The coast of Lancashire has already been described as presenting, from
the Mersey upwards as far as the estuary of the Kent, an almost
unbroken surface of level sand. In several parts, as near Birkdale,
the western sea-breeze, pursuing its work for ages, has heaped up the
sand atom by atom into hills that have a romantic and attractive
beauty all their own. But of overhanging rocks and crags there are no
examples, except when at Heysham, in Morecambe Bay, the millstone grit
cropping out so as to form a little promontory, gives pleasing change.
Almost immediately after entering this celebrated bay--although the
vast expanse of sand remains unaltered--the mountains begin to draw
nearer, and for the rest of the distance, up to the estuary of the
Duddon, where Cumberland begins, the scenery close inshore is
picturesque. The peculiar feature of the coast consists, perhaps, in
its estuaries. No seaside county in England has its margin interrupted
by so many as there are in Lancashire, every one of the rivers which
leave it for the Irish Sea, excepting the insignificant Alt (six or
eight miles north of Liverpool), widening immensely as the sands are
approached. Embouchures more remarkable than those of the Ribble, the
Wyre, the Lune, and the various minor streams which enter Morecambe
Bay, are certainly not to be found, and there are none that through
association awaken interest more curious.
When, accordingly, the visitor to any one of the Lancashire
watering-places south of the Ribble desires scenery, he must be
content with the spectacle of the sea itself, and the glimpses
obtained in fair weather of the mountains of maritime North Wales. At
Blackpool it is possible also, on clear evenings, to descry the lofty
peaks of the Isle of Man, and occasionally even Cumberland Black
Combe. At Fleetwood these quite compensate the dearth of inland
beauty, and with every step northwards more glorious becomes the
outlook. Not to mention the noble sea in front--an ocean when the tide
is in--all the higher grounds of Cartmel and Furness are plainly in
view. Upon these follow the fells of Coniston, and a little more to
the east the dim blue cones which mark the near neighbourhood of the
head of Windermere. Everything is renewed at Morecambe, and upon a
scale still more commanding: the last reflection, as one turns
homeward from that favoured spot, is that the supreme seaside scenery
of old England pertains, after all, to the many-sided county of the
cotton-mills.
The watering-places themselves are healthful, well-conducted, and
ambitious. None of them had substantial existence seventy or eighty
years ago. Southport, the most important and the most advanced in all
that is honourable, is a daughter of the primitive neighbouring
village of Churchtown,--_filia pulchrior_ very emphatically.
Blackpool, in 1817, was only a rabbit-warren, the sunward slopes, like
those of original Birkdale and Churchtown, a playground for quick-eyed
lizards, their descendants, both gray and green, not yet extinct.
Fleetwood has grown up within easy recollection; Morecambe is a
creation almost of yesterday. Unexcelled, in summer, for the visitor
in search of health, in its cool, firm, ample sands, Fleetwood aspires
to become important also commercially. Morecambe, though destitute of
a deep channel, and unable to offer the security of a natural harbour,
is making vigorous efforts in the same direction. Sir J. E. Smith, in
his account of the evening-primrose in _English Botany_, A.D. 1805,
described the Lancashire coast as a sort of _ultima Thule_:--to-day,
at Southport, there is the finest Winter Garden out of London; and at
a couple of miles distance, reached by tram-car, a Botanical Garden,
including fernery and conservatories, that puts to shame many an
ancient and wealthy city. A drawback to these South Lancashire
watering-places, as mentioned before, is that the water, at low tide,
recedes so far, and ordinarily is so reluctant to return. But is the
tide everything? When out, there is the serene pleasure of silent
stroll upon the vast expanse, the inspiring solitude beyond which
there is only Sea. On these smooth and limitless sands there is plenty
alike for repair of body, the imagination, and the solace of the
naturalist. Shells may be gathered in plenty, and in different parts,
of very various kinds: solens, long and straight; mactras, dentalias,
that resemble miniature elephant's tusks; the fragile pholas;
tellinas, that seem scattered rose-petals; and towards Fleetwood
pearly trochuses, dappled with lilac. A more delicious seaside walk
for those who love the sound of the rolling surge, the sense of
infinite tranquillity, total seclusion from every circumstance of town
and city life, and the sight of old ocean's playthings, may be sought
the world over, and not found more readily than by pursuing the five
or six miles between Fleetwood and Blackpool, one's face turned all
the while to the poetic west. Wanting rocks, upon these quiet sands
there are no native seaweeds, though fragments lie about, torn from
beaches far away, and stranded.
