"Why, William, on that old grey stone,
The Tables Turned
Thus for the length of half a day,
Why William, sit you thus alone,
And dream your time away?"
William Wordsworth 1798
That's what we were doing, not quite in the Lake District but trapped in the towns, suffocating and choking from the degredation and loss, dreaming was part of the survival; and our literary pretentions were part of that dreaming. It was our escape to reach 
Windemere and Coniston before the Spring's end and reach it we did, in a clapped out car, carrying a tent with holes, and pitched it exactly where we wanted. It was some small fortune to be so lucky for a change.
Windemere and Coniston before the Spring's end and reach it we did, in a clapped out car, carrying a tent with holes, and pitched it exactly where we wanted. It was some small fortune to be so lucky for a change.
The air was fresh and minds were cleansed - sounds odd to say that now but it was true, in spite of the amount of cigarettes smoked and beer drank. But everybody knew that our paths may not cross again and indeed they didn't. All that was important was the literature and the symbols around us, the signs in the trees and rivers, the postures and expressions of the campers and locals in the pubs. All the signs gave us were more questions.
The Tables Turned
Up! Up! my Friend, and quit your books;
Or surely you'll grow double:
Up! Up! my Friend, and clear your looks;
Why all this toil and trouble?
William Wordsworth 1798
It is a dull and endless strife thinking of the return but the feeling of release while climbing the hills was unique and not felt again for a long time. It was probably the sense of freedom, leaving that well trodden path to Trough of Bowland at the weekends... this was different and the company was important. And what was very funny was inadvertantly seeing and meeting symbols you recognised that moved in the same circles and spoke with humour. That surely can't be matched again? The Tables had turned and what was left were the summer weeks to enjoy by the metaphorical fire, drinking mulled wine and cherry brandy, smoking in the garden and thinking of those simple pleasures lost, and a fear rose up in our breasts that the change would be calamitous.
