Off to the Lake District for Enlightenment. Suitcase Mood, Chapter 10
Libby, pack your bags! Were off to the Lake District!
Kate hurtled into the library, looking as if shed just discovered buried treasure in the classics section. Libby barely looked up from the membership card she was filling out and stared at her friend. Kate was, as always, a walking BBC One dramared windbreaker, jeans with the knees in open rebellion, rucksack slung artfully over one shoulder. The Energizer Bunny, if the Bunny shopped at Oxfam.
The Lake District? Libby blinked. When?
August, next week! Kate was already pulling out printouts like Mary Poppins. Yoga retreat, camping, mountains, meditations, the works. Its a group of esoteric types, very advanced people, apparently. I want enlightenment, Libby! And you could do with a bit yourself.
Enlightenment? Libby burst out laughing. Kate, Im a librarian. Enlightenment is literally part of the job description.
No, you donut! Kate plonked down opposite, shoving a brochure across the desk. Look: Lake District, centre of power and all that. Shamanswell, probably just a bloke named Nigel, but never mindgushing rivers, the purest air. We camp, eat vegetarian food, do yoga and meditate every single day. Theres even excursions to sacred sites!
Libby flicked through the pamphlet. Fells, rivers, tents by the lakeshore, people in white wafting about, meditating at sunset. It looked restful, buttents? Vegetarian food? She eyed Kates wild enthusiasm and realized resistance was pointless.
Who else is going?
Ten or somostly our lot, from Doncaster and around. Organizers are proper experienced, not their first sheep rodeo. I rang them up! Libby, this is your chance. You love a wander, dont you? New adventure: yoga, hills, mystic auras.
Ive never tried yoga, Libby mumbled.
Youll pick it up! Loads of newbies. You just need to want it.
And what about Jack? Libby suddenly thought of him, her heart giving a guilty lurch. We were meant to go somewhere together
Is he coming? asked Kate.
Doubtful, sighed Libby. His idea of adventure is a tent by a muddy riversomewhere he can fish. Esoterics and meditation? Hed rather read the instruction manual for the kettle.
Perfect! Kate clapped her hands. Let him wait at home. Imagine: you come back all enlighteneda totally new woman. Hell be delighted.
That evening, Libby called Jack and explained: the trip, tents, yoga, the works. He listened in tolerant silence.
The Lake District is beautiful, he said at last. Never been myself, but always fancied it.
You dont fancy coming? she asked, though the answer was on his face.
Not my scene, he answered. Might nip off fishing instead. But seriously, you go. You need a change more than I do.
Arent you scared to let me run off? she teased, unsure if she meant it.
Whats to be scared of? Jack actually laughed. You are our in-house explorer. Ill be waiting. Just come backpreferably enlightened.
Deal, Libby grinned.
She hung up, eyeing the glossy flyer Kate left behind. Was she after enlightenment? Doubtful. But the Lake District had always called to her. She wanted new adventuresand Jack would be waiting. That was what truly mattered.
Well then, mate, she told Kate the next day, pack up your tent. Im in. Lets Dales-and-hills it.
To enlightenment! Kate whooped.
To enlightenment, agreed Libby, suddenly buoyant.
What awaited in those fells? Whod they meet, what would unfold? Who knew. But even if she was only almost ready, she could feel an adventure brewing.
***
The bus left Doncaster station at some ungodly hour, and Libby quickly realized this would be nothing like any of her prior getaways. The crowd waslets just sayeclectic. Opposite, two fresh-faced girls wore long linen dresses and wristfuls of beads. Close by, a woman in a vivid orange kaftan and clattering earrings looked as if shed come straight from an episode of Gardeners WorldPsychedelic Edition. Behind, a bloke in a white embroidered shirt, clutching an actual wooden staff adorned with ribbons and sleigh bells.
Are we off to the circus? Libby whispered to Kate as they settled by the window.
Not a circustruth-seekers, Kate whispered back, eyes alight. Ive read about these Lake District lot. Always after enlightenment.
