Saying good-bye to London (...for now...)

You think big, hectic cities, and London and New York are often mentioned in the same breath.  Both are  massive centres of high finance, both have their share of grumpy people - and most importantly, both operate at a pace much, much faster than the rest of their countries.  That’s never more apparent than when you’re taking stock of nearly four years in London, amazed at how fast (and fun!) they were.

It’s more than a little odd, knowing that I’m on the cusp on a new adventure, moving over to Luxembourg (tomorrow!) for an amazing gig with a cool and growing start up.  One day, you’re debating which new pint of bitter to try, or wondering if the Tube was going to run on time for your commute, and the next?  You’re in a very charming, if much, much smaller capital – Luxembourg City, with a mere 85,000 people instead of the nearly 7,000,000 of London, and with a funky mix of old and new:

If I had to describe my state of mind in terms of the nearly always wrong BBC weather forecast?  Let’s see - a strong front of excitement has been moved in over the last few weeks.  This will be broken up by  odd showers of culture shock and winds of language confusion throughout the week, especially with my profound lack of French.  Long-term outlook?  Calm and content, as a low pressure front of the relaxed Luxembourg quality of life moves in.

Okay – so that’s the outlook for the future… but what about the present?  With about four weeks from receiving the job to moving, I had to squeeze in a whole lot of fun times as I said a temporary good-bye to London.

From a friend’s awesome 80’s screen icons fancy dress party…(in case you're unsure of my costume - let's see if this theme gets stuck in your head: "...bum bum bum buuum, bum bum bummmm, bum bum bum buuum,bum bum bum, bum, bum!")

…  to discovering random street art in my decidedly non-arty neighborhood of Chiswick, then checking out the Tower of London Ceremony of the Keys one more time:

A Laura Veirs concert at a 16th century church, and beer-fuelled Scrabble at our local pub…

To a ramble through the East Side of London, and a day on the South Bank, including funky art and world-class grilled cheese sandwiches at Borough Market:

Saying good-bye to some very good friends I’ve made was tough – but the British tradition of ‘leaving drinks’ helped… with ex-Monster folks up at Hampstead:

To a pub crawl and curry feast in Brick Lane with my ultimate frisbee team (we'd had a few beers by this point):

Good times all-around.  And while I’ve done a fair bit in London, there’s still so much on my list to try:  the Eye, watching a choir perform at St. Paul’s, attend a viewing of the secret cinema, drinks at the Savoy, high tea at the Dorchester… the list goes on and on.  So, I guess that means I’ll be coming back sooner rather than later for a visit or three! ;)

Getting (kinda) lost and found (sort of) in the Lake District

Facing another winter month or two in London is a pretty rubbish prospect. – unending gray blah-ness, rain, and that unique clammy English cold that makes a mockery of most high-tech fabric layer you might have on.

With that in mind, most folks become avid aficionados of whatever warm destinations are served by Easyjet or RyanAir – as they balance the prospect of an uncomfortable flight for the fleeting prospect of a weekend of sun in Spain, Morocco, and any other point south.

I’m no different normally – much as I love it, getting out of London is a breath of fresh air, a chance to recharge and recuperate from the constant press of seven million neighbors.  (oops – that’s neighbours for you Brits).

But this time, I tried a little of the ol’ reverse psychology trick.  Instead of banking on the sun to keep me warm, I figured that a good weekend of hiking in the UK would do the same thing, with the prospect of much better beer and a fire in a welcoming pub to boot.

Where to go, where to go… I thought about Cornwall, or doing some bits of Hadrian’s Wall (England’s mini-Great Wall, courtesy of the overly industrious and Scots-fearing Romans), but when it came down to it – my choice was always going to be the Lake District.

England’s a funny place.  It has a massive amount of history, ridiculously charming villages and countryside, world-class cities, and on and on. It’s so overwhelmingly… cute.  Nearly everywhere, from pubs to coast (although not Sheffield).

Yet… and yet, England does seem to come up short in one area.  Seriously quaint though it is, it doesn’t have a large number of the “jaw-droppingly awesome” locations on the scale of the Grand Canyon or Yosemite.  Of course, on the flip side, England doesn’t have the never-ending expanses of Nebraska and Kansas to worry about either, so I think they’re pretty happy.

But the Lake District is different.  It’s special.  Combining both the cutest of English villages, with the stunning peaks and slopes of the fells, the Lake District never grows old to the visitor.  I’ve gone five times so far, and each time, it just leaves me wanting to come back.

(Wow, how was that for a long-winded introduction? )

This time around, my plans were pretty flexible – a good idea with any visit to the north of England, where the weather changes at a drop of a hat, and sometimes even twice.  Transport was easy, as I caught the fast Virgin train from London over to Oxenholme before ending up at a nice B&B in Windermere, a small town chock-a-block with the grey slate roofed houses typical of the area. 

