Farne Islands

I am sitting in a very average cafe, sipping good strong tea and nibbling on an indifferent scone. It doesn't matter. It's warm in here and the floor is steady. As a bonus, they have internet. I'm waiting for the bus back to Berwick-upon-Tweed.

Perhaps a point worth noting about Berwick-upon-Tweed is that it is a great base for outings. For example, you can make a fairly easy day trip to the Farne Islands out in the North Sea.

You wouldn't think I would look for an opportunity to step onto a small rocky boat that would spend an hour or two bopping about in the choppy cold waters. My sea legs are nothing to be proud of. Still, how can I not go? Farne Islands are home to one of the largest seabird colonies. And for just a few more weeks, you can go and see this year's hatch of puffins. (Toward the middle or end of July, one night they will up and leave. Just like that. Without notice or warning. To spend nine months far away out on the cold waters of the North Sea.)

The morning sky is promising. Looking out my bedroom window, I'm thinking it looks mildly blue. Mildly.

The Tourist Office has equipped me with bus schedules. I can take the 10:07 to the fishing village of Seahouses. From there, a handful of boats alternate in put put putting small groups out to the islands. Not all day. The National Trust stands guard here and only two of the islands have landing stations and neither is open to visitors for more than a handful of hours. It's all very strict and properly respectful of the nesting birds.

And so after an incredibly elaborate and quite sumptuous breakfast (of fruits, juices, yogurts, eggs, fish, more eggs, toasts, honeys -- all locally sourced and where possible, organic)...





... I set out. Due south along the coast, on the local bus.

By 11, we pull into the tiny fishing hamlet and just at that moment, I (and two other travelers taking the same bus) notice a passenger boat is getting ready to leave. We run for it and are enormously gratified to be told it has three remaining seats (meaning everyone else has to squeeze on the side benches to make room for us).

In retrospect, I see that I am lucky for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that even though two later "landing" boats will be going to the islands this day, the sea does get rougher with each hour. I would have had a really awful time of it on a later boat.

We're out to sea.






A photo for you of the coast -- with castles and abbeys and lighthouses in the distance...






...and now lets face the islands:


 








My boat is within that three hour window with permission to land on Staple Island. How fortuitous that is! Staple Island has a large number of puffins right now. Thousands of them! But let's not neglect the other birds: the loud shag, the arctic stern, gulls of course, and the most obvious bird on these islands -- the guillemot, nesting noisily in large colonies and looking a bit like penguins.



puffins, like a painting: with two landing



 
noisy shag families





nests of kittiwake gulls




guillemot families




and of course, the star puffin



I didn't take my telephoto for this trip so what you get is what I can get with my Sony Nex workhorse. Believe me, there were a number of professionals whose equipment was worth a hundred times that of mine. Some of the photographers were supremely nice and let me through to get closer to the birds. Others were rather protective of their space and wanted no one else around them. It was an interesting community of mixed dispositions. I wish I could do it all over again, but I offer you at least some of what I witnessed today. Humbling -- it was really humbling in its beauty.

Allow me to post two more puffin photos from a beautiful day out on the Farne Islands! I am sure I will never again see so many birds, not scared, within close proximity to me, in such a dramatic and splendid setting. (Not to be forgotten is the smell of bird and sea, all rolled into one!)












We leave after an hour on the island. If I thought I'd have a quick voyage home, I was wrong. The boat then takes us around some of the islands where you cannot land. There is a bit of history offered about the lighthouses, about a brave rescue of a sinking vessel, but curious as we may have been about all that, our attention was on the birds.


Well, not only. There is a colony of Atlantic Grey Seals and they, too, are in their nesting mode. Half of the new cubs will not survive the winter. It's a poignant tale of hardship. But for now, there is only hope and beauty in witnessing their life cycle.










As the winds pick up and the sea throws sprays of ocean water into the boat, I ask the two-man crew if they ever get sick.
Always, at the beginning of the season, they admit. But we get used to it after a couple of days. Billy Shiel's, the man who runs their boating operation apparently routinely gets sick every time he goes out. I have to think he rarely does the trip anymore.
But you're lucky! -- they tell me. Today is very calm!
Fine, if you say so...


One last look...





