Favourite Places - 1 - Langdale

Above Cathedral Quarry looking over Little Langdale 

I was sitting on a hill above the Cathedral Quarry in Little Langdale, looking over the open jaws of the Cathedral to Langdale and beyond, the Helvellyn Range provided the horizon. I have been here many times before, and it always gives me a deep sense of belonging. As do so many locations within a couple of miles of Chapel Stile in Great Langdale. Slater's Bridge and the Cathdral in Little Langdale, High Close Youth Hostel, the circular walk to Skelwith Bridge and Elterwater via Colwith, the Britannia Inn, the Old and New Dungeon Ghyll pubs, Loughrigg Fell, Silver How, Elterwater Quarry and the Great Langdale Beck. It may be because I was conceived in the Langdales Hotel, when my parents honeymooned there. It is now Wainwright's Bar, part of the Langdale Estate where we have taken a week's holiday for the past 43 years.

As a young child, we visited Langdale a couple of times a year in a hired car. We had a family holiday when I was a 16-year-old at a nearby campsite on Neaum Crag. I swam in the River Brathy and made my first solo hillwalk from Silver How to Blea Rigg and the Langdale Pikes. I was down at the New Dungeon Ghyll to buy my first pint of beer in a pub before noon, and I was thirsty. 

The following year, on my first holiday with friends, we stayed at the High Close Youth Hostel. On a glorious July evening, we listened to records on the lawn where I was captivated by a girl from Leeds, and we arranged several rendezvous over the next week as we walked over the fells between hostels. 

During my university days, I visited Langdale to climb Gimmer Crag with two friends who had joined their university climbing clubs. We climbed most of the high fells, sailed in Windermere and spent a New Year at the Bowder Stone cottage and saw in the New Year with Beryl Burton. On moving to Glasgow, my journeys to Lancashire would usually involve a diversion through the Lakes, very often to Langdale to climb the fells. 

We bought a timeshare at Langdale in 1984, and on our first visit, when the children were 2 months, 2, and 3 years old, we took them on an ambitious walk up the Langdale Pikes. Gregor was strapped to Aileen, and I carried and cajoled our daughters; it was probably a bit ambitious. In the following years, they learnt to swim in the pool, climbed many of the Lakeland fells and visited all the sights as we swamped them with Beatrix Potter books and traipsed them up Wainwright hills. We have only missed two years, both owing to my work commitments. 

We watched our family grow and fledge, we walked almost every path, and visited most attractions and pubs. I climbed all the Wainwrights and hope to complete a second round soon. Aileen loved the annual week in Langdale, where we revisited favourite places like Blackwell House, Holehird Gardens, Littletown Farm in Newlands and the walks to Little Langdale and to Chesters at Skelwith Bridge. Langdale is a favourite place, where I started life; it is my all-weather playground and where my memories of life's journey tumble over each other. 

Langdales Hotel now Wainwrights

Langdale Beck by Langdales Hotel

High Close Youth Hostel

Lodge for 43 years

View from our Lodge

Happy days

Brtannia Inn

Family on Loughrigg Fell

Slater's Bridge

Poo Sticks?

Aileen on Slater's Bridge

The gate to Rydal Terrace

Grasmere from Rydal Terrace

Langdale from Loughrigg Fell

Inside the Cathedral

Langdale Pikes from the Quarry

Aileen's photo of Gregor and me on the Colwith to Skelwith Trail

British Grand Prix 1955

Stirling Moss wins in a Mercedes-Benz.

Before the Monaco Grand Prix, Max Verstappen described it as the most boring race on the calendar. He was right, although there is fierce competition from other race tracks in the Formula One multi-million-pound climate change generator. As a small boy, I had been obsessed with racing cars when Grand Prix racing was rooted in mechanical inventiveness and fearless men with moustaches. Dinky Toys provided my generation of children with models of mechanic-built cars from the 1950s, including Ferraris, Alfa Romeos, Maseratis, Coopers, Talbots, and Vanwalls. I had them all, mainly as birthday gifts or as recompense from my parents following hospital visits for childhood accidents when I was stitched up after jumping out of trees or bike crashes. 

