LET IT B & B

TALES FROM A LAKELAND GUEST HOUSE

1. Welcome to Whiteside
2. The Great Pretenders
3. A disciple of Alfred Wainwright
4. Overconfident but underprepared
5. Finding love in the Lakes
6. ‘Cigarettes, whisky and wild, wild swimming’ — a different kind of visitor

Welcome to Whiteside

“You should write a book about them”, said one of Dan’s mates. He was stood at the oche preparing to throw a dart in The Unicorn, one of Ambleside’s more traditional pubs.

While waiting their turn at the board, Dan had been entertaining his three pals with tales of folk who’d passed through the door of his guest house. He had no plans to write a whole book, but — unbeknown to everyone except his wife Julie — he had kept a diary since they’d purchased Whiteside Guest House, their five-bedroom B&B.

It was seven years since Dan and Julie had made the momentous decision to move to Ambleside and follow their dream of running a B&B in their beloved Lake District. The decision to uproot and move into the hospitality business was prompted by Dan’s redundancy from his job in the Car Parks Department at Lancaster City Council: a victim of the move to ‘card only’ machines and CCTV cameras that rendered car park attendants extinct.

Julie had spent her life with Dan doing as she’d been told, so when he told her they would put his redundancy money towards a B&B in the Lakes, she didn’t resist. To be fair to Dan though, in this instance she needed no persuading, having become fed-up with her teaching assistant job. They didn’t have any children of their own — another thing Dan had decided — but while Julie regretted that, the kids she taught at the run-down, failing comprehensive where she worked were becoming too much of a challenge.

After seven years the couple had fallen into a routine that kept things ticking over nicely at Whiteside and also seemed to go down well with the guests. Dan’s avuncular, hail fellow well met demeanour was perfectly suited to his ‘front of house’ duties; but this undoubted strength was offset by one, admittedly major, weakness — he was bone-idle.

Julie, one of nature’s cheerful grafters, never complained about making the beds, preparing breakfasts and cleaning rooms. Dan felt he did his bit by ‘supervising’ breakfast, checking guests in, chatting to them about their holiday plans, thinking up new ways of cutting costs and reading the Daily Mail.

Julie had been ably assisted by a hardworking young Bulgarian girl, but sadly she was a casualty of Brexit. Anticipating this, Julie had tried to persuade Dan to vote ‘Remain’, as she did, but, like many others, he had been won over by the visions of sun lit uplands peddled by Mssrs Farage and Johnson.

Julie’s ‘Remainer’ stance was informed by reading the Guardian, a habit picked up from her colleagues at school. She never let Dan catch her perusing the paper though, knowing full well that it would have resulted in her being ridiculed as a “dangerous leftie”.

Despite their differences, Dan and Julie — but mainly Julie — had made the compromises necessary to achieve happy coexistence. They both enjoyed meeting the eclectic mix of guests who passed through their hands and neither regretted their move to the Lakes.

Thinking about some of these guests over bedtime tea and toast Dan recalled his pal’s suggestion. After skimming through his diaries he concluded that there might be some stories worth sharing. As he dozed off, his mind wandered over images of five guests who had made an impression for one reason or another: but of course, his diaries only reflected his perception of the guests, the full stories of what some of them had got up to during their stay provided tales even more colourful than his own limited recollections…………

The Great Pretenders

Jeremy and Samantha, a seemingly well-off couple in their early 50’s, oozed affluence and entitlement. Dan was usually good at engaging guests, but he struggled with these two. For their part, Jeremy and Samantha found it hard to relate to people like Dan. Whilst they had been born in the north of England, they’d both been shipped off to private schools in the south at an early age and their northern veneer had long since dissolved, along with their regional accent.  

The moneyed front they presented was deceptive though, since they weren’t actually that well off. Their parents had been successful in business; but their business acumen had not proved hereditary and the IT support business Jeremy ran in the home counties was faltering. However, that did nothing to diminish Jeremy’s supreme confidence or Samantha’s haughtiness.

The fact that they had both been spoilt rotten impacted on their behaviour in every situation they found themselves in. The Whiteside was not a boutique hotel, but that’s what they expected, despite paying well below the going rate for a ‘high end’ establishment. Samantha’s endless enquiries as to the provenance of items on the breakfast menu and demands for ‘off menu’ items quickly grew tiresome and Dan concluded quickly that she was a “stuck up cow pretending to be summat she’s not”.

At breakfast Dan overheard them saying that they’d recently joined ‘Ramblers’ — where, according to Samantha, “you meet a better class of walker” — and had participated in a few gentle and gentile organised hikes near their home in Berkshire.

