_BY STEAM YACHT ON WINDERMERE_
From its foot at Newby Bridge to the circling beach at Waterhead,
Windermere, the largest of our Lakes, is full of interest. Not a bay on
either bank fails in variety of scene, while from mid-lake the
surroundings are ever changing. The ideal way to see Windermere is from
a small boat; the journey, coasting every bay and yet not losing the
broader views of mid-water, should not take less than two long summer
days. Of course few can spare so much time to the pleasant task. By
steamer in a short afternoon and at a moderate expense it is possible to
make the tour of the lake. The visitor, however, can taste some of the
pleasures of the ideal if he spare an evening for boating. From Bowness
steer past the corner of Belle Isle; then as you near the Furness shore,
turn right or left as fancy directs, coasting under larch-hung bluffs
toward the Ferry, with Belle Isle on the left, or passing alder-fringed
meadows past Rawlinson's Nab for Wray. The Furness shore is rather the
more diverse, and your rowing there at the close of day does not disturb
the many anglers who frequent Millerground. From Lakeside the boat can
be turned in any direction. Many wish to see the Leven leaving the lake:
it is but a half-mile away. Paddling quietly beneath Gummers Howe is
delightful; but the person with a taste for detail in light and shadow
may decide that the opposite shore, with its view of the fell across the
clear water, has even more charm.
By steamer the great majority see Windermere. The boats are large, and,
though at some hours crowded, fairly often carry quite a few passengers.
At mid-afternoon I have sailed from Bowness to Ambleside, a solitary
passenger,--and that during the height of the touring season. From the
deck of the steamer as it lies berthed at Lakeside there is a glorious
view. The steep side of Gummers Howe, green in summer with bracken,
golden with the young tendrils in spring, and in autumn russet with
fading glory, rises opposite. Like a wide river the lake winds further
and still further as your eyes turn toward the mountains. Yes, there
they are, blue with distance--sharp peaks limning strongly against the
sunlit sky. At present the lake is still as a mirror; drippings from the
oars of passing boats make little glittering ripples. But though the
views are so beauteous, it is well for a contemplative person to sit
near the gangway and watch the throng which the latest train has brought
from the outside world. There are two tall ladies, evidently school
ma'ams, with much luggage and the power of looking after it without
fuss; the stout old gentleman there has come this many years for a
sojourn by the shore of Windermere. I don't know his name, but his
portly person is frequently seen on board the steamers. 'Cute chap that,
say the lakemen; he has a season ticket and takes out full value. Now
there is a quiet whirring of the screw; the captain, a white-bearded man
with many years' service on the lake, sounds the whistle for the last
time, and the echo dies away among the hazels and coppices around. The
water, with a quiet churning sound, parts in front of the boat and we
are well away. Don't look back, unless it be to catch a glimpse of where
lake finally narrows into river.
The boat speeds past one or two wooded islets: in spring the undergrowth
is blue with wild hyacinths. The afternoon sunlight glints upward from
the calm water as from a mirror. By Finsthwaite the woods are rich
green. Of cultivated land we see but little: here a cornfield between
woods and lake; there, evenly hoed patches of turnips and potatoes, or
more often meadows where rich grass is mantled in the white and yellow
of ox-eyes and buttercups. Peeping between green bowers of sycamore and
ash are one or two farmsteadings. Old and weathered, built of blue-grey
stone, they harmonise well with their surroundings. Do our eyes,
accustomed to these from birth, feel in this hoariness of theirs a rare
beauty which is purely imaginary? We almost hate the sight of a
modern-built villa, trim without, healthy and comfortable within. I make
no pretension to the artistic temperament: subordinate the villa to its
surroundings, and I am content; but stick a horror of brick and red
tiles in all its nakedness on a commanding hillside, or right on the
edge of a beautiful mere, and the wanderer is above human whose temper
is not tried at the sight. Pretty bungalows, for occasional occupation,
are springing up on the shores of Windermere; they are welcome, be the
woodlands around them sere or green.
