Threlkeld or Scales Tarn is a small lake lying deeply secluded in
a recess on the north eastern side of Saddleback, or Blencathra,
between that mountain and Scales Fell. From the peculiarity of its
situation it has excited considerable curiosity: but the supposed
difficulty of access to it, its insignificant size, and the
peculiar nature of its attractions, cause it to be seldom visited
except by those who take it on their way to the top of Linethwaite
Fell, the most elevated point of the Saddleback range.
Having gained, by a toilsome and rugged ascent from the south-east,
the margin of the cavity in which the Tarn is imbedded, let the
traveller be supposed to stand directly facing the middle of the
mountain, the form of which gives its name to Saddleback. From
the high land between its two most elevated points before him,
and jutting right out to the north-east, depends an enormous
perpendicular rock called Tarn Crag; at the base of which,
engulphed in an immense basin or cavity of steeps, above and on the
left lofty and precipitous, and gradually diminishing as they curve
on the right, lies Threlkeld Tarn, described as a beautiful piece
of circular transparent water, covering a space of from thirty to
thirty-five acres, and surrounded with a well defined shore. From
the summit, elevated upwards of two hundred yards above it, its
surface is black, though smooth as a mirror; and it lies so deeply
imbedded, that it is said, the reflection of the stars may be seen
therein at noonday. It is generally sunless; and when illuminated,
it is in the morning, and chiefly through an aperture to the east,
formed by the running waters in the direction of Penrith. "A wild
spot it is," says Southey, "as ever was chosen by a cheerful party
where to rest, and take their merry repast upon a summer's day.
The green mountain, the dark pool, the crag under which it lies,
and the little stream which steals from it, are the only objects;
the gentle voice of that stream the only sound, unless a kite
be wheeling above, or a sheep bleats on the fell side. A silent
solitary place; and such solitude heightens social enjoyment, as
much as it conduces to lonely meditation."
Southey adds, in a note--"Absurd accounts have been published both
of the place itself, and the difficulty of reaching it. The Tarn
has been said to be so deep that the reflection of the stars may be
seen in it at noonday--and that the sun never shines upon it. One
of these assertions is as fabulous as the other--and the Tarn, like
all Tarns, is shallow."
Its claim to this singularity need not be wholly rejected, however,
on the ground of shallowness, if, to be deeply imbedded, rather
than to be deep, be the essential condition. Several of the most
credible inhabitants thereabouts have affirmed that they frequently
see stars in it at mid-day; but it is also stated that in order to
discover that phenomenon, there must be a concurrence of several
circumstances, viz: the firmament must be perfectly clear, the air
and the water unagitated; and the spectator must be placed at a
certain height above the lake, and as much below the summit of the
partially surrounding ridge.
The impression produced upon travellers a century ago by the
features of Blencathra at a considerable elevation, will excite a
smile in tourists of the present day. The _Southern_ face of the
mountain is "furrowed with hideous chasms." One of these "though by
far the least formidable," is described as "unconceivably horrid:"
"its width is about two hundred yards, and its depth at least six
hundred." Between two of these horrible abysses, and separated from
the body of the mountain on all sides by deep ravines, a portion of
the hill somewhat pyramidal in shape stands out like an enormous
buttress. "I stood upon this," says the narrator, whose account is
quoted, "and had on each side a gulf about two hundred yards wide,
and at least eight hundred deep; their sides were rocky, bare, and
rough, scarcely the appearance of vegetation upon them: and their
bottoms were covered with pointed broken rocks." Again he "arrived
where the mountain has every appearance of being split; and at the
'bottom' he 'saw hills about forty yards high and a mile in length,
which seem to have been raised from the rubbish that had fallen
from the mountain.'" From the summit he "could not help observing
that the back of this mountain is as remarkably smooth, as the
front is horrid."
Over this front of Blencathra, the bold and rugged brow which it
presents when seen from the road to Matterdale, or from the Vale
of St. John's, the view of the country to the south and east is
most beautiful. The northern side is, as has been said, remarkably
smooth, and in striking contrast to that so ruggedly and grandly
broken down towards the south, where every thing around bears
evident marks of some great and terrible convulsion of nature.
Mr. Green with his companion, Mr. Otley, was among the early
adventurers who stood on the highest ridge of Blencathra.
This accurate observer, whose descriptions of this, and other
unfrequented and unalterable places, will never be old, describes
without exaggeration the difficulties of the ground about the upper
part of this mountain. Describing the neighbourhood of the Tarn,
he says, "From Linthwaite Pike on soft green turf, we descended
steeply, first southward, and then in an easterly direction to the
tarn,--a beautiful circular piece of transparent water, with a
well defined shore. Here we found ourselves engulphed in a basin
of steeps, having Tarn Crag on the north, the rocks falling from
Sharp Edge on the east, and on the west, the soft turf on which we
made our downward progress. These side grounds, in pleasant grassy
banks, verge to the stream issuing from the lake, whence there is
a charming opening to the town of Penrith; and Cross Fell seen in
the extreme distance. Wishing to vary our line in returning to the
place we had left, we crossed the stream, and commenced a steep
ascent at the foot of Sharp Edge. We had not gone far before we
were aware that our journey would be attended with perils; the
passage gradually grew narrower, and the declivity on each hand
awfully precipitous. From walking erect, we were reduced to the
necessity either of bestriding the ridge or of moving on one of its
sides, with our hands lying over the top, as a security against
tumbling into the tarn on the left, or into a frightful gully on
the right, both of immense depth. Sometimes we thought it prudent
to return; but that seemed unmanly, and we proceeded; thinking with
Shakespeare, that "dangers retreat when boldly they're confronted."
Mr. Otley was the leader, who, on gaining steady footing, looked
back on the writer, whom he perceived viewing at leisure from his
saddle the remainder of his upward course."