The Drowned Village. Kathleen McGurl
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time Laura arrived at her destination. She’d researched on the internet for campsites near to Bereswater, the lake that occupied the valley where Brackendale Green had once stood. There was one in the next valley, Glydesdale, and she’d been able to book a pitch online. And finally, after a long and tedious drive up the M6, here she was, with a full week ahead to climb some mountains, relax in the sunshine, have a long hard think about her future and of course, explore Gran’s birthplace. The weather forecast predicted that the dry, sunny weather would continue for a few more days yet.
The scenery, as she’d left the main roads, entered the Lake District and driven along the narrow twisting road that led into Glydesdale, had been breathtaking. Dry stone walls lined the lane, beyond which were fields in which the year’s lambs, now four or five months old, still bleated for their mothers and tried to suckle. A pretty stream ran along the valley bottom. Either side of the valley, beyond the fertile low-lying fields, were the slopes of the mountains, or ‘fells’ as they were more usually known in this part of the country. Bracken gave way to heather higher up, then craggy rocks. Here and there scree runs tumbled down the mountainsides. A waterfall, now only a trickle after the prolonged drought, made its way down over rocks and through a ravine lined with stumpy trees. It was beautiful. Laura couldn’t wait to get her walking boots on, her rucksack on her back, and start exploring. She felt as though the countryside was already working wonders and washing away her problems. What a great idea of Gran’s it had been, to have a holiday now before the good weather ended!
At the campsite she parked outside the wooden building which served as an office and small shop, and went inside to check in.
‘You’ve come at a good time,’ the girl who was manning the desk and cash register told her. ‘The kids go back to school this week, so all the families left at the weekend. We’re half empty so you can pick your pitch. Down beside the stream is nice, and there are a few trees for shade if it gets too hot.’
‘Sounds lovely!’ Laura said, accepting a map of the campsite which showed where the amenities – shower block, toilets, launderette – were sited.
‘We open the shop at eight each morning, and there’ll be fresh bread and croissants, plus bacon butties, coffee and tea if you don’t want to cook your own breakfast. We can do packed lunches too, if you’re off up the fells.’
Laura grinned. ‘Perfect. What more could a camper want?’
The girl smiled back. ‘We aim to please. A detailed weather forecast for the next day is pinned on the door each afternoon. Worth checking before you set out, but I can tell you there’s no danger of rain until at least Friday. So, there’s your tag to hang on your tent, and a sticker for your car windscreen. As I said, take any pitch you want.’
‘Thanks so much. I think I’m going to enjoy camping here,’ Laura said. She turned to leave, and almost bumped into a sandy-haired man who she hadn’t noticed was standing behind her, waiting to pay for a pint of milk and a pack of sausages. ‘Whoops! Sorry.’
‘No problem,’ he said. ‘You missed standing on my foot, so that’s OK.’ He smiled, an attractive, slightly lopsided smile that made his grey eyes crinkle at the edges. ‘You’ve just arrived? I can recommend those pitches beside the river. Perfect to cool your feet after a hot day walking in the hills.’
‘Thanks, I’ll go and check it out,’ Laura replied, as she left the office.
‘Enjoy your stay.’ He waved, then turned to pay for his shopping.
That bloke was right, Laura thought, as she drove slowly around the campsite, checking out the available pitches. The area beside the stream was definitely the most inviting, and there was a large pitch free beside a spreading oak tree. She pulled out her compass to check which way was east. Always good to have some shade in the mornings, or the heat of the morning sun could drive you out of your tent before you’d had a chance to have a decent lie-in. Looked like the tree would do the job, so she parked her car, opened the boot and began setting up camp.
The tent was brand new. As was her sleeping bag. In the end, she’d avoided a possible confrontation with Stuart by treating herself to new kit. For summer camping, cheap festival gear was good enough. It only took her half an hour to get everything set up, and her little camping gas stove (also new) up and running to make a cup of tea. She unfolded a deckchair she’d found in Gran’s shed, set it in the sunshine and sat down to wait for her pot to boil. Behind her, the little stream was chuckling to itself like a giggling child as it bubbled over stones down the valley. Ahead of her was the most amazing view, framed by branches of the oak, across the valley to the fells. She’d need to pull out her detailed map of the area to work out which ones they were, but already she could see an enticing-looking path zigzagging its way up one of them. But that would have to wait – tomorrow she wanted to go to Brackendale. She sighed with contentment. It was shaping up to be a very good week.
It was years since she’d last been camping. Stuart’s style was more suited to package holidays in Ibiza – sunshine, booze and partying. She’d gone along with it because she loved him and loved being with him. And they’d had fun. At least, she’d thought it was fun at the time. Looking back, she wondered why she’d never pushed for them to try a different type of holiday. One that didn’t involve daily hangovers. Would he have agreed? Who knew? If he had, it might have left them with a healthier relationship – one in which they were more of a partnership. She could see it more clearly now they’d been apart a few months – theirs had not been a relationship of equals. She’d always done whatever Stuart wanted, as though she was his pet lapdog. Perhaps it was as well it had finished the way it had, allowing no way back, although she did miss the intimacy. She missed having a best friend, too, and knew it would be ages before she could trust anyone fully again.
She spent the evening lounging outside her tent, cooking a simple meal of pasta with grated cheese, which tasted amazing when accompanied by a glass of Pinot Noir. She read books until the sun went down behind the mountains, took an evening walk around the campsite, called Gran to check she was all right, then put herself to bed early, just as it was getting dark, tired after the long drive north. Maybe the Lake District was already working its magic, as she managed to doze off without crying herself to sleep.
The following morning dawned bright and clear, but despite the shade of the oak the inside of the little tent was stifling hot by eight o’clock. Laura dressed quickly in shorts and a T-shirt, and bought coffee and a bacon butty from the campsite shop. As she ate them she studied her map, and realised the zigzag path she could see going up the fells on the other side of the valley led into Brackendale. It was marked on the map as the Old Corpse Road. ‘Interesting name for a footpath,’ she muttered to herself, making a mental note to google it at the next opportunity. It looked to be about three kilometres to walk, with four hundred metres of ascent, from the campsite to Brackendale, and on a day like this why not walk it rather than drive around? She packed her rucksack with a bottle of water, a hastily made sandwich and some snacks, donned her walking boots and set off.
To begin with her route took her along the lane going further up the valley, past a church with its overgrown graveyard, full of lopsided lichen-clad gravestones. A little further on, a public footpath sign pointed the way to ‘Brackendale via Old Corpse Road’.
The track wound its way between acres of waist-high dried-out bracken, then began the zigzags she could see from the campsite, where heather and outcrops of rock flanked the path. As she climbed higher the temperature seemed to increase as there was no shade and very little breeze. The land smelt dry and dusty. She sat to rest on a flat-topped rock that was just to the side of the path, wondering whether it was natural or had been placed there for some reason. She took a gulp of water from her bottle, wishing she’d brought more than one as she was not at the top of this climb and it was half gone already.
As she walked she found herself thinking about her clients, and wondering how they were getting on without her. Of course the agency would be sending alternative carers, but some clients always told her how much they looked forward to Laura’s visits. Like dear old Bert Williamson, who always had a joke ready for her every time she came. As often as not it’d be one she’d heard before – usually from Bert himself