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Of course, the landscape had been described to him.
Absolutely serene, a makeup artist on a recent Hugo Boss advert had drawled in the midst of pressing loose setting powder and extra light concealer into his skin to hide the dregs of exhaustion. Richard had just raised his eyebrows nonchalantly, and attempted to keep asking questions so she’d forget about dragging a dry beauty blender underneath his eyes. It seemed as though most people couldn’t stop going on about the wonder that was the British jewel in the landscape crown. The Lake District had always been an oh yeah I must visit someday fantasy, but quite frankly in Richard’s mind the mirage was a tweed wet-dream with a black Labrador running around his ankles.
The reality, as it turned out, was rather different.
He gulps in a huge lungful of clean air and revels for a minute, eyes shut, in the sheer openness of it all. There wasn’t another adjective to describe the oxygen swirling around the mountains. Each breath seemed crisp at the end, like the slight chill you get after downing a pint of iced water. For the first time in about ten years, Richard’s ribcage actually opens all the way. It doesn’t stutter halfway through, like in London or LA, but contracts in one smooth motion. If he had been a cartoon character, cobwebs would’ve been eradicated from his lungs in animated puffs of smoke.
“Who has water?” A stranger shouts to another group of people to his left. Richard rolls his eyes, hard.
Brant Fell isn’t that high, but it’s broad. Down at the crux lies Windermere, concealed by a cluster of brooding fern trees. Or, Windermere is supposed to be down there, but there’s a slight chance they’re facing the wrong way.
There’s a pointed cough in his ear. Richard smiles to himself at the polite but directed intrusion and tilts his head. Taron doesn’t look impressed. If anything, he looks rather pissed off, but then Richard has just dragged him out of the nice warm car to trundle up a hill (not big enough to be a mountain according to the Trust, sadly) in the drizzle. He’s head to toe in waterproofs, and looks like an absolute twat. Who needs country tweed when it’s possible to fall onto the sale rack at Go Outdoors?
Richard bites back a sarcastic comment at the drips sliding down Taron’s eyelashes. “Y’alright?”
“Peachy.” It’s biting. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Yep.” He says, nodding slowly at the rock walls and cairns adorning the grass.
A pregnant pause encompasses them both in one gust of strong wind. Taron suddenly raises his eyebrows and throws his hands in the air like a small Welsh explosion. “Well?”
“Oh,” Richard catches onto his meaning quickly, sighs, and jams his hands into his pockets. “Yeah, we are really fucking lost.”
Silence. Then, there’s a terrified yelp as Taron tries to throw him from the peak head first. Whoops.
-
Ultimately, it had been Taron’s idea to do the entire week without GPS. He’d borrowed a tattered map from somewhere and some bouncy enthusiasm from somewhere else, and that was it. Apparently it was supposed to be an adventure, Madden, you boring tart but so far they’d managed to make it into the right county and that was it. The map Taron had sourced looked like it was from the depths of some walker’s glovebox and was about five years out of date.
“If we follow this road,” Taron clamps one hand to the edge of the map to keep it plastered to the dashboard and the other to the heater to dispel the damp clinging to his skin. “We should reach a place called Ambleside where we can stop for some food.” He points to the bold blue line and Richard frowns at it.
“We are literally parked on the outskirts of Windermere.” He points out and gestures to the hill they’d just deserted to escape the rain.
“You wanna go and have a look?”
A nod.
“Okay.” Taron shrugs as Richard switches the ignition on. “As you wish, your majesty.”
Windermere is bustling, for such a contained place. It was like its own private bubble of the Lakes; still a landmark in the wider entity but most prominently a place that was happy to stand on its own two feet. Lake Windermere transfixes them for a good while as they sit and stare out at the consistent ripples of blue and grey. It seems to be a hub for boating and waterside activities, which allows for some amusement as they watch dogs splash about and toddlers paddle for the first time. The two together results in a young boy being taken out in a flash by a lightning-speed Whippet, and Taron chokes on his Coke.
“Wanna go on a lake cruise?” Richard nudges Taron from his daydream and points at the leaflet he was offered by a grinning vendor when they’d first sat down.
