_MOUNTAIN TARNS_
Perhaps it were more correct to say "minor waters," for some are hardly
within the pale of the mountains. There are, on fell and in dale, above
thirty of these tarns, and, as the lakes vary in type of charm, so do
these. Their variety, moreover, is even more bewildering than that of
the lakes. In the latter's wide landscapes, no matter what the
circumstances of weather or season, one cannot mistake Windermere for
Ullswater, Derwentwater for Wastwater. The tarns are, however, entirely
different. I think particularly of three views of Angle tarn, under
Bowfell, so distinct in what a poet would call their emotions, that
memory will hardly recognise the three as having but one geographical
position. Scarcely daybreak, we had passed the summit of Bowfell into
Ewer Gap. We could see hardly five yards in front, and ere long our
leader, though well accustomed to the fell under most circumstances,
confessed that he was astray. But on we plodded: "We'll get somewhere,"
though that might be over the crags into Eskdale or headlong down the
precipices into Langstrath. At last, when the others began to descend a
dangerous slope, the bottom of which could not be seen for boiling mist,
I commanded a halt. In a minute or two the mist was torn aside by the
morning breeze,--chill, raw, and damp it was even after the fold of
night-cloud,--and there "blae as wad," as we of the dales say, was Angle
tarn sheer beneath. Solitary, within a weirdly uptossed land, its shoals
seen through a veil of blue water, its depths showing in greater quality
of cobalt. We were perched on the front of a lofty rock: a dozen yards
forward might have ended in an accident. I am not likely to forget that
scene: grey dawn, the brisk breeze, the mist scurrying out of the riven
crags around, the eerie feeling of desolation--we were in touch with the
soul of Nature at her moment of uprising. Again I saw the tarn at
daybreak. We had climbed in the velvety July darkness up the rough
penance of Rossett ghyll. The small expanse of water looked violet cool
in the growing light; it was calm, and austere with the austerity of a
virgin Alpine pool it seemed to me. A soft greyness which the most
marvellous steel engraving cannot picture draped all things made, till
the great sun leapt over Helvellyn and hurled day on to a land of dreamy
repose. Again I came that way when the August sun beat down, and the
great barrier of mountains seemed to tremble and to swim in heat-haze.
The waters laving the harsh crags were a deep pitiless blue. One felt
that the hard blaze had driven all sense of coolness from them. The
grass drooped on the fellsides, parsley fern and mountain moss suspended
life and made patches of dusty brown, the crags were grey with drought.
Not a tree in sight, not a line of shadow save right up there, almost at
the mountain-top, a refreshing triangle of darkness, "the shadow of a
great rock in a weary land." One's inmost soul felt the harshness of
that day, and that by it the land was robbed of much fairness.
[Illustration: ANGLE TARN, ESK HAUSE]
And what romantic situations are occupied by some of our tarns. There is
Red tarn, above which towers the upper rampart of Helvellyn. To right is
Striding Edge, to left the narrow ridge of Catchedecam. How fine a gloom
does the old mountain throw at sunset over this beauteous spot! There is
Stye Head tarn, abode of horror, the gloom and beauty of which so
impressed Ruskin. The romance of this tarn is heightened when one is
privileged to visit it by moonlight. How the great rock-billows, greyly
seen, overtower the tiny gully! How man with all his petty conceits
falters in the presence of the greatness of Nature's majesty! One side
the pass is impenetrable darkness; across, the light accentuates every
ruggedness; streaks from the skyline show where the rivers fall from
parent heights. "I felt that I could take out a half-penny and crawl out
of sight under it," said a very unimpressionable person to me after such
an experience. "The loneliness crushed my voice, my mind, and, as it
seemed to me, my stature. I would have hidden from the scorn of all
things made."
Our minor waters cannot claim much history: most of them are too far
into the wilds to be mentioned in ancient story, except in a hazy and
collective fashion. Several of our lakes have been served likewise. But
that humanity knew of them in far-off ages is sure. By Whinfell tarn
Britons of old lived; a canoe was some years ago dug out of the oozy
peat there. And on the opposite side of the Country there are extensive
ruins of a city within a mile of Devoke Water. Who built Barn Scar
cannot be told with surety; for long legend put it down to Danes who
peopled it with lads of Drigg and lasses of Beckermet.
But if legitimate history has failed, there is amplitude of legend. Most
will have heard of the deathless fish who are said to live in the depths
of Bowscale tarn; of the fairy chasm in the sunless deeps of Scales tarn
under the frowning Edges of Saddleback. On the fells about them have
been seen mysterious armies, coming, coming. Brothers Water has its
story of gloom and death: how two pairs of brothers were drowned in it.
Of Grisedale tarn, storehouse of King Dunmail's crown, I have told the
story. Gates Water, by Coniston Old Man, has a few weird stories, but
they are entwined hopelessly almost. There are stories of pigmies and
giants who lived in the wildernesses, of fairies and evil spirits who
wail over shapeless mounds of rock, ruins of cities of uncouth days for
aught we know.
