We landed from the steamer at Svolvaer, a curious harbour amongst a

maze of ice-polished rocks. Svolvaer is the point where all the large

steamers call, although on a rough day as the vessel approaches the

harbour it looks as if there was not even a passage for a rowing-boat

anywhere along the rock-bound shore. The small town of Svolvaer is

built on a series of rocky islands, consequently the only convenient

way of getting from one part of the town to another is by boat, and of

course there is no such thing as a road in the town.

The finest mountains in the Lofoten Islands congregate round the

Raftsund, a narrow waterway which separates the islands of Hindö and

Öst Vaagö; but further down the islands are other isolated peaks whose

pointed spires of rock look almost inaccessible. Vaage Kallen is one,

whilst several in Moskenesö also would give excellent climbing. As far

as I could see, these mountains to the south-west are without glaciers,

which is not the case of those round the Raftsund.

The highest peak in Lofoten, Mösadlen by name, had been climbed, but

the next three highest, Higraf Tind, 3780 feet; Gjeitgaljar, 3560 feet;

and Rulten, 3490 feet, had as yet summits untrodden by the foot of man.

Moreover, of all the lesser mountains only about half a dozen had been

ascended. Here, then, should the climbing be good, was a mountaineer's

paradise.

On August 2, with the help of two men and a couple of boats, Woolley,

Hastings, Priestman, and I conveyed our camp-baggage from Svolvaer

to a spot marked Austavindnes near the head of the Östnes Fjord. A

Norwegian porter, E. Hogrenning, who had been with Hastings before

on the mountains for more than one season, also came and helped to

pull the heavily laden boats through the waves of the fjord. It was a

pleasing sight to me as I sat idle in the stern of the boat in which

were the two local fishermen, to watch Hastings and Priestman in

their shirt-sleeves pulling the second boat, and trying their best to

show that Englishmen were just as capable of rowing as Norwegians.

In this they were successful, for we soon parted company, Hastings'

boat finally disappearing on the opposite side of the fjord. In time,

however, they came back again to us, but what they had been doing was

not quite clear--Hastings had probably been trying to borrow something

from a house on the shore, a pole or a cooking-stove, or some nails or

a spade. All these things and many more were ultimately collected by

Hastings, and before we left our camp a fortnight later there were few

houses on the Östnes Fjord that had not contributed something towards

our wants. Hastings' tent in the meantime had assumed the appearance of

a really first-class gipsy encampment.

The place where we had decided to camp was finally reached, and all our

provisions, tents, and baggage landed on the beach. One of the boats we

kept, and our two fishermen, bidding us farewell, returned to Svolvaer.

The views from our camp, although rather restricted, were occasionally

most beautiful, when during the long summer nights the peaks at the

head of the Östnes Fjord to the north-west were a dark purple against

the evening sky. Opposite to us was the peak Gjeitgaljar, a veritable

little Dru in appearance, and in front of it a ridge of pinnacles that

looked hopelessly inaccessible.

Every few moments some change in light and shade or in colour would

shift over the landscape. As soon as we had got our camp into order,

Woolley and I determined to start the attack on the mountains at once.

As far as we knew, all the peaks on the east side of the fjord were

unclimbed. We were not joined by Hastings and Priestman, they having

to return to Svolvaer for some more baggage. Straight behind our camp

the hill-side rose sheer; up these precipitous slabs of glacier-worn

rock we made our way, using the small ledges on which grew grass and

moss. So steep was the mountain-side that when a spot was reached fully

a thousand feet above our camp, it looked as if we could almost have

thrown a stone on to the white tents below by the water's edge.

After that we came to more easy travelling, still, however, over

glaciated rocks, finally reaching a small glacier.

All along the head of the glacier were precipitous rocks, rising here

and there to peaks forming the watershed of the island. At the head and

towards the right lay a snow col, filling a deep gap in the rock wall

in front of us. Towards this we made our way. The ascent of the ridge

from this col to the left was by no means easy climbing, and we soon

found that ridge-climbing in the Lofoten, even though there was no ice

on the rocks, was often difficult and sometimes impossible. Eventually,

by a series of traverses on the south-east side and by climbing up

some cracks, we succeeded in reaching our first summit. Here a cairn

was built, and I photographed an exceedingly tame ptarmigan in the

foreground against an excessively savage-looking peak in the background

named Rulten. We were at a height of about 3000 feet. Rulten, from

where we were, looked hopelessly inaccessible; but Higraf Tind, the

second highest peak in Lofoten, when examined through a glass, promised

not only a fine climb, but also success.

One of the great charms of climbing in Lofoten is that to hurry is

unnecessary, for it is daylight through all the twenty-four hours: a

night out on the mountains in darkness is impossible. Moreover, owing

to the comparative smallness of the mountains more than one first

ascent may be made in a morning or an afternoon.

As Woolley and I saw several more summits on our ridge (the

Langstrandtinder) towards the north-east, we started off for them after

we had fully exhausted the view, and smoked as many pipes as were

necessary to produce a sensation of rest. In fact, to me one of the

chief reasons for moving on to the next peak was that again I might

have the excuse for being lazy, again look at the sky, the far-off

mountains, and the endless expanse of the sea beyond. The climbing

along the ridge was easy, and two more summits were ascended; a small

cairn was left on each of their tops.

Further progress along the ridge was, however, impossible, for a

deep gap of about five hundred feet cut us off from the next peak.

We therefore descended on the north side of the mountain to a steep

snow slope, which led down for several hundreds of feet to the glacier

below. Thence following our route of the morning we descended the steep

rock face above our camp, and got home in time for dinner.

During the next two days we paid a part of our penalty for being on

the shores of the Gulf Stream. Clouds hid the mountains, and rain and

dull weather kept us at sea-level. But magnificent weather followed

on August 7, and we were all impatient to start for the virgin peak,

Higraf Tind, 3780 feet, the second highest mountain in Lofoten.

In order to get to the base of the mountain we rowed in our boat across

the small arm of the Östnes Fjord, by whose shores we were camped,

and beached our boat at Liland. Thence making our way through the

thickets of dwarf birch up the lower stretches of the small valley

of Lilandsdal, we arrived at the foot of the great precipice which

constitutes the upper part of the mountain.

Rimming the head of the valley was the rocky ridge which connects

Higraf Tind with Gjeitgaljar. To follow this ridge to the summit of our

mountain would have necessitated climbing over various pinnacles and

notches, and as we were very sceptical as to whether we should be able

to surmount these difficulties, we turned to our left along a small

ledge which appeared to run in and out of the gullies that seamed this

southern face of Higraf Tind.

On more than one occasion we found ourselves in places where great

care was necessary, and our spirits rose and fell as we either found

a narrow ledge which would safely lead us into one of the many rock

gullies and out again on the far side, or were forced back to try

higher up or lower down on the face of the mountain.

Eventually we emerged on the arête which led up to the topmost peak.

The summit of the mountain consisted of huge monoliths of what I should

call granite (it may, however, be gabbro), similar in appearance to

those on the top of the Charmoz, and also similar to the Charmoz in

being very narrow with tremendous precipices on each side.

A short distance below the top a small promontory on the ridge afforded

a splendid point from which a photograph could be taken. Woolley was

sent on so that he might be photographed, proudly planting his ice-axe

on the topmost pinnacle. In due time he appeared clear cut against

the sky; but immediately afterwards from his gesticulations I could

see that something was wrong. The reason was obvious when after a few

moments I joined him. Twenty feet away was another summit a few feet

higher, and between the two a gulf was fixed.

Below us the rock fell sheer for over thirty feet with never a crack in

it, whilst on the opposite side of the chasm the great blocks overhung,

so that even had we descended hand over hand on the rope into the gap,

direct ascent on the other side was hopeless.

But remembering our tactics lower down we tried further back for a

traverse, and soon found that by climbing down a crack between two huge

blocks on the eastern side we could get round into the gap. So far so

good, but how to surmount the difficulties on the further side! An

attempt to traverse on the western side was seen to be hopeless, but

an obliging ledge on the other face ran round a corner. Where would

it lead to? Cautiously we edged along it, passing under the summit

of the mountain. Another crack between great slabs was found; up this

we clambered, and once at its top all difficulty disappeared. We had

conquered Higraf Tind, and all that remained for us to do was to crown

the vanquished mountain with a cairn.

Then we returned to the lower summit, where the cameras and baggage had

been left. After toil came repose. The afternoon was perfect, only a

few clouds floated in the clear sky. Far away to the south-west could

be seen the outer Lofoten Islands, a mass of tangled mountain forms, in

colour every conceivable shade of atmospheric blue and purple, whilst

beyond lay the calm glittering ocean, and far, far away the last and

loneliest of the Lofoten, the island of Röst. Nearer and beneath us

were numberless peaks, the majority of them unclimbed; of them, next

in height to Higraf Tind were Gjeitgaljar and Rulten. In the distance

across the Raftsund in the island of Hindö we could see Mösadlen and

its two attendant pinnacles of rock. These pinnacles, from their

appearance, should be excessively difficult to climb.

At our feet lay the Blaaskovl glacier with the Troldfjordvatn beyond,

a solitary iceberg floating on its waters, and further the Trold Fjord

and glimpses of the Raftsund. All these combined to give an effect of

space and depth to the view far in excess of what one would expect from

mountains not 4000 feet above their base.

We lingered for a long time on the summit; but in a land where, at

that time of year, night never comes, what need was there to hurry?

