute but more importantly, they seemed to be very proud of what they were wearing and what they were doing. One mum must have seen me waiting anxiously and staring fervently into my phone as I wrote my blog trying to avoid eye-contact with anyone else. After the class she asked me how Bethan had got on and  I started to feel like I, Liz Hillier, could be part of the waiting room posse. I was cross at my juvenile feelings of insecurity and not being able to 'fit in' when really we are all in the same boat. I'm a bugger for judging situations as soon as I become part of something new; sometimes I get them right and other times I get them wrong, like today for instance.

The one thing thing that we parents all had in common as we were sat in the waiting room was the fact that we want the best for our children. I know Bethan loves to dance and yes, it is a blinking bother getting from a to b on a Friday afternoon but I really wanted her to have a go to discover if she enjoyed it or not.

This is then followed by swimming lessons on a Saturday afternoon which are expensive (Rob said to me, "How much?! At least Dick Turpin wore a bloody mask"), on the other side of town and a real hassle to get us all there fed, watered and changed before we all sing a rousing chorus of "Splish Splash" around the pool.

Swimming is important to us because Rob and I aren't particularly strong swimmers and we want the kids to feel confident and safe in the water. Plus, the ritual after the lesson as we head back to our home is that we start rubbing our egos and commenting on how swimming makes us spend quality time together; just the 4 of us, doing something which is (for all of my moaning), good fun.

Why all this justifying????

Well, as ever, I was reading something on the BBC news app on my phone (on the toilet as this is the only time I get to read anything or text anybody without being interrupted; well, usually anyway), and I could feel my hinds rising up from the toilet seat.

Tory MP and advisor to the PM, Claire Perry, has "criticised parents for filling children's lives with too many organised activities". In an interview she gave to 'The Times', Ms Perry says that "we've created a treadmill"  and that "it's usually the mother that is orchestrating...and doing all the driving" (metaphorically I assume because I don't literally do all of the driving as I am a crap driver and worry for my children's safety).

Controversially, the MP who is a working mother of 3 (I really hoped she hadn't have been because then I could have had a real go at her like I do with Gina Ford) says that, "we worship this feminine motherhood thing and I don't think our children have benefited actually. They're babied a lot".

Crikey! That's scathing and made me feel like squirming into the toilet bowl on which I was sat.

This was written the same weekend when American parenting author Pamela Druckerman, who lives in Paris, has been publicising her new book, "French Parents don't give in" (damn it, another working mum; why oh why can't Gina Ford have written something this weekend for me to moan about?). This book is the sequel to "French Children Don't Throw Food". Morally I don't want to but I can't help it, I've already ordered it from Amazon. I'm keen to know what makes my children want to throw their fruity toast when a French child doesn't want to launch a piece of bread across the room.

To summarise: not a good weekend to be a British Alpha Parent; according to the experts, we're all crap.