lake district – gbpilgrim

A person with arms raised in the middle of nowhere

August 2, 2025

Cracking

There is nothing more British than an opening sentence about the weather. And nothing more British than weather which has you sweltering in a London backyard with charcoal aromas one day and freezing your arse off in a tumbledown seaside resort the next.

Britain doesn’t quite have the same climate regions as Australia – think tropical and desert and temperate and alpine. But it does have the North, a land where train stations are always freezing, hotpots and brews keep wildlings sated and 18 degrees is positively balmy. It’s a different kind of eet, reet?

Imagine all you had to look forward to was a summer holiday in Blackpool. In a Travelodge. Next to the Pleasure Beach. To be sure, there are enough rollercoasters to fill a week and enough fish and chip and donut combos to fill an obesity clinic. In a fleeting visit, we managed two hours of rides and an escape for pub grub with a dear friend.

The drive south along the promenade is a journey of transitions. From the grimy Bleasdalesque terraces and windswept tackorama of Blackpool South, things pick up towards St. Annes, yet giant sand dudes are still dotted with empty cans of Monster. Onward, the understated main street of Ansdell is almost the sweet spot. Go any further and you are into Lytham w*nker territory.

While this journey offered a 15 minute encapsulation of the British class system, Wallace and Gromit’s Thrill-O-Matic offered four minutes of fun and silliness. Which is far more satisfying on a holiday. And set the wheels in motion for A Most Notable Detour.

Green fields, dry stone walls, and dark barren hills

We were off to The Lake District by way of Wensleydale. The many positives of this included leaving the M6 to plunge into fine, single track countryside and encountering roadside services far superior to a Costa and Greggs. Crossing from Lancashire into Yorkshire, that most happy of road trip staples popped up in Ingleton – an independent and delicious bakery – boosting moods for the climb up into the Yorkshire Dales.

In a scene oft to be repeated over coming days, I felt as though I was driving across a Postman Pat landscape. Drystone walls and dotted sheep lace the valleys, yielding to desolate brown-green hilltops and low cloud. At Ribblehead, the model train set comes to life with its standout viaduct and the 12:07 to Carlisle inching its way into the mist. It is bleak and summery cold and definitively Yorkshire. Mustn’t grumble.

A wide viaduct with a train crossing into low clouds

The scenery as we overlook Hawes is a bit more of the cosier Yorkshire Tea variety. Things seem brighter and less foreboding, a sanctuary from the moors where you foresee being welcomed with a strong brew and fruit bun. As a result, Hawes is bustling and parking is tricky. But many are not here for tea or fruit buns. Instead, cheese. Served with extra cheese.

Hawes equates to Wensleydale which is inextricably linked to Wallace and Gromit. They don’t labour the point but it is quite likely that a couple of gurning plasticine figures saved this creamery from extinction. Cranberries can only go so far.

We wouldn’t be here today if I hadn’t introduced Avery to Vengeance Most Fowl. I was pleased to find cheese without fruit though, and enjoyed the light-hearted cheese-making demonstration and learning about the history of the industry in this area. Two words: French Monks. As it so often is. The road to heaven is obviously lined with fine wine and pungent cheese.

The road to Cumbria is a slow and winding one but breathtaking in a downbeat, overcast kind of way. We reach the M6 again and briefly take it south, bypassing Kendal and reaching the hills above Windermere. The skies are looking more cheery and it is a relief late in the day, after a sublime pub pie laced with cheese, to wander not at all lonely in breaking cloud.

A walker in the fields with sheep and a small village in the background

…………………………………

It is inevitable that lyrical waxing flows with many a visit to the Lake District. It is the crumpled lay of the land that arranges itself into lofty fells and sinuous valleys. It is the patchwork necklaces of stone walls marshalling flecks of sheep. It is the wooded glades and butterflied meadows, the babbling brooks and glassy meres. It is an old cottage and a pub and a church spire.