The extraordinary atmospheric colours, the ever-changing forms of the

clouds, and the slowly slanting rays of the sun, flashing first on one

peak and then on another, produced a wonderful picture. Also it was the

first time that I had been able to master the complicated geography of

the district, and the peaks Store Trold Tind, Svartsund Tind, Isvand

Tind, and others that my friends had climbed when they were last camped

by the Raftsund, were pointed out to me. No icy wind shrilled across

the mountains, darkness would not visit this land for many days yet; to

hasten would have been as foolish as it was unnecessary.

After our victory over Higraf Tind came the deluge; for three nights

and days the heavens were opened and the rains descended. Had it

not been for strenuous efforts on our part in trench digging, our

camp would have been bodily washed into the fjord. On one morning an

aluminium pan out in the open served as an amateur rain-gauge; in

three hours about three inches of water were registered, proving that

Lofoten can easily compete with our Atlantic coast as regards rainfall.

On the return of fine weather we determined to attack Rulten. In our

boat we rowed to his base, landing in a small bay named Flaeskvik. The

lower slopes of the mountain were very steep, and the usual climbing

from ledge to ledge and up gullies had to be resorted to.

After a toilsome climb, for the day was moist and warm, we finally

emerged on to the true south-west arête, having discovered on our way

up a most remarkable window in one of the ridges.

The difficulties now began, for the ridge at once steepened; moreover,

in slimness it almost resembled the Grépon. I tried to climb straight

up the ridge, but perpendicular slabs, with only small cracks in

them, barred the way. To be entirely outside the mountain, when in a

peculiarly difficult place, is by no means pleasant. The imagination

is far less troubled with ideas of what might happen should one fall,

when the extreme steepness is partially hidden from one's view in the

privacy of a rock chimney.

Baffled in my attempt to make a direct ascent, I looked to the left for

some convenient traverse. There was none; vertical slabs, many hundreds

of feet high, entirely stopped the way. To the right hand a ledge was

found which led for a short distance along the side of the mountain,

but smooth rocks, bending over into space, brought my investigations

there also to an abrupt conclusion. It might have been possible from

the end of this traverse to climb upwards on to the ridge, but later

we saw, on our return journey, that should we have surmounted this

difficulty, further along the sky-line more than one gap would almost

certainly have prevented our reaching the top. The point where we

stopped was below 3000 feet, therefore there was at least 800 feet more

of the mountain to climb.

Rulten is undeniably a difficult peak; at present I have seen no likely

way up it, but no doubt by a systematic attack, by trying first one

side and then another, a weak spot would be discovered.

During the day we had seen the Östnes Fjord dotted over with thousands

of boats, and as we descended on to the beach, we found many of the

fisherfolk on shore drying their herring-nets on the rocks, for it was

the herring fishery that had brought them into the fjord.

These nets are often as much as 800 feet long by 100 to 130 feet deep,

and a really fortunate haul will bring in often many hundreds of pounds

worth of fish; enough, in fact, to fill more than one small steamer.

It is, of course, in the early spring, from January to April, that the

great cod fishery is carried on, for it is then that the cod migrate to

the coast. The fish are caught with hooks and lines, and it is the cod

fishery which forms the chief trade of the Lofoten Islands.

There are two usual methods of preparing the fish for the market,

either by drying (Törfisk) or salting (Klipfisk). The former is the

old-fashioned method, and is carried out by drying the cod on wooden

scaffolds, after they have been cleaned and the heads removed. And an

ancient rule forbade fish being hung up after April 12th, or taken

down before June 12th. By far the greater portion of the cod, however,

are exported as Klipfisk, Spain being the chief customer, taking about

three-fifths of the whole amount exported. Of the remainder of the cod,

the liver produces cod-liver oil, the roe is exported to France for

sardine bait, and the heads and other parts are turned into manure.

The next day was gloriously fine, so we stretched our Alpine ropes to

their fullest extent, between the birch trees, and hung everything

in the camp on them to dry. Then we bathed in the clear water of the

fjord, taking headers into the deep water from the smoothly polished

rocks on the shore.

Ever since we had pitched our tents by the side of the fjord,

Gjeitgaljar Tind had waited patiently. Day by day we had seen the mists

play hide-and-seek behind his jagged pinnacles of rock; now we thought

the time had arrived for us to attack this formidable looking aiguille.

In appearance by far the most difficult peak we had seen, it turned out

the most easy to climb; in fact, there was no difficulty experienced

anywhere on the ascent.

Our route lay up a deep gully partly filled with snow, on the left of

the peak, which led us on to a small snow-field behind the summit. On

the way up this gully a splendid view of the pinnacle ridge, in front

of the top of the mountain, was obtained. A more formidable series of

rock towers I have never seen. From the snow-field to the highest point

is easy climbing. The top consists of some flat slabs of rock, but the

eastern edge is most sensational, and is best investigated by lying on

one's stomach before looking over, for it drops sheer for many hundreds

of feet. A small stone let fall from the outstretched hand is almost

out of sight before it hits the vertical side of the mountain.

A more ideal summit for a cairn could hardly be imagined; moreover,

there were plenty of loose stones, so Hogrenning was set to build one

worthy of the mountain. He produced one seven feet high, and big enough

to proclaim to all interested the fact that somebody at least had

scaled that impossible looking rock pinnacle Gjeitgaljar.

On the next day we broke up our camp, putting on board the steamer

_Röst_ all our baggage; but it was not till late on the day following

that we arrived back again at Svolvaer, for the _Röst_ had to call at

all the small hamlets on the outer islands, almost as far down as the

end of Moskenesö. We stopped just short of the historic Maelström, but

had we gone further the Maelström would not have been seen, for we

voyaged through summer seas.

Hastings now left us in order to go to the Lyngen peninsula, whilst

Woolley, Priestman, and I went to Digermulen on the Raftsund.

From there, that most extraordinary fjord, the Trold Fjord was visited,

and we also walked up to the Troldfjordvatn. This mountain tarn,

hidden away amongst the mountains and flanked with dark and forbidding

precipices, has a beauty all its own, and in some respects reminds one

of Loch Coruisk.

At its head is a small glacier, whose snout, occasionally breaking off,

produces icebergs. The precipices along its shore fall sheer into its

dark waters, and the surrounding peaks are wild and savage, but its

sides lack the wonderful soft-coloured clothing of the heather, and the

rocks are not of such rich hues as the gabbro of Skye. Perhaps I may

be wrong, yet it seemed to me that the mountains themselves are not so

graceful, neither are the long curving lines so fine as those that can

be seen amongst the Coolin from the shores of Coruisk.

From Digermulen we attempted the ascent of another of the unclimbed

peaks of Öst Vaagö. It is an unnamed peak north of Rörhop Vand. But

the weather was bad, and clouds prevented us ever seeing the summit of

our peak. We had, however, a most delightful climb, first up a small

glacier, marked Dijerna on the map, thence up some steep rocks to the

ridge, which joined our mountain with the Troldtinder. Following this

ridge, we ultimately got into a gap, but beyond this we could see no

possible way; traversing for a short distance on the western face only

showed us that there was little likelihood of our ever getting back

again on to the arête, so reluctantly we returned, and got back to

Digermulen in the rain.

The weather then went from bad to worse. So we boarded the steamer

_Röst_ once more, and went for a trip in mist, rain, and storm round

Langö, one of the outer islands of Vesteraalen. All that we saw

were the grey seas, the clouds lying low on the mountains, and most

extraordinary places bristling with rocks, into which our captain took

the small _Röst_, tossed to and fro by the great rolling waves of the

Arctic ocean. The voyage in fine weather must be superb.

On our return to Svolvaer, Woolley and I travelled south with

Priestman, as far as Trondhjem, and from there went home to England.

It is a very curious fact that so few mountaineers go to Lofoten. As

far back as 1867 the Rev. St. John Tyrwhitt read a paper before the

Alpine Club, in which he says, 'An exploration of the Loffodens would

be a work worthy of the Club in every sense of the words.' Again, in

1869, Professor Bonney, who visited these islands with E. Walton,

speaks 'strongly of the wonderful grandeur and beauty of some parts of

the Lofotens,' and then the next paper in the _Alpine Club Journal_ is

that of Priestman in 1898 nearly thirty years later.

It is true that the peaks are only 4000 feet high, and therefore

cannot compete with those of 14,000 feet; also, they possess no large

glaciers, neither are the valleys filled with pine forests, and the

foregrounds, as a rule, are desolate and the rocks without much colour:

but the rock climbing is as good as any one could wish to get, the rock

resembling in many respects that of the Chamonix Aiguilles.

Moreover, and herein lies the strong charm of this mountain-land, it

is a land of exquisite atmospheric effects. For those who care to

climb where great expanses of sky and clouds arch slowly down to the

far-off horizon, and where lonely islands are set in open spaces of

blue water, these remote Lofoten mountain fastnesses beyond the Arctic

Circle are difficult to equal. The low circling sun making it for ever

afternoon, flooding sky and mountain-land in warm, luminous colour,

which deepens the distances, and adds perspective to ridge after ridge

of serrated and barren peaks, all these purely æsthetic qualifications

are possessed in a high degree by the Lofoten Islands. Also for those

who are willing to spend a lazy, delightful summer holiday in camp by

the side of the many-voiced sea, far from busy crowds and the worries

of civilisation, there are few spots more peaceful, more fascinating,

or more beautiful than these Lofoten Islands, where the wondrous summer

skies slowly change their exquisitely rich colouring of long-drawn-out

evening for the more delicate tints of the early dawn, and where the

restless waves of the great Arctic Ocean are for ever washing against

the precipitous sides of the bare, rock-girt mountains.

A CHUILIONN

'But in the prime of the summer-time

Give me the Isle of Skye.'

