Clarissa et al.

Many years ago I collected a folk song. Of course, as I was only about five at the time I had no idea that was what I was doing when we sang it in the playground. None of us realised that those playground songs were all an important part of our heritage - they were just a part of our games, more inclusive, but less fun than pretend games of families, schools, hospitals or princes and princesses. Most of the songs we sung then were variations on the usual playground games - Nuts in May, The Big Ship Sailed, Wallflowers, In and Out the Dusty Bluebells etc., but I Love a Fisherman has I believe a very special place being an original Cleethorpes folksong. Years later I needed a folksong to sing in a festival so I dusted it off and gammoned more musical friends into helping me transcribe the music to hand to the adjudicator - no need of an accompanist's copy as it was to be sung unaccompanied. (For the record, by the way, I came third - the competitition being for singing rather than originality of choice.)

Anyway, here it is:-

I love a fisherman, a bonny, blue-eyed fisherman;
I love a fisherman, and that fisherman loves me.

And ev'ry Monday mo-orning he brings home for me
Some fresh and flapping fish, fish, fish;
fresh and flapping fish, fish, fish.
He brings it home for me.
So-o .
I love a fisherman, a bonny, blue-eyed fisherman;
I love a fisherman, and that fisherman loves me.

And ev'ry Tuesday mo-orning he brings home for me
Some sweet and tasty fish, fish, fish;
sweet and tasty fish, fish, fish.
He brings it home for me.
So-o
I love a fisherman, a bonny, blue-eyed fisherman;
I love a fisherman, and that fisherman loves me.

And ev'ry Wednesday mo-orning he brings home for me
Some white and flaky fish, fish, fish;
white and flaky fish, fish, fish.
He brings it home for me.
So-o
I love a fisherman, a bonny, blue-eyed fisherman;
I love a fisherman, and that fisherman loves me.

And ev'ry Thursday mo-orning he brings home for me
Some more of that damned fish, fish, fish.
more of that damned fish, fish, fish.
He brings it home for me
So-o
I love a fisherman, a bonny, blue-eyed fisherman;
I love a fisherman, and that fisherman loves me.

And ev'ry Friday mo-orning he brings home for me
Some day of penance fish, fish, fish;
day of penance fish, fish, fish
He brings it home for me
So-o
I love a fisherman, a bonny, blue-eyed fisherman;
I love a fisherman, and that fisherman loves me.

And ev'ry Sat'day mo-orning he brings home for me
He brings it home for me
rotten, stinking fish, fish, fish.
Some rotten, stinking fish, fish, fish;
So-o
I love the butcherman man, the bonny, brown-eyed butcherman;
I love the butcherman, and that butcherman loves me.

And ev'ry Sunday mo-orning he brings round for me
Some red and juicy meat, meat, meat;
red and juicy meat, meat, meat.
He brings it round for me
Bu-ut
I love my fisherman, a bonny, blue-eyed fisherman;
I love a fisherman, and that fisherman's wed me.

On Saturday we had an evening of Lincolnshire folk music in the village hall together with a meal of Lincolnshire food - chine, haselet, pork pie, sausage, plum loaf, poacher cheese - and very nice it all was. The entertainer (a young man who is a professional morrisman among his other folk credentials) sang and danced for us with a running commentary of how he came by the various songs (to which, at the interval, I was able to add a copy of the above).

I am, however, always a bit suspicious of the authenticity of some collected folksongs. Picture, if you will, the scene when Bert and Sid meet outside the White Hart inn in Mudby-cum-Woldthorpe somewhere in rural Lincolnshire around the year 1900.

"Now then, Bert, 'ave you 'eard about yon London chap offering 'alf-a-crown for any song what 'e' en't 'eard afore?"

"'Alf-a-crown, Sid! That's a mort o' drinking money! You know any songs, boy?"

"Not now, Bert, but I reckon by the time 'e gets to the White 'Art you n me'll know plenty, eh, boy?"

"Ay that we will, Sid. That we will."

The two old men chuckle and go into the pub.

You see, I know the difficulties with even an authentic folksong. I was five when I sang I Love a Fisherman in the playground. I remember the tune, but I also know that as a singer I was pretty well tuneless until I was pushing nine, so how accurate is my memory? A tune which moreover went from my singing, though Ruth's notation to her father's transcription into a more conventional musical form. As for the words, I remember that the fish progressed through the week from "fresh and flapping" to "rotten, stinking" and some of the descriptions in between, but all six sets of epithets in the right order? No. So when I wrote it down I augmented what I remembered with what seemed to fit. Would, for example, anyone in Methodist Cleethorpes ever have come up with the concept of "day of penance fish" for Friday? (Though, if the song was more wide spread such an idea would certainly be current nine miles up the coast in Catholic Immingham around 1900 or earlier.)

Interestingly, talking at the end of the evening I discovered a fourth person who remembers this particular song. My father has vague memories of it from his childhood, Maureen (Issy'a and Becky's mother remembers it mostly for the frisson of actually singing the phrase 'damn fish', and now Veronica recalls it from the same playground as my father (Bursar Street) though about twenty years later.

