Grasmere and Rydal.
Grasmere has been called the heart of the Lake District, and not without
good reason. As a centre for driving or walking it is ideal, for it is
situated within an easy day’s march of nearly all the lakes. The summits
of most of the higher mountains can be attained and Grasmere again be
reached by nightfall.
In itself the vale of Grasmere, a happy mixture of beauty and
domesticity, with its pretty little lake and surrounding mountains
dotted here and there with farmsteads, cottages and villas, has strong
claims upon the tourist. In addition to its innate beauty, it possesses
the distinction of being the home of Lakeland’s richest literary
associations. Not a nook or corner in it but breathes the memory of the
Lake Poets, for it was here that the greatest of them lived, worshipped
and died. William Wordsworth chose this spot for his home. First at the
cottage at Town End, then at Allan Bank and ultimately at Rydal Mount,
but a very short distance away, he “communed with solitude” and gave to
the world the beautiful poems which have done so much to immortalize
both Lakeland and himself.
To the tourist who passes through on the main road in the day’s
excursion, Grasmere and Rydal are beautiful--perhaps delectable is a
better word--but to see them properly and rightly to appreciate them, it
is necessary to stroll along the fellsides by which they are overlooked.
At the northern end of Rydal a wooden bridge crosses the stream--Rothay
Beck, which joins Grasmere and Rydal--and gives access to a path known
as Loughrigg Terrace. This was one of Wordsworth’s favourite walks, and
as we follow along the breast of Loughrigg Fell and gaze down upon
Grasmere, with its rich cordon of mountains and woods, we can easily
realize the influences which chained a man of his temperament to this
vale. Away at the far end of the lake is the little village with its
square-towered church, in whose God’s Acre he is laid to rest. Beyond
and above it is the gap in the mountains called Dunmail Raise, the
entrance to Grasmere from the north. To the right of it rise the bare
shoulders of Helvellyn and Seat Sandal; to the left Helm Crag--with its
shattered rock summit--and further round the wildly secluded valley of
Easedale, bounded by the wooded slopes of Silverhow. Truly a scene of
singular charm!
Grasmere Church is the chief object of attraction in the valley. A
quaint old edifice, its once time-weathered beauty has now been greatly
marred by a coating of cement, rendered necessary by the ravages of time
and a congregation which prefers to worship in a dry building. The
inside of the church is quite old-time, however, and Wordsworth’s lines
are still true in every detail,
“Not raised in nice proportions was the pile,
But large and massy for duration built,
With pillars crowded and the roof upheld
By naked rafters intricately crossed.”
The rest of the description is in the fifth book of “The Excursion.” On
the north side of the nave is a tablet to Wordsworth which contains a
portrait by Woolner with an appreciative inscription underneath. Out
from the gloomy church we pass into the sunshine and, whether we have
read his poetry or not, visit the sheltered corner under the yew-trees
where a simple slate slab bears the plain inscription, and nothing more,
“William Wordsworth, 1850,” “Mary Wordsworth, 1858,”--a tombstone in
keeping with his simplicity of character and freedom from all that
pertained to artificiality. The yew-trees were brought
[Illustration: 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 stair
Of that magnificent temple which doth bound
One 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 furniture is 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
[Illustration: 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.