Storm Caroline passed us by without too much incident, but in its wake we’ve got bitterly cold winds and the first proper snow of the winter.

At town level it only dusted the rooftops, but the fells looked really dramatic seen from Longlands Road when I took a camera for a walk this afternoon…




Two go exploring in the sleet

Saturday brought a nice crisp sunny morning with snow on the high fells so we ditched the chores and shot out to take advantage of it. We headed to Coniston again because it’s not too far, and perfectly situated at the foot of the magnificent Coniston fells so there’s plenty of options for photographs.

Although everywhere looked stunning there was a knife-like wind blowing sleet flurries across the valley and the outside temperature was only about 2c, so first port of call was a café for a hot drink. This time we chose one at the far end of the high street, which used to be called something cosy like Daisy’s or Mrs Tiggywinkles, but is now the Green Housekeeper. Sadly, the welcome was rather chilly, and the assistant sneered when I chose not to make use of the loo in an unheated outhouse. Given the selection of other warmer and more cheerful establishments, I don’t think we’ll be hurrying back.

Onwards to the lake. The village of Coniston is set back from the water’s edge, so it’s a half mile (or so) walk along a lane and by the side of a tumbling beck. This leads to the rather grandly named Coniston Pier, really just some open ground with lovely views across the lake, some boat moorings, and a lovely modern café called the Bluebird after the boats the Campbell family used to set speed records here.

Annoyingly, the minute we got the maximum distance from the car the heavens opened with torrential, diagonal sleet. Dave had a hood but I didn’t, and had left my brolly in the car. We sheltered at the boat tour ticket office for a while, then set off on a long wet trudge back to the village, during which I got absolutely soaked. And the minute we got back to the main street, it stopped and the sun came out. Typical!

Never mind, I did manage to get some nice shots of the water in the mist, and of the snowy fells. We also came home with some sticky cakes from the Bluebird café, and some amazing artisan bread from a new little baker we’d not tried before. And very moreish they all were too.

Coniston (lake) in the sleet, still managing to look beautiful:


A snow-covered Coniston Old Man looming over the village rooftops:


Damson Day fun

P1020621The Damson Day festival is yet another event we’ve kept missing, not helped by the fact that the last two years it’s been cancelled due to bad weather and the after-effects of the Storm Desmond flooding.

The festival is held at one of the historic farms in the Lyth (pronounced ‘lithe’) Valley just south of Bowness-on-Windermere, a lovely area famous for its damson orchards.  I can remember my parents stopping off at the farm years ago for Mum to buy ten pounds of the fruit to make jam, and unlike many other local products, this one has not only survived but is now celebrated with the annual festival.

This year, it was back, and the weather was great, and we were determined to go.  And it was lovely.  Quite a small event but packed with entertainments, stalls, goodies damson-related and not, orchard walks, and a really nice, relaxed atmosphere.

We mooched around the various tents, marquees and stalls, had a coffee, listened to a local band (Jim Beans, surprisingly good), watching a hilarious dog agility display, tried one of the walks only to be beaten back by a vicious stile, mooched some more, had some delicious locally-made snacks for lunch, and even tried our hand at the archery.  This was a first for both of us and something I’ve long wanted to try but been nervous about given my bad wrist.  However, with some assistance and tuition I managed to hit the target with one out of my three arrows and felt quite proud of myself!

Pretty much the only thing the Damson Day didn’t have was… damsons, but they come later, in the autumn.  This event is very much about celebrating their birth – the blossom, the pollination, the crop to come.  It was a revelation.  We came home in the afternoon sun-burned and armed with damson pork pies and damson beer, and determined to go again next year.

All of a twitter

I’m slowly creaking my way into the twentieth century (never mind the twenty-first!) and have just opened up my own Twitter account.

It’s much more fun than I expected, with lots of local Cumbrian and Lakeland events, venues and people to chat to, as well as all my own interests to follow such as museums, art, architecture, history, gardens, reading (of course!), ghosts, and even the odd pot of chalk paint.  And new friends made already, which is always nice.

If you’d like to track me down, I’m on as F_Glass_Author (all the better ones were taken!).  I’ll usually follow legitimate fellow-tweeters (ie, no spammers or scammers) back.

Bookshop Trail

The other day I picked up a leaflet somewhere about a bookshop trail.  Not just any bookshop trail, but specifically the ‘Dales & Lakes Bookshop Trail’, which is a collective of secondhand bookshops in the Yorkshire Dales and Lake District national parks and their surroundings.

I’d never come across this before, and was delighted to find that there are twenty-six participating stores, including several in the small “book town” of Sedbergh, which is situated roughly half way between Kendal and Yorkshire.  We visited the town for the first time last year and I was amazed at the number of book shops lining the streets.  Now, apparently, there are six – not bad for a town of around 3,000 people!

And it’s not just Sedbergh.  The shops listed cover a vast area from Hawes and Hebden Bridge in the Yorkshire Dales, to Keswick and Penrith in northern Cumbria, Whitehaven on the far west coast, and Cartmel and Grange-over-Sands in the south.

It’s an impressive cooperative project.  And I’m really looking forward to trying to visit every bookshop on the list!

