Thirlmere, Derwentwater and Bassenthwaite.
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
[Illustration: 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 a
poet’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 know
If 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
[Illustration: Keswick and Derwentwater
Viewed from Latrigg, looking south to Borrowdale and Scawfell.]
[Illustration: 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 the _venue_ of 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 rightly claim
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.
[Illustration: Friar’s Crag, Derwentwater
With Walla Crag and Lord’s Island.]
[Illustration: 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, the _fidus Achates_ of 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 day
Far 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 undoubtedly changed 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
[Illustration: 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.