CHAPTER IV.Thirlmere, Derwentwater and Bassenthwaite.

Grasmere ChurchOn the banks of the River Rothay.

Grasmere Church

On the banks of the River Rothay.

across the lake from Loughrigg Tarn and planted here under Wordsworth’s own directions. Hartley Coleridge, the genial-hearted and brilliant son of the author of “The Ancient Mariner,” is buried a few yards away under the more elaborate headstone with a circular top.

The picturesque hamlet itself contains little of interest beyond perhaps the fact that the palatial but comfortable Rothay Hotel was originally built by the late Lord Cadogan, and was his home for many years. After the church, no doubt Dove Cottage claims attention. It was here that Wordsworth lived from 1799 to 1808, and to it he brought his bride, Mary Hutchinson, in 1802. De Quincey also occupied it for many years after Wordsworth left it; indeed it may safely be said that no other cottage has been visited by so many brilliant literary and artistic people of bygone times. The names of Sir Walter Scott, the Coleridges, Southey, Charles Lamb, Humphrey Davy, Charles Lloyd, Ruskin, Christopher North, Matthew Arnold and many others rise unbidden to the mind as one stands at the back door and gazes upwards to the summer house above the little rock-garden which Wordsworth designed, aided by his gentle sister Dorothy. This little natural rock-garden has been immortalized in the following farewell lines, written when the poet was leaving it for an absence of two months—his honeymoon:—

“Farewell, thou little nook of mountain ground,Thou rocky corner in the lowest stairOf that magnificent temple which doth boundOne side of our whole vale with grandeur rare.Sweet garden-orchard, eminently fair,The loveliest spot that man hath ever found,Farewell! we leave thee to Heaven’s peaceful care,Thee and the cottage which thou dost surround.”

Dove Cottage has now been purchased by a number of Wordsworth’s admirers and is preserved as a permanent memorial. The quaint rooms contain many priceless relics of the Lakes Poets; much of the furnitureis as Wordsworth and his sister used it and, to a person with even the most superficial knowledge of their writings, a visit must prove of absorbing interest.

Dove Cottage is situated just off the main road, a few yards from the Prince of Wales Hotel, the name of which reminds one that Royalty has visited Grasmere. As quite a boy, our late King Edward VII. stayed at this magnificent and beautifully-situated hotel, and during his stay was rowed across to the Island. He wandered away from his attendants and happened upon some sheep grazing. Boylike, he collared one of them and treated himself to a ride, whereupon the old woman tending the sheep appeared round a corner, quickly collared His Royal Highness and gave him what she considered he richly deserved. Just then the attendants hove in sight and rescued the prince, explaining to the old woman the enormity of such an offence as thrashing the future King of England. With true rustic independence, she attached little importance to the exalted rank of her annoyer, and exclaimed, “King or nea King, he’s a badly browt up brat an’ if ah hed his mudder here ah’d tell her t’ seam!” Such is the incident as I had it the other day from one who knew well the old woman herself.

If we keep along past Dove Cottage and climb the hill between it and Rydal Water, we soon come to a gate in the wall on our right. This is Wordsworth’s “Wishing Gate” and from it Grasmere and Silverhow look their best. We must not linger here, however, but keep along the road until Rydal Water lies at our feet, with Nab Scar sweeping down to it on the left. This is the smallest of the lakes and at the same time one of the prettiest. “We admire great things, but love small ones”: this is one of the latter. Whether seen through the trees from the main road near Wordsworth’s Rock, or from its margin, the reedy foreshore and pretty islands, with gentle background of hills, give Rydal a place apart in Lakeland’s scheme of beauty. On the road

Rydal WaterAnd Nab Scar, with Nab Cottage, Coleridge’s home, across the lake.

Rydal Water

And Nab Scar, with Nab Cottage, Coleridge’s home, across the lake.

side near the Grasmere end of the lake is Nab Cottage, for many years the home of Hartley Coleridge—“Lile Hartley” of genial memory, loved by the dales-folk, a rare hand at a tale, and a “poet every inch o’ im,” as one of his local contemporaries voiced it to me the other day.

A couple of hundred yards further along on the road is a natural pedestal of rock with rough hewn steps leading to its top. This is supposed to have been used by Wordsworth as a view point and seat where he wrote many of his poems. What with the dust of motors and the hooting of their horns, and the rattling of char-a-bancs, one cannot help feeling that the poetry to-day would resolve itself into “a curse and a hasty descent.” However this may be, the hundred yards of main road on either side of the rock must surely be the most beautiful in all England to-day, and motorists and coaching-folk have as much right upon it, and perhaps enjoy it as much, as some of those who are so “down” on the wheeled traffic in Lakeland. The little village of Rydal, with its church, beech trees and old houses, leads us thence to Pelter Bridge and the walk through the beautiful park of Rothay.