[Illustration: DALEGARTH FORCE, ESKDALE]
To see the heart of Lakeland, one should make the pilgrimage of the
Mountain Tarns. It will not be an easy task: the highest fells will have
to be crossed--it will need perseverance and strong boots. And even in
these days of motor and cycle some humans can and will walk. Many a mile
of breezy moorland will be found on such a pilgrimage; not weary when
the heather's purple bells are at their widest, when green grass clothes
the ghylls, when the rowan flowers, and the white foam of hawthorn
dapples the fellsides,--many a mile of rock and crag, rain-washed,
frost-scored, scree-strewn, lichen-covered, many a mile of smooth upland
where curlew and plover whistle and wail, where raven and hawk flight
for carrion and live prey, where fox and otter, and even red deer, are
to be discovered by the alert, nooks where grow our rarest ferns and
mosses, waterfalls and rattling cascading becks.
Such a pilgrimage would commence outside the range of the fells. The
pedestrian would strike north from the town of Kendal--a grey "burgh of
ancient charter proud"--for Whinfell tarn. This is a tarn of the
renascence, think the fell-wanderers; Nature having shed her grandest
pearls in the gorges and on the rock-shelves to westward, came to bestow
her final blessing in the low country. She sat beneath whin-patched
Beacon and wept over the sweet scene she could not really decorate. But
of all her plenishings she still had a trace, and well she bestowed
them: the roach, forgotten when char were placed in Winander; a knot of
curious weeds which soft currents sway in the peat-bottomed pools,
and--a boat. This old punt so often went to the bottom that it was as
muddy as a street on a wet day. Nature, those countless æons ago,
endowed Whinfell tarn with it--it was long before emulous Britons
fashioned that moss-buried canoe--and what better craft was there, said
the contented folk who lived thereabout. But Nature has been superseded
in these days, and a boat made by man floats near the reed beds where
the angler seeks the pike.
Thence up "Robert Elsmere's" dale to Greycrag tarn--a lonesome sheet of
water under a towering fell-end. It has, say some, a store of amphibious
fish; nine months of the year they rejoice in water, the remainder they
spend in the depths of the moss. During hot weather the tarn is often
quite invisible. I have never seen trace of a fish in Greycrag's mere,
but Old Bob, a veteran rodman of the glens, assures me that they exist.
"But," I once protested, "they can't."
"Noo, luk sta here: when t' watter's lah, thoo can hear 'em as weel as
see 'em. Yan warm day ah was walkin' on t' bog be t' tarn edge, an' aw
on a sudden ah hard 'em. Yan said, 'Say, Billy, it's rare an' warm
to-day?' 'Aye, an' ther's less watter an' aw. T' lile crag's a yerd
oot.' 'Thoo nivver says sae! Well, well, hooivver. We'll hae to git to
wark an' dig doon.' T' watter just afoor me turnt aw mucky, an' ah
couldn't see t' fish." That's corroboration with a vengeance.
Old Bob it was also who first gave me the story of the overland pike and
eels which reside in Skeggles Water, a peaty pool on the waste between
Longsleddale and Kentmere, visible as you climb up the steeps to
Greycrag. These marvellous fish have the power o' wet nights of leaving
the tarn, and slithering their way across the grass patches to where the
water runs down into Longsleddale. I have found a dozen men willing to
swear they have seen the fish on their journey, but not one who has
actually captured a specimen.
From the realms of fancy to the domain of beauty and to Kentmere tarn.
This laves the lower screes of Hillbell and Froswick, but Nature's
Kentmere was four miles down the glen. Thirty years or so ago the
landlords organised draining operations, and found that they had
exchanged two hundred acres of beautiful water for as much useless
marsh. Nature, interfered with, had retaliated. The upper reservoir is
more strikingly situated. Great mountains leap upward from its shores,
scores of brawling streamlets force their way down the sides into it.
There are two favourite times for fishing this mere--when a gentle
sou'wester ruffles the surface and you get out your fine river tackle,
and when after rain the fish scent a feast. It is a case of knowing
where the shoals lie thickest for making a pannier.
As we stroll by the water, we have in front the tallest buttress of High
Street, about the flanks of which are studded four beautiful
waters--Small Water, Blea Water, Hayes Water, and Angle tarn. The
nearest of these is reached over Nan Bield pass by which a fair amount
of inter-dale traffic passes. One day a flock of sheep will make the
grey rocks ring with their plaints, another they may resound to the
mellower lowings of driven cattle. My first glimpse of Small Water was
at sunset. Afternoon was far spent when we faced the mountain ways.
