_ESTHWAITE WATER AND OLD HAWKSHEAD_
If, after a complete survey of our Lakes, one is asked which could be
spared, there is little doubt that often Esthwaite Water would be the
one selected: so uncharacteristic is it, so unlike the rest of the
country. It is a lowland mere strayed into a district of crag and brae
and foaming rivulet. I don't wish to agree with such an opinion, for
Esthwaite has its real beauties.
Esthwaite mere certainly possesses no bold scenery; its shores are
regular, its bays sweep in smooth curves among the meadows. No ridges of
rock jut into its waters, its shores are smooth and shingly. Esthwaite
is the weediest, reediest of our Lakes, and at places absolutely the
quietest, though a great main road runs close beside. But the vale of
Esthwaite, with its old village of Hawkshead, is worth of notice. In no
other case is there so much to be said about the locality and so little
about the lake. High Furness has ever been wild and retired. After
Domesday it was given to the Baron of Kendal as a chase for
deer--possibly because the country was uninhabitable at that time. Then
great Furness Abbey arose, and obtained a wide right over this
country-side. The Old Hall at Hawkshead was the home of the monks when
they came to collect their tithes and harvests. With the fall of the
monastery the Sandys family leapt to ascendancy. One Sandys in King
Edward VI.'s time became Archbishop of York, and used his interest to
procure a market, by royal charter, for the town, which thereupon began
to flourish considerably. This Sandys also gave the old grammar school
its foundation. The church on the hillside, standing like a watchtower
above the grey roofs, owes much to the Sandys's beneficence, but its
interior is to the casual observer somewhat dull. Its register, giving a
list of Burials in Woollen, is very complete, that curious old law
passed to aid the woollen industry being rigidly observed for long in
these parts.
[Illustration: ESTHWAITE WATER: APPLE BLOSSOM]
To deal with present-day Hawkshead, there is the old church on high, its
God's acre now spreading from the narrow promontory on to the swelling
hillside behind, the grammar school where Wordsworth was educated, and
many an old house built in a fashion now long abandoned. There are
curious nooks here and there, particularly near the church. One house,
built with its upper story protruding on stone pillars to form a sort of
penthouse, tells that here in happier days the "garn" or yarn was
displayed, within the hum of the busy spinning-wheels, to the intending
purchaser. To picture Hawkshead in its prime of two centuries ago is not
easy. Though land was plentiful and even lay waste, the rigours of
manorial law made it impossible to spread out environs on the sumptuous
scale we are accustomed to to-day, so the little community was herded
into the least possible space. Houses were built as near together as
possible, with narrow entries not two yards wide passing between the
squares; the main street was hardly broad enough to enable a coach to be
driven along without fear of fouling some outstanding wall. Sunlight and
fresh air were strangers, sanitary arrangements were nil, roadways, of
natural earth, had a powerful range of suction assimilating sooner or
later the masses of garbage thrown from door and window. Within the
houses, ceilings were low: a tall man could not stand erect in the
loftiest chamber. Stairways and passages were troublesome things to
build, said our forefathers; so, when building the penthouse over the
shop, many left the upper portion open, to form a ladder-reached balcony
from which the sleeping apartments could be attained. What the huge
rounded chimneys were intended for is almost a puzzle. The open fires,
with that immense draught at work, could hardly throw off much heat, and
firelight was an illuminant not favoured by our forefathers. All cooking
was done in pans hanging over the burning fuel. One real attribute the
spacious chimney had, and has. Across its throat, from bars, could hang
whole sheep to be cured by "smoking." Hung mutton, from a chamber fed
with smoke of wood or peat, is hardly unknown even now in our wilder
dales. The roofs without were slated with thin slabs of soft stone,
locally quarried, for the hard grey slate was not discovered for the
purpose then. Down the streets and across them at various places babbled
tiny streams which, in their courses from the hills, alighted on the
town. To pass these in time of flood, footbridges were provided for men,
but how the great coaches managed to drive across their deep channels is
a mystery. Looked at from a distance then, even more than now, Hawkshead
would look like a grey blotch in the landscape. Though its population
was more than at present, the old town was hardly half the width of the
present one. One must have walked through streets with huddled houses on
either hand awhile, then at once and completely have emerged into God's
country. The houses were close, mouldy, filthy erections, and the
ignorance of the people was so great that these were preferred. The idea
that anything could be more healthy than those foetid rooms, poisonous
smells, and filthy drinking-water!