PS My feeling was that the evening was slightly marred when the Chairman of the Village Hall Committee stood up to thank the entertainer etc. (reminding me of the large lady at the end of the Morcambe and Wise Show) when it should have been Trish, whose original idea it had been and who had organised it all, who spoke, with the Chairman only getting up at the end to thank Trish for all her hard work. Possibly only a minor breach of etiquette, but irritating for Trish who clearly had her speech planned and was trying hard not to look daggers at the chairman.

For the first time in months I write a proper letter. I don't do letters; I do emails - occasionally long, rambling letter-like emails, but more often a series of postcard-like messages. Normally the only letters that get the full handwriting and stamp treatment are the sympathy variety, but a couple of days ago I felt moved to write a real letter to a friend who isn't very computer savvy - that is a friend whose husband will yell "Email from Lissa - shall I print it out for you?"

I sent it second class on Wednesday, and now there's a postal strike.

C'est la vie!

Last week I worked every day. This week just the one - and I am the only Museum Education Assistant to work at all this week as we had just the one booking. It is usually like this either side of school holidays - even half-term - which I find rather odd. No school bookings in December I understand perfectly - there is much too much going on in school to have someone invading the school hall for half a day at a time, and the parents have enough calls on their money to be asked to fork out for another outing when taking the children to the local pantomime has already cost everyone a small fortume. But why the lull just before half-term?

Anyway, it was a lovely school - a church school in a biggish village where the caring atmosphere practically jumps out at you as you go through the door, and at playtime and lunchtime all the talk in the staffroom was about the children. I was doing the Egyptian workshop which went down very well as always.

On my way home I went shopping at Tesco in Market Rasen which is not my idea of the perfect end to a day, especially as I was coming home to a bit of a mess as we had a powercut last night so the dishwasher hadn't dishwashed and I seemed to have missed a good deal of the wiping down of kitchen surfaces etc. I caught up with what I could before setting out for work and, having added my breakfast things to the load in the machine, had left it washing away. Well, we have now eaten and I have put away most of the shopping, so I'd best empty the dishwasher before putting the supper things in, and wiping down where it shows. What was it someone said about a woman's work? I could be watching the footie, but it's only Fulham so I'm not really bothered.

Less than two months ago I was a stray . . . not any more! This is the way to spend these cold autumn days, not wandering around hoping to chance upon a meal.

Albert, apart from his first three weeks as an unweaned feral kitten, has for all his eleven years lived the life of a pampered pet, knowing that a nutritionally balanced meal will be put on his plate at regular intervals. He has never needed to defend his food from other cats and has tended to eat smallish quantities and return to the plate whenever he feels peckish. For eight years he shared these expectations and customs with Cally, the only gently born cat of my life (i.e. a cat of known, though not pedigree, parentage, born in a house and a pet from birth) who raised him as an aunt or godmother might a much loved nephew or godson.

Now he is sharing his home with two cats who have in their time known the life of a stray, and, despite the fact it is now a good few years since Sid had the good sense to land herself on Liz's doorstep, both have a tendency to eat their fill very fast and to finish up anything Albert has saved for a bon bouche later. Moreover, much to Albert's astonishment, they eat up table scaps - a practice he had previously believed was confined to those lesser creatures the dogs! Cato has filled out considerably in the two months he has been with us - and look at the shine on his coat!

Here they all are eating their dinner together, although Sid likes to keep her distance from the boys.

Most of us who work have signed something about not breaking client confidentiality or bringing our employers into disrepute.

As if we would!

But when it comes down to it, what do these words actually mean?

There are the things that obviously overstep the mark:-

My boss is a f~*$$^@+ b~*$$^@+!!! is clearly a step too far,

And My boss, Bert Bloggs, is a sexist pig and a f~*$$^@+ b~*%$^@+!!! is way over the top and should have been dealt with through the proper channels. (By the way no insult is intended to any real Bert Bloggs.)

but, talking about people at work, at which stage in this progression has the writer gone too far?

There was a bit of an atmosphere at work today.

One of my colleagues was in a filthy mood and there was a bit of an atmosphere at work today.

My line manager was in a filthy mood and there was a bit of an atmosphere at work today.

It must be my line manager's time of month; she was in a filthy mood at work today, and was making life impossible for the rest of us.

It must be Mavis Blogg's time of month; she was in a filthy mood at work today, and was making life impossible for the rest of us.

There are probably some people who would say that writing anything to suggest that all are not permanently happy of the good ship Thingummybobs Ltd. was bringing the business into disrepute. Others would say that making the cause of the atmosphere identifiable was the point where the blogger had gone too far, while some might say that point was only reached with the mention of her name, but I'm willing to bet that no employment contract actually makes it clear so that we are all at the mercy of some individual's interpretation. I have been told a story of one blogger who wrote amusing stories about her work in which she named her colleagues: all of them were cool about this, and most read and enjoyed the blogs. However somebody in the firm's hierarchy took exception to her use of real names and she was sacked, although until then she had no inkling that she had done anything in contravention of the company's rather loosely worded code of conduct.(Again, I stress that Mavis Bloggs, like her husband Bert, is a figment of my imagination - and with him as a husband who wouldn't be stressed?)

And what of the business itself?

Good day at work - lots of new orders. Well, nothing wrong there.

Good day at work - massive new order from Widgets PLC. Maybe not?

