THE PLAYGROUND OF ENGLAND—II.
Over the top of Dunmail Raise we go, and soon Thirlmere comes into sight—a long, lonely lake with never a farmhouse or cottage to break the silence of its shores. Why so lonely? Because Thirlmere is at once a lake and a reservoir. Its clear waters form the drinking-supply of busy, mill-packed Manchester, and through ninety miles of mountain and moorland and meadow runs a huge iron pipe, which conveys these clear waters to the houses of the far-off town.
To secure the lake from pollution, the whole of the ground around it has been purchased and cleared of its scanty population, and now clear brooks pour their water, undefiled by any use, into the great basin.
Seen from the main road—for nearer approach is forbidden—Thirlmere is a scene of great beauty. The placid lake lies sleeping in its hollow, and beyond, up springs the noble mass of the mighty Helvellyn, furrowed with watercourses, jagged with scaurs and grey outcrops of rock, with wide stretches of bracken and sweeps of green grass. Then, again, in full sight, are Saddleback and, away to the north, Skiddaw; the latter has a fleecy cloud streaming from its summit, much, we fancy, as the smoke must have streamed away on that famous Armada night when
"Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt's embattled pile,
And the red glare of Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle."
Some distance farther we pause to climb up to the Justice Stone, a huge flat-topped boulder, a famous landmark, and a stone around which many stories have gathered. It is said that in plague times this was a spot to which came people from the plague-ridden town of Keswick, a few miles ahead. They brought money in their hands and laid it on the Justice Stone, and retired; then the pedlars and dealers, bringing goods from the outside world, came up to the stone, laid down the goods, and took up the money. In this way business was done, and yet the outsiders did not come into contact with the plague-stricken citizens. The Justice Stone was also the gathering-place for the shepherds of the neighbouring valleys. Here they met to exchange strayed sheep, and deal fairly with each other, and thus the name sprung up. The stone was used for this purpose until almost within living memory.
On we go to Keswick, and here we are in the country of Derwentwater, a splendid sheet which many hail as Queen of the Lakes. It is a most picturesque lake, dotted with beautiful islands and encircled by mountain heights. Its islands are real islands—not mere snags of rock thrusting themselves above the water, but sweeps of level, well-wooded land. On one of them, Lord's Isle, once dwelt the Earls of Derwentwater. The last Earl was one of the Jacobite leaders of "the Fifteen" when in 1715 the Old Pretender tried to regain the Stuart crown. The rebellion failed, and the Earl was beheaded on Tower Hill. His lands were seized, his mansion fell into ruins, and his family became extinct.
Not far from Lord's Isle are the famous Falls of Lodore, sung by the poet Southey. His description does not hold in dry weather, but after a great fall of rain his words prove to have no exaggeration about them. Down from the moorland the stream comes rushing and leaping from ledge to ledge of rock with clouds of spray, a tumultuous thundering of leaping water, and all the force and fury painted in the well-known poem.
The head of Derwentwater is so overgrown by weed that a path has been cut to allow boats to row up to Lodore, and not far away is the Floating Island, anchored to the bottom by long cables of weed-growth. It is formed by a great mat of vegetable fibre, which usually lies on the lake-bed; but at times this fibre becomes filled with natural gas, and then it rises in a mass and floats on the surface as an island.
Near this point the River Derwent enters the lake from the narrow glen of Borrowdale, famous for its "Bowder Stone," a vast boulder which has fallen from the crags above. The remarkable thing about this huge stone—some 2,000 tons in weight—is that it has fallen, as it were, on its point and remained there. It has settled in some wonderful fashion on so narrow a base that people on opposite sides of it may shake hands through a hole under it.
Borrowdale enjoys another distinction, too—that of being the wettest place in England. At Seathwaite, near the head of the glen, 180 inches of rain have been known to fall in a single year, four or five times the average rainfall for the country in general.
Not far from Derwentwater is the pretty lake of Bassenthwaite. Between them is a low-lying strip of grassy land. And it happens at times when Borrowdale pours down its teeming floods that this strip sinks below the rising water, and the lakes mingle and form one great stretch from end to end.
But there is one other lake we must glance at before we leave this land of beauty, and this is Coniston Water.
Coniston Water is a noble lake embosomed in a mass of mountains, of which the finest is Coniston Old Man, a famous peak. It is noted as the home of char, that mysterious and beautiful fish of the Lake Country. Very little is known of this fish, for, as a rule, during the fishing season they keep at the bottom of deep water, and very rarely are they captured with the fly. Sometimes they are taken by the net, or by a long line weighted with lead. Potted char is a famous delicacy in Lakeland, and commands high prices, and in old recipes mention is found of char-pie.
On the shores of Coniston Water stands Brantwood, where John Ruskin lived, and Tennyson and other famous men have had houses beside this beautiful lake.
The craggy hills around Coniston are, in their most solitary recesses, the haunt of wild goats. The goats were introduced a long time ago to keep the hill-sheep from the most dangerous places, for a goat will walk and browse calmly upon cliffs where a sheep would become giddy, fall, and be dashed to pieces. Sheep will not feed where goats have been, and thus they are kept from these dangerous places. The goats are very wild and shy, and never seen save when winter's snow drives them down from the rugged heights in search of food.
Such are a few—a very few—of the beauty-spots of this lovely region. We have not spoken of other lakes, such as Ullswater, home of beauty, or soft Loweswater, or wild Wastwater, and many another mere or tarn, all beautiful, all worthy of a place in the hearts of those who love the romantic and the picturesque.