Tell any Londoner you're from the Lake District and you're bound to get the same response. It begins with a gushing recital of their lone holiday to the area, followed by a happy, if inaccurate, description of a well-known town. After this comes the crescendo: ‘Gosh, you must have loved growing up there.’
Contrary to what us Cumbrians are repeatedly told, growing up in the rural upper reaches of the country is not the greatest thing in the world. At least, not while you’re doing it.
Cumbria is remote, has poor infrastructure and is known for significant amounts of rainfall. Instead of the beautiful escape so many overworked urbanites see, most local children view the county as unremarkable at best and insufferable at worst.
During childhood, my own apathy towards Cumbria stretched from distant skylines to the plate in front of me. As with the fells and waters, the importance of Cumberland sausage and Grasmere gingerbread passed over my head. Unfortunately, this mentality extended into my adolescence. Even as a teenager, being and eating Cumbrian was something I accepted rather than celebrated.
If I'm being honest, my relationship with Cumbria was also tainted by a bit of shame; a dismissal of rurality that’d been drilled into me by wider society. Upon reaching my late teens I’d listened to stacks of albums and read hundreds of books, none glorified Cumbria. TV was even worse; when you live in a county that even the weatherman glosses over, you quickly accept that no one cares about the rural north. Before long, you don't either.
Instead of falling in love with what surrounded me, I, like so many young rural adults, strained towards cities. London, Bristol, Manchester. These were places I believed to be full of promise and the kaleidoscopic range of food and drinks I enjoyed during my visits to them only reinforced this belief. Even an £8 pint was easy to swallow when served amidst the excitement of London on a Saturday night.
When I started writing, the topics I chose reflected my affection for cities. I wrote about Bristol’s diverse food scene and Parma’s prosciutto. Other work skewed personal. I hit all the clichés: using food to discuss grief, food as a proxy for love. The only cliché I failed to employ was food as a metaphor for home.
In 2022, I heard rumours that Jennings Brewery in Cockermouth was closing after over 100 years. Soon, it was confirmed: the multinational powers who had purchased the brewery had decided to move production to Staffordshire and I, who’d grown up taking illicit sips of Jennings bitter, was stunned.
I decided to write a feature about it, recasting my eye over the place I’d gone to school. Soon, I was warming to a beer that I’d always taken for granted, appreciating a town I’d chosen to leave behind. In April 2023, the article was published, but my preoccupation with Cumbrian food and drink would not abate.
An appreciation for food leads you to admiring its producers. Soon, I was enamoured with the Cumbrians who’d dedicated their lives to the survival of our overlooked food culture. This admiration morphed into my own love of the land and before I knew it, I was a proud Cumbrian, quick to celebrate the food and drinks we call our own and even quicker to chastise those who dismiss it as simple, hearty fare.
Cumbria remains a land of grey skies and overly enthusiastic tourists. It has not changed. I have. For that, food writing is to thank.