Lake District Quotes

And beyond the timeless meadows and emerald pastures, the rabbit holes and moss-covered oak and rowan trees and the "slippy sloppy" houses of frogs, the woodland-scented wind rushed between the leaves and blew around the gray veil that dipped below the fells, swirling up in a mist, blurring the edges of the distant forest. (View from Windermere in the Lake District)

The fleeting hour of life of those who love the hills is quickly spent, but the hills are eternal. Always there will be the lonely ridge, the dancing beck, the silent forest; always there will be the exhilaration of the summits. These are for the seeking, and those who seek and find while there is still time will be blessed both in mind and body.

He loved the smell and feel of old books. To hold them was to touch the past.

There is no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothes.

But not even Hitler can damage the fells' In 'The Tale of Beatrix Potter, A Autobiography' by Margaret Lane, first edition, page 170.

They’d been told, several times, by colleagues … that the sea was warmer over there [abroad], and the skies bluer, and the food was like nothing you could buy in London no matter how much you spent. But none of those colleagues had done what Tony had wanted to do when he got back: grab people by the lapels and shout at them, wide-eyed, until they agreed to book tickets. Most people in England, he thought, had no idea that within a few hours they could be somewhere that would make them begrudge every single second they’d ever spent in Hastings or Shegness or the Lake District.

Seldom happier than when I'm on my own, lost in a book.

Readers came and went, only the books stayed forever.

It feels strange to be home, as if I am now just a visitor to the land that I love, no longer really a part of it. I understand for the first time that our sense of belonging is all about participation. We belong because we are part of the work of this place.

There was something she found intensely attractive about a man with a thirst for knowledge. Marc's obsessive love of books had been--she realized now--a huge part of his appeal....

It was like his code of honour. Work that needs doing should be done. Work is its own reward. Never step back from work or you look bad.

He asked what I made of the other students, so I told him. They were OK, but they were all very similar; they struggled to have different opinions because they’d never failed at anything or been nobodies, and they thought they would always win. But this isn’t most people’s experience of life. He asked me what could be done about it. I told him the answer was to send them all out for a year to do some dead-end job like working in a chicken-processing plant or spreading muck with a tractor. It would do more good than a gap year in Peru. He laughed and thought this tremendously witty. It wasn’t meant to be funny.

It is a curious thing to slowly discover that your landscape is loved by other people. It is even more curious, and a little unsettling, when you discover by stages that you as a native are not really part of the story and meaning they attach to that place.

some guy in a Morris Minor going eleven miles per hour through the Lake District and collecting a three-mile following because, apparently, he’s always wanted to lead a parade;

She says I ought to throw out at least two books for every one I buy. I had new bookshelves put up in the cottage after moving in, but already the to-be-read pile is mounting on to floor of the spare room.

When sonneteering Wordsworth re-creates the landing of Mary Queen of Scots at the mouth of the Derwent - Dear to the Loves, and to the Graces vowed, The Queen drew back the wimple that she wore - he unveils nothing less than a canvas by Rubens, baroque master of baroque masters; this is the landing of a TRAGIC Marie de Medicis. Yet so receptive was the English ear to sheep-Wordsworth's perverse 'Enough of Art' that it is not any of these works of supreme art, these master-sonnets of English literature, that are sold as picture postcards, with the text in lieu of the view, in the Lake District! it is those eternally, infernally sprightly Daffodils.

The choice for our wider society is not whether we farm, but how we farm. Do we want a countryside that is entirely shaped by industrial-scale, cheap food production with some little islands of wilderness dotted in amongst it, or do we, at least in some places, also value the traditional landscape as shaped by traditional family farms?

I didn’t know anyone in London, and I never wanted to be there. This was not how my life was meant to be, but needs must. It was as if the gods were showing me how tough everyone else’s lives were, and what I had left behind. I understood for the first time why people wanted to escape to places like the Lake District. I understood then what National Parks were for, so that people whose lives are always like this can escape and feel the wind in their hair and the sun on their faces.

The part of the Lake District that Beatrix Potter chose as her own was not only physically beautiful, it was a place in which she felt emotionally rooted as a descendant of hard-working north-country folk. The predictable routines of farm life appealed to her. There was a realism in the countryside that nurtured a deep connection. The scale of the villages was manageable. Yet the vast desolateness of the surrounding fells was awe-inspiring. It was mysterious, but easily imbued with fantasy and tamed by imagination. The sheltered lakes and fertile valleys satisfied her love of the pastoral. The hill farms and the sheep on the high fells demanded accountability. There was a longing in Beatrix Potter for association with permanence: to find a place where time moved slowly, where places remained much as she remembered them from season to season and from year to year.