Along the hilltops the sun flashed golden fire, the fells to eastward
were haloed in bright mist, cool shadows fell and spread around. Then
after an (it seemed an interminable) hour, we came here. Not a spark of
direct light fell into the hollow of the hills, but the waters shook off
responsive glows to day's aftermath reigning in the skies. The air was
hushed, the wagtails flittering about the grey stones were soothed to
cuttering monotones. Oh, to stay were glorious indeed, to watch the now
radiant vault fade through most subtle hues to grey and then to clear
blue of night and starry rest. But on we had to go--often the most
ravishing scene has to be inexorably hurried through, for man has many
interests, and the most peaceful, the most soul-filling, are not in the
way of the world the most important. Would that more of us could, like
the poets whose dreamings inspired the mighty deeds of old, and of
to-day as well, sit by the hour in these realms of beauty and delight,
and calmly let their spirit sink into us. We would write better, live
better; but what we call duty intervenes and the inner pulsations of
living nature remain unknowable. Nature as seen indoors with the
microscope is unfolded to us every day by our great leaders of thought;
but few of these great minds care for or have the leisure to instil into
themselves, and thence transmit to us, the broader splendours of field
and fell and mere.
[Illustration: BLEA TARN AND LANGDALE PIKES]
Small Water fills a tiny depression in the mountain; it is well stocked
with trout, many of which have a curiously large number of vermilion
spots on them. The angler who comes here on an evening in late July may
find recompense for his trouble, but a rodman's panoply is no light
weight to bring those three miles from Mardale, or six from Kentmere.
From the upper crags of High Street one looks into a deep well, bounded
by rock and scree, to see lonely Blea Water. Its shores are fringed with
great fragments rent from the rugged heights which almost overhang. The
raven nests in inaccessible gullies above the rippling waters, and one
associates their solemn croakings with the shadow-filled basin of crag.
A few stunted perch exist in the sterile mere: what hope of rich life
can there be from rain-flooded ghylls and mist-moistened crags? Only at
sunrise does the scene become joyous. From beyond the Pennines the day's
first warming beams kiss life into seams and rents, signs of wild winter
nights and gloomed, frosty days. One great rock-sentinel has a story of
the dalesman sport of fox-hunting to tell. Its front is split up by a
score ravines, where the stone is rotten and weather-worn. Ledges where
a fox can lie at peace from the baying pack are there in scores: Reynard
can climb up and down where the agilest hound dare not approach. During
one long chase the fox, sorely pushed, attempted to "benk" in this crag.
The pack, to prevent accidents, were "whipped off." The followers
essayed to examine the rock-face to discover the redskin and, if
possible, to oust him from his refuge. In his eagerness one Dixon,
scrambling in a rotten ghyll-head, slipped and fell headlong to a great
depth. His body rebounded thrice from the rocks--hence the shattered
watercourse is known as "Dixon's Three Loups." With both legs broken,
the fallen sportsman came to rest, jammed behind a pinnacle of rock.
Espying the fox making cautiously over the vertical rock he called to
his friends, who were with the hounds, "It's cummen oot be t' hee end;
lig t' dogs on." Reynard's ruse was frustrated, and a kill made in due
course. Dixon's injuries, beyond the fractured legs, must have been
confined to contusions, for, years afterwards, he joined in the hunt
with unabated keenness.
Hayes Water has no story to tell the wanderer: it is out of the way of
history and legend. Many a hunt passes along its glen, but no commanding
crags claim adventure and peril. It is among the most beautiful of our
tarns, and the ghyll by which its outflow passes to the Goldrill is a
paradise. Cataract and dimpling pool, lush moss and clinging ivy, alder,
rowan, ash, and birch; here the beck gurgling in a deep channel, there,
in the realm of bracken, sliding down the hardened stone it cannot
pierce. The stream is a playground of the dipper, the wagtail, the
kingfisher. Suddenly the rivulet charges down a rocky ravine, and
emerges, as a clear, calm brook, in the level glen of Goldrill. But one
hardly yet follows it, for across the heather and towsled grass there is
an Angle tarn to see. This small pool on the level moor is a haunt of
the wild red deer from Martindale. Skeletons of several of them were
found here after the terrible winter of 1895, when for weeks the ground
was frost-bound, and the heather buried in snow. But Angle tarn, as well
as Hayes Water, is famous to the angler; permission to enjoy this sport
must, however, be sought from the lord at Lowther Castle, in whose manor
both lie.
[Illustration: A SUDDEN SHOWER, BLEA TARN]
Brothers Water, up a branch of the Goldrill, affords fair sport to the
rod. Its shores the wandering kind would think, but erroneously, tame.
No huge crag leaps up from it, but its surroundings are of singular
ruggedness. The lofty, bristling front of Red Screes, and the purpled
fields of broken crag on Kirkstone fell, face the nobbly Hartsop Dodd.
The ridges are cut up by narrow chasms down which in flood-time, like
hordes of wild horses, unbridled torrents fling. The glen above the tarn
is given over to one of the largest sheep-farms in the district. Its
acreage is counted, as its fleeces, by the thousand.