And now I am where I was at the beginning of the post, eating a lousy scone and drinking great, as always, tea. It steadies the insides.

There is only one return bus to Berwick and I would have quite a bit of a wait and there is only so much of this little fishing hamlet that you want to see (though they do have a National Trust gift shop and I always enjoy those, feeling that any purchase there benefits preservation). So I follow the advice of a Tourist Office agent and take an earlier bus that goes halfway, getting off at Belford.

I should have connected there, but I miss that Berwick bus by one minute. And so here I am, in a rural, sleepy village. Belford.





Where not much is happening. The one cafe is closed. The pub is not yet open. And over an hour to kill until the next bus.

I walk to the building that claims to be a hotel. Downstairs, men are gathered at the bar. Some twenty of them in various groupings and configurations. Okay: a place to sit down. And take out my computer which I had stuck into my backpack. And this is so remarkable because in every sleepy town and village I have had nothing but excellent WiFi reception. How times have progressed!






Once back in Berwick-upon-Tweed, I stop at a place my hosts recommended for dinner: Foxton's Wine Bar. And again, I am so pleasantly surprised: a solid salad and a quite excellent risotto with seafoods.





Yes, food awareness is spreading through England like rapid fire, even as I see that the chip habit is holding its own.


Back at the Bed and Breakfast, I talk to my hosts about my day. It could be that in my solo travel mode, I am less shy about detail. Perhaps I look in need of company. In any case, they sweetly invite me for a walk along the ramparts -- to their vegetable plot and back again. I happily accept.

It's a lovely evening to be out.

Pam and Dave show me their garden. Mostly potatoes -- always in demand and easy to care for, Pam tells me.





To me, everything looks vibrant and well tended. The soil is magnificent! None of this hard clay stuff we're forced to deal with at the farmette.

As we continue to walk along the walls, we come across a soccer (sorry, football) game. Animated! In the honey tones of evening light, against the backdrop of the North Sea. We pause for not a short time.






And now the final stretch, over the bridge that spans the main street.






And then, down to the river. They propose a half pint at their favorite pub -- the Leaping Salmon.

I think about the kindness of these people who, until recently, were strangers to me. They live in a world of puffins and swans and they still never tire of the beauty of the landscape. As we stand on the ramparts looking toward the old railway bridge, Dave tells me -- we have to wait for a train to pass.
Pam sighs, used to this.
It wont be long! He says emphatically.

It's cool by now and the thought of waiting for a train seems...chilling. But sure enough, in two minutes, a train appears around the bend.
It should be crossing the bridge within a minute! -- Dave tells us with not a small amount of excitement. Now! Take the photo now!





I do (see above). And it's an okay photo. Not great, not awful. But when I'll flip to it in the future, what I am absolutely certain to remember is Dave's excitement at sharing this bit of loveliness: a new train, passing over an old bridge that once linked England with Scotland, even as now it's just linking one bank of Berwick-upon-Tweed with the other.

from Pooley Bridge to Berwick-upon-Tweed

 Pooley Bridge

My last breakfast at the Ullswater House is again delightfully bright, with a hint of sunshine.





Looking at my plate of eggs and salmon, my yogurt with fruit, my toast, neatly positioned on one of those British toast racks which make no sense at all and do not work back home (I bought one thirty years ago and quickly put it away for good) -- I thought about how pleasantly predictable breakfast here has been. David cooks eggs to your liking, Angela brings out the food and chats with the guests.

Not surprisingly, most of the guests are my age. Sometimes, like this past weekend when Pooley Bridge hosted a triatholon, the demographic shifts, but it's back to grandmas and grandpas now.

This morning the other three couples are all Australian. Remarkable how far Australians travel for their vacation! It's a 23 hour trip and still these people come to Europe every year. They talk about otherwise feeling themselves to be too isolated. Somehow this fear isn't shared by my country men and women, many of whom tell me that an ocean is a great impediment to venturing out into the world. Is there such a thing as a cultural predisposition? No, more likely it's that our American vacations are so short and precious and there is family to visit and much to do in your own back yard. Giving up two vacation days just to fly would seem a waste if you only get ten such days per year.