THE main road running North from Grasmere to Thirlmere, over Dunmail Raise, rises to a height of eight hundred and fifty feet. On a hot summer’s day it is a long sultry grind, whether one be walking or driving in a char-a-banc, for the two things are much the same here. About half-a-mile out of Grasmere the coachman pulls up his horses and intimates that if any of the gentlemen would like to walk, the horses would not object. This procedure led a humorous American gentleman, who had paid the usual fare from Windermere to Keswick, to exclaim when he reached the top “Wa’al, I guess I never walked so far for 7/6 in all my life before”!

But this walk up Dunmail Raise is a blessing in disguise, for the pedestrian has thus more opportunity of studying the country-side and particularly of drinking in the lovely retrospect to “Grasmere’s peaceful vale.” He will have time also to stop near the foot of the last steep bit and see the Lion and the Lamb on top of Helm Crag, mentioned in Wordsworth’s verse. The curious rocks up there bear a striking resemblance to these animals, but if your driver should ask if you saw the Lion and two Lambs, be very wary, for when you say “No” he will chuckle, crack his whip and exclaim “No? and no wonder for t’ other lamb’s inside of t’ lion”! At the top of the Raise, marked by the huge pile of stones over King Dunmail’s grave, we pass from Westmoreland into Cumberland and get our first glimpse of Thirlmere. A long easy gradient takes us merrily downward until we see the full length of the lake and realize once more what a wonderful country we

Thirlmere and HelvellynFrom the “new road” on the western side of the Lake.

Thirlmere and Helvellyn

From the “new road” on the western side of the Lake.

are in. The change in the character of the prospect is most striking; the sylvan scenery of Grasmere and Rydal is replaced by a loneliness and sombre beauty that might belong to another part of the world. And still we are less than four miles from Grasmere! The bare flank of Helvellyn on our right and the stony slopes of Steel Fell opposite have a charm of their own, as also have the interspersed rock and wood of Fisher and Raven Crags ahead, with the cone of Skiddaw peeping over them to the North.

Ere long we pass the end of a road leading off to the left. This trends along the western side of Thirlmere and was built by the Manchester people after they decided to use the lake as their reservoir. It was feared that the necessary damming and flooding of the mere, together with other engineering work, would mar its beauty, and for a short time ugly scars were certainly left. But the hand of time has now almost hidden these, and the “new road” on the western side of the lake is an ample recompense for any temporary spoliation. Moreover, it has opened up some beautiful scenery. Now-a-days, the tourist can gaze across at Helvellyn and obtain an adequate idea of its beautiful curves and outline—an impossibility from the “old road,” for it runs along the mountain’s breast too closely.

At the south end of Thirlmere we come upon the little township of Wythburn—a few houses and farmsteads, tended by one of the many “smallest churches in England.” It is locally know as “the Cathedral.” Our coach stops by the church-yard wall and we, at least some of us, stroll inside the sacred edifice. Others stroll inside an edifice of a different kind which is on the opposite side of the road! We are of the church party, however, and are well repaid by following the “narrow path.” Not because of the appointments of the church itself, although they are seemly enough, but because of the topical verses by various poets which are framed at the entrance. They savour somewhat of apoet’s competition, from which perhaps Hartley Coleridge emerges at the top with the following terse, but beautifully human, description of the church itself:—

“Humble it is and meek and very low,And speaks its purpose with a single bell;But God Himself, and He alone, doth knowIf spiry temples please him half so well.”

The main road continues towards Keswick level and straight for some distance. The view across the lake is almost unchanged until we top Park Brow and gaze down the beautiful Vale of St. John, with the carven front of Blencathra hemming it in at the far end. The jutting crag on its right is the famous Castle Rock, the scene of Sir Walter Scott’s “Bridal of Triermain.” He describes a knight approaching it at twilight and “reining in his steed,” alarmed because he saw “airy turrets and a mighty keep and tower” in front. The resemblance to a castle is difficult to trace; perhaps Sir Walter’s knight had called at the Inn at Threlkeld before he set out!

