Nothing Gold Can Stay: The End of Eden?

By Brian Bull

In a future dystopian version of the Lake District, now an exclusive reserve for the rich and elite, two young friends battle to save their favourite beauty spot. Is this the end of their Lakeland dreams?

Although written as a fast-moving and exciting adventure, the story highlights the fragility of the Lakeland environment and community a

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brian Bull
• Release date: Oct 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9781913898199

Brian Bull

Dr. Brian Bull is a retired linguist, living in Ulverston for the past 25 years, and an active member of the ministry team at Ulverston Parish Church.

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Nothing Gold can stay

THE END OF EDEN?

Brian Bull

Published in 2021 by Brian Bull

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© Copyright Brian Bull

Also available in paperback

Cover and Book interior Design by Russell Holden

www.pixeltweakspublications.com

Cover illustration: Catherine Saunders

This novel’s story and characters are fictitious. Certain long-standing institutions, agencies, and public offices are mentioned, but the characters involved are wholly imaginary.

All rights reserved without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

Dedication

Dedicated to my beloved wife, Celia (1946 – 2018)

In memory of many happy days, together with our children and grandchildren, spent enjoying the beauty and grandeur of our favourite Lake District beauty spots.

Thanks especially to my daughter Rachel who critiqued my rough early drafts, to cousin Philippa, who provided invaluable feedback, to cousin Pam in Hermanus, South Africa, who responded in her own inimitable literary style:

A strange thing happened to me yesterday afternoon – I was reading your novel and became so absorbed in it, that when I had finished and I came back to Hermanus, it was dark outside, there were no lights on in the house and I hadn’t had any supper! You had succeeded in transporting me to a world that is utterly foreign to me – the cyberworld – but also to a world that is very real to me – that of relationships…

… and thanks to my son Marcus for these words of encouragement:

I’ve downloaded all sorts on my Kindle, and I’ve read a lot worse!

Nothing gold can stay

Nature’s first green is gold,

Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf’s a flower;

But only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day.

Nothing gold can stay.

Robert Frost

WASTWATER

At last, to the relief of local residents and visitors alike, the relentless heat had finally subsided.

It had been the third hottest summer of the past fifty years. Almost zero rainfall, water restrictions, empty reservoirs, dry, parched fells and farmland, and local hospitals overwhelmed with cases of heat exhaustion and third-degree sunburn. The first autumn storm, the remnant of cyclone Johan which had left the usual trail of destruction up the eastern seaboard of the USA (what was left of it!) had brought some much-needed relief, resulting in a dramatic greening of the Lakeland scenery and pervading the air with the longed-for smell of damp earth. Late summer and early autumn rolled into one. The fells and woods had barely recovered from the summer drought and leaves were already tinged with amber and bronze.

The eastern tourist route from Kendal through Windermere and Ambleside would be packed to capacity, but here in the western Lakes it was always considerably quieter. There was no easy route from Ambleside or Keswick across the high fells, though a few very adventurous (though not always well-equipped) tourists did brave the demanding hike from Borrowdale across Great Gable to Wasdale, via Scarth Crag and Black Sail. Many of them arrived at Wasdale Head exhausted and sorely blistered and realised with some dread that they faced the prospect of hiking back again. The alternative was to continue (by foot or Mountain Goat) down to the coast and return the long way round.

Our two friends met in the centre of Gosforth outside the Black Swan as arranged. Both were in their early twenties, trim, athletic, and keen cyclists. Jess had a pleasantly oval face with blue eyes, freckles and long fair hair which was tied back into a ponytail. Leila was slightly shorter than Jess, and her physique revealed her father’s Egyptian Coptic heritage: olive skin, prominent facial bone structure, dark brown eyes and black curly hair (which was mostly obscured under her cycle helmet).

They set off south on the main West Coast road towards the village of Holmrook. Jess delivered a sympathy card and a parcel of Grasmere gingerbread that her Mum had sent for a friend recovering from the latest mutant strain of Coronavirus. They stopped beside the river Irt, at the point where the road to Drigg branched off towards the coast and the hyperloop portal.

Jess and Leila parked their mountain bikes against the railings and stood gazing across the river that surged for a short distance beside the main road. The river had almost dried up during the hot summer, but after the recent heavy rains it flowed freely again. A group of Japanese tourists were admiring the quaint whitewashed cottages on the opposite side of the road. A National Park tour buddy drone hovered overhead providing historical and cultural commentary in Japanese, as well as keeping them to their planned tour schedule.

Although the dwellings had been completely refitted inside, Holmrook’s outward appearance had been kept just as it was in the early 21st century. One property at the end of the terrace served as a show house, for visitors to gape incredulously at the inefficient, fossil-fuel dependent utilities and long-outdated décor. The other cottages nowadays served as accommodation for National Park employees.

After a few minutes break, the two friends continued south as far as Gubbergill, where they turned inland towards Santon Bridge.

A short distance beyond the small group of farm complexes to the east of the main road was the checkpoint that marked the beginning of National Park traffic restrictions.

Jordan Fell was on traffic duty that day, and greeted them with a cheery, Hello Jess, Leila. Heading up to Wastwater?

How did you guess!?

Jordan Fell was a rugged, outdoor-loving character whose face was tanned and weathered by spending most of his life in the open air. He was a close neighbour in Gosforth, and Leila had been an item, though briefly, with Jordan’s son Rob, attracted by his good looks and their shared interest in computer coding and Artificial Intelligence.