With a staff? Libby snorted.
Oi, less of the cheek, Kate elbowed her. Everyones got their path.
The city faded; soon, hedgerows, fields, sleepy hamlets trundled past. Lively chatter filled the air. Lady Orange-Kaftan regaled everybody with tales of her last trip to the Lakeshow it changed her life. Apparently, shed quit banking for reiki on the spot, after a particularly meaningful cloud drift.
I just help heal souls now! All thanks to the Lake District! she declared, loud enough for the driver to applaud.
One summer I realised I wanted to be a vet, chimed in Beady Wristbands. Applied straight away! Didnt even like animals before.
Libby listened, torn between amusement and awe. She turned to Kate.
So, whats meant to open up for you on this trip?
Kate reflected. Maybe start a business. Or have more kids. Truthfully, I just want a week off and nice scenery. Enlightenment can find me if it fancies.
Thats the spirit, Libby sighed. I was worried wed joined a cult.
Not a cult, Kate promised. Just folks with a taste for the odd. Keeps things spicy.
The journey stretched over two days, with a night at a laughably grim motorway B&B. But finally, the mountains of Cumbria loomeda patchwork of peaks, at first gentle and forested, then craggier. Libby glued herself to the glass as the coach zigzagged mountain lanes, every bend revealing new spectacles: cliffs, tumbling rivers, far-off summits billowing into clouds.
Over there! It looks just like Switzerland! Libby yanked at Kates sleeve.
Proper Lake District, not Swiss Alps, Kate wagged her finger. Though ours is loads better.
With heads constantly swiveling and camera phones hot, they paid little heed to the person commencing a low, droning mantra in the back seat. The mountains stole Libbys attention at every turnancient stone giants, perennially silent, some shaped like castles, monsters, or faces of Viking gods.
That onelike a knight sleeping, Libby pointed.
Energy hotspots, explained Lady Orange-Kaftan, eavesdropping. Every rock has a story. If you listen.
Libby considered asking how to listen to a boulder, then thought better of it. To each their holy pebble.
Their first real stop was Kirkstone Pass. The bus hissed to a halt at the lookout, and Libbys knees went odd at the view: a thread of river curling below, blue peaks receding into haze, and sky wider than home ever knew.
Something else! she whispered.
Thats the Lakes for you, the bearded wizard with the staff nodded sagely. Properly airs out ones soul.
Libby stood, gazing, soaking it up. Local artists metalwork decorated the spot. She made Kate photograph her everywhere. Kate darted about, camera in overdrive.
Come here, quick! You have to see this!
Kate had found a precarious boulder, with a stick propped cheerfully against it, a dandelion taped on by a helpful rambler and Lil Rock, Dont Get Sick! scribbled with marker. Libby found it oddly adorable, snapping it for posterity.
Then, on they rolled, winding deep into the fells, onward to their own bit of magic. At the meeting of the Derwent and Greta rivers, Libby emerged and stared.
The two streams ran side by side, one muddy, the other glass-clear. They met at a bend, then carried on for ages, stubbornly refusing to blend, their waters only merging far away.
Its to do with currents and minerals, the guide explained. Two stories in one river, like two lives. Only mix fully after a good long run.
Libby stood beside those rivers, pondering: Close together, but not always entwined. Only time decides if youll merge.
They made camp by the foot of Skiddaw, along the riverbank. Setting up the tent, Libby and Kate fought the guy ropes and poles until the wizardly man assembled it in seconds, with an expression of long-suffering patience. They scrutinized his technique for next time. Once settled, sleeping bags laid out, Libby could finally relax.
So? Kate asked as they cupped tea around the fire.
Im not sure. Libby admitted. Its a different world. The mountains, rivers, these folks and their chants Feels odd.
Youll get used to it, Kate smiled. Just a week. Imagine doing this a month.