The grandparents of Australia talk about involvement with their grandkids. They all help out to some extent, though their daughters -- mothers of these children -- all had 12 month maternity leaves after birth and guaranteed professional reinstatement. They were shocked, shocked that America does not offer the same. Sigh...

After breakfast I take a last walk down to the lake. It's windy today and there is a haze in the sky that was missing the entire time I was here.





Yes, it is time to move on. You can fault me for planning my stays and travels so far in advance, but you should know that unlike many who research places they will visit, I do none of it in advance. I pick a spot and then decide once there what degree of adventuring I am up for, or how slow my pace should be that day. It really doesn't matter what I do once I arrive. I take in whatever is offered.

I feel like I took in Pooley Bridge in a modest but satisfying way. I'm ready for the next place.

David (my host) drives me to Penrith and I ask him then about his and Angela's vacation. They're taking off for five or six weeks in October, driving their small caravan to Spain (the caravan is large enough to have all the conveniences, but small enough to fit in a parking space, so they don't need a campground). Now that is total flexibility! It takes them many weeks to reach Spain (they pass quite near to my beloved Sorede!) and many weeks to get back. They take bikes to move around, but, too, he tells me that they love to park their caravan and use public transportation whenever possible. You feel the place far better that way -- he tells me. How well I know this!


The Trains


And now come my train connections: from Penrith to Carlisle, from Carlisle to Newcastle, from Newcastle to Berwick-upon-Tweed. It seems far more complicated than it is. The connecting times are easy, though my last train is terribly late (worrisome for future time-sensitive travels) and so I switch to a different one, borrowing someone's mobile to notify my new hosts, also a David but this time with a Pam, of my new arrival. Still, the views are enjoyable, my stack of reading material even more so and I cannot come up with a single complaint about my travels thus far.



Berwick-upon-Tweed

Perhaps I'll use this moment (I write this while on the train) to introduce you to Berwick-upon-Tweed. It's the northernmost English town (just two miles from the border with Scotland) and though you may not think of it as an important player on the global scoreboard of important players (population: 13,265), it was once a royal burgh of Scotland -- fought over violently between the two countries and changing identities from Scottish to English to Scottish, etc. thirteen times before things settled down a bit. It's no wonder that the people here can't quite grasp the concept of being English. I understand about confused national identities,  so I expect to fit right in.

My bed and breakfast (the Granary) is on the exceptionally nice end of the continuum of places I tend to stay in. The reason I can afford it is because way back when I made the reservation the owners must have been of a particularly mellow disposition because they offered me an absolutely superb room at a superb rate (specially priced for someone from cold Wisconsin! -- Pam wrote me), so much so that my Berwick-upon-Tweed stay grew from "just passing through" to four nights. And by the way, like in Keswick, you do not pronounce the "w," so it's Beh-rick, with the upon-Tweed added because it's sounds way more interesting that way but, too, this prevents confusion with that other Berwick in Sussex, England.



(I may never leave this window seat in my room...)


I'm greeted with tea and biscuits...


 


... and we talk about the various ways one can spend 3.5 days in this pretty town with the three bridges over a river where hundreds of swans hang out.

For additional information as to times and buses and such, I go to the Tourist Office in the center of town...






...and after, I stop at Boots Pharmacy to have a chat with the pharmacist on call. It's fascinating how this is done. You ring a bell and you're buzzed into a tiny room with an open window through which the pharmacist speaks to you. Much like a confessional. I tell her that my knee is bugging me and this is no good for a person who intends to hike to high heaven in the next ten days. She tells me about the various inflammatory triggers and suggests a topical cream which is perfect, as I think the issue isn't severe enough to warrant more draconian interventions. And I trust her completely. Why? Because I notice her name tag. It says : "Agnieszka."

Yes, she's Polish. Completed her pharmacy studies in Poland. In England for five years now. Terrified at first of practicing her skills abroad, but by now ,she's done the leap and she's coasting. And still, she asks about my own (forty years ago!) transition to life in the States. I leave her with only the best message: at some point, your new place does wedge itself into your heart and it becomes home.


