Windermere is full of tourists.
It is only Good Friday, but already I am beginning to find them a bit tiresome.
This is an ominous sign, because Good Friday is officially only the first day of the holiday season. It is the day when the council starts charging for car parking, and taxis cost double.
It is largely thanks to the latter holiday bonus that I am out on the taxi rank and I have been here since three o’clock this afternoon.
I like the double fares but am fast becoming fed up of stupid questions, being asked in wondering tones if I really live here, and there being more cars on the road than on the M25 at rush hour.
The questions vary in their idiocy. I have no idea, for instance, where one would go for a good night out, which I am inclined to feel depends entirely on you and your companions. The venue does not make a night good or bad, unless you object to your feet sticking to the carpet, in which case I would suggest that you avoid the local nightclub. Also the lake is at the bottom of the hill. Think about it. You really should not have needed to ask. Even without the intellectual capacity to work it out, you could follow the sign with the arrow which says The Lake This Way.
Mark is not at work just yet. He has been at work all day and is now lying underneath the camper van contemplating the axle. I do not know what he is doing, some kind of preparation for our journey across the northern mountains next week, probably. I have been preparing for this myself with some pre-journey catering. We will be having pork in sweet and sour sauce, and it is marinading in the fridge as we speak, where it can stay for the weekend. It should be nicely soaked by then.
Mark was late for work this morning. That is to say, he was late setting off, although quite possibly not late arriving, because by lunchtime I had already heard stories of his high-speed overtaking all the way along the side of the lake. There are no secrets in Windermere.
We have all started being pleased to see one another when we are out and about. They are the same familiar faces that I see every single morning, and know if I am early or late depending on where I meet them. Usually we greet one another with a nod and a few words, but now we are overwhelmed by strangers, we are quite garrulous at the ridiculous pleasure of encountering one another.
I am always puzzled by the behaviour of tourists walking in the fells. For some utterly unfathomable reason they collect their dog poo in plastic bags and leave it at the side of the paths for vets to extract from cows’ stomachs later in the year. They can hardly hear the birds because they are playing music and throwing frisbees and this morning a couple of them were attempting to push a pushchair up the impossibly uneven paths. The fell at the back of our house is steep and rocky. Pushchairs are beyond stupidity, and the child in it was whingeing, impossibly, for an ice cream.
I was obliged, albeit grumpily, to cut the walk short because of the bank holiday and needing to be at work early, which did nothing for my positive attitude towards people on their holidays, and the dogs trudged back after me in disbelieving reluctance all the way home, we usually go over both fell-tops, not just one.
Once home I rushed about cooking things, because nobody is going to be at home very much over the next few days, and all meals will have to be picnics. Oliver is working even as I write, and Mark has called to say he will be out in a little while.
Already I am looking forward to the camper van, and Tuesday’s long journey north.
It will be sad to say goodbye to Oliver.
By the time we see him again he will have almost finished his GCSEs.