Good day at work, I think - massive new order from Widgets PLC, which could be a bit of a problem in view of their outstanding debts to us. Too far.

And then there is protecting the children -

It was 'Bring your child to work day' and we had a delightful pair in. Well that's safe enough, but at what point in the next half dozen observations does the blogger overstep the mark?

It was 'Bring your child to work day' and Sue brought in her delightful pair.

It was 'Bring your child to work day' and Sue brought in Josh and Emma.

It was 'Bring your child to work day' and Sue Clutterbuck brought in Josh and Emma.

It was 'Bring your child to work day' and Sue Clutterbuck brought in Josh (9) and Emma (7).

It was 'Bring your child to work day' and Sue Clutterbuck brought in Josh (9) and Emma (7) - see photo of them operating the Thingummy machine.

It was 'Bring your child to work day' and Sue Clutterbuck brought in Josh (9) and Emma (7) who behaved like a pair of hooligans all day - see photo of them wrecking the Thingummy machine.

So, without ever even reaching the still more murky waters surrounding the rights and duties of the whistle blower, my next question is at what point do such codes of conduct come into conflict with our right to freedom of speech?

Apparently there has been a report, rejected out of hand by the government, which recommends that formal schooling should not begin until children are six years old.

Well, I suppose it depends what you mean my formal schooling, but to me reading came as naturally (and almost as early) as talking. Nobody had to teach me to read - the written word was all around and I read it: I read notices in shop windows, street signs, labels and, of course, books. I was reading at two and fluent by four. And before you think that I am setting myself up as some sort of genius, it was the same for my mother, her brother, my grandmother and a goodly selection of my cousins. I know about my family, but I am sure that there are many children for whom reading was a simple and and natural progression from speech which was acquired long before any formal schooling kicked in.

Because my grandfather was a fish merchant and part of my father's job was to run the market stalls, I went along to 'help' and learned numbers, arithmetic, weights and money just as naturally.

However, back with reading: my sister did not take to it with quite the same alacrity. This is probably my fault - at four and five I was a hard task mistress who undertook to teach my small sister to read and smacked her every time she misread a word. Although she learned to read, she was eight or nine years old before curling up with a novel became the pleasure to her that it had been to me since I was four or five. Now don't let anybody think it is because she is in any way less bright for it was she, not I, who topped the county's lists in her year's 11+ passes (just as Shelagh, one of the family's very early readers, had in her county ten years earlier). So very early reading cannot simply be a matter of intelligence.

I now move to family members who found - and still find - reading a chore. My brother-in-law is dyslexic, and all four of his children have inherited this problem to a lesser or greater extent. Joe went to a prep school which pushed literacy and numeracy, which were taught in formal classes, from the age of three. The school had a simple theory about which children were clever and which were stupid. Joe did not take to reading and writing, ergo he was stupid. By the time my sister moved him to a state school he was scared stiff of making mistakes and to this day will hardly attempt any writing beyond his signature. Josh, five years younger and taught first at a nursery and then at the village school by two wonderful and gifted teachers, is just as dyslexic but has no fear of either failure or the written word, and thus types away on the computer with his crazy spelling which usually comes close enough for the spellcheck or google search to make some sort of sense of it.

So, looking at either end of the natural reading scale from purely a family anecdotal point of view, it seems to me that the government is foolish to reject the idea of delaying formal teaching until children are six years old. Play based learning need not mean keeping children ignorant of numbers and the written word, just making them part of the fun with no literacy and numeracy targets for either the children or their teachers to fulfil.

Today Joe got a letter from the District Council (guardians of the electoral roll and administrators of the rates guaranteed to have every address in the area on file) addresed to "Free Vale Drive" - he actually lives at 3, Vale Drive. Somebody working on a brain by-pass that day?

The school I went to today is having substantial building work done. They are all carrying on nobly against huge background noise and disruption. At the moment there is no staffroom and everyone is having to use the children's lavatories, and sometimes they must circumnavigate the entire site to get from one room to another practically next door in order not to cross the building site. If ever a staff deserved an award for carrying on cheerfully and efficiently under trying circumstances these teachers and their auxilliary staff assuredly do.

Doesn't he look wise and full of dignitas, gravitas etc.? Cato seems to suit him.

The rain was siling down when I got up. I cleared out the grate and relaid the fire as I had done each day of the holiday, Called Joe, Had my shower. Called Joe Laid the breakfast table. Called Joe. Packed everything out of the fridge except the milk and the butter. Called Joe. Stripped my bed and packed the last of my clothes. Called Joe, who at last managed to appear when I informed him that the tea was made and I was about to put his eggs on to boil and his toast to cook. He said that he had been packing his things and stripping his bed, and these things were indeed done by the time I had finished washing up after breakfast.

It was gone ten o'clock (our official leaving time) and still siling when I backed the car to its closest point to the cottage (still at the top of the steps) and told Joe to start carrying the bags up. He did this with a fair amount of grumbling about my being too lazy to do this for myself. Nice cottage, but he was the one who chose it with its difficult access, and I had done everything else, and I was going to do all the driving. My turn to sit back and direct operations - actually not so much of the sitting: I needed to arrange the things in the back of the car or we'd have had heavy bags on top of breakables.

At half-past ten we locked up, took the keys round to Mrs. Barker, said goodbye and promised to be back.