As a treat, my father took me to the 1955 British Grand Prix at Aintree in Liverpool. It was the first time that Aintree had hosted the event. He worked on Saturday mornings, so we cycled 8 miles to his work at the Lostock Hall gasworks. I was on my new bicycle received a few months earlier on my seventh birthday. I had fitted a cyclometer and was cycling up to 200 miles a week, mainly around the housing estate but occasionally taking longer rides that were supposedly out of bounds. Dad arranged a lift with Alf Brierly, a burly lorry driver, who was delivering coke from the gas works to Ormskirk, where he dropped us at the station. 

My dad arranged with the Ormskirk station master to leave our bikes in the station waiting room. They had been transported to the station on top of the coke in Alf's lorry. A steam locomotive pulled us to the Aintree Station. The Grand Prix circuit was at the same location as the Grand National horse racing circuit owned by the formidable Mirabel Topping, who wanted to capitalise on the large crowd capacity at Aintree to generate more income. Entry was cheap to sit on the grass banks, and we found a spot on a sunny afternoon within 20 metres of the race track. We were in time to watch the warm-up laps when the cars seemed to cough and splutter around the 3-mile circuit. The mechanics were fiddling under the bonnets of the cars to tune the carburetters and pouring in petrol from large jerry cans whilst the driver's were having a last fag before the race started. Safety was a concept yet to be acknowledged in motor racing.

Fangio, the five-time world champion, and Stirling Moss were driving the works Mercedes-Benz cars and taking on the Maseratis and Ferraris that had dominated events in recent years. The silver Mercedes looked sleeker and bigger; it was German technology versus Italian flair, as the remarkable video Aintree British Grand Prix that I discovered on YouTube shows. 

For the first time that a British driver, Stirling Moss, won a British Grand Prix, although Fangio was within a couple of cars' length for the whole race. It was alleged that he allowed Moss to win; they were on good terms, unlike many of today's pairs of drivers. The next two cars were also Mercedes. Mercedes was virtually unbeatable but withdrew from Grand Prix racing at the end of the season following fatal crashes at the 24-hour Le Mans race. 

Given the number of breakdowns and pit stops for repairs of the other cars, there was plenty to watch. Dad had brought a water canteen and an aluminium sandwich box with some meat paste sandwiches in his ex-army haversack. The whole day out must have cost less than 10/-(50p) for both of us, and that included the entrance, the train fare from Ormskirk and back and the meat paste sandwiches. The ordinary public had arrived by public transport in their thousands, and we were able to walk over and see the cars and rub shoulders with the drivers at the finish of the event. It was an egalitarian event, a far cry from the cheapest tickets in Monaco that cost €2350 on the Monaco Ticket website and that would not get you within shouting distance of the grandstand, let alone the cars and drivers.

The stationmaster had kept our bikes in the waiting room, so just a 21-mile cycle home on main roads. It was more excitement for a 7-year-old, the chance to be passed on the main roads by speeding vehicles. The next day, my dinky toys were lapping around the perimeter of the rose-patterned carpet before breakfast. I didn't have a Mercedes; Dinky die-casts had not yet been made. I let the Aston Martin (22) sports car win, beating the Maserati and the Ferrari. The Grand Prix had been a grand day out, but the ride in the lorry, the steam train and the long cycle home were a part of that. And I got nearer the cars and drivers than anyone paying for the cheapest ticket in Monaco would manage. Egalite!

Stirling Moss in Mercedes-Benz

My Maserati Dinky Toy

Christmas in the Smoke

Royal Courts of Justice

For the past 43 years, I have been home at Christmas apart from two occasions when we took the family skiing to Wengen and Mottaret. This year my culinary skills were declared redundant and I ventured to London to spend Christmas with two of my children and their families. I arrived a few days early to gain some points for child-watching duties to allow some time out for busy parents. The next day I went foraging for some late presents in central London. I passed the Royal Courts of Justice where several mini-demonstrations were taking place and then succumbed to the attractions of Somerset House where the Impressionist Room in the Courtauld Institute was virtually free of other visitors. I could revel in the exhibits including some post-impressionist paintings by Roger Fry of the Bloomsbury Group. 