[Illustration: AN OLD STREET IN HAWKSHEAD]
In those days, too, hundreds of acres near the lake were swampy and
almost impassable: there are many items in the accounts of the old town
for maintenance of causeways across. The river was spanned by a wooden
bridge, at first for foot passengers only, while the pack-ponies with
merchandise ventured the ford. The vale of Esthwaite sweeps quietly down
from the rugged hillocks behind Outgate in a wide sweep to the water's
head. The only building of historic merit outside the town is the Old
Hall, now being used as an ignoble barn or granary. The walls remaining
have been part of the gatehouse; tremendously thick are they, with
narrow stairs climbing inside solid columns of stone, and with a fine
fourteenth century fireplace in the upper room. The vale of Esthwaite
has no story of war: the Scottish raiders never penetrated so far aside
into the mountain land, and successive invasions by Romans, Picts,
Norsemen, Saxon, and Norman have been without memorable strife, and
hardly a legend of such actions remains. Near the head of the lake is
the pool known as Priest's Pot. No streams enter it, none leave, but the
oozy ground around carries into it a sufficiency of water. It might,
from the name, once have been used as a fish stew; though such a thing
is unlikely, for the monks would have more convenient waters. In the
Priest's Pot was for years a floating islet, but there is now pointed
out a bunch of sallows on a tuft of mossy grass against the edge of the
pool, which has grown part of the mainland. The locals say that the
Priest's Pot is the measure of a certain dead-and-gone parish priest's
appetite for strong ale. Not a hundred yards from the Priest's Pot is
the meeting-house at Colthouse, founded in the early days of Quakerism.
In Claife are one or two notable farmhouses, but nothing possessing a
story. One of the grey farms on the other side of the glen was for
centuries the home of the Sandys.
There are boats available on Esthwaite mere, but the fishing is strictly
preserved. For a shilling fee a day you are permitted to take coarse
fish only. Pike are plentiful enough at some places, and many a trimmer
is set in defiance of regulations. A summer afternoon spent on Esthwaite
is a memory of some charm. We pushed off from the shingle near the
ruined boathouse, and were soon well away. Then we pulled down to where
a streamlet purls into the lake, and at the mouth of this lines were put
over for perch, as bait for pike. But no tackle for sinking the baits
had been provided, and our flighty thoughts turn meanwhile to the wealth
of water-lilies and flowering grasses in a bay just below. So long as
open water remained it was easy enough to put the boat along; but in a
tangle of stems, when every pull at the oars means fouling and pulling
plants up by the roots, it is hard work. The water-lily, with its heart
of bright gold and ivory petals lying just awash the clear peaty water,
is a queen of flowers. Beyond a profusion of these, tall, straight
grasses rise like a brake over the boat, brown flower tufts crowning the
straight green stems, a background of meadow tinged white and red and
blue with flowers, and a coppice wood glorious with fox-gloves and wild
Canterbury bells. The faint sweetness rising from land and water too is
a memory to treasure. As we float idly along there is a variety of bird
life to notice: the king-fisher and the dipper busy on the shingles and
threading the narrow ghylls of the rivulets: further down we pass a
heron, standing poised and still in the shallow. Time was when the heron
was more plentiful in the Lake Country than to-day; the heronry on the
shore of this water, as that of Rydal, has been tenantless for many a
year. A few pairs still resort to the firs near Whitestock Hall for
breeding, but the only great heronry left is at Dallam Tower, some
leagues away. Yet from the hills above Esthwaite you may, during winter,
watch the birds rise when evening is falling, and flight away toward
their great haunt and home. The woods fringing the lower part of the
lake are used for the preserving of the "wild" duck. The sedges are
haunted with these, and also with coot and waterhens. Sit still awhile
and they will come into sight. Truly to the patient man nature is free
with stories and secrets. In ten minutes the shyest brood of ducklings
may paddle fearlessly within fifty feet of you, and often birds are
daring enough to dive under and about your craft. But keep still! The
first movement sends the whole company fluttering into the sedges, and
they will be long in coming out again. The water is split into a hundred
little wakes as the birds dash along, half flying, half swimming, in
terror. In winter perhaps finer things are to be seen. Attracted by the
plenty of their kind, ducks from northward, mallard, wigeon, whistlers,
come circling down to Esthwaite: wild geese whistle about the dark
waters, and the clanging of swans resounds during hard weather from the
air above, where in triangular packs they breast southward, or from the
lake, where in wary little groups they feed near the other birds. But it
is a hard winter that brings swans to Esthwaite. The country about this
lake-foot is the only real haunt of the badger in the Lake Country. A
gamekeeper of my acquaintance says he has often traced the badger's
prints in snow-time, from his domain at Grisedale to the earth near
Esthwaite Lodge. The badger does not provide regular sport for the
dalesmen, but only a few seasons since a pack of foxhounds ran a hot
scent into a well-known borran here. Terriers were slipped and "found"
within. As the "fox" would not bolt, it was decided to dig him out. The
fight had rapidly shifted far into the ground, so an attack was
delivered on the rear of the piled stones. Ere long a dalesman,
outstretched in the narrow tunnel, espied a moving of earth ahead. "Hold
hard!" he cried, "this is no fox." Terriers were still at work, and
sounds of their barking with an occasional animal cry came from within.
