Dove Cottage
What is the point of having a spectacular third floor view of the lake if you shut the curtains? City girls, pfft. Glad I'm not one of them. I slept in this morning--most of the other girls hiked the five miles or so to Dove Cottage, William Wordsworth's former abode. Tony braved the winding lake roads in his Westbus and deposited 15 or so of us outside what would have been a charming cottage if it weren't for the darn museum thing and giant gift shop blocking it from view. Silly. We arrived just as the hikers got there--Bethany's face was really red, and Molly was a little wet (apparently she'd been wading in her wellies and the rocks tripped her up). I was glad I didn't go--I didn't have the shoes or the coat for it this time, as pretty as it now doubt was.
The tour guide was a cute red-headed thing who spouted off so many random facts I felt like I'd been hit by a train. (It didn't help that I know almost nothing about Wordsworth. The guy who wrote about wandering lonely as a cloud?) Right. I learned he had a dog named Pepper. His single sister wrote about the house and rooms in great detail, making her invaluable in recreating their lives. They had a pantry half-outside for refrigeration. He lived with something like seven other people in the tiny house. He wrote his most famous stuff there. Someone burned a ring in the landing upstairs from setting down a coal bucket.
I don't understand what it is. We don't visit Monet's house or Sarah Bernhardt's house. Just because we can pick up a pen and put coherent words on a page, do we find commonality with Keats and Shakespeare and Wordsworth? We don't imagine becoming a famous painter or famous actor in this life (not really), but we're attracted to the places of famous writers. It's almost as if we look in Wordsworth darkened sitting room and yard on the bank and think, "Oh, if I just had this house! If I came in the spring, when all the daffodils were in bloom, I would have written about them too. It's not all that hard to write--I do it all the time. I could be as famous as Wordsworth."
The trouble is, we none of us could have done what he did. It's easier to swallow when we talk about prodigic musicians or brilliant chemists; maybe it's just hard for us to admit the fact that something as everyday (in students' eyes, as annoying) as writing is masterpiece in embryo. We simply lack the capacity to take our grocery lists and insipid blog entries and grow them up into something so lovely.
Grasmere
The local village boasted some lovely shops, sheep fields, an old church, and a spot of blue sky. We went in search of lunch and found world-famous gingerbread like nothing we'd ever tasted before. There were roses, a giggling brook and a wishing well next to the hat shop. We stumbled upon Wordworth's grave (literally) in St. Oswald's cemetery.
I realized that Bethany's face had stayed red from the hike at least two hours. Rachel told me she was feeling really sick and we should probably take it slow. Grasmere didn't demand anything of us; unlike spots in London, this village seemed to invited us to sit on benches under willow trees for the entire afternoon. We ambled at our leisure, carrying morsels of gingerbread and other goodies until we were forced back to the coach. We stopped at the car ferry and were shuttled across the lake toward the hills.
The Movie Lied, Again
We'd mysteriously lost Ben, Andrew, Sarah, and Nikki in the transfer from Grasmere to Ambleside. But our immediate concern was more pressing; Beth was looking a lot worse after the gentle ferry ride and Sister Tate took her back to the hostel. It was some walk we had to make to Hilltop Farm, but the weather still held up beautifully. Hiking through other peoples' property is a little foreign to Americans, but like in Sheffield, there is a little footpath cutting a swath through everyone's yard. We kept close and I was hard-pressed to hear anyone complaining, despite the steep incline. We trekked through dark woods on pebbly trails; along the lake edge, watching sailboats and the Queen's swans; down broad walks past pubs and inns; across farmer's lawns, fields, and cottage gardens. It was shocking how varied the walk was--everything was so gorgeous. But man, they weren't kidding about the "Hilltop" part.
After her smashing success in London, Beatrix Potter bought this farm and was undoubtedly pleased to leave the city. Her family had summered here when she was a little girl, where she began to draw animals that would later become Peter Rabbit, Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle, and Jeremy the Frog. The farmhouse is NOT the same one they use in the film--that was another property she owned. So everything looked so new! I was surprised to find a little sheep yard amongst the vegetables and walled garden--the ewe was interested to find me there and let me pet her (my first sheep in England belonged to Beatrix Potter!).
The house didn't have a guided tour or anything, so our goal was to ask all the stewards what they knew. Unfortunately, we all started talking about college and what the heck we were doing in the UK that we gleaned very little--but I saw her wedding picture with William Heelis and they were actually smiling. I'm glad her life had some semblance of a happy ending--you can't do much but hope that in a house full of framed Jemima Puddleduck, workbooks, and Peter Rabbit in blue china sets. I did learn that Heelis was a painter, as was her father and mother (her mother was best, actually), but Beatrix was the only one who turned her talent into profit, for which we're very grateful; she donated some 4,000 acres (wealthy woman) to the British Peoples in her will. Although we're only in the Lake District for 30 or so hours, we were so pleased to find it untainted from the so-called modern industry that was all the rage in Victorian England.
The night ended with several hours with Beth and her roommates--she'd come back and, after several hours of sleep, felt much better. We chatted about boys, the future, and those ridiculous hypothetical questions girls ask each other when all other subjects have been exhausted. I'm so glad to be with such bright, introspective girls. I feel less motherly around them than I do the others, which I'm sure is evidence that they'll all achieve great things in future. It was great way to end the night off--absolutely no homework, but who can do homework when the trees dance and the moon shines off the lake just so?
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