_RYDAL AND GRASMERE_
It is unfortunate that so many see Lakeland from its main ways only.
They realise its narrow bounds, but cannot justly appreciate its rare
beauties. For a week or two such travel our macadam roads; they climb
the most frequented mountains, visit ghylls and tarns and waterfalls,
wander by the favourite lakes: then away they pass, believing doubtless
that Lakeland offers nothing further. Could they but come again, and
discover our wealth of bypaths! Why I, a native of and dweller upon the
soil, have spent the leisure of a dozen years and more in exploring
without wearying, and know that many corners remain unvisited. To those
who have seen Lakeland in hurried guise, I would say come again, avoid
the sights noted in prose and verse, go elsewhere where you will, and at
the end you may feel, with me, that less-known scenes make the "cream"
look not unlike the watery dregs of the milk-pail.
[Illustration: DOVE COTTAGE, GRASMERE]
On a cloudy morning we came to Rydal and turned up the road to
Wordsworth's home in old age. At Rydal Mount he produced some of his
most characteristic poetry--short pieces such as "The Clouds" and "The
Mountain Echo"; at Dove Cottage "The Excursion" and "The Prelude" were
penned. In Wordsworth's day the road in the glen did not send up an
almost ceaseless clatter, and seldom did the steam plume by Waterhead
pier meet his sight. The poet had an aversion to the larch-tree, an
exotic then being planted extensively in the dales, and did not care
much for steam and the work of the engineer. The trees in stiff lines
and squares make hideous the mountain slopes to-day; but see them
growing in romantic irregularity, as by Thirlmere, and you will believe
that Wordsworth might have conceded a beauty to the larch. And there are
things more hideous than steam--for instance, the petrol motor. Rydal
Mount is not a museum: its grounds are kept private. It is a simple
dales dwelling in design--round chimneys, lead-glazed windows, grey
walls without, low-ceiled, raftered rooms within: its well-planned
gardens are the only characteristic to mark it from many other abode of
"the bettermer mak" of yeoman folk. Enthusiasts often run up from the
road to peep over its shrubs and gate, but most tourists go heedlessly
by this retreat of the aged poet. From the garden where the poet
composed his verses--"bumming and booing to hissel," says one who
recollects him clearly: "bum--bum--bum--bum, and at every bum he maid a
step forrit, mebbe six or sebben steps; then roond he wad whirrel and
gang back--bum, bum, bum,--happen just as many times. It didn't matter
to him whether he wor in his ane garden or on t' fell or on t'
roo-ad,"--there is a grand view. Down the glen to the lake, darkling
under the massed clouds, over the woods of Rydal and a corner of the
mere, Loughrigg and, dimly seen through rolling mists, Crinkle Crags and
Bowfell. Would that a gleam of sunshine would kindle the grey and brown
and dull red of dale and fellside to silver and russet, crimson and
gold! For it is late September, and the glory of autumn is about us.
I have read many "interviews" with the aged Wordsworth. Some writers
have seen him in idealism; others in a matter-of-fact light. A third
class, bent on decrying his worth, have conjured up overheated visions
of an uncultivated, unmannered man, calling to question his genius, his
mode of living, his person. But some humble scribe, long before the poet
was removed by death, penned the following. He had no difficulty in
reaching the Laureate; a request at the door of Rydal Mount for a short
interview was answered by the poet himself. "He took me by the hand in a
way that did me good. There was welcome in his words and looks as well
as in the shake of his hand, and in less than five minutes he was taking
me round his fairy dwelling-place and pointing out to me the most
striking objects of the beautiful and glowing scenes around. He was
rather tall and thin, with a countenance somewhat pale, and more
thoughtful than joyous. Simple and courteous in his demeanour, and frank
in his remarks, he made me feel at ease. He was just the man that I had
imagined him to be from reading his 'Excursion.'" The same writer,
looking into an ivied and moss-grown unused quarry near White Moss,
expressed his pleasure at the sight. "Sir," was the poet's response,
"all might find these secluded temples of beauty, but all will not give
themselves the trouble to seek them." The path which cuts along the
breast of Nab Scar turns to the left just above the poet's home, between
it and Hart Head, name reminiscent of days when its holder was forester
on Rydal fells to Le Flemings of old. Looking ahead, we see a rough road
climbing up to as wild a piece of fell land as we have. It is another
haunt of the shepherd, a land bleak and wild--the ravines of Rydal Head
and the great crags of Fairfield, fit home for wild red deer. Fit home
too for the half-wild, little Herdwick, that atom of sturdiness fit to
live in a land of storm. Two months hence there will be a day of days in
wild Rydal, when the shepherds clear their heafs of the flocks. The work
begins ere daybreak, and lasts sometimes into the night following. The
sheep dogs, obedient to the calls of their masters, range the whole
fellsides very completely, driving down the sheep as they are detected
in ghyll or by bog. The work is arduous for both men and dogs, the exact
equivalent of the work in miles and altitude ascended being often
tremendous.