I don't do much else today. There is a terrific walk along the ramparts of the city (all those wars called for strong fortifications), but I walk just a small bit of it. Enough to see some of the uniquely Berwick-upon-Tweed offerings:

Those mute swans (they come here by the hundreds; in the photo, their necks are submerged):






The three bridges. (The first, the Old Bridge from 1611; the second, the newest one from 1928; the third, the Royal Border Bridge opened by Queen Victoria in 1850, creating a rail link between London and Edinburgh.)






And a treat: an exhibition of Lowry's work depicting Berwick-upon-Tweed. Perhaps not a household name, still, Lowry was one interesting dude and his works these days can bring millions at auction. (He died in 1976 and I can't say the same appraisal would have been given to his work then). Just so you understand the genius of this man's art form, in 2013 (finally!), the Tate in London devoted a retrospective to Lowry. You know how these famous galleries take a while to let the worth of others sink in.






In the evening, I go to Audela's next door to my Bed and Breakfast. This small, informal place creates a masterful endive salad with stilton and walnuts and the salmon (did I mention that the Tweed is a salmon river?) is wonderful. I'll return to daily pub food next week, but for now, Berwick-upon-Tweed, small town that it is,  offers a delightful reprieve.





I'll sign off with this thought: it's odd how just a few train ridess over a distance of just a few miles gives you an entirely different perspective on the every day. Odd, but wonderful.

notes from Pooley Bridge

If you take the high road, make sure you know where it joins the low road or you'll be in Scotland instead of at the Howtown dock, like you'd planned. Just sayin'.

One big problem with being in Europe is that the time difference does not permit  for easy conversation with your sweeties back home. I stayed up late last night connecting with various family members with issues they are facing even as I am galavanting over fell and dale, having a grand old time of it. Sweet, sweet Ed helped me and as always was rock solid in all sorts of ways I never adequately acknowledge here.

So it was a bit of a long evening, but eventually we all put worries aside and called it a day. At least I did. It wasn't quite the end of the day for those at the other side.

One commenter asked if I'm north enough to experience the true beauty of summer solstice and a white night. I have to say I am not. Where I am is like being in eastern Wisconsin (early sunrise) and western Michigan (late sunset) all at once. But it does get dark in between.

When I told my hosts that Pooley Bridge is the plum place to visit in the high season (fewer people by far), they reminded me that it isn't fully high season as school term hasn't ended just yet. When I commented that there aren't the bed and breakfasts here to house more than a handful, they said that the British like to travel by caravan and there are caravan parks that will fill up mightily, come mid July.

How well I know the British caravan (or trailer, as we call it)! It can be found in every nook and alley of southern France! My hosts admitted to themselves being the caravan types and only recently did they discover the beauties of a bed and breakfast -- pretty much when they opened their own (two years ago). Their grown daughters told them they surely were having a midlife crisis.

The inn they run is, not surprisingly, immensely popular as it is low priced, immaculate and very fresh and well tended. But, they say that all their first years' profits went into renovation. Tomorrow morning I get to catch a free ride with them to Penrith because they are passing through there on the way to Keswick where they have to get permission to proceed with a window replacement without the need of a historical preservation certificate. They say that the pub owners who operate out of historical houses don't have it so easy. Each renovation is a major bureaucratic struggle. I thought it was slightly amusing that my innkeepers have to get permission to change windows without permission.

This morning, after a fitting breakfast which they modify for me, as I said no thanks to sausage or blood pudding (I get salmon instead; yum!), I speculated about my hike for the day. Since it's my last day here I want to keep it close to home. My hosts suggested the high road which follows the ridge line from Pooley Brisdge to Howtown (pronounced hoh-tn). From there I can walk the low road home or, if I'm less energetic, hop on the steamer back to Pooley Bridge.

I spent far too much time worrying about finding the trail leaving Pooley Bridge and too little time studying a map for the connection to the low road. As a result, by the time I reached the summit above Howtown, I had no choice but to scurry down like a limp sheep (I saw one of those so I can vouch for the accuracy of the comparison). The grade was far too steep for my ancient knees. I did make it down without wincing out loud, but if anyone has knee preserving exercises that they can recommend, I'm listening!

After three hours of climbing and then rapidly descending, the temptation to settle into a reclining position on the steamer was tremendous and so I took the boat home.

I felt that I had earned my cream tea.

