_THE GLORY OF ENNERDALE_
Lying beyond the pale of great mountains, and only connected by rugged
passes with other sights of Lakeland, the lake of Ennerdale does not
attract many tourists. The approach to it, otherwise than by mountain
road, is circuitous; the traveller, coming by ordinary routes from the
outside world, is carried across a great ironworking district, where
every stream runs red mud, and where black smeltery smoke hangs low. Yet
Ennerdale in its own peculiar fashion is beautiful.
In my early days the lake seemed connected, in my mind, with stories of
pirates and privateers--Paul Jones hovered on the coast near by till a
gale drove him and his cursing hordes out to sea--and as more intimate
knowledge came to me I still found Ennerdale connected with illicit
seafaring. Smugglers--and my ancestors are reputed to have been among
the most active of these--landed cargoes in the coves about St. Bees
Head. From there goods were sent northward by the coast to Carlisle and
the Border, and eastward over the fells to Penrith, Kendal, and distant
towns and villages of the Pennine. The first route was early closed, but
that over the passes baffled the revenue officers for years. The head of
Ennerdale was quite out of the world then. The smugglers built rough
_caches_ to store their loads in wild weather, and even engineered with
skill a path over Great Gable in the direction of Borrowdale. To-day
this green band is known as Moses's Sledgate. Moses, however, was not a
smuggler, but an illicit distiller who, after the decline of the finer
art, reared his "worm" in the wilderness.
[Illustration: ENNERDALE LAKE AT SUNSET]
A long climb over grassy open common brings the cyclist from Egremont to
Ennerdale bridge: that irregular knot of houses, with its moss-veiled
church, was in the past a mountain metropolis. Wordsworth's poem, "The
Brothers," centres in this churchyard of the dale. As the poet thought
out his theme, through his mind there must have passed memories of that
grand, encircling chain of mountains, rugged Revelin, precipiced Pillar,
and scree-strewn Iron Crag, with many more. Only in one real particular
was the licence poetic indulged, for there were gravestones here, modest
indeed, flat among smothering grasses or fringing the boundary walls.
Perhaps not at Ennerdale, but in equally remote districts, the church
was used by smugglers. Under the rush-laid floor, cellars were dug to
contain kegs of liquor, the miserably paid parsons conniving, often
acting as selling agents. Church attendance would doubtless arouse more
enthusiasm among grown men in days when the spent bottle could be
exchanged after service for a full one, and there were "lashings" to
drink beside. In one place where the parson could not be brought to see
his "duty," the kirkgarth was often tenanted by most eerie "corpse
lights," and had to be shunned accordingly by all honest folks and
preventive men. Those "in the know," however--and they were many--knew
that brandy and rum would be plentiful next day, for a new supply of
liquor had been hid in a raised vault, from which the parish clerk drew
it as need arose.
From Ennerdale bridge the road climbs a couple of miles to the lake: in
fact it somewhat overclimbs, for when at last the mere is viewed the
wanderer is about three hundred feet too high, and has to descend by a
very steep route to the Anglers Inn. That first glimpse is splendid: for
half a mile back the hedgerows have prevented the eyes from wandering
far, then suddenly bursts the glory. The waters deep beneath follow the
mood of the day; laugh and sparkle when the sun shines and a warm breeze
whispers; well gloomy and leaden when a host of clouds presses the
mountains and shadows the lake-basin; swoon tender and soft when
evening's purple vapour drifts through passes and over summits, to
collect in a pool in the valley beneath; surge and heave in breakers
when a gale sweeps through the air; brood silent and sombre and still as
a slab of jet when winter clothes the sky with deepest blue and the
steeps with majesty of white.
[Illustration: THE PILLAR ROCK OF ENNERDALE]
I prefer a boat for exploring the beauties of Ennerdale Water within and
without, for the road to Gillerthwaite is rough, and the path by Anglers
Crag not without some difficulty. Ennerdale within is represented by
some fine trout and by an occasional char. On this lake the char in
early autumn will come to the lure of a red ant. These insects at this
season develop feeble wings; they haunt the sandy soil near the lake and
are for ever essaying flights. A slight breeze is enough to sweep whole
crowds of them over the water; they fly to the end of their strength,
fall into the lake and are snapped up by the fish which lie in wait near
the surface. In winter the char resort to the main stream entering the
lake, for the purpose of spawning. For many years a certain part of the
beck was known as the Char Dub, for in it, in numbers sufficient to
render the bottom invisible, the shoals of fish lay. At the present day,
however, the diminished char elect to spawn on a shingle further up the
stream.
