My last night in Kendal was nothing to write home about, but I'm going to write about it anyway. After getting back from Windermere, I sat in the lounge area of the hostel I'd booked in to for the night to write about my day. This took me well over an hour thanks to some leathery old Aussie woman, far too middle aged to be backpacking around the world, who insisted on telling her life story and reading out her inane emails to anyone that would listen, or indeed couldn't help but. Gobshiteingly loud and grating, I very much doubt anyone has ever had to ask her to repeat something.
After this, I went for one of the more mediocre Italian meals of my life at Infusion. Next door is Bootleggers, a music bar, which I thought would be a nice place to sit and enjoy some live jazz, but it was full of kids. There's something discernibly creepy about being the only one in a room with, or even allowed to buy, an alcoholic drink, so I went to Ye Olde Fleece Inn instead, which was finally open. Its mullioned windows and wooden beams date back to the 1600s, when it was an open air slaughterhouse. It's not such a pleasant place to hang out now, though.
When I got back to the hostel, I found I was going to be sharing my otherwise-empty dorm room with a guy who'd just split up with his girlfriend. His mate had brought him to check him in for the night, and I thought it was a bit tight of his mate not to put him up himself. I soon found out why, though. He was, by far, the most horrendous snorer I have ever had the misfortune to hear. I've never heard someone snore on the intake AND outtake before, and he constantly woke himself up each time his breath would catch with a glottal clap. There was one point when I woke up and I couldn't hear him breathing at all, and in a half-awake state I thought he may have topped himself in the night. So desperate for some uninterrupted sleep, I vowed to check on him, but not until morning. He was back at it soon enough, though. No wonder she chucked him, the poor cow.
I was on the train first thing in the morning. The Visit Cumbria website describes Penrith as "the hub of the Eden valley", saying it's "an important shopping centre, with a good mix of traditional shops and sophisticated arcades", but it is certainly not the bustling epicentre they would like you to think. Way off base on the sophisticated arcades, they are right about the traditional shops, with many of the buildings with early 20th century signage still housing the same trades. This was not enough to entertain me for the 4 hours I'd overestimated I'd need in the town however, so I killed a couple in a pub. Of hours, I mean, not humans.
The best part of Penrith was the journey to get there. The weather was bright, if not warm, and the scenery was some of the best I've seen yet. Following part of the river Lune, the train runs along the rolling, bubbling hills of the Yorkshire Dales to the east, lush with green and zigzagged open over thousands of years by natural springs and streams, then past the threatening peaks of the Lake District's Scafells far to the west, aggressively knifed into form by volcanic violence over 300 million years ago.
Cracking views.
ReplyDeleteDo you really mean the snoring was louder than KFC? Wow.