That night, Libby struggled to sleep. The river thrashed nearby, louder than any motorwaydrowning out every half-thought and daydream. She lay in the tent, the sound thrumming through her until something inside seemed to loosennot enlightenment, exactly, more a gentle reminder that she was here, alive, seeing such beauty, living now.
You awake? Kate whispered.
Yeah.
Cant sleep. Too loud.
Thats the Lake District, Libby said. Feels like its trying to tell me something.
Kate sniggered, muffled.
You sound like the ones with the mantras now, she teased.
No, replied Libby. More like I can feel it. This place matters.
She closed her eyes, the rivers lullaby curling round her. Somewhere, wind rushed through the peaks, starlight bristled above, and Libby understood a real journey lay ahead. Not just across the fells, but through herself. Even a librarian from Bakewell could set out like this.
***
Their first real morning in the Lakes began with bells. Libby tumbled out of a heavy sleep, disoriented: why did it smell of pine and smoke? Tent, sleeping bag, Kate snoring gently. Outside, someone serenaded the dawn with jingle bells and a reedy falsetto: Up we get, yogis! The suns up! Energys rising! Onto your mats!
What? Libby groaned, her back reminding her sharply that she was not designed for sleeping on foam.
Yoga, whispered Kate, knotting tracksuit bottoms. Told you. Up, no slacking.
Blinking, Libby crawled into the blinding sun. Mats were already rolled out. Lady Orange-Kaftan meditated, serene in lotus. The linen girls stretched like cats. The wizard with a staffnow staff-lesswas practicing a headstand.
A headstand? Libby squinted. Is that normal?
For them, yes. Kate unfolded her mat. Come on, get into it.
Their yoga instructora svelte woman in white, with a plait long enough to trip a sheepdogglided about ensuring alignment and breathing.
Breathe, friends! Fill every cell with the suns energy!
Deep breath. Downward dog. Libbys triceps screamed.
Uuugh, she grunted, resembling more a confused prawn than canine.
Shh, just breathe, hissed Kate, surprisingly nimble. Ive done it on YouTube. With Alice. Now tree pose, go.
Libby, balancing on one leg, arms up, toppled after three seconds, domino-ing straight into Kate. They both landed, giggling, on their mats.
First time? called Lady Orange, rock-solid in lotus.
That obvious? Libby panted, mopping sweat.
Youll get there. The soul is willing, the bodys a grump.
By the end, Libby felt like a wind-battered fence post. She couldnt reach her toes, wobble-free standing was for other people, and any talk of inner chakras was best ignored. Yet, in an odd way, she felt gloriously light.
I feel like an oak log, she grumped to Kate, shuffling toward breakfast.
Soon to be an enlightened oak, Kate winked.
After porridge and herbal tea (no bacon sandwiches in sight), their leader announced: Off the main road today, were hiking to Hardknott Pass.
One of the Lake Districts wildest and prettiest, but not for the faint-hearted.
The minibus lurched forward, the tarmac quickly giving way to a jarring gravel track. Libby clung to the grab rail, wondering why anyone would willingly do this.
Hang on! Kate bellowed as the bus leapt over a pothole.
I am! Libby hollered back. Remind mewhy?!
Heaven awaits! Kate shrieked.
Not literally, I hope! Libby thought.
But when they rolled through the Blood-red Gatestitanic rocks pressed close either sideLibby instantly forgot the jostling. Views opened up: turquoise lakes pooled in green valleys, water so clear you could see straight through. No fish, though.
Hallowed waters, intoned Lady Orange. No fishing, no swimming. An energy site.
Why no fish? Libby asked.
Theyre justnot needed, came the wispy answer.
Fortunately, the guide elaborated: glacial lakes lacked nutrients and were icy cold. Fish simply couldnt hack it.
Up, up, the road snaked among the eerie burial mounds of ancient chieftains and the glow of snowy peaksplaces where time, as their wizardly friend suggested, moved differently. Libby mainly felt motion-sick.
On route, they stopped at Micks Base, essentially a museum of 1970s Britain meets eccentric pub garden. Rusty motorbikes, a cardboard-cutout of the Queen, heaps of union jack bunting, battered LPs.