Over their ‘Famous Whiteside Breakfasts’, the couple droned on endlessly about the Ben Fogle videos they’d watched showcasing his travels in wild places and clearly wanted to climb some proper mountains. Not being a fan, Dan wondered why the narcissistic, rictus-grinning Fogle would persuade anyone to do anything, but they toddled off each day on what they called their “adventures”. Dan had no doubt that their arrogance, coupled with extremely low levels of self-awareness, would result in them making arses of themselves everywhere they went; this judgement proved to be spot-on.

On their first evening in Ambleside, they decided to treat themselves to a nice meal. They chose to dine at the ‘Herdwick’s Trough’ which, despite its unedifying name, is one of Ambleside’s most highly rated eateries, renowned for its ‘locally sourced food’ and ‘warm Cumbrian welcome’.

Nigel wore red trousers and a striped blazer, while Samantha sported a dress she’d picked up from the Boden catalogue, teamed with an old liberty print scarf.  While these outfits might have won admiring glances at the Henley Royal Regatta, they attracted ridicule in the casual ambience of the ‘Trough. That said, it was their behaviour, rather than their garish garb, that really made them stand out from the crowd.   

Samantha had some very uncompromising views on what made a good restaurant and a good meal and she affected a permanently pained expression as she sought to achieve her personal nirvana. The process of bending the world to her whims began as they entered the restaurant and were allocated a perfectly acceptable table for two. “Can’t we have a four?” she asked loudly in what was immediately recognised as a ‘foreign’ (i.e. non-Cumbrian) accent by the young waitress, who informed her that all other tables were booked.

Reluctantly accepting what she considered a sub-standard table, Samantha’s critique turned to the lighting. “It’s very dark in here, I won’t be able to see what I’m eating”, she announced.

The, by now weary, waitress apologised and explained that “most customers prefer subdued lighting”, adding, “but I could give you a head torch if that would help”. 

Samantha’s sense of humour would be rated in the negative and she did not recognise the heavy sarcasm in these remarks, thanking the waitress but declining her offer, adding “it would spoil my hairdo, I fear”.

Getting seated was a doddle compared to the process of ordering their meals. Samantha demanded a sparkling mineral water, specifying ‘Perrier’ and when told that all they had was Cumbrian spring water expressed her disappointment with a face one might pull as a finger went through the toilet paper. The waitress resisted reminding her that she was in Ambleside not Annecy.

Jeremy took control of ordering the wine, quizzing the waitress about its’s strength, the wine maker, and his/her family history. By now the hapless waitress had dragged the restaurant’s owner into the fray, having realised that she was ill equipped to deal with these foppish fusspots. After much dithering deliberation Jeremy finally ordered a £20 bottle of house red, ignoring the significantly more expensive wines he’d spent an age scrutinising.

The picky pair were no easier to please when it came to food. Samantha rarely accepted a meal as specified on the menu, but rather arrived at her dish by a tortuously prolonged process of negotiation which produced a concoction with several ingredients removed, or others more acceptable to her refined tastes added. She ended up with a lamb dish that was so modified it was barely recognisable as the one described on the menu: Samantha wanted it without the customary mint sauce, mashed rather than boiled baby new potatoes and with Brussel sprouts that had to be steamed rather than oven baked.  

Jeremy was marginally easier to please. Although he did ask if his “defective” Cumberland Sausage could be straightened, he at least accepted the waiter’s explanation, forgiving the iconically curled sausage as some local eccentricity. To follow, they both ordered ‘Cartmel Sticky Toffee Pudding’ but expressed disappointment that it was “too sweet by half”.

“The clue’s in the toffee madam”, said the by now thoroughly fed-up waitress.

The meal failed to meet their exacting expectations, as did most other aspects of the couple’s life. This was why they seemed to exist in a state of permanent disappointment.

The next morning Jeremy said that, before venturing out on the hills, he wanted to get “properly togged up”.

Samantha wanted to wear “whatever the best dressed fell walkers are wearing”.  So, they visited one of the towns many cavernous outdoor shops and set about buying themselves waterproof jackets. Jeremy had been in the Cadet Corps at school and in those days wore an oiled cotton anorak. At the time he’d considered this garment state of the art but now realised there was a bewildering range of colourful, expensive jackets in a variety of different fabrics. However, he did not want to be thought ignorant of the new world of waterproofs, so affected a knowing air as he perused the products on offer.

As a result of years of good living and business lunches Jeremy had an ample beer gut.  Despite this handicap, he insisted on squeezing into a series of high-tech waterproof jackets described as ‘Alpine Cut’. The shop assistant thought that in these slim-fit jackets he looked like a well packed Cumberland sausage of the type he’d sneered at the night before, but Jeremy felt they would “give a bit” and — ignoring the assistant’s advice — bought what amounted to a Gore-Tex straightjacket. 

