When distant Windermere sparkled, we picked up our pace

In the latest of his reflections on ideas of place and pathway, Will Gore considers the joys of a journey’s end

The spectacular Windermere lake is more than 10 miles long (iStock)

When I was a child, we used to play a game on homeward bound car journeys – the winner being the first person to see the water tower which was situated on a hill behind our village. There was no prize bar bragging rights, but we played with gusto.

I didn’t appreciate at the time what a remarkable building it was. Built in 1935-6 (in red brick rather than concrete to blend in with the landscape), the dodecagonal tower rises to a hundred feet where its conical slate roof reaches its highest point. It is Art Deco functionality at its best.

Back then, it simply signified that we were nearly home – although, such is the flatness of the land in southeast Cambridgeshire that, from certain directions, a glimpse of the water tower could mean there were still a few miles to travel.

Yet, however distant, the sight of your longed-for destination ahead can exert powerful forces. In the summer of 2002, I walked the northern half of the Dales Way, that gentle route which joins the Yorkshire Dales to the Lake District, opening a window to the glories of both those national parks. Picking up the trail at Cowgill, we were only due to hike about 35 miles in easy conditions, finishing up on the shores of Windermere a couple of days later.

From the meandering River Dee, through Sedbergh and on into the green and tranquil Eden Valley, the route was charming to the point of being soporific: stiles were rare obstacles; sheep were best avoided lest counting them led to inadvertent slumber.

But a first glimpse of Windermere’s waters changed the mood, precipitating a quickening of the heart, a picking up of the pace – even though there was a fair bit of ground still to cover. That sense of being energised for a final push can come from relief; from the realisation that soon you’ll be able to take off your boots, wriggle your toes and end the pain.

On the Dales Way, however, there had not been enough strenuous activity to feel desperate for rest. On the contrary. Rather, we were animated by that sudden feeling that a goal was close to being achieved – the same excitement that can kick in when you clamber over a rocky rise during the ascent of a mountain and realise that at last the peak is in plain sight.

In those moments, all that has come before on the journey becomes irrelevant. When the eyes fall on the prize, everything changes; we are renewed and revitalised.

When as children we scanned the horizon, desperately searching for the familiar water tower on Rivey Hill, we were of course seeking out a source of comfort, a connection to home – especially when returning from a long trip away.

But I wonder too if we were energised by the same sense of achievement being nigh, reaching territory not to be conquered for the first time but returning to a landscape that was already ours, taking ownership once again. Sure enough, for years it was “my” water tower in family conversations.

Actually, as far as I’m concerned, it still is. And my heart still beats a little faster when I spy it from afar.