Paging Mr. Darcy: A Weekend in England's Lake District, Part One

I realize that blogging has been a little thin of late, but I have a very good reason for my absence from this corner of cyberspace: traveling (duh). After all, without the occasional jaunt to the continent or the country, you guys would be wasting your time reading about my trips to the local chippie, which, as we discussed in an earlier entry, is a hazard to one's gastrointestinal health.

Perhaps one of the most incredible experiences thus far--which bodes well for the semester as a whole--was the time I spent on a sheep farm in the English countryside bordering the Lake District. Yes, you read that correctly; this suburban princess fell in love with life in a pastoral farming community. After a few weeks in the big city, a friend and I were shipped out to Cumbria to spend a long weekend with a delightful family selected by our exchange program.

As I proved to be an indiscriminate photographer, this weekend will be broken into two parts, the first detailing a day trip to Ullswater, and the second featuring photos from the farm. So, without further ado, I welcome you the land of Mdmes. Austen and Bronte. (I know I shouldn't have to say it, but click the photo for a larger view.)

I suppose the best starting place for this entry is to paint a picture of what the Lowlands of Scotland look like (albeit, from the window of a moving coach, and not, say, on foot). The journey to Penrith was just shy of two hours; it could have been eight hours and I still would have had my face pressed against the glass in awe. I don't think I'll ever get tired of seeing Scottish landscapes. (Apologies for the glare in the following pictures; it was sadly unavoidable.)

SHEEP!
COWS!
Yes, well, ahem, excuse me whilst I compose myself after my little outburst. Farm animals just get me ten sorts of fired up. (I know what at least half of you are thinking, and you all should be ashamed of yourselves. Sickos.)

Saturday morning we set out for a hike up Aira Force, a waterfall that empties into Ullswater lake. Take a gander, won't you?

Our gaggle of host families and students working our way to the trails around Aira Force. Check out the fells in the distance. (For the benefit of you non-geology/ecology types, a fell is a treeless mountain landscape shaped by receding glaciers.)

A view of Ullswater from a neighboring field.

Ullswater and fells, with added rustic fencepost goodness.

We descended into the woody underbrush of an old-growth deciduous forest, a seemingly rare sight these days. (This is especially true of the northern parts of England, where much of the land is cleared for logging ventures.)

A few yards upstream from the waterfall.

If my philosophy and biology studies allowed for such flights of fancy, I'd almost expect a drift of faeries to flutter into the frame of this shot. It doesn't take much to understand why druidic and pagan religions took such a firm hold of certain regions of England, Scotland, and--as I've recently discovered--Ireland. The landscape is, at the risk of sounding like a nutter, quite magical.

While photos are all well and good, when it comes to conveying the majesty of an area, they are often quite lacking. So, I've included a little video of the stream flowing toward its final destination, so that you might also enjoy the babbling sounds of the Lake District. (My sister will likely chide me for my shoddy videography, to which I have only this to say: "NEVER AGAIN!" Silly pigeon-chaser.)




A small footbridge crossing over the falls.

Aira Force in all her glory, as seen from the foot of the pool into which she empties.

Eddie and Jane Jackson, the most amazing host parents a girl could ask for. Aren't they adorable?

Following our trip to the falls, we made our way to the shores of Ullswater to participate in the quintessential Lake District activity (at least, as portrayed by the works of Jane Austen): boating.

That wee vessel to the right of the frame holds one third of our exchange group. They were the Spanish Armada to our English Navy in the Spanish defeat of 1588. (Fine, so no one died and all ships remained afloat, but a girl can dream of nautical glory, can't she?)

As a final note, we looked for Mr. Darcy, even going so far as to quote Keats while rowing in an attempt to lure him from a neighboring farmhouse or estate. Sadly, no dice.