[Illustration: SWAN INN, NEWBY BRIDGE, WINDERMERE]
When not watching the glorious picture unfolding as the steamer passes
bay and creek, headland and rocky cove, there is to me much interest in
observing other people on the boat. For the deck of a Windermere lake
yacht has often as cosmopolitan a load as a cheap emigrant or "special
tour" steamer. True, there is little distinction of nationality in
dress; but the voices are often without disguise. Frenchmen, Swiss, and
Germans are not unusual, while Americans are frequent. Here let me
defend our friends from across the Atlantic. They are seldom the loud,
almost vulgar critics of our lake scenery they are popularly supposed to
be. Most of our visitors are readers of Wordsworth, of Ruskin, and our
other poets in prose and verse, and know what to expect. A Yale man I
once accompanied from Windermere to Keswick stated: "It is the
breathlessness of Lakeland which surprises me. Here there is a memory of
De Quincey or Coleridge: next moment there is a story of Christopher
North. I lift mine eyes suddenly from the pastoral scenes of Wordsworth
to the blue skies and mountains of Ruskin. Your country-side is
breathless with lore: America has no place to compare it with." I am not
a "hail-fellow" person, preferring to be seen, not heard, and as the
boat glides along I silently piece together, from external evidence, the
little stories of my co-passengers. To-day there is a young man pacing
the boat amidships. He is no chance visitor, I judge, by the anxious way
he keeps looking ahead. There is some point he evidently does not wish
to miss. Presently I hear a movement of his arm: he has drawn out his
handkerchief and is waving it. Every eye turns to find out where he is
signalling. In a moment we catch an answering flutter: there is a lady
in white blouse and dark skirt on the shingles beneath the wood.
Something in the message heartens our fellow-passenger; a load of
anxiety has left him. Again and again he signals--ever there is an
answer. Then a lithe dark figure springs into a path from the shore, and
runs out of sight among the bushes. A child is hastening to give some
one the news that the desired steamer is passing. Now, from the front of
a bungalow, hardly to be seen for larches, another signal begins to
jerk. Our passenger answers this also till the yacht sweeps out of the
bay.
The promontory of Storrs now pushes out, and here the steamer will stop.
The call of the syren, like an enormous flute, rings full and sonorous
over the water, and dies in tuneful cadences, each softer and more
sweet, through the green ghylls and swelling hills. The road to the pier
runs close to the lake: a cyclist is rushing along vieing our boat in
speed. The signaller has seen him, and smiles. In a minute we are past
the narrow stone embankment with its small summer-house, and are purring
alongside the newer wooden pier. The cyclist speeds into sight through
an avenue of trees, and dismounts close by. The gangway is thrown
aboard--the signaller is the first ashore. The cyclist exchanges a word,
and they walk from view together. A story of joy and peace and love is
maybe working itself out before us, and the whole while, seated on the
opposite seat, a lady has been gloating over the theatricalities of
miserable "life" as depicted by Marie Corelli. Better advised is the one
who patrols the deck with a volume of the best carefully tucked under
his arm. That book will be digested presently when lamps are lit and
night like a velvet pall descends over lake and mountain.
Storrs Hall--now an hotel--was occupied a century ago by Mr. Bolton,
who, a man of literary tastes, thought noble friendships a boon. He
communed with Wordsworth, North, Sir Walter Scott, De Quincey, and many
others who were attracted to that great coterie of genius. In these days
the poetry of the Lakes school is often sneered at. The men with their
simple tastes and pleasures are despised, but, leaving their work aside,
never in history has a group of men so able, so high-minded, so far in
advance of their day and generation, been so intimately associated. They
had their weaknesses, their vices, but conducted their worst hours
without impairing the morality of their surroundings. Their influence
was wholly for good, wholly for an upward trend of thought.
As the _Swift_ threads through the reefs above Storrs, we enter a new
reach of the lake. In front Belle Isle's tree-shaded level seems to
close the water; to our left is the Ferry; on the right green fields and
filmy woods, with, beyond and above, the mountains clustering round the
vale of Troutbeck. A faint blue ruffle travels along the lake toward us,
a catspaw of wind that sends a yacht which, sail-slack, had been
drifting, bowing and dancing through the water. At the landing-stage our
steamer has to wait till the tank-like cable-boat has completed its
journey. Down the hill opposite comes the road from Kendal to Hawkshead,
and about this point, from time immemorial, the lake has been crossed.