I had chosen an A road route home, through several towns, but no cities and it was very easy. My plan had been to stop at Bolton Abbey for coffee/tea and a walk, but it was still raining so hard that I decided against that. After a while necessity forced me to stop at a garden centre, but the loos were so scruffy and none too clean that I decided that I could live without a cuppa, and thus we drove the whole way home sustained only by Kendal Mint Cake and the remains of a bar of Fairtrade chocolate.

I arrived home to be greeted with the terrible news that father hadn't seen Blackie since the previous evening and that Jacob had seen a dead black cat squashed on the road about a quarter of a mile away.

Five hours later Blackie walked in, hungry, but completely undamaged - which was just as well because I had bought Pa a box of fudge labelled "Thank you for looking after the cat".

Friday, October 2nd

The last day. (Sigh!) Still it is nice to see the cats and the Aged Parent again.

We decided to visit Holker Hall. It was raining intermittently which made a house with lots of rooms to see seem like a good option. It is, moreover, a house which is lived in which bodes well for lighted fires and light rooms with open blinds. And we were not let down, but more of that later . . .

But first we went to Cartmel Priory, which I had visited twenty or so years ago, but to which Joe had never been. Outside we were greeted by this piece of sculpture - it is certainly striking, but the jury is still out as to whether I actually like it or not.

They were in the throes of setting up the flower arrangements for their harvest festival so it was all very busy and active inside - as my mind tells me a church should be, but for wandering round as a tourist and for private prayer I rather selfishly prefer them empty of other humans. It's a magnificent building.

As we were driving through the town Joe spotted an antique shop which he visited while I found a new place to park my car. It turned out to be the sort that sells expensive furniture rather than cheap and cheerful bric-a-brac, but that didn't stop us both falling for a lovely old dresser which was huge, very expensive and already sold. Having parked again it only seemed reasonable to visit the pub next door (open fire, real coffee) for a cup of coffee which included gratis a small piece of cake.

On to Holker where I entirely neglected to take any photographs. This one of Joe and Carolyn in the garden was one I took in May 2004.

This time we spent only a very short time in the garden, which is a shame as it is one of the best tended and best laid out I have ever visited, but I am not so much of a garden lover that I really want to see them in the rain.

[Speaking of rain. I have said before that I am a weather god and if we go by my choice of holiday it doesn't rain. This was my choice of week and if we had gone to either of my choices (Northumberland and the Norfolk Broads) we would have enjoyed a completely rain-free week; Joe's choice of location brought occasional showers and a final day of intermittent rain.]

Inside, the house was its usual spotless and beautifully presented self, where you can walk around unhindered by roped off areas and notices. Joe and I were slightly surprised as we had both remembered ropes in the library, but it seems that these must have been mental barriers put up by an officious and legendary room guide (now thankfully retired) who, so one of the other guides told me, seemed to think she owned the house and made up all sorts of rules. The first time we visited the house my three little nephews were allowed to have a go in the beautiful rocking boat which they loved. On that particular day there were no other small children visiting, and when, after going round all the other rooms upstairs, they returned to the landing to have another go, this particular guide forbade them telling them that it was limited to one turn each despite the fact that the previous lady had said something which clearly indicated that she expected them to come back to it later. It rankles with Joe still though he was 8 then and is now 23. On a subsequent visit Carolyn and I were examining an art book left open on a table - a modern book, not a valuable antique - when this same woman came into the room and practically screamed at us not to touch, though we had been looking at it for some time in clear view of another room guardian. Sadly they have now decided that the rocking boat's unique status makes it too precious to allow small children rides, though they may still go supervised and held on the rocking horse provided they are when standing no taller than the beast itself.

On this occasion, though admission was not included on our HHA tickets, we decided to visit the Lakeland Motor Museum (in its last season at Holker before moving to larger premises elsewhere in the area). My fifteen year old guide to the exhibition was borrowed for the duration of our visit by the lady at the desk who wanted to compare its list to the current completely different exhibition and I had to expend a pound on a new one. While by no means a petrolhead, I do like nice old cars - no surprise that my favourite was a 1950s Jaguar - and I enjoyed remeniscing to Joe and anyone else who would listen (it was the sort of exhibition where you get chatting to strangers) of cars of happy memory. Do you know how many damp infants could be squeezed into a bubble car in the days before seatbelts by one determined mother on the school run on a rainy day? More than you would think, and Mrs. Toole (probably the only mother in the whole school with a car of her very own in 1960) did. Most days of course we all walked the half mile or so. Come to that I can remember my father taking two other adults and four of us children in a two seater Jensen all the way from Cleethorpes to Cambridge (some of the journey at in excess of 100 mph in those pre national speed-limit days) and taking between fifteen and twenty children home in a Morris Oxford after a party. None of this, of course, is to be recommended, but we all survived.

After this we drove back to the cottage for a meal of everything left over in the fridge which turned out to be chicken pieces which I roasted wrapped in bacon with buttered potatoes and fresh asparagus followed by tinned rice pudding - which I bought on impulse as a bogoff, one tin for father and one to take with us - the premiere brand which was OK but nothing like as good as either home-made or school rice pudding of blessed memory. I love rice pudding - any rice pudding, and tapioca, and semolina, and sago, and ground rice and - well you've got the message that I rather like milk puddings.

