ROSTHWAITE, NEAR KESWICK.--A couple of days since I started off
with a barrister friend to do a days' climb in the Lake country. He
promised me a good view from the top of Scafell Pike, but a rough time
in getting there; and took an almost pathetic interest in my boots
and "shorts," hinting darkly that certain mysterious "screes," over
which the path lay, would test their strength and durability to the
utmost. We travelled third class, of course, for my friend would have
thought me insane to propose anything else; and, really, we were very
comfortable, as all the seats were cushioned. He wore the regulation
British walking costume: stout, heavy, hob-nail boots, thick woolen
stockings, and loose and impossibly wide knickerbockers; while a blue
serge jacket and a peaked cloth cap clothed his upper man. Of course,
his short briar-wood pipe was to the fore, and on the whole, he looked
comfortable. My own get-up was more ordinary, as I had started at half
an hour's notice.
We rushed into Darlington station before long--an immense glass-covered
structure, with platforms half a mile long--and there changed for
Penrith and Keswick. We began to ascend soon after leaving Darlington,
passing by Barnard Castle, the "beauty spot of Yorkshire"--the tracks
lying over breezy moorlands. We changed at Penrith, a dreary junction,
and reached Keswick about seven o'clock in a mist of half-twilight that
was very kind to the distant mountains, making them appear much bigger
and grander than they were ever meant to be. Fortunately, we found the
Borrowdale coach still running, and as it would take us within two
miles of our destination, we were well pleased. Before it started we
had time to attend a very lively meeting of the Salvation Army in the
Keswick market-place, where the tall, thin man who dealt out freely
sundry dismal prophecies, betrayed painful need of a bronchial trochee.
The drive on the box seat of the four-in-hand was glorious. The moon
came out as we reached the edge of Derwentwater and threw her soft
light full on the lonely lake; and, what was of more importance, on the
broad road ahead of us. The horses were fresh and the road inclining
to a descent, so we rolled gaily on past the Lodore Hotel, hard-by the
famous falls, until, too soon, we stopped before the Borrowdale Inn.
Then, with a cheery good-night from the coachman, we started to walk
the remaining two miles, our appetites forcibly reminding us that we
had eaten nothing since early morning; and with a cheery feeling of
expectancy for the comforts of the inn presided over by the famous
Mrs. Rigg. The lights of the little hamlet of Rosthwaite soon appeared
and we halted at a long, low, straggling house, buried in vines. A
tall, stout lady stood in the doorway and proved herself to be _the_
Mrs. Rigg by the way in which she bustled about in all directions,
calling several buxom country lasses to her aid. She sent two of them
to prepare our much-wanted supper, while she herself piloted us to our
quaint, low-ceilinged bed-rooms, where every bed had curtains. Now,
Mrs. Rigg is a widow, and has been ever since the memory of man, and
concerning the original Mr. Rigg nothing is known; but, whoever he
was, people take more interest in the fact that his wife knows how to
keep a good homely inn, called by Mrs. Rigg herself the "Royal Oak,"
but known to all the neighbourhood as "Mrs. Rigg's." Mrs. R. herself
is a tall, stout old lady with a false front and an imposing cap,
and when she sits in the little bar parlour behind the steaming tea
kettle, reading the _Family Herald_, she presents a picture of comfort
not easily surpassed. Mrs. Rigg is suspected of a leaning toward the
village painter, to the regret of all concerned, and dismal are the
forebodings of the aforesaid country lassies should she yield herself
(and her inn) to his fascinations. We enjoyed our supper--huge chops
served with mealy potatoes and foaming tankards of "bitter"--and
then in the cozy smoke room (why never smoking room in England?), we
proceeded to lay out the route for the next day. Our intention in
coming to Rosthwaite had been to climb Scafell Pike and, possibly
Glaramara; so we confidently looked forward to a fine day. But, oh,
the despair when we woke up next morning, for the rain was coming down
in a steady drizzle and the mist was floating gently over and about
all the mountain tops within view. We met with rueful faces in the
coffee room, for now Scafell was quite out of the question as well as
Glaramara; for, of course, no view could be had on such a day, and the
idea of wandering along the edge of precipices in the mist was hardly
tempting.
But an inspiration came to us. It was unanimously voted a pity to waste
that day, as we should be obliged to return on the next; so, after much
poring over maps and guides, we decided to go as far up Scafell as
possible and then, making a circuit, to return by Sty Head Pass. This
sounded easy and I began to congratulate myself--rather previously, as
it afterward turned out--upon the probability of getting back in time
for dinner at six. We had scraped acquaintance with an "undergrad" from
Oxford--Wadham College--and we invited him to go with us. We hurried
over breakfast, taking care, fortunately, to eat a hearty one; and
then, with a rueful look at the cozy, firelit room we were leaving,
tramped out into the rain about ten o'clock. We knew we should get wet
through, so we took no overcoats and simply buttoned our jackets tight
about our necks to keep our flannel shirts dry as long as possible.
