248.2 kms: Kendal-Underbarrow-vicinity of Crook-The Wild Boar-Bowness on Windermere.

Strange, warm, yellow stuff came from the sky and landed on me this afternoon. It wasn't urine.  

This is what I saw today: birds like tiny bells; slow, furry bumblebees; maybe, an owl; diverting swallows; cows the colour of limestone like rocks on the side of hills; the tiniest foal; acres of bluebells and forget-me-nots; crags; a lake (I really am in the Lake District now); six black volvos; lots of other coloured volvos; four million royal-blue zippy hatchbacks, swifts, fiats, echos, that sort of thing—they must have bought that colour in bulk, maybe for the jubilee, because there are an awful lot of them; and; the most Jacobean ladies room I ever did see—wood panelled, wooden cover and seat, wallpaper where there wasn't panelling, enough wooden furniture for a whole house, pictures, a complete set of Dickens (people must be in there a while) and actual terry towelling hand towels.

I am in Windermere. I'm not a hundred percent sure. There is something unfriendly about it. It will have to pull something out of a bag to get me back (and I have a day off here). With the exception of a lovely lady in the cafe I stopped in to get my iPad out of my pack and check where I was staying, while eating fairy cakes (is there any wonder I am not losing weight at speed), I am finding it is the staff. In bigger places there is a distance, isn't there? A wall up. A rudeness. My current beef (or boar) is the place I am in now—The Angel Inn. The bar staff are rude. I am using blog to let the world, or a small portion of it, know that the Angel Inn is not somewhere I recommend (despite the nice food and nice waitresses) and not somewhere I will ever come again. I will winge no more. The Michaels at the B&B (left) have that distance too. The people I have seen holidaying here, and the cars they came in, speak wealth. Maybe it's an upstairs/downstairs thing. To start I will disappear into my tiny room and do washing (even though every time I use water it sounds like the toilet is a washing machine or a huge monster about to vomit), and then tomorrow I will try to seek out the good souls, or just sit around in coffee shops reading and potter around in shops—they literally potter here, Beatrix Potter, she is everywhere.

I think I just ate wild boar. I wonder if they rear them. I know it's a stupid thing to say, but the alternative is that someone is running around hunting them.

And I'll leave you with this: The only thing Freud rued being unable to solve in his life's work was 'what do women want'. Turns out he only needed to look at Thomas Bulfinch's Age of Chivlary or Legends of King Arthur for where Arthur has to answer the same question for a giant or risk handing over his kingdom and powers. He is told the answer by the giant's cursed sister: 'women would have their will'. Easy. Just have work out what we will.

Good night Bowness (pronounced 'bonus') on Windermere, good night to you.