We do not go down St. John’s Vale, but leave it on our right and traverse the parallel Vale of Naddle. This debouches upon the Greta Valley lower down, but our road climbs the steep hill to the moor, and soon overlooks the fertile plain of Keswick. Bassenthwaite Lake is in the far distance, with the majestic mass of Skiddaw guarding it on the north. Whatever disappointments the Derwentwater scenery may have in store for us (and I do not think it will have any) the first glimpse we obtain of it to the west, with the lovely outlines of Causey and Grisedale Pikes beyond, will be voted but little short of perfection. This approach to Keswick is one of the “tit-bits” of Lakeland and I know many people who have gone home cherishing this as the most memorable view they have seen.

The market town of Keswick, situated on the south bank of the

Keswick and DerwentwaterViewed from Latrigg, looking south to Borrowdale and Scawfell.

Keswick and Derwentwater

Viewed from Latrigg, looking south to Borrowdale and Scawfell.

Derwentwater from Friars’ Crag“A rift in the Clouds.”

Derwentwater from Friars’ Crag

“A rift in the Clouds.”

river Greta, has often been called the metropolis of the Lake District. It is certainly the largest town in Lakeland, but as there are much larger elsewhere and because visitors do not come here for the sake of the towns, we can dismiss it in a few words. It should be said that as a centre for the tourist it has no rival in the North of Lakeland. It possesses ideal accommodation for visitors, from the magnificent and first-class Keswick Hotel, beautifully situated on the banks of the Greta, to the homely temperance hotel and comfortable private apartments. Char-a-bancs leave Keswick daily by the dozen during the summer for all parts, and, although it is then a busy place, the rowdy tripper element is lacking. Its staple industry is that of lead-pencil making, but the days are gone when the famous Borrowdale plumbago was found and worked locally, and the pencil industry now employs but few hands. Keswick is better known as thevenueof the parent convention. From it have sprung all the other religious conventions at home and abroad and during the end of July people congregate here from all parts of the world. The little town is filled to its utmost capacity and at this time it is a place to be avoided by all but conventioners.

Whilst by no means ugly in itself, Keswick is not remarkable for beauty. What it lacks in this way, however, is more than atoned for by its surroundings. A mile to the north of it is the impressive Skiddaw and Blencathra group, a perfect blaze of colour when the heather blooms or when the dying bracken catches the sunlight and splashes their breasts with molten gold. “A great camp of single mountains, each in shape resembling a giant’s tent” bounds it on the west and south, with Derwentwater and Bassenthwaite nestling snugly at their base. Out to the eastward is the fertile valley of the Greta with the spur of Helvellyn overlooking it—truly a galaxy of interest and beauty of which Keswickians may be passing proud.

But Derwentwater itself, and its wonderful setting, will rightlyclaim our first attention. An imposing sheet of water roughly oval in shape and about three miles long by a mile across, with shores indented and cut up into dozens of secluded creeks; a surface dotted with richly wooded islands, possessing the charm of personal and historic associations; the whole surrounded by an amphitheatre of mountains “rocky but not vast, broken into many fantastic shapes, peaked and splintered” and with narrow valleys opening up between them; reflecting faithfully stern precipice, velvet-like meadow, foliage-draped hillside, with here and there a white farmstead showing through, and mountain ghylls that “pour forth streams more sweet than Castaly”—such is Derwentwater.

Ruskin, in his “Modern Painters,” has said in effect that this lake as seen from Friar’s Crag affords one of the three finest prospects in the whole world. And as we stand on the fir-grown rocky promontory, but five minutes’ walk from Keswick, on a still summer morning and gaze up between the islands to the “Jaws of Borrowdale” and the Scawfell mountains shimmering in the blue haze; or upon a sullen day in March when the fell-tops are obscured by clouds and the sun sends long streamers of light through the rifts to the disturbed surface of the water; or when a southerly gale sweeps down from Lodore, staggering the Scotch firs, dashing the breakers against the crag and recoiling in spindrift and foam—under whatever conditions this view is regarded it will be generally conceded that Ruskin was justified in his opinion. The island quite close at hand on the left is Lord’s Island, once the home of the Earls of Derwentwater. The precipice above it is Walla Crag and it was up a steep rift in its face—the one marked by the white stone near its top—that Lady Derwentwater fled with the family jewels. Her lord was lying under sentence of death in London for espousing the cause of the Pretender, and this desperate, but, alas, unavailing climb was undertaken with the object of journeying to ransom his life.

Friar’s Crag, DerwentwaterWith Walla Crag and Lord’s Island.

Friar’s Crag, Derwentwater

With Walla Crag and Lord’s Island.