It is a far cry and a rugged way to Grisedale tarn, but the climb is
worth doing. Up the ghylls you climb on your route to Fairfield; and
when you reach the topmost ridge in sight, you find the deep narrow gulf
of Deepdale lies between. You detour round the head of this glen. It is
glorious wild country, this home of shepherd craft. There is no good
path; you follow the wandering sheep-tracks where they serve, and leave
them the moment you find their trend unfavourable. It is eerie when the
mist suddenly wraps around. Then you may have to trust to dead reckoning
for your safety. But, on a clear day, the vertical views from the narrow
approach to Fairfield, into Rydal and Deepdale are charming: on either
horizon is the flash of water--Windermere, Coniston, Ullswater. The
ridge of Fairfield crossed, suddenly breaks a new glen into the mountain
wall, and at the same time there is revealed to you a whirlpool of
distant summits. Right below is the tarn of Grisedale. Seen on a dull
day it is an abode of mystery: deep, so deep blue that one feels that it
were a lower firmament; pure, so pure and fresh that it seems impossible
that through it one might not journey to a fairy paradise.
This grand cleft in the mountain wall was haunt of the wild boar and of
great eagles for long after less wild regions were cleared. To-day you
see nothing sterner than the peregrine whizzing after towering larks. I
well remember assisting to drive a flock across this upland basin. Of
all scenes in dales life, few are prettier than well-driven sheep
passing over open land. The collies, watchful, obedient to call or
whistle of their master, follow the wings of the mob; the shepherd is
behind the centre, and the broad front of grey fleeces and black faces,
a thousand or more strong, steadily, readily, moves to pastures new, and
the delicate green grass, with grey crags and darker stripes of moss,
combines all into an idyllic picture.
[Illustration: KIRKSTONE PASS AND BROTHERS' WATER]
From Grisedale, there is Helvellyn to climb on the way to Red tarn, and
to a tiny pool beneath the northern screes known as Keppel Cove tarn. A
tour further afield would be across the knife-like Edges of Saddleback
to the lonesome tarns immured beneath their cliffs. We, however, journey
over the ridge between Fairfield and Seat Sandal for Grasmere's sweet
vale. There are many views across the pass to Helm Crag, with its
uncouth rocks on top, figures of monsters frozen speechless from the dim
twilight of time.
From Grasmere there is a particularly fine mountain walk, with a ring of
tarns as its objective. Starting from the tourist village one passes up
Easedale, then begins to ascend the side of Sour Milk ghyll. Come when
there has been rain and a tortured chain of water flies down four
hundred feet of rocks, in a succession of gleaming spouts. But in the
days of drought the rocky pathway is bare and almost dry, the rivulet
drips noiselessly down the inclined rocks. At the head of the force you
enter the realm of the fell properly. The true mountain moth flutters
by; the moss beneath your feet is racemed with fox's tail, least
civilised of plants. The ring-ouzel, the blackbird of the fells, is
often here--in the waterworn rocks are its nesting-places. The bracken
throws off its sweetest scent. The tarn side is a peaceful scene under
most conditions, but when a gale rages you see the water fly off in
sheets. The scene is glorious, but the buffetings are tremendous.
Easedale tarn is among the larger in size, its trout are more easily
caught at hours and seasons when the tourist is unknown. At evening get
out the boat and float toward the outlet. The weeds here are the nightly
haunt of the best fish.
Our next tarn is Codale, perched on a shelf six hundred feet higher than
Easedale tarn--a mere rock pool, but in situation most romantic. Fishing
here--well, there are a few trout to be got by the lucky. "Codale tarn?
Ah, we used to come at it after we had done Stickle tarn. Old Jonty knew
it well. Once when I was with him--it was a blazing June day--he said he
could get the fish in Codale. 'How?' I asked. 'By minding my own
business.' He produced two lengths of line, and along them fixed the
hooks and baits common to the lath. 'Noo, thee gang that side o' t'
tarn, ah'll gang this.' The line was between, and we soon dragged the
narrow water from one to the other. There wasn't a fish missed. One
after another they swum up; what the baits were Old Jonty wouldn't
say--salmon roe most like, for he was a terrible poacher. We got four
pounds of fish with the single drag, more than I had seen in a week of
tarn fishing in that blazing weather."
[Illustration: STEPPING-STONES, FAR EASEDALE, GRASMERE]
A few weird things are told of the wild upland where lies Codale tarn,
stories as wild as the demon hunts of Dartmoor. Through the mists the
wanderer often fancies a face distraught with pain and toil. It is the
weird of a lost soul. The first time I was a-wandering in this region I
was caught in a dense cloud, and, the stories still fresh in my mind, I
felt rather nervous that some horror would come to light. It is
wonderful what vivid imaginings come when one is astray in the mist. I
have a great many times seen visions in the grey beards--so clear, so
true, that once I hailed a comrade whose face I saw, though he himself
was forty miles away. Codale tarn, to my mind, is the prettiest mere of
all: stand back from its outlet and drink in the picture--the narrow
dark band of water, the great pile of rock dabbed with spits of grass,
seamed with moss-laces and with parsley fern. Above the crags, where a
spot of snow oft lingers till June, is the azure sky, and the dots of
winged things.