High mountains above a narrow green valley dotted with cows

It is probably not a gargantuan coach causing mayhem on The Struggle. I mean, the clue’s in the name and if that’s not enough a sign impishly advises of 25% gradients. Perhaps the coach was doing what we were doing though, escaping the parking lot that was the A591 between Bowness and Ambleside, detouring via Kirkstone Pass. It was a pleasant detour with some wonderful views to pass the time as a coach inches its way past opposing vehicles.

Eschewing Ambleside we amble along concrete in Grasmere, hotfooting it to famed gingerbread and an interminable wait for a coffee. The UK coffee update 2025 is much the same – avoid dreadful chains and it’s a coin toss between acceptability and dreadfulness. Though I am finding the creaminess of oat milk can mask some of the bitterest tears.

Someone in the cafe remarks it is busy today because the weather is good. I can only assume because it is not raining. We pace back to the car under cool, leaden skies and decide in such jovial weather there’s nothing better than being out on the water. Derwent Water in fact, layered and wrapped in coats, sheltering under flimsy caps, refreshing spray cooling the only bare bit of skin peeping out.

But it is hard to look away, particularly at the mountains in the distance, one protrusion piercing the cloud and flooding its upper reaches in sunshine. Perhaps there is a surprise in store after all, though not at Surprise View which is entirely as telegraphed. It’s a fine outlook over Derwent Water and beyond and a good spot to eat a lunch involving Co-op crisps and caramelised onion infused Wensleydale. Cracking.

With two W&G days in a row I thought we were having a break, only to be more surprised than the surprise at Surprise View to pass a cyclist wearing a Lycra jersey emblazoned with the face of Gromit. There was a fair chance the cyclist was gurning like Wallace too, embarking on the climb up to Honister Pass. With clouds parting, here was the Lake District providing elevated beauty and drama all the way down to Buttermere.

Sometimes a name can overpromise but Buttermere is every bit the delight it sounds. Water smooth as a knife, meadows plump with buttercups and bees and butterflies, cows cheerily chewing away, transforming green grass into ice cream and cakes and tea and – as Avery was subjected to – dire coffee. The cosiness of the place is heightened by the wild heights all around, deflecting the clouds to form a golden paradise. There is even that Buttermere tree.

A lone tree sticking out of a lake with mountains in the background

A field of buttercups in the sunshine with green mountains in the background

It would have been appealing to stay overnight here but it is overly popular and overly small. Queues for the bus suggested some may be in for an unintended night; we took solace in the hire car and an out-of-the-way B&B a little further north. This took us through more glorious scenery fringing Crummock Water before bravely praying for no oncoming tractors among the lanes around Brackenthwaite and Thwackwaite. Splendidly Northern names if a little lisp unfriendly.

On nearby place names, it is fairly obvious that Cockermouth is going to be pronounced Cockermuth. But there is something about Cockermouth that makes one forget and – to the despair of locals – often results in both a hard ‘Cock’ coming out with a hard ‘Mouth’. And accompanying tittering.

Before things get too hot to handle let’s go to the reality of Cockermouth: Sainsbury’s in the drizzle. While a Sainsbury’s was a welcome sight (and sign of civilisation), the drizzle was not. It was a dampness that persisted overnight and into the next morning, on which we returned into town to post a pack of biscuits. I never expected sending a pack of biscuits would take longer than an hour and require more security questions than entry into the West Wing. But at least it passed time for the drizzle to lighten and the cloud to lift.

Plunging back down into Loweswater there was an optimism returning with the reemergence of hills and languid liquid shores. With some urgency to get out into it all, we devoured a Sainos meal deal for lunch and headed for the hills.

A view from a summit of a sweeping lake surrounded by rugged high hills

Pastoral scenes of farmhouses, fields and hills

While this wasn’t really the day for high moors and ridgetops we managed to get above the canopy at Brackenthwaite Hows for some lovely, quintessential Lake District vistas. South of us the sun was sparkling off Crummock Water, bisecting the steep-sided fells of Grasmoor and Mellbreak. Scattered amongst this drama, seemingly in miniature, occasional farmhouses fringed with cows and sheep. A serene scene abruptly punctuated by RAF jets flying a hundred metres overhead. Both breathtaking and almost pant pooping.