Landscapes like ours were created by and survive through the efforts of nobodies. That's why I was so shocked to be given such a dead, rich, white man's version of its history at school. This is a landscape of modest, hardworking people. The real history of our landscape should be the history of the nobodies.

The first thing to realize is that it is is a country that is still being imagined. Here every patch of earth has a story, all your places have nuances; if you say Cornwall to an English person, they think of smugglers, and King Arthur and fish. But there are great parts of my country about which American's know nothing beyond an idea of unimaginable vastness. Of course the Indians that live there know the spirits of these places, but that is not the point. You can't imagine how blue the sky is out West, Charlotte. So much space. It's really wild, not like your Lake District with its little stone walls. In the West the landscape is unmarked by man.

One thing you learn in my job is that the truth is usually the last thing people want to emerge. Guilty or innocent, it doesn't matter. Everyone has something to hide.

He was never lonely, not with his books for company. Books never complained, never asked awkward questions.

However hard as I try, it keeps growing. My bibliomania is pretty acute.

[O]ccasionally the sunlight through the library windows would catch my eye, and I knew I should be out in that. I felt as if I had cut myself adrift from everything I loved.

Farming is more than the effect on the landscape: it sustains the local food industry, supports tourism, and gives people an income in places that might otherwise be abandoned.

We are, I guess, all of us, built out of stories.

When we call it ‘our’ landscape, we mean it as a physical and intellectual reality. There is nothing chosen about it. This landscape is our home and we rarely stray far from it, or endure anywhere else for long before returning. This may seem like a lack of imagination or adventure, but I don’t care. I love this place; for me it is the beginning and the end of everything, and everywhere else feels like nowhere.

This is meant to be in praise of the interval called hangover, a sadness not co-terminous with hopelessness, and the North American doubling cascade that (keep going) “this diamond lake is a photo lab” and if predicates really do propel the plot then you might see Jerusalem in a soap bubble or the appliance failures on Olive Street across these great instances, because “the complex Italians versus the basic Italians” because what does a mirror look like (when it´s not working) but birds singing a full tone higher in the sunshine. I´m going to call them Honest Eyes until I know if they are, in the interval called slam clicker, Realm of Pacific, because the second language wouldn´t let me learn it because I have heard of you for a long time occasionally because diet cards may be the recovery evergreen and there is a new benzodiazepene called Distance, anti-showmanship, anti-showmanship, anti-showmanship. I suppose a broken window is not symbolic unless symbolic means broken, which I think it sorta does, and when the phone jangles what´s more radical, the snow or the tires, and what does the Bible say about metal fatigue and why do mothers carry big scratched-up sunglasses in their purses. Hello to the era of going to the store to buy more ice because we are running out. Hello to feelings that arrive unintroduced. Hello to the nonfunctional sprig of parsley and the game of finding meaning in coincidence. Because there is a second mind in the margins of the used book because Judas Priest (source: Firestone Library) sang a song called Stained Class, because this world is 66% Then and 33% Now, and if you wake up thinking “feeling is a skill now” or “even this glass of water seems complicated now” and a phrase from a men´s magazine (like single-district cognac) rings and rings in your neck, then let the consequent misunderstandings (let the changer love the changed) wobble on heartbreakingly nu legs into this street-legal nonfiction, into this good world, this warm place that I love with all my heart, anti-showmanship, anti-showmanship, anti-showmanship.

Then what’s time for?” asked Lenina in some astonishment. Apparently, for going on walks in the Lake District; for that was what he now proposed. Land on the top of Skiddaw and walk for a couple of hours in the heather. “Alone with you, Lenina.” “But, Bernard, we shall be alone all night.” Bernard blushed and looked away. “I meant, alone for talking,” he mumbled. “Talking? But what about?” Walking and talking—that seemed a very odd way of spending an afternoon.

Whatever the reasons, we never allow anyone else to know the whole of our personal history. I suppose we're afraid of what they might think of us. But there's more to it than that. We are terrified of what they might do with the knowledge.

Other books depended less on personal contacts than on certain abiding concerns. Early in his career, Dreiser had become interested in a crime that he saw as a dark version of the American success motif: the murder of a woman who stood in the way of her lover’s dreams of social and material advancement through a more advantageous marriage. For An American Tragedy (1925) he investigated numerous case histories, many of them sensational murders involving well-known figures such as Roland Molineux and Harry Thaw. He finally settled on the 1906 Chester Gillette trial for the murder of Grace Brown that occurred in the lake district of upstate New York. The novel benefited from the popular interest in criminal biography, a form to which Dreiser’s masterpiece gave new life as the progenitor of documentary novels of crime such as Richard Wright’s Native Son, Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood, and Norman Mailer’s The Executioner’s Song. The Cambridge Companion to Theodore Dreiser

This crappy, mean, broken-down school took five years of my life. I'd be mad, but for the fact that it taught me more about who I was than anything else I have ever done. It also made me think that modern life is rubbish for so many people. How few choices it gives them. How it lays out in front of them a future that bored most of them so much they couldn't wait to get smashed out of their heads each weekend. How little most people are believed in, and how much it asks of so many people for so little in return.