A. NICOLSON.

Once upon a time, as the story-books say, Dr. Samuel Johnson was

bold enough to forsake his beloved Fleet Street, and, at the age of

sixty-four, journey northwards in company with Boswell to the Hebrides,

the Ultima Thule of those days. He finally arrived in the Island

of Skye, 'without any memorable accident,' about the beginning of

September 1773, where he experienced all the severities of ordinary

Skye weather--much rain and many gales--and this state of things

continuing throughout the month, the Doctor found some difficulty in

getting back again to the mainland. He writes, 'Having been detained by

storms many days in Skie, we left, as we thought with a fair wind; but

a violent gust which Bos had a great mind to call a tempest, forced us

into Col, an obscure island.'

The wild and beautiful scenery of the Island of Skye does not seem to

have made any impression on Johnson, and he leaves with no regret,

merely admitting, that he has 'many pictures in his mind which he

could not have had without his journey,' and that these pictures 'will

serve later for pleasing topics of conversation.' What these pictures

were he does not say, but they probably had little to do with what

we now call the beauties of the Highlands; for he mentions that he

found little entertainment in the wildernesses of the Hebrides, the

universal barrenness oppressed him, and he points out that 'in those

countries you are not to suppose that you shall find villages or

enclosures. The traveller wanders through a naked desert, gratified

sometimes but rarely with sight of cows, and now and then finds heaps

of loose stones and turf in a cavity between the rocks, where a being,

born with all those powers which education expands, and all those

sensations which culture refines, is condemned to shelter itself from

the wind and the rain.' Also, that 'a walk upon ploughed fields in

England is a dance upon carpets, compared to the toilsome drudgery of

wandering in Skie.' But it is not surprising that Johnson at the age

of sixty-four looked upon hilly country with aversion--the mountains

interfered with his convenience. He only mentions the hills in Skye

once. 'Here are mountains that I should once have climbed,' he writes

to his friend Mrs. Thale; 'but to climb steeps is now very laborious,

and to descend them dangerous.' No doubt at the Doctor's age he was

right; still we feel somewhat disappointed that during his stay at

Talisker, he was apparently unconscious of the Coolin, and we receive

but small consolation from his elegant epistolary communications, when

they tell us instead, that he was gratified sometimes but rarely with

sight of cows, and that Mr. Boswell was affected almost to tears by the

illustrious ruins at Iona.

[Illustration: The Coolin.]

All this shows us, how the attitude of people towards the wilds of the

Highlands has become completely changed in one century, for Johnson

was not in any way peculiar in his ideas. Look where we will in the

literature of that time, we find the same sentiments. Pennant, who

visited Skye the year before Dr. Johnson, describes the Coolin as 'a

savage series of rude mountains,' whilst Blaven, 'affects him with

astonishment.' Thirty years later the only natural objects in the

island that interested Forsyth, at least so far as one can judge

from what he writes in _The Beauties of Scotland_, were 'an obelisk

of uncommon magnitude' in the parish of Snizort, (probably the Storr

Rock,) and a waterfall and sea cave near Portree.

But a new school was growing up, and Sir Walter Scott was one of the

first to insist, that a visit to the Highlands would reveal objects

more interesting than cows, waterfalls, and sea caves. People were

beginning to find in the torrents, mountains, lochs, and pine woods,

beauties they had not seen before. No longer were the hills chaotic

masses of rock, ready at any moment to fall and overwhelm the valleys,

nor were the moors and glens expanses of uniform barrenness or gloomy

mountain fastnesses. Robson, at the beginning of last century (1815),

writing of one of the most remote and wild regions of the Highlands,

namely the head of Glen Tilt, says: 'Of all the romantic scenes which

are presented to those who explore the recesses of the Grampians, none

will be found to possess a more picturesque combination of wild and

characteristic beauty than this'; and in the preface to his accurate

and delightful volume on the scenery of the Grampian mountains, he

writes: 'With the man of taste few districts in this kingdom have equal

claim to admiration.'

Robson was not a Scotchman, but a London artist; yet one has only to

look at his sketches, and read the letterpress of his book to see

how well he appreciated mountain form, and how he understood, in no

uncertain manner, that which now delights us nearly a century later

in the Highlands. His water-colour picture of Loch Coruisk[M] is an

honest attempt to accurately reproduce the wonderful colour and savage

beauty of the grandest of all Scotch lochs, and one is only sorry that

he has introduced into the foreground a fully dressed Highlander--a

legacy, no doubt, of that old feeling that made Dr. Johnson crave for

cows, and that even now survives at the present time in the pretty

sketches of Scotch hills, where the foreground is animated by Highland

cattle.

Since Robson's time, many people have been to the Highlands and to Skye

and the Coolin. Turner visited them, and the impression produced may be

seen from his drawing of Loch Coriskin. This drawing is described by

Ruskin in _Modern Painters_ as 'a perfect expression of the Inferior

Mountains,' yet any one who had really seen the Coolin would hardly

be justified in asserting that Turner's drawing (Fig. 69, vol. iv.,

_Modern Painters_) was the perfect expression of the hills round Sgurr

Dubh, even though it may be the perfect expression of an inferior

mountain.

Fortunately the Coolin are never inferior mountains, unless we measure

them by the number of feet they rise above the sea. 'Comparative bulk

and height,' says the late Sheriff Nicolson, 'are of course important

elements in mountain grandeur, but outline and features are, as with

human beings, even more important.' Clachlet at Easter, covered with

snow and seen across the moor of Rannoch at a distance of a few miles,

towers up into the heavens just as grandly as a peak five times its

altitude does in the Himalaya, when that peak is seen from a point

thirty miles away.

It is the atmosphere that adds both dignity and charm to these Scotch

hills, making them appear far bigger than they would in the clearer

air of the larger mountain ranges, and giving them all the softened

colour and perspective so necessary to emphasise the real beauty of

true mountains. Their form also helps them in no small degree. The

long-flowing lines of the lower slopes gradually rising from the

moorland below, and the beautifully carved corries that nestle into

their sides, all tend to strengthen and serve as a fit substructure for

their more wild and broken summits.

At their feet lie no valleys with dirty-white glacier streams tearing

down between mud banks, and never a proper pool in them; their sides

are not disfigured with monotonous pine forests of a uniform light

green colour, but the heather and the grey rocks, lichen-covered,

mingle together on their slopes, lighting up with every flash of

sunshine, or deepening into every shade of brown and purple gloom, as

the storm clouds sweep over their summits; whilst, below, brown trout

streams wander between wild birches and Scotch firs, staying here in

some dark pool hidden away under the rocks covered with ferns and

heather, flashing out again there into the sunshine over the pebbles,

and across the low-lying moor.

Those who have seen the Coolin from the moors above Talisker in the

twilight, or who have watched them on a summer's evening from Kyle

Akin, apparently clothed in deep purple velvet broidered with gold, and

rising out of the 'wandering fields of barren foam,' whilst

'The charmed sunset linger'd low adown

In the red west';

or lazily spent a whole day on the sand beaches of Arisaig point,

gazing, towards Rum and Skye lying light blue on the horizon, and

across a sea brilliant in colour as the Mediterranean amongst the

Ionian islands; or lingered at the head of Loch Coruisk till the last

pale light has faded out of the heavens behind Sgurr Alasdair, and only

the murmur of the streams breaks the stillness of the night air--those

who have thus seen the Coolin will know that they are beautiful. But

the fascination that these mountains exercise over those that know

them well is manifold; there are more pleasures that the Coolin can

offer than those of being merely very beautiful. For the mountaineer

who wanders in the heart of this marvellous mountain land there are

rock climbs without end. He can spend hour after hour exploring the

corries, or threading the intricacies of the narrow rock edges that

form so large a part of the sky-line. From the summits he can watch

the mists sweeping up from below, and hurrying over the bealachs in

tumbled masses of vapour, or he can dreamily follow the white sails of

the boats, far out to sea, as they slowly make for the outer islands;

then clambering down the precipitous faces he can repose in some

sheltered nook and listen to the sound of a burn, perhaps a thousand

feet below, echoed across from the sheer walls of rock on the other

side of the corrie; there is always something new to interest him--it

may be a gully that requires the utmost of his skill as a mountaineer,

or it may be a view of hill, moor, and loch backed by the Atlantic and

the far-off isles of the western sea. Nowhere in the British Islands

are there any rock climbs to be compared with those in Skye, measure

them by what standard you will--length, variety, or difficulty. Should

any one doubt this, let him some fine morning walk up from the head of

Coruisk to the rocky slabs at the foot of Sgurr a'Ghreadaidh. There

he will see the bare grey rocks rising out from the heather not 500

feet above the level of the loch, and there walls, ridges, and towers

of weather-worn gabbro stretch with hardly a break to the summit of

the mountain, 2800 feet above him. Measured on the map, it is but half

a mile, but that half mile will tax his muscles; he must climb up

gullies that the mountain torrents have worn out of the precipices,

and over slabs of rock sloping down into space at an angle that makes

handhold necessary as well as foothold; he must creep out round edges

on to the faces of perpendicular cliffs, only to find that after all

the perpendicular cliff itself must be scaled before he can win back

again to the ridge that is to lead him to the topmost peak. There are

many such climbs in the Coolin. The pinnacles of Sgurr nan Gillean, the

four tops of Sgurr a'Mhadaidh, and the ridge from Sgurr Dearg to Sgurr

Dubh, are well known, but the face climbs have been neglected. The face

of Sgurr a'Mhadaidh from Tairneilear, the face of Sgurr Alasdair from

Coire Labain, are both excellent examples of what these mountains can

offer to any one who wants a first-rate scramble on perfect rock. Sgurr

a'Coir' an Lochain on the northern face gives a climb as good as one

could anywhere wish to get, yet it is only a preliminary one to those

on the giants Sgurr Alasdair and Sgurr Dearg that lie behind.