There was much to get confused about when talking about the air force and Aira Force but we made it there in the end. This was via a spontaneous tea stop – which always makes for a good stop – at Whinlatter Forest. And while I wouldn’t call it the full-on cream tea it would have been rude not to opt for the scone and jam and cream, with a cup of tea, safe in the knowledge that greater greatness awaits.

By the time we reached Aira Force it was late afternoon (only another 7 hours of daylight remaining folks). A good time to arrive given some of the crowds had dissipated and a subsidised National Trust parking spot was easy to find. The woodland and the falls were undeniably lovely, even if my lovelier wife went on to utilise this spot to both puerile and hilarious effect.

We had come this way, beside the shores of Ullswater, to locate a mysterious field on the top of a hill for a spot of serious dogging. I think that’s the term they use. No, wait, shepherding. Ironically, as we drove up a small lane, the Skoda was doing its own piece of shepherding as three dumb ewes tottered before us. Greeting us beside a gate, a farmer’s son looked bemused. Ah, city folk.

Upon this hill it was blustery and cool, and we had to layer up in everything we had. But it was a charming and enlightening hour or so, greeting an array of border collies (surely the best type of dog) and a friendly, attention-seeking Old English Sheepdog. The dogs were lined up roughly in age and a demonstration ensued of different skills and instincts, supported by Come Bys and Aways and remarkable variations of whistling. There was talk of farming and nature and the intertwining of the two, of thousands of hens eggs a day and farm shops and the bond between one man and his dogs. All the while, the sheep looked dumb and all I could focus on going round my head was Kaleb and I Can’t Stand Sheep.

After sweltering in balmy London not so long ago, it was fair to say we were freezing by the end of the sheepdog demonstration. I couldn’t feel my feet and my ears felt like two flattened crumpets that had got lost down the freezer two years ago. But this was a wonderful place and wonderful time, and there was a cosy pub not too far down the road to cap off our final night. Further down the road the M6, Preston, Wales, Plymouth. Some Equally Notable Detours yet to come.

A road winding down into a valley from a high mountain pass

December 13, 2015December 13, 2015

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Floody ‘ell

So it turns out ‘The North’ is more than just a fictional imagining in George R.R. Martin’s gargantuan head. There is a real place in which gruff folk with grizzled beards mumble about stone walls. The weather can be cold, but it is mostly just bone-chillingly wet; sombrely leaden. Expansive wilds present a bleak, gritty beauty, tamed only in picturesque patches of lowland. Sheep cling forlornly to the slopes, anticipating, finally, the coming of winter. Further North, an ancient wall struggles to keep out wildlings, armed with Tennants Super on the 0900 to Euston. We are in Cumbria.

Cumbria before the floods, but only just. After a soggy few days on the Lancashire coast, it wasn’t much of a surprise to travel up the M6 in a medley of drizzle, dark cloud, and downpour. While a brief period where I didn’t have to use windscreen wipers offered hope, this was dashed with unending persistence once in the Lake District National Park. And so, from umbrella buying in Bowness to umbrella usage in Ambleside to umbrella drying off in a neat hotel in the middle of nowhere, there really wasn’t much to do in this greatest of outdoors.

As the dim skies faded black and the patter of rain continued apace upon the skylight I decided to make a break for it and check out the bright, Christmas lights of Keswick. I was hoping for a Dickensian scene of late night shopping, market stalls with hubbub and mulled wine, brass bands blaring out Once in Royal David’s City, and ribbons of light twinkling above curving cobbled alleyways. The reality offered some lights but little else, as the town appeared to be hunkering down for the night. With sodden shoes and a reduced-price pork pie from the Co-op, I retreated back to the car, umbrella decimated by a gust of wind, facing only the promise of driving through surface water in the dark. I made it, but Keswick did not. Two days later it was flooded.

