Keswick – Lake District

It was early winter 2018 when my work colleague and I set off for a four-day work trip to Keswick, right in the heart of the Lake District. The journey north felt like we were slowly entering another world altogether. The landscape changed from busy motorways to winding country roads, framed by tall, frost-covered fells. The air grew colder and cleaner the further we drove, carrying that unmistakable mixture of pine, damp stone, and woodsmoke that always seems to hang over the Lakes in winter.

Keswick was exactly the kind of town you imagine when you think of a winter escape—colourful stone cottages, warm lights glowing through frosted windows, and the old Moot Hall standing proudly at the centre like a guardian of local history. Behind it all rose the dramatic outline of Skiddaw, its peak hidden under a cap of cloud. Our hotel overlooked Derwentwater, which, in the winter light, looked like a giant sheet of rippling silver.

The first morning, however, became the highlight of the entire trip—at least for everyone back at the office. I came down to the hotel breakfast room already dressed for work: crisp white shirt, dark tie, polished shoes. I was just looking around the room trying to spot my colleague when a woman at one of the tables waved me over with full confidence. Before I could say a word, she said politely, “I’ve moved to table ten instead of table eight. Could you serve me breakfast there, please?”

She genuinely thought I was one of the waiters.

I smiled awkwardly, explained that I was actually a guest, and we both had a little laugh about it. It should have ended there. But, foolishly, I told my colleague. By the time we returned to London, he had told every single person in the office. For weeks I kept hearing, “Solomon, could you get me a coffee please?” or “Excuse me sir, can I move to table ten?” I sometimes think I’d have been better off pretending I actually did work in the restaurant just to avoid the teasing.

Fortunately, Keswick offered plenty of distractions. That afternoon we decided to walk down to Friar’s Crag, the famous viewpoint on Derwentwater. What should have been a simple, gentle stroll turned into a minor adventure when the wind picked up. The path was icy and the lake was shrouded in mist, giving everything a mysterious, slightly eerie atmosphere. My colleague kept insisting he saw a rare red squirrel darting between the trees. I told him it was probably just a leaf blowing in the wind. We debated it for the rest of the walk and never fully agreed on what he had seen.

Later that evening, escaping the cold, we headed to the Dog & Gun—a pub everyone had recommended. As soon as we stepped inside, the warmth hit us like a welcome hug. The smell of their famous goulash drifted through the air, mingling with the scent of burning logs from the fireplace. Dogs lay comfortably under old wooden tables, and the whole place felt like it held a secret charm only Keswick locals really understood. We sat in a cosy corner, enjoyed good food and even better atmosphere, and spent most of that night talking to regulars who were more than happy to tell us the “real stories” of the Lake District.

The next day brought our second misadventure. After finishing meetings early, my colleague suggested taking a shortcut back to the hotel using what he confidently called “a known local path.” Within ten minutes we found ourselves wading through mud, sliding down a small hill, and trying to climb over a stubborn gate that seemed determined not to let us escape. A couple walking their dog looked at us with a mixture of pity and amusement as we stood there, muddy from the knees down, claiming we were “just testing alternative routes.” When we finally rejoined the main road, we laughed about it the entire way back, though my colleague still insists the gate was deliberately placed there to trap tourists.

On our final afternoon we explored Keswick’s little shops: outdoor gear stores, cafés with steaming windows, and small galleries selling paintings of the local fells. Everything felt peaceful, almost timeless. Despite the cold temperatures and the occasional chaos we managed to create for ourselves, I couldn’t help feeling that four days wasn’t long enough. The mix of rugged nature, warm pubs, friendly locals, and constant surprises made the trip unforgettable.

Looking back, what stands out isn’t just the meetings or the beautiful scenery, but the stories—the breakfast-room embarrassment, the windy walk, the muddy shortcut, and the cosy nights in the Dog & Gun. It was the kind of trip that reminds you how even a simple work assignment can turn into a small adventure when you’re in the right place, with the right company, at the right time of year.