_BUTTERMERE_
Buttermere is Crummock's sister-lake, divided only by half a mile of
level, swampish meadows. Doubtless, in early ages, the twain formed one
long water, reaching from the foot of Fleetwith eight miles to the hill
at Scale. In size the upper lake is much the smaller: even more than
Crummock it is a mountain mere. The fells rising from its shores are
among the lofty ones of the Lake Country: Red Pike and High Stile with
their back views into Ennerdale, Robinson and Hindscarth facing the vale
of Derwent and far-away Skiddaw, and Brandreth hiding behind Fleetwith.
Buttermere is a solitary place: the presence of the hamlet, the
sheep-farms, the small, dark woodlands, and the one mansion on a head
driven out by the activities of a fell beck, almost accentuate its
loneliness, for the bare pikes of mountain dwarf them almost away. It is
the coach-road which brings the idea of modern life and relationships
here. It runs close to the lake, and every day in summer and autumn a
procession of vehicles passes along just before the luncheon hour. From
Keswick they have started--coach, char-a-banc, wagonette, or more lordly
landau, wheeled into lovely Borrowdale to the merry crack of the whip
and gleesome blast of horn; with a long pull, they have been hauled up
steep Honister Hause, with a brake-wrenching plunge they have safely
negotiated the narrow shingle-shelf called a road. Timorous passengers
have shrunk in terror as they gazed at awful depths below, but now all
nerves compose themselves as the hooves rattle on the hard, undulating
road by the lake-side. After a suitable rest the horses will draw the
crowd away over Newlands Hause, where out of the green hillsides a road
has been delved, to Keswick, and our dale and lake will forget
disturbance till to-morrow. The eternal silence of a mountain-land will
fall around and render rapturous evening and night and blithesome
morning. To drive from Keswick to Buttermere and return is no mean item
in a tourist's day; it is a noble day's work for horses, and only good
ones can endure frequent journeys over these rugged passes. Even the
"easier" slope of Honister is sufficient to "break many a horse's
heart."
[Illustration: HEAD OF BUTTERMERE]
The villaget of Buttermere was apparently unknown to Roman, Saxon, and
the building tribes of old; its only historic building is the lowly
public-house where the Maid of Buttermere dwelt. Mary was the belle of
the glen in good King George's day--a blithesome Cumberland lass, bonny
enough to charm a yeoman's eye, wealthy enough in a modest way to bring
his love and hand. But she was not for the dalesmen or the shepherds of
the mountains. Her fate was ripe when one day a post-chaise brought to
the little inn a grand gentleman from Keswick. His dress was fine, his
looks noble, he had plenty of money. He gave himself out to be Colonel
Hopetown, son of a peer and otherwise highly connected. Soon the guest
condescended to woo the Beauty, and ere a short summer passed they were
married. A few weeks later the "colonel" was arrested on a charge of
forgery--"franking" letters with his "relative's" name to pass the Post
Office--and was proved to be the son of menial parents. Many other and
viler frauds had he practised after leaving the South Country, but these
he was never called to book for on this earth. Forgery was a crime
involving death under the merciless penal code of those days, and the
impostor duly suffered at Carlisle. Mary of Buttermere, so forcibly
parted from her husband, did not repine him long, but married a
neighbouring farmer and lived to a good old age. The small chapelry of
Buttermere was, some time previous to the happenings mentioned, held by
one of Wordsworth's heroes, "Wonderful Walker," the curate of Duddonside
Seathwaite, whose life-story of labour and frugality was once so well
known and esteemed. How he lived several years in his office here is
almost a "wonder" in itself, for Buttermere allowed its priest no more
than "whittle-gate" and twenty shillings yearly. (Some accounts aver
that the remuneration was "clog-shoes, harden-sark, whittle-gate, and
guse-gate"--that is, a pair of shoes clogged or iron-shod, a coarse
shirt once a year, free living at each parishioner's house for a certain
number of days, and the right to pasture a goose or geese on the
common.) Either scale would not be too luxurious for even a successor of
the Apostles, bound to forswear the lusts of the flesh and the pride of
life. The person who held Newlands chapel in the time of George II. was
a tailor, a clogger and butterpat maker, and the Mungrisdale priest had
£6 0_s._ 9_d._ a year. Such cures were often held by unordained
persons--hedge-parsons with a vengeance.
The day I first came to Buttermere forms one of my fairest memories.
