Transcribed from the 1877 James Clarke & Co. edition by David Price,
email ccx074@pglaf.org
THE
CRUISE OF THE
ELENA
OR
_YACHTING IN THE HEBRIDES_
* * * * *
BY
J. EWING-RITCHIE
_Author of_ "_The Night Side of London_," _&c. &c._
* * * * *
London
JAMES CLARKE & CO., 13, FLEET STREET
1877
* * * * *
LONDON
W. SPEAIGHT & SONS, PRINTERS, FETTER LANE.
* * * * *
TO
JOHN ANDERSON, ESQ.,
OF GLEN TOWER, ARGYLESHIRE,
OWNER OF THE ELENA,
This Little Volume is Dedicated
BY THE AUTHOR,
IN MEMORY OF A PLEASANT CRUISE ON BOARD THE ELENA
IN THE AUTUMN OF 1876.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. OFF FOR GREENOCK 3
II. FROM GREENOCK TO ARDROSSAN 17
III. A SUNDAY AT OBAN 29
IV. FROM OBAN TO GLENCOE 39
V. OFF MULL 49
VI. FAST DAY AT PORTREE 59
VII. TO STORNOWAY 73
VIII. KINTYRE AND CAMPBELTOWN 83
IX. BACK AGAIN 99
CHAPTER I.
OFF FOR GREENOCK.
The late--I had almost written the last--Imperial ruler of France was
wont to say--indeed, it was his favourite maxim--"Everything comes to him
who waits." It was not exactly true in his case. Just as he was to have
placed himself at the head of his followers, and make his reappearance in
France, and to have effaced the recollections of Sedan, Death, who waits
for no one, who comes at the appointed time to all, put a stop to his
career. Nevertheless, the saying is more or less true, and especially as
regards my appearance on board the _Elena_. Whether my great great
grandfather was a Viking or no, I am unable to say; all I know is, from
my youth upwards I have longed for a yacht in which I could cruise at my
own sweet will. I am no great hand at singing, but when I do sing it is
always of a
"Life on the ocean wave,
A home on the rolling deep."
And thus it happened that, when an invitation was sent to me, just as I
was on the point of giving up the ghost, in consequence of the heat of a
London summer, to leave Fleet Street, and cruise among the Western
Islands of Scotland, I accepted it, as the reader may well suppose, at
once.
It is somewhat of a journey by the Midland night express from London to
Greenock; but the journey is one well worth taking, even if, as in my
case, you do not get a Pullman car, as that had been already filled, and
was booked full, so the ticket manager said, for at any rate twelve days
in advance. It is really interesting to see that express start. "It is
an uncommon fine sight," said a man to me the other night, as he lit his
pipe at the St. Pancras Station. "I always come here when I've done
work; it is cheaper than a public-house." And so it is, and far better
in awakening the intellect or stimulating the life. It is true I did not
see the express start, as I happened to be in it; but I had another and a
greater pleasure--that of being whirled along the country, from one great
city or hive of industry to another, till I found myself early in the
morning looking down from the heights of Greenock on the busy Clyde
below. It was a grand panorama, not easily to be forgotten. All at once
it opens on you, and you enjoy the view all the more as it comes in so
unexpected a manner.
Let me pause, and say a good word for the line that bears me swiftly and
safely and pleasantly on.
The story of railway enterprise as connected with the Midland Railway has
been told in a very bulky volume by Mr. J. Williams. I learn from it
that forty years have elapsed since, originating in the necessity of a
few coal-owners, it has gradually stretched out its iron arms till its
ramifications are to be found in all parts of the land. Actually, up to
the present time it has involved an expenditure of fifty millions, and
its annual revenue reaches five. Daily--hourly, it rushes, with its
heavy load of tourists, or holiday-makers, or men of business, past the
ancient manor-houses of Wingfield, Haddon, and Rousbery; the abbeys of
St. Albans, Leicester, Newstead, Kirkstall, Beauchief, and Evesham; the
castles of Someries, Skipton, Sandal, Berkeley, Tamworth, Hay, Clifford,
Codnor, Ashby, Nottingham, Leicester, Lincoln, and Newark; the
battle-fields of St. Albans, Bosworth, Wakefield, Tewkesbury, and
Evesham.