Coming in at 10pm, I took a chance at dodging train food, hoping against hope that restaurants would be open.  Alas, my gamble failed  – so I had to make due with a pretty indifferent pad thai.  Sigh –  I made a classic blunder, ordering Thai food where there are no Thais to be seen; I should have known better!

So, my initial plan was to try and do the Striding Edge – an amazing trail across the exposed ridgeline of some of the highest fells.

(photo courtesy of the StridingEdge.net)

But alas, the weather didn’t cooperate; when I mentioned my plans to the helpful hostel guy who was cool with watching my stuff, he just shook his head and showed me pics from the webcam up there.  The narrowest bit, a dangerous two foot wide path, with sheer drops to either side, was covered in snow and ice – so, uh, no.

Instead, I did something a bit more mellow – hiking up the fells and over from Grasmere to Chapel Slide.  Gorgeous country, with views of Grasmere Water behind me, and fell after fell stretching in the distance.  The rain got me occasionally, and there was at least a 40 mph wind, but for all that, it was a great walk.

And the bonus – which is where England easily trumps the US in hiking – was the fabulous pub at the midway point called the Wainwright Inn.  A fire, a crunchy steak/onion baguette sandwich, and my choice of very local beers… perfection:

The hike back went a bit slower, as I waddled up the slopes in a nice warm beer buzz.  The views just kept coming – looking back at Chapel Stile and Ettwater villages:

… and then cresting the saddle to gaze down at Grasmere Water as the sun came out.

I even had minor success balancing on slippery rocks in a stream with a tripod, trying to take shots of a wee waterfall – with no falls, and boots only slightly soaked by the end of it.

Now, the plan was to take the long way ‘round Grasmere Water, but I was pretty easily persuaded by, well, me, to take the short cut back.  A stroll back along a country lane got me to Grasmere, and then it was a well-timed bus to my great room at the Melrose B&B one village over in Ambleside.

A hot shower went a long way to helping me recover, and my pizza with a cheeky whisky on the side did the rest.  In a happy food coma, I turned in early and got my fill of the seemingly endless Friends reruns before crashing for the night.  Heckle away - what a rock star lifestyle, I know…

The next day was my big hike for the trip.  Fuelled up by yet another full English breakfast that comes standard with every B&B (love it!), I headed out from Ambleside to Rydal, and then started climbing.  England doesn’t have massive peaks, with Fairfield Fell topping out at 873 meters (2500 feet), but with  a start near sea level… that’s not a bad day’s work.

Here’s the route:

The hike itself… was stunning, amazing, awesome.  By now, I found that I was running out of superlatives, so figured that my pics might do better:

I did have a minor wake up call – along with England’s cuteness, it often seems unthreatening.  No poisonous snakes, fierce animals, tornados or the like besides the risk of being outside certain pubs after closing time – it can make you a little cocky.  In this case, I’ve always heard about a few fell walkers getting lost and falling off cliffs every year but never really understood how you could do that until this hike.  Sure, I was pretty prepared, with compass, topographical map, and lots of clothing layers, but when our hike took me up into the low cloud layer, visibility dropped to about 100 meters, and wandering the peak itself was like being in a grey maze.  There were a number of stone cairns to help guide walkers, but I could see how an inexperienced hiker could miss the trail, and end up in deep trouble.  Yikes.

Oh, and a quick word about walls.  They.  Were.  EVERYWHERE.  Each hand-constructed of free-standing slate bits, with no mortar, they went up and over near-vertical slopes on every turn.  Unbelievable.

But, heading back on the other side of the horseshoe, I was happy to come back out into sunshine, and knowing that each step brought me closer to Ambleside and beer!

Maybe it was with the end of the hike in sight in the distance, but the last few miles seemed to take absolutely forever.  I trudged on, and running down the last few slopes, I beat the threatening rain clouds to the pub.  Sweet, and even sweeter watching England beat France in rugby in the evening, with a curry to warm up the tummy.

Like most of my blogs, this is getting epic – so cutting it short(er), my last day was nice and easy.  Deciding to pass on a quick hike in exchange for a wander to the lake, I then got to explore the dozen outdoor gear shops in town.  For a village of 1,000 – that is a ridiculous number of top-notch shops.  The gear geek in me loved it, especially the all NZ merino wool Icebreaker jumper I caved into buying. 

Reality came back with the unpleasant train ride back – jammed packed with people, I got to perch in the aisle for three hours.  The saving grace was that I made friends with a dad and his six year old son, where my camp counselor games came in handy to keep him (and me!) occupied.  I also gave him my iPhone to take some pics, with mixed results:

A oh-so manly hot bath back in London with a whisky was the perfect finish to a great weekend.

PS.  I’ll leave you with a pic that gives a whole new meaning for 'banker's hours'. I’m not a huge fan of HSBC for a vast number of reasons but how’s this for the local bank's customer-focused attitude? :)