Oh for a dry day and, for most of Friday, it happened. It wasn’t exactly bright or pleasant, but for a few hours the rain had paused before it was to come back in such vengeance. A few puddles dotted the road alongside Derwentwater on the way towards Honister Pass. Softened valley villages and stonewalled farms yielded to barren upland, coated a deep brown with the dying bracken. A steep decline worthy of the Tour De France returned things to something closer to the idyllic around the idyllic sounding Buttermere.

This was my chance to revel in dreary dryness, to soak up bleak melancholy, to wander lonely as a big grey cloud. The lake could be circumnavigated and it came as something of a surprise that the path was still in good condition during the two hour loop. Only once was a rocky detour required due to a swollen lake edge. Oh, and a couple of steps through a rising brook. Hang on…I almost forgot…that falling ass over tit moment on a small stretch of grass linking the road back to the path. Muddy bottom, muddy camera, but thankfully no-one around to see my slippery fall from grace.

The scenery was undeniably beautiful. One wonders whether it would be improved by sunlight and fluffy white clouds, buttercups and warmth. Probably. I remember it as such on a brief stop ten years past. Today, it was moody and, to be honest, me too. After a week without it, I just really really REALLY craved the sun. But at least it was dry…so mustn’t grumble.

With all the previous day’s rain it was no major surprise to encounter a series of stretched out cascades and falls plunging down the steep-sided fells towards the lake. I suppose this is some recompense for the deluge, but so frequent and incessant is the sound of water that it makes you want to pee really really badly. And there is not much in the way of foliage left to offer shelter and protection.

Still, relieved and closer to the end, an alien sliver of blue sky opened up to the northeast. A chink in the steel armour, it was something to cling to, something to chase. Briefly it illuminated some hills in the distance, but failed to deliver anything of solace on my face. There would be little chance for anything to air for long.

Completing the Buttermere circumnavigation, I jumped back into the car to venture over a narrow pass and down to the western edge of Derwentwater. That chink of blue sky was somewhere in this direction, and I may have bathed in it for all of twenty seconds. Unfortunately I was in the car at the time, but it was still a very special twenty seconds. A valley glowed. A farm building shimmered. The sheep murmured quiet contentment. And then the strong wind sent it away, off into the distance.

Early afternoon in Keswick and things had actually dried out a little – perhaps it too had been briefly kissed by the sun? There were people on its streets and a hint of something Christmas-related in the air. There was no wafting smell of hot pork pie though, but then I began to question whether this ten year old recollection was actually in Kendall rather than Keswick? So, of all things, I ended up with a Cornish pasty in the cute town square.

Determined not to suffer a food disappointment to compound my rapidly redeveloping British glumness, I set out on a mission for afternoon tea. For what else is the Lake District if not the archetypal biscuit tin setting for afternoon tea? Grasmere sounds a likely spot, full of tea shoppes and crafty gifts to cater for poetic dreamers. A place where a pot of tea can – at a single moment – feel like the best thing in the world. Elation amplified by a gigantic slice of treacle tart, sickeningly delectable. A high on which to leave the lakes and to treasure a day of figurative sunshine amongst the December clouds.

Driving Great Britain Green Bogey Photography Walking

September 15, 2014October 19, 2015

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Trains, tubes, bikes, and a pony

Also known as ‘The Other Bits of England’ blog, in which I endeavour to catch up with special people not living in Devon and partake in the odd jolly jaunt with or, occasionally, without them. Faces and places familiar, with the occasional variation thrown in for good measure. A veritable criss-crossing of a country, conquering the bemusing cost savings to be had through split railway tickets and battling against the perennial issue of available luggage space. Virgin appear to have done something particularly mind-blowing in this regard, where overhead storage accepts nothing thicker than a laptop, resulting in a space largely devoid of content and most luggage littering any spare volume of carriage not taken up by cranky people. They do appear to serve a Rodda’s Cream Tea though, so all is forgiven.

Making these trips is a chance for my inner England to resurface (e.g. by grumbling quietly to oneself at the trains) and to get up to speed with the zeitgeist, mainly courtesy of eavesdropped conversations and leftover copies of the Metro. Scandal in the Great British Bake Off; returning X Factor judges; expensive football transfers; Scotland will they won’t they will they won’t cannae do it aye. And, more personalised, to witness changes to old haunts, to exchange news and share a drink once more with friends, to see if coffee has improved, and to tread the green, green grass of home.