Over the hills and away to the tarn of Stickle. At clear midnight the
hollow is at its finest--when the sky is gemmed with stars and over the
jagged Pavey Ark the northern light pulses and flows, and the mountains
swim in delicate folds of vapour. It is fairy time--the wee folk _must_
survive in this abode of eternal peace. The crags overhanging the tarn
are full of problems for the rock-climbing cult--one or two of the
gullies are almost first-rate. The "shepherd's path," which few dalesmen
ever use, is dangerous to any one not trained to this severe work--I
mention this as a warning. The tarn holds trout of large size and
exceptional quality. In winter this basin is an awesome place for a
ramble. The great plinth which ends Pavey Ark rises almost without a
patch of white--a pillar of darkness. Other parts of the fell are
plentifully smeared with drifts. When the snow has lain for a week or
two there is snow craft to be practised here, but things are better
further afield on the Scawfell group.
From Stickle our wanderings should carry us down past the racing fosse,
and away into Little Langdale where we pause at Blea tarn. This was the
haunt of Wordsworth's "Solitary," chief figure in his poem, "The
Excursion." Little Langdale tarn, which lies somewhat further down the
glen is a small weedy pool in a meadow-land. Its waters for long have
provided little sport, for they are overstocked with tiny useless trout.
A net used with judgment might improve the fishing here. But Little
Langdale tarn has its own peculiar charm of quietness. It is a haunt of
the heron and otter. And over it stands the grand barrier of
Tilberthwaite fell, from the base of which, in solemn echoing blasts,
"the quarried thunders ring." The hillsides around are pitted with ugly
little scars of abortive quarries. Still down the glen, we pass Colwith,
where the stream makes a sudden leap into a lower country. It is a
pretty enough spout, but on enclosed ground, and therefore few wanderers
of the fells confess its beauty. The white farm at the cross road, as
you turn into Great Langdale, of course has been an inn. One of its
old-time landladies was wont only to brew when there was a prospect of
sale. The water from the spring was good enough for her household, with
milk if they felt dainty. Her customers chiefly came eastward over
Wrynose pass. It was a long stretch, and a thirsty, from the last tavern
in that direction. The landlady was not accustomed to waste material, so
every morning when she judged that packmen from Whitehaven were due she
walked up the hill above the farm to watch for their coming. If but few
ponies appeared crawling down the steep, then the malt was stinted, but
if the pass-head was, in her opinion, "black wi' folk," more ale was
prepared. One morning a traveller, tired of the slow pack-train, pushed
on ahead, and duly came to the inn. Ale he called for, and was informed:
"Oh aye, ye can hae ale, but it's rayther warm just yet." The traveller
had beaten the new brew down to Colwith.
[Illustration: LITTLE LANGDALE TARN]
To Elter Water the lane winds through dense coppice, and emerges into
the open just before the village is reached. Here the chief industry is
the making of gunpowder, with also slate quarrying and the production of
the famous Langdale linen. John Ruskin it was whose teaching brought
this craft back into being, and in a quiet way it is doing good to the
valley. I wonder if the dales farmer will ever turn his attention to the
cultivation of flax. At one time a plot of this staple was more
necessary to a farmstead than a vegetable or even a herbal garden.
Elter Water is a larger picture of the elements comprised in Little
Langdale tarn. Except that it is at the foot of the Langdales there is
little to be said about it. The pike are so numerous that few perch even
stay with them. Loughrigg tarn, which we visit before getting over the
ridge to Grasmere, is of a different class to any we have yet met with.
Christopher North described it as "a diamond set in emeralds," and he
was not wrong. Where are waters more sparkling, or meadows greener than
these? In a secluded corner of the world, Loughrigg does nothing but
look pretty: there is no message to the mind from its beauty save that
of surpassing beauty in repose.
Coniston is a splendid place to start from for another journey. The
nearest point is Gates Water, under Dow crags. The way is not
particularly difficult, but the scenery is impressive. The great crag
rising sheer almost from the water's edge is a haunt of the raven, a
bird yearly growing scarcer as the wildernesses become less wild, and as
the shepherd gets more reliable fire-arms. But, says legend, there is
one raven quite impossible to reach. It has dwelt on Kurnal Crag since
the dawn of Britain's history. Yet it failed its post. It was the
Druid's familiar, and when invasion rolled nor'ward it became a sentry
over the settlement of Torver. "False bird," cried the old Druid, when
from the mystic holly circle he saw the Britons' camp burning and the
Roman legion pursuing the defeated remnant of his people, "and this is
how thy promise of sleepless day and night is fulfilled. Thou wast to
croak when danger threatened, and instead I wake to see thee join the
invader's rank." "Nay, father Druid, I went to fight the yellow bird
they carry in their van. It is but a bit of burnished bronze they hold
up, and no bird, and I stayed too long surveying it." "Venerable bird,
venerable as myself and as old, I had it in my mind to condemn thee to
die, but instead thou shalt live, live, live on the topmost crag of Dow,
till another army sweep away the Roman, and the yellow bird is carried
southward over sands." The time came when the Roman legions hurried
south, and the raven, well stricken in years, hoped for release; but it
did not come, for the last legion, on a misty morning, became involved
in a swamp on Torver moor, and standard-bearer and burnished bird were
swallowed in deep mud. There they lie and moulder, and the old story is
that unless they are found and the eagle carried south the raven of
Kurnal Crag may not die. You can hear its aged, rumbling croak afar off,
at times when thunder is in the air, and you linger in the gulf of Gates
Water to hear the first echoing bellow of the storm.