After that I packed up what it was reasonable to pack ready for the morning and stacked what I could in the back entrance ready to take up to the car. I then tidied everything I could tidy (though that wasn't much as we had been very good and very neat all week) and wiped down every surface in the kitchen. By which time it would have been time to veg out in front of the television if there had been anything to watch. So I had a pot of tea and went to bed. And so did Joe when he had watched Family Guy which is not going to grow on me the way The Simpsons did when - at the behest of my nephews - I watched it properly.

After three busy days at work I can now resume my holiday diary:-

Thursday, October 1st

Joe was still complaining of a bad tum so my first stop was in Bowness to buy Immodium etc. I also called at the bank where a mini statement from the machine told me that a direct debit had gone out of my account putting the last couple of days of my holiday on a tighter budget than I had intended. Still, Joe's indisposition curbed both his own spend, spend, spend policy and his desire for another meal every time I stopped the car. (Could this be the source of the tummy ache and squits? I'm not strong on sympathy with this one.)

We drove on round the north and west of the lake to Sawrey where we went to Hilltop. This is the only place we have visited on every single trip to the Lakes, and personally I feel that I have seen it, but for Joe it is a must see. This year, longer after the film Miss Potter, there were fewer Japanese and other tourists and our timed ticket gave us only a fifteen minute delay after we had parked so we sat in the sun outside the house looking at the garden. Here is the rhubarb patch where Jemima laid her egg (safely away from the clutches of Mr. Tod, but not from the attention of the farmer's wife).

Thence to Hawkshead where Joe didn't want to get out of the car. By this time I had bought my parking ticket so I went off to see the Beatrix Potter Gallery which had a different selection of paintings from those I last saw there (they have an eight year rotation).

An hour later I returned to the car and asked Joe if he wanted a cup of tea, but he didn't so I went back into the first tea shop I saw which turned out to be the wrong choice as the scone was quite the nastiest I have ever tasted - not quite fresh and very heavy on the soda!

By this time the Old Grammar School had re-opened after lunch so I completed my Wordsworthian tour (yes, I know I missed Rydal Mount on this occasion) by visiting his alma mater, the one time 'Eton of the north'. I had a really good time here and a long visit for just a two room property. A really good discussion with the curator about education in Wordsworth's time, in the Tudor period when the school was founded, the grammar schools of our youth etc. and an opportunity to read every label in the exhibition without being chivvied and chided.

I can remember a time when every boy and a good few girls always carried penknives (indeed it was part of a Scout's or Guide's duty of being prepared so to do) and in the more distant past carving graffiti was tolerated rather than condemned. Above is William Wordsworth's name; the curator at Hawkshead Grammar School makes no guarantee that it was actually carved by W.W.'s own hand.

Joe was alseep when I got back to the car, but woke up when I unlocked it. Did he want to go anywhere or see anything? No - just back to the cottage. Well, that may have been what he wanted, but I wasn't going straight back so I took a detour by Wray Castle, the signpost to which I have often seen, but have never followed, and which the Potter family had rented one summer and Beatrix fell in love with Sawrey area. The photo, I am afraid, is terrible as I caught the sun in the lens, but didn't realise at the time and so took no back-up pictures.

Back to the cottage where I did some sketching in the garden and we had an early evening meal prior to Mr. and Mrs. Barker joining us for coffee at about seven.

Wednesday, September 30th

This was the day that Becky joined us for the day. I had hoped to persuade her, Paul and Hannah to join us for several days of the holiday, but they are trying to get back to normal and Hannah had a school exam.

We lighted the stove in the dining room and set out a cheeseboard and an assortment of bread, biscuits and cake for a leisurely and early lunch. Joe had planned a fearsome itinerary for the day and positively forbade me to suggest to Becky that it might be a bit much.

Our first stop was Brantwood to pick up the Gondola there; we were rather early which gave us time to look at the art gallery shop above the Jumping Jenny restaurant, and it was there that I found Helen's Christmas present (on which I shall not elaborate as she might - but probably won't - read this blog.)

Having bought that, we went down to the jetty, passing this work of art in the garden there. I rather like it, but Joe and Becky both demanded an explanation of this lectern with a horse's head; never one to shun the opportunity to be an all round know-it-all and clever-clogs, I came up with the suggestion that it was about reading the lessons of nature in all its fecundity.

Talking of fecundity: clearly, looking at this photo, there are some lessons to be learned, and I am wondering when Joe's baby is due and whether I can be his manager! (Miaow!)

Over the years I have taken so many photographs of Conniston Water and its surroundings that I think I should not blog this year's dozen or so especially as it was cloudy and they are all a bit lack lustre.

On the other hand: here, I think, is where twenty years ago I went swimming with Ben who was gorgeous, handsome, black . . .

. . . and a labrador.

Joe's plan was to go on to Hill Top and Townend, and with a certain amout of difficulty he was persuaded that this simply was not possible and that we had better go straight to Townend which stays open half-an-hour later and does not have timed tickets. As it is, we arrived there only minutes before last admissions. I have written about Townend before as it is one of my favourite places, but each visit is new and this had the advantage of being Becky's first. Even so we had to hurry quite a bit to see the last few rooms (the servants' bedrooms, which are rather nice.)

