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December, 2004—Nichole Silverman
The
Lake District: Ambleside
At
some point during our childhoods, while being fed quaint
fairy-tale villages and magical forests, and idyllic
image of what the countryside should look like develops.
Improbable postcard pictures and guidebook images further
nudge this image along. This magical place tucked away
from the bustling world is a place we would all like
to visit; however, we all know that in reality few places
live up to our expectations and, over the years, our
expectations have been set exceptionally high when it
comes to our picturesque, enchanted towns. The image
is, of course, an ideal and is not likely to exist in
the real world.
With
my idea of the perfect fairy-tale landscape tucked away
in my subconscious, I departed with my class-mates and
professors on a less-than-accommodating coach headed
for Ambleside, a part of England’s immortalized
Lake District. This area of Northern England has been
captured in Wordsworth’s poems and, over the years,
has attracted a number of other well-known writers such
as Beatrix Potter, Robert Southey, and Samuel Taylor
Coleridge. Wordsworth lived in Grasmere, an area of
the Lake District near Ambleside, in Dove Cottage between
1799 and 1808 with his wife and family. During that
time he recorded the Lake District’s beauty in
many of his most famous poems. However, prior to my
visit there, and certainly before I hopped onto the
much-too-small coach, I knew none of those handy bits
of trivia about the place. In fact, I knew so little
about the Lake District that I had hardly any expectations
for the place at all aside from the hope that there
would actually be lakes there. I found myself pleasantly
surprised when I stepped off the coach some six or seven
hours later into the realization of my own idyllic fairy-tale
countryside.
Our
cramped little coach had landed us in a world of fog-covered,
rolling hills; stone cottages with quietly puffing chimneys;
and, best of all, snow white swans floating gracefully
on lakes. I could feel the little girl inside of me
crying out with glee at the realization of being plopped
down into this storybook illustration. At any moment
I felt I would find Hansel and Gretel’s path of
breadcrumbs or, better yet, stumble upon some magical
fairy hide-away. Ambleside appeared to the backdrop
to all the tales of princesses, witches, and magical
happenings I had avidly read as a child. Judging by
the gasps of excitement of each person who stepped off
the coach into this beautiful landscape, I was not the
only one with whoops of joy threatening to burst out
of my mouth.
The
feeling of child-like wonder that came over us all as
we stepped off the coach even extended to our stay in
the stately stone building that was our hostel. The
building was a beautiful structure that looked directly
onto the lake. I was assigned to a six-bed room with
five of the other girls. The nights we spent in the
room together had the feeling of a slumber party. One
night we had a particularly hysterical presentation
of all our unique tricks. An example of the high quality
of the talent displayed was she-who-shall-remain-nameless’s
uncanny ability to snort like a pig. Throughout the
entirety of our stay the room remained giggly and friendly,
a nearly direct result of our excitement at being magicked
away to such a fantastic place. I feel it is safe to
say that nearly every girl in that room fancied herself
a princess, fairy, or witch (depending, of course, on
personal preference). It was in this way that Ambleside
worked on all of us, influencing our personal states
of mind as well as the group dynamic. It is no wonder
that the Lake District has such a long history of drawing
writers and artists alike. The place begs to be written
about and has a way of working itself into your imagination.
Wordsworth was claimed as saying that it is “the
loveliest spot man has ever found.” I doubt there
is a soul alive that would disagree.
 Our
one full day in Ambleside was spent partly in Grasmere
visiting Wordsworth’s Dove Cottage. Dove Cottage
was Wordsworth’s place of residence for nearly
nine years and is now beautifully preserved as a sort
of living history museum with bits and pieces of furniture,
pictures, and items that Wordsworth and his family owned
during their lifetimes. We were directed through the
house by a slender guide with a northern accent and
filled in on the history of the house and Wordsworth’s
life. Next to Dove Cottage is a museum that has an ever-changing
literary exhibit. While we were there was an exhibit
featuring Milton’s Paradise Lost. As well as a
first edition of the book, framed originals of illustrations
by different artist for the book were on display. There
is also a myriad of information on Wordsworth and his
family to be gleaned from the museum. After Dove Cottage
we set out on our own in small groups to explore Ambleside
and so as we pleased.
Two
friends and myself decided to make our way up a trail
to get a view from above of Ambleside. We had one sad
photocopy of a vague map between the three of us that
we had purchased at the hostel front desk for ten pence.
After a wrong turn, some perilous trekking, and muddy
mishaps, we finally got onto the correct path and up
to the viewpoint on the hill. When we pulled ourselves
up to the ledge and looked down on Ambleside we simply
smiled at each other. We stood on top of a rocky hill
and could look down on the lake, seeing little pinpoints
of light in distant windows. The hills around us were
deep green, brown, orange, red, and gold on the brink
of Autumn – not the most popular time for the Lake
District but full a special beauty not seen in summer.
To our backs were a stone fence and four sheep that
had wandered up the hill as well. It was yet another
image out of a storybook. Grudgingly, we made our way
back down the path vowing to return the next morning
to see the sunrise over the seemingly enchanted land.
Wet
and chilled, we dragged ourselves into a quaint pub
well equipped with a wood-burning fireplace, friendly
staff, and hot coffee. Warm and content, we sipped out
coffee and shared an apple crisp, both made more delicious
by day’s endeavours. Slowly, the rest of our friends
found their way into the same pub. We shared our separate
adventures of the day in front of the fire. Eventually,
word of our pre-dawn excursion back up the hill spread
and by the end of the night all 16 of us made a pact
to go. After a night of wine, games, and friendly chatter
we set our alarms for 6 a.m. and agreed to make each
other wake up at the painfully early time.
Miraculously,
very one of us dragged ourselves out of bed and bundled
up into sweatshirts, coats, and scarves. It was raining,
but we diligently walked down the cobble stone streets
towards the hill. The path was dark and slick; however,
we went slowly and helped each up with reassuring words
and firm hands. Eventually, we all made it up, scattering
ourselves onto the ledge with rain dripping down our
noses, soaked to the bone. The fog and clouds obscured
the sunrise -- no one had told us that the sun doesn’t
rise in the Lake District – but we didn’t
care. There was still something magical about standing
on that ledge with people we cared about watching the
sky lighten and color slowly seep into the landscape.
We watched the fairy town while it slept and greeted
the morning from beneath our sopping wet hoods and hats.
When
we returned to the hostel, the hot breakfast was devoured
in near silence. As we shoved eggs, potatoes, and sausages
into our mouths we had a quiet confidence. We conquered
the hill – the magic hill that rested above the
enchanted town. Indeed, it must have been magic to cause
16 college students to rise before the sun and trek
through the rain and cold for the sake of a view.
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