I returned to New Orleans and my problems with pari-mutuel windows and a dark-haired, milk-skinned wife from Martinique who went home with men from the Garden District while I was passed out in a houseboat on Lake Pontchartrain, the downdraft of U.S. Army helicopters flattening a plain of elephant grass in my dreams.

He turned out the lamps and walked down to his bedroom. He had no preliminary sketch of an idea, not a scrap, not even a hunch, and he would not find it by sitting at the piano and frowning hard. It could come only in its own time. He knew from experience that the best he could do was relax, step back, while remaining alert and receptive. He would have to take a long walk in the country, or even a series of long walks. He needed mountains, big skies. The Lake District, perhaps. The best ideas caught him by surprise at the end of twenty miles, when his mind was elsewhere. In bed at last, lying on his back in total darkness, taut, resonating from mental effort, he saw jagged rods of primary color streak across his retina, then fold and writhe into sunbursts.

I was discovering something about the wider world—that you could shape your own fate to a much greater degree than I’d ever experienced. If you read more, worked harder, thought things through smartly, or wrote or argued better than other people, you won. For a while I found this newfound freedom quite exciting and liberating. I found it a bit of a buzz just to be good at something, something that was nothing to do with my family or our farm, or anyone else except me.

So what did Amalfitano's students learn? They learned to recite aloud. They memorized the two or three poems they loved most in order to remember them and recite them at the proper times: funerals, weddings, moments of solitude. They learned that a book was a labyrinth and a desert. That there was nothing more important than ceaseless reading and traveling, perhaps one and the same thing. That when books were read, writers were released from the souls of stones, which is where they went to live after they died, and they moved into the souls of readers as if into a soft prison cell, a cell that later swelled or burst. That all writing systems are frauds. That true poetry resides between the abyss and misfortune and that the grand highway of selfless acts, of the elegance of eyes and the fate of Marcabrú, passes near its abode. That the main lesson of literature was courage, a rare courage like a stone well in the middle of a lake district, like a whirlwind and a mirror. That reading wasn't more comfortable than writing. That by reading one learned to question and remember. That memory was love.

And then we do it all again, just as our forefathers did before us. It is a farming pattern, fundamentally unchanged from many centuries ago. It has changed in scale (as farms have amalgamated to survive, so there are fewer us of ) but not in its basic content. You could bring a Viking man to stand on our fell with me and he would understand what we were doing and the basic pattern of our farming year. The timing of each task varies depending on the different valleys and farms. Things are driven by the seasons and necessity, but not our will." (p. 32)

When Flora got married, she was fourteen. Now she has three kids and the village wells are dry and the nearest reliable water source is a two-hour walk from her home. Here in the Funhalouro District adolescent moms like Flora spend about six hours a day searching for and transporting water. Yesterday she walked three hours to harvest water lilies from a lake so her kids would have something to eat. And what do our most enlightened leaders suggest we do? Switch to e-billing. Buy three LED bulbs and get a free tote bag. Earth has eight billion people to feed and the extinction rate is a thousand times higher than it was at pre-human levels. This is not something we fix with tote bags. Bishop