But it is to that part of the line between Carlisle and Settle that I
would more particularly refer--that boon to the southern tourist who, as
the writer did, takes his seat in a Midland carriage at St. Pancras, and
finds himself, without a change of carriage, the next morning at Greenock
in time for the far-famed breakfasts on board the _Iona_. The ordinary
traveller has no idea of the difficulties which at one time lay between
him and his journey's end. "It is a very rare thing," once said Mr.
Allport, the great Midland Railway manager, a name honoured everywhere,
"for me to go down to Carlisle without being turned out twice. Then,
although some of the largest towns in England are upon the Midland
system, there is no through carriage to Edinburgh, unless we occasionally
have a family going down, and then we make an especial arrangement, and
apply for a special carriage to go through. We have applied in vain for
through carriages to Scotland over and over again." And so the Midland
had no alternative but to have a line of their own. When it was known at
Appleby that their Bill had passed the Commons, the church bells were
rung, and, as was quaintly remarked, the people wrote to the newspapers,
and did all that was proper under the circumstances. No wonder Appleby
rejoiced and was glad; for, though the county town of Westmoreland, it is
not much of a place after all, and the railway must have been a boon to
the natives--especially to the ladies, who otherwise, it is to be feared,
would have wasted their sweetness on the desert air.
On Monday, the 2nd of August, 1875, after an expenditure of three
millions, the Settle and Carlisle line was opened for goods traffic. It
must have been an awful undertaking, the making of it. "I declare," said
a rhetorical farmer, "there is not a level piece of ground big enough to
build a house upon all the way between Settle and Carlisle." An ascent
had to be made to a height of more than a thousand feet above the level
of the sea, by an incline that should be easy enough for the swiftest
passenger expresses and for the heaviest mineral trains to pass securely
and punctually up and down, not only in the light days of summer, but in
the darkest and "greasiest" December nights. To construct it the men had
to cut the boulder clay--very unpleasant stuff to deal with--to hew
through granite, to build on morasses and dismal swamps. Near the
southernmost end of the valley, watered by the roaring Ribble, the town
of Settle stands among wooded hills, overhung by a lofty limestone rock
called Castlebar; while far beyond on the left and right rise, above the
sea of mountains, the mighty outlines of Whernside and Pennegent, often
hid in the dark clouds of trailing mists. Up the valley the new line
runs, pursuing its way among perhaps the loneliest dales, the wildest
mountain wastes, and the scantiest population of any part of England.
Three miles from Settle we reach Stainforth Force, and just beyond are
the remains of a Roman camp. At Batty Green the navvies declared that
they were in one of the wildest, windiest, coldest, and dreariest
localities in the world. In the old coaching days the journey across
these wilds was most disagreeable and trying. It was no unusual thing,
we read, for rain to come down upon the travellers in torrents; for snow
to fall in darkened flakes or driving showers of powdered ice; for winds
to blow and howl with hurricane force, bewildering to man and beast; for
frost to bite and benumb both hands and face till feeling was almost
gone; and for hail and sleet to blind the traveller's eyes and to make
his face smart as if beaten with a myriad of slender cords. In Dent
Dale, which is almost ten miles in length, the scenery is remarkably
fine. Nearly five hundred feet below, now sparkling in the sunlight, now
losing itself among some clusters of trees, winds the river Dee; while
first on one side and then on the other is the road that leads to
Sedbergh. Leaving the tunnel, we find ourselves in Garsdale, in a milder
clime and amidst more attractive scenery. Some four hundred feet below
us the river may be observed winding over its rocky bed in the direction
of Sedbergh, while we get extensive views on the west. Presently we see
the Moorside Inn, a far-famed hostelry abounding in mountain dew,
standing at the head of the valleys--the Wensleydale, winding eastward
towards Hawes; the Garsdale Valley, going westward towards Sedbergh; and
the Mallerstang, leading northwards towards Kirkby Stephen.