But splendid though the climbing on the Coolin may be, it is only

one of the attractions, possibly a minor attraction, to these hills,

and there are many other mountain ranges where rock-climbing can be

found. It is the individuality of the Coolin that makes the lover of

the hills come back again and again to Skye, and this is true also of

other mountain districts on the mainland of Scotland. To those who can

appreciate the beauty of true hill form, the ever-changing colour and

wonderful power and character of the sea-girt islands of the west, the

lonely grandeur of Rannoch moor, the spacious wooded valley of the

Spey at Aviemore, backed by the Cairngorm mountains, wild Glen Affric

prodigal of gnarled pines abounding in strange curves of strength, or

the savage gloom of Glencoe--all these scenes tell the same tale, and

proclaim in no doubtful manner, that the Scotch mountain land in its

own way is able to offer some of the most beautiful mountain scenery in

the world.

The Highlands of Scotland contain mountain form of the very finest

and most subtle kind--form not so much architectural, of which Ruskin

writes, 'These great cathedrals of the earth, with their gates of rock,

pavements of clouds, choirs of streams and stone, altars of snow, and

vaults of purple traversed by the continual stars,' but form where

the savage grandeur, the strength, and the vastness of the mountains

is subordinate to simpler, yet in a way more complicated, structures.

Scotch mountains have something finer to give than architectural form.

In their modelling may be seen the same beauties that in perfection

exist in Greek statuary. The curving lines of the human figure are more

subtle than those of any cathedral ever built. The Aiguilles round

Mont Blanc are architectural in the highest degree, but the mighty

summit rising up far above them into the blue sky, draped in wonderful

and sweeping lines of snow and ice, marvellously strong, yet full of

moderation, is far more mysterious, far more beautiful, than all the

serrated ridges and peaks that cluster round its base.

It is in the gentleness of ascent in many of the Highland hills, in

the restraint and repose of the slopes 'full of slumber,' that we can

trace all the finer and more delicate human lines; and it is due to the

strength of these lines that the bigger mountains seem to rise without

an effort from the moors and smaller hills that surround them. To

many people the Cairngorm range is composed of shapeless, flat-topped

mountains devoid almost of any character. They do not rise like the

Matterhorn in savage grandeur, yet the sculptured sides of Braeriach,

seen from Sgoran Dubh Mhor, are in reality far more full of rich and

intricate mountain sculpture, than the whole face of the Matterhorn as

seen from the Riffel Alp.

The individuality of the Coolin is not seen in their summits, which

are often almost ugly, but in the colour of the rocks, the atmospheric

effects, the relative largeness and harmony of the details compared

with the actual size of the mountains, and most of all in the mountain

mystery that wraps them round: not the mystery of clearness such as is

seen in the Alps and Himalaya, where range after range recedes into the

infinite distance, till the white snow peaks cannot be distinguished

from the clouds, but in the secret beauty born of the mists, the rain,

and the sunshine, in a quiet and untroubled land, no longer vexed

by the more rude and violent manifestations of the active powers of

Nature. Once there was a time when these peaks were the centre of a

great cataclysm; they are the shattered remains of a vast volcano that

ages since poured its lavas in mighty flood far and wide over the

land; since then the glaciers in prehistoric times have polished and

worn down the corries and the valley floors, leaving scars and wounds

everywhere as a testimony of this power; but the fire age and the ice

age are past; now the still, clear waters of Coruisk ripple in the

breeze, by the lochside lie the fallen masses of the hills, and the

shattered debris left by the glaciers of bygone days; these harbour the

dwarf hazel, the purple heather, and the wildflowers, whilst corrie,

glen, and mountain-side bask in the summer sunlight.

But when the wild Atlantic storms sweep across the mountains; when the

streams gather in volume, and the bare rock faces are streaked with

the foam of a thousand waterfalls; when the wind shrieks amongst the

rock pinnacles, and sky, loch, and hillside all are one dull grey, the

Coolin can be savage and dreary indeed. Perhaps, though, the clouds

towards evening may break; then the torn masses of vapour tearing in

mad hunt along the ridges will be lit up by the rays of the sun slowly

descending into the western sea, 'robing the gloom with a vesture of

divers colours, of which the threads are purple and scarlet, and the

embroideries flame'; and as the light flashes from the black rocks, and

the shadows deepen in the corries, the superb beauty, the melancholy,

the mystery of these mountains of the Isle of Mist will be revealed.

But the golden glory of the sunset will melt from off the mountains,

the light that silvered the great slabs will slowly fail; from out the

corries darkness heralding the black night will creep with stealthy

tread, hiding all in gloom; then, last of all, beyond the darkly

luminous, jagged, and fantastic outline of the Coolin the glittering

stars will flash from the clear sky, no wind will stir the great

quiet, and only the far-off sound, born of the rhythmic murmur of the

sea-waves beating on the rock-bound shore of lonely Scavaig, remains as

a memory of the storm.

'In conclusion, let us sum up the lessons that the

mountains of the British Isles can teach us. They

can give healthy exercise, and cultivate in us the

power of appreciating the beauties and grandeur

of nature.... Amongst them we may learn the

proper uses of our legs.... We may learn to climb

difficult rocks, to avoid dislodging loose stones,

and to guard against those dangers that are

peculiar to grassy mountains.... We can cultivate

perseverance, courage, the quiet, uncomplaining

endurance of hardships, and last, but not least

important, those habits of constant care and

prudence without which mountaineering ceases to

be one of the finest sports in the world, and may

degenerate into a gambling transaction with the

forces of nature, with human life for the stake.'

CHARLES PILKINGTON.

Turning over the pages one day of the index of the _Alpine Club

Journal_, I looked for information on the mountains of Ireland.

Greece, Greenland, Patagonia, the Peepsa fly, and mountain midgets

were all mentioned, but Ireland and its many ranges of hills I sought

for in vain. This obviously was a most monstrous injustice, and it

almost seemed, at first sight, as if a tour of exploration into this

apparently unknown land might be undertaken for the purpose of climbing

the numerous and neglected heights. Years ago, however, I had visited

several parts of Ireland, the Mourne mountains, the north of Antrim,

and a great part of Donegal, and I knew that there were cairns at

least on the summits of most of the mountains; presumably, therefore,

they had been visited by man before my arrival.

Still it is strange that Ireland, with so many groups of hills, and

some of them so wonderfully beautiful, should not attract more notice

in the mountaineering world. Why should not an Irish club, like the

Climbers' Club, the Cairngorm Club, or the Scottish Mountaineering

Club, be formed? Mr. H. C. Hart, in his introduction to Ireland

in _Climbing in the British Isles_, has very ably given both the

possibilities and the limits of Irish climbing, and I cannot do better

than quote his words: 'But there are ample opportunities for acquiring

the art of mountain craft, the instinct which enables the pedestrian

to guide himself alone from crest to crest, from ridge to ridge, with

the least labour. He will learn how to plan out his course from the

base of cliff or gully, marking each foot and hand grip with calm

attention; and knowing when to cease to attempt impossibilities, he

will learn to trust in himself, and acquire that most necessary of

all climbers' acquirements, a philosophic, contemplative calm in the

presence of danger or difficult dilemmas. If the beginner is desirous

of rock practice, or the practised hand requires to test his condition

or improve his form, there is many a rocky coast where the muscles and

nerves and stamina can be trained to perfection. Kerry and Donegal are

competent to form a skilled mountaineer out of any capable aspirant.

Ice and snow craft is an accomplishment which must of course be learnt

elsewhere.'

[Illustration: _The Macgillicuddy's Reeks._]

All this being true, it seems incomprehensible that Ireland should not

be looked upon more favourably as a possible mountaineering country.

I am afraid nowadays, however, that unless a considerable amount of

rock gymnastics can be made part of a climb, the modern mountaineer is

not satisfied. Merely beautiful scenery is insufficient to lure him

to the mountains. Still, as Mr. Hart says, Kerry and Donegal are good

training-grounds for the novice. This I can vouch for; the cliffs of

Slieve League, 1972 feet, form one of the finest sea cliffs in the

British Isles, and much of the best scenery amongst the Macgillicuddy's

Reeks can only be obtained by those who are willing to do some rock

scrambling.

Now the modern mountaineer, owing to this specialisation in rock

climbing, is apt to lose much that the earlier mountain climbers

enjoyed; whilst, in days gone by, the wanderer amongst the mountains

also missed much by being unable to deal with difficult rocks. On

the other hand, the expert of to-day gains in both directions, but he

must beware of spending all his time in mere gymnastics or the pure

athletics of mountaineering. One of Ireland's most famous literary men,

the Rev. J. P. Mahaffy, more than a quarter of a century ago in _Social

Life in Greece_, points out the dangers of immoderate specialisation

in bodily exercise, and how alien it was to Greek education. 'The

theoretical educators,' he says, 'knew quite well what most of us do

not, that field sports are vastly superior to pure athletics in their

effects upon the mind.' Again: 'The Greeks knew what we ignore, that

such sports as require excessive bodily training and care are low and

debasing in comparison to those which demand only the ordinary strength

and quickness, daring and decision in danger, resource and ingenuity in

difficulties.' In these days the old Greek virtue of moderation is hard

to follow. But perhaps in the sport of mountaineering it is more easily

observed than in many others, for he who wanders amongst the hills is

not driven forward by strenuous competition, no crowd applauds the

success of some daring feat, and as a rule these immoderate efforts can

be avoided.