Samantha, influenced more by colour than technical specifications, was unhappy with the cut of all of the jackets she tried on, asking if they could be sent to a tailor to be altered. “We don’t do made-to-measure here” she was told, “it’s all off the peg I’m afraid”. In the absence of a more bespoke solution, she accepted what was available, but the brightly coloured number she ended up with was very much a compromise.

Leaving the shop in their new purchases, they looked for all the world like a pair of clowns who’d auditioned for Billy Smarts Circus but been rejected for dressing too flamboyantly. “You wear it well, darling” said Samantha reassuringly.

Now confident that they were fully prepared to climb every mountain the Lakes could throw at them, they rang a mountain guide and booked onto a group walk up Helvellyn the next day.

Jeremy and Samantha assembled in Waterhead car park the next morning with a group of others waiting for a ‘Mountain Goat’ minibus to take them to the start of the walk in Grasmere. The diverse group comprised a family from Leeds, a couple of Americans taking a break from a literary trail around the haunts of the Lake poets and a German couple.

On the bus, the guide — a gruff but friendly Lancastrian —briefed them on the route, explaining that it was a “relatively easy stroll from Grasmere up to Grisedale Tarn, along the Helvellyn ridge then down to the Kings Head at Thirlspot for a pint in the beer garden before getting the bus back to Ambleside”.

They had perfect weather for the walk and — apart from Jeremy and Samantha — the group got along famously.  The couple didn’t fit in because Jeremy never shut up sharing the scant knowledge of Lakeland he’d picked up from YouTube videos and TV programmes, until their leader asked that he “leave the guiding to the guide”.

Samantha spent most of the walk engaging other hikers in conversation about her home (“expensive”), car (“prestigious”) and foreign holidays (“club class”).  She didn’t endear herself to the group when she described northerners as “quaint” and Americans as “brash”. She didn’t get chance to alienate the German couple because they’d wisely kept their distance, never having met any English people quite as pompous and annoying as these two.

As they stopped at the summit shelter for lunch Jeremy and Samantha sat expectantly as the others unwrapped the sandwiches they’d bought in Ambleside. “We weren’t given sandwiches”, said Samantha, “can we have ours now please?”

The guide, intolerant of fools at the best of times, curtly informed her that, “the others obviously read the very clear information sheet you were given, which stated that you’d have to bring your own lunch”.

The group generously contributed enough from their own supplies to provide the hungry hikers with some sustenance: although Jeremy didn’t look like he would starve. As he posed for pictures by the cairn in his bright red, skin tight waterproof, his belly provided a reliable beacon for passing air traffic. 

As they alighted from the bus back in Ambleside, Jeremy said “I don’t think I’d go on a group walk again Samantha, they were such a weird bunch of awkward, unfriendly people”.  

On their last morning, the fastidious Samantha and her cocky husband didn’t appear at breakfast and as the check-out deadline of 11am passed Dan went to their room to find it empty. When he also discovered that their car had disappeared from the car park, the awful truth slowly dawned.

“They’ve only gone and done a runner”, he informed Julie. “Who’d have thought it” he said. “What a pair of stuck-up wankers”. 

Extract from Dan’s Diary.

A ‘first’ for us today. Two guests unexpectedly did a runner. I say unexpectedly because I’d no idea that the snobby pair were the type. She was a fussy old cow who really got up my nose with her superior attitude, while he seemed an arrogant, spoilt prat, but they didn’t look hard up. It was such a shock, cos I’d no inkling that these apparent pillars of the community would pull a stunt like this. Just shows, you never can tell.

Extract from Trip Advisor – 2* Review

Thanks for the room, pity we missed breckie though. A few rungs below our normal “boutique” standards, but exceedingly good value in the circumstances ahah.

A disciple of Alfred Wainwright

Bob Entwistle wiped the foam from his fourth pint off the ample beard adorning his wind-burnt cheeks and studied a map of the 214 Wainwright fells. He was noting those he still had to climb to complete his third ‘round’ of the classic Lakeland fell walkers’ challenge.

Bob was in the Unicorn, nattering amiably with fellow hikers about the joys of fell walking. His new acquaintances were discovering that Bob — although good company for most of the time — could be a rough diamond and a bit of a bore when conversation turned to mountains, especially his beloved ‘Wainwright’ fells. However, he was harmless enough and when not keenly sharing his obsession, they considered  him ‘a good lad’ (he had just turned sixty).  

Bob visited the Lakes most weekends from his home in Preston, where he worked as a Health and Safety Officer in a paper mill. Now and then he extended his stay by booking a few nights at the Whiteside, where he was a familiar and popular fixture. He made few demands on the establishment, enjoyed their full-English breakfasts and appreciated the opportunity to have a few pints without having to worry about drink driving.