Very distinct interest attaches to the physical history of this part
of the coast, the elevation of which was at some not very remotely
distant period, almost without doubt, much higher. Mr. Joseph
Dickinson, the well-known geologist, and Government Inspector of
Mines, believes that in certain portions it has subsided through the
solution of rock-salt in the strata below--the circumstance to which
the formation of most, if not all, of the natural Cheshire meres is
attributed. The existence of the rock-salt has been clearly proved by
the sinking of a shaft and subsequent borings, near Preesal, a village
about a mile and a half south-east of Fleetwood. The thickness of the
deposit is similar to that met with in the salt districts of Cheshire,
at Port Clarence, near the mouth of the Tees, and at Stoke Prior,
Worcestershire. The subsidence of the shore at Blackpool is, on the
northern side, very palpable. Here the path to Rossall is pursued for
some distance along the brow of an earthy, crumbling cliff, not very
far from which, exposed at the lowest of low tides, there is a little
insulated mound, upon which, according to well-sustained tradition,
there once stood a cottage long since overwhelmed by envious Neptune.
The great rampart of sand-hills which stretches for so many leagues,
and which has been calculated to have an area of twenty-two square
miles, is thought by another distinguished geologist--Mr. T. Melland
Reade--to have taken certainly not less than 2500 years to form,
probably a much longer time. Some of the mounds, however, are
manifestly quite recent, interstratifications of cinders and matter
thrown up from wrecks, being found near the base. A strong westerly
wind brings up the sand vehemently, and very curious then becomes the
spectacle of its travel, which resembles the flow of thin waves of
translucent smoke. The wind alternately heaps up the sand and
disperses it, except where a firm hold has been obtained by the
maram,[39] or star-grass, the roots of which bind and hold all
together. Decoration of the smooth surface of the sloping sand-hills
is supplied by the wind-whirling of the slender stalks half way round,
and sometimes quite so, when there is room for free play: circles and
semicircles are then grooved, smaller ones often inside, as perfect as
if drawn with compasses. Another curious result of the steady blowing
of the sea-breeze is that on the shore there are innumerable little
cones of sand, originating in shells, or fragments of shells, which
arrest the drifting particles, and are, in truth, rudiments of
sand-hills, such as form the barrier a little further in.
[39] Maram, the popular name of the _Ammophila arenaria_, is
probably the Danish _marhalm_, sea-haulm or straw, a term
applied in Norway to the Zostera.
Further north the shore has little to offer in the way of curiosities,
nor is there any agreeable bathing-ground; not even at Grange. Never
mind. The further we advance towards the county frontier, the more
wonderful become the sands, these spreading, at low water, like a
Sahara, with the difference, that the breath of ocean, nowhere in the
world sweeter, blows across them for ever and ever. On a moonlight
night, when the tide is at the full, Morecambe Bay, surveyed from
Kent's Bank, presents an aspect of inexpressible fascination, the
rippled lustre being such as a shallow sea, gently moving, alone can
yield.
"Splendet tremulo sub lumine pontus."
Moving onwards, or towards Cumberland, we find that Lancashire is not
without its island. This is Walney, off the estuary of the Duddon,
closely abutting on the mainland of Furness--a very singular bank or
strip of mingled sand, pebbles, and shingle, nearly ten miles in
length, and half a mile broad where widest. Barren as it may seem from
the description, the soil is in parts so fertile that capital crops of
grain are reaped. There are people on it, likewise, though the
inhabitants are chiefly sea-gulls. Walney Island is the only known
locality for that beautiful wild-flower the _Geranium Lancastriense_,
a variety of the _sanguineum_, the petals, instead of blood-colour, as
at Fleetwood, on St. Vincent's Rocks, and elsewhere, cream-white
netted with rose. The seaward or western side of Walney is defended by
a prodigious heap of pebbles, the mass of which is constantly
augmenting, though left dry at low water. At the lower extremity of
the island there is a light-house, sixty-eight feet high, and adjacent
to it there are one or two islets.