The extent of wild mountainous country in Ireland where the mountaineer

can enjoy his sport is much greater than is generally supposed; the

Kerry mountains occupy a larger area than the Snowdon group in North

Wales; then there are the Wicklow mountains, the Mourne mountains, the

Donegal Highlands, the Galtee More group, and the mountainous country

of Connemara and Mayo, which last is about forty miles long by thirty

miles wide.

Over all these scattered groups the mountaineer can wander at his will;

he will be stopped by no one. Moreover, this west coast of Ireland has

more to offer than mountains. Should the visitor not be extraordinarily

enthusiastic and wish to walk over the hills every day in the week,

from Kerry to Donegal there are always plenty of rivers and lakes

where salmon and trout can be caught; the scenery, too, is often of

the finest description, wonderfully wild sea lochs to explore, with a

magnificent rock-bound coast, on whose shores the restless Atlantic

breaks, also numberless lonely islands far out in the sea. To those

who care for beautiful soft atmospheric lights, for great stretches of

heather lands, of sky, or of clouds, for a clean sea with often miles

of yellow sands or splendid cliffs, all these can be found on Ireland's

Atlantic coast, and they surely are a sufficient enticement to bring

far more visitors to this beautiful country than are to be found there

at the present time.

It is now many years since I was stopping at Carrick in Donegal bay.

Not many miles west of Carrick is Slieve League. Although it is not

quite 2000 feet high, yet it needs a good climber to ascend this hill

from the seashore at its feet. I do not know what the average angle

may be, but on one summer afternoon it took me a very long time to

accomplish the ascent.

Of course there is a great deal of heather and grass set at the

steepest angle on which they will grow; but a climber ought to be able

to be as safe on such a mountain-side as he is on hard rock or on snow

or ice, and unless experience is obtained, he will remain a novice in

this particular kind of climbing.

There was more than one place on the way up Slieve League from the

seashore that needed considerable care, and I well remember those

'nasty ravines, iron-floored and steep-edged,' that Mr. Hart mentions

in his description of the place.

Another unique experience, not however a mountaineering one, that I had

whilst stopping at Carrick, was in the sea caves in the cliffs just

west of Slieve League. It is only in the finest weather that a boat

can venture near them, for even after several days of east wind off

the land the Atlantic swell is still big enough, unless great care is

taken, to break a rowing boat to pieces on the rocks.

The cliffs where the cave is situated come down sheer into the dark

water below; the entrance is a great doorway with a somewhat slanting

roof, into which the full force of the waves from the open ocean can

play; and as the boat rises and falls on the water, the danger of

hidden rocks underneath the surface adds a certain amount of anxiety

to the other feelings that possess one, as the daylight begins to fade

away in the mysterious recesses of the cavern.

For about three hundred yards this tunnel is straight; by looking back

the opening can be seen growing smaller and smaller and more distant.

At length a great dome-shaped chamber is reached, from which branch out

other caves in various directions. Here the dim light of candles, the

washing of the water on the rocks, the thunderous booming of the surge

in unknown passages far away in the bowels of the mountain, where,

every sound being greatly magnified and echoed backwards and forwards,

all these produce most weird and awe-inspiring sensations. The mystery

and the sense of remoteness from the world, the uncanny feeling that a

thousand feet of solid rock lies between one and the sunshine, also

add to the effect. But when besides these things, we had been listening

to dreadful tales from our boatmen, of mermaids, of sea pigs light

green in colour with pink spots and human heads, that at night would

come 'wondering' round the boat, and finally of a 'great big beast, a

serpent,' as large as the steeple of a church, which was supposed not

only to feed on human beings when opportunity offered, but what was

worse, was said to inhabit the inner recesses of the very cave in which

we were, it is unnecessary to say how easy it was to be frightened at

anything.

The only unblocked waterway where a boat could pass on out of this

domed hall was to the right, and up this we were preparing to go in

search of seal, when some exceptionally large waves, tortured in

some narrow passages, sent a terrific boom with multitudinous echoes

reverberating through the caverns; at the same time a most curious

phenomenon, half sound, half vibration of the air occurred. It seemed

as though the whole body of the air in the cave pulsated, producing

a swishing sound with periods of about one second, which gradually

became fainter and fainter till it died away. Probably the cave had

been converted into a gigantic organ pipe, and the note was one so

low down in the scale that the vibrations were about one per second.

Unfortunately I suggested that it was the 'great big beast, the

serpent,' and that finished the expedition. Our boatmen were at once

terrified, shouting to each other, pushing and half rowing the boat in

a frenzy of fear. Amidst the bellowing noises of the various caverns

leading out of the central hall, and the angry hisses of 'the beast,

the serpent,' we departed most hurriedly for the outer air.

Slieve League, however, if the Ordnance Survey maps are to be trusted,

is not the finest cliff in Ireland. On the western coast of Achill

Island are the cliffs of Croaghaun, 2192 feet high. But my friend,

Colin Phillip, who was there in the summer of 1901, made a somewhat

startling discovery. A piece of land to the west of Croaghaun, more

than _a square quarter of a mile_, has been left out altogether

from the map. Where this land should be a bay is marked; perhaps,

however, his own words will describe better how the discovery was

made. 'The seaward face of Croaghaun is usually spoken of as an

almost perpendicular cliff of over 2000 feet. This is not true. It

is a fine, rocky, more or less buttressed mountain face, dropping to

the sea at an angle of perhaps 50 degrees in places. But its general

inclination would not be so much. There appears to be a curious error

in the Ordnance Survey map with regard to the sea front of this hill.

Expecting to find a grand view of this giant amongst the cliffs of

Ireland, I made for a point marked on the map as a headland, projecting

well out to sea on the west side of Croaghaun, from which a complete

survey of the face should have been obtained. I was astonished to find,

instead of a broad bay, with the great cliff of the mountain descending

into it, a narrow inlet, like a 'geo' in Shetland, on the other side of

which, almost completely blocking the view, was the south-west buttress

of Croaghaun, and certainly not steeper than 40 degrees.' The whole

bay, therefore, as marked on the Ordnance map, is now occupied by the

lower part of the mountain; consequently, instead of a sheer cliff,

this western side of the mountain is no more than an easy slope which

may be traversed in many places.

Another piece of information of Phillip's which may be novel, is that

perhaps Sir Walter Scott was right when he called the hills in Skye the

Cuchullin hills. During a discussion on the Skye hills with Mr. Seaton

F. Milligan (past vice-president of the Royal Society of Antiquaries of

Ireland), whom Phillip met on the west coast of Ireland, Mr. Milligan

said that the hills had been named after the Irish hero Cuchulain; and

the reason he gave was the following:--

In those early days the sons of the kings of Ireland were often sent to

Skye to learn the art of war. At the end of their first year, a test

of their progress was whether they were able to walk across what was

called 'the bridge of the cliffs'; this bridge is supposed to have been

part of the ridge of the Coolin. The bridge is thus described in the

legend:--

'Wonderful was the sight the bridge afforded, when

any one would leap upon it, for it narrowed until

it became as narrow as the hair of one's head, the

second time it shortened till it became short as

an inch, and the third time it grew slippery until

it was as slippery as an eel of the river, and the

fourth time it rose up on high against you as the

mast of a ship.'

That this description agrees with the ridges of Sgurr nan Gillean

(the peak of the young men) no one can deny, and the story goes on to

say how Cuchulain at once performs the feat at the first trial, so

astonishing the onlookers that the bridge was named after him.

In opposition, however, to this, we have the weighty statement of the

late Alexander Nicolson, who says,[N] 'They are known to the natives of

Skye and always have been as "A Chuilionn." There was an Ossianic hero

of the name Cuchulain, said to have been brought up at Dun-Sgàthaich,

an ancient fort near Ord in Skye, but the natives never called the

great mountain range by his name. In this view I am supported by our

greatest Celtic archæologist, Dr. Skene.'

But to return to Ireland: besides the cliffs on Achill, all along the

north coast of Mayo are excessively wild and grand precipices often of

hard quartzite rock, and this part of the west coast is perhaps the

finest and most picturesque in all Ireland.

East and south of Achill lie a series of detached mountains and ranges

of mountains, all of which are more or less interesting as they command

wide views of sea, valley, and moorland. South of the Killary lies

perhaps the most beautiful of all the mountainous districts in Ireland,

the district of Connemara. In fact, it is not exaggeration to say that

there are few finer groups of hills in Britain than the twelve Bens

of Connemara, and this is the more remarkable when one considers that

they are only 2395 feet high. To again quote Phillip: 'The views from

some of the summits are enchanting, in particular from the easily got

at summit W.S.W. of Leenane. From this point the Killary can be traced

from the ocean to its head. The valley of the Erriff river carries

the eye over the plains of Mayo northwards to the far away hills in

Sligo. To the eastward the Formnamore mountains, with glimpses through

their gaps of Loughs Maske and Corrib, beyond which the plains extend

through Mayo, Galway, to Clare. Then Maam Turk blocks the view, which

opens again, however, to the south, with wild moorland and the whole of

the twelve Bens. Through the gaps of these mountains the Atlantic is

seen in more than one direction, fringed by rocky headlands and white

sandy bays, carrying the eye back again to the westward and the solemn

Killary, beyond which, lying almost hidden amongst the hills, is the

beautiful valley of Delphi and glimpses of the Dhu Lough.'

I have left the Kerry hills till the last, because they are the

most important and the highest in Ireland. The Connemara hills are

perhaps, on the whole, more beautiful, but the hills of Kerry possess a

grandeur and such characteristic form, that one at once thinks of them

as mountains and not hills. This is not surprising, for they easily

surpass the English hills in height, Carran Tuohill, 3414 feet, Been

Keragh, 3314 feet, Caher, 3200 feet, and Brandon, 3127 feet, being the

highest.