He’d just been boasting to a couple of youngsters about the number of times he’d completed the ‘Fairfield Horseshoe’, after the tyros had told him they were planning to walk the famous circuit the next day. While enthusiastically describing the walk to these happy wanderers, he overheard another drinker committing what he considered the inexcusable crime of criticising his hero, the great Alfred Wainwright.

The offending drinker, Stan — a hiker of similar vintage to Bob — had just read Hunter Davies’ ‘warts and all’ biography of the celebrated chronicler of the fells and wanted to share some of his insights. Stan began by generously observing that “Wainwright wrote so lyrically about the mountains he loved and could draw beautifully too”: his big mistake was to suggest that he may not have been the perfect husband and had in fact treated his first wife “pretty shabbily”.

Despite having drunk enough beer throughout his life to have filled Windermere several times over, Bob had never been able to take his drink. So, the combination of alcohol and Stan’s dissing of the saintly “AW” took us into ‘accident waiting to happen’ territory as Bob’s ‘aleometer’ crossed the red line from ‘amiable, slightly tipsy sage of the hills’ to ‘angry, aggressive, purple faced combatant in the fell wars’. Suddenly, the enraged Bob morphed into a man holding on to the cliff edge of sanity by his fingernails. He dropped irretrievably over the precipice when Stan mentioned that AW was “certainly not a saint” but was in fact “a miserable old bugger”.

Stan was surprised when Bob suddenly launched himself over a table and landed a glancing blow to his head. “Steady on old lad” gasped Stan, “get back”.

This only made Bob angrier and he retorted “I’ll give you bloody ‘old’. And how dare you talk about AW in such terms, you don’t know what you’re talking about, he were a man’s man of his time and you’re just too soft to recognise that.” Now in full flow and displaying all the logic of a man five pints in, Bob told Stan that he “shouldn’t be allowed to set foot on the fells” adding “you silly old know-nothing” for good measure. Bob continued fulminating in defence of the legendary Cumbrian curmudgeon as Stan retreated in the teeth of this unexpectedly furious onslaught.

The landlord, who knew and was rather fond of the plain speaking but usually non-violent Bob, calmed him down and called Dan, asking him to come and take him back to his bed at the Whiteside.

Dan was watching ‘Strictly’ as the phone rang, but he was happy to respond to this cry for help, sensing the opportunity for a pint before returning with the fell-going offender. When he entered the bar, he saw Bob in a corner refusing to make up with Stan, who was trying to placate him by saying how much he’d enjoyed Julia Bradbury’s TV series of Wainwright walks. This had simply elicited another salvo of vitriol from Bob, who was no fan of the fawning female presenter. Dan had a swift one before walking back to Whiteside with Bob.

Dan had never really got to know much about Bob’s life beyond the fells, as this seemed to be all he was interested in talking about, but assumed he was a bachelor married to the hills — a type he’d often encountered in Ambleside. He tentatively asked Bob if there was anyone at home that he’d like to call, to be dismissed with a peremptory “there’s nobody at home who gives a fuck about me Dan”.

With this, Dan thought he’d better let it lie, saw Bob back to his room and left him to a sobering slumber with a “sleep tight then Bob, see you at breakfast”.  

Extract from Dan’s Diary.

A funny old evening.

Had a call from the Unicorn saying our regular Lancastrian guest Bob had got into a spot of bother with another punter and asking if I’d come and collect him as he was “causing mayhem”. I was surprised at this, as — although I couldn’t pretend to know him well — I’d always found him likeable, even if he could be a bit boring when he started going on about that miserable old sod Wainwright.

A strange scene greeted me in the pub. Bob was being restrained in one corner of the bar while, in another, a bloke that he’d apparently punched seemed to be making attempts to apologise for whatever it was he’d said. I weren’t going to put myself out for nowt, so I suggested Bob bought me a pint before I took him back to his bed. Bob refused to buy me a beer, so the landlord gave me one: I think he was just keen to get shot of us.   

Bob wasn’t making any sense on the walk home, as if the wiring in his brain had got scrambled somehow. He seems to have no life beyond the fells (or if he does, he doesn’t want to talk about it) and I can’t help feeling a bit sorry for the lad, as at one point he did suggest, in no uncertain terms, that he lived alone. He strikes me as a sad, lifelong bachelor. This experience has made me realise, not for the first time, just how lucky I am to have Julie (but don’t tell her I said that!).

Extract from Trip Advisor – 5* Review

I visit Whiteside regularly and always find the hospitality and service excellent. On this occasion I was the victim of an unprovoked verbal attack while enjoying a convivial pint at the pub, but was well looked after by the owner of Whiteside, who I can’t thank enough for saving me from further aggression and seeing me safely home.    

Overconfident but underprepared

“They seem nice, but dim” remarked Dan, after welcoming Sean and Polly, a couple in their mid-30’s. 

