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the complexities of bigamy later) but realising I wasn’t looking my best at that moment in time, thought better of it.
“Thank you . .thank you vewy much,” I mumbled awkwardly to the Swedish dentist, who still looked every inch a Scandinavian model.
Paying for the experience at reception proved more painful but I took it like a man. Expense be damned, I thought, the following day was my birthday. I would be leaving in the early hours for the Lake District. Come rain or shine (sadly, it was usually the former) I would soon be seeking the antidotes to age and the trauma of dentistry: fresh air, beautiful scenery, and healthy exercise.
True to form, when we gazed bleary-eyed at the early morning weather report, the only part of the country swathed in cloud was Cumbria – the Lake District. By the time we got there, however, it was evident that the weatherman had miscalculated. Once past Manchester, the sky opened into a vista of blue, to crown that famously green and corrugated land.
We stayed with an old school friend who produced an excellent home cooked meal to test my teeth upon, and a map to engage the other extremity, with one of his favourite walks outlined.
The Duddon Valley lies between Coniston and Eskdale and offers some of the least tourist-trodden but most breath-taking walks of the Lake District. Our journey began by car and had us dally a little longer than intended at a local tavern. The Newfield Inn at Seathwaite is, after all, the quintessential alehouse. Its ancient beams and beautiful slate floors (hewn from a local quarry at Walna Scar) ensure that its charms are not entirely lost on those of a more sober disposition. However, that is not to say many teetotallers are found in this neck of the woods either. Taking an early lunch we watched numerous aspiring and well-equipped walkers never quite make it to the exit, let alone to the scenery beyond. A ‘quick half’ too easily became ‘one more for the road’. One portly gentleman left his poor wife nursing a single sherry while he set about sampling their entire range of different beers. I left, or was forcibly dragged, as he downed a pint of Crag Rat, in as long as it had taken to pour. The beverage must have been far more palatable than its name suggested.
A sign from the road - Permitted Path - designated where each walk commenced. The barman of the pub had also been good enough to loan us a laminated map of the area. A considerate gesture, I thought, and then the word enterprising sprang to mind. Of course, by the time we returned the map we would have likely worked up a raging thirst.
Amongst foxgloves and ferns, fists of granite and gurgling streams, we trekked ever upwards. For my birthday our daughter had given me a talking pedometer. This device, clipped to the belt, counted each footstep and calculated distance walked. I was determined to rack up some very impressive figures indeed. Still, I doubt it took into account the beads of sweat hanging off my brow and the steep gradient of the climb. Occasionally too the path became very indistinct. Timely aids to navigation came in the form of other signs. Only now the wording had changed. Instead of Permitted Path, it henceforth read: Permissive Path. Well, pardon me for being pedantic in my old age but do the words Permitted and Permissive not mean something quite different? My wife noticed this too, and she needed no coaxing from me to test just how permissive this particular path was. I couldn’t blame her after one and a half-hours walking in stifling heat, and meeting no one else along the way. Off came the clothes and out came my camera.
She gambolled on ahead with all the unfettered freedom nakedness bestows. I, on the other hand, began to lag behind, dressed for the Himalayas and with the additional burden of all Carol’s clothes in my bulging rucksack. I paused for breath on a bridge and surveyed the impressive distance we had travelled. At least with my new piece of equipment, the pedometer, I reasoned we should be able to measure the accomplishment. Should I look now? I wondered impatiently. No, I’d surprise myself with the grand total at the end of the day.
Just then something moved in the swirling, crystal clear waters beneath me. It was a large brown trout. My eyes focused on him just as his seemed to fix on me.
At that moment I became lost in a compelling daydream. How wonderful it would be to retire to such a beautiful place; to sit on this riverbank with fishing rod in hand and all the time in the world; to recline there totally naked for as long as such solitude and peace prevailed – may it last forever. I leaned over for a better look, planning my strategy, where I would drop my line and how I would invite such a fine fish to dinner – my dinner. Just then a penetrating electronic bleep shattered all the tranquillity around me. I recoiled in shock; the fish darted into the shadowy depths. Buttons on my pedometer had connected with the wall of the bridge and an electronic female voice (with an immensely irritating transatlantic accent) had been summoned to speak. Like a malicious genie deep within its foul workings, she declared: “RE-SET! …YOU HAVE WALKED… ZE-RO POINT ZE-RO, ZE-RO KILOMETRES!”
There are times in life one must be philosophical. Technology and nature may never settle their differences here, nor would I have them. One very attractive quality of the Lake District is that mobile phones are less often heard or depended upon – the signal strength is too low. Long may those hills, valleys and mountains defeat our best efforts to conquer with radio masts and roads. We need our quiet corners of contemplation and adventure.
I frequently bemoan the fact that the world is becoming far too small a place for spontaneous, freestyle naturism. In recent issues we’ve documented the difficulties in such diverse destinations as North America and the Spanish Pyrenees. It certainly wasn’t expected that Carol could have walked naked at any length in England’s green and, occasionally, very pleasant land, but this is exactly what she accomplished for two full hours. When she finally did cover up it was because we heard a dog barking. As it turns out the hound was miles away, tethered to a post on a piece of farmland – his owners nowhere to be seen. “That’s it”, I finally concluded, “everyone’s gone to the pub!” When the sun went down we weren’t long in joining them. Bottoms up!
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