The Head of DerwentwaterFrom Castle Hill, a quarter of an hour’s walk from Keswick. Borrowdale and Scawfell Pike are well seen in the middle background; the islands from left to right, are Rampsholme, Lord’s Isle, and St. Herbert’s Island.

The Head of Derwentwater

From Castle Hill, a quarter of an hour’s walk from Keswick. Borrowdale and Scawfell Pike are well seen in the middle background; the islands from left to right, are Rampsholme, Lord’s Isle, and St. Herbert’s Island.

That was in 1715. A thousand years before, the large island far up the lake was the home of Saint Herbert, thefidus Achatesof the venerable Saint Cuthbert who often visited him here. So great was their mutual love and esteem that they expressed a desire that both should die at the same time “so that their souls might wing their flight to Heaven in company.” And although on Saint Herbert’s Island,

“The hermit numbered his last dayFar from Saint Cuthbert, his beloved friend,These holy men both died in the same hour.”

The splash of white in the gorge to the left of the island is the Fall of Lodore, rendered famous by Southey, the Keswick poet laureate. But a detailed description of Friar’s Crag and its surroundings is beyond the scope of this book, as well as of the writer’s ability, so perhaps we had better pass on to fresh scenes.

The best general view of Derwentwater is to be obtained from the eminence Castle Head, and indeed, for the amount of effort entailed, this is perhaps the best view in all Lakeland. From the actual top, the whole of the lake with its beautiful islands is visible. It occupies the place of honour in the foreground and is surrounded by mountains of almost every shape and variety. The craggy group at the head of Borrowdale—Scawfell and its satellites—the long grassy sweep of Maiden Moor, Catbells, and, round to the right, the double hump of Causey Pike rising above Barrow and Swinside, with Grisedale Pike beyond; and thence away to pointed Skiddaw, Blencathra and the Dodds of Helvellyn, present a diversity of form and colour that it would be difficult to surpass. Gilpin (no relation, by the way, to John of that ilk) described the lake as “Beauty lying in the lap of Horror.” That was in the eighteenth century. Just the other day an old Keswick woman expressed the opinion that “there’s nowt to mak’ sec’ a fuss about, for efter aw its nobbut a mix up of t’ fells, wood and watter.” Our attitude towards the mountains has undoubtedlychanged in the last two hundred years and familiarity has, in some cases, bred contempt. If the tourist has not yet attained to the latter stage, he ought not to leave the district until he has seen Derwentwater from Castle Head.

The Druid’s Circle, on the hill about two miles above Keswick, is well worth a visit. However mistaken these ancients may have been in their ideas of worship, there can be no gainsaying the fact that they knew what they were about when they chose the site of their Temple. How much better and more inspiring this rude circle of stones high up on the mountain, surrounded by the everlasting hills and purified by all the winds of Heaven, than the often stuffy edifices of latter-day worshippers! However, to those whose tastes lie in the direction of more modern sanctuaries, Crosthwaite Church cannot but appeal. It is somewhat singular that its strongest charms should be those of antiquity and situation. Its square weather-beaten tower, sheltered by the mighty Skiddaw, is in wonderful harmony with its surroundings. As regards its antiquity, there is evidence that a church occupied the present site before the Conquest, but it has been restored more than once since then. It was given by Richard Coeur-de-Lion to the care of Fountains Abbey, in 1198—quite a respectable time ago. The recumbent marble memorial of the poet Southey, momentoes of the Derwentwater family, and the old fourteenth-century font are amongst the chief objects of interest inside the church, while in the church-yard is a horizontal slate tomb marking the poet’s last resting-place.

Bassenthwaite Lake lies to the north-west of Derwentwater and is only separated from it by low-lying alluvial ground which, after heavy rain, is sometimes flooded to such an extent that the two lakes are joined. The drive around Bassenthwaite occupies half a day and is well worth taking, if only to obtain a proper idea of Skiddaw. Seen from the west side of the lake the mountain is most shapely and amazingly

Derwentwater, looking NorthOn the right is Skiddaw (3054 feet), with Keswick at its foot, whilst in the distance is seen Bassenthwaite Lake.

Derwentwater, looking North

On the right is Skiddaw (3054 feet), with Keswick at its foot, whilst in the distance is seen Bassenthwaite Lake.

rich in colour, but perhaps is more imposing when “shrouding his double front among Atlantic clouds”—a not unusual occurrence. The ride along the margin of the lake through Wythop Woods, over Ouse Bridge and back across the breast of Skiddaw, is one of singular beauty. The prospect from Applethwaite Terrace on the return journey was one of which Southey ever spoke with delight; it was his favourite view and indeed when seen at sunset, with Grisedale Pike outlined against a golden sky, and the intervening level spaces suffused with a rich afterglow, it is one that will survive in the memory after others are forgotten.

