Until today, I cannot say I’ve experienced the Lake District as it might have been before the constant thrum of tourism overtook it. Or understood it’s potency.
Immediately stricken by the silence; the lack of humanity here at Loweswater.
The darkening woodland (Holme Wood) above, fair full of cross tracks and ancient oak and yew. The chip-chip of animals hidden in the upper branches, feasting. Apparently coffins were borne this way toward consecrated ground at St. Bee’s nearly twenty miles away.
The mesmerising calm of the lake water and sudden drama of nearby fells – Haystacks for example, like a sugar loaf mount. The lee end.
A report of a dying sheep.
Small boats mid-stream.
A lone Kite – ‘that’s not a kite, that’s a bird’ the writer says, punning into the sunset.
The yew tree that Coleridge and Wordsworth stood and gazed at, describing in their journals - a legend still proving life.
All this is fast, a mere snapshot (pardon the pun).
Loweswater, Cumbria 24/8/06
Immediately stricken by the silence; the lack of humanity here at Loweswater.
The darkening woodland (Holme Wood) above, fair full of cross tracks and ancient oak and yew. The chip-chip of animals hidden in the upper branches, feasting. Apparently coffins were borne this way toward consecrated ground at St. Bee’s nearly twenty miles away.
The mesmerising calm of the lake water and sudden drama of nearby fells – Haystacks for example, like a sugar loaf mount. The lee end.
A report of a dying sheep.
Small boats mid-stream.
A lone Kite – ‘that’s not a kite, that’s a bird’ the writer says, punning into the sunset.
The yew tree that Coleridge and Wordsworth stood and gazed at, describing in their journals - a legend still proving life.
All this is fast, a mere snapshot (pardon the pun).
Loweswater, Cumbria 24/8/06
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