… another morning and afternoon, the great majority of which was spent listening to and watching the rain come down from within Guillaume. Thank Darwin for books of Sudoku puzzles. A second surprise is that I’ve been getting into Killer Sudoku, of late. I don’t normally like it when a perfectly good design gets bent into all sorts of derivatives. In this case, though, I quite enjoy the chance to use some different logic.  But I digress – back on track.

Friend Keith spent his first full and wet day in much the same fashion as did we,  he drove around in the murk scouting locations.

The main surprise occurred in the early evening when the rain ceased. A few patches of blue even drifted past. Our merry band of three grabbed the opportunity to head for one of the nearer iconic photographic locations, Ashness Bridge, approached by a steep-ish, narrow-ish road just south of Keswick and east of Derwent Water. We tried shooting the charming stone bridge first from downstream, which makes the sky encroach, then from upstream, which I’d say is the better composition, especially as a naff sky can be more readily cut out. A bit of sun would certainly improve the bracken and grass, though. 😉

Beyond Ashness Bridge, the road continues in an even narrower fashion to climb further up to the tiny hamlet of Watendlath, the hamlet consisting essentially of one farm and one tarn. The area is now National Trust, Darwin bless them. They need blessing ‘cos in these parts, NT car parks are the only places where members don’t get ripped off for parking. Just after we arrived, the sun briefly bathed one of the hillsides overlooking the tarn in golden evening light.

Naturally, with a tarn about 1000ft/300m up in the English mountains, there is a stream flowing out of it which rapidly turns into a tumbling torrent descending the valley up which we had driven.

Dinner was a slightly rushed affair ‘cos we didn’t get back to Guillaume until 8:00 PM. At least the evening provided some relief from an otherwise dismal day.

… rain and more rain. It rained over night and it continued to rain all day.

A landscape photographer friend, Keith, was intending to drive up to join us today. He’s booked in to a guest house nearby for the week. Given the weather today and the very similar forecast for tomorrow, we half expected him to cancel. We would not have blamed him. But no, he went for it. He even managed to locate us taking shelter in Guillaume before going to check in to his guest house. [The guest house, incidentally, is up for sale – £845K, if you’re interested.]

In between today’s rain and tomorrow’s rain, the weather forecast was suggesting an hour or two of sunny spells around 6:00-8:00 PM. Sure enough, as we were introducing Keith to Guillaume over a cup of tea, the clouds did appear to begin lifting. Francine set off for the top of Derwent Water (again) while Keith set off to check in. He and I joined Francine a little later.

The sun did put in a guest appearance, as did all the stir-crazy people in the vicinity, both tourists and locals alike, I suspect. I’m not sure whether the most staggering aspect of the scene that greeted us was the fact that the sun was, indeed, present or the fact that the water level in Derwent Water had increased so dramatically in two days. Here’s a before and after pair of pictures, admittedly from slightly different angles but you’ll see what I’m getting at.

Concentrate on the end of the boat dock with its supporting wooden posts. Look at the full sized version of the first image and you should be able to make out a Greylag Goose (Anser anser) calmly swimming, very considerately, just beyond the end of the dock and showing up against the hull of the boat just beyond. The Greylag’s head appears to be a tad below the level of the dock. Now look at the second picture; the end of the boat doc is at best level with the surface of the water – actually I think it’s very slightly submerged.

OK, so how tall is a swimming Greylag Goose? I’d say somewhere between 1 and 2 feet, roughly 18 in/0.5 m. A swift web search during one of those odd occasions when 3G has been working, told me that Derwent Water covers an area of 5.18 km² or 5,180,000 m². If that lot is now ~0.5 m deeper, we’re looking at an extra 2,590,000 m³ of water that has flowed or fallen into Derwent Water over the last 48 hours. A cubic metre is 220 gallons. That’s over half a billion gallons of water extra. Yikes!

For a more photogenic illustration of the increase in water level, this gate was clear of the water when we arrived.

We had a few hours of dry but cloudy weather before the late morning/afternoon rain began. Francine wanted to go back to part of Derwent Water to “correct” one of her initial shots. Landscape photographers, being fond of a bit of foreground interest, are drawn to partially submerged boulders, wooden piers/jetties, or wooden posts remaining from piers/jetties long since gone, reeds, and the like. Indeed, one of our better known landscape photographers, Joe Cornish, has led to boulders in water being referred to as JCBs [Joe Cornish Boulders] – by other photographers, of course. How’s that for fame? Francine had tried a couple of these but her wooden posts (remaining from piers/jetties long since gone) had some boulders interfering them. When in doubt, adjust your line up and simplify.

Better! The second is another example of Francine’s Big Stopper, hence the smoothed water. [For those wondering, the Lee Big Stopper is a 10-stop neutral density filter which turns, say, a 1/125th second exposure into an 8 second exposure.]

The day was deteriorating fast so we used the time for an exploratory drive. We headed off down Borrowdale, headed up a 1 in 4 (25%) ascent to cross over Honister Pass with its slate mine, thence down to Buttermere and Crummock Water, before wending our way back over Whinlatter Pass to Bassenthwaite Lake. Completing our circuit, we called in to a photographers’ attraction just outside Keswick: the 4500-year-old Castlerigg Stone Circle. Despite the pants conditions with the wind driving moisture at us, Francine once again extracted her camera, back to the wind, for a test shot, albeit a line-up enforced by the weather conditions.

In La Belle France, to be precise, in the Marais Poitevin, a drained marsh area criss-crossed by drainage canals, I have previously made mention of the French having no fewer than five words for canal, depending upon its size. This seemed a bit like overkill at the time. However, from our brief drive past a few of the larger bodies of water here, we appear to be doing very nearly as well in the Lake District with said larger bodies of water being variously tagged water (e.g. Derwent Water), lake (e.g. Bassenthwaite Lake) or mere (e.g. Buttermere). Smaller water bodies tend to be tarns.

