Beautiful Places

Today started with storms and rain and wind but by midday it had cleared to balmy gorgeousness, and so I decided to take a walk with the dog. Recently my daughter's boyfriend told us about a circular beach walk that we hadn't known about it in 4 years of living here. It's called:

 It starts by walking up the aptly named Rottington Road, which involves a very steep hill:

The views, however, were well worth it. When you finally emerge from between the high hedgerows, the world spreads out before you like a living map: sea on one side and rolling pasture on the other, the sky high and blue above.

Have you ever seen something so beautiful you feel frustrated because you don't know if you can appreciate it enough? You look and look but it's as if you can't take it in; your heart hurts. I felt that way today and I recalled one of the first time I felt that way, when I was twelve and my parents took me on a trip to the Cotswolds. The memory was poignant as we are sad to leave Cumbria, but in moving to the Cotswolds we are going to another beautiful, heart-hurting place--I mean that in a good way, of course.

From the Rottington Road I turned onto the footpath that led to the sea, down grassy slopes dotted with sheep, a scene that was perfectly pastoral.

With lovely summer flowers along the way:

And helpful gates across the stiles:

And finally the sea emerged in the distance, like a promise:

And I finished with a lovely walk across the beach at low tide!

I will miss this place so much when we leave, but I was encouraged that beautiful places can be found just about anywhere, if you have the heart to look for them. I'll leave you with a last photo of the beck I passed. Can you see the mother duck with her ducklings? Rebirth is always happening.

Snow... or not

Last week it snowed here in the village. Not a lot of snow, mind you. Living as we do on the coast, we rarely get more than a generous dusting. People are still talking about the winter of 2010-2011, before we moved here, when it snowed an entire FOUR INCHES. Roads were closed, and food had to be shipped into the village by sea from Whitehaven. I kid you not.

As a former New Englander, I scoff a bit at this, I admit. When we lived in Connecticut we had several major snowstorms each winter, and by major I mean anywhere from 18 inches to 2 and a half feet of snow. But New England is prepared for that kind of snow. Within hours of the snow stopping, the ploughs are out and the streets are mainly clear.

My husband and I were reminiscing about the snowstorms in New England. There is something very serene and beautiful about a world blanketed in snow. I think the thing I miss most of all is the sense of peaceful silence. Everything is muted by snow; no one is out. The world is covered in softness. Of course, in a few days or weeks, that softness is grimy, grey, and making life generally difficult with puddles of icy slush--when we lived in New York City, there were absolutely treacherous puddles on the curbs of certain intersections, and the worst part was, they didn't look that deep. So you'd step into one only to find yourself sinking into icy, dirty water halfway up to your knee. Yuck.

So I don't miss that.

But snow can be magical, and when it snowed here last week (maybe a quarter of an inch, gone within an hour) my six-year-old daughter was absolutely entranced. She doesn't remember the snows in New York, and she gazed around in rapture at the snow still coming down and said, 'This is the best day EVER. There is so much to SEE!'

I'd like a little of her youthful wonder and exuberance, myself.

It was supposed to snow last night but there is nary a flake on the ground this morning. However, the distant fells look like this:

So really, I can't complain.

On Wind

I braved a walk down to the beach on Saturday, when the wind was kicking up tremendously. It's always surprising to me how tiring it is to walk against the wind, and it really shouldn't be surprising because it happens often enough! And even a strong wind at your back can be unsettling; it feels like a giant hand propelling you forward, the way an unruly child might be frogmarched by a teacher to the headmaster's office.

But there is also something glorious and powerful about the wind--to watch it turning the oft-placid sea into wild whitecaps; to see the trees bent over like old women; to feel it practically lift you from your feet. Nature is awe-inspiring as well as occasionally uncomfortable.

And after twenty minutes at the beach, I was ready to come home and have a cup of tea. But here is the rather unattractive evidence of my windy adventures; as far as selfless go, it's not all that flattering, but you can see how my hair is flying about.

Here are some other photos from the day. Thankfully no one was blown over, although they came close!

Wet and wind

Most of the photos I post are of Cumbria on sunny days--the few that we have. And although we have had a very good stretch of nice weather lately, the truth is that the Lake District is usually windy and wet. The forecast for the next 24 hours is a month's worth of rain in a single day. Sadly, this is not unusual. So even though I pretend it's always like this:

It's actually usually like this:

Or even like this:

Coping with the weather has been a big struggle for me, especially the first year we lived here. The first day of school was 50 degrees with 70mph winds. I sent the children off in their winter coats. After eight years back in the US, I'd got used to expecting sunshine. I'd enjoyed the full range of the seasons: hot, humid summers; glorious, balmy autumns; cold, snowy winters; and lovely, warm springs. Each one had its delights and challenges, but at least it was varied. And yet within that variation rainy days were infrequent enough that you could actually enjoy the novelty of carrying an umbrella or watching the downpour from your window, a mug of tea in hand.

Things are a little different here. Rain is, sadly, the norm. Only recently I read that Cumbria is the wettest county in England, a fact which shouldn't have surprised me but still did. The funny thing is, because the weather is so bad, we talk about it all the time. I have become British in that I am obsessed with the weather. I check it constantly and compare it to New York--something I really shouldn't do, because it so rarely is in my favour. And even though the weather is usually wet and windy (and cold, the average high in July is a scorching 67 degrees), every school run involves conversations such as this:

Neighbor: You all right? (Cumbrian for how are you?)
Me: Yes, fine, glorious today, isn't it!
Neighbor: Isn't it red hot! (It might be hovering around 60 degrees)
Me: Oh, yes.

or

Neighbor: You all right?
Me: Yes, terrible weather though.
Neighbor: Isn't it dreadful! Raining buckets.
Me: Yes, but at least we did have some sunny weather.
Neighbor: That's right, we can't complain!

And a thousand variations thereof.

I could tell you that living in a place where the weather is generally awful has its advantages but the truth is, it doesn't. It's more about making the best of a bad situation. I've learned to enjoy (and even revel, deliriously) in the beautiful days. And Cumbria, on a sunny day, is rather jaw-droppingly glorious. As for the bad days? Sometimes you can enjoy the sound of the wind outside which can be astonishingly loud--rattling windowpanes, soughing through trees, and generally making a lot of noise. We have six working fireplaces in our vicarage and it can be very cozy to sit by the fire with a cup of tea and be glad you're not outside in the driving downpour. Of course, eventually you have to go out--to pick up kids from school is the usual reason. Driving a car to school is not a possibility unless the weather is truly torrential because the parking on the narrow high street is so difficult (and trust me, having to reverse into a parking space in my 7-seater car on a very narrow street while driving on what I still consider to be the wrong side of the road is just about my worst nightmare). So on comes the wet weather gear: Wellies, waterproof jacket, umbrella, and sometimes even waterproof pants, or as we would say in England, waterproof trousers (waterproof pants giving the sense more of a diaper, or should I say, nappy). And out I go into the driving rain, the relentless wind, and smile cheerfully to my neighbour as we shake our heads at the weather that still seems like a surprise, even when it really shouldn't.