The epic gloom of a storm rolling in across Scafell Pike and over Wastwater Lake. The rain had just begun to fall and I was irked that the drops were spoiling the glassy sheen on the water. Two minutes later we were in a monsoon-like downpour and retreated to the car to drink tea as the rain drummed heavily on the roof. There's something distinctly foreboding about Wastwater. It's probably the looming shadow of Scafell and the dark shale that cascades down one side of the lake. Its brutal beauty appeals to me more than the pretty picture postcard landscapes of the other lakes in Cumbria.
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