Sneaking off before the rest of the flat had awoken, we traipsed into the drizzly morning to his car, picked up his friend, and set off on what would become the 8 hour journey meandering through the lanes that make up the Lake District. Instead of the impatient hum of “are we there yet?” from the backset, we piped up into a chorus of “since when do we trust the weather when it says it won’t rain?!” as the car moved through thick fog and heavy rainfall.
“Stop the car!” I squealed as we passed into a bend in the road crowded with brown sheep with stark white faces, moustaches dripping from the weather, yet their appetites remained piqued. “I need to get a photo!”
The boys remained in the car, mocking me for risking hyperthermia despite the fact that it was mid-June, and after the rain began to soak through my scarf (the only protection against the elements I had prepared) we continued our journey, hardly ever passing another car.
The plan, of course, had been to trek up a mountain in order to fully appreciate the splendour that is the Lake District, but under advice from a passing busload of tourists, we abandoned that in favour of climbing to a significantly less dangerous perch overlooking the most majestic body of water.
Despite some freaky twists and turns in low visibility, no jaw left the floor as everything the rain touched became absolutely magical. The green – so vivid, so fresh – against the greying waters provided the backdrop to our drive, cleansing our disappointment from not being able to explore on foot, and rewarding us with some respite from the rain to skip some stones before journeying back to Lancaster.