It’s been a week since our return, and in this week of heavy bustling and hours of staring at computer screens and collections, I’ve tried to hold onto the Lake District. It goes so fast. And really, it took three days for the ludicrous grandeur of the scenery to sink in. We caught the train from Oxford to Windermere by way of Birmingham New and Preston stations. It’s the first time I’ve crossed England and I craned out the window to catch impressions. The prettiest stretch of country was Oxfordshire, between Oxford and Banbury, which was caught in a mist, and the Lancashire/Cumbrian countryside between Preston and Grasmere. In between were large stretches of green and of ripe yellow rapeseed, interrupted by smokestacks, dirty stations, and industrial towns; trailers penned in next to sheep. Grasmere is idyllic, the Disney world of England. Its old world prettiness makes everything beside it look contaminated. The mountains rise steeply around the valleyed village, and dry
Reading, writing, traveling