Chapter Fifteen The Hills Are Alive
After very little sleep, I sneak out of the hotel to watch the sun rise above the mountains that surround this beautiful village. A watercolour sky of pinks and golds contrasts against grey-green fells, and in the distance I see a sprinkling of frost on the higher fells. It’s certainly chilly and I hug myself, although in doing so I’m glad to be feeling something other than despair. I consider that word and decide it’s probably too harsh but I don’t know how to describe it. Disappointment? Defeat? Whatever it is, I should be grateful to Sarah for telling me about Michael and stopping me making a fool of myself by calling him.
‘How are you not freezing to death?’ says the voice of Patty behind me. I turn round to see her swathed in a woollen blanket that I last saw on one of the library chairs. She steps beside me, holds it open then enfolds me in it too. I’m instantly warmed by her body and the blanket — it’s lovely.
‘What are you thinking about, Bo?’ she asks.
I sigh and snuggle into her. ‘I was just wondering how many of these mountains we have time to climb before we head home.’
‘Well, I know the answer to that one. Gingerbread shop v. mountain — not a hard choice to make. Now come on inside, there’s a full English waiting.’
She bundles me back into the hotel, where the aromas of breakfast contrast with the fresh air outside. Both are wonderful in their own way.
My friends are already around our table, where coffee is being poured and toast being buttered. Sarah gives me a sheepish glance, so I walk towards her with confidence and sit down beside her. I squeeze her hand and whisper, ‘Thank you for telling me. I needed to know.’
I then look up at the table and declare, ‘Well, I’m off to the buffet before Ed the food monster gets there.’
I stand and the others follow me to fill plates with more than any one of us would ever normally eat in the morning.
I hadn’t thought I’d actually be hungry but I’ve returned to the table with a little of everything and I eat it all without pausing.
‘Blimey, girl,’ says Patty. ‘You’re going to need to do all those mountains to work that lot off.’
‘Pot calling kettle,’ I say, looking at the empty plate sitting in front of her. ‘And you’re planning gingerbread later.’
‘I was built for comfort not speed,’ is all she says.
From the groans and moans of pleasure, there is agreement around the table that the breakfast is exceptional. When Ed is finished he looks longingly over at the buffet table.
‘I’m at that junction where I’ve loved what I’ve eaten and I want more but I know it would be too much.’
‘Always leave ’em wanting more,’ Patty tells him. ‘That’s my motto.’
‘You’re a fountain of wisdom this morning, Patience,’ I say as we all leave the table. ‘If the Dalai Lama needs an assistant, I’ll put a good word in for you.’
* * *
We load our suitcases into our cars and begin our walk through the village up towards Dove Cottage, which was Wordsworth’s home. It’s an exceptionally pretty place which you could imagine being recreated on a film set as a perfect setting for a city-girl-comes-home romance or a cosy mystery. The dark-slate shops with their bright-white window frames host mainly cafés, artworks and outdoor gear. I pause at one of the art shops and browse the paintings, thinking it would be fairly difficult to create anything that wasn’t beautiful living here. I select one that reminds me of the colours I saw this morning and the assistant puts it behind the counter for me to collect on my way back.
Dove Cottage is a whitewashed building like many others around here. We’re booked in for a tour and our guide tells us that the poet lived here with his sister Dorothy for eight years when he was twenty-nine and that he composed many of his famous works in the house. I’m surprised by how simple it is and express this.
‘It was a time of plain living and high thinking,’ our guide is saying. ‘Wordsworth’s words, not mine. He wrote them in 1802 and pretty much predicted how the world would unfold.’
He has been carrying a well-thumbed book of poetry and opens it now, clearing his throat before he begins to read.
‘The wealthiest man among us is the best:
No grandeur now in nature or in book
Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,
This is idolatry; and these we adore:
Plain living and high thinking are no more...’
‘He was lamenting the world’s love of material things over nature, of show over substance, and I think he got it spot on,’ says the guide. ‘So the house is simple but the garden was the place he really loved. He called it “the loveliest spot man hath ever found” — let’s go outside.’
From the spontaneous look of horror on Patty’s face I know she would far rather stay in the warm, but I give her a shove to walk in front of me. As it’s January, the guide has to try and describe how it would look in full bloom and although I nod along, I’ve never been a gardener so can barely relate to what he’s saying and don’t know many of the plants he mentions, although obviously even I know what a rose bed looks like. The guide then directs us to what was Wordsworth’s favourite spot, a small hut at the top of some steps, which the poet apparently wanted to resemble a wren’s nest filled with moss and surrounded by heather.
‘So, men had sheds even back then,’ whispers Patty.
We’re told that it can’t be fully appreciated from this angle and that we have to climb the steps to see it from Wordsworth’s perspective. With all the huffing and puffing you’d have thought the guide had asked our book group to conquer Scafell, not a few stone steps. It’s worth it as we all look out over the fells from Wordsworth’s favourite spot. Peter certainly speaks for me when he says, ‘I can see how he was inspired here.’