[Illustration: ELTERWATER AND LANGDALE PIKES]
From Gates Water the wanderer goes over the Old Man to Low Water, really
one of the most elevated mountain waters. It is splendidly situated,
screes and boulders from forbidding cliffs falling right to its shores.
It is pleasant to be here at sunset and watch the gloom collect on the
summits around. The tarn is credited with almost diabolically large
trout, but no one catches them now, and anglers are sceptic. The
hillside you traverse to reach Levers Water is almost honeycombed with
the shafts of old copper mines. "Mines Valley" indeed was once the
busiest haunt of men in the Lake Country. Its copper is now being
exploited afresh, and the prosperity of sixty years ago may be repeated.
Some of us would rather hear the skirl of the curlew than the roar of
ore-mills, but if dividends are possible the lover of the untamed land
will once again have to move on. There is no guarantee, save at
Thirlmere, that an unspeakable hideousness of industry will not suddenly
blot out our remotest haunt. From Levers Water the rambler climbs the
ridge toward Seathwaite tarn, now a reservoir for the use of warrior
Barrow. This tarn the lord of the manor had the exclusive right to net,
and the annual occasion was always made a picnic. Nets were shot, and
the finny spoil, char, trout and perch, drawn ashore. Then, as quickly
as possible, a tithe of them was prepared and cooked at fires on the
shingly strand. The merry-making was a splendid break in the silence of
the year here. The tarn also has a small gullery, though miles from the
nearest arm of the sea.
The charms of Tarn Hows I have mentioned in my chapter on Coniston
Water; it is well worthy an afternoon's ramble, though if the visitor
can put off the hour till the last charabanc has rattled down the glen,
he will be the more repaid.
[Illustration: SEATHWAITE TARN, DUDDON VALLEY]
My space limit has long run out, so I must only indicate the positions
of a last knot of tarns. Devoke Water, within a few miles of Eskdale
Green, holds pink-fleshed trout, the progenitors of which are said to
have been brought by the monks of Furness Abbey from sunny Italy.
Burnmoor tarn lies between lofty Scawfell and Wastwater Screes. The moor
around is studded with Druid circles and other memorials of a vanished
race. Then in Stye Head pass is a dark brooding tarn; on the fell
towards Great End is Sprinkling tarn, near which is the famous rain
gauge, where annually the highest English rainfall is recorded. In
twenty minutes an inch of rain once fell here; I have had several
quick-time drenchings in this neighbourhood. On the fells between
Wastwater and Ennerdale are Scoat and Lowfell tarns, the former of which
is reputed to contain a golden fish, and the latter a silvery one.
Floutern tarn is the furthest away of the mountain waters, lying on the
desolate fell between Buttermere and Ennerdale.
INDEX
A
Accommodation, 5
Adventure in winter, 159
Aira Force, 197
Ambleside, 28, 30
Americans, 12
Angle tarn, 204, 214
Angler, 31
Anglers Crag, 103
" Inn, 100
Angler's yarn, an, 130
Armboth House, 173
Autumn, 44
B
Badger, the, 56, 187
Bank holiday, 154
Barley-bread, 154
Barn Scar, 207
Barrow Cascade, 143
Bassenthwaite, 156-164
Belle Isle, 15, 18
Benn, the, 175
"Birds o' passage," 184
Bit-by-bit reform, 42
Blea tarn, 219
" Water, 212
"Bloomery," 62, 72
Boating, 101
Bolton, Mr., 14
Borrowdale, 144
Botling, 91
Bowder Stone, 152
Bowness, 20
Bowness Bay, 20
" landing-place, 21
Bowscale tarn, 207
Brandlehow, 199
Brantwood, 69, 74
Brook trout, 180
Brothers' Water, 207, 214
Burnmoor tarn, 223
Buttermere, 124-136
" after series of rainstorms, 128
Buttermere, fishing of, 132
" in winter mist, 132
" maid of, 125
" my first visit to, 127
Butterwort, 182
C
Calgarth, 24
" skulls at, 24
Carrier, country, 40, 57, 58
Carrion crows, 184