What is this? An exhibit? Libby asked, staring at a mural of David Bowie.
My home, said the elderly owner, moustachioed and very Shakespearian. But also a sort of living collection. Tea with wild mint, anyone?
They sipped from the samovar, smothered bread with honey, and ogled ancient ration books. Libby felt briefly as if shed wandered back in timea home full of stories, like her own library.
You keep all this? she admired Micks hoard.
Course! Travelled about collectingsomeones got to remember, with the youngsters glued to their mobiles.
Libby thought of her own patrons, turning pages for the memory, and realized they were of the same tribecurators of the past.
Up at the peak of Hardknott, Libby stepped out, struck dumb by the drop below; sheep in the dale looked like buttons, while buzzards soared at eye level.
Theyre below us, Libby marvelled.
Who? Kate shaded her eyes.
The birdslook, theyre beneath us. Feels like were flying.
She stood at the edge, thunderstruckthe world miles below, time stopped. For that instant, nothing could be more real.
Enlightened yet? Kate nudged.
Not sure. But I am properly, absurdly happy.
That night, camping by the mountains foot, the hush was so thick, Libbys ears rang with it. Black velvet sky studded with starsso bright you could bowl a cricket ball through them.
A fire crackled. Lady Orange produced a jaw harp, twanging ancient, earthy rhythms. Some kid thumped a Mongolian drum, and their music stitched itself into the wind, the flames, the silence.
Feels like another world, Libby whispered.
It is, Kate agreed. One we forgot how to live in. Here, we remember.
Libby gazed at the fire, stars spilling overhead, and thought: Tomorrownew hills, new roads, new wonders. She was ready. Hurting a bit, sure. Her yoga dreams were in shreds, her mind all scrambled. But this was the whole pointto feel, to live, to be here, now, in this wild, wordless space.
***
Morning by the Skiddaw camp began enshrouded in fog. Libby crawled out of the tent and frozewhite mist had blanketed the valley, only the sharpest peaks jutted above, like lost castles floating in a silver sea.
Cows were grazing nearby, their bells echoing tinny and melancholic between the slopesa music blended with bird cries and the rivers rush. The silence here you could almost hold in your hands.
Just like a film, Libby whispered.
This is the Lakes, love, Kate grinned. Better than telly, better than Netflix!
Yoga in the morning chill was far less intimidating. Libby already knew what sort of torment to expect. Her hamstrings grumbled, but she persevered. Plaited Instructor glided between mats.
Breathe deeper! Imagine the earths energy rising through your toes, up to the sky!
Shes serious? Libby muttered.
Very. Now you try, hissed Kate.
So, Libby closed her eyes, picturing energy risinghonestly, she mostly felt her nose getting coldbut somehow, happiness seeped in. She stood, breathed, felt the sun climbing, the mist lifting, the world shifting awake.
You know, she told Kate afterwards, I finally get it.
What?
Why they put themselves through this. Yoga. Meditations. Getting up at five.
Oh, go on then.
To feel alive.
Breakfastvegetarian, of courseoat porridge, herbal tea, honey on thick brown bread. Libby, more used to proper farm breakfasts, eyed the offerings with suspicion, but the post-yoga ache and breathtaking view transformed it into a feast.
You know, she said, I could get used to this.
Whatporridge? Kate teased.
No. Waking up to hills. Living like this.
Todays new treat, announced by the organizer: an audience with a real shaman. Libby shuddered delightfullythis was straight from books. What would a shaman in Cumbria even look like? (Hopefully, not called Steve.)
The shaman, in fact, was a man in his fiftieslong silver hair, beard, a velvet tunic dripping with ribbons and bells, striking eyes that could see straight through your sock drawer. He carried a drum and an enigmatic air.
Gather round the fire, he said softly. Instantly, everyone obeyed.
Ritual herbs smouldered. Sweet, earthy smoke filled the circle.