They told him they’d taken a sabbatical from jobs “in the media” and explained that they planned to spend their time-off exploring the UK’s national parks, which is why they’d turned up in Ambleside from their home in Cheshire.

Dan remained unimpressed, mainly because he hadn’t a clue what a ‘sabbatical’ was or what working ‘in the media’ meant. He was no nearer after Sean had, rather grandly, tried to explain: largely because he communicated in a form of impenetrable management speak that did nothing to promote understanding.

The couple told Dan that they’d “done some trekking” — to be precise, just the one, to Machu Picchu. What they didn’t tell him was that prior to that trip they’d never laced up a pair of hiking boots or climbed a hill.

The ever-watchful Dan noticed that they were equipped with some expensive, high-end outdoor gear, but what he didn’t notice — and what would soon become painfully evident — was that the two bits of essential kit they didn’t possess were a map and a compass.

The couple didn’t grasp that one of the key differences between Lakeland fell walking and trekking in Peru is that here they were on their own, with no one to tell them where to go (though Dan would later be tempted) or when to exercise caution. They could have hired one of the many excellent Lakeland mountain guides, “but really” argued Sean, “how hard can it be, it’s not as if these so called mountains are as tough as Machu Picchu, so what can go wrong”?

On their first full day they decided to “knock off” Scafell Pike, a hill high up their ‘bucket list’. They planned to do the circuit Wainwright recommended, starting from Seathwaite in Borrowdale and returning via the ‘corridor route’. When Dan suggested this was perhaps a bit ambitious for their first foray on the fells, Sean told him that “it’s only 9 miles, so I don’t think a fit couple in their thirties should have too much trouble!”.  

They set off on a bright, sunny morning and employing the navigational technique of following other walkers apparently going the same way, they reached the summit without any drama. Buoyed by their success they took several videos for their Instagram accounts before descending on the Wasdale side. Suddenly the weather started changing for the worse and mist and rain dropped like a gloomy, grey wet blanket onto the previously green, sylvan fells. On the descent things started to go wrong when they made a fatal navigational error.  

As visibility deteriorated, they missed the turn to the right that would have taken them onto the ‘corridor’ and instead continued ahead into Piers Gill. This would have been merely inconvenient, rather than life-threatening, had they not also wandered into the precipitous Gill itself, rather than the well-established path running to the right of it. After descending the first rocky scramble into the dreary declivity they found themselves unable to climb down the next, more difficult, section. Panic set in when they found they were also unable to climb back up the way they had descended.

While this drama was unfolding in Wasdale, Dan — who monitored his guests’ movements closely — was watching the end of the ‘One Show’ when it dawned on him that he’d not heard them return. Remarking that “they should be back by now”, he tried ringing their mobile but got no reply. He assumed that they’d just underestimated the time required, but when they still hadn’t appeared by 10pm he was seriously concerned and decided to call mountain rescue.

Members of Keswick Mountain Rescue Team (MRT) checked the car parking areas at Seathwaite and found the couple’s BMW, which was parked on a grass verge blocking access to a field, but there was no sign of the intrepid trekkers. They contacted their colleagues in Wasdale who decided to dispatch two groups, one to the summit of Scafell Pike with another charged with taking a look in Piers Gill. In the Gill they heard feint cries and found the lost souls: tired, cold and terrified. Sean had strained an ankle in his attempt to climb back up, which did nothing to improve his mobility, or his morale.

A difficult, labour-intensive, rescue ensued and after making sure that the fools on the hill were ok, the MRT returned them to Ambleside. By now the couple were too distraught to continue their ‘adventures’ in Lakeland and just wanted to get home. So, Dan called Sean’s parents in Colwyn Bay and his father drove to Ambleside to pick up his son and daughter-in-law and arrange for their car to be recovered from Borrowdale.

After admonishing Sean and telling him that “this wouldn’t have happened if you’d followed my example and taken up golf rather than risking your neck in the mountains”, he began grumbling about how, if the MRT had got there sooner, his son would have avoided injury.

He explained how he planned to “sue the pants off those bloody incompetents in mountain rescue for gross negligence”. At this, Dan, his avuncular façade cracking, said “don’t be so bloody silly. The MRT are definitely not the incompetents here. You should just be grateful that they got them both back in one piece”.

Sean and Polly never did return to the Lake District.

Extract from Dan’s Diary.

Talk about “all the gear but no idea”! A first today!! The first guests to be rescued by the MRT!!!  

They were pleasant enough, but a bit full of themselves, despite clearly not being the sharpest pencils in the box. I told them Scafell Pike might be a bit tough for a first outing, but they were confident that a guided trip to some place I’d never heard of meant they were properly prepared.

I don’t think they’d make the same mistakes twice though, as they seemed a bit shame-faced at having to call mountain rescue out. The lad’s dad was not so repentant. The ungrateful plonker criticised the rescue team and threatened to sue them for negligence for failing to prevent his barmy son from spraining his ankle!  