London has a surprisingly decent amount of green, green grass, and I tread my fair share of it each year through the child-friendly parks which often intermingle throughout the northern suburbia around Finchley. Further in amongst the urban grime, parks and leafy squares crop up around random corners, such as Coram’s Fields just south of Kings Cross St Pancras. An undoubtedly charming green space should it be open…which it wasn’t today, due to some very worthy charity event being set up. And so, around another corner, a small bouncy castle appeared over a wall and the local community gardens family fun day was sensitively gatecrashed.

It felt a bit like something that may feature in Eastenders, though it was all much more enjoyable and pleasant, without numbskull deadbeats trying to shift some dodgy motors or a drummer waiting in the corner to signal the occurrence of a dramatic, decisive, cliff-hanging moment. It had a different feel to – say – the contented edamame-chomping family set sprawling across Friary Park in Barnet, a spot in which I recovered the next day from experiencing a decent flat white in North Finchley. They are slowly getting better in places. Slowly.

Back onto the train the next day, a Virgin train with its pitiless excuse for an overhead luggage rack, the green pockets of the capital were to be replaced with greener expanses of beautiful, classical, English landscapes. I am naturally a little biased towards Devon and Cornwall, but there are surely few places as idyllic as the Lake District in the far northwest of England. Rugged rounded ridges, sweeping glacial valleys, dry stone walls and postcard-pretty lakeside villages. The kind of place I end up every year and feel keen to stay longer some other time.

In truth, I only had a few hours in the heart of the Lake District (i.e. inside the national park). Other days were spent within a hilltop forest which possessed its own magical air. Whinfell Forest sits atop a large, sprawling hill and amongst the pines are scattered quiet avenues and quaint timber lodges. There are people wholesomely cycling around and children, lots of children, like Faeries apparating out of the heather. From nowhere a glass dome emerges, filled with restaurant chains and a complex of swimming pools and whirly flumes and tubes. This is a Center Parcs site, an undoubtedly corporatised cash-cow, which somehow retains plenty of charm and attractiveness.

The setting rules here you see, with ample space to accommodate plenty of lodges and a giant glass dome and thousands of Faeries and still have room for quiet forest tracks, gentle glades and red squirrel hang outs. The appeal for me was the setting and I enjoyed nothing more than riding my bike along the car-free tracks, the sun and breeze and smell of pine in the air. That and cherishing time with friends who are more special than most and continue to do amazing things.

Center Parcs does not feel too claustrophobic but I did wonder whether you could escape the perimeter fence. Would the road out be closed? Would a giant thunderstorm crop up to block the way? Would a security alert be concocted to stop you leaving? Was this, in fact, The Truman Show? I could not be so close to the lakes and not give it a try, so I snuck out, hopped on a bus to Penrith, waited forever for another bus and ended up trundling alongside Ullswater before getting off at Glenridding. I didn’t have much idea what was at Glenridding, but as a place name to stop at in the Lake District it sounded about right. And indeed, it possessed all necessary quaintness and opportunity for a short enough walk taking in two valleys and a small hill.

The walk, hastily discovered through some wifi in a Penrith coffee shop, took me gradually upwards for valley and lakeside views, reaching the small, reflective Lanty’s Tarn. From here it was over and down into Grisedale, where sheep dotted the lower meadows, kept in by the dry stone walls and the course of the river. The river tumbled steadily down back towards Ullswater itself, setting the course for the return to Glenridding.

Though fine and warm, it was a cloudy kind of day – what the BBC online weather forecast likes to call ‘white cloud’ as opposed to ‘grey cloud’ (it’s the worst cloud for landscape photos I find). The sun finally emerged into the afternoon only a little before my bus back was due, but this provided time enough for an ice cream and a quick scramble to see the lake for one last time in some sun. The bus came and I left thinking that one whole week here would do nicely thank you very much please.