The portion of Lancashire to which Walney belongs, or that which, as
it is locally said, lies "north of the sands" (the sands specially
intended being those of Morecambe Bay), agrees, in natural
composition, with Westmoreland and Cumberland. It is distinguished by
mountain-summits, greatly exceeding in elevation those found upon the
confines of Yorkshire, and the lower slopes of which are, as a rule,
no longer naked, but dressed with shrubs and various trees. Concealed
among these noble mountains are many deep and romantic glens, while at
their feet are lakes of matchless purity. No feature is more striking
than the exchange of the broad and bulky masses of such hills as
Pendle for the rugged and jutting outlines characteristic of the older
rocks, and particularly, as here, of the unstratified. Before
commencing the exploration, it is well to contemplate the general
structure of the country from some near vantage-ground, such as the
newly-opened public park at Lancaster; or better still, that
unspeakably grand terrace upon the Westmoreland side of the Kent,
called Stack-head, where the "Fairy steps" give access to the plain
and valley below, and which is reached so pleasantly by way of
Milnthorpe, proceeding thence through Dallam Park, the village of
Beetham, and the pine-wood--in itself worth all the journey. The view
from the Stack-head terrace (profoundly interesting also,
geologically) comprises all that is majestic and beautiful as regards
the elements of the picturesque, and to the Lancashire man is
peculiarly delightful, since, although he stands actually in
Westmoreland, all the best part of it, Arnside Knot alone excepted, is
within the borders of his own county.[40] Whether the most pleasing
first impressions of the scenery of the Lake District are obtained in
the way indicated; or by taking the alternative, very different route,
by way of Fleetwood and Piel, is nevertheless an open question. The
advantage of the Lancaster route consists in the early introduction it
gives to the mountains themselves--to go _viâ_ Fleetwood and Piel
involves one of those inspiring little initiative voyages which
harmonise so well with hopes and visions of new enjoyment, alluring
the imagination no less agreeably than they gratify the senses.
[40] "Knot," in the Lake District, probably denotes a rocky
protuberance upon a hill. But it is often used, as in the
present instance, for the hill in its entirety. Hard Knot, in
Eskdale, and Farleton Knot, near Kendal, are parallel examples.
The Lancaster route implies, in the first instance, quiet and
unpretending Silverdale; then, after crossing the estuary of the Kent,
leafy Grange--unrivalled upon the north-west coast, not only for
salubrity, but for the exhaustless charms of the neighbouring country.
Whatever the final intentions in visiting this part of England, a few
days' delay at Grange will never be regretted: it is one of those
happy places which are distinguished by wild nature cordially shaking
hands with civilisation. Sallying forth from the village in an
easterly direction, or up the winding and shady road which leads
primarily to Lindal, we may, if we please, proceed almost direct to
Windermere, distant about ten miles. Turn, before this, up the green
slope just beyond Ellerhow, the village on the left, perched
conspicuously on the highest hill in front, thus reaching Hampsfell.
Many beautiful views will have been enjoyed upon the way, land and sea
contributing equally; all, at the top of Hampsfell, are renewed
threefold, innumerable trees remembering that no witchery is perfect
in the absence of graceful apparel; while in the valley below, gray
and secluded Cartmel talks of a remote historic past. Fully to realise
the absorbing beauty of the scene, there must be no hesitation in
ascending to the Hospice, where the "herald voice" of "good tidings"
heard at Lindal is proved not to have uttered a single syllable in
excess. Hampsfell may be reached also by a path through the Eggerslack
woods, noted for the abundance of their hazel-nuts, and entered almost
immediately after emerging from Grange; and again by a third, somewhat
circuitous, near the towering limestone crags called Yewbarrow.
Kent's Bank, a couple of miles beyond Grange, supplies hill scenery
little inferior. The heights above Allithwaite cover almost the whole
of the fine outlook characteristic of the northern shore of Morecambe
Bay. Kirkhead and Humphrey Head also give unlimited prospects,
especially when the tide is in. The man who loves solitude will find
them lonely enough for hermitages:--blackberries beyond measure grow
on the slopes. Humphrey Head presents features rarely met with,
consisting of a limestone promontory, the sides, in part, nearly
vertical, thus closely resembling the rock at the south-western
extremity of Clevedon, with which many associate Tennyson and the
mournful verses which have for their burden, "Break, break, break, on
thy cold gray stones, O Sea!" Grange, Kent's Bank, Kirkhead, and
Humphrey Head, constantly awaken recollections of the beautiful
village on the eastern edge of the Bristol Channel. The scenery
corresponds, and in productions there is again a very interesting
similarity, though Clevedon has a decided advantage in regard to
diversity of species. Hampsfell and Allithwaite recur at intervals all
the way to the borders of the Leven; thence, constantly varying,
westward to the banks of the Duddon, and southward to the Furness
Valley: not, indeed, until we reach Piel--the little cape where the
boats arrive from Fleetwood--is there surrender.