Extract from Trip Advisor – 2* Review

Our stay was cut short by an unfortunate accident on the hills caused by totally inadequate signage on a supposedly ‘popular’ route off Scafell Pike. The path throughout was also incredibly uneven and in fact positively dangerous! I blame the national park authority for this.

It took the rescue team an age to find us, but when they did turn up, I suppose they provided an adequate guiding service off the mountain; however, we did not appreciate their unrelenting, allegedly ‘good humoured’, ribbing during and after the rescue. As someone with a good working knowledge of effective management practice I’d strongly recommend customer service training be provided as a matter of urgency.

Given how much public money presumably goes towards funding this so called ‘service’, we hard working tax payers are entitled to expect better.  A little respect to clients would not go amiss, but I fear that, like all public services, the rescue teams are badly managed. One would think they were operated by rank amateurs!!!!   

Finding love in the Lakes

After checking her in, Dan felt that he’d known Marianne for years: in short order, he’d learned that she was a 53 year-old, twice married Yorkshire widow living in a cottage near Ilkley. Oh, and she was very talkative.

Dan reported to Julie that Marianne was “a bit of a chatterbox”. He also, ill-advisedly as it happens, shared the observation that she was “in pretty good nick for her age”. Not unreasonably, Julie pointed out that these comments were sexist. “Ah, it’s just banter”, Dan replied “you spend too much time reading that woke crap in the Guardian you do, you snowflake”.

This tried her patience to the limit and when he speculated that she’d probably talked both of her poor husbands to death she told him to “shut up and stop being so cruel”.

Dan, who thought most women fancied him, also felt that Marianne was a little flirtatious, something he wisely didn’t share with Julie. However, although he said nowt, he did think “if only…….”.

Marianne said she was visiting the lakes as a break from her librarian’s job and was “looking forward to some peace and quiet” — obviously the library, bright lights and pulsating night life of Ilkley were too exciting for her.

At breakfast she struck up a conversation with Bob, the rough and ready, pugilistic Wainwright buff. She resisted his offer to take her “up Jack’s Rake”, fearing that this was some obscene Lancastrian courting ritual; having been enlightened, she secretly concluded that her imagined activity might be preferable to the reality of a scramble up a precipitous crag.

At breakfast the next morning, Bob said he was having a break from fell walking on account of the wet and misty weather and invited her to join him for a drive round the lakes. Having no plans, she readily accepted: there was something she warmed to in Bob, although, like many others, she did find him brusque and his endless references to this Wainwright chap a bit irritating.

Bob drove Marianne round a host of popular Lakeland beauty spots; but sadly, for most of the day, these were only glimpsed intermittently through driving rain.

They began with morning coffee in the climbers’ bar at the Old Dungeon Ghyll Hotel in Langdale, where Bob regaled Marianne with tales of drunken nights he’d enjoyed there in the past. The only slightly awkward moment was when Bob — faced with a long coffee menu — roundly ridiculed the ‘flat whites’ and ‘macchiatos’, demanding a “bog standard Nescafe”. As the day progressed Marianne learnt that Bob’s sometimes embarrassing, bluff and direct approach was his default position.

After coffee, a drive over Wrynose and Hardknott passes took our intrepid travellers to Eskdale and then on to Wasdale, where they had lunch at the Wasdale Head Inn. Marianne insisted on buying this as a treat for Bob’s generosity in giving her a grand tour of the Lakes. Bob, who hadn’t been brought up to expect women to pay their way, objected vehemently, but — as he reluctantly acquiesced — was actually quite impressed.

Masks began to slip as they chatted over ploughman’s lunches. Bob realised there was sensitivity and a wry sense of humour hidden under Marianne’s strait-laced surface, while Marianne detected something softer lurking behind the often shockingly forthright statements with which Bob engaged the world.

In the afternoon they drove to Buttermere. On the journey Bob’s colourful descriptions went some way towards compensating for the absence of scenery: but visualising the views on such a dreary day took some imagination.

At Buttermere, Bob honoured his hero by showing Marianne the Wainwright memorial tablet in St James’ church and pointing across the valley, told her that “if it wasn’t pissing down you’d be able to see Haystacks, where Wainwright’s ashes are scattered”.

Bob tentatively suggested a walk along the shores of Buttermere in the heavy rain “for a bit of fresh Lakeland air”. He was surprised when Marianne gamely agreed, with a cheery “that would be lovely, we won’t melt will we?” They giggled together as they experienced the childlike joy of splashing along the waterlogged lakeside path.

Wet but happy they returned to the car and drove on through the deluge. Driving over Honister Pass the rain gradually eased off and spectacular views magically opened up as they followed the long and winding road into Borrowdale, where they stopped at the Mary Mount Hotel for dinner.

