Journey north.
An early solstice dip in Frome, and then, at the end of the day, a beyond-sunset dip in Rydal. Warmer water, in these mountain-fed lakes. That feels strange. Our short little home River still has a bite of cold, around 10C.
Over these few days, I feel drawn to Water often. Water has always framed our times here - my senses longing for the unfettered rush of young Rivers, tumbling down broken rocky gills. This time, there is a stronger desire to be immersed in them.
So we do - Rydal, Grasmere. A climb up Stickle Ghyll in late afternoon heat and a short plunge in Stickle Tarn; then a second dip in the Ghyll itself, a plunge pool in the lower section on the return route. A scramble from Legburthwaite to an infinity pool on Fisherplace Gill; and on the last morning, a pool in the lower section of Rydal Beck. Just a few small moments in a few small spots in a great swathe of Water-ribboned land. There’s a layer of human story in these Norse-influenced names that I love, that make a way into the landscape, but there’s something underneath all of that, that’s much older than our young names and young stories, into deep time.
I have filled three large water bottles with Water from our home Spring at Selsley. One decanted smaller bottle comes with us up on the flanks of Stony Cove Pike. Bog cotton is reflected in the almost motionless pools of dark water gathered in peat cauldrons. I take a little of this water from home and make an offering into this peated pool. A recognition that Water unifies, that these wild glaciated places and the little humble hills near home are kin, our migrations weaving between them. I mean to take a tiny cupful of water home too, but forget.
I can feel my edges in a different way here. River at home is shallow, the bed visible, the water clear and free from flora. The edge there is always the cold. In these lakes, shelving beaches drop into deep, darker waters, and I can feel tendrils of plants brushing my legs. I am unsure of myself. The edge here is the unknown - it’s just there, lapping at my feet. And I’m here with my children, walking that line between protection and letting go - that they know their bodies better than I do, their capabilities better than I do, making steps into the water on their own, finding their own level, encountering the wild in their own way. I am surprised by the comparative warmth of Water here; by being at duck level in the lakes - their easy movement; by the peaty redness - Water carrying Earth so visibly. It is good, moving, humbling, being circled by these big hills. They are familiar and have a sense of homecoming, but they are also not to be messed with; I am just playing on their shore, in the shallows - but they feel dangerous too. We are here in the first window of summer the Lakes have seen this year, in a climate where rain is frequent, and increasingly torrential.
I feel a gratitude for my body being able to receive the pulsing and holding of these Waters; grateful too for the possibility of movement, of scrambling and walking - with pauses - just over a year ago I could barely walk fifty metres on the flat. We walk in different configurations - Stony Cove Pike with our daughter, Stickle Ghyll with our sons, Grasmere all five of us. There is something in each journey that seems to release us into a state of greater ease. The walking is sometimes tricky, the views hard won, but the rhythm of body on land seems to recalibrate us from living indoors, plugged in - conversation unblocks. And everywhere is the unfolding of awe and wonder.