Hopes did rise in the Grasmere

As an Australian and a massive consumer of British culture I feel uncomfortable with labelling myself as an International Student. The term conjures images of students unfamiliar with the language wearing the University sweatshirt, a camera permanently around their neck. In my line of work, International students instantly make me panic - the way in which the student administration works for them is just too much of a mystery to me to feel like any great help.But, fuck it; I am an exchange student from another country and therefore am an international student. And if you are an international student there are perks to be had. Such as going to places the locals either vaguely recall spending their summers at or could never be bothered making the trip. Like the Lakes District.

According to my best friend Wikipedia, "The Lake District, also known as The Lakes or Lakeland, is a rural area in North West England. A popular holiday destination, it is famous for its lakes and its mountains (or fells), and its associations with the early 19th century poetry and writings of William Wordsworth and the Lake Poets."We went to two villages in the Lakes District; Grasmere and Keswick. And they were quite simply beautiful. I'm a town mouse at heart, but the city of Manchester often looks it has its colour palate set to Grayscale. And while I love it, it was so nice to get out of the city and go somewhere where the houses are older than my entire country. I also saw more sun today than I have the entire time I've been here. Oh, and dogs! They're everywhere. I wonder what the term is when you're clucky for a new pet? I digress.

First up was Grasmere, home to William Wordsworth. I have actually never read any Wordsworth. Only one of the girls with me had even heard of him. We went to his first proper home, Dove Cottage, where he lived with his sister Dorothy for a little over eight years. During that time it sounded like the most creative place to live if you were a poet in the late 1700s. Sir Walter Scott gave them a dog (Pepper, very cute, they had a portrait of him, which is cool, I suppose...), Thomas De Quincey stayed there so much he moved in after they left, and Samuel Taylor Coleridge was often found having an Opium-induced nightmare at the place. Sounds like ye olde Andy Warhol's factory. I think it would have been an amazing place to stay, with so much creative energy (and sexual tension - the married Coleridge was madly in love with Wordsworth's sister-in-law Sarah) about the place.

It was so cute, but the low ceilings and dark walls of the parlour, Dorothy's room and the kitchen were slightly claustrophobic. The second storey of the house was quite lovely, though, and the garden was spectacular. The Wordsworths never moved out of Grasmere, and they are buried at the St Oswald's church.But even better than that, Grasmere has the best motherfucking gingerbread in the entire motherfucking world. You think you've had good gingerbread. You ain't. Unless you've had this stuff. It's amazing. It's all crumbly, with real bits of ginger. It's amazing. I will be incredibly sorry when I polish it off (which will probably be tonight. Oh well, there's another trip there later with the International Society...). The only thing you can really buy in quaint little villages is a fuckload of baked goods, chocolate and chocolate fudge. And did I ever.

Next up was Keswick (the locals pronounced it kezzick, but the organisers called it kez wick. I'm going with the locals on this one), which seems to be famous for its abundance of outdoor sports clothing and supply stores. They were everywhere. There was this supermarket called Booths, but I secretly wished it was a Somerfield like in Hot Fuzz (even though that's in Gloucestershire, nowhere nearby). I'm easily amused in this country.We were starving, so we had lunch in this pub called the Golden Lion (lovely bartender). I had chicken and chips with gravy for the first time since arriving and I was in heaven. It were amazing. Ahmazing, even. The pub was so cool - with low ceilings and dark walls, like Dove Cottage (which was a pub before Wordsworth moved in), but not stifling. The footy was on the telly, it was nice and warm inside and the food was good.The best part of the village, for us tourists, were the gardens and the lake. The best part of the day was actually a boat ride that I was not in favour of going in. But it was so beautiful that I can't believe I didn't want to go. I took a lot of photos, which I'm not normally prone to doing, but there was this moment when my battery was giving out and my memory card was full that I stopped looking at everything through a lens and just appreciated where I was. I was on top of this beautiful green hill, among sheep, staring out at this amazing view of old cottages and hotels, and mountains in the distance. And up in the sky, hang gliders were flying over the mountains. It was such a crazy feeling.

I sometimes forget I'm in another country, because in the city you sort of just settle in and get your bearings, but today I realised that I am in another country that despite its perceived similarities to home, is really nothing like it. That's why I wanted to come here in the first place. And for the first time I stopped feeling sick for home and thought to myself - I like it here.