Dan and Julie had always assumed Bob was unmarried because of his apparently single-minded devotion to the hills. What they didn’t know was that he’d taken up fellwalking as a distraction from the grief he’d felt after the death of his wife of 20 years. She’d died after a horribly long, drawn out illness: but this was something he rarely talked about as the pain in the telling was just too great and he considered it “best to just say nowt”. Bob was not the kind of man to seek solace in ‘talking therapy’.

Marianne had initially thought Bob a bit uncouth and boring, but during the day his rough edges smoothed and she had gradually sensed that something else lurked — admittedly well hidden — beneath his dour shell. Similarly, Bob speculated that Marianne’s relentless cheerfulness possibly hid some sadness, so over dinner, he probed her on her marriages. She told him that her first husband had been a “pig of a man”: a wealthy businessman who’d kept her in fine style materially but who also subjugated her with his controlling nature. She told Bob that “there wasn’t much love there”. It was the first time in a long time that she’d opened up like this

Her second husband sounded the polar opposite. He had been “poor, but honest and loving” according to Marrianne. Sadly, he’d died in an accident at the farm where he’d worked. She told Bob, through a few tears, that the reason she never talked about her marriages was because she feared that she’d “never stop blubbing” if she did.

Her vulnerability and warmth encouraged Bob to share his own sorrows and he spoke of his loneliness and longing for companionship. Amid their shared grief they found a connection that neither had felt for a long time.

After a pint and a brandy back in Ambleside, they rounded off their day out with a night cap at the guest house before heading off to their rooms. As they parted, Marianne tentatively whispered “I’ve had a really lovely day Bob, I’ll remember the things we said today for a long time. I so hope we can do it again sometime.”

A bit flustered, Bob muttered “so do I love, it’s been smashing”.

Trying not to sound too keen (or desperate) Marianne added, “I’d be very happy to buy a waterproof pair of hiking boots”.

Bob felt himself falling for this warm, understanding and easy-going woman and fell asleep thinking “that Marianne’s a bit special. She’d make a good paddle in life’s shit creek”. Marianne lay in bed thinking along similar lines, although she expressed it more romantically.

Next morning at breakfast, Dan noticed Bob and Marianne had chosen to share a table and sensed a lightness about the pair that had not been there before. As they prepared to drive their separate ways, he ‘overheard’ Bob say “So long Marianne. You know, Preston isn’t really such a long way from Ilkley” and he hoped that a table might not be the only thing they’d share in the future.

Extract from Dan’s Diary.

Guests never fail to surprise me! Today an attractive older woman shamelessly flirted with me (and who can blame her). She’d been married twice and seemed a bit of a ‘goer’ — but don’t tell the wife I said that!

She seems to have struck up a friendship with that old punch drunk fell walker Bob. He took her for a long drive and they returned very pally with each other.

On their final morning, they sat together at breakfast and I heard them arranging to meet in the future. Just goes to show people aren’t always what they seem. Looks like Bob has hidden depths that I wasn’t aware of. “Get in there Bob” I say.

Extract from Trip Advisor – 5* Review

A lovely stay overall, although the rather creepy owner seemed to have a somewhat prurient interest in my personal life!

These feelings of unease were more than compensated for by a very kind fellow guest who took me for a wonderful, memorable outing, sharing his love of the Lakes. Who knows, perhaps next time I stay I might save the premium I usually pay for a “double room for single occupancy”!

‘Cigarettes, whisky and wild, wild swimming’ — a different kind of visitor

“They’re not your usual kind of visitor” said Dan after checking the Bilstons in. Barry, Sheila and their son Liam were certainly cut from a different cloth to most of Whiteside’s guests.

Mum and dad Bilston were in their mid-40s, dressed in TK Max’s finest, garishly coloured, faux designer garb. Their clothing wasn’t the only colourful thing about them either. Dan had not led a sheltered life, but even he was shocked by Barry’s ‘industrial language’. The ‘industry’ in question being the scaffolding firm he ran in Burnley.

The whole family seemed to be under a dark cloud of dissatisfaction. Dad because he had “never wanted to come to this shit hole” in the first place and had cursed throughout the tortuous drive up the busy M6 in his special edition Range Rover; mum because dad was angry (and it was raining); and Liam because he’d been dragged here for a family holiday when he’d rather be on his Play Station, smoking dope and drinking vodka like any normal 15 year-old.

Barry summed up the feelings of the family when he asked Dan why “anyone in their right mind would visit Ambleside” as “it seems to piss down continually and there’s fuck all to do”. He reflected that this wasn’t the case at their normal all-inclusive holiday hotel in Benidorm.