Have a great day. Make the most of the fine weather!

Jordan had been a National Park ranger for seven years. He enjoyed his job immensely, although traffic duty wasn’t his favourite shift. At least he only rotated into traffic for one week each month.

Strict regulations were in force throughout the National Park. Apart from the West Coast route and the main access road from Kendal through Windermere, Ambleside and up to Keswick, all other roads and by-ways within the National Park were kept traffic free between dawn and dusk, except for the Mountain Goat minibus services that ferried passengers and delivered post and small packages on a regular timetable. The Mountain Goats were deliberately modelled on their early 21st century predecessors, though now hydrogen driven and pollution free. For the most part, climbers, fell-runners, backpackers and cyclists had the Park to themselves during daylight hours.

* * *

Jordan’s role when on traffic duty was mostly to ensure that no motorised vehicles (apart from the Mountain Goat services and emergency vehicles) entered National Park territory without proper authorisation. His days on traffic were mostly pretty tedious, but this particular day could not be called uneventful.

Jordan was taking a brief coffee break about 11am when a National Park patrol bike approached his checkpoint, followed by two blacked-out limos. The security officer stopped and pulled out a sheaf of documentation for Jordan to see. Jordan looked suspiciously at the paperwork.

I should have been notified in advance about this, Jordan insisted.

Sorry, I didn’t get any warning either. Visit was arranged at the highest level. Check the signatory!

Jordan turned to look at the authorised signature on the final page and was impressed. Whoever these guys were they must be very highly placed. Or very rich. Probably both. To be sure he messaged his office and got a curt response to Just let them through for heaven’s sake!

Jordan waved the convoy through and stood watching them as they headed up Kirkland Road towards Santon Bridge.

He was still turning these events over when a rather outdated silver-grey Tesla XL approached the checkpoint.

Sorry, sir. No motorised entry into the Park during daylight hours. Not before 6 o’clock.

But this is important. I have some land deals to tie up, and I have to conclude negotiations today.

Not before six I’m afraid. If you attempt to drive beyond this point I have the authority to detain you and impound your vehicle… You won’t get past the barrier anyway. It’ll deactivate your electronics.

Damn rules and regulations!

Sorry, but the regulations are there for a good reason. You’re welcome to complain to the Park authorities, I’m just doing my job.

Reluctantly the driver backed up, made a U-turn in front of a farm entrance and headed back onto the West Coast route.

* * *

Kirklands is a long straight road that rises steadily, at first between hedged fields, and then through ancient deciduous woodland – now tinged with fabulous autumn colours – where it curves left and winds up to Santon Bridge. Leila and Jess paused for a rest opposite the entrance to the Bridge Hotel. A Mountain Goat minibus dropped off a couple of passengers before turning up towards Wastwater and Wasdale Head.

How’s your training going for the Windermere Triathlon? Jess asked her friend.

Not too badly, replied Leila. But swimming is still my weak point. I really need to practice regularly in Windermere but it’s such a drag to get there. Wastwater is just too cold! During the summer I’ve managed the Windermere swim once every two weeks, but I don’t think that’s going to continue during the winter.

But your running and cycling are really strong.

Not enough to make up the time I lose in the swim, said Leila. I’ll try to get in as much training as possible next year, once the weather settles down after the winter hurricane season. I’m thinking about enrolling for the Ullswater triathlon next July. It will give me a goal to aim for. Why don’t you join me on some of my training runs? It would be good for you.

I think I’d slow you down too much. I’ve got the stamina for long distance running and cycling, but I’m not built for speed.

You could do it, I’m sure. You just need a bit more self-belief.

Well, perhaps I’ll think about it. Let’s carry on to Wastwater. I’m getting peckish.

OK, let’s go then. I’d challenge you to a race, but we might end up mowing down too many pedestrians on the way!

* * *

When the girls reached the bottom of the lake, there was hardly a breath of wind. The surface was like a mirror, with the scree slopes on the far side reflected clear and still. If you looked carefully, through the reflected image of the screes you could see the smooth pebbles of the lake bottom, up to the point where the floor dropped steeply into the depths.

There were several other visitors admiring the view, walkers of all ages, including one couple in period costume -- anoraks, bobble hats and walking boots -- who must be at least in their 70s, though still looking extremely fit.

Jess and Leila found a quiet spot where they could sit and admire the prospect up the lake towards Great Gable, which dominated the skyline towards the east. They both considered this one of the best views anywhere in the Lake District… and only a few miles away from home! How much better could it get? They pulled their lunches from their backpacks and ate in silence, absorbing the amazing scenery that stretched out in front of them. Jess’s lunch pack consisted of carefully constructed sandwiches made of wholemeal bread, hummus, salad leaves and slices of avocado, with a dash of ground chile flakes. Leila, typically, had thrown a handful of ingredients into her backpack at the last moment and was picking through what looked like a deconstructed ploughman’s, including a large slice of local Lakeland Blue. Jess, like the majority of her contemporaries, was religiously vegan. But since the local farmers did maintain small sheep and dairy herds, both for the tourist interest and to preserve the local breeds for posterity, dairy products were available for the less squeamish. Leila’s father Sammy had a hankering for Egyptian Rumi, though he depended on his relatives in Manchester to track it down for him.

A small shoal of fish swam in the shallows before them. A kestrel was hovering above the lower slopes at the western end of