“Up to three hours?” Taron reads aloud and then snorts. “I’d rather swim round myself.”
“Go on then.” Richard dares and grabs Taron by the wrists like he’s threatening to throw him into the water. Taron dissolves into squawking giggles, and then Richard can’t sit upright because he’s laughing too much at the Welshman’s beetroot red face.
The British summer is a confusing entity. Pathetic fallacy drained every literary mention of the season, along with millennial jokes that bordered on a national depression. Therefore it was only correct that they arrived to Cumbria in the absolute pissing rain, and by one in the afternoon it was roasting sunshine.
Taron tugs at the collar of a t-shirt he’d pulled out of the bottom of his bag and flaps it against his skin whilst panting. The picnic bench they’re perched on outside Fresher’s Café is warming to the touch under the Midas rays. “Fuck me it’s warm.”
Richard tilts his head towards the August sun like a dog out a car window. “Chucking it down one minute, boiling the next.”
“Welcome to the North,” Taron snorts. “Land of sheep, pies and unpredictable weather.”
“It always rains in Glasgow.”
“Welcome to the UK.” The blonde bombshell parrots, deadpan. “It rains everywhere, all the time. This is just the universe’s way of congratulating us on making it here alive without the use of modern technology.”
Richard can’t help but scoff into his coffee. “You were reading horror stories about people getting lost on foggy mountains the entire ride up.”
Taron glares at him over the rim of his sunglasses, but a smile pinches his lips together and he’s got a smear of buttercream streaked across his jaw. The man is picturesque perfection, annoyingly, and Richard can’t help but wonder whether his boyfriend is a better view than the sprawling landscape.
“Y’ve got buttercream, lad, there.” His hand reaches out to trace the sweetness against Taron’s skin. Pleats form between two pools of blue as Taron grimaces at the intrusion, but swipes the confectionary away nonetheless. Up close, the man’s eyes seemed to have been taken from Lake Windermere itself. “There ya’ go, huh? Christ, it’s like lunching with a child.”
Taron flips him off. Richard snorts, makes a quip about getting smacked, and suddenly Taron’s eyes are swimming with heat instead of content and yep, Richard asked for that to be honest.
-
“We could climb Helvellyn on the way?” Taron says out of nowhere during the drive between Windermere and Ambleside, and Richard actually has to slow down to face him incredulously.
“Eh?”
Taron shrugs. “I know the plan is to start doing all the walking when we actually reach Keswick, but it’s on the way.”
The Scotsman just blinks at the love of his goddamn life like a goldfish.
“You- ya’ just can’t climb a mountain on the way,” he splutters and starts laughing when Taron flushes with embarrassment. “You have to actually prepare for it a-and Taron baby, you’re wearing leather Chelsea boots for fucks sake.”
It’s started spitting again, and the thin horizon between field and natural skyscraper becomes dotted with specs of fuzzy bubbles.
“Climbing with style?” He tries, and falls back in his seat with a huff when Richard returns a pointed look. “Fine. What else can we do to break this town-hopping up then?”
Richard scans his memory for possible activities he’d read about when glancing over the numerous tourism leaflets Taron had stockpiled. A large brown landmark sign sweeps past the window, and he grins at the lazy windscreen wipers.
“I’ve got an idea, T. Sit tight.”
Taron purses his lips but doesn’t question Richard’s direction. This getaway was supposed to be a relaxing week for the both of them to reconnect in the heart of the British wilderness. The past year had been hell in some places, and just as Jamie drunkenly warned him once, Hollywood gets us all in the end. Their relationship was too new and too right for their fuckface of an industry to dismantle the blossoming love molecule by exhausted molecule. In fairness, Jamie had spent too much of his life up Hollywood’s arse without a torch, so perhaps he could be forgiven for his total twat-sighted pessimism. However, Taron would rather be fucked sideways by a Robin Hood sequel that admit that Jamie’s drunken ramblings could come true, so here they are: in the stunning middle of absolutely nowhere, speeding along the A591 to their future.
He frowns when Richard exits the road into a turning jovially marked Brockhole.
“Christ, are you planning to bury my body in the woods?”
