Chester stands a return visit well, and so does the spacious and
hospitable Grosvenor Hotel. It was nearly dark when we reached the city
and the hotel was crowded, the season now being at its height. We had
neglected to wire for reservation, but our former stop at the hotel was
not forgotten and this stood us in good stead in securing
accommodations. So comfortably were we established that we did not take
the car out of the garage the next day but spent our time in leisurely
re-visiting some of the places that had pleased us most.
The next day we were early away for the north. I think that no other
stretch of road of equal length was more positively unattractive than
that we followed from Chester to Penrith. Even the road-book, whose
"objects of interest" were in some cases doubtful, to say the least,
could name only the battlefield of 1648 near Preston and one or two
minor "objects" in a distance of one hundred miles. I recalled the
comment of the Touring Secretary of the Motor Union as he rapidly drew
his pencil through this road as shown on the map: "Bad road, rough
pavement, houses for thirty miles at a stretch right on each side of
the street, crowds of children everywhere--but you cannot get away from
it very well." All of which we verified by personal experience.
At starting it seemed easy to reach Carlisle for the night, but progress
was slow and we met an unexpected delay at Warrington, twenty miles
north of Chester. A policeman courteously notified us that the main
street of the city would be closed three hours for a Sunday School
parade. We had arrived five minutes too late to get across the bridge
and out of the way. We expressed our disgust at the situation and the
officer made the conciliatory suggestion that we might be able to go on
anyway. He doubted if the city had any authority to close the main
street, one of the King's highways, on account of such a procession. We
hardly considered our rights so seriously infringed as to demand such a
remedy, and we turned into the stable-yard of a nearby hotel to wait
until the streets were clear. In the meantime we joined the crowd that
watched the parade. The main procession, of five or six thousand
children, was made up of Sunday Schools of the Protestant churches--the
Church of England and the "Non-Conformists." The Catholics, whose
relations in England with Protestants are strained to a much greater
extent than in the United States, did not join, but formed a smaller
procession in one of the side streets. The parade was brilliant with
flags and with huge banners bearing portraits of the King and Queen,
though some bore the names and emblems of the different schools. One
small fellow proudly flourished the Stars and Stripes, which was the
only foreign flag among the thousands in the procession. In this
connection I might remark that one sees the American flag over here far
oftener than he would traveling in America. We found nothing but the
kindest and most cordial feeling toward Americans everywhere; and the
very fact that we were Americans secured us special privileges in not a
few cases.
After the procession had crossed the bridge, a policeman informed us
that we could proceed. We gained considerable time by making a detour
through side streets--not an altogether easy performance--and after much
inquiry regained the main road leading out of the city. Warrington is a
city of more than one hundred and twenty thousand inhabitants, a
manufacturing place with nothing to detain the tourist. On the main
street near the river is a fine bronze statue of Oliver Cromwell, one of
four that I saw erected to the memory of the Protector in England. Our
route from Warrington led through Wigan and Preston, manufacturing
cities of nearly one hundred thousand each, and the suburbs of the three
are almost continuous. Tram cars were numerous and children played
everywhere with utter unconcern for the vehicles which crowded the
streets.
When we came to Lancaster we were glad to stop, although our day's
journey had covered only sixty miles. We knew very little of Lancaster
and resorted to the guide-books for something of its antecedents, only
to learn the discouraging fact that here, as everywhere, the Romans had
been ahead of us. The town has a history reaching back to the Roman
occupation, but its landmarks have been largely obliterated in the
manufacturing center which it has become. Charles Dickens was a guest at
Lancaster, and in recording his impressions he declared it "a pleasant
place, dropped in the midst of a charming landscape; a place with a
fine, ancient fragment of a castle; a place of lovely walks and
possessing many staid old houses, richly fitted with Honduras mahogany,"
and followed with other reflections not so complimentary concerning the
industrial slavery which prevailed in the city a generation or two ago.