this thing—his thing—still well and alive inside me. # I dreamed of clawed hooks and sexual abandon. Faces covered in leather masks and eyeliner so dark I could only see black. Here the monsters would come alive, but not the kind you have come to expect. I watched myself as if I were outside my own flesh, free from the imprisonment of bone and conscience. Swollen belly stretch-marked and ugly; my hair tethered and my skin vulnerable. Earthquake beats blared from the DJ booth as terrible looking bodies thrashed, moshed and convulsed. Alone, so alone. Peter definitely gone, no more tears left but the ones that were to come from agony. She was above me again, Dark Princess, raging beauty queen, and I was hers to control. The ultimate succession into human suspension. Like I’d already learned: the body is the final canvas. There is no difference between love and pain. They are the same hopeless obsession. The hooks dived, my legs opened and my back arched. Blood misted my face; pussy juice slicked my inner thigh as my water suddenly broke. # The next night I had to get to the club. 4 A.M. is a time that never lets me down; it knows why I have nightmares, and why I want to suspend myself above them. L train lunacies berated me once again, but this time I noticed the people as if under a different light. They were all rather sad, gaunt and bleary. Their faces were to be pitied and their hands kept shaking, their legs jittering for another quick fix. No matter how much the deranged governments of New York City have cleaned up the boroughs, they can’t rid us of our flavor. The Meatpacking District was scarily alive. Darkness laced with sizzling urban neon. Regret stitched up in the night like a black silk blanket. The High Line Park gloomed above me with trespassers and graffiti maestros. I was envious of their creative freedom, their passion, and their drive. They had to do what they were doing, had to create. There was just no other acceptable life than that. I was inside fast, my memories of Peter fleeting and the ache within me about to be cast off. Stage left, stage right, it didn’t matter. I passed the first check point with ease, as if they already knew the click of my heels, the way my protruding stomach curved through my lace cardigan. She found me, or I found her, and we didn’t exchange any words, any warnings. It was time. Face up, legs open, and this time I’d be flying like Superman, but upside down. There were many hands, many faces, but no

To her, it was an article of faith: any woman with talent owes it to herself, and to her gender, to make the most of her potential.

Like a modern counterpart of a tightly-corseted Victorian, she needed to unbutton herself, learn the act of relaxation.

For Marc, books were objects of beauty, to be loved, not just read.

Gets blamed for a lot of things, does the weather. Convenient scapegoat, if you ask me.

Fantastique, ‘Dream of a Witches’ Sabbat’. “Though

No problem,’ said the girl. ‘If Melanie’s okay with it. Didn’t she say she’d be in tomorrow?’ ‘So she did. I forgot. Well, it can be quite busy on a Saturday. She’ll find plenty for you to do. There’s a whole lot to learn about stock rotation, and how different sorts of flowers need to be kept. But if you can’t make it, don’t worry.’ ‘No problem,’ said the girl again.

If you’re looking for good Mexican food in Vegas, you go to the Arts District. Jonesing for stupidly overpriced jeans or a rhine- stone T-shirt? The Fashion Show Mall has you covered. How about some quiet contemplation over that lost trust fund? Lake Mead’s your man. Maybe getting stabbed, shot, or beaten to death is your thing, so head on up to North Vegas. But, if you’re looking for a snapshot of city history, a reasonably affordable libation, and the rare sensation of getting squeezed through a kaleidoscope’s poop chute, then you can’t beat Fremont.

Working up these mountains is as good as it gets, at least as long as you are not freezing or sodden (though even then you feel alive in ways that I don’t in modern life behind glass). There is a thrill in the timelessness up there. I have always liked the feeling of carrying on something bigger than me, something that stretches back through other hands and other eyes into the depths of time. To work there is a humbling thing, the opposite of conquering a mountain, if you like; it liberates you from any illusion of self-importance.

My heart aches because I know that in my new life I am divorced from the changing of days and the seasons.

Leaving the farm is supposed to push you into having another life, but my leaving had just made me realize that the farm was the beginning and end of everything for me.

I have seen the tourism market shift over the last ten years with greater value attached to the culture of places, seen people growing sick of plastic phoniness and genuinely wanting to experience places and people that do different things. I see how bored we have grown of ourselves in the modern Western world and how people can fight back and shape their futures using their history as an advantage not an obligation.

costs nothing, but works wonders for oiling the cogs of social exchange.

If he were writing about this tiny triangle of South-West Lake District, Rowan would use the phrase "sleepy" or "picture-postcard" - rummaging around in the crumbs at the bottom of his bag of journalistic cliches for the simplest way to get the right picture into a reader's head. In truth, this little straggle of cottages and barns is well past sleepy. It's asleep to the point of coma. If it had nostrils, Rowan would be tempted to use a mirror to check for breath

Later mum had a fridge magnet that said 'Dull women have immaculate homes

She didn't really understand our world [and] lived with the unquestioning belief that these things were foolishness and fancies, the rubbish of now. So she taught us good rules that no longer made sense.

I'm not just a grandson, I am the one that carries on his life's work, I am the thread that goes on to the future. He lives in me. His voice. His values. His stories. His farm. These things are carried forwards.

Yet the wee ponds that compose the Lake District would disappear into Lakeland like a twist of lemon in a cup of Earl Grey.

The lake district's rain was the price you paid to live amongst such beauty.

We'll do it all again next weekend", he said recklessly. "I could get used to this". "No we won't. I am happy to explore with you now and then, but I am not making four miles hikes a weekly routine" she protested.

Jaded! With all this around us". He waved an all- embracing arm at the pikes and fells and howes on every side. "We would never see a hundredth of it if we went out every Sunday for the next ten years".

