I grew up on a diet of predominantly English children's literature, rather than American. And the short stories by Li Lienfung and Minfong Ho. It was only much later that a stream of American sitcoms and movies took over for what passed as hip lifestyle trends. Although the music I listened to was more American than British, like, more Red House Painters and The Pixies than uhhh The Smiths or The Stone Roses or Suede.
It's impossible not to think of Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream while walking through the woodlands at the Lakes. Hello Magic Faraway Tree!! *waves madly at random trees* Fairies, elves, goblins and the lot. Faerie Folk. If you prefer something modern, go for Tolkien's Lord of the Rings or Neil Gaiman's Stardust.
Managed to catch some of the performances at the Lakes' Summer Music Festival. Dotted around a couple of venues, the music of Haydn and Mendelssohn, Beethoven and Britten, and Mozart filled the air, aptly. Piano, quartets, strings and vocals of young musicians were pleasing.
Wandering through these meadows and hamlets right out of fairy-tales in northwest England, images of childhood reads kept popping up in my mind. The entire time has been just magical. Every wooden gate marking out fields is just so charming. Promised myself I'd stop using 'quaint' to describe everything; makes me seem like a douchebag. City folk (i.e me) can be so obnoxious. The Lakes are certainly splendrous and steeped in the resplendent old ways (in terms of friendliness and architecture), and much effort has been taken to preserve the rich historical and literary heritage of the lands.
Over hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough brier,
Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire,
I do wander everywhere,
Swifter than the moon’s sphere;
And I serve the fairy queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green;
The cowslips tall her pensioners be;
In their gold coats, spots you see;
These be rubies, fairy favors—
In those freckles live their savors.
I must go seek some dewdrops here,
And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear.
~ Shakespeare's 'A Midsummer Night's Dream', Act II Sc I.