OF FELLS AND VALLEYS
THE AIR SMELLED different than in London, sweetened by the armies of pine gathered on the hillside. I tightened my scarf as the last of the evening sun fired the skies, and watched the clouds’ underbellies turn peach. The famous fells of Cumbria, the county in northwestern England, tapered towards the horizon. At their base, Lake Windermere shifted quietly, its surface like molten lava in the autumn light. Thirty years ago, I had sailed here, a badly behaved eight-year-old throwing Kendal Mint Cake to the swans. As a barn owl shrieked in the treetops, I wondered why I had taken so long to return.
Three and a half hours by train from London, is known for having some of England’s most beautiful walking and cycling routes. In summer, the air is warm with honeysuckle, the vales flushed with green. With one of the country’s lowest levels of light pollution, the park is perfect for stargazing.