She met Bonnie's eyes with her own surge of admiration. Everything she knew or suspected about the girl was swamped by a sense that here was a very special person, with talents in abundance. Her understanding of human complications had doubtless been gained through hard experience, giving her a core of steel beneath her fragile exterior. At the same time, this was balanced by an alarming tendency to ignore authority, to march into situations that she couldn't control and to lie her way out of trouble if it suited her.

Ben...hadn't known fear or despair or loss of control in his comfortable middle-class family. Bonnie could teach him a lot that was missing from his character. And he could give her a degree of stability and confidence. Knowing it was sentimental, Simmy nonetheless felt that this was a perfect match, which she would do well to safeguard to the best of her ability. Ben would teach Bonnie to tread more carefully and to think more logically. Each would help the other to grow up.

It made no sense to live in Cumbria and fail to make full use of the opportunities it provided.

By the time I feel tired enough to go up to bed, I could easily have told you how long you need to cook a three-bed semi in the Lake District to get the right consistency, and exactly how large a mortgage you should be paying on a chocolate and maraschino cake with excellent views of Windermere.

Muistan kuinka "ministeriön" (maatalousministeriön) virkamiehet tulivat puhumaan hänelle heinäpeltojemme "biodiversiteetistä" ja siitä, mitä he olettivat hänen tekevän kukkien ja lintujen hyväksi vastineeksi tukiaisista. He katselivat puolentoista tunnin ajan, miten hän nyökkäili kaikelle ja oli kaikesta samaa mieltä, minkä jälkeen he lähtivät pois ja minä kysyin, mitä he oikein tahtoivat. Hän sanoi: "Ei aavistustakaan... Tuon lajin pellejen kanssa pitää toimia niin, että vastataan kaikkeen kyllä, ja kun he ovat menneet, jatketaan vanhaan malliin.

Meidät oli lähetetty jonottamaan opinto-ohjaajan oven taakse ja saamaan häneltä ammattiapua tulevaisuutemme suhteen. Hän oli erittäin ylpeä tietokoneensa uraohjelmasta ja esitti minulle sarjan monivalintakysymyksiä. Naputti vastaukset yhdellä sormella. Haluatko työskennellä sisällä vai ulkona? Ulkona. Haluatko työskennellä eläinten vai ihmisten parissa? Jne. Kun tätä oli kestänyt varttitunnin, tietokone alkoi täristä ja sylkäisi pian paperin. Sen mukaan minusta pitäisi tulla "ELÄINTARHAN HOITAJA". Kuten isä asiasta kuullessaan totesi: "Jumalauta! Helvetin ääliöt." Sitten hän hytkyi naurusta eikä saanut sitä loppumaan millään.

Far below him, the River Lune wound its serpentine curves across the wide flood plane: beneath the clear September sky the water shone blue, flowing out to Morecambe Bay, whose golden sands gleamed palely in the western distance. On the opposite side of the valley the ground rose in a series of ridges, wooded in places, but in the main showing the chequered carpet of farm land: intense green of the fog grass in the rich rivers dales, pale gold of stubble on the higher levels, blue-green of unharvested kale and mangold crops, lighter green of pasture. The sun caught the stone farm buildings of the hamlet of Gressthwaite, half hidden among the trees mid-way up the slope across the river. Far beyond to the north, the blue hills of the Lake District stood out clear against the sky - Scafell, the Langdale Pikes, and Helvellyn. Staple had climbed them all, and he knew every ridge and notch of the blue outlines. Behind him, on the farther side of the wall, the fell was clothed in heather, its fragrance heavy with the sweetness of honey. At his feet the rough pasture, in which bracken and bramble and bilberry mingled, sloped down to the richer pasture of the lower levels. Staple stood very still, his hands gripping his stick, enjoying the keen wind which whistled round him, in his ears the call of peewits and curlews, while his grey eyes dwelt lovingly on the rich valley and embracing hills. His mind was not given to formulating his thoughts in explicit words, and it would have been alien to him to express the facile enthusiasm of the more vocal southern Englishman, but he was conscious of some warmth of comfort which dwelt in the wide prospect, of an unchanging certainty in an unstable and changing world.

Said Mr Jefferson: ‘It wd. have given us time.’ ‘modern dress for your statue… ‘I remember having written you while Congress sat at Annapolis, ‘on water communication between ours and the western country, ‘particularly the information…of the plain between ‘Big Beaver and Cuyahoga, which made me hope that a canal ‘…navigation of Lake Erie and the Ohio. You must have had ‘occasion of getting better information on this subject ‘and if you wd. oblige me ‘by a communication of it. I consider this canal, ‘if practicable, as a very important work. T. J. to General Washington, 1787 …no slaves north of Maryland district… …flower found in Connecticut that vegetates when suspended in air…. …screw more effectual if placed below surface of water. Those details at the opening of canto 31 are all, apart from the Latin lines, from the historical record, mostly from the ‘ten fat volumes’ of The Writings of Thomas Jefferson which Eliot had been given by his father and had passed on to Pound.