This barn, across the road from the house, isn't a part of the tour but it has always fascinated me and one day I am going to remember to ask about it before the staff and volunteers in the house aren't very politely waiting for us to leave so that they can go home and get their teas, as it has always managed to be the last visit of the day.

Joe also wanted us to have a meal at the Queen's Head where we ate a couple of years ago, but Becky had promised to be home for Hannah so there really wasn't time to savour the rather expensive food there as it deserves. Thus we went back to the cottage for a cup of tea and anything we fancied that we hadn't eaten at lunchtime. Joe was less awkward about this than I had expected, but it turned out that he had picked up some sort of tummy bug and after Becky had gone was a right misery-guts in more ways than one.

Tuesday, September 29th

Joe had expressed a desire to do some shopping so we stopped in Bowness. I bought a new memory card for my camera - the 128MB one having stopped working, leaving me with only 8MB of memory - so I now have 2GB. I also saw nice holiday presents for Jessie and the boys (under £10 for all three, which is ample for holiday souvenirs). Joe holds to a different view and wants to spend, spend, spend. Fortunately there seem to be no antique shops in Bowness and the art galleries are for the most part outside his range. I bought father a new log basket to go with the new wood burner.

On through Windermere and Ambleside (no antique shops in view) towards Grasmere and Dove Cottage. We had an irritating lunch at the tea room there. I ordered chicken pate, toast and salad for Joe and two coffees. Then I asked whether they had anything small and savoury. She asked what I had in mind, to which I replied a half size chicken pate and toast would be nice or something cheesy. No, all she could offer was Borrowdale tea loaf and cheese. I accepted. While I went to the loo, the coffees and tea loaf arrived. We drank the coffee and waited, and waited, and waited for Joe's platter. After about a dozen people who had come in after us had been served with their cooked meals and/or salads I went up to the counter to ask about Joe's. "Oh, I crossed it out. I didn't think you wanted it." There's six foot of hungry young man sitting at the table! Does he look like he lives on air? Are two of us going to share one slice of cake? I got a bit cross. It was brought fairly fast. I ordered another cup of coffee to keep him company.

We went into the Wordsworth museum and bought timed tickets for Dove Cottage, and looked round the Tennyson exhibition. (Yes, you did read that right - this year's bi-centenary - next Poet Laureate after Wordsworth.) We hadn't long to wait, and soon we were in the cottage where we were given a guided tour. The young woman knew her stuff, but was a bit inclined to recite her script and hurry us on rather than engage with her audience, unlike my previous visit more than twenty years ago when the male guide was a cheerful chatterbox happy to swap literary anecdotes and quotations in every room. At the end - there now being no press of numbers following a busy morning with a coachload of Japanese tourists among others - we were able to look round a bit more leisurely and talk a bit with the guide.

After that we went into the garden where I sat in the shelter right at the top (where Wordsworth is reputed to have gone to write out of the way of family and guests) and admired the beauty of the prospect. It is a nice little garden - apparently wild in the art which conceals art sort of way.

Back in the museum to look at the permanent Wordworth exhibition where Joe became rather fratchy with me for 'reading everything' - that's what it's there for, and actually I skipped quite a lot of the bits I already knew, then on to the Edward Lear watercolours (many of which I had already seen a few years ago at a stately home, I think, but I can't remember where) and finally to the shop where I got into conversation about the rag rugs they had on sale there with a lady who remembered making them during the war, and Joe bought a nice print of an early nineteenth century watercolour of Rydal Water.

We went into Grasmere thinking to visit the famous gingerbread shop: there was a long queue outside so we didn't bother, but instead had a look at an art gallery where I bought a block of black watercolour paint to replenish my box.

My choice would have been to skip Grasmere village and go on to renew my acquaintance with Rydal Mount, but Joe was all Wordsworthed out, and it would have been quite an expensive visit for the short length of afternoon left. So, instead we drove back and reached the Brown Horse at Winster just before six o'clock where we had a very nice evening meal. I had home-cured ham and all the trims while Joe went for the fish pie - both were excellent, though mine could have been a bit hotter. There is a farm shop attached and it is all part of a large farming and shooting estate on which virtually everything served in the pub and sold in the shop is grown. Afterwards Joe had sticky toffee pudding and I had a whiskey creme brulee (the real thing and not one of those baked custards masquerading as creme brulee which are far too often served). It was all expensive enough to be an occasional treat rather than a habit, but not excessive for the quality.

Monday, September 28th

We drove up to the North Lakes on stage one of the Wordsworth trail, and another house new to me.

Mummy and I went to Cockermouth years ago where we had 'won' a half-price break at a hotel there. No wonder the hotel had to promote itself in some way! It was terrible - the prawn cocktail and the roast chicken were the same temperature which was wrong for both (the menu probably tells you how long ago it was) and the grouting between the bathroom tiles and round the bath was black. We left after a single night and wended our way slowly south looking on our way for a B&B with vacancies - no easy task in the school summer holidays! We eventually found Mrs. Nelson at Townson Ground, East of Lake, Coniston whose establishment was everything the Cockermouth Hotel was not, and thus began my love affair with the Lakes.

