Wild Wastwater

It was properly wild in Eskdale in the night, trees down, Lane flooded, huddle by the fire wild. Loved it.

Waking it was grim
I feel for the other guests, many from the Southern wastelands (anywhere below the Peak District - Manchester - N. Wales line), desperate to feed their souls in the mountains, trapped looking through glass. A few intrepidly set out, we ordered more tea and added a log to the fire.

When we were told the water had subsided on the lane we headed out to Holmrook, an errand to run requiring a post office. Are there many post offices in our Isle where you can post a parcel, buy a replacement tractor seat and peruse a choice of sheep shearing clippers whilst trying on real felt stalking hats?
The drive back was wet and grim, we consoled ourselves with cappuccino and cake. It was just still morning so allowed.

Then, ah the décadence of it, a middle of the day sleep. A proper sleep in a bed. Can't recall when that last happened, but it was grand.

Waking there was a strange glow through the chink in the curtains - the sky a not recently seen colour.

We drove round to England's deepest lake, a truly magical place, somewhere it's impossible not to feel wonder. I wondered about taking the kayak out, but watching actual rollers race along the lake, lines of frantic white horses heading south, charging the rocks... Well it all seemed a bit much. So Team IttH wandered the shores, finding just enough sticks to make little Missy Mischief à happy girl. Though for once the little spaniel didn't fancy a wild wild swim either.