Castle Crag, 144
Castle (sham) which Manchester erected, 173
Catbells, 146, 151
Causeways, 52
Chant of profit, 146
Char, 26, 61, 66, 91, 101, 190, 192
" Dub, 101
" fishing, 26
" pie, 67
" potted, 66
Charcoal burning, 73
Cheese, home-made, 154
Civil war, the, 2
Claife, 53
"Clipping," 114
Coach-road through Buttermere, 124
Coaches, 6
Cockermouth, Keswick, and Penrith Railway, 7
Cock-fighting, 57
Codale, 217
Coleridge, Hartley, 35
Collies, 215
Colthouse, 53
Colwith, 219
Coniston, 221
" Old Hall, 66
" Water, 60-78
Convention week at Keswick, 153
Copper, 62
Corpse-road, 183
Cottages, old, 152
" old-style, 191
Crosthwaite Church, 148
Crozier, John, 157
Crummock Water, 116-123
Cuthbert, 147
D
Dales, a youngster of the, 180
" dwelling, 37
Dalesman, a, 156
Dalesman's Keswick, 154
Dalesmen, the, 3
Dancing, 109
Davy, John, 26
Deer, red native, 181, 186
De Quincey, 35
Derwent, the, 144
" Isle, 138
" vale of, 151
Derwentwater, 137-155
" Earls of, 140
Devoke Water, 207, 223
Dialect, Cumbrian, 155
Dipper, the, 130
"Dixon's Three Loups," 213
Dobson, Tommie, 79
Domesday, 49
Dotterel, the, 122
Dove Nest, 27
Dunmail, 2
" cairn of, 167
" pass of, 166
" story of, 167
Dunmallet, 200
E
Eagle, golden, 187
Easedale tarn, 217
Elter Water, 220
English Lakes, history of the, 2
Ennerdale, 98-105
Esthwaite mere, fishing in, 54
" Water, 49-59
F
Fairfield, 201, 215
Fences partly wall, 171
Finsthwaite, 11
Fir Island, 69
Fishing in Loweswater, 111
Fishing tackle, 20
Floating Island, Derwentwater, 143
Floutern tarn, 223
Fordendale, 181
Forest laws, 61
Fortune-teller, the dumb, 110
Forty-Five, the, 196
Foumart, the, 187
Fox How, 28
Fox-hunting, 45, 185, 212
"Fraternal Three," 83
Friars Crag, 137
Frost flowers, 48
Furness Abbey, monks of, 223
" bluffs, 21
" railway, 6
Fusedale, 186
G
Gale (the wildest), on Coniston, 68
Gatesgarth, 131, 134
Gateswater, 61, 207, 221
German miners, 146
Glencoin, 197
Glenridding, 201
Goat hunt, 78
Goats, wild, 78
Golden eagle, 187
Gondola, 68
Gowbarrow, 197, 199
Grange, 145
Grasmere, 36-48, 216
" Lake, 43
Greycrag tarn, 209
Grisedale tarn, 207, 214
Gummers Howe, 10
H
Harrop tarn, 175
Haweswater, 178-184
Hawkshead, 50
" Church, burials in woollen, 50
Hawkshead Grammar School
" monks' home, 50
" Old, 49-59
" Old Hall, 53
" two centuries ago, 50
Hay-making, 40
Hayes Water, 213
Hedge-parsons, 127
Helm Crag, 43, 166, 216
Helm wind, 187
Helvellyn, 175
Hemans, Mrs., 27
Hen Holme, 27
Herdwicks, 89
Heron, the, 35, 54, 102, 180
High Furness, 49
Hogarth, 25
Holme, Hugh, 182
Home-made cheese, 154
Honister Hause, 125
" Pass, 136
Houses, old, 50
Hung mutton, 51
Hunting, 79, 157
I
Ice roaring, 76
Inn stews, 66
J
Justice Stone, 173
K
Kendal, 208
Kentmere tarn, 210
Keppel Cove tarn, 216
Keswick, 153, 154
"King" of Mardale, 182
" Patterdale, 196
Kurnal Crag, raven of, 221
L
Lady Holme, 22
Lady's Rake, 141
Lake Bank, Coniston, 73
Lakeland's wealth of bypaths, 36
Lakeside, 9
Lambing-time, 158
Langdale linen, 220
Larch-tree and Wordsworth, 37
Launchy Ghyll, 173
Le Fleming, Sir Daniel, 66
Le Flemings, 32, 39
Levers Water, 222
Little Langdale tarn, 219
Lodore, 142
London and North-Western Railway, 6, 7
Loughrigg, 30
" tarn, 220
Low Water, 222
Loweswater, 106-115
" ancient farms, 108
Lowfell tarn, 223
Lowwood, 26
Lyulph's tower, 197
M
Maggot, the, 90
Maid of Buttermere, 125
Manchester, sham castle erected by, 173
Mardale, "King" of, 182
" yews, 183
Martindale, 188
Martineau, Harriet, 30
Matterdale, 189
Measand, 180
Mellbreak, 106, 119
Midland Railway, 7
Millerground, 23
Miners, German, 146
"Mines Valley," 222
Minstrels, wandering, 109
Monks of Furness Abbey, 223
Motor-traffic, 40
Mounsey, 194
Mountain accident, 135
" ponies, 32
" tarns, 204-223
Mutton, hung, 51
N
Nab Scar, 30
Naddle Forest, 179
"Nae land here," 121
National Trust for the Preservation of Places of Natural Beauty,
199