Starting before midnight on the opposite edge of Lakeland, at daybreak I
stood on Dunmail raise; by breakfast-time I reached Keswick; then I went
up Skiddaw by way of Latrigg, descending by the same route--the only one
I then knew of on that shoulder of the mountain; at noon I was on
Newlands Hause, plodding on cheerily. Hot and grimed with dust, my eyes
bleared with sweat and the glare, I wonder if I looked so disreputable,
so much of a tramp, as I felt. A stripling of seventeen, not stoutly
built, poor in dress and pocket (I left home with 1_s._ 9½_d._ and
returned with but 3_d._ less), carrying on my back a satchel with food
for my day, to be eaten in the open air and washed down with water;
there would be little jauntiness of face or body or stride, I trow,
after that forty-eight miles' tramp. And this was not the end of the
journey. Buttermere was only the Mecca, the turning-point, of my walk;
after passing it I turned up rugged Honister for Borrowdale, and then by
the Stake pass to Langdale, and so home. Perhaps it were unmannerly to
boast, but eighty-five miles of road, mountain, glen, and pass, in
twenty-five and a half hours, is not a feat of my every-day. As I
entered the valley that day the clouds closed down, shutting off the
beating sunrays and throwing a light, refreshing shower. Like the
mountain daisies, the wanderer for a full minute raised a rejoicing face
to the cooling raindrops. Then, like the sky, he felt a trouble. "Nay,
nay, it's nobbut cestin' a shooer," said an aged shepherd, and my heart
was comforted. Not long before I had walked thirty miles through pouring
rain, and found it no light matter. Like a soft slab of slate the lake
stretched from the fringe of treetops before to the stony, scrubby
hillside opposite. Save where coots and water-hens played by the sedges
and rooty river-mouths, the surface was calm, the light rain merged into
the water without splash or circle. The hillsides round Buttermere are
furrowed into ravines, dark and gaping they split the festive green
swathes of summer-tide. And down these hollows dash lively rivulets
playing hide-and-seek, mazily threading through shadow of alder and
rowan, by groves of flowering hawthorns, now lost in the depths of a
ghyll, now spouting in lively haste over a ledge curtained with fern and
bracken.
[Illustration: HONISTER PASS AND BUTTERMERE]
It is a rare pleasure to be at Buttermere after a series of rain-storms.
From the rockrib wherefrom the church commands its little flock, you
look into a great amphitheatre of crag-set mountains. Beneath the eye is
the water; it seems to be palpitating with movement from the rich riot
its tributaries are hurling down the steeps. See how it wimples beneath
the farther shore--through a wide rent in the lake-bed untold gallons of
water are being forced upward from the heart of the earth; that flat
circle in mid-lake against which the creeping catspaw of wind in vain
forces its feeble ripples shows another fountain swelling up in quiet
power. The steep hillsides are seamed with threads of white; Sour Milk
ghyll, in a shimmering veil, sways from skyline to lake-shore. Where
often a hermit stream hides and glides behind crest of rock, beneath
screen of bracken, now is all tearing, jumping, spreading fosse. Every
fold in the hillside casts down its bounding cascade; there is nothing
in the air so loud as this turmoil of waters, this joy-song of deeps
bursting from dark prisons in bog and crag. Already, we are warned, the
paths to Wastdale and Ennerdale are impassable; the floods are out at
Gatescarth. Climbing would be a questionable pleasure to-day;
"beck-dodging" is far more suitable. At first our road is dry, washed
free from dust by the heavy rain; through wide culverts the floods
rumble beneath. The wider becks are bridged: look up this tree-hung
gullet and see how the waters wilder down. Not in waves do they come,
but in great gush after great gush, green and white. How they crash
against unseen rocks, throwing feathers of spray at every shock, till
the stream shooting beneath the arch seems but a flying mass of airy,
tortured foam! There comes the sprite, the winged spirit of the day,
robed in brown and white--the dipper, our mountain water-crow. How it
chirrups and revels in the tumult! how it flirts its tiny wings and
dives through some curling gout of spray! how it scolds the volume
roaring through the darkened tunnel beneath the road, causing it, O
highly important fairy, to flight up like a mere blackbird, among the
dripping plumes of larch!
"Boat ahoy!" we shout anon, and our friend afloat a field's breadth away
waves answer; in a minute the boat is grinding the gravel, and we are
almost down the soaking field to reach it.