At this point you might ask why they were there at all. Well, Sheila had the idea after watching a documentary depicting a sun-dappled Lake District populated by hosts of happy families striding over the fells and sitting outside village inns drinking wine and beer. None of that prepared her for the strong winds and heavy rain that greeted them and which had thoroughly dampened their spirits.

As the temperature plummeted to 12° in the incessant rain, Barry felt underdressed in his shorts, but resolved to try and enjoy himself. “Never mind, we’ll make the best of it”, he promised Sheila and Liam as he donned his Barbour jacket for a walk into town. He was not a country man, indeed the nearest he’d come to a grouse was the famous one he drank with a spot of ginger ale down the ‘Legion’. No, he wore the Barbour to ape his beer swilling, fag puffing, frog faced hero, Nigel Farage.

Deciding the weather was too inclement for a walk, the Bilstons drove down to the lake. Parking spaces were scarce, but Barry shamelessly parked his car in a convenient disabled space before heading to the nearest pub, the Wateredge Inn. Here their collective mood improved, fuelled by several rounds of strong drink.

Liam behaved badly in the pub, imitating the obnoxious Gallagher brother he was named after. After directing a sequence of disparaging remarks at fellow drinkers, he was asked by the landlord to desist, but continued ridiculing the behaviour and appearance of the quiet group of “miserable, weirdly dressed walkers” sipping their halves of bitter, commenting “walkers? They look more like wankers to me”. This hilarious sartorial critique was a bit rich, coming as it was from a man who’d earlier worn a pair of sunglasses in the pouring rain and was now sat in the warm bar with the hood of his parka jacket pulled up over his head.

By the time they left the pub their personal cloud of despondency had lifted and a mood of gaiety prevailed as Barry playfully suggested a swim in the lake. Sheila was keen to maintain his good humour so agreed, despite wondering if 12° was perhaps a bit chilly for a dip.

As they assembled down by the jetty at Waterhead, Sheila pointed out that they had no swimming gear. “That’s never stopped us before”, said Barry, with a wink, as he removed his trousers and underpants while thinking of the romantic, drunken skinny dips they’d taken in Ibiza before Liam had come along. Liam and eventually Sheila followed suit and the naked, tipsy trio shrieked — as only drunks dunked in a freezing lake can —as they descended the steps and floundered into the icy waters of Windermere.

After a couple of brain-numbingly cold minutes they emerged to be met by two of Cumbria Constabulary’s finest who were not amused by the antics of the Bilston buffoons they’d just watched emerging from the icy water.

They gave the family a good talking to, including a stern warning that, if they repeated this performance, they’d be booked for indecent exposure and drunk and disorderly behaviour. The, by now subdued, family headed back to their car and, ignoring the risk of a drink driving charge, Barry drove them back to their B&B.

At the B&B they shared the bottle of Lidl’s blended whisky they’d brought with them, agreeing that it was a bargain at only £14 a litre. Once he’d got into bed Barry decided a relaxing cigarette was also in order and, after fashioning a DIY ash tray from the plastic ‘No Smoking’ sign, lit up and quickly fell into a deep sleep.

He thought he was dreaming as flashing blue lights streaked the wall and flames licked the sides of his bed, but he was rudely brought back to the terrible present by a burly fireman, who carried him outside and unceremoniously threw him on the pavement.

Once outside, the family warmed themselves before the flames, with Barry cruelly commenting that it was the warmest they’d been all day, while poor Dan and Julie stood helplessly by, quietly sobbing and watching their dreams turn into ashes.

At the time it seemed a disaster, but happily light soon glimmered at the end of the nightmarish tunnel. Whiteside was well insured and after a few weeks of uncertainty and following a period of rebuilding — during which Dan worked as a greeter in a local cocktail bar, a job he was born for — they reopened as “The Phoenix Guest House”.

‘Bilston’ was the first name to appear on Dan’s new ‘barred’ list.

Extract from Dan’s Diary.

I’m writing this in emergency accommodation provided by the council.

Absolutely devastated! A family of deplorable Burnley chavs have totally ruined our lives.  These unpleasant, irresponsible people should be banned from the Lakes forever after being cautioned by the police for drunk and disorderly skinny dipping and burning down our pride and joy. It’s a shame that the liberal laws in this country no longer allow hanging, but they should at least be put in the stocks and have shit thrown at them.

Extract from Trip Advisor 1* Review. From Liam Bilston’s account ( @madforit). Redacted by the moderator.

There’s **** all to do here except drink overpriced ale that tastes like cat’s  **** in boring pubs full of snobbish, miserable, humourless ***** who seem to enjoy getting **** wet walking up and down hills. These humourless  ******* were offended by my friendly banter, which always goes down a storm on the building site. 

The guest house has inadequate ******* fire alarms, but because of that we can honestly say we had a very warm welcome! (**** off, its only banter!)