Taking the Train

Discussing our plans to get across the bay to Arnside, I tell Michael, “I think we should park in the train station car park.” He disagrees.

“That parking lot is for people who take the train,” he tells me.

“But we’re taking the train!” And we’re going to be gone at least 4 hours and I have a funny feeling we might be tired when we finally return.

Fish and chips are the end game here, and we have a choice, cross the narrow neck of the bay and go by car to Arnside or take a six-minute train ride. If the train ride had been six seconds it would have been Michael’s choice.

After dropping money into the Pay and Display lot in front of the train station we walk into the building to purchase our tickets. At 11:05 the ticket window is closed. There is a sign. Gone to Lunch. Be Back at 11:30.

We walk.

The promenade is beautiful,  looking like spring and feeling like autumn. We follow the high road, adjacent to the train track. Below us is a small lake, dotted with clusters of sea gulls, ducks, and a swan or two. In the middle of all the waterfowl is a statue—several statues—depicting a fisherman sitting at the edge of a long dock who has caught a whale on his line. I love the whimsy. Michael isn’t quite as impressed.

Circling back to the train station we pass by a rock wall—used as a planter—containing a row of begonias interspersed with English ivy. We have lots of rock walls in the hill country and I love begonias. If only…

Back at the train station by 11:30, we purchase two round-trip tickets for less than £5 for the 11:58 departure. We dawdle, sitting, standing, walking. I wait till five minutes before the train is due to arrive to decide that I am hot. Checking the sky all morning long—it is a constant game of the clouds playing tag with the sun—at last the sun seems to be winning. I want to get rid of my extraneous outerwear. Checking the time one more time I know it is now or never. I bravely ask Michael to give me the car keys; he graciously takes my coat and runs my errand. I follow him out the door just to make sure he will come back.

Arnside

We barely take our seats on the train before we disembark at Arnside. The first building we come to, at the junction of the railroad tracks and the bridge across the bay, has a sign that reads Fish and Chips. It also has a sign that reads Sheila’s Heron Café.  Michael makes his way to the promised lunch.

“Wait.  We’re are here to have fish and chips…but not those fish and chips. Not at that restaurant. The restaurant I am looking for is not called Sheila’s.” We walk the length of the town till we run out of shops; turning back we stop at a pharmacy to ask directions.

Arnside Chip Shop

Sitting in the fish and chip shop next to Sheila’s Heron Café, we order. I’m full of apologies. What I get in return is, “Next time you have a destination in mind, tell me the night before and I’ll look  up how to get there.”

I order the small plate, Michael orders the large. We probably shouldn’t even be having lunch today. Our evening plans are to have dinner with another couple at Rogan & Company; the less expensive little brother of the next door extremely pricey posh L’Enclume, the Michelin Star restaurant owned by Chef Simon Rogan. I want to be hungry for that anticipated meal, but I want to be here too.  The crispy fish has tender centers and the chips are fried to equal perfection.  I try not to eat the whole thing. It takes an act of will.

English Footpaths

Walking down the promenade we head west toward what I hope will be a path to a forest—which is supposed to be rather difficult to find—so if I fail at that I have a backup plan.  Another trail. We reach the coast guard station which means we missed the forest. But the instructions for the second route say to turn left at the trail. There are two trails. They both go up. One looks a bit more treacherous than the other, so I choose the path of least resistance.

At the top of the hill we turn left, finding ourselves on what seems to be a major thoroughfare, but there is a bench, and we are huffing and puffing just a tiny bit. We sit for awhile and I tell Michael—once again—that perhaps I messed up, and he tells me, “Next time you have a destination in mind, tell me the night before and I’ll look up how to get there.”

Giving up on all of my original plans, I opt for a third—follow my nose. I have two choices, left or right. “Let’s go right,” I say.

The neighborhood is lovely. It could be the stately old homes on Rivercrest Drive in Fort Worth, or River Oaks in Houston.  A resident walks down his drive and hurries in front of us, stopping further down the street and messing about with a gate. “I wonder if that is a footpath?” I say.

It is, and lured by curiosity as to where it goes, I lead us through the gate and onto the narrow path. An open field on one side balances the dense forest on the other.  I realize we are walking parallel to the road we just traveled, but I have hopes of arriving someplace new. The path does veer to the north.  Finally, barred from where we want to go because the path we wish to take is private, we are back on the bench that warmed our bottoms not that long ago. I ask Michael his opinion on how we should proceed. “Whatever you want to do,” he tells me.

What I want to do is have a phone with 4G’s that will help me out—give me directions. We opt to return the way we came. Walking toward the train station I tell Michael, “Well this isn’t exactly what I had planned, but I liked our walk anyway.”  I’m not sure how he really feels, but he smiles. At least I think that’s a smile.

Rogan & Company – A Michelin Starred Chef

At 6:15 p.m. I’m standing in front of the manor house, waiting for Gill and Peter to arrive, grateful that they offered to pick us up and drive to the restaurant. The thought of traveling at night on these tiny roads have kept us at home the entire week.

Meeting the warm and friendly couple for the first time—friends of friends—I discover they have they the same feelings about the miniscule roads and the too fast cars that we do, and they live here! We don’t even park inside the tiny village of Cartmel. “It is too easy to get trapped inside during a weekend because of all of the traffic,” Gil tells us, “we never park inside the village.”

Making our way on foot we pass familiar scenes till we reach Rogan and Company; preparing to settle into an evening of decadence. There is much discussion on wine and beer and mixed drinks.  I see something called Death’s Door Gin with rosemary and lime and I am intrigued. But I have to pack tonight—we leave for Wales tomorrow—and I want to be able to stand. When Gill says she is having one, I dive in right beside her. The gin is American, not English, and is made in Middleton, Wisconsin. It is as smooth as silk and is touted as big enough to stand up to classic or vintage cocktail treatment, but soft enough to be enjoyed on the rocks or as a dry martini. I wonder if Total Wine carries it.

I sip the rosemary and lime infused gin with my first course of smoked roe, bacon, and farmer’s leaves.  The appetizer is richer than Lloyd’s of London and not at all what I envisioned.  The roe is smoked and could be considered the densest, richest creamiest eggs I have ever tasted. If they are indeed fish eggs, they are well disguised, forming a thick circular base for the freshly sautéed greens and cubes of bacon that crown the top.

To accompany my main course of beef barrel rump with king oyster mushrooms and mustard seed, I order a wine I have never heard of before, a Portuguese Prunus “Private Selection” Dão Red. It is lovely. Nibbling away,  I can’t imagine how anything but a strip steak or rib eye could be tender, but the beef on my plate matches those two cuts.  It is adorned with the tiniest baby carrots and the largest mushroom slices I have ever seen.  Needlessly, Michael and I ordered two sides to accompany our entrées—cauliflower with Red Leicester cheese, and tiny minted new potatoes.

We don’t need dessert but all of us capitulate, with the exception of Gill, who sits with her hands in her lap, resisting all temptation. Michael orders a cheese course to go with his port. I order a recommended white dessert wine to accompany my gooseberry and oat tart, and rich dark coffee with equally rich cream.

We should have walked farther.