More Grasmere

I've discovered something to enjoy about my holiday here in Grasmere. It's the thought that, in a couple of days, I’ll be home.

Today, Monday, Gabby and her rambling friends deserted me early and I’ve spent the day browsing the village. It’s not half as bad as I expected, though I think the locals can tell that I’m a tourist. I can’t go ten minutes without being asked to buy tins of shortcrust biscuit with William Wordsworth’s head on them. I’ve tried to dress normally in the hope I might be mistaken for somebody who has a right to be here. I hate to think of myself as another burden on local resources.

The whole situation is unbearable. The Lakes deserve to be the home to locals but everywhere I look I see cottages which, I’m told, can go empty for months on end. The rich buy these places, turn them into ghost communities, or virtual towns, where nobody really lives except for short periods during the summer or bank holidays. It's a shame. A person could make a fine home here and never wish to leave.

Not me, though. Did I mention that I hate water and rocks? Uphill isn’t my favourite word and I’m allergic to rambling and waterproofs.


Two more days.