The "fine, ancient fragment of a castle" has been built into the modern
structure which now serves as the seat of the county court. The square
tower of the Norman keep is included in the building. This in general
style and architecture conforms to the old castle, which, excepting the
fragment mentioned by Dickens, has long since vanished. Near at hand is
St. Mary's Church, rivaling in size and dignity many of the cathedrals,
and its massive, buttressed walls and tall, graceful spire do justice to
its magnificent site. From the eminence occupied by the church the Irish
Sea is plainly visible, and in the distance the almost tropical Isle of
Man rises abruptly out of the blue waters. The monotony of our previous
day's travel was forgotten in lively anticipation as we proceeded at
what seemed a snail's pace over the fine road leading from Penrith to
Carlisle. We had been warned at Penrith, not against the bold
highwaymen, the border moss-troopers or the ranting Highlandmen of song
and story, but against a plain, Twentieth Century police trap which was
being worked very successfully along this road. Such was our approach in
these degenerate days to "Merrie Carlile," which figured so largely in
the endless border warfare between the Scotch and English. But why the
town should have been famed as "Merrie Carlile" would be hard to say,
unless more than a thousand years of turmoil, bloodshed and almost
ceaseless warfare through which it passed earned it the cheerful
appellation. The trouble between the English and the Welsh ended early,
but it has been only a century and a half ago since the closing scene of
the long and bitter conflict between the north and south was enacted at
Carlisle. Its grim old castle was the scene of the imprisonment and
execution of the last devoted followers of Prince Charlie, and
according to Scott's Waverly the dashing but sadly deluded young
chieftain, Fergus McIvor, was one of those who suffered a shameful
death. In this connection one remembers that Scott's marriage to Miss
Carpentier took place in Carlisle, an event that would naturally
accentuate our interest in the fine old border city. As we had
previously visited Carlisle, our stay was a short one, but its
remarkable history, its connection with the stories of Walter Scott, its
atmosphere of romance and legend and the numerous points of interest
within easy reach--all combine to make it a center where one might spend
several days. The Romans had been here also, and they, too, had
struggled with the wild tribes on the north, and from that time down to
the execution of the last adherents of the Stuarts in 1759 the town was
hardly at any time in a state of quietude. As described by an observant
writer, "every man became a soldier and every house that was not a mere
peasant's hut was a fortress." A local poet of the Seventeenth Century
summed it up in a terse if not elegant couplet as his unqualified
opinion
"That whoso then in the border did dwell
Lived little happier than those in hell."
But Carlisle is peaceful and quiet enough at the present time, a place
of considerable size and with a thriving commerce. Its castle, a plain
and unimpressive structure, still almost intact, has been converted
into military barracks, and its cathedral, which, according to an old
chronicle, in 1634 "impressed three observant strangers as a great wild
country church," has not been greatly altered in appearance since that
period. It suffered severely at the hands of the Parliamentary soldiers,
who tore down a portion of the nave to use the materials in
strengthening the defenses of the town. But the story of Carlisle could
not be told in many volumes. If the mere hint of its great interest
which I have given here can induce any fellow tourist to tarry a little
longer at "Merrie Carlile," it will be enough.
Leaving Carlisle, we crossed "Solway Tide" and found ourselves in the
land of bluebells and heather, the "Bonnie Scotland" of Robert Burns.
Shortly after crossing the river, a sign-board pointed the way to Gretna
Green, that old-time haven of eloping lovers, who used to cross the
Solway just as the tide began to rise, and before it subsided there was
little for the paternal ancestors to do but forgive and make the best of
it. But we missed the village, for it was a mile or two off the road to
Dumfries, which we hoped to reach for the night. An unexpected
difficulty with the car nearly put this out of the range of possibility,
but by grace of the long Scotch twilight, we came into Dumfries about
ten o'clock without finding it necessary to light our lamps. Our day's
journey had been a tiresome one, and we counted ourselves fortunate on
being directed to the Station Hotel, which was as comfortable and well
managed as any we found. The average railway hotel in America is
anything but an attractive proposition, but in Scotland and in England
conditions are almost reversed, the station hotels under the control of
the different railway companies being generally the best.
[Illustration: ENTRANCE TO LOCH TYNE.