Keswick.

Originally written August 19th

One thing I discovered on my way to Keswick is that I'm a horrible liar. I don't have a story prepared, so if anyone asks me where I'm from, where I'm going, or what I'm doing, I automatically tell them the truth. In an age where my full name (or maybe even just first), the name of the scholarship, and the name of the country it's in is probably enough to find me in a Google search, I need to be more careful what information I give out.

This was driven home to me when I was killing a half hour waiting for a bus by exploring the ruins of a castle in Penrith. While I was sitting on a ruined wall, marvelling at the effects of the passage of time, two guys approached me, clearly foreigners. One asked to take a picture with me, and when, bemused, I assented, he sat right next to me, put his arm around me, and grinned at his friend with the camera. After the third or fourth picture, I was starting to get freaked out, and that was before he asked if I was married or had a boyfriend, and if not, if he could be my boyfriend.

I gave him my best, "Nice try but leave me alone" look, smiled tolerantly, and in my head started thinking unpleasant things like Soft spots: eyes, nose, throat, groin and How quickly can I get my walking stick unbuckled from my backpack? This was all totally unnecessary, as soon enough he got the message and backed off, although he and his friend stuck around to chat with me, inquiring repeatedly where I was going and where I was staying. I was as vague as I could be, but I simply can't come up with convincing lies under pressure.

(I should note that it was still late afternoon and we were within easy view and earshot of a major, busy road and bus stop, so at no point was I really in danger, just a bit weirded out.)

So. I've decided that I'm a university student from Canada (around the Vancouver area) named Jennifer Cumberbatch (after this guy). I'm heading from Edinburgh south towards London, and I'm going to be studying for a year in Austria. The details are sufficiently similar to the truth for me to recover easily if I slip up, and could be faked easily.

Of course, this is only the story for people that make me uncomfortable, like my two over-inquisitive new friends from Bangladesh. Oh, I forgot to mention that they invited me to go to Bangladesh, and as I made good my escape back to the bus stop, they asked for my e-mail or Facebook. I almost laughed out loud but got away without giving them, hopefully, enough information to find me.

Anyway. Penrith's only significance to me is that it's the nearest train station to Keswick, my next destination. The bus ride to Keswick was simply astounding: this is the first time I've seen anything in Britain that could be even remotely considered a mountain. Of course, in contrast to the Swiss Alps, they're basically greenish-brown, slightly pathetic foothills. But we're not in the Alps anymore, and everything has to be taken in conext; here, they're peaks, looming with a majestic, ancient, dignified air over the rolling, sheep-dotted countryside and placid lakes below. The Alps are the sort of mountains that you'd go bungee jumping with. The peaks here you'd be much more likely to invite round for tea and cakes.

In a variation on the FDR (First Day Rule, remember), I arrived around sunset and set off on a quest to find the lake. I was, after all, in the Lake District, and Derwentwater, by which Keswick nestles, is supposed to be one of the most beautiful. But I could not, for the life of me, locate it, and had to ask several people before I was pointed in the right direction. As it turns out, Keswick (pronounced KEZ-ick, by the way) sits back from the lake's edge, separated from the water by a sheep-covered hill known as Hope Park. I arrived on the hill, picking my way through a minefield of droppings and cooing soothingly at the wild-eyed sheep, just as the sun set. The lake spread out before me, flanked by those graceful green peaks, as pale gold and salmon pink light melted all over the purple-grey clouds.

I wended my way down to the shore, where the wavelets lapped and splashed calmly on the gravel, and struck up a conversation with a mother sitting on the beach as her two teenagers and their father threw rocks into the water. What began as a laugh about accidentally getting hit by a badly aimed pebble somehow turned into a wonderful conversation that only ended when darkness was falling and I realized that I hadn't eaten dinner yet. I walked back into town with this lovely family, said farewell, and ate fish and chips in the town square before trundling back to the hostel to bed.

This hostel, by the way, is the jankiest I've stayed in yet. (I'm not actually sure that "janky" is a word in common use yet. Sketchy? Spartan? Something like that.) I was given no key, and led through a warren of a long hallway to a small room filled with bunks in the back. The whole place was eerily silent, and remained so through my entire stay. Despite the slight creepiness, the place was actually very comfortable. They even had free tea and coffee out all the time, which I made good use off. I'm quickly becoming a tea addict--given the choice between tea and coffee in a coffee shop, I'll take coffee, because they know how to make it properly. But when it's tea or the powdered sand they call "instant coffee", it's tea all the way. Tea is nice.

I woke up the next morning to rain on the corrugated plastic skylights. (And you think I'm kidding...) I got a trail recommendation from the info center, a picnic from the supermarket, and then I set off into the hills. And let me tell you: anyone who claims that England is danky, dreary, and dull has clearly never been in Keswick on a sunny day. The path climbed up past babbling brooks and baleful-eyed sheep to a lookout atop a crag. From there, the azure Derwentwater, sporting tree-covered islands like emerald jewelry, spread out at my feet; to the right, crowned by a rainbow, the grey and white houses of Keswick sat swathed in rich green. Ahead, a valley led to another lake in the distance, while on all other sides rose green-brown slopes, like sentinels bathed in sunlight. I was reluctant to leave, but the wind was quite strong, and eventually my cold fingers convinced me to move again.

I continued along the top of the hills through vast patches of pale purple heather to Ashness Bridge, a cute little stone bridge over another sparkling stream, and from there down to the lakeside. I took my time on the walk back to Keswick, stopping to enjoy the view and admire the sunlight sparkling off the waves. By the time I returned to town, it was after 6pm. Now I'd promised myself afternoon tea when I got back, but at this hour, all the tea houses and cafes were closed. Hungry, tired, and with a headache coming on, I did the only sensible thing: went back to the supermarket and bought everything I needed to make afternoon tea in my hostel. And that's what I had for dinner. I made myself go to bed early, because I knew the next day--today--would be a big one.

And it is. Why? Because I'm going to Edinburgh. I've been thinking and talking about Edinburgh for, oh, almost the entire trip, and just about everyone I've mentioned it to has nothing but good things to say. I have a week booked there, but I'm not sure I'll stay the whole time; it depends on whether I'm enjoying the Fringe Festival, how much of the city I want to see, and how much time I want to spend in Ireland. Because as much as I try to ignore it, each day brings me closer to the moment that I'll have to leave the Sceptered Isle and return to Germany.

But enough of that. For the moment, I'm on my way to Edinburgh, the sun is (intermittently) shining, and all is well.