Various sorts of craft have been used: in the time of the Lake poets the
conveyance was a large and almost flat-bottomed boat, pulled along by
sweeps. Christopher North was wont, on a Saturday morning, to come down
from Elleray to steer the market-folk across. On one of these occasions
he noticed a flurry in the water, as of a struggling fish. The boat's
course was diverted, and a landing-net used. Two pike, each of about six
pounds weight, had been fighting. The victor had seized his antagonist
by the head and endeavoured to swallow him whole. But, as an American
has sagely commented, "he had bit off more than he could chew." When
North's landing-net lifted the pair, his jaws were still locked round
the victim's shoulders, though the biter had drowned. Though badly
mauled, the other fish was still feebly alive. In his fishing
reminiscences of the Borders Sir Walter Scott told a similar story. Near
the Tweed one day, seeing a commotion on its banks, he asked a laddie
what the matter was. "I dinna ken exactly," was the reply, "but there's
a muckle fush wi' twa tails i' t' watter." Anglers--and more veracious
folk--have similar stories to tell. The version I have given above of
Christopher North's experience is not, I am aware, the accepted one: it
was given me, several years ago, by a dales dweller, one of whose
parents had witnessed the incident. There are legends to tell of this
Ferry. The most sinister is of an awful voice which on wild nights began
to peal across the turmoil--"Boat!" Once a bold ferryman answered the
call, put off his boat and rowed into the storm and darkness. Half an
hour later he returned, with boat swamping and without a passenger. The
boatman's face was ashen with terror; he was dumb. Next day he died.
Stories there were of demons carrying off their spoils of witched souls,
and even the bodies of dead saints, across the lake. No boatman, after
this incident, could be prevailed to put off in darkness, so a priest
was summoned from the Holy Holme. With bell and book he raised the
skulking demon--at midday there was the voice of storm in the air,
though, mindful of the call of the Master on Galilee, the water fell
calm. Voices argued with the priest, whose cross planted firmly by the
edge of the lake was surrounded by terror-struck lakemen. At the end of
a long altercation the demon released from thrall the soul of the
boatman, and craved for mercy. For its peace, the priest laid the evil
thing in the depths of Claife, there to remain until "dryshod men walk
on Winander, and trot their ponies through the solid crags."
[Illustration: NEAR THE FERRY, WINDERMERE: SKATING BY MOONLIGHT]
At least once the ferryboat has been wrecked: the records of Hawkshead
Church show that a wedding party was drowned, about a dozen lives in all
being lost. The tank-like servant of the cable now against the shingles
has shown sea-like jauntiness. One Whit Saturday morning, when laden
with strength and beauty going to Kendal hirings, she broke both hawsers
and at a majestic pace drifted down the lake. In half an hour she
touched one of the islands, from which her passengers were shortly taken
off. In these times of watertight compartments, there is little chance
of a disaster occurring.
The hotel in front of which our _Swift_ is floating presents a gay
appearance on yacht-racing days. The lawns are occupied by a
well-dressed throng, and a small but excellent band plays appropriate
music. The line of red-flagged buoys marks start and finish: some of the
races are round the lake, about twenty miles; others are fought out in
the northern or southern basins only. The needs of the racing have
developed a special type of boat. The quest for speed dictates no great
displacement of water, therefore the craft are built shallow; but the
frequent and violent squalls of wind from the mountains make some
stability and weight essential to prevent capsize. Windermere yachts
carry heavier keels than is usual to their sail area, and there are
other minor variations between them and sea-going or conventional river
and lake boats. With a good breeze the yachts are very fast: they are
handy too, frequently "going about" in narrow quarters. At times, when
the air is dead calm, a race may degenerate into a drifting match: the
lakemen say that on one occasion the yachts were over ten hours in
covering as many miles. The locally developed design is eminently suited
to its work. Mr. Fife, the great draughtsman, some years ago built a
yacht on the Clyde for this lake. He came to see it compete, but the
local boats quickly showed their superiority over the new design.
The engines are now re-starting, and our steamer cleaves toward
Curwens', or Belle Isle, which for long has seemed to close the way.
Now, however, narrow channels open to both right and left. The yacht
bears right away past two small holmes. One of these, a cluster of trees
and a level sward, is ofttimes used for kennels for the puppies of the
Windermere harrier pack. Here they are quite at liberty and yet out of
mischief, a remarkable circumstance in a puppy's career. Often I have
laid on the oars to watch the little hounds romping and playing, under
the blinking superintendence of an elder. Then their game would stop,
and a pell-mell of puppydom charge to the shingles and bay its infantile
delight. Belle Isle is the only island of Windermere on which a house is
now standing. In the long ago a branch of the Philipsons of Calgarth
held it. During the Civil War this family was Royalist. One, a major in
the king's Northern army, was shut up in Carlisle by the Roundheads;
another was here beleaguered. For several weeks the men of the
Parliament tried to carry the island by storm, but failed. The major had
been apprised of his brother's peril, and immediately the siege of the
Border city was raised he came south with a troop and dispersed the
Roundheads. Now to the daring Robert came the hope of reprisals. The
island was fully relieved at Sunday dawn; three hours later Royalist
horsemen were on their way to Kendal. Colonel Briggs, the Cromwellian
commander, attended divine service regularly. Robert accordingly made
straight into Kendal Church. Though the building was crowded, he
galloped through the tall doorway and up the aisle. Sword in hand he
rode to where his antagonist usually sat, but Briggs was not at church.