Moreover their bases are in some cases (Brandon, for instance) on

the seashore. The chief points of this group, which in some respects

differentiate them from the other ranges of mountains in the British

Isles, are the numberless wild mountain tarns that lie hidden in their

corries, the masses of vegetation that clothe even the rock precipices,

and the curious capping of peat that is to be found on some of the

hill-tops.

In some instances, after climbing up hundreds of feet of rock from the

corrie below, one finds that the last twenty feet of the mountain is up

a steep slope of peat, occasionally almost corniced by the overhanging

fringe of heather. Then, too, the luxuriant growth of the trees in some

of the valleys, especially those near Killarney and at the head of

Caragh lake, is wonderful, and it is almost needless to say that the

upper part of the Lake of Killarney itself, beneath the Macgillicuddy's

Reeks, is unrivalled in the British Isles for rich beauty. There

are larger lakes surrounded by far wilder scenery in Scotland, for

instance in Glen Affric, or lakes like Loch Katrine that lie between

wonderful forested shores and beneath shapely mountains, or Rydal Water

or parts of Derwentwater in the Lake District; but the upper lake at

Killarney, as an example of winding stretches of clear waters, with

rocky shores clothed in oaks, firs, hollies, and other trees, the

foliage stretching upwards to the heather-covered mountains behind,

this particular part of the Kerry mountain land certainly in its own

way stands alone; it has no competitor.

The warm moist Atlantic climate has had almost the effect of a hothouse

on the flora of these sheltered valleys, whilst above, on the summits

of the mountains the first snow and storms of the winter and early

spring produce a rugged wildness that is only to be found in the

British Islands on mountains over 3000 feet high.

Carran Tuohill, the highest of the Macgillicuddy's Reeks, also the

highest mountain in Ireland, lies some distance away from Killarney.

Its eastern and northern faces are especially grand. At its foot can be

found more than one mountain tarn; Lough Gouragh, at the head of the

Hag's Glen, being very fine, for the greatest mountain precipice in

Ireland rises from its shores almost to the summit of Carran Tuohill,

about 2300 feet above. On the other side of the mountain, another tarn,

Coomloughra, is of a more ordinary type, even although it is encircled

by the three highest peaks in Ireland. Notwithstanding that the face of

Caher, which overlooks Coomloughra, is precipitous for more than 1000

feet, yet there is no very good climbing to be obtained on it, for the

rocks are treacherous; also, they run diagonally up and across the face

of the mountain.

The views from all these mountains that surround Coomloughra are very

fine. That from Been Keragh perhaps is the best for the surrounding

peaks; for, looking across the Hag's Glen at the black precipices of

Carran Tuohill and at the savage ridge which connects it with Been

Keragh, one wonders that such wild and desolate scenery can exist so

near to the rich and luxuriant vegetation of the valleys only a few

miles away.

From Carran Tuohill it is towards the west and south-west that the

finest outlook is obtained. Across the valley in which Coomloughra lies

are the cliffs of Caher; Dursey Island is seen in the distance at the

mouth of the Kenmare river; the small but shapely Skellig rocks jut

out of the open sea far away in the west; and Brandon, one of the most

beautiful of mountains, stands alone and solitary on the shores of the

wild Atlantic beyond the blue waters and the yellow sands of Dingle

bay. Heather moorland, desolate loughs, and peat mosses extend for

miles, and the great dome of the sky, perhaps flecked with soft clouds,

bends down to the far off horizon of the outer ocean.

To the west of the Macgillicuddy's Reeks, in a part of the country

but little visited, is Lough Coomacullen, one of the most wonderfully

beautiful mountain tarns I have ever seen. Hidden away amongst the

hills, and difficult of access, it has attracted but little attention,

yet with its glacier-worn sides of bare rock that descend in many

places sheer into the black waters below, and the circle of cliffs

which surround the upper part of the lough, one might almost imagine

one was in Norway, except that the deep velvet brown of the heather,

the few well-grown hollies clinging to the broken rock walls, and the

rich colours of the mosses, lichens, and ferns that find nourishment on

the ledges and faces of the precipices, at once show that one is on the

Atlantic coast and in a softer and warmer clime.

Five hundred feet below this small tarn lies the larger lake,

Coomasaharn; it too has a shore line much wilder and more rugged

than the majority of British lakes. Great boulders and masses of

glacier-worn rocks surround it, whilst at its head the precipices

extend almost to the summit of Coomacarrea (2542 feet). In some

places these precipices give good rock scrambling, but it is rather

surprising, after a couple of hours' climbing on good hard rock, to

find that the top of the mountain is a flat peat moor which in some

places almost overhangs the wild corrie below.

This capping of peat on several of even the wilder mountains seems to

be characteristic of many of the summits on the west coast of Ireland.

The highest summits of the Reeks, however, are quite free from peat.

There are, of course, many other mountainous districts besides those

I have already mentioned. The Mourne mountains, where the mountaineer

may, if he chooses, collect topaz and beryls of a most exquisite

blue, the Wicklow, Tipperary, or Waterford groups, all possess wild

mountain scenery, and many rare plants can be found there. But after

all, undoubtedly it is the picturesque side of the mountain land that

makes to the wanderer in Ireland the most forcible appeal of all. It is

the atmospheric softness, and the rich vegetation, which, on the west

of Ireland, covers the valleys, glens, and the mountain-sides, it is

the colour of the deep and lovely tarns, of the expanses of heather,

and of the distances, and lastly, it is the rugged, rock-bound coast,

a coast of many bays, of desolate islands, of solitary sea stacks, of

cliffs, of sandy beaches, and wonderful sea caves, a coast that has

for ages withstood the attacks of the mighty waves of the storm-driven

Atlantic; these are the beauties of which this Irish mountain land can

boast, which after all are of more worth than the attractions of many

inaccessible pinnacles and many ranges of ugly but excessively steep

and high mountains.

FOOTNOTES:

[M] It used to be in the Loan Collection at the South Kensington Museum.

[N] _The Scottish Mountaineering Club Journal_, vol. ii. p. 99.

PREHISTORIC CLIMBING NEAR WASTDALE HEAD

'Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase,

And marvel men should quit their easy chair,

The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace,

Oh, there is sweetness in the mountain air

And life, that bloated Ease can never hope to share.'

_Childe Harold._

To the mountaineer who makes his way from Seascale or from Drigg to

Wastdale Head, the Cumberland hills with their long, rolling outlines,

their flanks concealed by superincumbent soil and vegetation, do not

seem to promise well as far as rock climbing is concerned. Only here

and there do the ridges break into rocky precipices; nowhere is seen

the rugged grandeur of the Highlands of Scotland; such valleys as

Glencoe with its rock-built walls, or the splintered summits of the

Coolin, or of An Teallach, do not exist. Yet the rock-climber who

stops at the inn at the head of Wastdale may spend weeks before he

has exhausted the district. He will be lucky indeed, and a first-rate

climber to boot, if he has done the best of the climbs without further

aid than that afforded by what the mountaineer calls the 'moral'

support of the rope. Once upon a time a celebrated climber of Alpine

repute came to Wastdale for the first, alas! also for the last time.

'Climbing in the Caucasus,' Mummery said, 'was easy and safe; in the

Alps too it was usually easy and safe, though sometimes difficult;

but climbing as practised at Wastdale Head was both difficult and

dangerous.'

The great delight of the climber in the Cumberland hills is in gullies

or 'ghylls,' and no wonder, for there are endless gullies both great

and small, the climbs in which vary with the state of the weather,

and may be easy or difficult, wet or dry, or dirty, according to

circumstances. Then again, the climber must have a perfect contempt for

streams, and especially waterfalls, for the ascent of a perpendicular

'pitch' through a delightfully cold and invigorating shower bath

will be one of his earliest experiences. But there are plenty of

other climbs besides those in ghylls. Hidden away in the recesses of

the hills are sharp and jagged pinnacles of hard porphyritic rock,

precipices smooth, flawless, and sometimes overhanging, whose firm grey

bastions have withstood the storms of ages; whilst only at their feet,

where lie the remnants which have yielded, flake by flake, from the

massive buttresses above, does the ruin proclaim that the hand of time

carves the rocks on the mountain-side as well as the valleys below.

This was written several years ago, before all the rock problems, and

also before all their variations, had been worked out. When first I

visited Wastdale Head it was at Christmas time. I knew there was a

pinnacle of rock on Great Gable, also that another rock climb could

be obtained on the Pillar mountain--that was all. Mr. Jones had never

visited Wastdale, and his work was unwritten. The entries in the

climbers' book at the inn were only just begun.

W. P. Haskett Smith, J. W. Robinson, C. Slingsby, and G. Hastings

were the pioneers of those days; they first really drew the attention

of mountaineers to the fact that rock climbing of every degree of

difficulty could be indulged in amongst the hills that surrounded the

head of Wastdale.

It is true that for many years previously members of the Alpine Club

had been in the habit of spending some time every year in the district,

but they had gone there more for the ice and the snow and for the

enjoyment of the mountain scenery than for indulgence in extraordinary

performances in the ghylls and on the rock faces. May we not call

theirs the Golden Age? whilst that sterner time which followed, full

of fierce fighting, of victory and of defeat, was the Age of Iron.

It was my good fortune to be associated with those who were responsible

for this second period, and many a long day have I spent on the

mountains in their company. In those days at Easter time there was

usually a great gathering of the mountaineering clans in the inn at

Wastdale Head. They came from all points of the compass, and swooped

down on Wastdale, bringing with them every sort of mountain appliance.