At Ais Gill Moor the line attains its highest altitude, 1,167 feet above
the sea, from whence it falls uninterruptedly down to Carlisle. The
country here is very wild and rugged. Stone walls mark the division of
the properties, and scarcely any house can be seen. On the west the
grandly impressive form of Wild Boar Fell rises. Still higher on the
east is Mallerstang Edge. In the winter you can well believe that along
this valley sweeps the wind in bitter blasts. Three miles after we have
left the Moor Loch we are in Cumberland, and are reminded of other days
when all the old manor-houses and other edifices were built for defence
against the invasions of the Picts. Though the upper part of the Eden
valley is now occupied by a few industrious farmers and peaceful
shepherds, we instinctively think of the time when the slogan of border
chiefs and their clansmen sent a thrill of terror through Mallerstang,
and when sword and fire did terrible work to man and beast. Here is Wild
Boar Fell, where, says tradition, the last wild boar was killed by one of
the Musgrave family; and there in a narrow dale, overlooked by mountains
and washed by the Eden, are the crumbling ruins of a square tower--all,
alas! that remains of Pendragon Castle. About a mile before we come to
Kirkby Stephen we pass on our right Wharton Hall, the seat of the now
extinct dukes of that name. Near the town are two objects of especial
interest--the Ewbank Scar and Stenkrith Falls. The sight from Ormside
Viaduct is wonderfully fine. Appleby, as seen from the line, has a very
pleasing appearance. The railway runs past Eden Hall, the residence of
Sir Richard Musgrave, the chief of the clan of that name. At the summit
of a hill, near the Eden Lacy Viaduct, we find the remains of a Druid's
temple, known by the name of "Long Meg and her Daughters." Close by is
Lazonby, a village in the midst of interesting historical associations.
As we pass through the ancient forest, we would fain stop and linger, as
the scenery about here is deeply romantic, as much so as that of
Derbyshire. At Armathwaite the beauty of the district culminates; and we
gaze with rapture at its ancient quaint square castle, its picturesque
viaduct of nine arches eighty feet high, its road bridge of freestone,
its cataract, and its elm--said to be the finest in Cumberland. At
Carlisle there is a fine railway hotel, which you enter by a side door
from the platform, and where the traveller may attain such refreshment as
he requires. Indeed, it is open to the public on the same reasonable
terms as the London Tavern when it was the head-quarters of aldermanic
turtle. The town is delightfully clean, and has many interesting
associations; and as I stood upon the ramparts of the castle there on my
return, smoking a cigar, there came to me memories of William Rufus, who
built the wall, and planted in the town the industrious Flemings; of King
David of Scotland; of Wallace, the Scottish hero, who quartered his
troops there; of Cromwell, "our chief of men," as Milton calls him; and
of the Pretenders, father and son. It is with interest I look at the
church of St. Mary, remembering, as I do, that it was there Sir Walter
Scott was married. I am told the interior of the cathedral is very
beautiful, and crowded with memorials of a truly interesting character.
Externally the place looks in good condition, as it was repaired as
lately as 1853-6. Altogether the town appears comfortable, as it ought
to do, considering it has extensive founderies and breweries,
manufactories of woollen, linen, cotton, and other fabrics; communication
with six lines of railway; a canal, two rivers, and two local newspapers.
Nor is Carlisle ungrateful. I find in its market-place a statue to Lord
Lonsdale, who has much property in these parts. One can tarry there
long. Afar off you see the hills of the Lake Country--the country of
Southey and Wordsworth--and, if you but keep your seat, in an hour or two
you may be, according to your taste, "touring it" in the land of Burns,
or in the district immortalised by the genius of Sir Walter Scott.
As I went one way, and returned another, I enjoyed this privilege and
pleasure. At Dumfries I could not but recollect that there the poet
Burns wrote his
"Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled;"
that there he died prematurely worn-out in 1796; that there, as he lay
dying, the whole town was convulsed with grief; and that there his
funeral was attended by some ten or twelve thousand of the people whose
hearts he had touched, and who loved him, in spite of his errors, to the
end. "Dumfries," wrote Allan Cunningham, "was like a besieged place. It
was known he was dying, and the anxiety, not of the rich and learned, but
of the mechanics and peasants, exceeded all belief. Wherever two or
three people stood together, their talk was of Burns, and him alone.
They spoke of his history, of his person, of his works, of his family,
and of his untimely and approaching fate, with a warmth and enthusiasm
which will ever endear Dumfries to my remembrance." Thinking of Burns,
the time passed pleasantly, as I mused, half awake and half dreaming,
that early summer morning, till I reached Greenock, where sleeps that
Highland Mary, who died during their courtship, and of whom Burns wrote,
in lines that will last as long as love, and woman, and the grave--
"Ah! pale--pale now those rosy lips
I aft hae kissed sae fondly;
And closed for aye the sparkling glance
That dwelt on me sae kindly.
And mouldering now in silent dust
That heart that loved me dearly;
But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary."