Alright?
The vacation is finally over. As you read this, rather than a walk in The Lakes, I’ll be stumbling through my first week back in Korea, blinking at my students through jet-lagged eyes.
Music for this post? On the walking theme, try this piece of pop perfection:
While the kids were off at summer camp, skimming stones at swans or smacking each other with canoe paddles (among other wholesome fare), I took the chance to go for a walk in The Lakes.
My parents have lived on the edge of the Lake District for almost seventy years. When I’m not in Korea, this is where I skulk. For my overseas readers unfamiliar with the UK:
What is the Lake District famous for?
Aside from the lakes and mountains, it’s also famous for Peter Rabbit and some guy called Wordsworth? No, me neither.
As soon as we could walk, my dad dragged my sisters and me up the mountains every other weekend.
For those of you with better memories than mine, yes, it’s where my novel Nicksgate (coming soon) is set.
What is the most unusual thing about the Lake District?
I think I really came to appreciate the place after I read The Lord of the Rings in my teens. With its lonely peaks, ancient slate quarries and dark tunnels, it has something of the Mines of Moria about it.
But now the tourists have taken the role of the hordes of Mordor.
Is the Lake District, UK worth visiting?
Yes, of course I’m biased, but it’s one of the prettiest places in the country.
We’ve always had some tourism in The Lakes, but overall, those in the South (where most of the population live) rarely ventured up this way, seeking sunnier climes abroad.
Most Londoners would look at a map of Britain and consider anything north of Watford to be dark, satanic mills, burnt-out cars, & dragons.
But in the last ten years, things have changed.
UNESCO set the shit-wagon trundling downhill in 2017 by pointlessly designating the Lake District a World Heritage Site.
More tourists came.
Then the Covid pandemic meant people couldn’t holiday abroad, which led to The Lakes being ‘discovered’ by the rest of Britain.
Even more orcs, sorry, tourists.
And since the Ukraine war, the cost-of-living crisis has locked many people into holidaying at home instead of heading to the continent.
Yep, tourist-ageddon.
Now we even have the likes of Taylor Swift stopping by. Never a good sign.
Where did Taylor Swift go in the Lake District?
Apparently, she went to Bowness and The World of Peter Rabbit, two of the most overcrowded tourist traps we have.
She even wrote about the Lake District in her song The Lakes :
“Take me to the lakes, where all the poets went to die
“Those Windermere peaks look like a perfect place to cry.”
I must admit I’ve had a good weep up there from time to time. Usually over the car parking fees.
When I began my hike, I parked a mile from the trailhead; I didn’t even bother trying to get closer. These days, car parks in popular areas are usually crammed. When they’re full, people park anywhere, blocking narrow country lanes with SUVs or turning verges into quagmires.
In May, a farmer (and incidentally, a relation of one of my subscribers) had had enough. He showered a line of cars illegally parked on his fields with cow manure.
Good for him.
Further up the mountain, I encountered these bags of stones. They helicopter them in to repair the trails that gradually widen into muddy motorways due to the overwhelming number of people using them.
As my dad would often say, ‘It’s like bloody Blackpool up there.’
These days, especially in the summer, he’s not far wrong.
Rant over. Back to the hike.
I took a path less travelled and explored the old copper mines, chucking rocks down shafts to hear them crash down level after level into the deep (I love dark places, there must be a bit of goblin blood in me).
Eventually, I found myself on top of Coniston Old Man, probably the most popular peak in The Lake District. After a Lancashire Cheese sandwich (my fave), I started down the main track back to Coniston. I usually avoid this tourist trail, but it prompted a memory of the last time I was here, twenty years ago.
My mate Andy and I had decided to hike the mountain at midnight, starting from the last car park.
I imagine the residents of Coniston were perplexed by the headlights slowly climbing the mountain.
‘Must be the Mountain Rescue Land Rover, that far up.’
Wrong. It was us, in our Fiat Uno.
Being the only vehicle on the mountain at that hour, we had missed the car park. The road became a track, then a trail. When it became 20% and a collection of boulders decorated with mud, the engine screaming at us, we finally cottoned on.
Back to the present day. One of the highlights of descending the mountain via the most popular hiking trail in the Lake District was encountering all the woefully unprepared day-trippers on their way up.
Coniston Old Man is a relatively straightforward hike (for the experienced), perhaps a little steep in some sections, but it’s still a minimum 4-hour round trip for most, and certainly not the pleasant stroll most of these visitors envisage.
Flip-flops, pushchairs, people with no water, people dressed for afternoon tea at the Savoy — I saw it all.
As I passed Low Water tarn, a large, sweat-soaked, sun-burned man asked,
‘Have you just come down? How far to the top from here?’
I told him 40 minutes.
As he wheezed away, I wished I’d doubled my estimate; or even dissuaded him. Oh well, at least we still have an air ambulance in the area, I thought.
I’ve mentioned before how much I hate the sun. It was a hot day, so of course I’d brought my parasol.
The parasol drew a few raised eyebrows; it appeared I was the only one on the mountain who’d brought one.
Fools.
I’ve no doubt this is the future of fell-walking. If I could be bothered, I’d have a startup: The Manly Parasol Company.
That’s right, if there’s one untapped market, it’s parasols for blokes.
The key will be with marketing.
I’ll start with the Manosphere. I figure if I can sell them there, I can sell them anywhere.
My parasols will have slogans on them, the following are some early ideas:
Austen and Alpha males, only one thing in common.
My other umbrella runs on diesel.
After a hard day at my harem, I cool down with porn, pilsner and …my parasol.
Parasols. The only thing as hard as my p-
I’ll stop there.
Then, for the final flourish, I’ll emblazon them with pictures of Lambourginis and Rolexes to further appeal to those kinds of dudes.
There you go, Manly Parasols, a million-dollar idea, free of charge. Don’t say I never do anything for you.
Anyway, enough of my prattle.
Do you live in a tourist hotspot? Any ideas for keeping them away?
Tourism taxes? Aerosol sprays? Landmines?
Hit me up in the comments below.
Speak soon,
JL
PS: For more holiday-related shenanigans, check out this blog post.
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