If you are interested or would like to know, this entry explains where I went and what I did over the weekend.
When I imagined visiting the Lake District, I pictured myself hand-in-hand with Moist, strolling in the dappled sunshine through the verdant beauty or lying beneath the trees to match song to bird.
- I returned yesterday. Today is the winter solstice.
- First day:
- "We're going to climb a mountain?"
"Um... yeah?"
I spend most of my time in the library. I don't even bother going home after lectures, I turn up on weekends, and I usually stay until well after the gate to my exit has been locked; climbing over it is now, for me, the norm. (There are plenty of footholds so the most difficult part is swinging over at the top with a heavy bag and earphones that like to tangle themselves in the spokes.) I'm there so much I have actually managed to forge a kind of friendship with another girl, Judy, who also pretty much lives there. We were introduced because she's a friend of Marina's, but other than that she is on a different course, in a different year and the library is, somewhat sadly, our social hub.
A few days ago, Judy mentioned a society she had just joined was organising a trip to the Lake District, and she doesn't want to go alone, and would I like to go? I've wanted to go there for a long time, and I thought it might be nice to actually do something instead of spending unhealthy amounts of time on the fourth floor, so even though the circumstances were not quite what I'd thought they'd be when I visited the Lake District once upon a time, I agreed.
I did not enjoy the trip there. I was wary of the people in the minibus, and felt like I was intruding on some kind of family holiday; they were loud and merry with each other but pretty much ignored me, which is fair enough since they have no idea who I am and I was quiet. Judy had gone off to sit with some boy she thought was cute, there was no light to read and, of course, somebody had brought a set of Christmas carols CDs which were duly cycled and sung along to.
We were then stuck on the M6 for five hours. There had been an accident up ahead. And by stuck, I mean we literally did not move for those five hours. At some point somebody mercifully switched to radio. I tried to sleep, but it was cold and I couldn't get into a comfortable position. In any case, outside it was snowing more heavily than I'd ever seen before, and I was entranced by the neverending flurry and darting of the snowflakes as they poured out of the sky. They seemed... purposeful.
Pouring out, for hours and hours.
And it was fourteen hours after we set off that we arrived at our accommodation: a hut almost as cold as outside which, we would later discover, could offer no running water. But looking out at the snow-muffled beauty, with the sound of water flowing close-by and the mountains sitting in the distance, I thought it could be worth it. Dawn had broken by the time we got there, and since the sunlight hours were so precious the idea of sleep was abandoned in favour of a "walk". Since I wasn't particularly inclined to a state of unconsciousness while there, I didn't object, but I've always felt rather susceptible to cold and up North it was cold. (I'd stopped being able to feel my toes before we'd even gotten out of the minibus, but once outside for five minutes my fingers went numb, too. Useless gloves.) I must confess to confusion when everyone besides Judy and myself whipped out walking sticks and ice-axes, though. I'd packed two jumpers and overtrousers. I thought I was prepared.
Out to explore the freezingly beautiful landscape. I could hear the birds singing, but nobody wanted to stop to listen or watch, and they walked quickly so I couldn't hover for more than fifteen or twenty seconds in case I got lost from the group. There were sheep (there were lambs!), but they were pretty shy and saddeningly the boys scared the curious ones away. Still, I was enjoying taking in the view--walking through pretty places makes me happy--and then we hit our first real incline. And kept ascending. At a brisk pace. And the views were stunning, but I couldn't enjoy them because I had to watch where I put my feet and it all seemed to be about The Climb and speeding to the top and I felt bad if I was responsible for keeping the group behind by making them wait for me to catch up. [I use the term climb here because it's what the group used, and one member who had been up Kilimanjaro said that was a walk, but nevertheless I'd like to make a distinction; while there were fairly frequently areas where we had to use our hands to get up, a lot more of the time it was essentially walking up inclines and clambering over rocks that got steeper and steeper, using sticks and ice axes for support.] Two hours in and I was nearing exhaustion. I'm not fit at all; I don't even weigh enough to give blood. I get cold easily and the circulation to my fingers is so bad I have seriously had to consider life without some of my fingers when I can't seem to get the blood flowing through them again. What was I doing climbing High Spy as we rushed towards the winter solstice? But I could hardly stop them to say, Guys, guys? I came for the view and the birds? Judy never mentioned this! At least the feeling came back to my fingers, and even my toes, fairly quickly once we started the ascent. But it's hard for me to feel like I'm enjoying myself when I'm so weary. Hours of focusing on nothing but my shoes, gasping for breath, scared to glance around for fear of slipping on the treacherous, treacherous ice. And yet, I must admit, the view from of Derwentwater from the top was one I couldn't have appreciated anywhere else. But if I stopped for too long, the cold came biting back. (This, along with the speed the group moved at, is the reason I didn't take many pictures, but I'll edit this post with more [better quality, no doubt] from Judy within the week.)
The Lake District at this time of year is truly an enchanting experience. The snow was soft and thick, powdery and often untouched or settled comfortably on trees. I saw huge icicles, hopped on rocks across many streams, explored a cavern. Nevertheless, when we came back, I was disheartened. I'm not sure how much of a contributing factor the lack of sleep was, but I was utterly worn out, and I was coming home to a place that didn't even have a flushing toilet. (There was a coal fire. It was the most cherished thing in the hut.) Also, we WALKED PAST A DOG. I was delighted to meet such a friendly one there, but the group dropped their perfunctory "Aw, look, it's a dog" comments and sped ahead. By the time we returned I'd had brief introductory conversations with a couple of the girls, but I couldn't join their banter over the course of the evening. Judy was similarly unable to chatter about their previous trips to the Yorkshire Dales and Snowdonia, but we don't have a lot to say to each other so I spent the hours huddled next to the coal fire with my book, trying to absorb as much heat as possible. I was bored, cold, and I didn't even get to pet the dog.
