It’s been a while since I added any LeJog miles, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t been walking them. In fact, since my last update I’ve actually walked 80.3 miles which is quite a long way when you think about it. This leaves me just shy of the three hundred mile mark, almost half way! Not bad for someone who’s working full time really.
Anyhow, the miles I’ve walked would have taken me to Newby Bridge in Cumbria if I’d really set out from Lands End right at the beginning and just kept walking. Wouldn’t it be great to have the time to really do that?
I’ve never been to Cumbria and, I have to admit, I’d never heard of Newby Bridge. The power of Google tells me it’s a small hamlet in Cumbria in the Lake District. The little village sits on the edge of the River Leven, close to the southern end of Lake Windermere, one of the most famous of the lakes. In a prime position, it is about two miles from the Lakeside ferry landing stage. The village gets its name from the five arched stone bridge across the river.
The Lakeside and Haverthwaite Steam Railway stops in the village but there are no shops, not even a post office. What it does have is the Newby Bridge Caravan Park and a wealth of bed and breakfasts, guest houses and hotels for the many tourists who come to visit the lakes. Apart from tourism, sheep farming is the main industry.
Being Wordsworth country, it’s somewhere I’ve always wanted to visit. After all the great bard was also an inveterate walker, composing many of his poems while he walked. For him, as for me, walking was a form of meditation and this could explain why I like his poetry so much.
William Wordsworth – Sweet was the walk
Sweet was the walk along the narrow lane
At noon, the bank and hedge-rows all the way
Shagged with wild pale green tufts of fragrant hay,
Caught by the hawthorns from the loaded wain,
Which Age with many a slow stoop strove to gain;
And childhood, seeming still most busy, took
His little rake; with cunning side-long look,
Sauntering to pluck the strawberries wild, unseen.
Now, too, on melancholy’s idle dreams
Musing, the lone spot with my soul agrees,
Quiet and dark; for through the thick wove trees
Scarce peeps the curious star till solemn gleams
The clouded moon, and calls me forth to stray
Thro’ tall, green, silent woods and ruins gray.