Like his rival Brigham Young, Strang took multiple wives, including one who dressed as a man in a black coat and stovepipe hat, called herself Charles Douglas and claimed to be Strang’s “personal assistant.” During his six-year reign Strang survived a naval battle with mainlanders as well as a trip to U.S. District Court in Detroit, where he was accused of counterfeiting, piracy, and interfering with the mail and murder, among other charges. “He talked to that jury and his tongue was like silver. And that jury believed him and said, ‘Not Guilty’ to all charges against him,” Smith recalled. “King James came back to Beaver Island more full of himself than ever, even the U.S. Government couldn’t beat him.” But the man Smith called a “cocky little tyrant” was not all trouble. He had so many followers in his church—up to 12,000 at its peak—that he was able to get elected to the Michigan Assembly in Lansing, where by all accounts he acquitted himself well as a lawmaker. He established a newspaper. He was

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Looking for a fun day out in the Lake District? An exhilarating double date night? Planning a birthday treat for a thrill seeker? Or just fancy an exhilarating experience to spice up your weekend? Where better to get out on the water and have fun than England’s biggest lake, Lake Windermere?

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For a fun day out in the Lake District come & try Wakeboarding, Wakesurfing & Paddleboarding on Lake Windermere, or experience Windermere from the lake in our Malibu Wakesetter. Charter by the hour for a luxury sunset cruise on the lake.

For a fun day out in the Lake District come and try Wakeboarding, Wakesurfing and Paddleboarding on Lake Windermere, or experience Windermere from the lake in our Malibu Wakesetter. Charter by the hour for a luxury sunset cruise on the lake.

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If you could not picture what people endured, how could you figure out what drove them to crime?

A ri away from the port, at the end of Merchant’s Lane, was the Flower District. By day, the brothels here were inconspicuous enough to pass for private houses. But when night dropped its mysterious veil and the moon’s shine reflected in the sake cups, the red lanterns in front of the shops flared joyfully, and dark-eyed beauties appeared through open windows. They beckoned the customers who held heavy purses to join them for a night of pleasure. And then, there was the Yoshiwara Iris.

Unmistakably, the wild land of the Lake District acted for good upon Coleridge. As he moved between the crags and cataracts, over the fells and the moors, and through the pathless wilds, a sense of joy - joy, the 'beautiful and beauty-making power' as he had longingly called it during the dark spring of 1802 - began to seep back into him. Walking over soft mossy ground on the slopes of Red Pike - 'a dolphin-shaped Peak of a deep red' that rises to the south-west of Buttermere - he gave 'many a hop, skip, & jump'. Up on the mountains that year, he found not the 'Darkness & Dimness & a bewildering Shame, and Pain that is utterly Lord over us' which had characterised his depression, but instead, a 'fantastic Pleasure, that draws the Soul along swimming through the air in many shapes, even as a Flight of Starlings in a Wind!

The next stage is a hornfels, a thoroughly recrystallized rock, so named after its supposed resemblance to animal horn. Hornfels has one rather unexpected quality—when suitably shaped, it can produce beautiful musical notes when struck. Indeed, it took central place in an extraordinary narrative of the English Lake District. An eccentric 18th-century inventor, Peter Crosthwaite—a fighter against Malay pirates in his youth and, later in life, the founder of a museum in the town of Keswick—built a kind of xylophone using hornfels from the local Skiddaw mountain. Half a century later, the Keswick stone-maker and musician Joseph Richardson determined to top Crosthwaite’s achievement, and almost ruined his family financially by building an even bigger instrument, which would produce a larger range of musical notes. Once built, though, it was indeed a sensation. Richardson toured England for three years with his sons, playing Handel, Mozart, and dance tunes on his rock creation—though at times restraining the power of the instrument so it would not shatter concert hall windows. Queen Victoria liked the performances so much that she requested extra concerts (although reports from the time do suggest that she was not amused at its imitation of Alpine bells). The harmonious hornfels ‘lithophones’ may still be seen in the Keswick museum—and are to this day occasionally taken on musical tour.