The alarm went off at half six the next morning and I crawled out of my sleeping bag. I really, really did not want to go. Our next target was Great Gable. 899m, but that doesn't factor in the length of the walk or the dips or in any way embody the PAIN. I was feeling miserable about it, so this time, when we passed a lonely dog, I thought screw the group and stayed and scratched behind his ears and generally loved him and he sat down to enjoy me petting him more and it made me happy. When I noticed the group was out of sight I ran to catch up; they seemed annoyed but I regretted nothing. The dog got up too and followed me for a few steps but probably knew I had to go, dogs being awesome psychics and that. And yes, it was another agonising climb (though we passed a guy who was tackling it with dogs...). The fake peaks were disheartening and I was frustrated I was spending more time looking at the ground than around at the view. After a few hours of this, we reached an area where the ground flattened out. It wasn't the summit, but there was a frozen lake with snow caked on top. I believe this is called a tarn. The group paused for a short biscuit break and to admire it. I have spent hours on this entry and I still cannot find the words to convey how captivating the landscape was. I could see the clouds crowning the peaks and I knew we'd be overtaking their height. The sunlight spread slowly over the peaks, imbuing them with new colour. I wish I had a camera that could convey that, but I feel the pictures don't do it justice, and also lack the sense of height. Anyway.
In the end, I wrote my name in the sparkling snow over the frozen lake. It wasn't the first thing I had intended to draw, and even writing my name was a reminder; once again I felt I couldn't show this magnificence to someone close to me, couldn't share it nor this experience. It's a reflex that won't complete; it hurts. And it was there, while I second-thought what I had been about to draw on the tarn, that I realised I was doing this for myself. I was climbing this death trap without anyone I loved or anyone who cared selflessly for me, forcing myself to go on, nobody's encouragement but my own, racing the sun fuelled by my own will, through the pain, for myself.
I was stripping off my layers and my gloves I climbed. Thinking of how low the temperatures up there get, I never imagined I'd work up that much heat, but by the end whenever I stumbled I was using the snow to cool myself, my face for a few seconds. I reached the summit and looked down at the swathes of clouds beneath me. The soft white scenery falling away from where I stood, in one of the most beautiful places I've ever been, feeling like if I pushed myself like this more often, maybe I could do it, I could become just a little more competent, capable. And it was suddenly worth it, just to have achieved this.
I felt light through the descent. I slid down the snow. I saw circular rainbows in the clouds. One terrifyingly fun aspect involved what the group called scrambling; our original route was deemed too dangerous and we had to cling on to icy and not-altogether-stable rocks and climb across. Don't look down, don't look up. Someone dislodged a rock and we all stopped to watch it bounce down and keep bouncing eerily until it was out of sight. This was the most exhilarating part of the trip, I think. And when I got back, there was still no running water, I couldn't take a hot shower, my feet were wet, I could see my breath as I shivered in my sleeping bag and I had bad dreams again... but I was actually sort of looking forward to the next day.
So I woke up freezing once more, but knowing I'd warm up on the ascent and get to feel my fingers again was my main motivation for getting out. We went up Blencathra, which wasn't as steep as Great Gable but had more of a continuous, grinding incline. I think I was reaching my body's limit by this point. This time, when I reached the peak, I looked down over the edge and the whole landscape was cloaked in cloud. I walked along the ridge, breathing in the clouds as I passed through them, being a part of one just for this little fraction of my life. The rivers, glinting like liquid silver, ribboned out below. The silence was a different experience in itself; there aren't even any birds up there. The snow from the peaks meets the white of the clouds and from Blencathra the blue of the sea matched that of the sky. These are just the little fragments I'm trying to bring together. The whole experience was majestic and this is just my attempt at trying to keep record of it.
And to end the trip on a high note, for five minutes before the minibus left for London I did get to see stay in one spot to watch the birds; ones I recognised like blue tits and robins and chaffinches, and ones I didn't. Here in the city you'd be lucky to spot one of those in that length of time. I listened to Oki Kuma's Adventure to drown out the fifth Christmas Carol CD somebody had unearthed, with the moon so bright and close to me, feeling inspired but also... craving a hot shower and some tea.
There was a lunar eclipse this morning, but the buildings in London (I'm in a place with buildings again...) got in the way of my view. I didn't expect to regret returning to London so soon after I got back.
Edit
Judy's photos:
Judy is clearly the better photographer. >.>
Oooh, cave. (Later: Oooh, cavern.)
The perfect murder weapon.
By this point the exhaustion has addled my brains. I say this because I have Raynaud's and panic in London over my fingers losing blood supply in the cold. Yet here I am, wilfully taking off a glove to grip this PILLAR OF ICE. I think the manic-yet-pained grin gives me away.
Strange ice-things rising out of the ground in an ominously curious pokey manner.
Effortless magnificence.
A not so effortless climb. Yup, definitely exhausted.
Ah, scrambling. After a while I would look down periodically just for the rush. Can you spot the rainbow?
I actually cannot find the words to express the awe these trees inspired in me.
CLOUD
oh hello?
glowy
...and goodbye for now, with a silly photo to end on.