Our way, however, is smoother, easier than this. We skirt the grounds of
Rydal Mount: from a higher bank we look over its round chimneys on to
the green glen below, on to Windermere, the river-lake, winding away
between bluffs bronzed with fading foliage, to be lost at last in the
heart of them; we look along the rocky edge of Loughrigg, where the
dying bracken shows the approach of autumn. We are walking in a forest
of stumpy oak-trees, the twisted heads of which speak eloquently of the
power of the winter gales on this exposed fell-end: below us, with its
long, narrow, wooded islet almost dividing it into two portions, is
Rydalmere. From the outlet in Rothay to swampish White Moss it is in
full sight, and of a kindlier hue than was chill Winander, which a
corner of Loughrigg has now shut from sight. The breaking mass of cloud
over Langdale Pikes is letting in the full day. On the road beneath,
even thus early, the mad race of vehicles has begun. No one seems to be
able to go slowly by Rydalmere, save the lumbering carrier's cart. Once
all the ordinary passenger traffic of the country was carried on these
slow conveyances--I can see a merit in the method now. The coaches sweep
you along at a fast trot; one gasps at new things that are gone ere he
comprehends their beauty. And now we have motor-traffic, a series of
giant 'buses followed by so many pillars of dust as though they held out
the rallying signals for a world of traffic; these excel all in
soul-destroying haste.
[Illustration: SKELWITH FORCE, LANGDALE]
Our path clears the woodlands; there is now an uninterrupted view of the
lake. Above the farmstead where De Quincey and Hartley Coleridge lived,
the folks are busy making hay. In our glens this, the only harvest, is
of great importance: unless it is well secured the supplies of winter
forage for the flocks are scant and often much suffering is caused. The
flocks are kept on the lowlands till late May, so that the crop is not
sufficiently grown to be cut until late August and sometimes September.
At that period the weather is so apt to be unsettled that, when once the
grass is mown, almost superhuman efforts have to be made to house it. A
few hours lost may mean that the farmer has to watch his crop soaking
and wasting for a fortnight or more. My Southron reader will hardly
believe that not infrequently whole fields of hay cannot be gathered in
and are utterly lost on account of foul weather; in wet 1903, the acres
of Lakeland meadows which yielded no crops for this reason, to the
writer's knowledge numbered thousands; and instances of carting the hay
on sunny days in November, December, and even January were woefully
frequent.