THE Buttermere Round (as the famous drive through Borrowdale, over Honister Pass to Buttermere, and back by the Vale of Newlands, is called) will always be an out-standing feature of a Lakeland holiday. The rapid changes in the character of the scenery are so dramatic, the various types of beauty seen are all so distinctive and so perfect in their own way, and the drive itself is so full of incident, not to say excitement, that this could not well be otherwise.

Our char-a-banc leaves Keswick at ten o’clock, upon any morning throughout the summer, and follows the road past Castle Head and along the eastern margin of Derwentwater. Ravishing glimpses of the lake and opposing mountains are caught through the foliage of Great Wood, as we drive along under an avenue of oak and fir trees. High up on our left is the forbidding escarpment of Walla Crag, reminiscent of Lady Derwentwater’s wild escapade; this rises sheer over us until we emerge from the forest and see the face of Falcon Crag towering perpendicularly in front. It is one of the many features of our drive that we get a glimpse for a few seconds and then we lose it, to be introduced almost immediately to a scene of an entirely different character. The lake again arrests our attention and displays all its beauties for a full mile until the roar of Lodore Falls is heard in the narrow gorge in front.

Perhaps the glowing description by Southey and the glimpses ofwhite we catch through the trees will leave us with a better impression of the falls than if we alighted and came to close quarters. Truth to tell, they will be found disappointing in normally dry weather. The American gentleman who searched for an hour up and down the gorge, and at last sat down in despair, merits our sympathy. For it was unkind of a local worthy to reply, in answer to a query as to the whereabouts of the waterfall, “Why, man, ye’re sittin’ on it”!

A mile further along we enter the “Jaws of Borrowdale,” not such a fearsome proceeding as it sounds. The “Jaws” are formed by the mountains, Maiden Moor and Brund Fell—the retaining walls of the rapidly narrowing valley. Rising from its side is the “Tooth of Borrowdale,” Castle Crag, a rocky pyramid commanding the approaches of the valley in all directions. For this reason it was occupied by the Romans as a military station. It forms a fitting background to the little village of Grange, with its picturesque, double-span bridge (over the river Derwent) which we soon pass on our right. At the far side of the bridge is unmistakable evidence of the long past Glacial Period. A large rounded slab of rock is here exposed and on its surface are to be plainly seen the scratches and long indentations made by the glacier as it slowly ground its huge mass westward towards the sea. It must have been about this period—or, at all events, very long ago, for the incident lacks confirmation—that the folk of Borrowdale built their famous wall. It is on record that the natives thought that if they could keep the cuckoo always with them, they would have eternal summer. So, early one spring they began to build a wall across the valley, just beyond Grange, but in the autumn the unappreciative migrant flew over the top of it and the good people of Borrowdale gave up their project in disgust.

After climbing a gentle gradient and rounding the corner past a slate quarry, we come upon the most lovely bit of valley scenery inEngland. Such at least is my humble opinion. The defile is here so narrow that there is only space for the road and the river running alongside it. Silver birches overhang our heads. Larch, oak and fir clothe the hills low down, while, above the belt of foliage, heather and bracken, the stony fellside is dominated by gaunt, grey crags, around which the ravens circle. At our feet flows the Derwent; its bed is of green slate peculiar to the neighbourhood. This has the effect of imparting to the water a brilliant emerald tinge, the splash of vivid colouring that is the key-note of the whole beautiful combination. The huge isolated rock, up on the small plateau ahead, is the famous Bowder Stone, claimed to be the largest detached boulder in England. More remarkable than its size, however, is the small space upon which it rests. So narrow is this that directly under the greatest bulk of the stone two persons, one on each side, may shake hands, and we are told that whatever they wish for at the time they are sure to get. Perhaps, this is why one so often observes a man at one side and a lady of similar age at the other!

