UK Day 7: In Which the Train is Horrible, Isn't it? But Cumbria is Lovely, Don't You Think?

I’ve always enjoyed train travel and was really looking forward to our trip from London to Penrith in Cumbria. We have Britrail passes and have been using them (or not using them as it turns out) to get around the UK which is super convenient as you don’t need to buy tickets and you can just show up whenever and get on the next train. You are supposed to write the date in, but only one person has asked to see them the entire trip, so we have taken to simply flashing them at whoever looks like they are in charge and getting on to the train. On our trip up to Cumbria, Zoe couldn’t find hers and instead pulled out a facial mask she had in her bag. The ticket guy just looked at it and nodded her on. High security here. However, in what may have been a karmic intervention, things went downhill after the facemask incident starting with us waiting with what felt like the entire population of a small country in the station to see which platform the train was leaving from, and then the two allocated members of our team taking part in a running-of-the-bulls scene to get to the platform first and secure seats, only to realize just minutes before the train left that we were on the wrong train.
So off we all got and headed back to the station, with a brief conversation with the conductor along the way, who had obviously been chatting with my mum:

Conductor (as we approached him): WRONG TRAIN!
Me: ‘Yes I see that now…silly me! I…’
Conductor: ‘You got on the WRONG TRAIN! Oxenholme is different than Penrith, isn’t it!’
Me: ‘yep mmhmmm we did I didn’t reali…’
Conductor: ‘You want the NEXT ONE NOT THIS ONE’
Conductor’s sidekick: ‘Well they could have taken this train and changed at Lancaster’
Conductor: ‘Well that’s Jane’s call isn’t it – why you tellin’ me? Tell her!’
Sidekick: ‘You could have changed at Lan…’
Me: ‘Yes thanks so much I know I took the WRONG TRAIN. I won’t make that mist…’
Conductor: ‘Well you better get on and have your cup of tea now so you don’t muck it up again!’
Me: ‘OK thanks SO MUCH!’
Sidekick (to the conductor): Do they not want to get on this train and change at Lanc…’
Conductor: ‘Don’t keep on about it they’ve lost their sets now, haven’t they? They’re off to have a cup of tea. Could do with one meself’

Which brings me to a point of contention I have with the British which is their insistence on adding ‘isn’t it?’ or ‘doesn’t it'?’ or ‘won’t it?’ or ‘don’t you think?’ to the end of their sentences. It requires one to either agree with everything that has been said to keep the conversation going, or to disagree, which usually causes some kind of abrupt halt to the conversation while you explain your position, and makes you seem disagreeable.  It can be a bit awkward, like that time when I disagreed with a shopkeeper about whether or not a clothing item fit:

Me (trying on a shirt): ‘Do you have this in a medium? I can’t find it…’
Shopkeeper: ‘That’s a medium, isn’t it.’
Me: ‘No, I think it’s a small’
Shopkeeper: ‘But it’s good if it fits a bit small, isn’t it? We like our clothes to fit properly, don’t we?’
Me: (wondering how to answer this) ‘yes we do but this doesn’t…’
Shopkeeper: ‘I think it does, doesn’t it’
Me: ‘Umm, well not really…’
Shopkeeper (looking out the window) ‘I like the rain, don’t you? It’s so calming, isn’t it? Better than the hot sun, don’t you think?’
Me: ‘Not especially… I mean I don’t really like the hot sun but, umm, do you have the medium’
Shopkeeper: ‘Yes I don’t, do I’
Me: ‘No you do, I think'…wait…what?’
Shopkeeper: ‘So you’ll take the medium, will you? Good choice, isn’t it! I bet you’d like this wooden spoon, too, wouldn’t you!’
Me (feeling slightly confused): ‘But isn’t this a small?’
Shopkeeper: (looking at me like I’m a complete idiot) ’Wot, the spoon? No of course not – they only come in one size, don’t they!’
Me (feeling bewildered): ‘Fine I’ll take it, won’t I?’
Shopkeeper: ‘I thought you wanted a medium?’
Me (starting to cry): ‘I’ll take three spoons, and all the shirts, that jar of marmalade and the cat, too’
Shopkeeper: ‘Very good. Have a lovely day, won’t you’

Anyway, back to the train journey. By the time we got on the right train, it was completely packed and also a bazillion degrees in our carriage. You can reserve a seat, but they had closed reservations a long time previous and so we had been out of luck and hence the race to get seats. Travis and Georgia had sprinted ahead and Zoe and my mum and I arrived a short time later and squeezed ourselves on to the carriage only to find the entire thing full and the middle aisle blocked with people standing. Having found my mum a seat, it was some time before Zoe and I could get to our seats that Travis was defending tooth and nail for us. I could see a impeding Snit which I think we only just averted by fighting our way to the seats in time for the train to depart.

Click this link to see a short clip of Zoe fighting her way down the aisle on the train...
It was a bit tight on the train...

And so we all spent an uncomfortable three hours sweltering in the heat and swaying as the train zipped along. Zoe and Georgia gave up their seats to an elderly Chinese couple who, it turned out, had also gotten on the wrong train – I wonder what happened to them.
By the time we arrived in Penrith, we were all on the edge of expiring and looked as though we had just spent the previous three hours in a sweat lodge. Fortunately it was cooler in the north and a very nice lady from the car rental place was there to pick us up and take us back for the car. I somehow made it through the paperwork and we were on our way. I only had to remind myself to stay on the left once or twice and of course Elaine, the nice Sat Nav lady was there to tell me where to go. She’s always been there for me over the years and I was pleased to hear her dulcet tones once again telling me to ‘TURN LEFT’ with what seemed increasing intensity as we sailed along country roads, veering closer to and farther from the hedgerows and past the villages of Upper and Lower Farting, Greater and Lesser Chitwithington,  and my favourite, Snitford, while I became accustomed to the roads. After about 45 minutes and a stop at a supermarket along the way, we arrived at our home for the week, High Houses. I can’t really describe it as it did leave all of us speechless, but suffice to say if I had to stay here for the rest of my life, I would! Built in 1669 of honey coloured stone and set atop a hill in the rolling countryside, it is absolutely idyllic. We were met at the door by the exuberantly friendly owner, Jill, and her three black labs (one puppy!) and ancient terrier, who showed us around (Jill, not the ancient terrier although he did make an effort) explaining to us about the Aga stove, and how the kitchen used to be the stables, and where the garden was to pick veggies, and where the basket of fresh eggs was, and putting the kettle on for us to have tea and homemade cake (which she had also made for us) and I really did almost burst into tears of joy. The rest of our group fell in love with the place too and I’ll stop talking now and show you instead:

As if on cue, Georgia found a robin’s egg shell outside the kitchen door.

The light up here is stunning in the evenings and we can see north west across the Solway Firth to Scotland. Zoe and Georgia were more interested in the puppy.

We were all exhausted after our week in London and the journey up and it took us about two seconds to agree that we would spend the next day doing nothing and not leave High Houses. We slept in and had a  leisurely breakfast then spent the rest of the day in one of the overstuffed armchairs, or in a window seat or out in the garden. Travis and the girls ventured up through the fields behind the house to the next village for tea and the staggered back to collapse on the couch or in the giant cast-iron bathtub. It was a rough day.

Please come back tomorrow for a more interesting day where we visit the home of William Wordsworth, and the farm of Beatrix Potter. So lovely!

Thanks for reading,
Jane