Stories That Teach Us to See

Note 2

2 August 2026

By Rachel

I have always loved the feeling of stepping into another world through a book.

As a child, I could disappear into the pages of Harry Potter, The Hobbit or Eragon and find myself somewhere entirely different. There were forests, mountains, streams and hidden paths; places that felt wild and full of possibility.

And then I would step outside.

Growing up in the Lake District, I never had to travel very far to find my own version of those landscapes.

The smell of wet earth and moss. Woodland after rain. The fresh air on a walk. Wind across an open summit. The colour of heather against the fells. A stream running over rocks.

Perhaps that is part of why certain places stay with us. They become mixed up with the stories we have loved, until the two are difficult to separate.

I have lived in the Lake District since I was small, and I still find myself returning to places I have known for years.

Latrigg is one of them.

I have walked up via Spooney Green Lane hundreds of times. As a child and teenager, it was a familiar dog walk. Later, it became a run I could squeeze in before work: close enough to be achievable, but enough of an outing to start the day well.

The route itself has hardly changed. There is the woodland, the fresh air and then, at the top, the wind on the open summit.

And yet I don't think I have ever done it in quite the same way twice.

Growing up here also meant growing up with Beatrix Potter.

Her stories never felt separate from the landscape around me. They belonged to it. Walking through the countryside, it was easy to imagine Peter Rabbit disappearing beneath a hedge or Jemima Puddle-Duck wandering through a nearby field. Her illustrations captured something that still feels true today: the quiet beauty found in paying close attention to the natural world.

The best books do more than tell us about a place. They teach us how to notice it.

I think that is something I have carried with me into walking.

Over the years, I have walked all 214 of Wainwright's fells. His walks became part of the landscape for me in much the same way that Potter's illustrations had done when I was younger. They encouraged me to look beyond the obvious view and pay attention to what was beneath my feet and around me.

A stream.

Rocks covered in moss.

Colourful heather across the fellside.

The texture of the earth beneath a path.

Small things, perhaps, but they become part of how you come to know a place.

Wainwright understood that. His books were not simply instructions for getting to the top of a mountain. They gave the hills personality. They encouraged people to explore them, to take notice and to return.

This month feels like a particularly fitting time to think about that.

We are celebrating 160 years since the birth of Beatrix Potter, whose love of the natural world shaped both her work and the landscapes she helped to protect. And just a few days after this month's Notes, the shortlist for the Wainwright Prize will be announced on Wednesday 5th August.

The prize, named after Alfred Wainwright, celebrates writing about nature, travel and conservation. It feels as though Potter, Wainwright and today's writers are part of the same long conversation: how do we help people look at the natural world differently?

For me, the answer has always been partly through stories.

The books I loved as a child gave me a sense of adventure. Beatrix Potter taught me to look closely. Wainwright taught me to walk further into a landscape I thought I already knew.

And perhaps that is why I still love returning to the same paths.

A book can take you somewhere completely new.

But sometimes its greatest gift is to send you back outside, and make you realise that the place you have been walking through all your life still has more to show you.

The stream is still running over the rocks.

The heather is still bright against the fell.

The wind is still waiting on the summit.

You just notice it differently.

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Note 2

2 August 2026

By Rachel

I have always loved the feeling of stepping into another world through a book.

As a child, I could disappear into the pages of Harry Potter, The Hobbit or Eragon and find myself somewhere entirely different. There were forests, mountains, streams and hidden paths; places that felt wild and full of possibility.

And then I would step outside.

Growing up in the Lake District, I never had to travel very far to find my own version of those landscapes.

The smell of wet earth and moss. Woodland after rain. The fresh air on a walk. Wind across an open summit. The colour of heather against the fells. A stream running over rocks.

Perhaps that is part of why certain places stay with us. They become mixed up with the stories we have loved, until the two are difficult to separate.

I have lived in the Lake District since I was small, and I still find myself returning to places I have known for years.

Latrigg is one of them.

I have walked up via Spooney Green Lane hundreds of times. As a child and teenager, it was a familiar dog walk. Later, it became a run I could squeeze in before work: close enough to be achievable, but enough of an outing to start the day well.

The route itself has hardly changed. There is the woodland, the fresh air and then, at the top, the wind on the open summit.

And yet I don't think I have ever done it in quite the same way twice.

Growing up here also meant growing up with Beatrix Potter.

The best books do more than tell us about a place. They teach us how to notice it.

I think that is something I have carried with me into walking.

Over the years, I have walked all 214 of Wainwright's fells. His walks became part of the landscape for me in much the same way that Potter's illustrations had done when I was younger. They encouraged me to look beyond the obvious view and pay attention to what was beneath my feet and around me.

A stream.

Rocks covered in moss.

Colourful heather across the fellside.

The texture of the earth beneath a path.

Small things, perhaps, but they become part of how you come to know a place.

Wainwright understood that. His books were not simply instructions for getting to the top of a mountain. They gave the hills personality. They encouraged people to explore them, to take notice and to return.

This month feels like a particularly fitting time to think about that.

We are celebrating 160 years since the birth of Beatrix Potter, whose love of the natural world shaped both her work and the landscapes she helped to protect. And just a few days after this month's Notes, the shortlist for the Wainwright Prize will be announced on Wednesday 5th August.

The prize, named after Alfred Wainwright, celebrates writing about nature, travel and conservation. It feels as though Potter, Wainwright and today's writers are part of the same long conversation: how do we help people look at the natural world differently?

For me, the answer has always been partly through stories.

The books I loved as a child gave me a sense of adventure. Beatrix Potter taught me to look closely. Wainwright taught me to walk further into a landscape I thought I already knew.

And perhaps that is why I still love returning to the same paths.

A book can take you somewhere completely new.

But sometimes its greatest gift is to send you back outside, and make you realise that the place you have been walking through all your life still has more to show you.

The stream is still running over the rocks.

The heather is still bright against the fell.

The wind is still waiting on the summit.

You just notice it differently.

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When Did Reading Become Something We Measure?

Words and Water

Quiet reading. Gentle walks. Time to slow down. Guided by landscape.