Below eye level, the view is mesmerising: green hills rolling into the distance, isolated whitewashed farmhouses, a picturesque lake reflecting charming trees and cute rowing boats.
The flurry of ice- cream shops along Bowness High Street seems rather optimistic, even if their sunshine vigil suggests a slightly desperate stoicism
But then I look up and the quintessentially English image unfortunately continues. Above me is grey sky, clouds jammed on top of each other, jostling for position like drab suits in a discount warehouse. And it’s raining.
I know what you’re thinking; why go on holiday to somewhere when you know it’s going to rain. Especially in the Lake District. You can’t have lakes without water, and you can’t get lakes this voluminous without the sky unloading on a far too regular basis. Or should I say voluptuous, Lake Windermere opening in front of me like a dazzling broad, showing off the purity of her water with neat reflections.
I know it rains every day because I grew up near here and memories of childhood summers are dominated by images of deliberately splashing my parents by jumping in puddles.
Ten years later I’ve returned, and nothing seems to have changed. And I’m the least prepared, still in the clothes of warmer climes, unlike the gangs of Japanese tourists who appear to have emptied every Berghaus and North Face store in Europe.
English author and illustrator Beatrix Potter also grew up near here, and it was this countryside that inspired tales of Peter Rabbit, Jemina Puddle-Duck, Benjamin Bunny and Mrs Tiggy-Winkles.
Outside The World of Beatrix Potter attraction, a middle-aged Japanese man explains: these books were their standard English texts at school. Judging by the man’s 15 waterproof layers, Beatrix Potter obviously conveyed a sense of weather pragmatism.
That’s unlike the flurry of ice- cream shops along Bowness High Street, which seems rather optimistic, even if their sunshine vigil suggests a slightly desperate stoicism. The tea shops are more realistic, luring in tourists by advertising tradition.
Never underestimate the English capacity for drinking tea, epitomised by the seemingly bottomless pot in front of me. You can’t order it by the cup, only by this giant vessel that has me running to the toilet for the next two hours.
Fortunately, there are scones and biscuits, plentiful supplies of baked produce to dunk and indulge in. It warms the soul, thickening my skin for the summer cold and a boat trip along Lake Windermere.
From the water’s edge, the countryside meanders into the distance. But on the lake it surrounds me, 360 degrees of an 18th-century oil painting; captivating shades of green merging and separating, sheep dotted around, nothing ever flat or straight.
Back on land I find the artists’ detail. Trees don’t know what season it is, their leaves a telltale sign of spring and autumn. They compliment each other, the juxtaposition of colour and seasons suggesting that at least some species benefit from the weather.
Fields are separated by cute stone walls, and roads are barely wide enough for the flock of geese that rampage around obnoxiously (incidentally, all English geese are property of the Queen, so you don’t want to accidentally on purpose kick out at one when they squawk at your pocket because they sense biscuits).
Above the lake, I find an old-looking fort, an 18th-century building made of enormous slabs of faded stone. But I was too quick to suggest the building’s purpose. This fort wasn’t built for defence. For almost two centuries, this was where the English upper crusts came in their frocks and horse- drawn carriages to party. It’s a scene from a Jane Austin novel, and all the thought of Pride and Prejudice has me craving something a bit less elitist.
Roast dinner is another English institution, and the Lakeview carvery offers a plate the size of a small rowing boat for less than €5. Encouraging the participation of dental patients, half the buffet has been pulverised: mint sauce, apple sauce, creamed potatoes, mashed carrots, and enough gravy to reduce everything solid to mush.
Crowning the experience is a Yorkshire Pudding, a bowl made of pancake mix, whose principle purpose is to increase space on the plate for liquified food.
Sedated by the food, my next journey is on a train. A real train, pumping out steam and making the choo choo noises of childhood television. Dominating the carriage interiors are heavily varnished wood and carpeted floors, steam swishing past the windows at regular intervals.
I don’t know where this train’s going, but the enticement is in the journey. At this tranquil pace the English countryside is at its glorious best, always the same hills and trees, but always at a new, more revealing angle.
I should have stayed on the train for the return journey, the final station pulling me from old England and into a confused amusement park. Road signs indicate the presence of elephants, chain coffee shops think Lake Windermere should have the cafe terraces of southern Italy and a hideous concrete building houses an aquarium.
When it’s not trying, the Lake District is as unique a destination as anywhere in Europe. But then it’s almost spoilt by gelato advertisements and promises of seeing Jaws in an artificial fish pond.
Out in the rain I’m walking back into the countryside, admiring stone houses that hang over the slender winding roads, following the sheep through puddles, and stumbling across a pub in the middle of nowhere.
A log fire roars, and a man in a flat cap greets me with a peculiar accent: “Get yer shoes off pal and get yerself warm.” As the rain tumbles outside, I sip on a pint of brown ale and everyone who enters replies with “aii, not s’bad” when asked how they are.
The appeal of the Lake District lies in all these idiosyncrasies, the daft and bizarre aspects of culture that, despite their colonial power, were never embraced abroad: tea, steam trains, hills and bizarre speech.
And of course, if you want the really authentic experience, you have to embrace the rain...