Musings on My Time in the Lake District
In the first week of April this year, I took myself off—solo and by public transport—to Buttermere, in the heart of the Lake District. I had five days to camp and explore, and I was blessed with perfect weather.
But this isn’t really about the trip itself. It’s about something deeper: the feeling of walking alone through beautiful landscapes, and the unexpected connections formed along the way.
When I used to travel more in my younger years, I often went alone. And somehow, I always seemed to meet the most fascinating people—each with their own stories, each encounter feeling like a small stroke of magic. This time was no different.
The first person I met was on the train north. A single empty seat next to a middle-aged woman reading a book caught my eye. I noticed it was a title by Eckhart Tolle, the author of The Power of Now. I asked if it was a good read, and from there, we fell into an easy conversation about the simple—but not always easy—act of being present, of truly noticing what’s around you in each moment. As it happened, the book I had packed was on a similar theme. Out of all the seats I could’ve chosen, I found myself next to a like-minded stranger. It felt like a good omen.
A couple of days into my trip, I met another woman while walking along Buttermere Lake. I’d made a passing comment about how stunning the day was, and she smiled and stopped to chat. She told me she was a local who’d moved to Florida, where she now teaches yoga and leads groups to Everest Base Camp to help them shake off heavy mental states. As it turned out, I teach yoga too, so we had plenty to share. Another fateful encounter.
The following morning, I was practising some yoga before setting off on a walk when a nearby camper called over. She mentioned she used to practise but had fallen out of the habit. I told her I couldn’t do without it now, how it’s kept me supple and strong enough to tackle steep climbs without too much strain. Maybe I inspired her to get back to it—at least, I hope I did.
Later that day, partway up a hill, I came across a middle-aged man resting. He’d just completed his final Wainwright—the last of the 214 fells chronicled by Alfred Wainwright in his beloved Lakeland guides. And, to top it off, it was his birthday. I congratulated him, and somehow, once again, the conversation turned to yoga. He told me he’d started practising a few years ago, and now his knees no longer ache on the descents. He does a little every day and swears by it. It’s not just me, then, who’s found it transformative.
That evening in the pub, I ended up chatting with another man—he told me he comes to the mountains for his mental health. Life had been hard as a single father to three kids, but now that they were grown, he was setting himself the challenge of completing all the Wainwrights. I asked if he’d had a good walk that day. “Not really,” he admitted—he’d ended up on a narrow, exposed edge, and his fear of heights had kicked in. Still, we agreed on one thing: being out here in the hills does wonders for the mind.
Personally, I found that hiking through rugged terrain made me deeply present. There was no room for overthinking, no time to ruminate. Just step after step, breath after breath. It reminded me of swimming in the ocean—your awareness narrows, instinctively, to the here and now. There’s no room for mental chatter or citta vritti. The walk itself became one long, moving meditation.
One final, curious moment: I passed a YouTuber I recognised—he usually films walks in the Peak District, but this time he was recording in the Lakes. I told him I’d seen and enjoyed his videos. I nearly said, “Please don’t give away too many of the secret spots,” but then I caught myself. These places aren’t mine to keep. It’s good that others come here too, to find what they need.
No doubt I’ll be out there again soon—or off somewhere new, chasing quiet paths and serendipitous conversations.
