Lake District Tweed's Dirty Future

John Atkinson and Maria Benjamin. Photo courtesy of Amy Bateman

Maria Benjamin has moved over 40 times in her life so far. However, for the foreseeable future, she intends to stay put.  Since 2015, Benjamin has lived with her partner, John Atkinson, on his family’s farm, Nibthwaite Grange. Located at the southern end of the Lake District in Coniston, England, the Atkinson family has farmed the land for 600 years.  As an American who often views things through a lens that rarely reaches back more than a few centuries, I can’t help but marvel at his family’s tenure. They have farmed through good and bad, and they have seen it all. That is until Benjamin showed up and things haven’t quite been the same ever since.

Benjamin arrived in the Lake District a happy “incomer,” an English term given to those who arrive in the countryside often fueled by their immutable urban ways and comforts. Frequently used somewhat derisively by locals who continue to fight long and hard for the rights of their flocks over the whims of the city folk, Benjamin quickly proved she was not that kind of “incomer.”

Benjamin spent 12 years in London, studying Fine Art and working in the film, and publishing industries. Exceptionally creative and a talented photographer, she also possesses a strong sense of community that has most recently culminated in the immensely successful collaboration, Lake District Tweed. Born out of her passion for the land and a desire to restore the importance of wool, Lake District Tweed is more than a collection of colorfully woven throws and blankets, each pattern tells the unique history of the district’s 13 valleys. 

It is almost a two-hour drive from my B&B in Borrowdale, the northern tip of the Lake District, down to Coniston at the southern tip. Thankfully, I am not behind the wheel. Pam Pollock, secretary of the Herdwick Breeders Association, has kindly offered to fetch me, leaving me free to swivel my head like a caffeinated Kewpie doll as I repeatedly gasp, “Look at all those sheep!” No matter how many times I travel by car or train through the British countryside, my cup runneth over with wool, which is rather the point of my being here. Yet it is always a welcome sight..

The sweet face of a Herdwick. (Photo: Linda N. Cortright)

Aside from the sheep, predominantly Herdwicks which have been hefted to this land for centuries, the Lake District has been a popular summer getaway destination since the 1700s. I feel rather duped to discover that in its more than 900 square miles of romantic pastures and stone walls erected to architectural perfection or drunken meandering, only one body of water officially has “lake” in its name—Bassenthwaite Lake, near Keswick in the north. The other 16 bodies (some say 17) are known as meres,  hows, or waters. I call them “lake wannabes.” But who would choose to holiday let alone buy a multi-million-dollar home in the Wannabe Lake District?

Eventually, we turn off the two-lane twisty road and begin driving down a one-lane road that is even twisty-er. The hedgerow is so dense on either side it obscures my view of the sheep. And with no more than a moment’s warning, a car can appear from the opposite direction leaving the two drivers to telepathically signal which one is going to pullover. The irrepressible British dictate for politeness (typically) extends to the roadway, and the matter is sorted without issue.  But it still requires vigilance, and I am grateful for Pollock’s expertise.

When we finally we pull into the farm’s driveway, I am itching to hop out and start photographing sheep. Instead, I am taken aback when I notice the sign hanging by the slate blue doors of the farm’s gift shop that reads “Soap Dairy.” 

Dairy?

Benjamin welcomes me into the shop with a ready smile and genuine warmth. I decline her offer for tea and biscuits; I want to get busy with wool, but now my focus has been diverted by the dairy sign.

Although previously involved in spearheading other agricultural collaborations, including a Food and Farming Film Festival Benjamin established a few years back while living along the coast in Dorset; her sustainable ethos took root when she moved to Nibthwaite Grange and decided to purchase Honeysuckle, a beguiling Jersey that would provide she and Atkinson with all their dairy needs. It was the first of many steps she planned to implement toward their growing dependence on the land, but Honeysuckle proved to be more than just a wee calcium additive for their tea and coffee. As Benjamin quickly admits, even if they poured milk on everything imaginable three times a day, there was still plenty left over so she reached out to everyone’s favorite DIY guide, YouTube, and taught herself how to make soap.

