A Grey Day at Glenridding, Ullswater

Glenridding village February 2016

I nearly added to the waters that have recently flooded the village of Glenridding when I visited there last Saturday.  I had to fight back the tears for it is a place I have spent innumerable happy days camping and walking across the fells over the past 25 years.  I now live only a few miles away and it was my first visit of the New Year, having last been there at the end of November before the series of storms that have inflicted so much devastation on this beautiful place.  Despite seeing the pictures of the television, I wasn’t prepared for the sight that greeted me and this, after the initial clean-up operations have taken place.

The weather was in keeping with the scene in the village and with my feelings. The beck, noisy and agitated, rushed past the houses and shops and boarded-up Tourist Information Centre. Grey clouds clung to the tops of the fells and emptied themselves into the lake, further swelling its waters. So many of my memories of Ullswater are of a tranquil lake, often mirror-like, reflecting the surrounding fells on its surface.
True, I have also seen it during previous winters in wind and rain, but I have never before seen it in this angry, gloomy mood.  It had grown in depth and width following the series of storms and rain and its waters seemed to be lapping menacingly at the edges and perimeters of everything – lake shore, fields, boat houses, road.  Steel-grey seemed to be the colour that pervaded everywhere; skies, water, road, soaked slate walls and buildings, steel barriers, heaps of stone and rubble, bedraggled trees. 

Memories of happy times flooded my mind – days spent around the village, in and out of the shops, sitting on the wall beside the beck, walking along the path out to the campsite, to Lanty’s Tarn or to begin the climb up to ‘the hole in the wall’ and onto Striding Edge.  I saw those summer evenings again, walking to the pub after conquering Helvellyn, Place Fell, Catstycam, Sheffield Pike, St Sunday Crag, to name but a few, eager for a cold lager and a good meal.  I saw the days spent walking along the path beside the lake and taking my boots and socks off to have my feet refreshed by the cold waters.  The place has soaked into me over the years and on Saturday, it felt as though I was witnessing a calamity that had befallen an old, dear friend. 

Glenridding from nearby fells in sunnier days

It will take a while to rebuild and re-gain strength but in the meantime, I wish it well and will visit regularly.  It will recover again, open all its doors, brim with life, sparkle like the  little gem of a village that it is, nestled among the fells near the shores of lovely Ullswater.  

Ullswater taken looking towards Glenridding end of the lake

 

Water, water, everywhere

The recent floods here in the north of England have reminded me of the immense power of nature, and that the belief we are in control is merely an illusion that can be shattered all too suddenly.  To stand and watch the waters rising over bridges, submerging roads and fields while man and animal seek out dry land and shelter is both frightening and humbling.  

For several days over the Christmas holiday, I and many other people were drawn to the waters edge, then to stand awe-struck at the expanse in front us.  The river, so gentle-flowing on a summer's day, its murmur whispering an invitation to sit on its peaceful banks and watch the sunlight glistening in its water, was now, a deep menacing sea moving over the fields devouring all in its path, pushing trees, gates, everything out of its way.

Turkey, presents, and sales were all forgotten as people stood on the road with water lapping at the tips of their wellingtons, looking helplessly at the abandoned cars filled with water.  Standing on higher ground with five or six other people, the only sound was the wind in the trees and the now constant noise of gushing water, running to meet its tributaries, swelling its ranks like an army advancing in power as it progressed.  Indoors, those of us mercifully escaping the trauma of having our houses flooded, listened to the strains of 'The Sound of Music' while outside, even from the garden gate, the river's chorus resonated across the landscape.

For several days, I was struck by the absence of man's noise - the sound of traffic, machinery, human voices, people going about their work and lives.  But it was not total silence, for the wind blew, gale-force, making the trees creak and snap their branches, gates rattled and there was the now constant background noise of the raging river.  Nature's voice rang out across the fields and hills, powerful, dominant, in control while man fell silent, subdued.  People waited, hoped, feared, helped each other, did what they could, powerless against these natural forces.  This was what our fore-fathers experienced, understood, respected. 

"For the most appalling quality of water is its strength.  I love its flash and gleam, its music, its pliancy and grace, its slap against my body; but I fear its strength.  I fear it as my ancient ancestors feared the natural forces that they worshipped.  All the mysteries are in its movement.  It slips out of holes in the earth like the ancient snake.  I have seen its birth; and the more I gaze at that sure and unremitting surge of water at the very top of the mountain, the more I am baffled.  We make it all so easy, any child in school can understand it – water rises in the hills, it flows and finds its own level, and man can’t live without it.  But I don’t understand it.  I cannot fathom its power."

(Nan Shepherd)