In five minutes Brother Brock prepared to bolt, but a sack was ready for
his reception, and as he came with a rush he was caught. Not he alone,
but also one of the terriers who still held on to his rear.
[Illustration: SHEEP-SHEARING, ESTHWAITE HALL FARM]
Our boat is now pulled up the Sawrey shore: to northward great fells
shoulder the sky, and as the wavelets rumble beneath I think of the
boy-life of Wordsworth. He was educated under the lee of the old church
here, and in this vale began that deep study and appreciation of nature
which shows itself in his poetry. Wordsworth is at home with nature: he
speaks of birds, of animals of the covert-side, of flowers and trees,
and the ever-changing glory of the skies and seasons, in far more
convincing manner than of the people he dwelt long years among. In his
school days it was customary to adjourn school of a Shrove Tuesday that
cock-fighting might be practised. With spurs of sharp steel fastened to
their natural weapons, the selected birds fought in pairs, till one was
cut down and disabled. The sport was cruel, for the pluck and tenacity
of the birds made the contests more often to the death. The winner of
the "main," or rather its owner, was hailed captain of the school till
another champion gained victory. Wordsworth ever writes with fondness of
his boyish days--of riding across the fells, of skating on this mere, of
nutting and bird-nesting expeditions to the unchanging, yet
ever-changing woods around. There is no story of his school days save
that told in his own work; but he admirably portrays the shy lad he was,
his comrades, and his successive schoolmasters.
Here, floating across the water level with ourselves, is a swan: how
graceful its progress, how white the half-lifted wings as it keeps pace!
Calm idyllic beauty is its charm, and the charm of Esthwaite mere.
One scene characteristic of Lakeland comes before us at the outskirts of
the little town. It is the country carrier, a lusty, embrowned, genial
man, and his large covered cart within which in picturesque (but safe)
confusion are the parcels from a larger town to our vale. Storm or calm,
rain, shine, or snow, so regular that events are timed by his
appearances, passes the carrier along the roads of this land where are
no railways. An old farmer, selling some sheep to a dealer, asked when
he would take away his purchase.
"Will it do if I come about the seventh of next month?"
"Oh aye," but the old man looked puzzled. After the dealer had taken his
leave, a reflective voice sounded from the ingle-nook.
"T' seventh o' next month! That'll be----" and for awhile the old farmer
counted on his fingers, but without satisfaction to himself.
"That'll be t' Tuesday after t' carrier comes, father," announced a
matron who was washing dishes at the far end of the room.
"Aye," responded the old man promptly, "that'll be three weeks to-morn;
t' sheep'll be ready."
This is not an extraordinary thing to hear in our dales where the list
of "inevitables" is: Rent-day, Candlemas (February 2nd, when all
accounts are rendered), _and_ t' Carrier.
The carrier's life is an arduous one, yet we have whole families who
succeed one another in it without a break. Our oldest "carrier" family
is to be traced in manor-rolls far into the pack-horse days. The halting
of the railway on the confines of Lakeland has preserved, and indeed
given impetus to, his craft. He is a necessity to dales-life, but now he
is perhaps doomed to totally disappear. The new traffic companies are
hoping to send their motors, humming and throbbing, with loads of
parcels into the villages and over the passes. As a rule our carrier is
a genial soul--he knows the gossip of a hundred miles of road. "We can
neither stir dish nor spoon," complain the daleswomen (who are keenest
to hear his news and give notes of their neighbours), "wi'out the
carrier hearin' on it."