When the family decided that a change of holiday venue was in order and we'd book a cottage in Cumbria instead of the South West, I must confess to touch of disappointment. My health hasn't been great over the past two years so there was little chance of me climbing from Wast Water to Scafell Pike via Mickeldore as we had ten years earlier. If it nearly killed me then, Lingmell Gill would be certain of a victim if I tried it now! The gentler Tors of Dartmoor and Devons rolling wooded hills are test enough for me now. But here we were, freshly arrived at a remote cottage in a small gulley below Kings Meaburn. We were in the Valley of Eden, close to Penrith. As soon as we disembarked to explore our new home for the week, I knew that I was going to enjoy this. Well Tree Cottage was possibly the best equipped cottage we have ever rented for a holiday. All mod-cons, a walled garden to dissuade renegade cockers and lurchers from escaping across the Cumbrian countryside and within an hour we had discovered Well Tree's most superb asset. It had no wi-fi and no phone signal! We were cut off! Initial panic about losing all my Facebook friends and Google plussers receded when I realised that it also meant no-one from work could contact me .. unless by carrier pigeon. Superb!
Well Tree lies next to a ford over the River Lyvennet so having unpacked, we all set off to explore the fly-fishing beats which came free with the temporary tenancy. Personally, I find fishing as about exciting as watching the National Lottery draw. There seems a lot of investment for little return. So while the father-in-law pointed out eddies and pools and trout lay-ups, I was looking for otter sign, heronries etc. My role for the week would be chief photographer and scribe, which everyone knew should keep me out of trouble. She Who Must Be Obeyed had already implemented the obligatory 'arms embargo' so was now worrying how an air-gun ban and a Facebook drought might effect my mental health. Back at the cottage, after our first evenings supper, I sat out on the cottages paved patio, turned off the lights, listened to a tawny owl and studied the most three dimensional sky I have been privileged to witness in many years. With absolutely no light pollution, I could see the edge of the universe from here (helped, undoubtedly by some generous portions of a particularly tasty complimentary Cabernet left by the cottages owners).That night I lay in bed with the windows open and drifted off to sleep in the blackest place on Earth, soothed by the lullaby of the river bubbling over the rocks below the ford. Heaven .. though it could be hell for an incontinent!
Now one thing I was hell bent on achieving while in Cumbria was to photograph wild red squirrels for the first time. By 'wild', I don't mean vicious red squirrels .. I mean reds that haven't been spoon fed peanuts by tourists. I guessed that it may be a challenge. No sooner had we cleared up after the bacon butties next morning when I noticed what looked like a tiny fox clambering among the leaves on the beech overlooking the patio. As I got busy with the Nikon, there was much debate about 'was it red or was it grey'? It was actually me who was playing the cynic here, having shot hundreds and hundreds of greys back in Norfolk. Grey squirrel youngsters are often streaked with rufus fur. This little beauty was as red as Reynard so while I was sure it was a red squirrel, the ears had totally thrown me? I had been expecting those 'elf-like' ears, longer and more pointed than a greys. Perhaps the ears develop with age? I needed to find out but, needless to say, I was thrilled to get some cracking pics on the first morning of a red feeding on ripening cob nuts.
A little later we were driving to Penrith when Derrick (my Father-in law) and I spotted an interesting looking roadkill at the side of a lane. "Was that what I think it was?" I asked. "Mink, I think!" he answered. "Or was it a black squirrel?" We were still debating it two miles along and decided to double back and take a look. The women-folk sat in the car looking embarrassed as I took pics of the expired mammal on my iPhone while fellow tourists overtook us. I was relieved that it was a mink. I don't think I could have handled the excitement of my first red and my first black in one day! Having survived an expedition around John Norris without opening my wallet, I sat later baiting mice with peanuts on the patio and stealing their souls with my DSLR. Busy little chaps, mice! I'm like a child again when I get a new habitat to explore so spent my idle moments lifting stones and poking around in crevices in the gardens stone walls looking for bugs and beasties.
The cottage sits under a rocky bluff known as Jackdaw Scar, whose naming became apparent when the large colony of jakes nesting on its ledges busied back and forth. The random 'chakking' of the residents added some character to an otherwise noiseless valley. I was mildly amused one morning when I decided to explore the wood on the far bank before anyone else had risen. Next to the gate was the sign below, put up by the Penrith & District Red Squirrel Group. Jerry (and his partner Sarah) are Facebook Friends of mine. So even without wi-fi, there was a link! Over the rest of the week I saw a number of similar signs as well as many road signs asking drivers to take care and watch out for our native 'sciurus vulgaris'.
Despite the resident wildlife, I was struck by the dearth of rabbits around us and also the lack of buzzards. I used to thrill at watching buzzards soar in the valleys up here while in Norfolk they were few and far between. Now the tables seem to have turned. Is it because East Anglia harbours so many rabbits? Perhaps. By far the most conspicuous in its absence was the grey squirrel. I didn't see one during the whole week. A credit, surely, to the work of the Red Squirrel Rangers.
Of course, our trip isn't entirely about me watching wildlife. We're walking too and if this trip is proving to me that the fountain of youth is now reducing to a trickle, it has definitely proved hard for Dylan .. our ten year old lurcher. The old boy is creaking like an old door after jaunts up Cunswick Scar and Loughrigg Fell. The Lakeland paths are rarely dog-friendly and where years ago he leapt the walls or scrambled over the ladder stiles, we now find ourselves lifting him over. Yet, as is the way of hounds, he won't let himself be left behind.
So .. if you are reading this today it is because I've surfaced somewhere among the great unwashed to release my blog into that vast ocean that is the Internet before sinking again back into the Garden of Eden for a few final days of peace and quiet. The 2lb trout which I have named the Brown Pimpernel hangs in the swim below the footbridge, refusing every fly in the box and driving Derrick insane. My camera shutter clicks relentlessly, recording titmouse and house-mouse and red and nuthatch. Charlie the Cocker lives in the eternal hope that we'll leave the gate open. Dylan just lies in the shade with one eye open, hoping never to see a hill again and dreaming of his Norfolk. Soon, Old Boy. Very soon.
Copyright Ian Barnett September 2013
