This article was written by Hanna Sponberg
Eagerly, I stared out the window of a packed coach bus as we rode through the narrow, windy roads leading to the Lake District of northwestern England. The scenery was gorgeous--small mountains, dark blue lakes, pastures full of sheep, varieties of trees, and running streams covered the land. While watching the beauty before me, it became clear why William Wordsworth, poet and native of the Lake District, wrote so passionately about nature.
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Wordsworth was born on April 7, 1770 at Cockermouth near the center of the Lake District. His father was an important lawyer and he had four siblings. His mother died in 1778 and his father in 1783, which left the Wordsworth children as orphans. William was placed in the care of his uncles, who sent him to grammar school in Hawkshead, a village in the Lake District. Eventually, Wordsworth continued with school at Cambridge University and received his B.A. from St. John's College, Cambridge. His uncles expected him to become a success as a clergyman or lawyer, but Wordsworth discovered that he had other talents and dreams.
The young man moved around after graduation through France and London. His life was changed forever, in 1795, when he met Samuel Taylor Coleridge, another significant poet of the Romantic Era. Coleridge and Wordsworth quickly became friends and greatly affected each other's work by offering ideas, suggestions, and critiques.
Moving around numerous times again, Wordsworth and his sister, Dorothy, finally returned to the Lake District in 1799 when they settled into Dove Cottage. Coleridge followed them one year later and moved to Greta Hall in Keswick, another of the Lake District's many villages.
Wordsworth and Coleridge worked together very closely in the Lake District. Dorothy also helped to inspire ideas for their poetry. Wordsworth's work mainly focused on nature, children, and common people. He used simple, everyday words in his work and greatly expressed his personal feelings.
The Lake District was embedded in Wordsworth's spirit and poured out through his pen. The people who inhabited the Lake District were plain, down-to-earth people; they were mostly farmers and shopkeepers, if not writers. The villages were small and very remote, in fact, they were carved into foothills and rested on the shores of lakes. Events that took place in this divine land were activities that unfolded with the normal, simplistic lifestyles of the citizens who lived there.
Wordsworth's work deeply centers around these people, their lives, and the land. Wordsworth was enamored by his home, the Lake District, and used his surroundings as his muse. His poetry is heartfelt and full of passion; he moves his readers and leaves a smile on their faces.
I fell in love with Wordsworth's poetry immediately after being introduced. I feel as though I strongly relate to it because I love the outdoors and, therefore, can fully understand his zeal for nature. The first poem I had read by Wordsworth was his "Lines Written in Early Spring," which reads, "And 'tis my faith that every flower / Enjoys the air it breathes / The budding twigs spread out their fan, / To catch the breezy air / And I must think, do all I can, / That there was pleasure there." Ever since I first read this poem, I yearned for more because I felt that Wordsworth explained with words what I felt in my heart. I promised myself then that when I went to England, I would visit his home. My dream came true last spring as I was studying in London for three months, which provided me with the opportunity to take trips outside of London on the weekends. I was with a large group of students from my home university, and our faculty leader, who is an English professor, planned a trip for us to go to the Lake District for a weekend.
After living in London for the past two months, I was starving for the natural world and was eager to hike through the undulating hills that surrounded Grasmere, Ambleside, and Coniston, all small villages hiding from larger development. The landscape in the Lake District was incredible and uniquely unlike anything I had ever seen. It was mid-March when I visited and the air was crisp. The atmosphere seemed to have a fairytale-like glow with mist rising off of the lakes. Throughout the Lake District, there are many lakes that are enclosed by large, treeless foothills. The mountains are covered by pastureland and gray sheep, a distinctive breed dwelling only in the Lake District. There were also many waterfalls and rushing streams with small bolder sized rocks that were covered in the greenest of mosses. While searching out the land, I thought of Wordsworth's poem entitled "The Daffodils." I had expected to see millions of "golden daffodils, / Beside the lake, beneath the trees, / Fluttering and dancing in the breeze," however, the cool remnants of winter must have lingered upon the land in the early part of March when I was there because I did not see any of the beautiful flowers.
Before we set out on the toughest and most beautiful hike the majority of us had ever taken, we stopped in Grasmere to visit Dove Cottage. Dove Cottage is tucked underneath a hill and a plethora of trees. A cold stream runs underneath the cottage, which helped to cool the house in the summer. The Wordsworths (William lived with his beloved sister, Dorothy, and his wife, Mary) also used one of the rooms in the cellar as a cooler for their food. The floor is stone and, therefore, conducive to cold. The cottage is not too modest, as it seems large for the time, but it felt comfortable and nowhere near extravagant.
After visiting Wordsworth's home, we drove to Coniston, a village surrounded with hiking trails and small mountains. I looked up at the mount we were about to climb and was filled with awe and excitement--the climb was 2635 feet and was named The Old Man of Coniston. We started out along a stream with a 20' waterfall, and the incline was looming. The sun was shining and the air was cool, but perfect for hiking. The mountain became increasingly steep as we climbed and after about an hour of climbing at a quick pace, our legs began to shake and feel like Jell-O. We continued to hike, though, with a goal of reaching the summit. We passed a gorgeous, deep bluish green pond, where we took our only break, which lasted five minutes.
As we neared the top of the mountain, I definitely felt like my legs were buckling, but I knew, once I reached the peak, the view would make the pain worthwhile. When we did reach the top, we could see for miles and miles around us. Mountain peak after mountain peak continued towards the hazy pink, purple, and blue horizon. We looked down to where we came from and we could see Coniston below. The town was visible, but a blur--only a small speck on the ground below. I could not stop smiling to myself as the bitter wind blew into my face. There was a large pile of rocks at the top that signified each person that had summited the mountain; I added my rock to the pile with pride that I had made the entire climb.
While I stood on the top of that peak, I was awestruck with the beauty and felt a large sense of understanding. Wordsworth lived in this beautiful land; he was surrounded by it in everyday life as he wrote in "The Daffodils": :Which is the bliss of solitude; / And then my heart with pleasure fills, / And dances with the daffodils." It became obvious why Wordsworth loved his home so much and was moved to write his poetry based around nature and the magnificence of the earth.
We began to descend the mountain on its backside. The hike had been tough, but I received a glimpse of what the life of Wordsworth was like while he lived in the Lake District. He had been encompassed by so much wonder and natural, pure beauty. That night we sat on the dock outside of our hostel watching the stars and the moon glitter on the water's surface and the rocks along the shore.
There was something incredible about being there near Wordsworth's home, in a position that he had once experienced and wrote about in his poem "Beauty and Moonlight." He wrote, "'Twas Twilight and the lunar beam / Sailed slowly o'er Winander's stream. / As down its sides the water strayed / Bright on a rock the moonbeam played."