Lack of space renders it impossible to dwell in detail upon this wonderful valley. The green, hill-girt pastures of Rosthwaite; picturesque Langstrath, guarded by the square shoulder of Eagle Crag, leading over Stake Pass into Langdale; the wild valley of Seathwaite, famous for its old plumbago mines and enclosed by the grandest and highest fells in Lakeland, and the moss-covered, old-world farmsteads and overhanging eaves of Seatoller, must be dismissed with bare mention. The steep grind up Honister Hause above Seatoller has compensation for us in the lovely woodland glen below it, with Horse Ghyll singing lustily out of the depths. Another twenty minutes finds us, after having traversed a stretch of moorland worthy of the Scottish Highlands, on the top of Honister Pass, gazing at one of the grandest cliffs in Lakeland. Honister Crag presents its almost perpendicular sweeping outline in

The Bowder StoneAnd the Valley of Borrowdale.

The Bowder Stone

And the Valley of Borrowdale.

Buttermere and Crummock WaterFrom the top of Honister Crag, showing Loweswater in the distance.

Buttermere and Crummock Water

From the top of Honister Crag, showing Loweswater in the distance.

front of us; but one’s admiration is divided between this and the startling scheme of the fell-side colouring—great tracts of dark grey interspersed with streamers of brilliant emerald and white. This is the same beautiful colouring as we noticed in the Derwent below Bowder Stone, but whereas the latter is caused by the gently flowing stream, Honister Crag owes its vivid tints to the refuse thrown from the slate quarries near its summit ridge. Which makes enthusiasm somewhat difficult!

The iron skid is attached and our char-a-banc ploughs its way down the pass a few hundred yards, until suddenly the road in front of us seems to go almost perpendicularly over. Soon we are on the brink. The view downward, with the stream away below us in front and an unguarded precipice on our left, strikes terror into the hearts of nervous lady passengers; many of them prefer to alight and walk down this bit. Many of the gentlemen too, with lordly unconcern, express a desire to “stretch their legs” and they also get out and walk! The danger is only fancied, however, for thousands of char-a-bancs and other conveyances come over here every season and no accident, nor anything approaching an accident, has occurred—surely a tribute alike to the care and skill of the drivers, the excellence of their horses and the vigilance of the hotel proprietors, who see that all wheels, harness and other trappings are of the very best, and in perfect order. Thence the pass runs along the valley bottom, with Honister towering above on the one hand and the almost equally bare declivities of Yew Crag on the other—the wildest bit of coach road in the district—until, after passing through a gateway we come quite suddenly upon the gem of the “round,” Buttermere Lake itself. A small sheet of water as regards size, it is nevertheless very imposing. Set deep amongst mountains descending almost sheer into the lake and traversed by gloomy ghylls and water slides, bare of foliage except for a few localized larch and oak trees,which seem to emphasise its quality of sombreness, Buttermere cannot fail to secure a lasting place amongst our memories of Lakeland. From the grand square shoulder of Honister Crag, now seen “end on,” with Great Gable peeping over its flank, followed by High Crags, the massive wedge of High Stile and the cone of Red Pike, to the distant form of Melbreak beyond Crummock Water, the mountain grouping leaves nothing to be desired—not even height or vastness; indeed, these qualities are quite features of Buttermere. Yet the lake is only a little over a mile long and the mountains less than three thousand feet above sea-level! Truly, form, proportion and atmosphere are wonderful deceivers.

The little village of Buttermere, with its hotels, church and farmsteads, lies ten minutes drive along, between the lake and Crummock Water. Here we “outspan,” lunch and then walk down through the pastures to our boat waiting to take us across the lake to Scale Force. Although this row over the lake does not form the best introduction to Crummock Water, it brings us into contact with its most typical and charming view-point. Our boat grounds a few yards away from Ling Crag, at the base of which is a veritable “silver strand” of white shingle. This forms a beautiful foreground to the still lake and massive mountain forms beyond. The black shadow of Rannerdale Knott, silhouetted against the more distant breast of the double-topped Whiteless Pike, inspires us, not with awesomeness or gloom, but with the less repulsive, indeed, often welcome, sense of solitude. The great bulk of mountain facing us as we land is Melbreak and we skirt the end of this for nearly a mile until the roar of Scale Force can be heard in a ravine to our left. This is the highest of the Lakeland waterfalls. Perhaps also it is the best worth seeing. The water comes down sheer in a single leap from a height of over a hundred feet, and is nicely set in a rocky frame, draped with mosses, ferns and undergrowth. It is worth

Crummock Water, and Whiteless Pike“Solitude.”

Crummock Water, and Whiteless Pike

“Solitude.”

while to climb to the bank near the head of the cascade. As we lie stretched on the grassy hummocks, we overlook a magnificent view of the lake and mountains, with Honister Crag and Buttermere away at the head of the valley. This is an ideal spot, but the exigencies of the drive back to Keswick prevent over-indulgence and before long we must rejoin our char-a-banc at Buttermere.

