I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills When all at once I saw a crowd A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze
After a brief visit to the village of Hawkshead, to see the Beatrix Potter gallery and to Coniston Water, to see Brantwood, the home of the eminent Victorian artist and critic, John Ruskin, we arrived at Grasmere, one of the smaller lakes, to see Dove Cottage, where the poet William Wordsworth lived with his sister, Dorothy Wordsworth. Dove cottage, covered with climbing roses, honeysuckle and its tiny latticed windows, provided a fascinating insight into the poet's life. Without the dark polished oak of the downstairs interior, the upstairs sitting room was brighter and was the room where Wordsworth wrote his poems.There was a room next to it , which was William's bedroom and also an adjacent guest room which would have been where fellow poets, Samuel Coleridge, Thomas De Quincey and Sir Walter Scott, would have stayed. Next to Dove Cottage was the Wordsworth museum, which happened to have an exhibition entitled 'Wordswoth and Basho: Walking Poets', an interesting exhibit that compared the two poets: For both Basho and Wordsworth, 'man' and nature were intertwined in a great oneness with the earth and with the heavens. In Wordsworth 's writing, there are elements of pantheism; in Basho, Zen. (from Book XIV of The Prelude, an account of an ascent of Mt. Snowdon)The Moon stood naked in the Heavens, at height Immense above my head, and on the shore I found myself of a huge sea of mist, Which, meek and silent, rested at my feet: A hundred hills their dusky backs upheaved All over this still Ocean, and beyond, Far, far beyond, the vapours shot themselves, In headlands, tongues and promontory shapes, Into the Sea, the real Sea, that seemed To dwindle, and give up its majesty, Usurp'd upon as far as sight could reach.
(from Oku no Hosomichi, an account of an ascent of Mt. Gassan)I climbed Mt. Gassan on the eighth ... I walked through mists and clouds, breathing the thin air of high altitudes and stepping on slippery ice and snow, till at last through a gateway of clouds, as it seemed, to the very paths of the sun and the moon, I reached the summit, completely out of breath and nearly froze to death. Presently the sun went down and the moon rose glistening in the sky.
Like Wordsworth, Basho writes of a direct and deep engagement with nature. Though both are 'nature poets', they are also concerned with 'cultured nature', the people they met on the road. They were motivated by a desire for a deeper quality of awareness, in their choice to turn away from the conventional and materialistic expectations of their societies. After Grasmere, we drove back over the stunning Kirkstone pass from Windermere to Ullswater, this road had fabulous views down to the vale below and is known as the highest pass in England. Stopping at a windswept pine tree, I took a few photos of the vale with its drystone walled road and the lake in the distance. At sunset we enjoyed visiting some relations who lived near Pooley Bridge at the other end of Ullswater, and we admired the magnificent view from the house; I was also thrilled to discover the place where my Uncle Julian painted a Lakeland landscape, that hangs in my sitting room. Next morning, we drove up towards Wigton to visit Sir Chris Bonington, one of icons of the Lake District and of the mountaineering world. It was a tremendous honour to meet Sir Christopher, who has climbed the world's highest and most challenging mountains; luckily I had an opportunity to serve him a fine bowl of whisked matcha tea in a tea bowl that I had made. At the age of eighty, he seemed to be in good spirits, a very warm and gentle person. Next on our journey, we headed towards the town of Keswick, passing the high Skiddaw peak and Bassenthwaite Lake, the only one of the lakes that is actually called a lake; the others are meres, tarns or water. We stopped for lunch at Mirehouse, home of the Spedding family; it was a place that notable Victorian poets gathered, including Poet Laureate, Alfred Tennyson and was the place where he wrote 'Morte D'Arthur', about the legend of the Camelot, the sword of Excalibur and the Lady of the Lake.
A moonlight lake - fleecy clouds reflected I dip my quill
Tennyson - his beard, dipped in moonlightShimmering ... though a curtain of rain Buttermere
A tiny pebble - on the cairn higher than Scafell Pike