To Ambleside

I have finally made up my mind to post a free-verse narrative poem describing my experience walking the five or six miles over the fells from Grasmere to Ambleside. It's mostly poorly expressed stream of consciousness, but it was a good bit of fun to come up with as I was walking. Consider it an experiment. You may expect tedium and a lack of logical flow. Just don't expect anything of genius. Also, the spacing is entirely messed up because of the blog formatting. C'est la vie.


1.
Scramble up one more stone--
you know this is the path, because this
is where they put all the large rocks.
Some of the time they make the climb easier,
I suppose,
but I don't see how planning a trail to include
BOULDERS
is productive.
And the water trickles down
from stepping stone
to stepping stone,
but not enough to get my feet wet,
yet.
From these stairs in the side of the England-sized mountain
(which is to say, not large for a mountain,
but large enough to be beautiful)
I see Grasmere, still and blue
below
and about it, the town with white houses
and forest.
And above
it, the green, fern-covered, craggy fells,
whose very existence is an incentive to fly--
for the soul to fly,
if not the body.
With all these stones to step up,
flying would be a welcome
(incidentally, also glorious)
reprieve.
I stop every several steps,
in part
to calm the frantic beating of my heart,
in part
to gaze in rich pleasure at the world lying luxuriously so far below,
in part
to poetize (poorly) upon a theme I thought of
in Wordsworth's cottage garden.
"O, to have the soul of these great men--"
rubbishy stuff,
but it comes out better the second
time one sits down to it.
The rhymes come eas-
ier, for me to please
...sieze
...upon the breeze?
...as if upon the breeze.
...you sees?
I will never make a serious poet,
nor ever find a clever rhyme for hear
that fits within pentameter iamb-
ic.
Better continue to scramble up these interminable stones.

2.
Summit.
It must be, because the cairn stands here,
and here I can see Grasmere
on my left
Windermere
on my right.
And that must make those rows of houses
Ambleside.
I hope.
Better not to leave at once.
Catch your breath,
see the view,
read a Psalm (Psalm 19, to be precise--
C.S. Lewis' favorite Psalm, did you know?)
poetize some more.
Older man with a green bottle asks
about my writing.
Strange man with a beer
on the fells.
No, dear, that's a Sprite bottle.
Better take your homeschool imagination in hand
and continue on your way.
Which way down?
Does it matter? I see my direction.
Better go the way that looks best,
follow the grassy stripe that runs
most closely where I think I want to go.
Nevermind those hikers over there.

3.
Elation pure and undefiled--
that is what it means to run down
the grassy slopes of fells,
around a few more hills,
and I am alone in a pleasant wilderness,
and I wonder if this path
is much of a path after all.
Funny how damp the ground is so high up.
Lots of rain last night.
My paths seem to coincide with the paths
of impromptu streamlets.
Better to stay uphill on the spongy turf--
not just spongy because damp,
spongy, because the moss is as thick
as a feather quilt
around the blades of grass.
Buzzing, rattling noises start up
and cease
as I walk by.
I could almost believe they were rattlesnakes,
Except snakes don't live in the Lake District
[In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti,
Aaaaaameeeeeeeen
(In the most emphatic sense of the word)]
Must be crickets--
I like crickets.
You catch them by the dozens
in little plastic bug-containers
which belong to your cousin
when you are nine.
I don't know what you do with them after that.
Wandering along a narrow path through waist-high ferns,
guarded conscientiously by thistles.
Best not get too near those.
They sting later.
Squelch around a pond,
greeny-red
mossy grass, swampy,
but not too wet,
if you stay along the edges,
with a hey, down, downadowndown...
Maid Marian called by name,
did live in the wood...
Well, that won't do-
no woods up here,
well, there is one tree,
but it's scrubby and lonely
and lives in the midst of
the swampy, grassy moss,
reddy-green.
Only one tree--
did live in the wood,
of excellent worth
for she was a gallant dame.

4.
Downward tripping, wet-footed,
slipping
through the narrow fern-paths
along the little streams
Funny it should be so wet so high up.
If I follow the water, it has to lead
out of the fells somewhere--
maybe towards those woods.
I see sheep fields down below--
stone fences disecting the fells
like the paths of beetles.
May have to climb over one.
What would happen if a farmer caught me there
amid the sheep?
"Hey you, what are you doing with my sheep?"
"So sorry, I've been lost in the Fells,
is this the way to Ambleside?"
OR
"So sorry, they were just so adorable--"
No. Stupid American.
Best not make yourself look like
an imbecile city girl.
Now, is this stream running downhill or up?
Sarah, quit being dumb.
(See, I can do it too!)

5.
Finally, down low enough for trees,
and yonder lies that stand of forest betwixt myself and the town.
Close enough now to see that it's fenced in.
So you'll have to go around,
up to the ankles in thin, brown mud
at moments.
Thank God I wore a skirt
and not jeans.
Poor muddy shoes, wet every inch of them.
Round the wood now, and there's a sheep fold.
Ah! Careful!
There's a cliff in front of you--
a cliff covered in ferns,
but here's a track down.
Wet track.
Figures.
They're all wet, but at least it's the
refreshing, cool wet
with the sun beating down.
Think of that plum jacket in the museum
in Grasmere.
Wordsworth and Tennyson wore it to court.
Wordsworth and Tennyson.
The only way it could be more exciting
would be if C.S. Lewis had worn it.
Somehow, I can't see Lewis
in a plum tailcoat
and waistcoat
and trousers and stockings and buckled shoes.
Better leave Jack with his tweed suit,
a pipe, and a pint and continue on our way.
Ah! a slip, and there dies a shoestrap.
I wondered when it would break-
wondered on the streets of London when these shoes gave me blisters.
I bought them a month ago!
(But a month of walking about London,
of sheepfields and fells--
you can't blame them)
Knot it up and keep going.
No gate on the end of the fold,
and now the going's wetter.
Better not run now--
one of these treacherous, soggy shoes will twist
and pitch you into the ferns.
That would be a funny sight.
But here again is the real footpath,
after miles.
A gate into the field.
Take your time over the stones--
too large for gravel,
too small for boulders.
Bad walking, but better than wet fields.

6.
Little town where cars fly through at some unGodly rate.
Gentle cement sidewalks--
a bridge over the river,
toilets,
and a shop that sells pasties.
Good ones too-chicken, onion, and mushroom
makes a good lunch.
Better than the five pieces of
Original Grasmere Gingerbread
(the best in the world, they say!)
eaten up on the fells.
Footsore and fancy free
to roam to thoughts of clean feet,
a book,
and a bed.
A mile to the mere,
past the footpath I missed last night,
past the little lakeside park so
unsensational compared with its surroundings,
past the swan preening on the beach--
huge, downy-white, and graceful--
and the child delighted with feeding the ducks,
past the boats and the docks in the sun.
Past people eating ice cream,
all so busy and so tame compared
with the wild country above their heads.
Up the stairs and into the empty bedroom,
feet stained grey with the residue of adventure.
Wash it away in the healing stream
of cold tap water.
Lay down in bed,
lift a book off the floor,
and dream long, waking dreams.