My weekend break in the Lake District. [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7]
I opened the door and was immediately greeted by the sound of a clicking
radiator pipe and two flies circling round a rotten bunch of bananas. It
wasn’t what I was expecting when I arrived back to my London
bedsit after a few days visiting the parents. Groaning, I moved to toss the
bananas away and mutter a few swear words at the pipe, which I would have
ripped from the wall if I could. Moving over to the desk in the corner of
the room, I suddenly caught sight of the pile of work I had left there before
I’d left the previous Friday.
‘Chris- must review this album by next week! Ed’
I sighed. As a music journalist for NME, I not only was allowed to interview
bands and write up on them (the good part), but I also had to review albums and
newly released singles. The album I was to review sat beside the note I had picked
up from the editor. It was an album by a small, unkown band, and everyone knew
they were a bit shit. So the review was not going to be enjoyable to write. Sighing,
I covered the album, and then the note, with a few files and folders, hoping
to forget about it. Then the radiator pipe gave a huge click.
That’s when I made my decision. I had to get out
again. I’d been in the bedsit less than five minutes and already the pipe
had me on the edge of almost killing myself with anger and I knew that I couldn’t
sleep, let alone write the review. So once again I switched off the lights, locked
the bedsit door, got into my car and drove straight to Windermere in the Lake
District for a weekend break.
Why Windermere? I didn’t know. The place had randomly popped into
my head as soon as I’d put the car into first gear. I had no idea about
the place, only that it was in the Lake District and had something to do
with Beatrix Potter. Well, I’d been a fan of Tom Kitten when I was
younger so I thought it couldn’t be that bad a place.
It was late when I arrived so I booked myself
into the first hotel still open and caught a proper night’s sleep. In
the morning, I checked out and drove down to the lake and parked the car opposite
a large cemetery. With almost no one else around, the cemetery was eerie and
I made a quick jog past it. This led me to the edge of the lake, and on that
cold, April morning I gazed out across the stillness of Lake Windermere, the
crisp cold wind blowing through my hair and feeling exactly like William Wordsworth
must have when he stood on London bridge and wrote his poem. That was of course
until I looked down and realised I was standing in what can only be described
as bird poo. A gaggle of the birds stood around me, presumably wanting bread.
I had nothing to give them, so hurried away, almost slipping on the droppings.
Further down the road, I came to a jetty pushing out into the water and stood
at the end for a while, once again taking in the magnificent view of the lake.
Along the promenade, I stopped and bought myself an
ice cream. Fortunately I had a camera with me and took a few photographs of
the lake itself. It was then that I noticed a small board outside a kiosk advertising
boat trips across the lake. Quickly finishing my ice cream and throwing the
leftover cornet to the grateful moorhen ducks and swans, I bounded over to
the kiosk and buy myself a ticket. It wasn’t too pricey, and I thought
it would be a good trip on a clear morning....