In the far north-west of our land stands a group of bold rocky
mountains known as the Cumbrian Group. Here rise well-known peaks, the
highest land in England--Scafell, Helvellyn, Skiddaw--and among the
peaks lie many most beautiful lakes.
This lovely stretch of country is called the Lake District, and every
year great numbers of people go to climb the rugged, broken heights, or
to wander beside the shores of these pleasant stretches of water in
this playground of England.
The great charm of the countryside lies in the wonderful variety of its
scenery, and all the scenes so beautiful. The traveller passing
through the land by coach or motor traverses, perhaps, a frowning pass,
where huge bare rocks rise in gloomy grandeur, and the scene is one of
savage desolation. He gets a glimpse of a still wilder nook as he
passes the mouth of some "ghyll" (a cleft in the rocks), from whose
dark recesses a "force" (a wild, rushing torrent) is madly pouring.
Then he whirls round a corner, rolls down a slope, and the scene is
changed as if by magic. He enters a quiet vale shut in by the hills,
its level floor covered with sweet verdant meadows where the cattle
feed, its face dotted with the quaint grey stone houses of shepherds
and cottagers, and the "force," now a quiet, shining brook, winding its
silver links over the face of the tiny valley.
On rolls the coach, and now a vaster prospect opens out--a prospect
almost filled by a wide sheet of clear bright water, one of the great
lakes of the country, and the road runs along the shore, skirting bays,
crossing tributary streams, passing under shade of the pleasant woods
that fringe the shore, and bringing to view at every turn some fresh
beauty in the ever-changing scene.
The largest of all the lakes is Windermere, a splendid sheet of water
about eleven miles long and one mile wide. It may be seen admirably
from the deck of a lake steamer which runs from end to end. On a
summer day the great lake is a picture of beauty: its bosom is dotted
with white-sailed yachts, while pleasure-boats glide from island to
island or from shore to shore. Like a great river the lake winds
between its banks till northwards it is shut in by lofty hills, which
spring from the water's edge. The lakeside is dotted with pretty
houses, peeping from amidst groves of trees, with grey old farms lying
among meadows and cornfields.
[Illustration: IN AN ENGLISH WOOD]
At a point where the road from the town of Kendal runs down to the
waterside there is a ferry across the lake. From time immemorial the
dalesmen and market-folk have crossed Windermere at this point, and it
is known as The Ferry.
"There are legends to tell of this Ferry. The most sinister is of an
awful voice which on wild nights began to peal across the turmoil,
'Boat!' Once a bold ferry-man answered the call, put off his boat, and
rowed into the storm and darkness. Half an hour later he returned with
boat swamping and without a passenger. The boatman's face was ashen
with terror; he was dumb. Next day he died. No boatman, after this
incident, could be prevailed to put off in darkness, so a priest was
summoned from the Holy Holme. With bell and book he raised the
skulking demon. At mid-day there was the voice of storm in the air,
though, mindful of the call of the Master on Galilee, the waters fell
calm. Voices argued with the priest, whose cross, firmly planted by
the edge of the lake, was surrounded by terror-struck lake-men. At the
end of a long altercation the demon released from thrall the soul of
the boatman, and craved for mercy. For its peace, the priest laid the
evil thing in the depths, there to remain until 'dry-shod men walk on
Winander [the lake] and trot their ponies through the solid crags.'"
As we advance into the northern basin of the great lake, the scene
grows in grandeur. "Over a vast plain of water the distant mountains
seem to hang. There are misty indications of level meadows and
woodlands next the water, but the charm lies in the craggy, shaggy
braes and the uprising summits."
The voyage is ended at Ambleside, on the northern shore, where we take
coach along the Rydal road to see some of the best-known parts of
Lakeland, famous not only for their beauty, but also because the great
poet Wordsworth lived there, and wrote of the lovely scenes which
surrounded his home. Our way will take us by Rydal Water into lovely
Grasmere, a sweet valley dotted with tiny lakes and ringed about by
wild and lofty heights.
We pass Rydal Mount, where Wordsworth lived in old age, speed by Rydal
Water, and on into Grasmere, where Wordsworth's grave lies beside the
church, and the Rothay, his favourite stream, murmurs near by.
Beyond Grasmere we toil up the steep Pass of Dunmail, a wild, desolate,
rock-strewn piece of country. At the head of the pass stands a pile of
stones--the Cairn of Dunmail--telling of
"Old unhappy far-off things
And battles long ago."
In far-off days Dunmail was the last King of Cumbria, whose people then
were Picts. Edgar the Saxon came against him to seize the crown, and
of this crown of Cumbria a strange legend is told.
The crown of Dunmail was charmed, and whoever could seize it was
certain to gain the kingdom. So Edgar the Saxon was eager to get it
into his hands. Now, there was a wizard in those days who lived in a
cave among the hills, and he held a master-charm which would make the
magic power of the crown useless. Dunmail sought the cave of the
wizard to slay him, and thus make himself safe in the possession of the
magic crown.
But to reach the magician was no easy thing. His cave was guarded by a
ring of wild wolves, who watched their master. Further, the wizard had
the power to make himself invisible, save for one moment, and that at
the break of day. But one morning, at peep of dawn, Dunmail burst
through the ring of wolves and dashed into the cave, sword in hand.
The magician leapt to his feet to utter a curse on the King, and he had
called out the words, "Where river runs north or south with the storm,"
when the sword fell, and he was slain at a single stroke.
When Edgar the Saxon heard of this, he sent spies to find out the place
of which the magician had spoken, and they found out that the words
were true of Dunmail Raise. And they are true to this day. In times
of storm the torrent on Dunmail will set north or south with the wind
in most uncertain fashion.
In the pass the two armies met, and there was a fierce battle. At
first the Picts under Dunmail held the upper hand, and the Saxons were
beaten back again and again. But some of the chiefs who followed
Dunmail were traitors, and they turned on their King and slew him, and
gave the day to the Saxons.
As Dunmail fell, he tore off his magic crown and gave it to a faithful
follower. "Bear my crown away!" he cried; "let not the Saxon ever wear
it." He was obeyed. A few loyal chiefs burst their way through the
foe, the crown among them, and escaped in a great cloud of mist. They
fled across the hills, and came to a deep tarn. Here they flung the
crown into its depths, leaving it there "till Dunmail come again to
lead us."
And legend says that every year the faithful warriors come back, draw
up the magic circlet from the depths of the tarn, and carry it to the
pile where their King lies in his age-long sleep. They knock with his
spear on the topmost stone of the cairn, and from its heart comes a
voice--"Not yet, not yet; wait awhile, my warriors."