“Didn’t bring me’ spade.” Richard shrugs, switching the ignition off with a flourish when they’re parked. “Where’s ya’ sense of adventure gone?”
Taron snorts quietly to himself and surveys the busy forest with a sniff when he’s eased himself out of his seat. “Last time you tried to be adventurous, we got chased by a herd of pissed-off cows.”
“Hey.” The brunette whirls on him with an indignant index finger. “There wasn’t a single fucking sign to warn us not to cross that field.”
Laughter bubbles up in Taron’s chest at the memory. They had been in the depths of the Cotswolds for a last-minute weekend away shortly after their dire attempts at flirting had inadvertently thrown them into bed together. It was supposed to have been a time for them to talk things over. Yet, alas, because both men can be classed together under a massive banner reading, Destructive Messes Here, it hadn’t happened the way they’d planned. He can still hear their screams, alongside the incoming drone of mooing.
Brockhole, as it turns out, is a typical woodland escape for parents of chaotic children and dogs that won’t sit when told. Everyone looks utterly exhausted against the gentle glow filtering into the clearing through the trees.
“We can do high ropes, or- ooh, look there are treetop nets! I think they’re just suspended trampolines.” Richard points out activities excitedly and Taron rolls his eyes with a smile.
“We’d squash the kids, Madden.”
“You can go and do some archery, eh Robin Hood?” The older man pokes Taron in the ribs teasingly.
“Fuck off,” the reply is sharp but light. “Go and do some clay pigeon shooting then, Budd.”
He gets a frown in return that lets him know he’s won the argument.
Richard huffs and surveys the joyful advertisement board, marred by horrific Comic Sans. “Christ, alright then. Would you like to just walk through the gardens then ya’ boring fucker?”
Taron bites down on his lower lip at the cheeky sass before schooling his face into regard. “I think that sounds splendid. I wouldn’t want to waste my National Trust badge anyhow.”
“Uh, T, it’s not-”
“I know.” Taron snaps out of his character to roll his eyes towards the heavens at his oblivious other half. “I was joking, Madds, I- actually, never mind. The gardens it is, young man.”
They link arms in jest. It doesn’t take long for their hands to slip down until they’re entwined. Richard squeezes his fingers lovingly, and Taron squeezes right back.
The sun is setting into a beautiful purple hue by the time they finally reach Ambleside.
“We’re never gonna reach Keswick at this point if we keep stopping in every place we drive through.” Taron huffs as they wander past Go Outdoors. Richard shakes his head at his petulant child of a boyfriend and reaches out to pull the shorter man to his side. He smells of lemon and pine. He smells like country air.
“Sightseeing, T. It’s fun.”
Taron grumbles under his breath. “Sightseeing is all we’ve planned to do for the next seven days anyway.”
“My god you are stroppy when you’re tired.” Richard chuckles and presses a kiss to the untamed blonde strands. “C’mon, dinner at The Priest Hole I think. I’ve heard good things.”
They end up staying a spontaneous night in a quirky B&B in Ambleside. It hadn’t been the plan, of course, but Richard had fallen back into the car absolutely wet through from his traipse to the corner shop for more cigarettes. His hair stuck to his forehead in ropes of tangled black and his black Fred Perry jumper was sodden. True to form, Taron had found the sight pretty fucking irresistible, so they’d Googled the nearest accommodation and spent the night driving into each other, deep and velvet and hungry; on the floor, against the wall, and straddled on the window-seat.
Richard compliments the décor of the room to the owners when they leave. The older lady thanks him, grins at her mousey husband and then launches into a story about how that room belonged to her elderly mother before the building was renovated into a business. Apparently, it was the room in which she’d passed away, and continued to be extremely special to the family. Taron makes a choking, stifled gasping laugh from beside him, so Richard pays as quickly as humanly possible and escapes before the ground can swallow him up. Taron’s still giggling when they slam the car doors shut, so Richard has to lean across the gearbox to grab him by the zip on his stupid parka and kiss him senseless. It gets him a bit of peace for the few minutes it takes to escape Ambleside, so definitely worth it.
To say Grasmere captivates Taron would be a painful understatement.