Shopping called and I drifted through Covent Garden and Soho and hit the crowds skedaddling along Oxford Street. I had some food at John Lewis and explored some Christmas offers before indulging myself by joining the Christmas throngs in Selfridges. Formula 1 cars mingled with Middle Eastern shoppers, who seemed non-plussed by prices as ridiculous as cryptocurrencies. I escaped and took a look at the M&S department store next door. Angela Rayner had created a stooshie by giving permission to demolish it, a listed building, but I tended to agree with her. 

It was time to buy something so I wiggled my way through Mayfair, pausing to look at the old American Embassy with the adjacent Grosvenor Square providing lots of space for demonstration, maybe the reason for the strange decision to relocate to Battersea. The bookshop in Piccadilly sated my shopping habits and I left with a good haul of books before heading back home. 

The next day, Simon had procured tickets for QPR v PNE, my first visit to Loftus Road and the first game I had seen for three years. I was pleasantly surprised by the intimate, ageing but comfortable stadium that had more atmosphere than many of the newer grounds that have been constructed in recent years. The sound system was at full volume and QPR's goalkeeper from the 1980s, Phil Parkes, was given legend status. He had been the player of the year in 1986 to the chagrin of Stan Bowles who had a stand named after him and seats installed instead. It was the year that QPR had their best-ever season, coming second in the old First Division. The game was not the best and despite PNE taking an early lead, justice was served in the second half when QPR scored a couple of goals. I have my worries about whether PNE can avoid relegation but games in the championship have random results, anyone can beat anyone and everyone can lose to everyone.

We nudged our way to Christmas day on raw cold days with visits to local attractions, the market in Herne Hill and walks around the local parks before the arrival of Gregor and Emily on Christmas Eve. They started Christmas day with the Park Run in Dulwich Park, it had its biggest-ever turnout with over a thousand runners including a couple of hundred Santa Clauses and parents running with a bigger fleet of baby buggies than in a Nursery Store. G came third but seemed content, he had not been training much and presents and bubbly were to come after a late breakfast. Meanwhile, my grandson was out pedalling the local bike trails. The excitement of a bike for Christmas is as timeless as ever,

Christmas Day morphed into Boxing Day, the day when everyone relaxes. We marched around the parks and woods, calling in for pub refreshments before eating remainders from the Christmas feast and dozing in front of the television.

We had the first slot for ice skating the next day. or Gliding as it is now termed in the sophistication of the former Battersea Power Station. The Thames was lost in a fog and I struggled to find my balance on my first foray on ice for 25 years. I used to be able to skate backwards but until my offspring escorted me for a few laps around the Glide circuit, I was dependent on staying near the boundary rail. It used to be the other way round as I pulled them around the rinks. I was told not to worry as I was the oldest person on the ice which was a double-edged insult. On my last circuit, before the siren went, progress had been made and I had my arm behind my back and leg aloft as if I was on Duddingston Loch. 

The final day of the visit was taken up by a visit to the National Trust house and gardens at Polesden Lacey in deepest Surrey. Several thousand others had the same idea but there is a 1,600-acre estate to walk around and we spent a couple of hours traipsing the walkways in the mature woodlands along the Mole Valley. The Tanner's Hatch Youth Hostel had been renovated and was being used for musical weekends. A carousel was pitched outside the house along with coffee and Greek food vans and the stables had been refurbished as a well-managed eatery. It suggested that the National Trust was more advanced in its thinking here than in many other properties that are moribund by comparison. 

My time was up as I caught the Sunday train back to Scotland. It was full to the gunnells with suitcases, buggies and baggy-eyed post-Christmas travellers. I was seated next to an elderly deaf woman who had led a remarkable life. She had taken up diving and mountaineering, where she met her deaf husband who had been a motorbike racer. As our conversations became more detailed, her Samsung phone was used so could read what I was saying and was able to respond immediately. She left the train at Newcastle to catch a local train to Northumberland to spend New Year with her daughter and family. There were no Sunday buses for the last leg home so for the first time since moving six years ago, I had to call a taxi to reach home alone for the New Year.