Isn’t richness of language wonderful? What a pity that modern trends tend to be simplifying too much of it.

There is something vaguely comforting and cosy about being in a caravan when it’s raining. This is just as well because it rained pretty much all night. We slept reasonably well, waking just occasionally to check that there was no danger of the beloved English Lakes drying out. By the time Francine made our breakfast of eggs, black pudding and mushrooms, the rain had ceased. The black pudding was excellent.

Our campsite is on the edge of Keswick and abuts the northern tip of Derwent Water. The weather forecast has been changing frequently. We’d originally been expecting some more rain but now plain overcast was the order of the day. Bouyed up by the promise of an unexpectedly dry day, we thought we donned walking boots for the muddy ground and popped out for a first orientation wander around some of Derwent Water.

Flat, grey skies are generally a photographic disaster; the usual approach is to cut such a sky out – whatever you photograph, do not include any sky. However, with the still water and the mountains on either side of the lake being cloaked in cloud/mist, I couldn’t really tell you which it was, the view was peaceful, serene,  and took on an ethereal quality.

Realizing my limitations, I left Francine to try capturing the serenity of the somewhat murky vista on pixels – no straightforward task – and tried to capture some of the indigenous wildlife. The ethereal quality of the light seemed to be enhancing the birds, too, with a good clear background, and at least I could cut out the sky. Here comes Air Canada. 🙂

Meanwhile, back at Francine, the lake was being done some favours. We’d worked our way down part of the eastern shore snapping foregrounds of various stakes and boulders, when we happened upon Friar’s Crag, a promontory with a little elevation looking out over a pair of islands in the middle distance. Here’s what Francine and a Big Stopper made of it. [Editorial note: Francine actually prefers the straight view with a few ripples left on the water but I wanted a Big Stopper shot.]

Beside Friar’s crag is the curiously named Strandshag Bay. The mind can only guess at what might have happened here to merit such a handle. Overlooking the scene of what sounds like someone or something’s misfortune is this charmingly situated dwelling – charming except for the fact that it’s in one of the wettest parts of the country, that is.

The weekend forecast is depressingly wet. I know I really wanted to get away from home but a weekend full of rain is less than appealing. My fingers are still firmly crossed.

Two weeks ago Guillaume was awoken from hibernation for his annual service. No longer under guarantee, he can now be serviced at my convenience and I can avoid fretting about extracting him from a snow-covered field in mid February. Phew! Since his service, he has been champing at the bit to go somewhere and time for his first somewhere has finally arrived; the English Lake District. Guillaume’s destination was chosen by Francine seeking subject matter for some new photographic kit, including a Lee Big Stopper. Though delighted to be getting away from home at last, Franco is secretly a little concerned about this choice of destination, being 200 miles further north to a notoriously damp part of the UK in early April. We shall see.

Our journey was the best kind of delightfully uneventful. The only excitement was down to good ol’ Sally Satnav. Now, I know we’ve been here before but, though satnavs generally are less intelligent than a Francine armed with a map, I do like seeing junctions approach and knowing beyond doubt that I’ve arrived at the correct one. Their knowledge of traffic flow and problems can at best be described as rudimentary, though, IMHO. Sally’s first choice of route was sending us via the M1 to the M6 and the traffic nightmare we call Birmingham. She showed a 12 minute delay. We asked her to avoid it but she still chose Birmingham. After a while, we reset the destination to force a “recalculating” and … she still chose Birmingham.

On our only other scary journey north heading for Carlisle two years ago, Sally sent us further up the M1 and across on the A50 to Stoke-on-Trent, avoiding B’ham completely. Why not this time? Then, out of blue, just as we were nearing the M6, up pops Sal with a “recalculating” and sends up further up the M1 to the A50 and to Stoke-on-Trent. Why? Why, for Darwin’s sake? I want to know what caused the change of mind but it’s frustratingly impossible to find out. Arghhh!

The A50 has a number of advantages. Not only does it avoid B’ham but the services are much calmer ‘cos the traffic is much lighter. The fuel at the services is also more competitively priced. Mind you, with motorway fuel at £1.47 a litre, gold is more competitively priced.

Anyway, after a short road-works delay approaching Stoke-on-Trent, we made our second stop at the Westmoreland farm shops service area, undoubtedly the finest on our motorway network, in search of local delicacies and a splash of diesel [see above]. Our delicacies included Allerdale goat cheese, a distressingly Scottish-sounding blue sheep cheese called Lanark Blue, and a few slices a black pudding for Guillaume’s season-starting breakfast the following morning. Yum!

The blue proved interesting. I thought it tasted similar to Roquefort, though it wasn’t swimming in liquid as Roquefort often is. The till-printed price ticket very thoughtfully, and inventively, I thought,  included information about the cheese. Low and behold, Lanark Blue “is blued with the peninilum roqueforti”. I think peninilium should read penicillium. Whatever, it seems my taste buds were accurate.

Just above Keswick on the northern tip of Derwent Water lies Bassenthwaite Lake, where, we discovered from an AA sign post on our journey in, the RSPB runs an Osprey project – webcam and a couple of view points to see the celebrity birds. It seems that, on the very day that we completed our journey north to The Lakes, so did the first Osprey of the new season. The Osprey had come considerably further than us, of course – all the way from West Africa – and without the aid of Sally Satnav. Whilst a glimpse of an Osprey over Bassenthwaite Lake would be quite a thrill, we must exercise caution since some birds pause here en route to Scotland. [Curious decision.] Fingers firmly crossed.

Fingers firmly crossed for the weather, too.