And so in the afternoon, I settled in at Granny Dowbekin's Tearoom (there is a tea room at Pooley Bridge!) and indulged. Heaven.

And then, I made myself comfortable in the Guest House garden and Angela (my host) brought me fizzy water over lemon and ice and I was thinking that I could not be more comfortable. Dappled sunshine, flowers as only the British can do in a small garden -- a superb moment of peace and calm.

Tonight, I return to the Sun Pub. It won my heart that first night and I want to order fish and chips and theirs looked best.

It's too early for the football game (you know: the US v. Belgium one). But you get the sense that ever since the elimination of the English team from this year's World Cup, people here have lost interest. England was crossed off so unexpectedly, so early in the tournament, that many believe England should never again play as England. That it should bring in the best from countries that never compete in the World Cup: Northern Ireland, Wales and Scotland and play as one United Kingdom. Though why Scotland should want this, given that they're scheduled to vote this September on their independence -- is beyond me.

The fish and chips plate is fine. I had the best fried fish ever this past June at my daughter's wedding so it is an unfair comparison, but I try to eat it with a different mind set here. Indeed, people come in and note that the smell of my fish and chips is earth shatteringly fantastic, or some such superlative. (By the way, did you know that Wisconsin is the only place that calls this a fish fry? Everywhere else it's 'fish and chips.')

So that's the text. Here are the photos:



breakfast in a sunny room




the ridge line of today's hike





buttercups: flowers of my childhood, growing along streams and riverbanks





approaching one of the summits





sheep, posing





most, but not all of Ullswater Lake





a selfie at the highest summit (I met no hikers to help me out here)





more distant views





lonely lamb





very black sheep





down in the valley





the steamer for the return ride





as viewed from the steamer





cream tea





sunlight in the Sun Pub





fish and chips and a pea mash


...and a good night to you all!

and beyond

It is a curious thing that if I find myself in a place that's stunningly beautiful, instead of digging in, I want to go further. Look beyond my immediate environment. Because if it is so pretty here, shouldn't I take note of the region as a whole? Mightn't it be even prettier around the corner?

If you knew the Lake District, you'd probably say you can't get around much in a short period of time without a car. Well try me!

I love using public transportation, especially when I travel. Get in the car and get out again at your destination? How boring! What exchanges have you witnessed? What commentary do you have on the ways of the place you're passing through? However little I see in short visits, it is made richer (for me) if I travel alongside those who live there.

And so I ask my lovely hosts -- Angela and David -- if it's possible to see the other lake in a day trip. You know, the bigger lake. The one thought to be the grand dame of them all. I must admit, Angela a little bit frowned at that.
It may be possible, but I don't know if you can also fit in a hike while there.

I persevered. Let's look at the bus schedules.

Angela  does that and comes back with the news that I'd have to take three separate buses to get to Lake Windermere.
And would it be easy to walk around, say, the town of  Windermere?
Angela's frown grows even deeper. It's very touristy there, she tells me.
Point well taken. I study a book from her shelf -- an excellent little volume titled "Exploring the Lakes and the Low Fells." Maybe I don't have to go into Windermere, the town. There's a hike from Ambleside, just short of Windermere. I could try that.

We figure out the bus combinations: the 10:36 to Penrith, then the 11:15 to Keswick (don't pronounce the "w" in these English names!), then the 12:25 to Ambleside (which is the town just before Windermere).

The weather site tells me there may be rain. Fine. I take appropriate precautions. I smile at the sign in an English sporting good store in Keswick:





It is a beautiful set of bus routes. The first bus, from Pooley Bridge to Penrith, is nearly empty. I share the ride with local seniors going to the "big town" to shop, or in two cases, to visit the infirmary.

(Here's a Penrith update on the old red English phone booth!)







The second ride is lovely still, but we're picking up a few trekkers now.





The third ride is completely exasperating because only now do I learn that instead of purchasing individual tickets, I could have bought a day "explorer" and saved myself 15 pounds. Bummer summer. I learn.

That third ride -- from Keswick to Ambleside -- is also dominated by tourists. In fact, the bus fills with them.

I am in the Windermere region. I am in a different world! (Though the views out the window are very nice indeed.)





