Tourists and bird shit.

Or… A rainy afternoon in the Lake District.


We decided to investigate the local marina near the campsite.

Although we had visited once before we had never ventured towards the town, just out into the empty, wild and beautiful hills, where the people were few and the skies were immense. Today the skies were low and grey, mist pockets of rain drifting horizontally across the murky lake surface, 50 shades of grey enveloping us in the least erotic sense. Rain washed our faces and drips fell on noses…not a few of my favourite things at all.

Businesses perched on the edge of the water, shouting and flashing their over priced, never realised you needed it until now, goods; or food and drink that will strip your wallet and disappoint your senses. And everywhere, everywhere there are tourists and bird shit.

Tourists queue for the soggy boat rides, hoods pulled low over eyes, shoulders cranked up to ear level, hands deep in pockets, faces miserable but determined to do what they set out to do.

Birds, so many birds, hang around the quay, mingle amongst the tourists in constant hope, Victorian street urchins hoping for a crumb. This is their domain, they don’t move out of the way as the human traffic drives past, they just strut around and shit everywhere, marking their territory, besmirching the tourist pathways with their badge of ownership.

The rain coalesces into squally gusts, diminishing our field of vision until it is a grey blend, a blur of human and avian forms. There is no beauty for us here, no exhilaration at the wonders of nature, no sudden exhale at the immensity of a mountain or the rich pattern of a forest. Nope, there are just tourists and bird shit.

We return to the van.





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