By Jane Stokes
(NC)-Where, oh where, can the 60 million people be? In the
cities, maybe, for out in the countryside, no one is there.
The British Isles, from the beginning of time, has committed
every last possible acre to the fruits of nature. There, great
swaths of prim and pretty pastoral scenery survive.
Modern Britain is, indeed, the place called 'home' to 60
million residents, in or out of sight, but it appears now this
fabled English countryside has claimed equal rights.
In the Pennine Hills of the Yorkshire Dales, for example,
ancient rivers continue to carve out a landscape of mountains,
deep valleys and waterfalls. Right beside the industrial belt
rigours of Sheffield, Manchester and Liverpool, nearly 700
square miles of water-carved woodland is protected as a
national park. The otherwise densely populated British Isles -
from the western tip of Ireland, through Wales, England, and up
to the magical Highlands of northern Scotland - are often just
as serene as can be. So why not chuck it all in the cities -
and come home every night to your own little farmhouse or
country cottage?
Wake up every morning in County Cumbria for example, and behold
a lake-filled landscape of such uncompromising beauty, you may
not believe your own eyes. Sculpted vigorously by an Ice Age,
the resulting Lake District is a land of legend still for any
storyteller, music-maker, picture-taker, painter or poet. And
it's small. The entire county of such dense green peaks and
fells, waterfalls, tarns, and the mirror-like meres (as in
Lakes Buttermere, Grasmere, and Windermere) cover only 30 miles
in any direction. It does, however, take days and days to fully
explore, as you simply follow curly mile after curly mile
around all the steep-sloping patchwork fields that cradle
everything else.
Even short-stay cottage rentals of just four or five days can
be yours, first, by window-shopping through scores of fully
equipped property choices on the Blakes.com website - and then
by simply choosing the date. In the Yorkshire Dales, near
Skipton, for example, we rented the fabulous Grange Farmhouse,
a three-bedroom, two-storey, old English stone residence with
it's high-beamed ceilings, plush living room, modernized
kitchen, several fireplaces and window views of all the
legendary landscapes that brought us here. The property, with
its own garden, picnic table and barbecue, is part of three,
adjoining holiday cottages, but in autumn, we were happily the
only renters and kept company with nothing but shady, green
fields for miles all around.
Two weeks earlier, in Scotland, we rented, too. After three
nights in the grand city of Edinburgh, we drove northwest into
the Highlands along Loch Lomond and Loch Ness to Ft. William,
where we had chosen the rather elusive, Ivy Cottage.
Not that Ivy Cottage lacked anything. Just the opposite in fact
- we lived gloriously there in modernized, spanking clean
comfort and slept in what had to be the most luxurious bedding
in all of Scotland. The owners even set out a plate of tea and
sweets for our arrival. The problem was - it couldn't be found.
We were quite late, mind you. It was already dark when we
reached Ft. William, so into a trusty BP station I went to ask
for help with our printed directions. One or two customers
recognized instantly where we had to go, but, they said,
definitely not alone. So we gratefully accepted to follow them
- driving at a much brisker pace now on the one-lane,
pitch-dark roads. Eventually, my escort made a right onto a
farm-side lane, then another right towards a rushing river. And
then his car disappeared.
Did he really go in there? We came to a stop at the arched
opening of what looked like a mightily narrow brick tunnel -
just one, in fact, on a medieval aqueduct. Through it was
exactly where the road went, and hey, it was going to be a very
tight, puddle-filled squeeze in a blackout for 50 feet, but so
did we. On the other side was Ivy Cottage.
Acts of kindness came our way in Britain every day, it
certainly seemed. While parking in Inverness, for example, a
stranger, needing to depart the parkade much earlier than he'd
planned, saved us money by volunteering his fully paid ticket.
People walked with us when we asked directions - and if
anything could equal the kindness of the guys that drove us to
Ivy Cottage, it was Roland Carr back in the Yorkshire Dales.
This incident is one for keeps.
It was, once again, quite late on a dark evening when we
arrived in the Dales, looking for the Grange Farmhouse. The
directions were plain enough, but there had been confusion on
the last round-about. A lone attendant at a nearby service
station didn't recognize much on our directions, so we were on
our own.
Back on the dark, but busy roadway, we kept trying to figure it
out, and just as we were doing another nail-biting, three-point
turn, a vehicle pulled up to us urgently, and stopped.
"Are you the lost tourists?" the driver asked, introducing
himself as Roland Carr. "I was just getting some petrol and was
told about you. Where is it you want to go?"
Within just minutes, of course - in a country where 60 million
people still obviously find time for one another - we were
happily unlocking the door to yet another perfect little
home-away-from-home.
Travel Planner:
Britain Cottage Rentals: blakes.com
Tourism Information: visitbritain.com