The town completely bowls him over. Within seconds of walking up the main high street to follow the steady stream of likeminded tourists going the same way, he turns to Richard with a beaming grin and sparkling eyes.
“How cute is this?!” He has to raise his voice over a children’s cricket match being played on the grass outside a popular ice cream stand, but Richard can hear him loud and clear. Joy seems to cling to the Welsh lilt like honey; warm and carefree.
Richard chuckles around his takeaway coffee and has to pull an entranced Taron out of the way of an oncoming French bulldog. Taron has to stop and pet it- obviously- and they stand chatting to Frankie and her owner Cass for quite a while.
“So you’re a local, then?” Richard enquires whilst Taron is busy making the dog melt with ear scratches. “D’ya have any recommendations o’things we should look for?”
Cass looks like a typical farmer’s wife, but with a panting Frenchie instead of a wild Collie. Her wellies squeak as she shifts her weight from foot to foot.
“I mean, you boys hafta’ go and get some gingerbread-”
“Grasmere’s famous gingerbread, that’s what I was telling you about.” Taron interrupts by poking Richard in the knee.
Cass nods vigorously. “It’s a rite of passage in Grasmere. Honestly, best gingerbread you’ll ever have. Guaranteed.”
Richard downs the dregs of his drink and nods slowly, pleasantly warm caffeine rolling down his throat. It heats up his chest against the gentle summer breeze which is oddly nippy from the mountain peaks.
“Well thank you for your help.” He grins and nudges Taron’s ankle to prize him away from the dog. “It was lovely meeting you.”
They take a photo with Cass on request of her niece (who apparently loved Taron in Kingsman, and honestly Richard just has to inwardly roll his eyes) and then leave her to walk off with Frankie trotting obediently in tow. Essentially, finding The Grasmere Gingerbread Shop is stupidly easy, as they simply have to follow the steady stream of tourists winding through the streets like a conga of ants. The queue outside the shop is ridiculously long, but one puppy-dog blink from Taron has Richard standing in the queue for fifteen minutes with a resigned sigh. Upon entering the shop, it’s glaringly apparent why there’s always a queue. It’s old-fashioned and incredibly tiny, with the smallest dispatch room and counter with one till. The sheer smell of fresh gingerbread makes Richard feel slightly lightheaded, but in a good way.
Taron buys himself a 12-piece bag, Richard a 6-piece and another 12 for his family back in Wales. They carefully meander back through the enclosed space and past the ever-growing queue to the sunshine, with sweetness lingering behind them. Just as Cass said, the gingerbread is exquisite.
“I’d come back here purely for this.” Taron says through a mouthful of crumbs, and his eyes closed against the fresh air.
He looks so full of bliss; Richard doesn’t dare say anything to ruin the moment. Instead, he takes another bite of his own square, his lips curling up into a grin around it.
-
The roads coming into Keswick turn out to be more akin to a rollercoaster. Mercilessly, they’re the only car on the road for a stretch going through St John’s in the Vale, so Richard floors it and they fly over the bends whooping like kids. By the time they have to slow down on the steep right turn down into Keswick’s town, they’re both breathless. Richard’s poor car huffs at them in indignance through the engine, and he winces at the biting pull.
“Sorry, sorry.” He pets at the dashboard and glares sharply at Taron when he snorts. Driving through Keswick is very pleasant, even though Taron just points out restaurants he’s read about on TripAdvisor. They manage to park easily in a sprawling carpark at the edge of the Derwentwater, and walk down to the shore hand in hand.
“How fucking stunning is this?” Taron breathes around the saltiness. He has a very good point. The lake seems to stretch on forever, lined by a ring of pebbles and then forests for miles. Laughter lights up the air from families feeding the geese, and riding bikes down the path parallel to the water.
“Can we move here?” Richard replies, only half-joking. They follow the path in gentle silence down to Friars Cragg, and bypass the cliff to exit through the gate and sit between the gnarly trees overlooking the lake. The epitome of peace greets them, and it’s perfect. The world is still, and good, for a heartbeat.
“Fuck me, Richard, look at the cock on that dog. Jesus!”
Nevermind.