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.

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