On a crowded island like Britain, encountering absolute silence is rare. But one place where true tranquility can be guaranteed for the foreseeable future is in Cumbria’s north lakes, on the shores of Thirlmere.

Plans to stretch eight of the longest zip wire rides in the country across its icy waters, highlighted in the Observer, were abandoned last week to the unbridled delight of many locals. Zip wire advocates had argued the landscape should be opened up for everyone and not “preserved in aspic”. The Lakes, said opponents, should offer a place of escape and peace. The small-C conservatives won the day.

On Friday afternoon, close to Thirlmere’s south shore, a relieved Susi Wood, the valley’s 68-year-old lay minister, said the threat of “sound violence” had left locals absolutely horrified. Wood arrived in the Thirlmere valley four months ago from Teeside and said her new workplace epitomised the humble earthiness of its congregration. Her tiny church, perched close to the lake, has no electricity or heating. In the candlelight, with the wind howling off Wythburn Fell, you can almost touch the silence.

Wood has decided to host a celebration of mountains and their serene, silent majesty next month. Away from the thrum of the A591, the valley has long taken pride in being removed from the tourist hubs of Grasmere, Ambleside and Windermere. “Thirlmere is remarkably unspoilt, there [are not] many places left in the Lakes so quiet. The zip wire would have demolished it permanently,” she said .

At the lakeside Swirls car park, where the zip wire landing platform was to be sited, a scattering of walkers were busy preparing for their rambles. Retired couple June Slater, 70, and Stephen Jenkinson, 60, paused briefly to gaze across the black waters above which the zip wires would have swung.

“This place shouldn’t be turned into a glorified theme park,” said Slater. She claimed to have good reason to cherish the view. Born in London’s east end she had never witnessed first-hand the wild outdoors until she was nearly an adult. “I was 17 when I saw my first mountain, it was incredible.”

Tying his bootlaces close by was retired 60-year-old police officer, Nick Southern, who has made a monthly pilgrimage to the Lakes for the past 45 years. Gesticulating to the snow-streaked hump of Helvellyn towering above, Southern said that the Lake District’s world heritage status – granted only last year – had been awarded for obvious reasons. “I’ve been to the Alps, Himalayas, Andes and while I wouldn’t say they are as good as the Andes, they’re not bad.”

But some at Swirls were disappointed. Dave Hatter, 47, and his son Hayden, 13, had driven 190 miles from Redditch, West Midlands, and both were “gutted” the zip wire wouldn’t be happening.

“It would be another reason to come here. I know some people say it would take away from its beauty. But we would have loved it,” said Dave. Budding photographer Hayden, a hunky Nikon dangling from his neck, nodded enthusiastically.

Beside A BT van parked nearby, Chan Singh was taking selfies as a low sun burst from behind black clouds. The 32-year-old from Preston said the car park offered one of his favourite views but was ambivalent about the zip wire. “Personally, I can’t see what was wrong with it,” he grinned, before embarking on another round of selfies.

On the lower slopes of Helvellyn, England’s third highest mountain, data analyst Keith Bland was keen to point to a quirk of the Lakes. Sometimes walkers can hear the slightest noise in the valley hundreds of metres below. On still days, said Bland, you could even hear the laugh of people the size of dots sharing a joke. The 37-year-old shook his head: “Can you imagine being up here, hearing the screams of nutters flying across the lake?”

Bland headed up the mountain and soon the only noise was the rustle of dead bracken. A lonely white truck raced along the A591 below. Then the wind picked up, whipping up waves across the lake, and all sound of human activity was lost on the breeze.