If I thought Pooley Bridge was a tad busy on Saturday and if I thought the half dozen tourists strolling about after the weekend felt "crowded," well now, I understood today that Pooley Bridge and Lake Ullswater are like an undiscovered sanctuary of peace and calm compared to the towns I pass through on my way to Lake Windermere. (Notably, Pooley Bridge does not have an ATM. That says it all, I think.)

Places I had been excited to see -- Grasmere, where Wordsworth lived for 14 years, believing it to be the "loveliest spot in the world," is thick with people and tour buses. Rydal, a hamlet favored by Wordsworth and his descendants, is an avenue of cafes and souvenir shops. Everything seems named for some aspect of the poet's life. It's like the significant elements of his existence have been immortalized in B&B names and eating venues.

My own Guest House host was right. It's different here.

I get off at Ambleside with some trepidation. Did I waste my precious day on coming here?

Let me interrupt this narrative with a little editorial insert. Here it is: if there is one Grimms fairy tale that drives me nuts as a parent of daughters and as a human being inhabiting this earth, it's Snow White. That whole shindig about  "who is the fairest of them all?" should be stricken from a young child's thought process. I suppose in some way we all strive to find the beautiful, to be ourselves beautiful, to fill our world with elements of beauty, but must there be a hierarchy? Is there a best cheese (as the French would have it)? A finest wine? A loveliest flower? A better view? Is there? A dowdy dandelion looked so gorgeous around my chicken's legs one fine May morning. It moved me to take a photo and it remains one of my favorite cheeper photos. Possibly not yours, but you weren't there inhaling the beautiful spring air, so full of hope and warm sunshine and cheeper enthusiasm for every worm that crawled to the surface!

Okay, back to the narrative. Straightaway, I take out my hiking book and direct myself onto the trail and away from the "village" of Ambleside.

Well now.

Follow along: please, just follow along. (It's a 3.5 hour hike, which I did in 3.25 hours only because I ran the last mile in order to catch the bus out of here; in any case, it will not take you 3.25 hours to follow along. Just look at the photos. They don't do justice, but they give a hint. It's not necessarily that it is a best view out there, but it is a damn good set of views!)
















The book labels it as a difficult hike. True, it is a hellacious ascent, but I differentiate between strenuous (which you can always do slowly if you tire easily) and dangerous (which means steep drop offs, sheer cliffs, treacherous climbs etc). This was not dangerous.

I loved this hike. I loved every bit of it. Every view -- down to the town...


 


...up to the fells, and then, to Lake Windermere.






(oh wait, I should post the photo taken by a passerby, to commemorate this hike for me)






I loved the steep ascent and then the meandering path down, through "the Hundreds"...





...down to the walled on both sides Nanny Lane. Sweet name, no?

I loved the fact that the weather was perfect: warmer than yesterday, but still in the sixties, with bouts of sunshine, but never too much.






There isn't a single thing about the hike that I did not love. The sheep. Yes, I loved them too.





True, I felt I had to run the last thirty minutes. I passed every hiker out there. Run. Make the bus. Run. In the end, I worried for naught. I got to Ambleside in enough time to even visit a lovely cafe-restaurant (actually I dont quite know what it is, but it's delightful and when I'm in these parts again, I'll be sure to linger). Lucy's. I bought a scone for the ride back.
Would you like some clotted cream to go and some jam too? -- the young woman behind the counter asks.

Oh how delicious was her desire to give me the full deal! I would have loved to sit down and have what I have not had for decades! A tea with a scone with clotted cream and jam! (Ask my daughters: I have, over the years, recreated that ritual at home for them. The cream may not have been clotted, but the point was the same: in the afternoon, a tea with fresh scones -- I have the best recipe for them! -- and cream and jam, give you a minute to exhale. No troubles ever rise to the surface when you are pouring tea and smattering a scone with cream and just a touch of jam. I learned that early. I stuck by it for years.)

Still, there was no time for a "cream tea" today. I allowed her to pack some jam in with my freshly baked scone and I caught the series of buses back to my beloved, quiet Pooley Bridge.

I'm eating at the third pub tonight, where the food is equally pub-ish -- my Cumbrian roast chicken is fine, as are the boiled veggies. At home, across the quiet street, I'll enjoy the rest of my scone from Lucy's.