"What, tired of fishing?" we ask. He is a desperate keen one with the
rod as a rule, yet his tackle is packed up.
"No," he grumbles, "can't catch anything."
"Now I did think to-day would suit you. Good spates in the becks, a
light breeze, and plenty of cool clouds," I marvel.
"Now look here," protested the angler wearily, "it's no good talking
like that. The floor of this lake is leaking upwards as though the steam
was escaping by a thousand cracks in the ceiling of the nether regions
and being condensed into Buttermere. Why, man, the lake bottom's that
lively that the trout and the char, the big pike down to the tiny
minnow, are all having a job to hold the water at all. I bet every
minute they're expecting a geyser that'll blow the whole lot of 'em over
Red Pike to Ennerdale."
When an angler relapses into this mood he is hopeless to cheer, so we
silently respect his sorrows. Perhaps into that vigorous pulling he will
throw some of his despondency. Now Fleetwith, flanked by the precipice
of Honister, is frowning at us over the low fields. To the right,
against a background of watery clouds, is limned rugged Scarf Gap; the
path to it is white with rushing waters. The rocks everywhere glimmer
with oozing springs: down Honister pass a wide torrent is foaming,
attracting to it many a milky force from Robinson and Fleetwith-side.
The scraggy stone-pines by the lake-head give a characteristic finish to
this scene of sodden brae and spouting rill. Save for the sycamores
round the farm of Gatesgarth, there is hardly a tree for shelter; the
aspect is bleak and storm-riven. The boat is run on to the shingles
beneath the Scotch firs that we may land. Not far away is the main road;
we pass up the hillside beyond it. In the recess beneath Fleetwith we
are conscious of a flood indeed. Much of the stony level is swamped;
with difficulty the sheep have been brought from danger, and are flocked
near the farmstead. The torrents rushing in at the head of the mere can
be traced, first by white horses, then by dark, level-flowing currents,
far down the lake. From this height we again feel that the great water
is rocking in its cradle of mountains. The furrows of incoming rills
give the peculiar idea of ever-changing level to the water. I have never
yet seen the whole level to Scale under water--one lake of eight miles
instead of two smaller ones--but viewed from these heights it must be a
noble sight indeed. Our boat pushed into the in-dashing beck, rapidly
rides to halfway down the lake, thence by carefully avoiding
unfavourable currents we easily make our landing-place.
To my mind, the valley is hardly less interesting when a thick winter
mist glooms it, when, for all you can see, there is no difference
between Honister top, the crest of Robinson, and the stony fields round
Gatescarth. Under such circumstances it is well to be afloat an hour,
and allow impressions to establish themselves in your mind. Twenty yards
out you lose the land: the boat glides along in a grey circle of moving
fogbeards and rippling waters. Save for the sounds from bow and rowlock
you are in a dead silence. Shortly, however, the ear catches faint
echoes: the croak of the raven, the skirl of the curlew, ranging in
clear upper air, with now and then the attenuated bleat or low or crow
from the farmlands. In mid-lake there are few sounds of water-birds,
though at an odd time a coot, traversing the width, may show, a scared
patch of brown and white, inside your zone of vision. The lake-birds are
cuttering softly close inshore, finding the curtain of cloud an
effective cloak for feeding. An hour of boating thus, in gloom and rowk,
will form an experience not to be forgotten.
[Illustration: THE BORROWDALE YEWS
Evening]
The fishing of Buttermere is now in a few hands: sportsmen have leased
the mere and devoted much attention to its re-stocking. The result is
that few anglers outside this coterie come here, though on an occasional
day the mountain becks are worthy attention. Most visitors here are
active enough to relish rambles over the fells, and there are many
routes to select from. Away from the narrow band of meadow-land touching
the lake, there are few obstacles to free-and-easy wanderings. Sheep
walks are divided by wire fences, but these are fairly negotiable, by
climbing over at the "posts" or squeezing between the running strands
where slackest. Stout folks find the latter the preferable method. To
make the circuit of the glen of the lake is a fairly big task, but it
can be divided into three moderate courses. You start by crossing the
meadows and climbing Scale Force brow, then, left-handed, along Red Pike
and High Stile (over bog and bracken, across ghyll and up steep, with a
glimpse into Ennerdale here, a peep through Newlands at Derwentdale
there, and always the moor in sight, with a clean, sweet breeze and, if
the day be clear, a wedge of blue sea on the horizon), finally
descending into Scarf Gap, the home of mists, where an easy return path
ends course one. From Scarf Gap, into the back-o'-beyont country behind
Haystacks, and to Brandreth with its legs into Buttermere, Ennerdale and
Borrowdale, always keeping to the right, and ending the course over
Fleetwith to Honister Hause. From Brandreth it is easy to pass over
Green Gable to Great Gable, and so to gain Wastwater. Honister pass-head
is the scene of a legendary battle between Britons and Picts, or between
Angles and Scots--history hardly decides which. One party had been
a-foraying in Borrowdale and hoped to withdraw over this pass with their
spoil; their pursuers, however, cut them off and, after a wild
resistance, recovered the cattle. From Honister Hause--it is a wild
place of rocks and screes and untamable streams--the final stage carries
the wanderer over Dale Head to Hindscarth, whence he descends by
Robinson to Buttermere or to Newlands Hause.
