The Lake District

Note: This blog post is taken from RAMSOC member Joanna van Zeller's personal blog, and do not necessarily reflect the views of RAMSOC as a whole. 

The Annual Dinner Meet is a decades-old tradition in my Rambling and Hiking Club. Whilst other societies prefer glitz and glamour, we instead lug our formalwear to a youth hostel in the middle of nowhere, along with our waterproofs, fetching woolly hats, and a wine order of at least half a bottle per person (though many enjoy significantly more). No one knows why we do this, but tradition is a powerful thing, one that encourages students to stuff their ball-gowns in their hiking boots and get on a coach driven by the Absolute Legend/Mad-Max-Madman that is Roger.

This was my final ADM of my university life, and as I shared earphones with my friend Ollie to listen to The Now Show, and received tens of McDonalds Monopoly stickers from rambling friends and strangers when I put out a plea at the service station, I felt such gratitude to this club for introducing me to so many kindred spirits. It didn’t hurt that I’d gotten a free McFlurry out of it, too.

But something was especially strange and special this weekend. Normally I hate hiking but love my hiking society, because hiking seems to be, effectively, torture. The only reward is a view which, let’s face it, looks better on Google Images, and the fun prize of knowing that you are not dead at the end of it. I do like walking, but this constant uphill-downhill like we’re the Grand Old Duke of freaking York does nothing for me. Why be up or halfway up when you can be down all the time?

And, finally, they listened to me.

Every walk, between effing and blinding and sweating and stalling, I repeat the same manifesto. I want a walk that is mostly flat, near a body of water, with a field of unusual livestock. It should have a waterfall, a few eccentricities here and there, a view of some hills with no pressure to ascend them, and finally, we should finish in time for afternoon tea.

Saturday’s walk round Buttermere and Crummock Water delivered on all counts. I skimmed my first stone, we had not one but two lunch breaks, and enjoyed a dramatic game of pooh sticks over a little waterfall. En route we saw highland cattle and Herdwicks, some paragliders and even giant inflatable flamingos. All the way round, the sun shone and the gorse blossomed and everyone was in high spirits, including our President, James, who always looks slightly mournful when on a walk with me, knowing that he’ll spend the next five hours dangling a Jelly Baby in front of my face to keep me going. I agree that we should have a few walks that are challenging to unfit slow-pokes like me, but I hope the club remembers that, when we run relatively flat walks that suit all abilities, everyone can enjoy them.

After a couple of pints at The Fish Inn (where my dad once stayed in their barn because he’s Jesus?) the Dinner commenced. Burgers were eaten, treacle tart was inhaled, and general merriment abounded, particularly after a raucous committee rendition of 500 Miles. At one point in the evening the older and newer members of RAMSOC split, and it was rather sweet watching the newer members play a surprisingly peaceful game of Spoons whilst the older ones tried to put someone’s (very smoothly removed!) bra on another member during some awful drinking game. I think the newbies will do just fine.

The next day’s walk was slightly subdued, partly because of the fair few hangovers, but also because we’d all been mildly traumatised by sitting in a 50-seater coach as it hurtled down country lanes. Why hasn’t the Lake District designed its streets with coaches in mind? How selfish. To recover, we enjoyed a serene amble round Derwent Water, where I was able to tick off some other things from my ‘Best Walk Bingo’ – a boardwalk, five poodles with braided hair, a comical fall, and, an arrival in Keswick for a very early afternoon tea.

#CoupleGoals

After a much-needed scone and pot of earl grey, my friend Charlotte and I ventured to the Derwent Pencil Museum, a place I have longed to return to. I have vivid memories of being a small child gazing up at the World’s Longest Pencil*, and I wanted to see whether it would still seem large now that I’m a little bigger, and my vision’s been sharpened. It does not disap-point, and the whole Museum is informative, interactive, and ingeniously structured (I am a Museum Curation Nerd) – it will be hard to erase from my memory. After visiting the Birmingham Pen Museum last year, and the Derwent Pencil Museum this year, I am not sure what lies in store for me in 2020, but I’m sure the year won’t be stationary!

Thanks RAMSOC and Committee for a fantastic weekend and great couple of years. I’ll leave with a smile on my face, a song in my heart and a Jelly Baby in my stomach.

*I told my dad that I’d visited the Pencil Museum, and he told me that when we were last there , I was telling off another child for misbehaving, and the child bit me. Thanks to my brain for repressing that therapy-worthy memory, but teaching me very early on that snitches get stitches.