I couldn't identify the terrible hotel on this visit (probably long since closed), and it struck me that the town was much perkier than it had been all those years ago - or maybe my whole view then was coloured by the hotel experience. Anyway I parked the car (not without difficulty) and we went to the Wordsworth Birthplace. As something of a connoisseur of museum education it seemed to me that someone had put a great deal of thought into interpretation and it was very easy to imagine the Wordsworth family at home there. The kitchen was particularly well done, and the young man (making a raised pastry rather slowly) had plenty to tell each of the visitors. Sadly, although all the food is real, they are not allowed to eat any of it because it is cooked in an 'unhygienic' kitchen over an open fire and 'health and safety' will not permit it. I see the point with pork or chicken which do not benefit from being kept for hours under unregulated conditions in a warm room, but surely there could be no danger from scones or seed cake?

After a snack lunch (at a pizza house which had run out of pizza dough so we had toasted sandwiches) we went on to Isel Hall. This house is only open for a few hours a week on Monday afternoons and I have never been in the right place at the right time before, so it was another first!

The owner, Miss Mary Burkett, OBE, BA, FMA, FRGS, started by giving a talk about the history of the house sitting in a sheltered corner of the garden with views across to Skiddaw. As more people arrived she started over three times, but it was worth the delay. Then we were asked which three of us would like to go on the detailed history tour so I jumped at the chance, and it was indeed very detailed with a lady who knew her stuff and talked well and naturally about both the house's history and the artwork - especially the felt carpets and hangings (on which subject the owner is a world authority). Also on the tour was an American lady who is involved in writing a book about of pele towers, and we got to see a good deal of that part of the house and the subsequent alterations and additions. I could imagine the sort of remarks the presenters of several daytime house-hunting TV programmes would make about the heating and plumbing (especially after a visit to the definitely not designed for the public loo), but for a wonderfully eccentric and entertaining visit it was worth its weight in gold. I loved it.

Talking of eccentric - these carvings are dotted about the grounds; they are a pun on the name of the original family of Lawson - LAW (the sleeves of the lawyer's robe) SUN.

On the recommendation of the house's owner, we then went to see the Norman church, from which I took this view of the hall.

The pink pele tower (a mistake, we are told, by the restoring architect) certainly stands out.

I took us back by a roundabout and scenic route through what I think of as 'Wild Lakeland': Joe is definitely anti any sort of foot exploration, even gentle strolls along lakes' edges, and drives on minor roads and passes are the best I can do. Not that I'm exactly into mountain walking myself, but I quite like the afore mentioned gentle strolls.

Sunday, September 27th

I was so impressed with the church - not the building which is relatively modern (about a hundred years old) and undistinguished - but the whole ambience. (Note the heap of cushions ready for those who don't like to sit on a bare wooden pew.)

Even without realising quite how small Crook is I had been quite impressed when I looked at the website and discovered that there is a service at ten o'clock every Sunday, and driving past on Saturday the welcome sign added to that good initial impression.

Joe and I arrived at about 9.45/9.50 and were greeted by several people with friendly questions about where we had come from etc. It was a modern(ish) morning service, lay lead, with a congregation of around sixty. Apparently these numbers are normal from a village with a population of not much more than twice that number! (I gather a few of them come over from Kendal where the group's vicar lives, but I assume that most of those swell the numbers on communion Sundays rather than every week.) Afterwards we stayed for coffee and chatted to - among others - the local historian who was born in Lincoln.

The old church fell down just over a century ago, so they left the tower standing in lone splendour on top of the hill and built their new church more conveniently on the roadside.

We then went back to the cottage for a very light lunch and some more coffee, before heading for Blackwell, the Arts and Crafts house which several friends had recommended for a visit. Obviously they won't allow photography inside the house so here is a group of pictures from their publicity and a link to their website http://www.blackwell.org.uk/

Unlike Joe, I am not actually a huge fan of the arts and crafts movement, but I have to say that these interiors were absolutely lovely. I was also somewhat surprised to find how much I liked the current exhibition of Whitefriars Glass all dating from before the chunky stuff by Geoffrey Baxter which one tends to associate with the Whitefriars name. On the other hand I did not much care for the large commissioned sculpture on the lawn Black Dome by David Nash.

We then had afternoon tea (me literally with a set cream tea, Joe with a cheese, ham and wild mushroom panini) in Blackwell's cafe before driving into Bowness. This shopping trip on a Sunday was necessitated by one of the two drawbacks to Sander Hill cottage; the first is its lack of a washing machine (of which more later) and the second is that there are no provisions in the cottage not even a pot of salt. I think that this may be a policy of the letting agents windy of possible claims for food poisoning, but I would have thought a few basic seasonings and condiments, and small jars of sugar, tea bags and flour would be safe enough - especially where the owner is there to check and replenish each week. I remember Liz, with a lifetime's experience of holiday cottages, laughing at my over-packing of provisions the first time I rented one because (she said) the basic store cupboard was always supplied - as indeed it was on that and several subsequent occasions. However, this is the second time I have found the cupboard completely bare and someone whose daughter has the job of inspecting cottages told me that it was policy with her company. At the other end of the scale one cottage we stayed in in Allandale had a cupboard full of 'emergency supplies' - tins of beans and meatballs and the like as well as an assortment of packages with an injunction to replace like with like if weather or circumstances forced you to raid the stock, while another at Skirwith (lived in by the owners - curry connisseurs at a guess - for the winter months) had, among other supplies, the best stocked spice rack I have ever encountered.