Leaving the Lakes, the landmarks and landscapes become a little less poetic. For instance, I get to change trains at Wolverhampton. Wordsworth never wrote anything fancy about Wolverhampton. I doubt if he did for Basingstoke either, unsurprising given it never really existed back then. There could be some interesting poetry about Basingstoke (I wandered circuitously like a roundabout…) and he would generally approve of the countryside around the place. You do notice, though, how more built up the southeast is, particularly on a day spent for much of the time in nearby Surrey.

The M25 is nobody’s idea of fun, but it quickly took Dad and I to Box Hill. For those who remember such things, this is a small lump in the North Downs that Olympic cyclists managed to climb nine times (a few too many in my opinion). It remains a mecca for lycra lovers everywhere who enjoy nothing more than getting sweaty on a couple of hairpins. With MAMILs in profusion you would expect a decent coffee at the top, but that is not what you get. However, the area provides a diversity of hazy hilltop views, ancient forest, chalk downs and riverside meadows. On a circular walking route, down to the River Mole and over stepping stones, the climb back up to the top on foot makes you appreciate what the cyclists achieve.

Amongst the procession of affluent commuter towns and fancy golf courses, we also eventually found ourselves at Runnymede. This is a spot on the banks of the Thames that has international historical significance as the signing spot of the Magna Carta by King John in 1215. Being about democracy and all the yanks have attempted to infiltrate this spot with monuments and gifts to the Queen and what not (which, of course, they are free and entitled to do without prejudice or persecution). However, the green meadows and ancient oak trees are oh so English; a scene tempered only slightly by the parade of jets coming in to land at Heathrow and delivering thousands of yanks onto these shores.

Blissfully quieter but also possessing historical royal links and requisite green pleasantness was the New Forest, visited on my last full day of this trip in England. The sun came out and all was well with the world amongst the many shades of green, rescinding in places as September emerges. The cute village of Burley remains somewhere in the sepia toned 1950s, with bunting and shoppes and ice cream and ponies meandering down the streets looking all sweetness and light in an attempt to curry favour and steal your ice cream. I don’t blame them, it was good ice cream. There was also good picnic lunch in a forest and good afternoon cake in Ashurst. And if all this Englishness was getting a bit much, there was good tartiflette (French) in the evening. Finished (yes, there is more) with Pavlova (Kiwi) finished (yes, more) with the last spoonful of clotted cream (Heaven). What a way to go!

It wasn’t quite the end and ruining the culinary picture slightly was a very poor coffee (from one of those chains – yes, Caffe Nero I will name and shame you) the next morning in London. With a couple of hours to spare before flying out of the city, I returned to the south bank with my bags, a scene reminiscent of a few weeks before. And despite the burning bitterness in my mouth, the scene, sat on a bench in the warm sun, was uplifting. St Pauls to my right, while various funky new buildings rise up beyond, trying to outdo the piercing pinnacle of The Shard. The river flows along in front of me, taking the view down to Parliament and the London Eye. If I wanted an iconic British image to depart Britain on then this was perhaps the one to go with.

But there are many iconic, memorable images from a few weeks back home: herds of deer at Knebworth; the M25; Dartmoor cream teas; pasties in Cornwall and Plymouth Argyle; trampolines; sparkling Smeaton’s Tower on Plymouth Hoe; tin mine relics on the North Cornwall coast; a train trundling through excessive leafiness to Looe; Kings Cross St Pancras; poetic Lakeland landscapes; magical forest bike rides; the Thames with a flight path soundtrack; New Forest ponies and cake, lots of cake. And many of these moments cherished more with family and friends who sometimes feel a little too far away. Departing from London City, out over the Thames estuary, over again where it all inauspiciously started – Safffffend – England, again, sadly disappeared from view.