The townsfolk rose, and Robert was forced to gallop down the other aisle
to prevent being overwhelmed by numbers. The doorway to the right is
lower than the central: Robert's head struck the arch, and he was
thrown. His steel helmet received most of the concussion, and Robin was
on his feet again in a moment. One townsman caught his horse; the saddle
girth had broken when the rider had been hurled backward. Robert
instantly threw the saddle across his charger's back and leapt into it.
Suddenly and cruelly spurred, the horse reared up and jerked the rein
from its detainer's hand, while the intruder clove him to the chin.
Without further interruption, the Cavaliers rode back to their island
fortress.
The steamer has been bearing us through the narrow channel to Bowness
Bay. The scene here is usually a busy and a pretty one. The public
fore-shore is narrow, and rowboats are crowded toward it. The
steamer-pier and two long jetties make the narrowness still more
emphatic. But Bowness Bay, with the Old England hotel to our left, looks
perfect. Beyond the short promenade, laid out in trees and
terrace-gardens, the ground rises to rocky Biskey Howe, whence is a
glorious view of the lake. Quite close at hand is Windermere parish
church, with some stained glass removed here from Cartmel Priory at the
Dissolution. The walls were at one time decorated with texts, but the
Lutherans rebelled against these and hid them beneath ignoble whitewash.
But what the sixteenth century despised, the twentieth reveres, and the
old Scripture paintings have been carefully restored. The village of
Bowness presents little noteworthy except its attention to visitors: its
reputation in this respect is thoroughly justified.
[Illustration: THE OLD FERRY, WINDERMERE]
If you take a walk ashore, the various boatmen will embarrass you with
offers of craft. "Fishing tackle? oh, I'll lend you that with pleasure,
and bait too." Now this is all very well for the disciple of Walton who
insists on having a competent person on board to select the
fishing-ground. But the average man may be fairly warned by the
following note: "Hired a boat for the day and set out to fish with six
rods, plenty of bait, and a hopeful word of success from the boatman. We
cast our lines right and left, back and front, but not a fish did we
see. Whether the fish or the bait were enchanted we could not say, but
concluded that the lines were lent to make people believe they could
catch fish." In answer I had to point out (my complainant knew sea and a
quiet variety of river fishing well) that, under a blazing June sun,
perch and trout were not likely to feed. There are times when the
fishing is good--out of the tourist season mainly. Some anglers
regularly come to Windermere for sport; but these swallows do not make a
summer, and Windermere is far from being an angler's paradise yet. The
lapsus linguæ of the boatmen is perhaps excusable: others delude in less
satisfactory fashion.
Turning again to the bay, with its view of Belle Isle, and the blue
mountains peering over the bluffs of Furness, it strikes every visitor
that the landing-place is exceedingly cramped. Thousands use the boats;
were the rival proprietors less good-natured traffic would be
impossible. Perennially there is a movement afoot to acquire additional
frontage for the public use, but as perennially it fails. In the Diamond
Jubilee year, many thought that an acquirement was coming at last.
Negotiations were opened for land to the south of the bay, but the Vicar
of Windermere could not meet the promoters.
Aboard the _Swift_ again, we are borne into the upper basin. On Lady
Holme was once a chapel, served by the monks of Segden Abbey, one of the
Scotch monasteries. They were in possession so early as 1355, and till
the Dissolution maintained two priests here. There is, in some old
descriptions, a legend that one of these priests, to mortify his flesh,
caused himself to be chained in the crag above Rawlinson's Nab, and
there he remained for thirty years or so, before death released him.
Sweet in early May are the islets here with lily of the valley: at any
time it is pleasant to land on them, for they are dry, their brakes are
not tangled--an ideal place for a quiet afternoon. As the steamer goes
on, the scene grows in grandeur. Over a vast plain of water the distant
mountains seem to hang. There are misty indications of level meadows and
woodlands next the water, but the charm lies in the craggy, shaggy braes
and the uprising summits. The woods continue--larch! larch! planted in
harsh geometrical lines on the Furness side; the opposite, though really
covered with villas, presents a happy, confused forest of oak and ash,
sycamore, elm, beech, interspersed with hollies and great patches of
underwood. The white foam of hawthorn flecks these hills in early
summer; later, patches of gorse, in wild, unconsidered corners, brighten
up the heavy green. Then come the heather and the heather bell,
empurpling the higher ground; till September's chilly nights turn the
leafage to glories of gold and crimson, the brackens to red and russet.
