Yesterday, I reflected on my perceived sorry state of Tarn Hows, now resembling the aftermath of a minor apocalypse. The larches, felled due to the ravages of Phytophthora ramorum, are gone, and the recent storms have left a trail of destruction. One might be reminded of those eerie photos of the Tunguska event. While the diseased trees have been removed, the prevailing wisdom is to leave the rest of the fallen timber to rot where it lies—except, of course, where it might inconvenience visitors.
On the far side of the tarn, Tom Heights has undergone a transformation. The dense conifers have vanished, replaced by birch, which is now busily colonising the once-barren summit. Meanwhile, the gangly Scots pines on the peninsula have stood their ground, seemingly unbothered by the storms. Perhaps their roots run deeper, or maybe their lack of lower branches makes them less prone to being toppled. Or possibly, they just prefer to huddle together for support.
For all this upheaval, Tarn Hows remains stubbornly picturesque. It continues to exude an air of mystery and perfection, effortlessly earning its place in every Lake District calendar. The irregular little lake, with its wooded shores and quaint promontories, is undeniably beautiful—so much so that one almost forgets it is an artificial creation, cobbled together in the nineteenth century by damming Tom Gill. A rare case of human interference actually improving nature.
Naturally, such beauty draws the crowds. Tarn Hows is one of Lakeland’s major tourist magnets, and with that comes the inevitable human erosion. The National Trust manages the place with admirable restraint, attempting the impossible task of making it accessible to all while preserving its charm—without, one hopes, turning it into yet another sanitised attraction.
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