Piel, as said above, is preferable as a route to the Lake District,
because of the preliminary half hour upon the water, which is
generally smooth and exhilarating. It offers the most interesting way
of approach, also, to Duddon Bridge, where the coast of Lancashire
ends--a place itself of many attractions. The river, it is scarcely
necessary to say, is the Duddon immortalised by Wordsworth, one of
whose sonnets describes the "liquid lapse serene" of this too-seldom
visited stream as it moves through Dunnerdale, after entering, near
Newfield, through a rent in the rocky screen which adds so much to the
romantic features of its early existence. The bridge gives ready
approach to Black Combe, most gloomy and austere of the Cumberland
mountains, but affording full compensation in the magnificence of the
prospects, the height being little short of 2000 feet. Close by, in
Lancashire, we find the ancient village of Broughton, the lords of
which, four or five centuries ago, gave their name to a well-known
suburb of Manchester--so curious is the history of estates.
The railway, after touching at Broughton, leads right away to
Coniston, then to the foot of the "Old Man," the summit, 2649 feet
above the level of the sea, so remarkable in its lines and curves
that, once exactly distinguished from the crowd of lower heights,
like the head of Ingleborough, it is impossible to be mistaken.
Towards the village it throws out a ridge, upon which the houses are
chiefly placed. A deep valley intervenes, and then the mountain rises
abruptly, the walls in some places nearly perpendicular, but in others
disappearing, so that, if well selected, the path upwards is by no
means toilsome, or even difficult, though impeded here and there by
rocks and stones. The climbing is well repaid. From the brows of the
old giant are seen mountains innumerable, lakes, rivers, woods, deep
valleys, velvety meads, with, in addition, the accessories of every
perfect landscape,--those which come of its being impregnated with the
outcome of human intelligence and human feeling, the love of gardens,
and of refined and comfortable homes. Looking south, south-west, and
south-east, there are changing views of Morecambe Bay, flooded with
brightness; the estuaries of the Kent, the Leven, and the Duddon; the
capes and promontories that break the sea margin; Walney Island, the
shining Irish Sea, with the Isle of Man beyond, and the whole of the
long line of coast which runs on to the portals of the Wyre and more
distant Ribble.
Over the mouth of the Leven, Lancaster Castle is distinguishable.
Far away, in the same line, the lofty ranges of the Craven district
come in view; and when the atmosphere is very clear a dim blue
mountain wave on the side where sunset will be indicates Snowdon. In
other directions the views are somewhat circumscribed, Coniston being
situated upon the frontiers rather than within the actual area of the
hill country it so greatly enriches. The figure in general, of all
that is seen, so far as the nature of the barriers will allow, is
nevertheless majestic, and in itself worth all the labour of the
ascent. The Old Man, it must be admitted, is prone to hide his ancient
brows in mist and vapour; the time for climbing must therefore be
chosen carefully and deliberately.
[Illustration: CONISTON]
The lake, called Coniston Water, extends to a length of about six
miles. It is in no part quite a mile in breadth, but although so
narrow never gives the slightest idea of restriction; thus agreeing
with Windermere, to which, however, Coniston bears not the least
resemblance in detail, differing rather in every particular, and
decidedly surpassing it in respect of the wildness and purple
sublimity of the surroundings. The immediate borders, by reason of the
frequently recurring showers of rain, are refreshingly green all the
year round; they allure, also, at every season, by the daintiness and
the generosity with which the greater portion has been planted. Beyond
the line to which the handiwork of man has been continued, or where
the ground becomes steep and rocky, there are brown and heathy slopes,
fissures and winding ravines, redolent of light and shade, the sunward
parts often laced with little white streamlet waterfalls, that in the
distance seem not cascades, but veins of unmelted winter snow. The
slopes, in turn, like the arches in a Gothic cathedral, lead the eye
upwards to outlines that please so much the more because imperfectly
translatable; since when the clouds hover round the summits of these
soaring peaks, they change to mystery and fable, wooing the mind with
the incomparable charm that always waits upon the margin of the
undiscovered.
From what particular point the best views, either of the lake or of
the adjacent mountains, are readily obtainable, must of necessity be
very much a matter of taste. Perhaps it is discreetest to take, in the
first instance, the view _up_ the lake, or from Nibthwaite, where the
waters contract, and become the little river Crake--the stream which,
in conjunction with the Leven from Windermere, forms the estuary named
after the latter.
Contemplated from Nibthwaite, the mountains in which the lake is
bosomed are certainly less impressive than when viewed from some
distance farther up; but the mind is touched with a more agreeable
idea of symmetry, and the water itself seems to acquire amplitude.