We are now opposite Millerground; the lake near shore is shallow and
tempting to the angler.
The hill jutting out above there is Orrest Head--the viewpoint of the
Lake County. I have no wish to disparage other of our views: each has
its merits. From Orrest you look up and down the river-lake,
Winandermere, winding through a long valley. Round the head of its
hollow are rugged masses of mountain, cut into by narrow glens and
ghylls. The basins of Langdale, of Grasmere, with their tarns and lakes,
are hidden in a maze of wildering rocks. Right opposite, the Furness
fells, ridge beyond ridge, till, a grand barrier, Coniston Old Man
heaves skyward, give no indication of two lakes and wide valleys
embosomed beneath. There are two circumstances under which they who
climb Orrest are especially well repaid: on a calm June morning, when
the lake like a mirror reflects every detail of the hills, when the
ruffle of a passing boat or steamer dies away on the dead calm; the
other time is when light clouds are drifting across the sky and you can
see dappled areas floating over water and wood and fell. There is little
to choose between these and when the sun sinks in a bank of vapour
behind the Langdale Pikes. Instantly a crimson light filters across the
upper basin, picking out bay and islet in a halo of brilliance. For half
an hour it becomes more glorious, then to purple and to grey the light
declines. Yet, again, climb Orrest when thick snow covers the earth. The
scene is awe-inspiring: if in moonlight, you see the terror and majesty
of winter; in sunshine the air is filled with chill radiance, and the
scene invites you not to despond but to work or play with a will. But
this is not of the steam yacht and the lakeside.
Opposite us, with its big round chimneys, is Calgarth, the mansion of
the Philipsons. There is nothing now to distinguish it from the
Calvegarth it originally was. If the place was ever fortified, all
traces of such, save its thick walls, have disappeared. The house has
the reputation of being haunted, for the misdeeds of a Naboth. Desiring
land in the possession of an old couple, he had them convicted for
theft. The old woman, who had occult power, pronounced seven curses
against the Philipsons. The couple were duly hung at Appleby, but their
skulls came home to Calgarth ere morning light. And at Calgarth they
have remained, though men have calcined them with lime, cast them into
the lake, and buried them on the mountains. Horrible sounds were heard,
groanings and shriekings and wild lament, after any tampering with the
uncanny things; so, to prevent further trouble, they were built into the
wall--and few now believe in their existence. There are other mysteries
hereabout too. When grievous trouble is at hand, a spectral white horse
passes over the lake from shore to shore. And occasionally the
wanderer's eye is caught by a faint iris on the water, rivalling in its
clear tinges the very rainbow. Both phenomena are said to be well
vouched for, which, I presume, has made it not essential for the present
writer to witness them.
[Illustration: OLD LABURNUMS AT NEWBY BRIDGE, WINDERMERE]
Above Calgarth is the great glen of Troutbeck, where many illustrious
personages, from Hugh Bird, a giant of Henry III.'s time, downward, have
lived. Hogarth, the weird painter of sordid life, was born here, and at
one time the sign of the old Mortal Man inn was held to be his work: a
very free drawing it was, of a burly man with vermilion nose, confronted
by a thin, white-visaged stranger, with the couplets:
"Oh, Mortal Man, who lives on bread,
How came thy nose to be so red?"
"Thou silly ass, that art so pale,
It is with drinking Birkett's ale."
Till within the last half-century Troutbeck was a 'statesman dale, but
few of the yeomen are now left. They were not noted fighters, like the
men to northward, but in self-defence they manned a fort which an
obscure generation had built in Thresthwaite Cove at the head of the
valley. The last time was in 1745, when a small band of Scotch rebels
were sent back "wi' a flee in ther lugs." The grey mansion in the park
was built by Bishop Watson, of Llandaff. Westmorland-born, he loved his
homeland, and during a forty years' reign he ruled his bishopric from
thence. There is but one mention in his Life and Letters of his going to
Wales. Yet he preached strongly to those of his clergy who were absent
too much from their livings!