Jeremy George Lake Charles Healthy Living Sports Americans have adopted a healthy lifestyle that includes regular physical activity and good nutrition. While attention to healthy living has long been the norm in professional sports, the emphasis on nutrition has trickled down to high school. Jeremy George Lake Charles Coaches and sports administrators who educate their athletes about healthy lifestyles and choices are taking proactive steps to lead programs to excellence. Intramural sports programs offer team-oriented recreational fitness opportunities for service members to keep fit. The district sports motivators, formerly known as sports liaison officers, are charged with motivating people of all ages to exercise and become more physically active. Children who exercise are more likely to benefit from their abilities and keep active, rather than sit and get bored, which keeps them active, and children who regularly watch their parents exercise and exercise are also more likely to do so, their trainers say. Jeremy George Lake Charles Through sport, children learn important lessons from their lives, which enable them to maintain a healthy lifestyle as adults. Maintaining the body to exercise allows children to develop healthy habits that last a lifetime. You need to have knowledge of the body and ways to improve your condition in order to remain active. Administrators and coaches who emphasize the connection between healthy living and sporting expectations can help their students - athletes understand the importance of healthy choices. However, the best way to make better decisions is to exercise, especially in sports camps. Exercise can make you healthier and happier, whether you exercise or not.

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The idea that we, our fathers and mothers, might be proud, hard-working and intelligent people doing something worthwhile, or even admirable, seemed to be beyond her. For a woman who saw success as being demonstrated through education, ambition, adventure and conspicuous professional achievement, we must have seemed a poor sample. I don't think anyone ever mentioned "university" in this school; no one wanted to go anyway - people that went away ceased to belong; they changed and could never really come back, we knew that in our bones. Schooling was a "way out", but we didn't want it, and we'd made our choice. Later I would understand that modern industrial communities are obsessed with the importance of "going somewhere" and "doing something with your life". The implication is an idea I have come to hate, that staying local and doing physical work doesn't count for much.

The whole landscape here is a complex web of relationships between farms, flocks and families. My old man can hardly spell common words, but has an encyclopaedic knowledge of landscape. I think it makes a mockery of conventional ideas about who is and isn't 'intelligent'. Some of the smartest people I have ever known are semi-literate.

Life coming out of a death, he'd told her, is the most potent myth of all.

Done to death by books? There were worse ways to go, even if you weren't a bibliophile.

the entire history of our family has played out in the fields and villages stretching away beneath that fell, between Lake District and Pennines, for at least six centuries, and probably longer. We shaped this landscape, and we were shaped by it in turn. My people lived, worked, and died down there for countless generations. It is what it is because of them and people like them. It is, above all, a peopled landscape. Every acre of it has been defined by the actions of men and women over the past ten thousand years. Even the mountains were mined and quarried, and the seemingly wild woodland behind us was once intensively harvested and coppiced. Almost everyone I am related to and care about lives within sight of that fell. When we call it our landscape, we mean it as a physical and intellectual reality.

Neither of these men cared remotely about “maximizing profit” in the short-term in the way a modern business person in a city would; they both valued their good names and their reputations for integrity far more highly than making a quick buck. If you said you would do a thing, you’d better do it. My grandfather and father would go out of their way to do good deeds for their neighbours because goodwill counted for a lot. If anyone bought a sheep from us and had the slightest complaint about it, we took it back and repaid them or replaced it with another. And most people did the same.

Sweden’s capital is an expansive and peaceful place for solo travellers. It is made up of 14 islands, connected by 50 bridges all within Lake Mälaren which flows out into to the Baltic Sea. Several main districts encompass islands and are connected by Stockholm’s bridges. Norrmalm is the main business area and includes the train station, hotels, theatres and shopping. Őstermalm is more upmarket and has wide spaces that includes forest. Kungsholmen is a relaxed neighbourhood on an island on the west of the city. It has a good natural beach and is popular with bathers. In addition to the city of 14 islands, the Stockholm Archipelago is made up of 24,000 islands spread through with small towns, old forts and an occasional resort. Ekero, to the east of the city, is the only Swedish area to have two UNESCO World Heritage sites – the royal palace of Drottningholm, and the Viking village of Birka. Stockholm probably grew from origins as a place of safety – with so many islands it allowed early people to isolate themselves from invaders. The earliest fort on any of the islands stretches back to the 13th century. Today the city has architecture dating from that time. In addition, it didn’t suffer the bombing raids that beset other European cities, and much of the old architecture is untouched. Getting around the city is relatively easy by metro and bus. There are also pay‐as‐you‐go Stockholm City Bikes. The metro and buses travel out to most of the islands, but there are also hop on, hop off boat tours. It is well worth taking a trip through the broad and spacious archipelago, which stretches 80 kms out from the city. Please note that taxis are expensive and, to make matters worse, the taxi industry has been deregulated leading to visitors unwittingly paying extortionate rates. A yellow sticker on the back window of each car will tell you the maximum price that the driver will charge therefore, if you have a choice of taxis, choose