Anyway, I bought salt and one or two other things I had omitted to pack at the Co-op, and some freshly baked bread at the deli, and we ate the other half of the chicken in baguettes with some more salad and loads of mayonnaise, and I made soup with the bones - hence the urgent need for salt.

Over the years I have stayed in quite a few cottages, but this one is easily the most remote. Crook is a very spread out village with about a mile of road and open country between the pub and the church, then another mile-and-a-half of winding lanes from the church to this cottage.

You park at the top of the hill (see my little red speck of a car in the distance), then carry your cases down to the cottage. (You can park for loading and unloading at the top of the steps, but it means backing either up or down the hill - which I did.)

Inside there is good, basically equipped kitchen and a sunny dining room in the 1960s extension.

The living room occupies half of the original ground floor of this three hundred year old cottage, with one bedroom (mine) in what was the original scullery. The old pantry is used as a store room for the vacuum cleaner, ironing board etc.

The extensions to the ground floor are completed with a bathroom next to the dining room and a large log-store-cum-porch which forms the 'back' entrance.

Upstairs (going into what looks like a cupboard) is the double bedroom, and opening off it, through a door only about four foot high under the main beam, is a twin room which would be absolutely perfect for a family with young children.

The garden has a stream along the bottom (again perfect for children, though not perhaps toddlers) and there is open countryside all around.

Mr. and Mrs. Barker are the perfect hosts being welcoming and friendly, but unobtrusive. He was born in the cottage and they now live next door in the converted attached barn. On the day we arrived Christine Barker came round to welcome us, and went to quite a bit of trouble phoning round local (fully-booked) inns to try and find us an evening meal. She had also arranged vases of fresh flowers in every room and laid the fire in both stoves - a very welcoming touch. During the week we found a bag of half-a-dozen freshly laid eggs hanging on the door, and other people mention similar gifts in the Visitor Book. On Thursday evening we invited the Barkers round for coffee and spent a pleasant couple of hours in conversation.

Joe had a bit of a shilly-shally about whether he would sleep upstairs or downstairs - he prefers the idea of a double bed upstairs, but he has had a bit of a thing about extra doors in bedrooms ever since a ghost walked in on him through a blocked former doorway when he was about four. In the end he settled for upstairs with the clothes rail in front of the low door to the other room - as if that would stop a determined ghost! I, being a lady of a certain age with a tendency to drink a couple of cups of tea before retiring, was quite happy to have the single room on the same floor as the bathroom. So we unpacked and ate chicken salad with baked potatoes thus reversing my original plans for Saturday and Sunday dinner. The television had Freeview, but without Yesterday or Dave (and several others), and - since Wednesday's compulsory retune - ITV 3 and ITV 4. There was nothing worth watching on all week, but Joe watched it anyway.

And so to bed.

Saturday, Septemeber 26th

We set off for the Lake District in remarkably good time despite Joe having managed to flood his kitchen doing a last minute underwear wash. (My washing was all done earlier in the week, though I was ironing as I packed.)

For various reasons I had decided to go the motorway route as far as Bradford - not worth it as any time saved on the motorway is lost threading through Bradford to join the A road route to Skipton (The return route through Ilkley and Tadcaster is much, much easier and slightly faster over all.) Skipton Castle was our primary destination as Joe's last and only visit was in a thunder storm when he was eight.

This, quite obviously, is not my picture, but it really does show the size of the place - a semi-detached castle, as I call it, with the public part open daily and the private wing really private. The open part isn't furnished, but it is roofed and delightfully complete thanks to Lady Anne Clifford who petitioned Oliver Cromwell to allow her to restore it after it had been slighted in the Civil War for holding out against parliamentary forces. Her clarity of vision and writing seems to have carried over to her spiritual descendant, a business man who bought and preserved the castle in the twentieth century, as the simple double sided A4 sheet which is your admission ticket with its line drawings and sensibly numbered notes and instructions takes you through the castle far better than many a more complicated guide book.

One thing which struck me on previous visits and again this time is how frequently we are told that "in castles the kitchens were always a separate building in the courtyard well away from the living accomodation for fear of fire", yet here, as in most of the roofed castles have visited (see Castle Rising and Castle Bolton as cases in point) the mediaeval kitchens are an integral part of the main living quarters - here, as at Castle Rising, and Haddon Hall and Gainsborough Old Hall (not castles) conveniently situated right next to the Great Hall. Presumably the 'universal truth' regarding mediaeval kitchens was true of the original timber buildings, but comfort, convenience and the real possibility of eating food while it was still hot rapidly won out over fear of fire as stone built replacements and the middle ages progressed.

I have various photos of my mother and nephews under this yew tree in the courtyard - this is Joe's picture of me!

We then went on minor roads past the Ribblehead Viaduct - sorry about the poor quality of the picture but it was taken through that soft, barely perceptible rain which gave way to sun almost immediately we got back into the car, which shone right into my eyes forcing me to drive very slowly and very cautiously along the very minor roads we followed from here to Kendal.

From Kendal we drove to Crook where we had rented our cottage for the week.