It is jolly cold.
The Lake District is being visited by the Arctic winter that has been excitedly heralded in the news. Mark washed the camper van in the alley at the back of the house today, and in hardly any time at all the left-over water turned into a solidly slippery adventure, so probably the neighbours will be grumpy with us when next they try to get their cars out.
We did not go up the fell this morning. Partly this was because we had got a lot of other things to do and did not want to spend two hours rushing up a frozen mountain, but mostly it was because I am resting my knee in preparation for the bleep test tomorrow. I like the sort of sporting preparation that involves rest, if only it was all like that.
Instead of going up the mountain we chucked the dogs into the camper and went down the hill to Miller Ground, which is on the side of the lake.
We left the camper at the side of the road and went for an amble across the fields and along the path by the water’s edge.
There were sheep in the field, which was a bit of a troubling novelty for Roger Poopy, but he behaved like a four-legged saint and walked virtuously to heel all the way across. This was largely because I had pegged him down and growled at him threateningly before we set off. This unkindness makes him try very hard to redeem himself so that we love him again. It is not nice to do but better than having a dog who has to be tied to us with a bit of string.
Once we got down to the lake they both charged off excitedly, and joined in a small melee with several other dogs. This involved a great deal of barking and dashing around and jumping over one another, and they enjoyed it very much.
We thought that the water was so clear and inviting that we took our socks and boots off and went for a paddle.
The lake was filled with just-about-melted snow. The water was so cold it made my toes ache, but it was brilliant. I would have liked to swim, but in February this sort of thing is foolish without a towel and some dry clothes to hand, and so we didn’t. We remembered one of the children leaping in, fully clothed, from the end of the pier one freezing February to rescue a dropped hat. We couldn’t remember which child it was, but thought probably Lucy, who has always been the most reckless of the four, with the other three coming in very close behind.
We walked back to the camper van, and Mark took the back wheels off to do something to the brakes, and I touched up some bits on the bonnet where the paint has started to come off a bit. Then we took it home and Mark washed it and lit the fire so that it would be warm and ready for later on.
This was because we are going away in it tonight, not very long after I have finished writing to you, in fact. We are going to stay on the taxi rank for another hour or two, and then we are going to pack ourselves into the camper and head to Manchester ready for me to do tomorrow’s bleep test.
I am looking forward to having a camper van adventure but not at all to the test. My optimism is at a low ebb. I keep hoping that it will turn out all right, but I am not holding my breath. Indeed, I will probably be gasping for breath by the end of the three and a half minutes.
By this time tomorrow it will all be over, and we will all know one way or another.
Watch this space.
