Lake District Outdoor Photos

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(Below): Glenridding, a typically quiet Lake District "town." My trip will take me from Glenridding heading west over Helvellyn (3,117 ft.) and down the other side to Grasmere. The Lake District apparently gets too congested with motor traffic in the summer months (sound familiar, Yosemite regulars?). But why put up with crowds when you can visit during the winter?

(Below): Striding Edge, a narrow arete heading towards the summit of Helvellyn, one of the classic Lake District routes. One can follow it along the crest or more easily, on the trails just below. The clouds moved in as I started traversing, reducing visibility to almost nil, and adding to the sense of exhilaration.

(Below): The bustling metropolitan town of Grasmere at rush hour, located on the other side of Helvellyn in the SE section of the English Lakes. As the hotel name suggests, the Lake District was home to the famous early nineteenth-century poet William Wordsworth (with a name like that, one has to become a poet!).

(Above): The UK National Park system is unlike that of the US in that there are pockets of privately owned areas that are within the park boundaries in the UK. Public transportation being almost non-existent in the area during the low-tourist month of January, I walked east from Grasmere to Ambleside and then on to Windermere to catch the train back to London. The scenery depicted here is typical of the area.

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Note(s):

William Wordsworth (1770-1850) wrote many nature-themed poetry, and was known as the "Sage of Grasmere." Below are two of his most famous poems, one about man's callousness towards nature, the other an encomium about London (obviously written before tourism as a London industry took off). He most surely would be appalled by all the construction, pollution, scaffolding, and traffic sure to assault him should he stand, morning, noon or night, on Westminster Bridge today.) (Back to photos)

SONNET

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.

UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE

Sept. 3, 1802

Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now cloth like a garment wear

The beauty of the morning: silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky,
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!

The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!