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I just want to get my 'come the revolution' bit out of the way ...
I had a bit of a mission to visit Thirlmere today. This is such a unique opportunity - with the road closed there is no traffic on this usually busy stretch of the Lakes. I had thought I might walk the lakeshore path. But, United Utilities have decided that since storm Desmond it is unsafe for us ... the whole lot, miles of it, and any other ancillary paths along the way. I appreciate there has been loads of damage ... but if we hadn't sold it all off  ..... don't get me going .... it makes me wild. It felt a bit like entering a militarised zone. Interestingly, though, seeing the highways chaps on the other side working away I thought how it was like a modern version of how it might have been when it was being originally built - a hive of activity of diggers and all things road building but no traffic.

Anyway, luckily I had bought my bike so cycled down to Dobgill and wondered if they had had the audacity to close the public bridleway too and, thank goodness for the bloody constitution etc etc. public highways, etc. They hadn't dared .... ha! So I walked up it .... ha! The lonesome Kinder Scout moment ....

I was the only one there - and it was about the profoundest, most beautiful and purest quiet, I have ever known.

On my way back I waved to my friend's kids who were on the shuttle bus on their way home from school. The theory has now been officially confirmed .... 3 buses do come at once ... even round Thirlmere.

First extra - swans crossing the dam head with Blencathra in the background (I had the theme tune Sailing by in my head as I took this!).
Second extra - Bridge End Farm, Thirlmere. I've wanted to blip this for ages and ages because of the wonderful story that Thomas de Quincey wrote about an encounter here when he passed the farmhouse one moonlit night. He had been to the farmhouse before and met the farmer who he described as a 'formidable man-mountain' (how wonderful!)  ....

'Nine o'clock it was - and deadly cold as ever March night was made by the keenest of black frosts, and by the bitterest of north winds.... A little garden there was before the house; and in the centre of this garden was placed an armchair, upon which armchair was sitting composedly - but I rubbed my eyes, doubting the very evidence of my own eyesight - a, or the, huge man in his shirt-sleeves; yes, positively not sunning but mooning himself - apricating himself in the occasional moonbeams.'