A little way ahead the path passes into a wilder scene. The woods close
in from below; above, the brackens sway over a maze of broken,
downthrown stones. The foot of the cliff is not many feet above, a block
of limestone broken into by narrow spits of grass and bleached tongues
of scree. Among the rocks a few sheep are feeding; as we approach they
rush away, picking their way accurately and neatly over the debris at a
great pace. Hereabouts on a winter's morning you may be fortunate enough
to surprise a fox, blinking and slinking away to some deep hold in the
mountain after a night's marauding. Every score yards gives a fresh
view, a new angle of vision to the glen, the lake, and Loughrigg
scattered o'er with purple waste of stones. Here we come to White Moss
of the three roads, from which Dr. Arnold took his famous political
allegory. That way twisting up through the boulders, climbing steeply
and ruggedly over the top of the hill, well-nigh impossible to wheeled
traffic, was his Old Corruption. Here another route swings up the hill,
on a level keel certainly, but it climbs a great height and is far from
easy--that was his Bit-by-bit Reform. Along a bold terrace a third road
sweeps; it surveys the knot in front, passes the foot of Old Corruption
with a puzzled glance as to what manner of man prefers such tortuous
ways, comes to Bit-by-bit Reform and has half a mind to go that way,
then remembers its destiny to carry traffic without labour or danger,
and curves into the pass, avoiding the knot altogether--Radical
Reform--scotching the hill of Privilege and Abuse. The cottage on the
hillside is the home of our most noted trail-hound trainer, Steve
Walker. A word as to his craft is not amiss as we near Grasmere, the
home of fell-head sports. True lovers of the hound genus, the dalesmen
are not content to let them slip out of sight in the summer, so have
evolved a mimic fox-chase with a scent of aniseed. The course is laid
round a rough daleside, the hounds loosed. It would be impossible for
the fleetest horse to live long with them over such terrific ground. A
circuit of six miles is often covered in little over the half hour. To
train the hounds to so great pace is a recognised craft, and Steve often
has half a dozen hounds in his hands for different owners. It is not an
unusual sight to see three of his charges running neck and neck for the
blue riband of the sport at Grasmere. The training is severe; pace is
required and also strength and staying power. The food given is plain
and strong; several hours each day are devoted to outdoor exercise. The
trainer with his leash of hounds is a frequent sight on the Lake Country
byways. Twice or thrice a week the hounds are put over a short trial
course and their progress noted with care. The sport has a fascination
for the dalesman-born, and I must not dwell too much upon it.
[Illustration: SUNSET, RYDAL WATER]
Grasmere Lake will shortly be visible over the tree-tops, but we seek a
more striking approach. Therefore, sinking the hillside, we cross White
Moss, down to the footbridge spanning the prattling Rothay. It is an
angler's path we tread; this length of water should be famous, for
white-headed rodsmen tell legends of mighty trout, up to twenty pounds
weight, which used to come from Windermere and Rydalmere to spawn upon
the beaches here. Shortly the wood is cleared, the sunlight is touching
Helm Crag in steady blaze; it comes forward to Silver Howe, and in a few
seconds the rushing rivulet by our side is sending out myriad sparkles
of glory. The sky has cleared, and there is prospect of a fairer day.
The lake of Grasmere lies in a perfect basin, and, though its sweet
retirement is somewhat marred by too many buildings, yet the glen for a
greater part of the year remains a pleasant nook. From the shingle we
stand upon, the head of the Rothay ravine, there is a beautiful view. In
front, Silver Howe, to its right Helm Crag, then Steel fell, the gap of
Dunmail, Seat Sandal and the stony backs of Rydal fells; beneath them
are many lower hills, cut into by tiny level glens and narrow
watercourses. But this sunny autumn morn the eye takes in the atmosphere
of the scene even more than its component features. Thus the peaks
soaring into the gleaming air become less important than the glorious
woods at their feet. Autumn's gorgeous art is vivid on fell and wood and
meadow. The beauty of the scene lies in Nature's harmonious blendings,
and one feels that only the poet's imagery can describe the scene.
Silver Howe is pictured in two-thirds the width of Grasmere; at our feet
a feathery cloudlet sails in a second sky. So clear, so perfect, the
counterfeit that even the charming mystery of height remains. The summit
curving against autumnal blue, the purple crags, the screes, here grey,
there blue, there a finer tinge where rock, grass, and heather meet, the
turgid flood of colour where the bracken is dying, the solid green of
the larch woods, the softer plumes of birch, the fiery oaks, the fading
green meadows, are all in this peaceful mirror.
There is a chunking of oars, and shortly across our range of vision
there swings a small boat; it grounds a few yards away, a boat from the
hotel carrying a visitor to the Loughrigg side. We hail the boatman, and
in a few seconds have hired him to take us out on to the lake awhile.