The story of Mary of Buttermere and the specious scoundrel who married, and then deserted her, will be recalled—a sordid tale of imposture and only worthy of mention because of its unusual setting. One does not associate this kind of thing with the mountains. More interesting and amusing was this man’s career in Keswick, where, as the Honourable Augustus Hope, he hobnobbed with the “gentry” and fooled and fleeced them to a fine tune. More in keeping with Buttermere is the incident of the parson who refused to consummate the marriage service of a brother clerical, his reason being that a herdwick sheep stood in the doorway when the banns were called, and cried “Baa” very loudly. This, to the parson, sounded like an objection and “just cause” why the marriage should be stopped!

There are other tales told of Buttermere, but our coach is now ready and before long we swing off the main road by the little church and breast the steep pull up the fellside to Buttermere Hause. The more energetic members of the party are mutely requested to walk by the sight of the straining backs of the horses. If this is ineffectual, as I have sometimes known it to be, the driver explains the seductive delights afforded by a contemplation of the bracken and heather slopes of Sail and Eel Crags when seen “pied à terre”. Whatever the inducement, the upshot is a steep walk of about a mile until the hause, or top of the pass, is attained. A fine waterfall in the breast of Robinson—Robinson being the unromantic name of the mountain across the valley—diverts our attention fromthe moor intervening between us and the Vale of Newlands, with distant Blencathra beyond. A “nervy” hill, surfaced with shale in which the wheel-skids grip finely, leads us down into the valley bottom and thence follows a long stretch of moorland—a fitting preparation for the pretty wooded scenery more in evidence as we near our journey’s end. We bowl merrily along, happy in meditating on the beauties through which we have passed, when suddenly we become aware that the roadway has vanished. There is no time to protest before we find ourselves overlooking a steep brow and bating our breath as the coach tilts at an alarming angle. This is the famous “Devil’s Elbow,” an awe-inspiring hill, the descent of which is rather like a tooth extraction—pleasant enough in retrospect. The proceeding is a perfectly safe one, however, and before long we find ourselves in the heart of Newlands Vale, whence three miles of excellent going takes us through the village of Portinscale, past Crosthwaite Church to Keswick and our quarters.

“The Devil’s Elbow”Showing the coaches returning from Buttermere to Keswick, on the “Buttermere round.”

“The Devil’s Elbow”

Showing the coaches returning from Buttermere to Keswick, on the “Buttermere round.”

The Head of UllswaterAs seen from Place Fell, and looking across to Stybarrow Crag and Helvellyn, with the village and vale of Glenridding.

The Head of Ullswater

As seen from Place Fell, and looking across to Stybarrow Crag and Helvellyn, with the village and vale of Glenridding.

ULLSWATER is at once the finest and the tamest of all the lakes. This seeming paradox is explained when one realizes that it is formed of three distinct reaches, all of which are hidden from the others. The lowest reach stretches out in a thin wedge of water to the confines of the mountains at Pooley Bridge; the higher fells are away at the other end. In its length of nine miles the lake stretches further and further into the recesses of the hills, until, at its head or upper reach, it nestles amongst the most beautiful and impressive combination of mountains and woods in Lakeland. The middle reach also, has a beauty of its own, a mixture of the sublime and the ordinary. Its chief charm lies in its loneliness, evidence of human habitation being almost entirely lacking.

As we sail up from the foot of the lake there is ever present the feeling that we are working up to a climax, and this is attained when the top reach bursts on our view in a way that is quite dramatic and which exceeds our most sanguine expectations. The richly wooded slopes on our right descend to the water’s edge, whilst above they merge into the craggy fellsides, in many places overgrown by purple heather and golden bracken, with sombre Scotch firs interspersed in lavish style. Beyond this front array stretches the long, lean flank of Helvellyn, glimpses of which are caught away at the heads of all the side valleys. In front of us the fine sweep of St. Sunday’s Crag, one of the most perfectoutlines in the district, forms a centre-piece. Its beautiful curve sweeps gracefully down towards the Grisedale Valley, like a high-born lady acknowledging the existence of a humbler presence. Further round still is the deep valley of Kirkstone, bounded on the left again by the High Street range and its dependencies. Place Fell—variegated with masses of dark gorse and crag, but almost devoid of trees—fills in the scene on the left, an excellent foil to the luxuriance which is the dominant note of the opposite shore.