Food & Drink Great Britain Green Bogey Photography Walking

December 19, 2012October 19, 2015

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Beery

As an Anglo-Australian male in his thirties it is inevitable that beer has accompanied me on many occasions on the road and at home. At such times when one needs to know, like a doctor’s interrogation or unethically intrusive job interview, I’d declare myself one of these ‘social drinker’ types. From what I can tell, a social drinker is someone who grabs a beer or two when the mood fancies – to celebrate, relax, or navigate slightly awkward moments – or just when it’s the only thing cold in the fridge and you just can’t be arsed to scrape ice out of the freezer. Very occasionally the charming delight that you become after such social drinking turns sour (usually thanks to the beer being ‘off’ or some such), and imbalance and language difficulties can ensue.

The sage philosopher, Homer [1], remarked of beer as a “temporary solution,” in easing the challenging realities of existence. This temporary solution is also uncannily permanent around the world in which we travel, providing a readily available, relatively cheap source of comfort and joy. Though naturally something of a haze, I can look back on my life and recall a number of places and experiences that have been enhanced by beer or, broadening the spectrum a little, a good glass of wine or a tangy local cider or a holiday water style G&T. Often the drink is the icing on the cake, the encapsulation of a special moment. At other times it’s invariably been an antiseptic, painkiller or narcotic.

A proven value of beer when travelling is in how it can transform the first shy mumblings of disparate individuals on a tour group into one animated tribe. While the first day of such trips may have been spent quietly on the bus in little cliques of friendship pairs, the second day is typically dominated by shared tales of what scandal befell Jared and Janelle, and frequent hilarious stops for Lance to chunder like the man he is from down under. Meanwhile the tour guide acts like this has never happened before and this group is – based on the escapades of the previous night – simply the most awesome ever [2]. Multiply this all by several days and nights and you are left with a teary, hollow feeling that you will never be as one again when the trip is over and that Lance’s chunder is now but a trickle down some distant highway. This may sound like a young persons’ rite of passage, but I daresay the same happens on more senior and old at heart tours, just replace ‘beer’ with ‘wine’ and ‘chunder’ with ‘incontinence’.

Unless you happen to spend a large part of your time meandering in the Middle East, beer is an international language, demonstrated by the fact that almost every country has its own version. Within countries, different regions produce their own local brew and it can be a strong marker of local identity. Obviously one of the joys of travel is sampling local food and drink and I’ll always look to a local beer if I can, unless I have already discovered its similarity to the secretion of a small flying insect, or “gnat’s piss” as it is sometimes described. The trick for the traveller is to know the local beer sensitivities, so as not to order some nancy fruity lager with low carbohydrates in the North East of England or the culturally offensive XXXX from Queensland in anywhere but Queensland [3].

Moving from England to Australia in 2006 I have gradually come to learn the sensitivities of what must be two of the most rampant beer swilling nations. My biggest faux pas was when fresh off the boat and still subject to irritants like Shane Warne. Tasked with getting some beers in for Friday work drinks I grabbed a crate of stubbies from the local Bottle-O [4] only to be chided for their warmth. The stubbies felt pretty cold but that was in fact ambient air-conditioning temperature and not arctic freezer temperature, which was how the locals preferred it. And now, after six years or so, that’s how I like it, perhaps because it’s the only way to subvert the lack of taste.

Beer has been part of my cultural integration and a means to become accepted as a bona fide Australian. A barbecue with awful slimy sausages does not feel right without a beer in hand, cloaked in a tacky stubby holder. Mercifully, even those who were subject to my warm stubbies have become good friends, and I have since shared drinks with them fresh out of the chillers of a 7-11 in Hong Kong, wandering party streets with beer in hand, inevitable ending up in Maccers at night’s end. This was one of those experiences where the beer must have been ‘off’, since a malaise lingered for the rest of my stay there.

Australian beer consumption seems natural in the outdoors, huddled around a barbecue, the droning of cricket commentators in the background. It’s also a good accompaniment beside the sea, tasting even better after an active day of exploring and coasting. One such memory stands out when I was in the Margaret River region of Western Australia. Here, after a blissful drive south from Perth, the day’s end saw me at Prevelly, a low key settlement on the coast, popular for surfing or just hanging out like a surfer. The headland here is actually called Surfer’s Point, and this particular evening it was jam packed with people of a dreadlocked and slightly skanky looking nature, plus their groupies. Inexplicably, many were clambering over the rocks with what looked like ironing boards to bob up and down in the water at prime shark feeding time. Others were returning from the water, getting changed with very little discretion around their beat up vans. There wasn’t just the one full moon that night.

