The Kindness of Strangers

In the last posting, I had just ended my most exhausting day, by knocking on the door of the country house at 11:00 p.m. Surely, someone will take pity, I hoped. A kindly man, Paul (I think), my age, tentatively opened the door, and I told him my tale of woe. All I wanted was for him to call the owners of the inn I was supposed to stay in that night in Rosthwaite, and perhaps if I could arrange for a taxi to pick me up. I even offered to pay Paul if he could get me there. As I suspected, the owner of the Rosthwaite inn, Gillercombe, had gone into alert once I didn't show up at a reasonable hour. The local police and the mountain rescue squad had been told of my absence. (Nothing would have helped, however, given the blanket of fog).

Fortunately, adjacent to the country house was a B&B, the Burnthwaite Farm, owned by Gillian and Andrew Race. Andrew sort of snickered and rolled his eyes when he found that I had been lost all this time. "Happens all the time. You aren't the first, won't be the last," he tried to reassure me. Andrew made sure that the police and mountain rescue squads were called off. Gillian swooped in with tea, ham and cheese sandwiches, and sympathy. I found out that a taxi at that hour was probably impossible, and the trip would take me at least 90 minutes. It might be just 8 miles over the mountains to Rosthwaite, but to get there by roadway meant a circuitous, 90-minute trip. We decided I should just stay at the B&B; it was filled to capacity that night, but Andrew and Gillian were kind enough to offer me a sleeping bag in the television room.

The B&B was filled (all 8 rooms), mostly with a rowdy bunch of farmer-buddies who were driving their antique tractors through the Lake District. They had come to Burnthwaite Farm because Andrew was a friend and had worked with some of them earlier. By 7:00 the next morning, when I was rousted and the room prepared for breakfast, I was still very groggy and exhausted. By 7:30, the breakfast room was boisterous with the farm boys. I marvelled at how I could make out only about half of the things they were saying, even though we all presumably speak the same mother tongue. It must be the Cumbrian brogue.

"So you must be the lad that got lost last night," said Tommy, the most voluble of the bunch. "Come sit with me. We was out all night lookin' for you!" His buddies broke out in laughter. They were out drinking, of course, not looking for hapless Yanks. After downing several pieces of toast, a beaker of tea, and a huge bowl of cereal, Tommy declared to Gillian that he was hungry and wanted a proper English breakfast. Rising to the challenge, Gillian in a few minutes came out with this enormous platter groaning with that most British of gastronomical phenomena, the English breakfast: eggs sunny side up, baked beans, two enormous slices of blood pudding (oh my god), sauteed mushrooms, ham, bangers, stewed tomatoes, two slices of deep fried toast. This was followed by more toast and jams and tea. Tommy polished it off with an efficiency that belies description. We all had our pictures taken at the breakfast table and outside next to the line of tractors. Tommy and his lads helped brighten my day.

It was time to leave the B&B, and my gracious and friendly hosts, Gillian and Andrew, would not take a penny from me. But I do give them my heartfelt gratitude. Paul and his wife generously drove me up to Keswick ("Kessick"); it was the last day of their holiday, they were going home, and Keswick was on their way as well as mine. Again, they would take no money from me. I then took the local bus down to Grasmere, were my luggage was awaiting me for the night. Had a very nice dinner at the Swan Hotel, and in a little swipe of revenge, dined on roasted lamb.

I have been struck many times at the kindness and warmheartedness of the local folks, as well as my fellow hikers, like Peter, and Ted and Terri (from the US) who, upon hearing my tale of woe, were more than willing to walk with me throughout the trip. That was very thoughtful, but I certainly did not want to hold them up: they were experienced, solid walkers, not to be hobbled by rookies.

Well, perhaps I can make lemonade out of lemons. I had decided that my walking days were over: used up at least 8-1/2 of my nine lives the night before, and no sense tempting fate again. The next few days were going to be extremely hilly, but then the walkway flattened out. But no amount of reassurance from locals, fellow hikers, or blog readers was going to change my mind: ladies and gentleman, I have retired, permanently, from mountain climbing, sheep gazing, and nature defying. A walk in the park will be all I'll attempt. So I decided that I'd simply go from the B&B in one destination to the B&B in the next, shuttled by a bus or taxi, and ending up with a nice holiday, albeit without sore feet and dirty clothes. That was my plan, but, alas, it didn't work out that way.

I'll explain in the next posting.