I’m in North Yorkshire, in the charming village of Grassington; I’ve been here before, and anyone who has seen the Channel Five (UK) remake of All Creatures Great and Small currently screening in Britain (and elsewhere) will recognise Grassington as Darrowby, the fictionalised town in which James Herriot — who was, of course, Scottish veterinarian Alf Wight — practised his craft.

I love the James Herriot books, wanting desperately as I did to be a vet until my maths and science results at school showed I didn’t have the aptitude for it. But the original 1978-90 series of All Creatures is the only dramatisation of them worth watching, in my view, and it satisfies me somewhat that my 13-year-old daughter, who is flirting with veterinary science and zoological science as career options (despite, like her father, being an indisputable English/Communications type), has attempted to sequester my DVD copies of it as her own.

As I mentioned last night, it was too dark when I arrived in Windermere to do any photography: the place I stayed at, above, is somewhere I’d certainly recommend: but again, the heat in this old stone brick building was stifling, there was no air conditioning (heritage laws again, perhaps), and to compound this, the western sun shone directly into my room, which needed to have its blinds drawn to ensure neighbouring properties didn’t have visibility into it, thwarting the open window and the cool air it may have offered.

And it was cool: the British summer is almost over, but the room was like a furnace.

I know Britain gets cold (oh yes, I know this all too well) but in summer, there’s a need for cool air, or at least air conditioning: the heat and humidity can be on par with Brisbane weather, which astonishes people — until they actually come here and experience it for themselves, that is.

I have good news and bad news on my touted enterprise to see a lake in the Lakes District: the good news is that Lake Windermere was, in fact, very close to where I was staying; half an hour after I checked out of the Holly Lodge I was ambling around its shores. Serene? Tranquil? It was spectacular. And quiet. I can understand why William Wordsworth, his contemporaries, and countless millions of others before and since, have sought this region of Britain out as a sanctuary, or at least a spot to escape the hubbub of daily life for a little while and to simply breathe.

Lake Windermere is the largest lake in Britain; even with the township of Bowness nearby, spending time there was like stepping into a wilderness unsullied and untouched, despite the pleasure craft sailing on it and the cafes and retail vultures, hungry for tourist dollars, astride its shores.

The bad news is that as far as I could see (and I walked around the lake as extensively as I could) there were no daffodils: more’s the pity. It’s one of what I would have thought the iconic pictures from this trip, to be caught wandering amid a company of daffodils, as Wordsworth put it. Alas, it wasn’t to be. But given the option of making it to the Lakes District at all, as I explained in my last post, was the result of a somewhat fortuitous set of circumstances, I’m happy. A coffee at the Windermere Jetty, before heading off on a lengthy walk to explore, was also good for keeping the spirits up. Coffee always is. But no daffs.

And I should point out that this is the area to which London-born Beatrix Potter relocated after a visit to the Lakes District; the town of Bowness on Windermere is rich with Potter-related retail offerings, including a Wind In The Willows “experience” tour (which, in a sign of the times, was closed today due to COVID-related staff shortages).

Once I was done with Lake Windermere and Bowness, I set off for Grassington; it’s not a huge distance — only about 80 miles — but the nature of the rural roads in these parts dictated that it should take close to two hours. Naturally, when driving in these parts, the scenery is absolutely stunning, and what was to be seen on the A65 between Windermere and Grassington doesn’t even measure up to my likening of “driving through a picture book” when it comes to the Yorkshire Dales; I wasn’t even in the Dales at that point. But it’s stunning no less (and the smell of cow shit is quite pervasive, I can tell you, as the bovines roam freely, including leaving evidence of their presence on the road).

And so — as I said at the outset — I’m in Grassington, and staying at the Grassington Lodge; it’s the only property from the 2008 trip that I’m staying in again, and whilst I would continue to recommend it to anyone who is of a mind to travel to this area, it’s nowhere near as good as it was then (although it’s still superior to some of the other places I have stayed in thus far, to be sure).

The property had an onsite manager when my ex-wife and I stayed here in 2008; fast forward 14 years, and the manager has been replaced by a management company based in Ipswich, in Suffolk, over 230 miles away. The decline in quality is stark; what was a veritable sparkling jewel of the Pennines is now merely just above average. From the outside, most of the buildings in Grassington (and, indeed, in many other rural British towns) look very similar; this one was like a palace inside, once upon a time. It’s the reason I rebooked it — premium pricing notwithstanding — and while it’s probably worth about £110 per night, it’s not worth what it actually cost now I’ve seen it (which was somewhat — but not hideously — more than that).

An Ottoman that is badly stained; carpets that haven’t been steam cleaned in quite some time; scuffed, chipped, dirty cabinetry; scuffed, chipped walls and doors (in fact, the place should be repainted throughout); carpet in different sections of the common areas that don’t match, suggesting parts of it have been replaced with no care to see they match…I could go on, but a slovenly approach to “management” has turned the exceptional and outstanding into the merely ordinary and — as I have said a few times in this travelogue — it’s a shame.

Still, in breaks in writing this piece, I’ve been standing on the front landing of the Grassington Lodge — almost 14 years to the day since I last did so — vaping, rather than smoking as I did back then; it’s raining steadily (as it also was the last time I was here), and the raindrops keep falling on one’s head despite the very best efforts to find shelter from them, as these old English houses are typically exposed directly to the weather. Even considering the disappointing decline in the management of the property, it still has its charms — and for that reason, I recommend it: with the rider that if it continues its journey toward cost-cutting nirvana (which I’m sure is a factor) that charm might, soon, be outweighed by an inclination toward staying somewhere that’s actually fit to stay.

Tomorrow, I’m taking an embarrassingly large bundle of dirty laundry to Skipton — a bigger town about 12 miles from here — to replenish my inventories: I bought two weeks’ supply of clean clothes with me from Melbourne, and aside from some dress items I had dry cleaned in London, it’s exhausted as of tomorrow. I don’t do “dirty,” so a couple of hours watching the spin cycle in an iffy laundromat is in order.

And from there, I’m going to Askrigg (where the “proper” All Creatures was filmed) and thence to Thirsk (the actual town Wight and his colleagues lived and worked in). I have been to both before. But I want my own pictures from them; and my daughter, who has come to love the Herriot works, deserves something of her own from the museum in Thirsk, which doubles as a James Herriot retail outlet.

More pictures from me tomorrow (but — I promise — not from the laundromat. Ha!)

AND ANOTHER THING: This (see below) greeted me on my way around Bowness on Windermere this afternoon; cuisine barely preferable to hunger, to be sure…that poster reading “Discover the Hot Fresh Domino’s App” is actually a digital billboard which, as I tried to get the picture, offered “Any Pizza For £12.95” (or in Australian dollars, $21.95 at today’s rates). For $21.95, one can buy four (4) Domino’s pizzas in Australia using a supermarket receipt voucher — not that you’d want to — and even then, they’re a rip-off. Why anyone would pay £12.95 for ONE (and think it’s a bargain, let alone worth eating at all) is beyond me…