None of the mountains are out of sight; the merit of this particular
view consists jointly in their presence, and in the dignified
composure with which they seem to stand somewhat aloof. The view
_down_ the lake,--that which is obtained by approaching Coniston _viâ_
Hawkshead and Waterhead, is indescribably grand, the imposing forms of
the adjacent mountains, those in particular of the Furness Fells (the
altitude of which is nearly or quite 2600 feet), being here realised
perfectly, the more distant summits fading delicately, the nearer ones
dark and solemn. To our own fancy, the most impressive idea alike of
the water and its framework is obtained, after all, not from either
extremity, but from the surface, resting upon one's oars, as nearly as
possible in the middle. Coniston Water contains a couple of islets,
the upper one named, after its abundant Highland pines, "Fir Island."
Many streamlets contribute to its maintenance, the principal being
Coniston Beck and Black Beck. No celebrated waterfall occurs very
near. All the famous lake waterfalls bearing names belong either to
Cumberland or Westmoreland.
Windermere, or more correctly, as in the well-known line:
"Wooded Winandermere, the river-lake,"
is nearly twice the length of Coniston Water, but of little more than
the same average width. Superficially it belongs to Westmoreland; the
greater portion of the margin is, nevertheless, in Lancashire, without
leaving which county the beauty of the English Zurich may be gathered
perfectly.
The finest view of the lake, as a whole, is obtained near Ambleside,
on the road through the valley of Troutbeck, where it is visible for
nearly the whole extent, the islands seeming clustered in the middle.
Yet nothing can be lovelier, as regards detail, than the views
obtained by ascending from Newby Bridge, the point at which the Leven
issues. The scenery commences long before the lake is actually
reached, the river having a fall, in the short space of four miles, of
no less than 105 feet, consequently flowing with great rapidity, and
supplying a suitable introduction to the charms above its source.
Newby Bridge deserves every word of the praise so often bestowed upon
it. Lofty and wood-mantled hills enclose the valley on every side,
and whichever way we turn the impression is one of Eden-like
retirement. The pine-crowned summit of Finsthwaite, reached by a
woodland path having its base near the river-side, commands a prospect
of admirable variety, the lake extending in one direction, while on
the other the eye ranges over Morecambe Bay. The water of Windermere
is clear as crystal--so limpid that the bottom in the shallower parts
shows quite plainly, the little fishes darting hither and thither over
the pebbles. Taken in its entirety, Windermere is the deepest of the
English lakes, excepting only Wastwater, the level of the surface
being, in parts, upwards of 240 feet above the bed. The maximum depth
of Wastwater is 270 feet. Whether, on quitting Newby Bridge, the
onward course be made by boat, or, more wisely, on foot or by
carriage, along the road upon the eastern margin of the lake, the
prevailing character of the scenery, for a considerable distance, will
be found to consist in consummate softness and a delicacy of finish
that it may be permitted to call artistic.
[Illustration: NEAR THE COPPER MINES, CONISTON]
Not until we reach the neighbourhood of Storrs Hall (half way to
Ambleside), where Lancashire ends and Westmoreland begins, is there
much for the artist. The scenery so far has been captivating, but
never grand. Here, however, and of rarest hues, especially towards
sunset, come in view the majestic Langdale Pikes, with mountains of
every form, and Windermere proves itself the veritable "Gate
Beautiful." Everywhere, upon the borders, oak and ash fling out their
green boughs, seeking amiably others that spring from neighbours as
earnest. Woodbine loves to mingle its fragrant coronals of pink,
white, and amber with the foliage amid which the spirals "gently
entwist;" and at all seasons there is the rich lustre of the peerless
"ivy green." The largest of the Windermere islands (in the Lake
District, as in the Bristol Channel, called "holms") has an area of
thirty acres.
Esthwaite, the third and last of the trio of lakes claimed by
Lancashire, is a quiet, unassuming water, so cheerful, withal, and so
different in character from both Coniston and Windermere, that a day
is well devoted to it. The length is not quite three miles; the width,
at the broadest part, is about three furlongs; the best approach is by
the ferry across Windermere, then ascending the mountain-path among
trees, the lake presently appearing upon the left, silvery and
unexpected, so suddenly does it come in view. Esthwaite, like the
Duddon, has been immortalised by Wordsworth, who received his
education at Hawkshead, the little town at the northern extremity. The
outlet is by a stream called the Cunsey, which carries the overflow
into Windermere.