I consider myself a student of colours and shades and hues and tints. Crimson lake, burnt umber, ultramarine … I was too clumsy as a child to paint with my moistened brush the scenery that I would have liked to bring into being. I preferred to leave untouched in their white metallic surroundings my rows of powdery rectangles of water-colours, to read aloud one after another of the tiny printed names of the coloured rectangles, and to let each colour seem to soak into each word of its name or even into each syllable of each word of each name so that I could afterwards call to mind an exact shade or hue from an image of no more than black letters on a white ground. Deep cadmium, geranium lake, imperial purple, parchment … after the last of our children had found employment and had moved out of our home, my wife and I were able to buy for ourselves things that had previously been beyond our means. I bought my first such luxury, as I called it, in a shop selling artists’ supplies. I bought there a complete set of coloured pencils made by a famous maker of pencils in England: a hundred and twenty pencils, each stamped with gold lettering along its side and having at its end a perfectly tapered wick. The collection of pencils is behind me as I write these words. It rests near the jars of glass marbles and the kaleidoscope mentioned earlier. None of the pencils has ever been used in the way that most pencils are used, but I have sometimes used the many-striped collection in order to confirm my suspicion as a child that each of what I called my long-lost moods might be recollected and, perhaps, preserved if only I could look again at the precise shade or hue that had become connected with the mood – that had absorbed, as it were, or had been permeated with, one or more of the indefinable qualities that constitute what is called a mood or a state of feeling. During the weeks since I first wrote in the earlier pages of this report about the windows in the church of white stone, I have spent every day an increasing amount of time in moving my pencils to and fro among the hollow spaces allotted to them in their container. I seem to recall that I tried sometimes, many years ago, to move my glass marbles from place to place on the carpet near my desk with the vague hope that some or another chance arrangement of them would restore to me some previously irretrievable mood. The marbles, however, were too variously coloured, and each differed too markedly from the other. Their colours seemed to vie, to compete. Or, a single marble might suggest more than I was in search of: a whole afternoon in my childhood or a row of trees in a backyard when I had wanted back only a certain few moments when my face was brushed by a certain few leaves. Among the pencils are many differing only subtly from their neighbours. Six at least I might have called simply red if I had not learned long ago their true names. With these six, and with still others from each side of them, I often arrange one after another of many possible sequences, hoping to see in the conjectured space between some or another unlikely pair a certain tint that I have wanted for long to see.

The Scottish Prisoner (novel)—This one’s set in 1760, in the Lake District, London, and Ireland. A sort of hybrid novel, it’s divided evenly between Jamie Fraser and Lord John Grey, who are recounting their different perspectives in a tale of politics, corruption, murder, opium dreams, horses, and illegitimate sons

...seeing, understanding, and respecting people in their own landscape is crucial to their culture and way of life being sustained and valued. What you don't see you don't care about.

Hitler looked at me with gleaming, feverish eyes: "Do you know, Skorzeny, if the energy and radioactivity released through nuclear fission were used as a weapon, that would mean the end of our planet?" "The effects would be frightful..." "Naturally! Even if the radioactivity were controlled and then nuclear fission used as a weapon, the effects would still he horrible! When Dr. Todt was with me, I read that such a device with controlled radioactivity would release energy that would leave behind devastation which could only be compared with the meteors that fell in Arizona and near Lake Baykal in Siberia. That means that every form of life, not only human, but animal and plant life as well, would be totally extinguished for hundreds of years within a fadius of forty kilometers. That would be the apocalypse. And how could one keep such a secret? Impossible! No! No country, no group of civilized men can consciously accept such a responsibility. From strike to counterstrike humanity would inevitably exterminate itself. Only tribes in the Amazon district and in the jungles of Sumatra would have a certain chance of surviving." These marginal notes by Hitler lasted scarcely more than a few minutes, but I remember those minutes precisely. At the beginning of my time as a prisoner of war, in August 1945, I heard that two atomic bombs were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Unnecessary bombs, by the way, for the Japanese emperor had already asked the Americans for their peace terms. While a prisoner American officers constantly asked me the same question, "How did you bring Hitler out of Berlin at the end of April 1945 and where have you hidden him?" I can still see the consternated expressions of the American officer before me, when, disgusted with the question, I answered: "Adolf Hitler is dead, but he was right when he said that you and I would be the survivors of the Amazon.

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Things happened – unexpected, horrendous, life-changing things – but what was important was how we picked ourselves up after them, made our peace and moved on.