M&S on Oxford Street

Roger Fry, Post Impressionist -Blythburgh Estuary

Dulwich Park Run on Christmas Day

Bikes are not just for Christmas 

Formerly known as Ice Skating

Fog on the Thames, where the coal boats from the Tyne came in

 

Farewell

Remembering Aileen

View from the lair - Ben Ledi

Norrieston Church

22 November, 2024

Today we buried Aileen's ashes in the local cemetery. It had been a while since her funeral, during which time we sought to find the most suitable resting place. We had hoped to buy a lair in the Trossachs Church graveyard where we had married. It was located close to where we had lived for 34 years, but the cemetery was full and, according to the minister, the church was likely to be sold shortly. We eventually decided on the local cemetery where Aileen and I had lived for 4 years after building a house that Aileen had spec'd and adored. She loved the open skies and the views of Ben Ledi and the Campsies from the house. A lair with a view of Ben Ledi would embrace those memories. Her parents had lived in a cottage, Blairgarry, on Loch Venachar below the slopes of Ben Ledi. It was where we spent many weekends in the year before we got married, and her parents had retired to live there. We visited most weekends after the family arrived. Blairgarry had a timeless tranquillity that Aileen found calming away from the hurly-burly of working whilst raising a family.

We met with the Funeral Director and the Council cemetery officer at the lair in the well-kept village graveyard next to Norrieston Church. After lowering her casket to the ground, we took some time to reflect and silently make our farewells. Aileen was serene, selfless, honest, modest, loyal, principled, perceptive, thoughtful, dedicated to the family, mischievous and funny. She nurtured our three children, each distinctively successful in their fields. She worked successfully as an editor in two private and two public organisations, where she gained both respect and promotions. She was actively involved in playgroups, school parent committees, and school boards (she edited the Scottish Office guidance for them). She had looked after her elderly parents in their final years and was involved in the board of the local care home. She participated in book groups and even managed to read the books. She was the glue and beating heart of the wider family.

She was a francophile, and after retirement, she attended French classes at the Alliance Française. She loved the simple pleasures of conversing and travelling to villages and towns in France, soaking up the culture and glorious landscapes. In Scotland, her favourite haunts were the Isle of Coll, Edinburgh and the Torridons, Shieldaig being a very special place. She was besotted by Italy and Venice in particular, but her most magical place was Namibia, with its crystal clear air, expansive African skies and wildlife roaming free in the raw arid landscapes.

We reflected on these qualities and pleasures after leaving the cemetery. It was a cold but sunny day as we drove to some of her favourite places in the vicinity. We visited Loch Venachar and Blairgarry, Brig o' Turk, the Glen Finglas reservoir, Loch Katrine, the Duke's Pass, Aberfoyle, the woods behind Nimlah, where we had lived for 30 years, Loch Ard and the Lake of Menteith. It was a wonderful way to think about her, remember happy days and share stories. 

We had lunch in the Brig o' Turk tea room, where we had many meals when the children were young, and they were welcomed by the friendly owners. We had dinner in the Lake of Menteith Hotel on a frosty evening before Storm Bert barrelled in overnight. It snowed, and the next morning it was a tricky journey into Stirling for Eva to catch her train back to London. 

New House - to Aileen's design

Our room with a view

Nimlah - home for 30 years

Callander

Glen Finglas 

Brig o' Turk Tea Room- our local bistro

View from the Trossachs Church where we were married

Loch Katrine

Ben A'an

Home for 30 years

Ben A'an at Christmas

Super Mum - Pollock Grounds

Working Mum

On Safari, Namibia

Granny time

Celebrating a Munro Round

Last trip to Venice

Ben A'an and Loch Katrine during Covid

Loch Venachar and Ben Ledi

A Robin, with us all day