Ullswater is more reminiscent of the lakes of Switzerland or Scotland than any of the others, and no doubt those visitors who award the palm of beauty to it have previously formed their ideals in these two districts. Perhaps these are the people whose opinion is the soundest and most discriminating; however this may be, Ullswater certainly disputes the sovereignty of beauty with Windermere and Derwentwater.

After the sail up the lake on one of the comfortable steam yachts which run continuously throughout the season, the best idea of Ullswater is to be obtained by walking from Howtown Bay to Patterdale, along the western margin of the water. A rough, unobtrusive path leads us past the flank of Hallin Fell, whence the full sweep of the lowest reach is in full view with the rounded form of Dunmallet, an old Roman fort, away in the distance. After ten minutes stroll through knee-deep bracken, with its fragrant scent in our nostrils and the song of birds in our ears, we reach the tree-covered rocky point known as Kailpot Crag. This gets its name from a curious water-wrought rock basin, near the water’s edge, known as the “Devil’s Kailpot,” which is about a foot deep and eighteen inches across. There is a common local tradition that it brings luck to those who drop money into it. And this proceeding does undoubtedly bring luck—to the knowing ones who collect the coppers after the credulous tourist has taken his departure!

UllswaterFrom Silver Point, showing the head of the lake and St. Sunday’s Crag, with Helvellyn to the right.

Ullswater

From Silver Point, showing the head of the lake and St. Sunday’s Crag, with Helvellyn to the right.

Across the lake from here are the Mell Fells, and a short distance farther up, also on the opposite side, Gowbarrow Park, recently purchased by the National Trust. This is now open to the public for ever and a debt of gratitude is undoubtedly due to those sixteen hundred public spirited persons who subscribed the necessary funds. Long after our district has been bought up by private owners and their notice-boards stare one in the face at every turn, this, the most beautiful, wooded glen in Cumberland, will be open for ever to the nature lover without let or hindrance—a great national infirmary where hard workers can come and drink in Nature’s own medicine. Not only is this Gowbarrow Park beautiful in itself, with its wealth of parkland, its glorious foliage, under which the red and fallow deer feed, and its torrent-filled glen, but the views of Ullswater as seen from here impart to it a character possessed by no other park in the length and breadth of the land.

The gorge down which dashes the waterfall, Aira Force, is the most beautiful spot in the park and the fall itself, a single leap of about sixty feet in height, is one of the finest in Lakeland. Gowbarrow Park and the fell above it were opened by the Speaker in 1906, when he felicitously recalled the mountain in labour which brought forth a mouse—“but,” to quote his words on this occasion, “it is the mice that have been in labour and brought forth a mountain.” More “mice” are needed. Lakeland estates are constantly coming into the market and it would be a fine thing if funds were always in readiness to secure them for the nation. Canon Rawnsley, of Keswick, is the honorary secretary of the National Trust, and will always be glad to receive donations to this end.

It was on the margin of the water below Gowbarrow that Wordsworth saw the daffodils which inspired his poem, ridiculed by the critics of his time but now recognised as a glory of our national literature.The last verse is so typical of Wordsworth’s conception of nature that I take the liberty of quoting it:

“For oft when on my couch I lie,In vacant or in pensive mood,They flash upon that inward eye,Which is the bliss of solitude:And then my heart with pleasure fillsAnd dances with the daffodils.”

After rounding Kailpot Crag the path winds along the side of Hallin Fell and Birk Fell for a couple of miles until it crosses Silver Point, and we come into full view of the upper reach of the lake. Ullswater looks magnificent from here. Right across from us, seen over the little island of House Holm, is richly wooded Glencoin, above which the bleak Dodds of Helvellyn stand out in distinctive contrast. Further up the lake the arrangement of the mountains and valleys is that already described from the steamer: reference to the two accompanying photographs, which are taken hereabouts, will afford a better idea of the scene than any amount of verbal description. It is well to continue our walk as far as the little village of Patterdale, for every step is a delight, and variety of scenic effect nullifies the distance marvellously. A glance into the quaint little church is well worth while, and then we follow the main road along through Glenridding village to Stybarrow Crag, a jutting promontory beneath which the road has barely room to wind because of the nearness of the lake. It was at this narrow pass that the dalesmen once made a successful stand against a band of Scottish Mosstroopers. Nowadays, it witnesses nothing more stirring than parties of picnickers and it must be admitted that it is an ideal place for the purpose.

Helvellyn, the second highest mountain in England, affords a grand scramble from Glenridding or Patterdale. Although its ascent involves no hand to hand climbing, all true mountaineers must enjoy the

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