Into the inn they would rush, soon to emerge again clothed in wonderful

suits of clothes, carrying cameras, ropes, ice-axes, and luncheons;

and they used to remind me of an instructive toy machine presented to

a friend of mine in the days of his early youth--'morality made easy'

he afterwards called it, when he had arrived at man's estate and was

able to grasp the true inwardness of the ingenious apparatus. Its

object was to inculcate at an early age the virtue of moderation, and

it represented a public house. You slowly turned a handle, making a

procession of respectably dressed citizens, with eager, smiling faces,

enter the front door, over which was written in large letters:--

'They quietly enter the doorway within

For an hour's indulgence in riot and sin.'

Another turn of the handle, which should now be done rapidly and

with shaking hand, and at once the scene changed. From out the back

door dishevelled and staggering figures emerged, with no resemblance

whatever to the former ones. Above was another couplet:--

'Then rushing out wildly, their senses departed,

On Ruin's dark pathway the victims are started!'

Alas! those delightful toys of one's youth, where have they all gone?

The toys of the present day are feeble, and lack that educational

value which those of thirty years ago never failed to possess. How can

we compare them? It is _The Bad Boys Book of Beasts_ to Dr. Watts's

_Poems_. The first of the two couplets mentioned above, in the case of

the mountaineer, however, needs emendation; perhaps 'quiet lunchin''

at the end of the second line would be more appropriate. But I have

wandered from my subject.

The inn at the head of Wastdale lies in the very centre of the hills,

and from it two or three hours at the most will take the climber to his

work.

On the south are the gullies of the Screes; the great gully opposite

Wastdale Hall will occupy an ordinary party at least three hours.

The first three or four hundred feet are by no means easy, and are

thoroughly typical of ghyll climbing. On the south-east of Wastdale is

Scawfell, with its splendid precipices where there are three first-rate

ghyll climbs, Moss ghyll, Steep ghyll, and Deep ghyll. At the top of

the last is Scawfell pinnacle, a delightful short climb if taken from

the top of Scawfell; but if ascended from the foot of the precipice,

_via_ Steep ghyll, and then by the arête which lies between Steep

ghyll and Deep ghyll, it will give several hours of really good rock

work. Next to Scawfell are the Pikes and Great End. On both of these

interesting scrambles can be found. To the eastward, almost above the

inn, the slopes of Great Gable stretch up towards the Napes rocks,

where can be found the Napes Needle and several rock ridges. Further

away, on the north, lies the Pillar mountain, with its great buttress

of rock jutting out into Ennerdale. Up the Pillar Rock there are at

least half a dozen different routes, and none of them can be called

perfectly easy. But these are by no means all the climbs that can be

found near Wastdale Head. There are gullies on the Langdale Pikes and

on Pavey Arc, and another on Dow Crag near Coniston.

My first climb was on the Napes Needle. Since then I have been up

it many times, but it always remains as interesting as ever. I must

confess that the first time I tried it, it was too difficult for me,

and I was very glad of a helping hand from the first man up, for we

were climbing without a rope and had no nails in our boots, our proper

mountaineering equipment having been delayed at Drigg station; and as

we afterwards learned, we had shocked Dan Tyson of the inn by going to

the hills in what he considered were our Sunday clothes. But the Pillar

Rock is the most famous crag near Wastdale. It lies on the far side

of the Pillar mountain, and is not a great distance below the summit.

It consists of a mass of rock standing far out from the side of the

mountain, its precipices overhanging the head of Ennerdale. The end

nearest the Pillar mountain is cut off from the hill-side by a great

gash, whilst the other end plunges down almost perpendicularly for

about eight hundred feet.

The great Ennerdale climb is up this Ennerdale face. At the bottom

a broad grassy band, 'The Great Doupe,' runs across the foot of the

precipice. It is from here that the climb must be begun, but every

way up this face finally converges towards one spot, called the

'Split-Block.' Above is a vertical rock face, whilst below, four

hundred feet straight down, is the grassy band. For nine years all

attacks on the Ennerdale face of the Pillar Rock ended here. Only

in 1891 was it conquered. Two of the party were lowered down into a

savage-looking gully, from which they ascended to a spot some thirty

feet higher than the Split-Block, and by lowering a rope were able

to pull up the last man direct, who could not descend alone into the

gully. This sounds as if the last man had a comparatively easy climb.

But as the ascent is literally made through the air, unless an extra

rope is sent down to help him with a noose at the end which can be used

as a stirrup, he will arrive up above in a somewhat congested state.

Moreover, he must insist that the two ropes be worked by reasonable

people, otherwise he will be unfortunate enough to probably complete

his ascent in an inverted position, and be apt to lose faith in the use

of the Alpine rope.

It has already been pointed out that above the Split-Block is a

vertical precipice. Across this face about twenty-five feet above the

Split-Block there is another way up, which does away with the necessity

of descending into the Savage gully. It was first climbed by G. Solly.

But it is a most dangerous climb, for the leader must traverse across

this perpendicular face hanging on by his hands alone, and--here is

where the danger comes in--should he be unable to finish the climb, and

the worst piece which needs the expenditure of most energy is at the

very end, the leader is quite unable to return: there he hangs till he

can hold on no longer, then he drops! I myself have seen this happen.

The subsequent escape, not only of the leader but of the rest of the

party, was the most marvellous piece of luck I have ever seen on the

mountains, and even now makes me shudder when I think of it.

Collier has also varied this climb by getting up directly from the

end of the ledge beyond the Split-Block; but, after all, the original

manner employed by the first party in 1891 still remains the most

satisfactory method for overcoming the difficulty at this spot on the

Pillar climb. Above this, a gully leads to within two or three hundred

feet of the top, which can be reached by an interesting rock climb of

no great difficulty.

This ascent of the Pillar Rock is certainly a remarkably fine one.

It is full of variety, and nearly the whole of it is on bare rock;

moreover, owing to the great steepness during the greater part of the

climb, it produces an exhilarating feeling of being perched in mid-air

most of the time. I should think nowadays it cannot be difficult to

find, but when we first tried it, a few scratches here and there on the

rock were our only guides.

Of the ghyll climbs, the one on the Screes already mentioned is well

worth trying. It was first climbed by Hastings, Robinson, and myself;

and I could not have been in better company. Robinson is _the_ great

authority on the hills of the Lake district; there is not a rock

on a mountain-side that he does not know. In sunshine or mist, in

daylight or at midnight, he will guide one safely over passes or down

precipitous mountain-sides. Every tree and every stone is a landmark to

him. It was on a perfect winter's morning, many years ago now, that we

started for the great gully in the Screes. Not a breath of air stirred;

hoar frost covered the ground; the trees were a mass of silver,

glittering in the morning sun. If from the road by Wastdale Hall the

rock face opposite be examined, it does not seem to be much broken, but

as one approaches the gullies deepen, and in reality are great gashes

penetrating far into the hillside.

The bottom of the gully is reached by ascending a mass of loose stones

which stretch almost down to the lake-side. In the gully there is no

great difficulty at first, but after a short time it branches off into

two, and it is the left-hand branch which has to be followed. The

stream was frozen, forming a beautiful cascade of ice, and we were

forced on to the buttress that divides the two gullies. Hastings was

sent on to prospect, whilst I had to back him up as far as possible.

With considerable trouble he managed to traverse back to the left into

the main gully, using infinitesimal knobs of rock for foot and hand

hold. We then followed, to find ourselves in a narrow cleft cut far

into the side of the hill. Perpendicular walls rose on both sides for

several hundred feet; above us stretched cascade after cascade of solid

ice, always at a very steep angle and sometimes perpendicular. Up these

we cut our way with our axes, sometimes being helped by making the

steps close to the walls, and using any small inequalities on the rock

face to steady us in our steps. At last we came to the final pitch.

Far above us at the top, the stream coming over a hanging ledge on

the right had frozen into masses of insecure icicles, some twenty or

more feet long, and thus prevented us from getting up on that side.

However, at the left-hand corner, at the top of the pitch, a rock

was wedged, overhanging the gully, but leaving underneath a cave of

considerable size. We managed to get as far up as the cave; there we

placed Robinson, in a position of great importance and responsibility,

for he had to hitch himself to a jammed boulder at the back, and hold

both Hastings and me steady on the other end of the rope. I placed

myself in the most secure position I could: my right foot occupied a

capacious hole cut in the bottom of the icicles, whilst my left was

far away on the other side of the gully, on a small but obliging shelf

in the rock face. In this interesting attitude, like the Colossus of

Rhodes, I spanned the gulf, and was anchored to the boulder as well

as to Robinson. Next, Hastings, with considerable agility, climbed on

to my shoulders; from that exalted position he could reach the edge

of the overhanging stone, underneath which Robinson was shivering,

and, after great exertions, was able finally to pull himself up on to

the top. Then Robinson and I followed on the rope. No doubt when the

gully is dry, with neither ice nor water in it, the climb would be much

modified. Above this pitch the climbing is easy as the gully opens out,

and the route to the top may be varied according to taste; some ways

are difficult and some are easy.

There is one more climb, the recollection of which always gives me

pleasure; indeed it was one of the most delightful I ever had in this

splendid land of rock scrambles. On the great precipice of Scawfell,

Moss ghyll is the most easterly of the three gullies which look towards

the Pikes.

When we attacked it, this ghyll had not been climbed, although

several parties had been up a considerable distance. The highest

point attained was just underneath a huge overhanging block of rock,

weighing hundreds of tons, which formed the roof of a great cave.

Robinson, Hastings, and I were anxious to see whether it was not

possible in some way to circumvent this objectionable block. We had

already carefully prospected the upper part of the ghyll from above,

finding that there was no difficulty once this obstacle was passed.

