England . . . Lakes, Cheese, and Cows

I have been informed that my turn is not yet up for posting. Here is another one. After my experience wading through the Valley of the Shadow of Shame, we drove to Chatburn and Downham, two cities where Heber C. Kimball had a lot of missionary success. Downham especially was beautiful. Years ago they buried all the power lines in an attempt to make the town look like it did during the 1800s. The town was tiny, and as we pulled up, the rest of my car informed me that I was parked in the bus stop. After my smart retort that we were obviously in a budding metropolis, the bus pulled up, and I was forced to move. It was incredible throughout the trip to notice that public transit is available anywhere in England. It was like catching the bus in Hatch, Utah (in case you're wondering why I picked Hatch, it is because Panguitch is much to large to count as a comparison to Downham). Downham, though, is much more charming. Here are a few pictures:

While we were stopping off at the Loo, our accents gave us away and a nice local gave us some tips on places to see while in the Lake District (our final destination for the day). This local was also one of the randomly selected participants in my 'what's the deal with your road signs?' poll and, to be honest, was incorrect in his assessment of current speed limits. Thanks to him, I did not pass Go or collect $200.

We left Downham and drove on towards the Lake District. On the way, MaryAnne's dad got sleepy and we pulled off at a country store. Little did we know that we had just been introduced to the food memory of the day. A five-minute stop turned into an hour-long one as we nibbled on cheese, bread, scones, stuffed olives, and stuffed baby red peppers (stuffed with cheese and the winner of the day). MaryAnne picked a Wensleydale cheese with cranberries in it, and I opted for the local smoked cheddar. We also bought a bit of a mango/ginger stilton.

We traveled on some narrow roads and arrived shortly thereafter at Coniston lake, where we ate more of our country store fare.

We then went to see Beatrix Potter's house but it closed shortly before we arrived (don't worry, we did hit the gift shop and made a donation in exchange for some overpriced Beatrix stories).

Since we didn't go to the house, we went on a 5-mile walk through the fields of Hawkshead and saw Tarn Hows, supposedly one of the best views in the Lake District (so said the brochure for the walk, an unbiased source, to be sure). On the walk we took eighty too many pictures of lambs, and hunger pains started to sit in for half of our group.

A few of us (Becky, Isaac, Steve, MaryAnne, me) finished the walk and consequently missed what we heard was a beautiful sunset at Lake Windermere, although we did see Tarn Hows. You can decide for yourself about the view.

My favorite memory on the walk was when we encountered dueling cows on the far side of the lake (from the vantage point of the last two pictures, and technically, in the background of the first one). They looked to be competing over a mate, and the boys were restless. The gate that we needed to get through was behind them and when the first two wrestled their way into the lake with a splash, we made our move. We crept slowly to second set of hormonal heifers (I know heifers are female, but I couldn't pass up the alliteration) and when they stirred, we cruised for the gate. MaryAnne was clutching to my arm from behind, but Isaac was long gone through the gate, and Becky felt abandoned. It was like that Seinfeld episode where George is at the little kid's birthday party and the fire alarm goes off. He tackles all of the kids on his way to the door. Okay, it wasn't like that at all, but Becky teased Isaac about it for the rest of the walk.

We finished the walk and made it to our hotel in Kendal after dark and there was zero parking. The clerk at the hotel told me that I could park by the town hall. I got lost getting there in the first place, and when I finally made it, there were three signs threating that I would be rewarded with a car boot and a hefty fine if I chose to park there. I drove back to the hotel and the clerk told me that the hotel and the town had an 'understanding,' and that I would not be assessed the fee. I asked the clerk if she had my license plate number and she told me that she didn't need it. Hmm... Stress set in. Luckily, the car was there, unbooted, in the morning. The malicious British signs stuck again! We ate at the hotel, and no one liked their food expect for Becky and me (we ordered the Red Pepper Tart). Good picking Bradley David. I wasn't always so lucky. One of my favorite things that happened at a dinner occurred the previous night at the nasty restaurant. Jonathan was the only one who ate all of his dessert, and apple pie with custard that was less than appetizing. I asked him if he liked it, and he looked down at his empty plate (he had cleaned up all of the custard and crumbs) and moaned, "it was HORRIBLE!" That's how most people felt about the food in Kendal.