Lake District

It is the stuff of poetry - striding across windy moors, over purple heather and scrub, climbing scree slopes and finally coming out above a vast, moody lake, the view of which inspired Wordsworth, Keats, and... some other dudes.

Unfortunately, it all remained in the poetry. It rained, horribly, and the only views we got were of mist-shrouded valleys which Andy swore had lakes in them. We tried to get out to do some striding, but were blown directly back in to the car before we had even properly made it out of the car park. We huddled in the car to eat our picnic, then resigned ourselves to driving the lakes rather than walking them.

In the Battle of Peugot vs. Road, Road won.

Luckily, Cockermouth (the little town we were staying in) has almost as many pubs as people, and two breweries, so time spent indoors was by no means wasted. I have now been indoctrinated in the ways of the British warm flat beer, which they call ale. I kind of like it. It isn't the kind of thing you'd drink at home, of course, but in an old pub with blackened beams and a fireplace, while the wind howls outside and rain lashes against the window panes (and this is in summer!), you just can't drink cold beer - it is too cold!

I'm back in London now, and going to try to see as much as I can before I go to Cardiff for a bit of Welsh next week. Twenty-eight days until I'm home!