These hills are thin places, the shaman intoned. The barrier between worlds wears thin. The spirits are close. If you listen, youll hear what you need.
He started up his druma heartbeat, ancient and resonant. Libby stiffened; the drum didnt sound musical, it sounded alive. He sanga deep, vibrating chant, more animal than human. The mountains hummed. Her sense of time floated away.
Is he conjuring something? Kate whispered, but Libby was lostshe saw the shaman approaching, staring deeply into her. For a moment, she felt transparent as a window.
You are seeking, he said, not asking.
Yes, came Libbys surprised reply.
Youll find. You both will, his gaze switched to Kate. Together, if you let yourselves.
He cast animal bones onto the ground, leaned in close, reading them.
Road aheadlong, happy. Youll travel. See the world. No need to fear.
How do you know? Libbys voice sounded rusty.
He smiled. The hills know. Im only the postman.
After the ceremony, everyone drank tea in deep, thoughtful silence. Each person seemed to digest something enormous. Libby looked out at the living hills, and felt shed scratched at something truly ancientnot a tourist performance, but a real, living heart.
Howre you? Kate asked gently.
Goosebumps, Libby admitted. No clue what just happened, but it felt real.
Thats the Lake District, grinned Kate. You get why so many come back.
Libby nodded. Whatever the shaman wasa psychologist or an actorhe had seen her, told her just what she didnt know she needed. The Lake District did the rest.
Their trip home was relaxedtheyd met the hills, the mysteries, the wildest bits of themselves. Now they could simply enjoy, absorb, remember. The Geyser Lake awaited, streaming turquoise pools bubbling as breath rose from the earth.
Are those real geysers? Libby asked the guide.
Mini ones, he explained. The earth breathes here. Youll never see the same pattern twice.
Libby gazed down, entranced by the perfect blue swirlsalive, changing, never quite like last year.
There was the old abandoned hydro-electric station, where they heard tales of the past. Libby thought of Mick and his bric-a-brac, realizing that time moves on, but storiesand those who keep themendure.
At Kirkstone Pass, they took a final break. There, the groups quietest membera man in his forties whod spent the trip with his nose in a bookpulled out a bicycle from the bus.
Planning to ride down? Libby gasped.
My dream. All the way from the top, he nodded.
Youre mad! Kate exclaimed.
Exactly why its fun, he grinned.
They watched as he raced away, knees pumping, vanishing into the snaking roada wild, glorious streak.
Barmy, somebody muttered.
Braveand beautiful, Lady Orange replied. Everyones got their own path.
Libby watched the winding road below, thinking: everyones journey is different. Some seek enlightenment in yoga or drumming or wild rides. She found it in books and journeys and people. She didnt always find what she expectedbut always something she needed.
Back home in Bakewell, Libby lived in a haze of Lake District memories: morning fog, roaring rivers, the shamans chant. She woke some days hoping to see fells outside her window, missing the rivers lull, the mysterious drum. Still, something had changeda wordless trace shed brought home.
So, did you get enlightened? Jack asked when she visited him.
I couldnt say. Libby shrugged. But I saw buzzards from above, listened to ancient chants, watched the earth itself breathing.
Thats brilliant, he replied, surprisingly earnest. Id love to go.
Lets do itnext time, together. She squeezed his hand.
Next time, he nodded. Definitely.
That night, Libby opened her journal and wrote: The Lake District. I was there. I saw its hills and rivers and wild, endless sky. I brushed close to its secret. Maybe it was my first real journey into such places, but something tells me, wherever I end up, this magic corner will always stay with me.
She closed the diary, gazing out. The garden outside smelt of damp grass and autumn, but if she listened, she could almost hear the rivers roar and see those cloud-crowned ridges.
The Lake District would remain. Not just a place, but the journey that truly countednot into the fells, nor to the sea but to herself, to the person unafraid to try, to seek, to find. To the one who knows the world is vast, marvellous, and always waitingfor her, for them, for anyone bold enough to step forward.