To the sudsy connoisseur, Jersey milk’s high-fat content makes for an extra rich, moisturizing soap. Most commercial soaps are made with palm oil, a common additive for creating a good lather. Palm oil is also used in many foods including cookies and crackers, and household staples such as toothpaste and laundry detergent. Its production comes at a huge environmental price. Vast swaths of rain forest are being destroyed throughout Malaysia and Indonesia to accommodate new palm oil plantations which in turn decimate critical habitat for orangutans, tigers, and rhinos. Understandably, Benjamin explains that none of her soap products use palm oil.

The Soap Dairy soon became so successful that Benjamin needed guidance beyond YouTube and enrolled in a commercial soap-making class. Almost ten years on, an entire wall in the gift shop is filled with various Honeysuckle-based products, artfully packaged with clever names such as “Gathering the Fell” and “Greenodd Fig Tree.”  I was stunned to learn that Honeysuckle generates more revenue as a “soap-maker” than a “dairy-maker.

A beautiful array of all things tweed

I am tempted to reach for my wallet and stash a few bars of Benjamin’s best in my backpack, but on this one occasion, work comes before cleanliness and I move over to the adjacent wall and begin pinching, squeezing, and rubbing the assortment of blankets, bags, and pillows. This is where Benjamin the incomer has morphed into the income-maker, not just personally, but for the more than 20 farmers in the Lake District who spent years selling their wool to the Wool Board for less than a pound per pound, and sometimes not even selling it but striking a match instead.

In collaboration with Sheila Phillips from the Lancs and Lakes Guild of Spinners, Weavers and Dyers for creative input, along with funding from FIPL (Farming in Protected Landscapes) the foundation of Lake District Tweed began to take shape. Benjamin wanted each of the Lake District’s 13 valleys to have its own tweed, reflective of the region’s history and landscape whether it’s an abundance of bluebells in the valley of Viking longhouses, each design has an intriguing backstory.

Wasdale Tweed, for example, is a pleasing combination of herringbone and bold rectangles based on the interior pattern of St. Olaf’s church roof in Wasdale Head. It is England’s smallest parish church and was established by Norse settlers around 950 A.D. According to legend, the roof beams came from Viking ships although they have yet to be carbon dated. (Sometimes, I think it’s best not to let science interfere with a good story.)

By contrast, the Windermere tweed is inspired by the colorful flotilla of cruise boats, sailboats, and kayaks that dominate Windermere’s lengthy shores. At 10.5 miles long, it is the largest lake in England and often choked with tourists and weekenders. However, the bright orange stripe that runs through the pattern is a happy nod to the orange beaks of the swans that manage to comingle with the crowds just fine. 

Although Herdwicks have ancient roots in the Lake District, a number of other breeds both rare and common are raised in the area. The Windermere tweed includes wool from Brow Top Farm, which in addition to the popular Swaledale, also raises Gritstones. Listed on the RBST (Rare Breed Survival Trust) watchlist, the Derbyshire Gritstone is one of the oldest British hill breeds and easily recognized by its black and white spotted face and matching black knee patches.

Alice Hayton and her prize-winning Gritstone. Photo courtesy of Alice Hayton

Typically, hill breeds produce coarse wool and are prized for their meat. Gritstones can be ready for market in just 68 days, but they also possess a magnificent white fleece that is crimpy, free of kemp, and 31-33 microns. Considered a bit coarse for some knitwear, it is finer than the 36+ micron used in carpets.

No story about the Lake District is complete without a reference to Beatrix Potter and her beloved Herdwicks. When Potter died in 1943, she left 14 farms and 4,000 acres to the National Trust with the provision that Herdwicks would continue to be grazed on the land. However, Hill Top, the small garden cottage and inspiration for many of her stories was to be preserved exactly as is and be open to visitors. But Potter is not the only English writer of note to call the Lake District home.