The guide recites ‘I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud’ while we stand taking in the landscape and give him a round of applause at the end. We walk back down the steps to end our tour and as we do Ed asks the guide whether it’s true that Wordsworth went to school with Fletcher Christian.
‘Yes,’ he replies. ‘They both went to Cockermouth Free School but William was six years younger than Fletcher, so I don’t know about you, but I never knew anyone six years either side of me when I was at school. Been reading Grave Tattoo?’
We explain that we’re a book group and we’re in Grasmere because that’s exactly what we’ve been doing.
‘It’s a lovely thought that they knew each other and certainly quite remarkable that such a small place could produce two such important historical figures, but I think it’s probably a fantasy held by the author, as is the notion that Wordsworth met Fletcher in later life,’ he says as he’s shaking our hands goodbye.
‘Did you get the impression that he didn’t want his beloved poet sullied by the imagination of a crime writer?’ asks Peter.
‘It could be that he does his best to bring the poet and his poetry to life and all he gets asked about is a spurious connection with a mutineer,’ Caroline says.
‘So, lovely people,’ Patty asks loudly in an obvious effort to change the subject. ‘On more important matters — are we all ready for gingerbread?’
The group cheers and Patty tells us to follow her.
* * *
The shop is tiny but the aroma drifts around the twisty streets, drawing us in. It’s right beside St Oswald’s church where Wordsworth and his family are buried, so Patty hasn’t escaped the literary tour just yet. But for now, she has some difficult decisions to make.
‘Should I get the gingerbread, the rum sauce or the gingerbread fudge?’ she asks, lusting after the products on the shelves.
I mentally count to three and by the time I get to two the inevitable decision has been made.
‘All of them,’ she says to the shop assistant, replying to her question with the inevitable answer, ‘the large size, please.’
We all buy something and like Patty I take all three products, but unlike her, mine are to give away to Zoe, Mum and Dad. I’ll be helping my best friend demolish her supply anyway.
It’s mid-afternoon when we walk around the church and the graveyard to make our final visit of the day. Many other tourists are traipsing along the small footpath which leads to the very simple tombstone that tells us Wordsworth died when he was eighty.
‘Not a bad innings back then,’ says Ed. ‘A life of fresh air and literary enlightenment must be good for you.’
‘That’s reassuring to know,’ says Sarah, who has been quiet all day. ‘Especially for book club members.’
‘The fresh air part didn’t help him much,’ continues Patty, reading from a leaflet. ‘He died after he caught a cold when out walking. I told you it was dangerous.’
The lead guide of some Japanese tourists seems to be rapidly translating Patty’s words as I can see the concern and then smiles on the faces of her group.
‘Walk-ing dan-ge-rous,’ says an elderly man. He finger-walks to make his point.
‘Hai,’ replies Patty, nodding at him.
As we leave the graveyard, Caroline asks her what she said.
‘It’s yes in Japanese,’ she replies, getting eyebrows raised in surprise from everyone.
‘Cruises are international affairs, you know,’ she says to our shocked faces. ‘I tried to learn six words in as many languages as possible — yes, no, please, thank you and the most important of all...’
She has her audience as we’re gripped to hear the rest.
‘Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?’
This time it’s Peter who throws something at her and Ed who tells her that’s ten words anyway.
After collecting my painting from the art shop we head back to the cars for our journey home. The valley is dark now with the promise of a clear cold night in the air. I can’t help but wonder what the stars look like from Wordsworth’s little hut and wonder if he wrote any poems about them. I’ll have to look it up when I get back.
‘Thank you for inviting me,’ says Sarah from the back seat as we drive down the motorway. ‘It’s been a lovely weekend and you have a great bunch of friends.’
‘My pleasure. I’m glad you enjoyed it.’
Sarah pauses then says, ‘I hope I didn’t ruin anything for you.’
It’s my turn to pause because the weekend wasn’t ruined, but in a way, my hopes were dashed. In the end I decide to maintain the sense of bonhomie that has surrounded today and settle for a platitude.
‘You didn’t ruin a thing,’ I say. ‘I’ve had the most wonderful weekend too and I really hope that you come along again.’
‘Oh, I’d love to,’ she says. ‘And I’d like to invite you both to the tea shop for a free cream tea when you have time.’
‘There’s always time for a cream tea,’ Patty says.
I reach down and flick the radio onto an eighties channel.
‘Now, Patty, let’s hear what you’ll be doing for your first gig,’ I say.
‘With pleasure,’ she says. ‘I like nothing better than a captive audience.’
She begins to sing loudly and out of tune just to keep the mood light, but as we wind our way through the Howgills and the road ahead turns very dark, I feel her hand reach over to me and give my arm a rub. There’s just no fooling my best friend.