Unless a man starts afresh about things…

Loweswater at dawn, frozen in time

My first walk of the new year: and to a location now – as it will be forever – so very near to the centre of my heart and melded so very closely with my mind. Yet, on Saturday, it was clothed so tightly in frost, and held so singularly still, that its icebound enchantment freshly conjured even more enthralling memories to be layered, interlaced, with those soothing ones already possessed. Not just visual – such as the moon-glinted mint-white of the fields below fells of dry-cured bacon; and audible – the rushing becks, the joyful birds; but also, of course, sensual – the ice tightening my face like Botox; the frozen, sogged soil crunching beneath my boots, spongily, surprisingly, bearing my weight… – along with the absolute astonishing absence of Aeolus or his team of Anemoi: their breaths apparently held abnormally tightly, or at least currently (although Eurus would soon awaken: his lazy easterly breeze drawing disappointing clouds to mask the valley from the sun – whose rise I had come to witness, of course… – as well as stinging my eyes on my return…). The place looked and felt new-made: its birth accompanied by nature’s gently twinkling fanfarades!

Loweswater is not so much off the beaten track as, say, just tucked tidily to one side: so that its close companions, Crummock Water (with its inverted twin of mysterious Mellbreak) and Buttermere (of a similar size, but more alpine, more ruggedly bulwarked) receive the visitors – in fact, the latter is so swamped in summer because of its utter magnificence that it can be hard to find a spot to call your own (and queueing for coffee and a cake at the highly-recommended, mucky-boots-allowed Croft House Farm Café can take on all the hallmarks of a lengthy career).

Maybe it is because – like the unusual outflow of Loweswater itself – people are more drawn to the central ‘lakes’; but it is to its advantage (and mine) that it is relatively ignored. Even during the day, you will not encounter many visiting it (or even circumnavigating it); and you should find that you have its beauty to yourself (unless unlucky) at both dawn and dusk – although, this morning, a carload of walkers, obviously heading for the peaks, arrived just after me, overloaded with torches. I therefore waited for my eyes to reacclimatize, then set off with only the aid of the waning moon (coincidentally at its zenith) and the tinge of blue that had just started to saturate this nautical dawn.

Heading into Holme Wood – which has, sadly, recently been cleansed of all its larches (as have so many areas of the Lake District) – my senses seemed to heighten. I am always on the lookout for rare red squirrels here; but today I only, rather unfortunately, disturbed a chonky grey one on the path, which clambered away up an oak at speed, its cheeks bulging. More surprisingly, a moment later, a young roe deer buck crossed hastily two or three metres in front of me (obviously not waiting for the green light…) – giving rise to a very sharp, painful, intake of ice-cold breath. But, by the time I had turned to search for him (only a few seconds later), he had metamorphosed into scrub: leaving only the tiniest slots in the mud (perhaps just three or four finger-widths across) as proof that I had not dreamt his fleeting visage into existence.

It was only on my way out of the wood, an hour or so later, that I encountered any other human beings: in this case, an angler and his girlfirend, wrapped well against the cold. (The valley in which the lake is situated is frequently more frigid than its surroundings – especially when the air is unstirring; or carried in over the Derwent Fells, rather than by Zephyrus from the sea. However, it is never as glacial as the Met Office would have you believe!)

And it was only on my way out of the wood that I finally espied a hint of the sun endeavouring to make headway: a small slither of yellow cloud, higher than those capping the valley, reflecting an impalpable hint of warmness onto we well-insulated creatures below. But, despite the clear pale blue sky in between, it was the same story at Ennerdale – the valley seen from the study window of my new home (as it will be forever).

I have lived here for well over two years: and experience tells me that I will run (or walk very, very slowly) out of life well, well before I run (however how fast I attempt to go) out of the remarkable revelations with which the Lake District continually supplies me. It is, after all, why I live here! (Although I shall retain my pseudonym until the day I die!)

Bridging the gap

Eurus awakens; a huddle of ducks passes, and the water ripples

Clouds begin to obscure the fells: Grassmoor just peaking through

A momentary glow (to the west)

Departing Loweswater: the “mysterious Mellbreak” on the right

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