We therefore next attacked the ghyll from the bottom, hoping that we

should be able to discover a way where others had failed.

Starting from below we chose the easiest route up the rock face on the

right hand of the ghyll. Here the climbing chiefly consisted in getting

from one ledge to another, up slabs of rock. We soon, however, got

into the gully itself, where we found a perpendicular wall, up which

we had to climb, before reaching a ledge, which the first party of

exploration had called the 'Tennis Court' on account of its large size

when compared with those lower down. If it were to grow vigorously,

perhaps in its manhood it might become just large enough to run about

on, but when we first made its acquaintance it must have been in its

early childhood. From here we traversed back into the ghyll and got

underneath the great overhanging block.

We found that below the great slab which formed the roof another

smaller one spanned the ghyll, forming the top of a great door to the

cave behind. Under this we passed, and clambered up on to the top of

it. Over our heads the great rock roof stretched some distance over the

ghyll. Our only chance was to traverse straight out to the right, over

the side of the ghyll, till one was no longer overshadowed by the roof

above, and then, if possible, climb up the face of rock, and traverse

back again above the obstacle into the ghyll once more.

This was easier to plan than to carry out; absolutely no handhold

could be found, but only one little projecting ledge jutting out

about a quarter of an inch and about a couple of inches long to stand

on; moreover, a lip of rock overhung this little ledge, making it

impossible to grip it satisfactorily with one's foot. Beyond this

there were six or eight feet of the nearly perpendicular rock wall to

traverse.

I was asked to try it. So, being highly pleased at being intrusted

with such delicate operations, I with great deliberation stretched out

my foot and tried to grip the little edge with the side nails of my

boot. Just as I was going to put my whole weight on to this right foot,

the nails, unable to hold on such a minute surface, gave way, and if

Hastings had not instantly with a mighty pull jerked me back, I should

have been swinging on the rope in mid-air. But we were determined not

to be beaten. Hastings's ice-axe was next brought into requisition,

and what followed I have no doubt will be severely criticised by more

orthodox mountaineers than myself: as it was my suggestion I must take

the blame. _I hacked a step in the rock!_[O] It was very hard work, but

that upper lip to the step had to go, and Hastings's ice-axe, being an

extraordinary one, performed its work admirably, and without damage

to anything else than the rock. I then was able to get a much firmer

foothold, and getting across this 'bad step,' clambered up the rock

till I reached a spot where a capital hitch could be got over a jutting

pin of rock, and the rest of the party followed. We then climbed out of

the ghyll on the left up some slabs of rock.

A few days later, Moss ghyll was again climbed by a party led by

J. Collier. They did not follow our track to the left after the

overhanging rock had been passed, but climbed straight up, using a

crack which looks almost impossible from below, thus adding an extra

piece of splendid climbing to this expedition.

That Collier did not follow our route was, I believe, entirely due

to Robinson, who, being so excessively delighted with having at last

conquered Moss ghyll, wrote a long account of it in the climbing book

at the inn, and being in this particular instance far more capable

of successfully climbing Moss ghyll than describing how it was done,

produced a tale where the points of the compass got, so to speak,

'snarked.'

But to return to our climb: just as it was getting dark we emerged on

to the top of Scawfell. The sun-god had plunged once more into the

baths of ocean, leaving behind him the golden splendour of a perfect

evening. In the far distance lay the sea, with banks of sullen mist

brooding over it; nearer, like a purple curtain, stretched the low

hills by the coast; whilst far away in the south, towering into the

sunset glow, out of a level surface of sea mists rose the peaks of

Snowdon and the two Carnedds in Wales.

Towards the east, range after range of mountain crests encompassed the

horizon as far as the eye could see, from the Yorkshire moors, with

their strong, massive outline crowned by Ingleboro and Whernside, to

Skiddaw and the Scotch hills beyond the sands of the Solway.

Delicate pearl-grey shadows creep in amongst the wealth of interlacing

mountain forms in the clear air, deepening towards the far east into

the darkness of approaching night. No sound breaks the stillness, all

around are piled the tumbled fragments of the hills, hoary with the

memories of forgotten years. The present fades away, and is lost in

the vast ocean of time; a lifetime seems a mere shadow in the presence

of these changeless hills. Slowly this inscrutable pageant passes,

but blacker grow the evening shadows; naught remains but the mists

of the coming night, and darkness soon will fall upon this lonely

mountain-land.

'A land of old, upheaven from the abyss

By fire, to sink into the abyss again;

Where fragments of forgotten peoples dwelt,

And the long mountains ended in a coast

Of ever-shifting sand, and far away

The phantom circle of a moaning sea.'

FOOTNOTES:

[O] During climbing in ice and snow one is allowed, in fact, one is

expected, to cut steps. But it is held to be entirely contrary to the

laws which govern the great sport of mountaineering to make similar

holes in rock. This is remarkable, though nevertheless true.

A REVERIE

'... Restless thoughts, that, like a deadly swarm

Of hornets arm'd, no sooner found alone,

But rush upon me thronging, and present

Times past.'

MILTON.

On winter evenings, when out of doors the fogs and dirt of London reign

supreme, it is the wisest course to sit at home in one's arm-chair,

warmed by the blaze of a comfortable fire, and with some favourite

book for a companion, to watch the smoke curl upwards from one's pipe.

But after a time the book falls on to one's knees, and all sorts and

conditions of pictures float lazily through the tobacco mists. I have

been told that effects are due to causes. Perhaps these undisciplined

wanderings of my brain may be only the inevitable result of a good

dinner; perhaps the quiet content that I feel may be caused only by

a spirit of contradiction--a knowledge that the arm-chair and the

desultory visions of my brain should be ruthlessly put aside, to give

place to exact, well-regulated thoughts concentrated on necessary

labour. Be it what it may, I will not work to-night. A nebulous peace

of mind has claimed and absorbed me which it would be impious to

dispel. I shall let my memory lift the curtain behind which lies the

past.

The thousand and one small duties of the present, mostly absurd

trivialities, the insignificance of which is only equalled by their

persistence, can be neglected for once, and shall be as dust in the

balance, without weight to disturb the equipoise of my mind. Letters

from people I do not know, requesting information on subjects that

do not concern me--letters which, as far as I can see, merely stamp

the writers as belonging to that class of human animal incapable of

thinking for itself--these shall remain unanswered. Why should such

shallow creatures be allowed to worry the more robust portion of the

universe by their energetic yet irritating display of letter-writing?

why have I to spend much ink and thought in answering them? Truly this

is a weary world! Man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upwards.

Worries and bothers are for ever at one's elbow.

But here I am thus early inveighing against the petty annoyances of

the present instead of enjoying those reminiscences of former years

that, viewed through the mists of time, have their pleasures enhanced

and their pains discounted; when I can allow my memory a free field

from which it may pick the fairest flowers that have blossomed in those

bygone years.

Ah! a quotation comes wandering by: when it is at home it may be found

in an 'Ode to the Terrestrial Globe,' by an unhappy wretch:--

'It's true my prospects all look blue--

But don't let that unsettle you!

Never you mind.

Roll on!' (_It rolls on._)

And as it rolls on down the distances of my mind, it leaves me, being

in a very contrary frame of mind, somewhat comforted. Moreover, it

opens up new channels for thought, and those exquisite lines on

golf that occur somewhere in _Paradise Lost_ are of course at once

suggested, but I am too lazy to find the context:--

'So eagerly with horrid voice the Fiend

Cries "Fore!" as he o'er the far bunker drives

The errant ball; it with the setting sun

Dropp'd from the zenith like a falling star,

Alas! untruly urged, it lies in Hell.'

Then I muse over all the golf-courses that I have played on or seen,

from St. Andrews to an improvised one above Astor amongst the stately

pines on the Himalayan mountains, when the snow peaks and the glaciers,

glistening in the marvellous sunshine, play hide-and-seek with the

white fleecy clouds that drift over their summits.

Those wonderful mountains! what magnificent outlines, what grandeur,

what mystery, what!... Stop! can I be growing sentimental? It must

have been the dinner that has produced this particular physiological

sensation.

However, the sensation is passing, and my thoughts have flown back

naturally to the subject of dinners. Yes, many dinners--what a

subject!--glorious, unapproachable, exhaustless dinners! I could write

pages, volumes, in praise of dinners; but not for the vulgar, not for

the uninitiated--that surely were sacrilege. Dinners that with subtle

and insinuating address came and went, leaving behind them fascinating

and precious memories, even though 'good digestion did not wait on

appetite.' Dinners, too, eaten under the stars. Yes, now I think of it,

that _was_ a dinner! when four of us ate a whole sheep, after two weary

days and nights spent starving on the icy slopes of Nanga Parbat.

Mountaineering, truly thou art a marvellous and goodly provoker

of hunger! Those mortals who may be in search of sensations--big,

boisterous, blustering sensations not to be denied--should sacrifice

often on thy altars, O Goddess of the Hills!

In the mountains, however, these sensations, these inspired ecstasies

of mind and body, may be pushed sometimes rather far; then the recoil

comes, and with it contrast, which however is often agreeable. But

these memories of unpleasant Alpine half-hours grow faint as one sits

in a satisfying arm-chair--they are easily discounted in a process

of mental dissipation, by which one cheats oneself; and finally, it

is easy to believe that there is no sport like mountaineering. Of

course this conclusion is fallacious--conclusions sometimes are. Again

my thoughts are interrupted. Outside in the cold, the rain, and the

darkness some poor wretch is making night hideous by attempting to

sing--

'There is a 'appy land, for for awye.'