The road was very good for some distance, being the coach road to
Buttermere, so we went gaily on. About two miles from Rosthwaite we
reached the queerly-named little village of Seatollar (which our Wadham
friend insisted on referring to as "Tolloller"), where we turned off
into a rustic road overgrown with grass, which for some time led us
among pine groves before bringing us to the famous Borrowdale yews:
a group of fine old firs upon the hillside. Here our Oxonian again
would have it that the name applied to the various flocks of sheep
grazing near and pointed out to us some "genuine Borrowdale ewes." It
got damper and damper as we went on, but I ceased to wonder when I
heard we were drawing near the "wettest place in England," the hamlet
of Seathwaite, where the annual rainfall is actually one hundred and
fifty-six inches! There is not much of interest in Seathwaite except
its moisture and the fact that it has no public house, as Sir Wilfred
Lawson the great temperance advocate owns all the freehold.
Here we left the road and struck up the side of the valley, having
Glaramara and Great Gable in front of us, two big mountains covered
with clouds; while Talyors-Gill poured its rushing, thread-like
stream down the hillside opposite. Here we first began to walk on
grass, and grass that had been rained on for the last hundred years
without intermission, judging from its appearance. But we said little
and pushed on by the side of the beck for some time, until it became
necessary to go straight up the mountain by the sheep track, which was
marked only by an occasional cairn or small heap of stones. It was
hard work to climb over slippery rocks almost perpendicular; but we
persevered and surmounted the hill, only to find ourselves struggling
in a green bog at the top. The rain now came down harder than ever and
as the Oxford man began to whistle "Wot Ch'er?" we felt gloomy. We
pushed on in single file, each one dripping as he walked, the sound of
the water swashing about inside our boots being painfully evident. We
went on like this for some time. My friend suddenly broke into a shout,
"Here we are, boys, thank goodness, this is Eske Hause." "Oh, then we
are half way up Scafell," said the Oxonian--"hang the mist!"
This last observation was timely, for a thick Scotch mist had now shut
in upon the small plateau known as Eske Hause, where we stood, but as
to the derivation of that name deponent sayeth not. We stopped here
for a few minutes while our Oxonian produced a guide map, and with the
water pouring down from the peak of his cap, proceeded to mark out our
path. The rest of us wrung ourselves out and paid as much attention as
we could.
"We must go down by Sprinkling Tarn (good name, that) and then by Sty
Head Tarn until we get to the Pass. Now, shall we lunch up here or
down by the tarn?" We decided to postpone luncheon until we reached a
lower and presumably warmer level, and we eagerly proceeded to make the
descent. The path, or track, was steep and stony and the stones were
slippery. I will draw a veil over that descent, but when we got down by
Sprinkling Tarn (a small, lonely bit of water) we felt like being put
through a wringer. We hurried on, not noticing that the path had merged
itself imperceptibly in the surrounding turf, until our Wadham friend
exclaimed: "Oh, I say, you know, this can't be right. It's quite time
we were at that confounded tarn and I haven't seen a cairn this half
hour." It was too true. We were off the track. There was mist all about
us and the keen rain was chilling us through and through. We searched
for the path in vain, until we were entirely discouraged, when some one
suggested that it wouldn't be a bad idea to have a bite; so we stood
about in a dripping group as we got out our sandwiches and flasks. We
were wet and chilled, and I doubt if Sir Wilfred himself would have
objected to a taste of Scotch whisky under the circumstances. But the
sandwiches! Oh, Mrs. Rigg, Mrs. Rigg, how we blessed you, there, on
the steep side of Scafell as we found that the ham of which they were
exclusively composed had "gone bad!" We said little, but we thought
hard just then.
After that we went sadly and silently on. Soon we found we were going
down instead of up, which we knew to be wrong, as Sty Head Pass was
above us. And now the thunders of a torrent swollen by recent rains
began to be heard, and presently we came in sight of a tumbling mass
of water hurrying along the bottom of the valley. We stood aghast, for
this we knew must be Lingmell Beck, and the valley the one leading to
Wastwater, miles away from the Pass. Night was closing in and the mist
was nothing lighter, while it was really hard to carry the wet and
dripping mass our clothes had become. We wandered up and down this
valley for some time in bewilderment, not finding any trace of a path.
But at last my friend, who had been carefully examining the mountain
side, cried but: "Look, boys, there's the Pass, way above us! We must
push straight up if we ever want to get back to-night."
We looked doubtfully at the thin black line that might be the Pass, and
which seemed miles above us, and then, with one determined look, set
our teeth and went up the mountain. I say went, for we didn't walk,
although we used every other means of progression, for we crawled and
crept and stumbled along, sometimes on our hands and knees, frequently
sliding back with great agility. I never experienced such a climb
anywhere, even in Greece among the wild Theban mountains; for, dripping
wet, with our clammy clothes clinging to us, we went a solid mile up
that hill before we found the Sty Head Pass. That, although rough,
was child's play compared with what we had come through, and when we
reached the small cairn that marks the highest part of the Pass, we
shuddered as we looked down the almost perpendicular mountain and
wondered how on earth we ever came up.
From the top of the Pass it was a fairly easy walk to Rosthwaite by Sty
Head Tarn, which, owing to the encircling mist, looked like an immense
ocean.
Mrs. Rigg was at the door when we got down and looked so cheerful and
glad to see us that we forgot to mention that ham. But we haven't got
the damp of that walk out of ourselves yet; and it is doubtful if
anything but the warm Italian sun is capable of removing the general
mildew that enshrouds us.
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