For its trout-fishing Ennerdale is justly noted: there can be little
finer sport than trolling here, the boat moving slowly on, the waves
lap-a-lap against its timbers. When the attention is taken from the
water, what a fine panorama of steep and rocky mountains!
Maytime among the mountains--a day of soft creeping shadows and warm
sunlight, the firmament white with lofty clouds, though here and there a
wide rag of blue shows between. The boat welts away from the pier;
clack, clack, fall the oars on to their pins, a moment later, to a
rumble and a churn of water, the rower falls to work. Local men do not
use the rowlock and the feathering oar; a rigid pin is fitted on the
side of the boat upon which a perforation in the oarshaft slots. The
contrivance has undoubted advantages to anglers, as the oars do not need
to be lifted inboard when not in use; secure on their pins they can
trail through the water. But why all lake boats should be so fitted is
beyond comprehension, for the superiority of the rowlock and the
feathering oar is palpable: a boat can be pulled faster and more easily,
and in moments of danger--which on a day of sudden squalls are
frequent--are not less reliable.
As our boat slips away, the upper lake, a field of splendid blue, comes
in sight. In mid-lake a tuft of rock claims attention--the boat glides
to it over the faint ripples. It proves indeed to be a cluster of loose
fragments, pushed up from the lake-floor to be a resting-place for the
birds of land and water. So piled are the stones that it seems
impossible human hands have not been busy in the midst of this waste of
waters. Anglers and others have proved by crude methods that the
protrusion is the crest of a sheer column of rock, or rocks as the case
may be. If the figures confidently given are approximately correct,
when, if ever, Ennerdale runs dry, an inaccessible pinnacle will be
found to puzzle our rock gymnasts. Herons alight here to meditate and
digest their toll of troutlets; and swift warriors of the air, buzzard,
peregrine, and more humble sparrow-hawk, hover down to the islet-rock to
rest and plan anew their forays. When afloat on Ennerdale the mountains,
with infinite variety of shadow and gleam, rock and grass and
downpouring water, demand most of my attention. I seldom look to the
lake's outlet: it is a comparatively flat scene if your boat is past the
rugged slopes of Revelin. A long larch-wood fringes the shore--its
monotonous blob of green in strong contrast to the livelier fellside
dabbed with creamy, blooming hawthorns. Next to it, over a knot of
buildings, rises an unsightly shaft of brick, belonging to a
long-disused thread mill. The effect of rectangular wood and cylindrical
chimney is dreary, stupid; it apes a modernity which here, in God's
wilderness, is at least unpicturesque.
Our vigorous friend at the oars has meanwhile brought us close to
Anglers Crag. The bottom of the lake remains invisible, though the
boat's nose grates against the sheering rock; looking over the side,
through the clear water, the slabs drop lower and lower till gathering
gloom hides them from sight. The "crag" above, though steep, is quite
climbable; it is worth while going ashore to scramble for ten minutes.
The boat accordingly turns into a narrow bay where we may land on a
beach of shelving shingle. The bank above is plenteously strewed with
slabs of rock, though the "crag" is to our right. Up the hillside we
find our view rapidly extending to westward, though the mountains still
hem us in on all other sides. Shortly the sea is visible beyond smoky
West Cumberland. The forms of shipping can be made out, sailing the
channels through the shoals of Solway. And farther away still, if the
day be clear, the hills of Scotland rise in an undulating line of blue.
St. Bees Head is the only feature in a comparatively regular shore: a
mass of sandstone, it sheers up four hundred feet above the strand.
Here, on its very crest, once was a monastery, the lands of which were
won by a miracle. St. Bega and her zealots landed hereabouts and found
the people worshippers of strange Norse gods, unwilling to hear the new
gospel and impatient for the visitors to be gone.
"Your God is almighty!" sneered the chief, "I will give you all the land
in my domain that to-morrow bears snow. Your God is almighty; and you
need nothing from humans--ask Him, then, for snow."
The morrow was Midsummer Day; at early morn the folks of the country
rose to find a mantle of cold, glistering white covering nearly all the
land betwixt mountain and sea. The chief's jest was, so runs the tale,
carried out in full, and through war and peace the monks held to their
inheritance till smooth King Henry divided their lands to others.
Down we come to the lake edge again, to raid the haunt of coot and
heron--both birds not rare on Ennerdale Lake, the quietude of which is
just perfect. Our boat floats in as wild and savage a scene as is to be
made by mere and fell. The Char Dub is visited, the huge mass of Pillar
Crag noted at as near a point as possible. Now, coasting barren fields
above which the skylarks are trilling, and by shores decked with
star-primroses, we return from the wilderness to the forest lands of oak
and ash and alder.
Ennerdale Lake, though less visited than the other waters, is in its way
as beauteous as they.