The Wild Kind of Wanting

The Lake District — Part 3 of the Affair

It spit rain as we left Keswick, the fells socked in like a goodbye. A quiet weeping. A lover left too soon.
We felt it, too.

Five days nestled in a top-floor flat named for Catbells, gazing out at Derwentwater and three rugged fells, watching the weather shift by the hour — this wasn’t a vacation. It was a summer fling. Wild and fast and full of bruises and awe.
We could’ve stayed another week. Maybe longer.

This is Part 3 of My Affair With Fast Travel — the series chronicling our whirlwind July through England. And let me tell you: the Lake District did not play hard to get.

The Lake District is unapologetically alive.
The air is sharper. The people, heartier.
Every footpath has a story. Every pub, a dog.
And every visitor — ourselves included — ends up coated in some mix of mud, rain, and wonder.

We hiked local trails around Derwentwater, our boots squelching through soaked moss.
We climbed through Honister Slate Mine, clipped to cold rock, swallowed by tunnels.
We dipped into Buttermere and let the hush of steep peaks wrap around us.

We met owls. Real ones. From a local rescue. Held them like secrets in our arms.

We imagined getting a dog someday — because here, everyone has one, and they all seem to know the trails better than we do.

One night we wandered into the Dog and Gun, where hikers mingle with locals over pints and goulash.
Another day, we drove to the Kirkstile Inn and just… stared. At the meadow, the mountains, the deer frolicking as if cued by central casting.
It sounds like a dream. Still kind of feels like it was.

Keswick is the kind of place that changes your stride.
People here don’t peacock — they power-walk.
They hike in storm gear and dine in fleece.
Strength is everywhere, but it’s not loud. It’s functional. Proud. Earned.

By the time we packed up, I realized I was carrying my suitcase differently.
Stronger. Like the landscape had lent me some of its spine.

We didn’t conquer Scafell Pike — England’s highest peak — but we felt its pull.
Maybe next time.

There will be a next time.

Because some places don’t ask you to love them.
They just show you who you might be if you stayed.

And that, dear reader, is how you fall fast and hard —
for a place that smells of rain and rock,
where strength hums beneath every step,
and even the goodbye feels personal.

We’re seeing other places, but we’re not over you, Keswick.
The affair continues…

Next up… Edinburgh, Scotland