Return to England
Bev Wood crosses the border into England after almost five months on the road.
Gretna Green was the last place we visited before leaving Scotland. This tiny village straddling the border between Scotland and England, with its romantic history as a place for runaway couples to marry, had always intrigued me.
The Marriage Act that came into law in the mid-17th century prohibited anyone aged under 21 from marrying without their parents’ consent. There was no such law in Scotland, so couples over 15 were free to marry without age restrictions.
We stopped at The Old Smithy, the blacksmith’s shop that had become one of the most popular spots to celebrate a marriage. As the blacksmith was considered one of the most important people in the village, his shop became the wedding venue for eloping couples.
From here we crossed the border into England after almost five months on the road. Our first stop in the Lake District was at the old town of Cockermouth, where we visited the cottage in which William Wordsworth spent his childhood. Here furniture, china and some of his first editions were on display.
After visiting many charming villages in Scotland we were disappointed with some of the drab settlements we passed through. They consisted of row after row of redbrick joined-together houses opening straight on to the street. Did the locals manage to identify their own home only by the colour of their door?
Then we were once more driving through rolling green countryside and a few attractive villages. On past Britain’s first nuclear power station, at Calder Hill, before reaching the Cumbria Coast.
There was nothing much to see for miles but a great expanse of sand and the dull, wind-tossed sea. Heading away from this wild scene, we were back into beautiful rolling country among trees dressed in their early autumn tones. This was rural England at its best, with cows grazing in green fields amid substantial grey stone homes.
We drove on a steep, hilly, narrow road that wound across The Fells. After descending the hill, we reached Broughton-in-Furness before following the river though the picturesque Duddon Valley, colourful with its grey rocks and yellow bracken.
From here we travelled on an extremely narrow back road with only a few small bays for vehicles to pass. Luckily, we hardly saw another vehicle. We ground up over the Wrynose Pass, which is evidently one of the steepest roads in Britain.
Driving on we passed through a couple of farm gates before descending to yet another valley. The scenery seemed to be forever changing from barren tussock country to lush green farmland, through narrow roads lined with massive oak trees, over humpbacked bridges and besides gurgling streams.
We reached Coniston, a pretty little place situated on Coniston Water. Although it was our second day in the Lake District, this was the first time we’d seen a lake.
From here we did a short detour to visit the really beautiful Tarn Hows and surrounding land, which Beatrix Potter bought in 1929. She later sold it to the National Trust as a conservation area. The lake in its woodland setting overlooked by rugged mountains was one of her favourite walking spots. I could see why.
Further on, the old stone buildings and roughcast houses covered with rambling roses and autumn tinted creepers, the view of Lake Windermere and the small towns and villages brought to mind the charming tales by Potter.
I kept expecting to see Peter Rabbit pop up. It certainly was a beautiful part of the country but the quaint little streets we visited were crammed with tourists. After the uncluttered spaces in Scotland, we were disappointed at being jostled by the crowds so we didn’t stay long.
The next morning we woke to rain and more rain. Although we had experienced downpours before, it was the most persistent rain we’d had for a long time. Cramped in the back of our mini-van, Min, where we’d spent yet another uncomfortable night, we lay there hoping it would lift.
When we realised the rain had no intention of easing we decided to move on. Our belongings, which we had stowed under the van wrapped in the ground sheet, were saturated. How we longed for some home comforts but we knew none was forthcoming.
Much to our relief, Min had the same urge as us to get going and we managed to drive away without getting stuck in the slushy ground. Having already been soaked to the skin, we sadly made the decision to bypass Wordsworth’s house as we’d previously visited his childhood home.
Once we reached Keswick, one of the larger towns in the area, we were ready for a break. Still wet and bedraggled, we wandered into a pub. It was a typical old building, dimly lit and with extremely low ceilings and black rafters. Feeling we deserved a treat, we ordered a Babycham and sat back to observe the elegant British tourists, the women in tight slacks, their hair beautifully styled and lacquered. The men, mostly dressed in tweeds and sporting impressive moustaches, looked as if they’d stepped out of a Country Life magazine. Not for the first time we felt like fish out of water and that’s probably what we looked like – or more like drowned rats.
Much as we were tempted to linger, the road called, so on we drove, around yet more lakes partly obscured by the rain. For a short while the rain lifted slightly but once we were up in the tussock hills the clouds rolled in again.
Suddenly we were on the Yorkshire Moors. We rejoiced when the weather cleared. Much to our delight, as were we settling down for the night the stars twinkled to us from a clear sky and in the morning we woke to blue skies and sunshine. It was a perfect day for driving across this lovely part of Britain. Here, instead of the dark grey buildings of the Lake District, the farmhouses were built of a lighter-coloured stone and the orange tiled roofs added colour to the landscape.
We arrived at an attractive village with neat stone cottages, but it was the ruins of Rievaulx Abbey nearby we’d come to see.
This had been built in the isolated valley in the 12th century as a place for the monks to lead a life of prayer removed from the temptations of everyday life. The remains of the abbey were well cared for and we enjoyed wandering around this peaceful park-like grounds among the trees admiring the skill of those early craftsman
who had constructed such an imposing edifice.
Our next destination was the walled city of York, said to be one of the finest medieval cities. It was certainly full of charm, from the well-kept buildings, to the delightfully named The Shambles, a narrow street with rickety old buildings leaning out on to the footpath.
A visit to the Castle Museum gave us an idea of life in a bygone era with its narrow cobbled streets, not unlike those we’d just walked through. There were models of buildings such as a shoemaker, a haberdashery, a sweet shop, a police station complete with lock-up, and a debtor’s prison – perhaps I narrowly missed being locked up.
There was a stage coach on a corner with a top-hatted gentleman standing beside the horses. I enjoyed visiting the farm kitchens with their low rafters, the open fireplaces with blackened pots and pans, plain wooden furniture and simple pewter and china utensils. This was in contrast to the more elegant rooms of the Georgian and Victorian eras we’d just passed through.
Naturally we couldn’t leave York without visiting the famous Minster cathedral. And it didn’t disappoint with its size and grandeur as well as the exquisite stained glass windows. It was a memorable end to our visit to this well-preserved and elegant medieval city.