Waking to gray skies I stumble into the kitchen and spoon coffee grounds fine as dust into the French press, counting out four rather large tablespoons before I pour in the hot water.  Practicing our morning ritual, Michael and I sit sipping the hot liquid while listening to the national news—BBC instead of PBS; gray skies turn to rain.

After breakfast he asks me to take Ian’s list and find a good pub where we can have lunch. List in hand, phone in hand, Good Pub Guide in hand, I start Googling distances, determined that my decision—based on the weather and the need to drive on the wrong side of slippery roads that are no wider than a thin knife—should be based on which pub is the shortest distance away. The list is long.  Google Maps has never worked so hard. The Masons Arms in Cartmel Fell wins—a short 11-minute drive from the apartment.

While Googling away I hear Michael say, “We are going to that meeting at 10:30, aren’t we?”

Forgetting entirely that we are due at the Manor House for an orientation, I quickly shower, blow dry my hair and pull the heaviest sweater I own over my head—I’m cold. I look in the mirror and see a wimpy warm-blooded Texan. I change, choosing something less winter-like, but still warm; I have on two layers—three counting my raincoat. And a scarf.

Sitting in comfortable chairs in front of large windows in the drawing room of Merlewood, I watch the rain and listen to a lovely lilting English accent tell me the ins and outs and whys and hows and shoulds and shouldn’ts and must dos of our stay in the Lakes District. By eleven—when we have learned everything we need to know—the sun has determinedly broken through the dense cloud cover. The mood of the entire room is lifted. While everyone happily chats I search for a way to get to the terrace.

Sitting in the car, ready to depart I ask Michael if by chance he has a walk planned now that the sun is shining? He doesn’t commit, but “Maybe,” he says. Leaving the car I run down the path and up two flights of stairs retrieving my walking shoes—just in case. In the car again, I watch while Michael programs the GPS to take us to the Masons Arms, the problem being that there are three Masons Arms to choose from. Giving up when I can’t tell him which one is the right one, Michael programs the GPS for Cartmel Fell. He tells me that perhaps having the Good Pub Guide containing directions might be a good thing to have in the car with us. I open the car door and head up the walkway one more time.

Michael drives toward our destination following Jeeves commands, “Turn right then beaver left.”  We turn right—we don’t know what the beaver does or why he is here in the car with us.

I only thought I have been on roads that dip and curl and twist. This one is a tangled shoelace—inches narrower than our car is wide—and coils like an erratic cyclone, ascending and sliding and gliding as it traverses the countryside. We meet another car as it slips while we climb. The passenger’s face is plastered to the windshield and her arms are spread wide while clutching the dashboard. Is that fear on her face?

“They must be tourists,” I tell Michael, while wondering, Is that what I look like?

I love this road, even though it gives me a stomach ache and adds gray to my hair. I feel like we are in the middle of Tolkien’s Hobbit and I just know that Gandalf and Bilboa Baggins are hiding behind these ancient stone walls waiting for us to pass so they can continue on their journey. It is that kind of place. Magical. Mystical. Secretive.

Reaching Cartmel Fell, which is nothing more than a hole in the road—there is naught here but a road sign, and if it weren’t for Jeeves telling us we’ve arrived, we wouldn’t even know we are here—I finally turn on my phone to get us to our lunchtime destination. Of course Google Maps won’t work, refusing to give directions, but the map is there, the blue circle that is us is there, and I kind of know where we are supposed to go. I become Jeevette.

Cresting a hill I see a white stucco structure in the middle of the slender tip of the Y in the divided road ahead. “That must be it,” I say. Michael pulls into the miniature parking lot, securing the last of the few spaces available.

The view on my right is so pastoral, so peaceful, so inviting that I find myself crossing the road, camera in hand,  centering grazing sheep in lush green fields into the middle of my view finder. Turning, I thread my way through a forest of tables made from wicker and wood shaded by vast green umbrellas; I can’t help but wish for a warm summer day. But summer it isn’t and I push my way through the door into the Masons Arms.

Whitewashed and wooden beamed, the interior of the ancient inn which dates back to the 16^th century defines the word cozy. Michael chooses a tiny table in the corner of the tiny bar area. He immediately asks the bartender for a beer while I think about things. He encourages a smiling baby in his mother’s arms success in trying to pull the scarf from around my neck. We peruse the menu forever, trying to decide on the level of our decadence.

Pub food has changed—gone upscale. No shepherd’s pie. No bangers and mash. No spotted dick. But there is fish and chips, and despite all of the other wonderful tempting sounding items on the menu, I  have to do it.  The novel I am currently reading, The Lying Game, is set in a seaside village in England and last night I read a paragraph where the heroine savored her fish and chips and mushy peas in an equally old pub; and the English really know how to fry—I don’t have a choice. We both order a first course.

The steaming hot roasted-tomato and red bell pepper soup is delicious. It is enough to fill me up, especially if I keep nibbling the homemade bread that accompanies it while spreading the bread with sweet English butter. I sip a delicious French Colombard Pays du Gers wishing I had ordered the large not medium sized glass.

Michael polishes off most of his ribs while I purposely leave a portion of crunchy fish and salty chips on my plate. His second glass of beer is still half full, and determined to finish it he suggests I order dessert. I decline, even though it is sticky toffee pudding. Even though it is sticky toffee pudding from Cartmel—from the place that created it. Even though I love sticky toffee pudding.

I decline.

When my sticky toffee pudding arrives it is beyond decadent. Rich with dates, sugar, butter and eggs it glistens with sticky toffee sauce, while swimming in a pool of pale golden cream. Michael takes the first bite. I take the last. I’m doomed.

The path we follow out of Cartmel Fell takes us far above the southern tip of narrow Lake Windermere. Remarkably there are viewing areas on this narrow lane. We pull off the road, both of us snapping photos. The lake is beautiful. The hills are beautiful. The fells are beautiful. The valleys are beautiful. And even though they make my stomach clench, the country roads are charmingly beautiful too. Where is a bench to sit and stare when I need it.

Michael ignores the turn to Merlewood and continues west, toward the sea. We travel down a divided highway without any mishaps or intakes of breath till we run out of road and are forced to turn back.  Michael follows his nose, looking at me, raising his eyebrows, questioning my desire to roam. We get lost on another narrow lane, meeting too many cars.

We hurtle along at 30 mph—the speed limit. The British have a death wish. I really think we should be going 10.  I would be driving 10.  When a hot little red number comes racing toward us with apparently no intention of slowing down, and we hear branches scraping the side of the car as Michael gets as far left as possible, we decide it is time to ask Jeeves to take us home; and he tries. But Michael misses a turn on a roundabout, continuing on, looking for a place to make a U-turn while Jeeves patiently tells us in the background, “Turn around as soon as possible so you will be facing the opposite direction in which you are directing your vehicle …now…(sigh).”

Oh Jeeve’s—you make us laugh.