"New brew,"219
Newby Bridge, 9
New Thirlmere, 172
North, Christopher, 15, 221
North-Eastern Railway, 7
O
Old Corruption, 42
" cottages, 152
" Hawkshead, 49-59
" houses, 50
" Man, 63
Old-style cottages, 191
Old Thirlmere, 165
Old-timers, 162
Orrest Head, 23
Otter, the, 112, 182
Ovens, 153
P
Parish clerk, 177
Parsons, miserably paid, 99
Patterdale, "King" of, 196
Pavement End, 46
Pavey Ark, 218
Pedlar, the, 111
Peel Island, 61, 73
Pelter Bridge, 32
Philipson, Robert, 19
Philipsons, 19, 24
Picnicking, 121
Place fell, 197
Point of view, 185
Postman, the, 117
Priest, the, 108
Priest's Pot, 53
R
Radical reform, 42
Raven of Kurnal Crag, 221
Ravens, the, 119
Rawlinson's Nab, 22
Red deer, native, 181, 186
Red tarn, 190, 206, 216
Ring-ouzel, 181
"Robert Elsmere's dale," 209
Rock, 102
Rock-climbing, 88
Rossett Ghyll, 205
Rothay, 28, 30-35
" legends of mighty trout, 43
Routes of travel, 5
Ruddle or native iron, 87
"Rush-bearing," 46
Ruskin, John, 26, 30, 63, 64, 69, 220
Ruskin and Carlyle, 71
" and the gondola, 70
Rydal, 28, 36-48
Rydalmere, 40
Rydal Mount, 37, 39
" Park, 27, 31
S
St. Bee's Head, 98
St. Bega, 104
St. Herbert's Isle, 146
St. Kentigern, 148
Sandwick, 188
Sandys family, 50, 53
Santon Bridge, 95
Scale Force, 119
Scales tarn, 207
Scarf Gap, 131
Schoolmaster, the, 108
Scoat tarn, 223
Scott, Sir Walter, 16
Scottish raiders, 53
Screes, the Wastwater, 87, 95
" rockfalls in, 88
Seathwaite tarn, 61, 223
Sheep, 75, 154, 215
" "clipping," 114
" thatch-eating, 177
" walks, 133
" washing, 113
Shepherding, 157
Shepherds, 89
Silver Bay, 200
" Howe, 35
" trout, 190
Skeggles Water, 209
Skidda' hermit, 163
Skiddaw, 148
Skulls at Calgarth, 24
Small Water, 211
Smugglers, 98
Somnambulist, the story of the, 198
Sour Milk Ghyll, 129, 216
Southey, 150, 163
Sprinkling tarn, 223
Squall on a mountain lake, 139
'Statesmen, 106
Stews, Char, at inns, 66
Stickle, tarn of, 218
Stonechat, 179
Storm clouds, 138
Storrs, 13, 14
Striding Edge's top, 189
Stybarrow Crag, 193, 194
Stye Head, 223
" " Pass (at night), 82-84
" " tarn, 83, 206
Sunrise, 64
Sunset, 74
Swallow, 181
Swarth fell, 200
T
Tarn Hows, 76, 223
Tarns, mountain, 204-223
Tennyson, 69, 71
Thirlmere, 165-177
" angling hardly permitted, 165
" New, 172
" Old, 165
Thresthwaite Cove, 25
Thunderstorm, 120
Tourists, classes of, 4
Travel, routes of, 5
Trout, great lake, 191
Troutbeck, 25
Trout-fishing, 101, 106
U
Ullswater, 185-203
" night on, 202
" yachts, 193
W
Walker, Steve, trail-hound trainer, 42
Walla Crag, 179
Wandering minstrels, 109
Wansfell, 26, 27
Wastdale Church, 84
Wastwater, 79-97
" in winter, 85
Watendlath, 152
Waterhead, 9
" pier, 37
Water-lily, 54
Watson, Bishop, 25
Wetherlam, 77
Whinfell tarn, 207, 208
White Moss, 40, 42
Wild fowl, 118
Windermere, 9-29
" char-fishing with plumb-line, 26
" farmsteadings, 11
" ferry, 15
" Ferry Hotel, 17
" parish church, 20
" spectral white horse, 24
Wishing Gate, 45, 47
"Wonderful Walker," 126
Wood-owl, 181
Wordsworth, Dorothy, 197
" William, 14, 33-35, 38, 46, 50, 56, 57, 150
Wordsworth describes his "Waggoner," 176
Wordsworth's aversion to the larch-tree, 37
Wordsworth's "The Brothers," 99
" cottage, 33
" "The Daffodils," 198
" home, 36
" "Solitary," 219
Wray Castle, 26
Wrynose Pass, 219
Wythburn, 170, 175
" Head, 170
" old rector of, 176
Y
Yacht-racing, 17
Yeoman, the, bell-ringer, 177
Yewbarrow, 95
Yewdale, 77
" crags, 67
Yews of Mardale, 183
Youngster of the dales, 180
[Illustration: SKETCH MAP OF THE ENGLISH LAKE DISTRICT.
A. AND C. BLACK . SOHO SQUARE . LONDON . W]
PRINTED BY
HAZELL, WATSON AND VINEY, LD.,
LONDON AND AYLESBURY.
Transcriber's Notes
--Retained publication information from the printed edition: this eBook
is public-domain in the country of publication.
--Silently corrected a few palpable typos.
--In the text versions only, text in italics is delimited by
_underscores_.