Grasmere tweed

William Wordsworth also lived in the Lake District and is credited (or blamed) in part for its popularity with the publication of “Guide through the District of the Lakes,” published in 1820. It is believed that book more than any other sparked the beginnings of mass tourism to the area. Grasmere tweed is inspired by the lead lattice windows and creeping foliage in Wordworth’s home, Dove Cottage, which he shared with his sister Dorothy.

If Wordsworth and Potter led the Lake District’s literary scene through the 19th and 20th centuries respectively, it is fair to say that James Rebanks, author of “The Shepherd’s Life, A Tale of the Lake District” published in 2015, is leading the way into the 21st century.  Ullswater tweed, a luscious blend of soft greens and yellows, is inspired by the abundance of meadow flowers planted by Racy Ghyll farm (owned by Rebanks and his wife Helen) as part of their regenerative grazing system. Rebanks raises Herdwicks as did his father, and grandfather, before him. 

Coniston tweed

In Benjamin’s backyard, the Coniston tweed is based on the valley’s strong industrial roots. The soft browns and creamy orange represent the old copper mines and wooden shafts, that were once the hallmark of the area. Unlike many of the other tweeds that use one or two breeds, the Coniston tweed seems to have a little bit of everything including Bluefaced Leicester,  which are raised by Benjamin. Plus, the Cheviot that Atkinson now raises after his Herdwick flock was destroyed by Foot and Mouth. They also use North Country Mule, raised by renowned shearer Phil Mulcaster, and some Texel crosses from the Crakeside farm, just up the road from Nibthwaite Grange. It is a joy to see so many different breeds being utilized in a single product, and it is equally a joy for Benjamin to mix and match within her own flock as well.

Shearer Phil Mulcaster, Photo courtesy of Phil Mulcaster

And then there’s the Wool Library; an extraordinary collaboration between Benjamin, Atkinson, and Zoe Fletcher who has a background in knitwear design and a PhD focusing on British sheep breed characteristics as they pertain to the fashion industry. Fletcher’s goal is to highlight the benefits of mindful fashion using traceable wool from regenerative farmers. Just as Lake District Tweed brings a regionally-based wooly identity, the Wool Library focuses on a similar breed-based concept for fashion.

Benjamin’s latest triumph—not that she needed another— is the first wool festival in Bradford, historically the British epicenter of processing for domestic and foreign wool. Bradford came to the fore during the Industrial Revolution when it specialized in worsted cloth and continues to this day. As a rabid proponent for all things wool past and present, Benjamin decided that it’s only fitting Bradford’s roots should be celebrated accordingly.

It has been more than two hours since I arrived at the farm (just aching to go see some sheep) and it feels like no more than a few minutes have passed; Benjamin’s passion is quietly intoxicating. Her list of accomplishments isn’t half as long as her plans for the future. Lake District Tweed has been more than an economic boost for the farmers, it provides a tangible source of pride and proof of their life’s work and diversification from being solely reliant on the income from meat and breed sales. But the true meaning of sustainability lies in the soil.

Both Atkinson and Benjamin are leading proponents of regenerative farming—a broad-reaching term open to a variety of interpretations. Simply put, regenerative farming is about keeping the soil and all that lives in and depends on it in healthy balance without use of chemicals and herbicides. Whether the focus is on increasing the number and variety of trees, birds, and butterflies, or if it’s putting the bend back in rivers to create a more diverse habitat.  There is a massive effort (often with financial incentives) to manipulate the land

Benjamin's lambs for the future. (Photo: Linda N. Cortright)

The question before farmers throughout the Lake District and beyond, is to what degree these various changes actually achieve the desired results? With 600 years of farming in his DNA, Atkinson isn’t sold on the idea that replacing sheep with trees is necessarily best way to regenerate the land. And with Benjamin the incomer, forever exploring ways to breathe life back into the world of wool, it will be exciting to see their collective vision reshape the future of farming in England’s most iconic pastures.

For more information, please visit https://lakedistricttweed.com/