The most prominent building now in sight is Wray Castle. This is not
old. In one of his interesting colloquies on angling and things in
general, Dr. John Davy, in a book published shortly after the building
was completed, remarks:
"Wray Castle is altogether a modern building, and erected by its present
proprietor and inhabitant, who has too much knowledge of sanitary
conditions to surround himself with stagnant water, making an enemy to
health where there is no fear of neighbouring hostility. As to the
structure itself we need not criticise it; it is well placed, and at a
distance may well pass for what you supposed it to be" (a moated
stronghold), "and have the desired effect on the uninformed mind and the
careless eye."
Now the steamer approaches Lowwood, and the coppices of Wansfell sheer
up in feathery grandeur as we sail inshore. The view from the hotel
attracted Ruskin on his first visit as a child of ten, and in his
rhyming diary he speaks of his impatience to be at the windows enjoying
the glorious view. The lake is here at its widest and deepest; from
shore to shore the distance is considerably over a mile, with a depth
approaching two hundred feet. The boats out on the water are fishing for
char with the cumbrous implement known as the plumb-line. Char feed at
varying depths; to-day the shoal may be within ten feet of the surface,
to-morrow near a hundred feet lower. The instrument used is made up of a
long central line heavily weighted, to which tiers of smaller lines are
attached at intervals. By this means the fish are tempted at all levels,
but the implement is for the professional rather than the amateur. The
tiers of hooks and baits are sure to foul one another if not dexterously
handled.
As the steam yacht gets under way again, Dove Nest, once the abode of
Mrs. Hemans, is seen peering through the woods climbing Wansfell. The
poetess ever fondly remembered her sojourn here, and the friends she
made among the Lakeland poets. Some of the finest contemporary
appreciations, both of personalities and work, came from her pen.
Passing Hen Holme, a spine of rock sticking out into the lake--how the
waves from the screw lash and dash against its ledges!--the yacht
carries us into open lake again. What a panorama of mountains!
Wansfell rises to the right; beyond is the gap of the pass and Kirkstone
fell. Red Screes presents its tamer slope, and looks not half so
commanding as less lofty Scandale Pike. The long ridge of Fairfield, its
ghylls raw with floods and winter storms, comes next, standing above
Rydal park. Along this group, a century ago, wild red deer used to
range; there was a herd on the Ullswater fells, as now, and also in the
wildernesses about Eskdale and Ennerdale. The long slope bending
downward to Nab Scar is Great Rigg. You can see only the head of the
precipitous Scar, for the bracken-covered heights of Loughrigg climb to
the skyline. At square with our course are the Langdale Pikes, their
strange knotty summits showing up finely. Great Gable peeps from beyond
Borrowdale; Great End, Scawfell Pike, and Scawfell glance through gaps
in the rugged chain stretching from Bowfell to Wrynose pass. The country
beneath these is the famous Langdales, land of tarns and ghylls, crags
and screes. From Wetherlam westward is the Coniston range, haunt of the
raven and other wild birds. The head of Windermere is particularly
glorious: fir-crowned Fisher Crag sets off the levels where Brathay and
Rothay sloom into the lake. The sharp spire of St. Katharine's,
according to Mrs. Hemans, was foundationed for a square tower. Ambleside
creeps in rows and terraces up Wansfell, but the grey stone is
harmonious and the red ridge-tiles at this distance invisible. To the
left Fox Howe stands on its sentry-hill; the views from its lawns are
fine: to northward into the heart of the mountains, and the wild forest
of Rydal; southerly, green lowland and the silvern mass of Windermere
right down to where islands close the view. The level next the
river-mouth was at one time a Roman camp, but nothing to prove its name
has yet been discovered. Medals and coins are sometimes, after heavy
floods, cast up out of the mere. The Rothay was diverted somewhat by the
camp builders, that the rectangle they favoured might be preserved. The
camp was doubtless used as a caravansery for the traffic between
Brougham on the Eamont and the seaport of Ravenglass. Both places are,
if mountain roads have not altered for the worse, a good day's journey
away: one over the lofty passes of Wrynose and Hard Knott, the other
over the elevated road along High Street. Cultivation has robbed the
earthwork of distinctness, but enough remains to show dimly its angles
and extent.
[Illustration: WINDERMERE AND LANGDALE PIKES, FROM LOWWOOD]
Now the quiet rumble of the screw stops; the yacht sails smoothly and
accurately to her berth. Outside the pier a concourse of conveyances is
in waiting, and we see our fellow passengers melt away by common 'bus or
lordly pair to their respective destinations. The water here is crowded
with craft, but there is not the terrible congestion we saw at Bowness
bay. A long curve of shingle is open to the public, and forms a
favourite promenade.