Every one walks up Honister as a matter of course. What is it like on a
bright July day, when the beating heat is tempered by a smart breeze?
Every rambler should live with eyes open to nature; to-day will repay
him his interest. Up in the brilliant blue ravens and hawks are
hovering, crows and rooks are ever passing over the glen. From one wood
to another the wild pigeon wings rapidly, the blackbirds in the hedges
are busy at their nestage duties. Take note of the flowers, O man with
seeing eyes. In the pastures are great purple spikes of loose-strife,
amid the white waves of ox-eyes; round by the lake are belts of blue
lobelia. The air is full of the scent of meadow-sweet, the honey-suckle
here and there throws trailers, adorned with creamy bloom, along the
hedges, and in great clusters blow the wild roses. Up the shady
beck-courses you might find the blue forget-me-not and the still bluer
birdlime, and in the mossy springs the violet-shaped butterwort.
Butterflies and dragon-flies, softer moths and gaudy beetles, are
attracted by the multi-flavoured feast spread about.
Now we come to Gatescarth, the largest sheep-farm within many a mile. A
noted breeder of mountain sheep lives here, one who has done much to
improve our semi-wild Herdwicks--much honour to him. The farmlands, even
in the glorious to-day, look harsh and bare, though the soft, short
sward is of the greenest. In winter there is often severe stress here;
at times the shepherds are called upon to collect, in a day of storm,
the flocks from far-off crags and ghylls. Long hours are spent battling
the elements, collecting the unwilling sheep, and bringing them down.
The wanderer here on a stormy winter night is not unlikely to see a
light patrolling far up the hillsides--one of the belated shepherds
patiently driving his sheep down from the danger of flood and drift and
gale. The white cross which is attracting the eye, O inquirer, is
erected to the memory of a young lady accidentally killed at that spot:
"In the midst of life we are in death," is carved on it. The incident is
one to make every mountaineer pause and think. It was an everyday risk,
alas! The lady descending a steep slope held her alpenstock straight in
front of her; the point struck the ground, but the lady slipped, her
chin caught on the butt of the stick and, such was the force of the
fall, her neck was dislocated, causing immediate death. Such an accident
is possible a score times in every day's walk here. Now the great crag
of Honister is frowning by our very side. Around its base the rambler
will find broad tracts of alpine ladies' mantle, while forked spleenwort
and many a rare plant besides are among the screes and shelving rocks.
Among the grass and boulders near our path are long fantastic growths of
stagshorn moss, with more alpine ladies' mantle, with wild thyme, the
precious eyebright and yellow tormentil lifting their lovely heads in
the desolate wilderness. Now we reach the passhead: Honister is the
wildest of our passes, the place where the great thews of Nature are
least hid. But the slate quarries make Honister less desirable to some
eyes; great confusions of debris, railroads sweeping up into the bowels
of the great crags; for nowadays men do not work here, as they did in
Wordsworth's time, hanging down the cliff in frail basket-chairs tapping
and blasting the surface rock, nor do they carry down the slate on
handsledges as they did two score years or so ago. The mining is more
scientific--more reliance is placed on machinery than on men. The new
railroad, carrying slates to Seatollar has improved one thing at any
rate--there is far less of that penetrating screaming of brakes than
when the loaded carts descended the pass-road. On a calm day the racket
could be heard for miles.
[Illustration: LODORE AND DERWENTWATER
A summer's morn]