Crummock Water, and Whiteless Pike
“Solitude.”
while to climb to the bank near the head of the cascade. As we lie stretched on the grassy hummocks, we overlook a magnificent view of the lake and mountains, with Honister Crag and Buttermere away at the head of the valley. This is an ideal spot, but the exigencies of the drive back to Keswick prevent over-indulgence and before long we must rejoin our char-a-banc at Buttermere.
The story of Mary of Buttermere and the specious scoundrel who married, and then deserted her, will be recalled—a sordid tale of imposture and only worthy of mention because of its unusual setting. One does not associate this kind of thing with the mountains. More interesting and amusing was this man’s career in Keswick, where, as the Honourable Augustus Hope, he hobnobbed with the “gentry” and fooled and fleeced them to a fine tune. More in keeping with Buttermere is the incident of the parson who refused to consummate the marriage service of a brother clerical, his reason being that a herdwick sheep stood in the doorway when the banns were called, and cried “Baa” very loudly. This, to the parson, sounded like an objection and “just cause” why the marriage should be stopped!
There are other tales told of Buttermere, but our coach is now ready and before long we swing off the main road by the little church and breast the steep pull up the fellside to Buttermere Hause. The more energetic members of the party are mutely requested to walk by the sight of the straining backs of the horses. If this is ineffectual, as I have sometimes known it to be, the driver explains the seductive delights afforded by a contemplation of the bracken and heather slopes of Sail and Eel Crags when seen “pied à terre”. Whatever the inducement, the upshot is a steep walk of about a mile until the hause, or top of the pass, is attained. A fine waterfall in the breast of Robinson—Robinson being the unromantic name of the mountain across the valley—diverts our attention from the moor intervening between us and the Vale of Newlands, with distant Blencathra beyond. A “nervy” hill, surfaced with shale in which the wheel-skids grip finely, leads us down into the valley bottom and thence follows a long stretch of moorland—a fitting preparation for the pretty wooded scenery more in evidence as we near our journey’s end. We bowl merrily along, happy in meditating on the beauties through which we have passed, when suddenly we become aware that the roadway has vanished. There is no time to protest before we find ourselves overlooking a steep brow and bating our breath as the coach tilts at an alarming angle. This is the famous “Devil’s Elbow,” an awe-inspiring hill, the descent of which is rather like a tooth extraction—pleasant enough in retrospect. The proceeding is a perfectly safe one, however, and before long we find ourselves in the heart of Newlands Vale, whence three miles of excellent going takes us through the village of Portinscale, past Crosthwaite Church to Keswick and our quarters.
“The Devil’s Elbow”
Showing the coaches returning from Buttermere to Keswick, on the “Buttermere round.”