‘Haweswater’ by Sarah Hall

haweswaterI bought this book just before we went on holiday to the Lake District, because it happens to be set in… the Lake District! There’s a lovely sepia photo of a lakeland scene on the cover, and the story it tells is one of human drama and tragedy in the 1930s, when the Manchester City Waterworks bought and flooded an entire lakeland valley, Mardale, to create a massive reservoir for their city. This forced many farming families off their own land and drowned an entire village which had existed for many hundreds of years. ‘Haweswater’ concentrates on one particular family in the valley, the Lightburns – farmer Sam, Ella his wife, and their children Janet and Isaac. Janet is the book’s main protagonist, who grows up to be a bit of a ‘wild child’ and has a stormy relationship with Jack, the man sent by the MCW to break the news to the local community.

The book has already won at least one international award, and every last review quoted on the cover uses words like ‘striking’ and ‘brilliant’ and ‘original’. Which is all true – it is brilliant and it’s certainly original. The trouble is, it’s also difficult, uncomfortable writing that really isn’t very likeable. Don’t get me wrong – I don’t need a book to be the written equivalent of Mantovani in order to enjoy it. In fact, I quite like a challenge. But there are times when that challenge feels as if it’s an end in its own right and that’s very much the case here.

The narrative has no flow to it, either in terms of chronology or language. The early part of the book skips about from one disconnected scene to another, changing characters, changing point of view, and committing the supposedly cardinal sin of starting with the main character’s birth. Yes, it builds back story, but it’s also something of a wade since the real action doesn’t start until about a third of the way through. On top of that, whole sections are written in the style of a report. One chapter begins, “It was customary for the members of the Mardale Women’s Institute to meet in each other’s homes every other week…” and rather than working information into the narrative, gives a potted history of the local WI in a couple of paragraphs of what anyone else would call an ‘info dump’. If that’s not ‘tell not show’ I don’t know what is.

The only way I can describe the language is ‘spiky’. It’s like a piece of modern art – all angles and straight lines and stop-and-start. Some of the imagery is staggering, but too often it’s swallowed up in its own cleverness, as though the whole thing was an exercise in creative writing rather than flowing from the writer’s heart. There are way too many trendy devices, such as using partial sentences (“Soft, breezy May of this land-altering year in Mardale.”), using a dash rather than quote marks to indicate speech, and writing the northern dialect phonetically. All these are unnecessary, come across as pretentious, and get horribly in the way of the story. Never using the word ‘said’ may be an interesting exercise for a college class, but in the middle of a novel it makes it hard to work out who’s speaking, especially in long exchanges of dialogue or where there’s more than two characters talking. And the phonetics are quite simply baffling, even to a reader who grew up in the north of England. Do we really need every instance of ‘right’ to be spelt ‘reet’, or ‘take’ to be ‘tek’? Isn’t it already obvious that northern people speak that way, without ramming it down the reader’s throat? It gives rise to lines of dialogue like:

Cy, cy, gan ower bridge;

Yan or two.  A week, mebbi less.  Best git yer breeches out, lass;

Tek it off. Get on, gaily lad.

All of which is exhausting, and desperately unlovely to read.  A skilled author should be able to suggest dialect without having to (quite literally) spell it out.

The characters are every bit as unlikeable as the prose, and felt stage-managed into ciphers for particular themes rather than being allowed to develop as human, believable people in their own right. Janet’s mother in particular is clearly meant to represent the anger and religious zeal of the local people in their fight against the reservoir, and comes off the page as a thoroughly unpleasant piece of work. And a bit of a stereotype, if truth be told. How many times have we seen embittered northern battle-axe farmers’ wives in tv dramas over the years? Weren’t any of them kind, or friendly, or well-read?

Janet herself is like a 1960s hippie or an outcast from Greenham Common, hanging about the hills in little more than a cotton dress and wellies, visiting the local pub with the men, and generally acting in a way that would have been wholly unacceptable at the time. I found it almost impossible to believe that her decent, God-fearing father or her Puritanical mother would have allowed her that much freedom to roam, or that the community as a whole wouldn’t have cold-shouldered her if she’d really behaved that way. My mother grew up in a northern city at about the same time, and there was no way she would have been allowed to mooch about outdoors alone without being labelled as ‘no better than she ought to be’.  Once again, it felt as though the character only existed in order to carry out the tasks assigned to her by the author. She didn’t feel real.

And as for the local artist who’s written in simply to introduce the ‘hero’, Jack, and promptly vanishes again as though the waters of Haweswater had closed above his head, the less said about using him as a device the better.

If I sound cross, it’s because I am, a little. I get so tired of critics falling on books and praising them for their brilliance, only to find that the same books are virtually unreadable. I had high hopes of this one, which has a setting I love and a story that should have been fascinating. Told in a more traditional format, with believable characters, a workable chronology to build the tension of unfolding events, and the skill to immerse the reader in the story, it could have been gripping. As it is, the author is so busy being clever that the poignant human drama she’s supposed to be telling us about gets lost in the noise. And I paid £8 for a book I can’t even read.