There is nothing like a traffic jam to take the momentum out of a roadtrip. We were heading for the Lake District but were getting there at the pace of a pilgrim. Eddy flicked through the radio stations, settling at last on a BBC4 radio play. An hour later, as the revolutionary protagonist and his capitalist enemy were both shunned by the woman they loved, we moved from second gear, to third, to fourth, and with a satisfied thud, the Nissan Almera slipped into fifth and we zoomed away, crossing the Scottish-English border for the last time.
We had been told the Lakes were like a miniature version of Scotland, but driving through the district at dusk, there was a softness there and a rotundity to the mountains entirely unlike their Scottish equivalents. We stayed the night at Ambleside, and in the morning, taking the hint, ambled up the side of the hill overlooking Lake Windermere.
It was the first day of June and the weather was beautiful. It was the kind of day you gingerly expose the pale white of your bare legs to the sun after their winter hibernation and all your senses scream 'liberation!' as you wander outside in a T-shirt.
Up the top of the hill we lazed on the grass, appreciatively absorbing the grand scene in front of us. Lake Windermere sparkled as hundreds of boats bobbed up and down. Tiny cars bustled their way up and down the sides of the lake, but for the moment where we were, everything was still and peaceful.
I'd like to say that we stayed up there all day, but unfortunately we were due to munch up some more motorway. After a lovely half hour we trotted back down the hill and hopped into the sauna formerly known as the Nissan Almera.
Our destination that day was Chester and our route took us south between Liverpool and Manchester, both of which we caught distant glimpses of.
Close to the Welsh border, Chester is a walled city. Whether it was designed so to keep the English in or keep the Welsh out, I'm unsure, but more of its wall remains intact than any other city in the UK. The main shopping strip is also one of the oldest around, though the effect is diminished a little bit by the thoroughly modern shops it now houses. I think they should be thinking a bit less House of Fraser and more Diagon Alley...
The hot weather continued the next day as we continued south via Stratford on Avon. Shakespeare’s birthplace was teeming with French school children and other tourists, and the parks were filled with people as pale as us, diligently sunning as much of themselves as possible.
Our route from there took us close to Oxford, and as Eddy’s brother Owen had arrived back in the UK a few days previously, we thought we’d see if we could track him down. His phone number wasn't working and we didn’t have his address, but on a hunch, we went to the hostel where he used to work. Eddy rang the buzzer, ‘Hi, um, I was just wondering whether Owen Thatcher was there?’
‘Come up’ said the voice without hesitation. It seemed Owen was there a lot.
From Oxford we drove to Hemel Hempstead where we were staying the night with Eddy's very accommodating cousins, Lynn and Craig. As we got our stuff out of the car we were reminded of how much had happened since we left there in November to head up to Scotland, jobless, close to broke and without a clue that our next few months would revolve around places with birds in the names.
Just goes to show what happens when you leave yourself free to venture wherever the wind blows you. As for us, a stiff westerly was brewing. The following morning we were off to Germany.
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