What a splendid picture the glen makes from the island! The village
church towers above a knot of grey buildings across the meadows; the
hills around all seem to be higher; the feast of colour is even finer
than that seen from the foot of the lake. Above the eastern shore the
woods, a paradise of varied tints, lit up by the bright sun, rise to the
Wishing Gate. Then back again we are rowed. There are plenty of brackens
here to give a flush to the hillside, but we avoid their tangle. Among
the boulders the hardy sheep are grazing; no other animal could nibble
and thrive on the short, slippery grass of the uplands. As we turn, the
lake seems to have narrowed; really more of the level valley is in
sight, and the mountains are discovering themselves in their true
magnitude. When Red Bank is reached, the view is at its widest; over the
gap of Dunmail is seen a blue portion of Skiddaw forest. As a dalesman,
it must be confessed that I am somewhat impatient with our "show"
scenes; they tell me few stories, arouse few reminiscences. It is on a
foxhunt that my memory pauses, when we streamed off over the rough
slopes toward Silver Howe--a grey day of winter, not a morning in full
autumn. One sees but little of the lake in descending to Grasmere
village, just outside which is Pavement End, reminiscent of our
"Sports." Here for at least thirty years was held our great athletic
festival--the "Derby of the Dales." Here were seen our fell runners, our
pole leapers, our trail hounds, our wrestlers in the true mountain
style. The course of the old fell race was up the rough hillside, "that
precipice," as our Southron friends call it. Had I space I would say
much on this topic; the sports are held on another field now,
and--shades of the past, you giant athletes of Cumbria!--the race is now
run on less difficult ground across the glen.
At Grasmere, beneath the yews of the kirk-garth, the poet Wordsworth is
buried. Rothay murmurs near by. The church is not yet "restored," and
remains simple as in the days of Wordsworth. There is a pretty custom
here (and in other dales) known as "the rush-bearing." Many years ago
our chapels were not floored with timber, the earth was merely pressed
hard by the use of generations. Damp struck up on wet days, and chill in
winter, which rendered worship uncomfortable. Rushes were therefore
strewn on the floor at the approach of winter. Time went on, the earthen
floor was superseded: instead of the old gathering of rushes for use a
festival has been inaugurated. The children of the glen weave rushes
into crosses and bouquets, go in procession to the church and lay their
offerings by the altar there.
[Illustration: GRASMERE CHURCH]
Grasmere is in itself without especial charm to the visitor. It is too
busy to grow beautiful; romance has stayed away, commercialism reigns,
and I for one do not care a fig for the place outside its connection
with the poet, with its great possession, his grave and its grey-towered
church. But Grasmere as a centre for rambles is unparalleled.
My last glimpse of Grasmere was in wintry weather, and from the Wishing
Gate. No snow had fallen; the frost-rime covered the valley with white,
though the southern facets of the uplands, on which the sun had spent
its feeble power, were stiff bronze. The lake was partly frozen, the
westering light gleamed on ice and the dark patches of water here and
there. The woods, last seen glorious with autumn tints, were now sere
and thin. The silence was divine: no rumbling car passed on the road
beneath, no sound of voice broke the spell. And bending over the frosted
bars of the gate I wished Grasmere's peace and content--and mine own.
Turning away at length to pass over to sweet Rydal Water,--oh! banished
was the dream from my mind, for a house new-built on the moor-edge peeps
curious eyes through the plantations at the sacred corner of the Wishing
Gate. Truly it is a commanding site; perhaps the owner is proud of a
choice which gives him views of Grasmere and Rydal, Loughrigg and the
Wishing Gate--I cannot justly rail at him, but my unreason wishes his
dwelling far hence. From the ridge, with the level sunbeams around you,
leaving the hollows veiled in misty blue, you look down upon Rydalmere.
Skimmed over with ice, except where busy rills keep open a few yards'
space, its levels steely hard, with a few skaters gliding among its
islets, with brown coppice and white fields rising around, with the
towering front of Nab Scar frowning at the softer slacks of Loughrigg,
Rydal was a sight to remember. But its glory was all forgotten as I
noticed the frost flowers in the roadside--are Nature's largest or her
smallest forms the loveliest? Is the spreading landscape as full of
beauty as the flowers formed by frost rime round a casual sod in the
wayside? I know not, nor care.