Positioned the other side of the headland was another cove where the Margaret River itself came to a halt against the sand. With a sandy beach, sun disappearing over the ocean, full moon rising over the river, ambient temperature and vibe and one beer lugged several kilometres in the pocket of my shorts, the scene was set. Twisting the bottle top of my beer and nirvana was within sight. Apart from the fact that the bottle top wouldn’t twist off. It was one of those fancy boutique beers requiring a bottle opener. I could have cried.

In such circumstances one finds oneself thinking what Bear Grylls would do? But given I neither had a film crew nor nearby hotel in which I was actually staying, I was forced to reassess and consider what would MacGyver do? The answer lay in the use of keys, a wooden stick from an ice lolly, a bit of rock and willpower. After ten minutes it finally opened, the first gassy hiss like the sound of 80,000 fans at the MCG cheering. It was now slightly warm but I obviously didn’t mind and the beer went down like the sun and the mood climbed like the moon.

While offering spectacular outdoor beer moments like this, Australia has generally disappointed in its indoor drinking environment. Pubs are often bland behemoths with tacky decor and goddam awful pokies, an attached bistro offering an array of equally dull and not as cheap as it should be food. As a result, I love returning to the UK to duck into any one of its dark and dingy drinking holes and remember an archetypal rainy day in London a few years back where, killing time before meeting friends, the only answer was to pop into a random hostelry, drink a couple of warming ales and write postcards. Perversely, pubs in the UK tend to have better beer gardens too, perhaps a result of the local obsession with hanging baskets and, well, opportunities to drink away the misery on every street corner.

An English speciality is the country pub, often offering a roaring fireside, wooden tables and outdoor hanging baskets. Beers range from generic chemical concoctions to the occasional guest ale brewed in the local cowshed. It’ll be called something like Olde Spotted Dick or Malted Slipperypipe. To soak it up you can sample a menu ranging from cheesy garlic bread to cheesy lasagne to cheesy chips and perhaps even cheesy peas [5]. There will be an aroma of stale beer mixed with cow dung. And you’ll generally be made to feel welcome because everyone in there has been inebriated since 1972 and cannot be bothered anymore.

One very lovely country pub moment that I remember was in the equally lovely Lake District in northwest England. For a country as small and crammed as England it is remarkable how much of it has an alluring pastoral air and sense of light and space. In this regard, the Lake District is an absolute gem. On a surprisingly sunny and warm late summer’s day, with the farmers making hay and the sheep bleating contentedly, a small pub along the country lanes of Langdale offered up not a beer but a beautifully of-the-moment cider. Despite repeated attempts, that first cider on that first night could not be beaten. It was the official start of the holiday, the ‘we have arrived’ moment and perfectly set up a week of discovery and delight.

Would such moments have been the same without alcohol? One would like to think so, purely to reassure oneself that they are not dependent on booze. But in reality I don’t think a glass of lemonade would have cut it. Good beers (and ciders) emerge at the end of good days; they are both rewards and tonics. They can lift a moment from average to good, good to exceptional. And they trigger associated memories of time and place. They are the beer goggles that help us to look back on moments with a rose-tinted air. Sure, let us not overdo it, but let us also not dismiss beer as just another vice. Remember kids, drink responsibly, and if you can’t, best to head off on a Contiki tour with Lance.

[1] J Simpson, not the ancient Greek dude

[2] To argue against this point, see https://gbpilgrim.com/2012/12/15/a/

[3] With the wonders of marketing however it is very acceptable to have the ‘Australian’ Fosters in England, but do not drink it (if you even find it) in Australia!

[4] Translated, for those of you who speak English, as ‘I purchased a 24 pack of beer bottles from the beer shop / off licence / liquor store’

[5] See http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jv60cnNSW7Q