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....

      

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