ivy-clad, but in every way modern and first-class Old England Hotel are now in sight, with the town of Windermere above it on the hillside. As we near the pier the view opens out wonderfully and distracts our attention from the red-cushioned rowboats, electric launches, yachts, promenade and other paraphernalia that go to make up the bustling foreshore of Bowness. From the steamer deck will be noticed, peeping over the top of the boathouses, the tower of Saint Martin’s Church, an ancient structure well worth a visit, if only to see the remains of a chancel window which originally graced Furness Abbey—
“All garlanded with carven imagerie
And diamonded with panes of quaint device.”
The village itself is not lacking in distinctive qualities, the juxtaposition of the antique and the modern in architecture being certainly very quaint. Its up-to-date and well-kept shops and hotels and general air of cleanliness, are features of the place. It is a favourite “excursion” centre and rightly so, for most of the outlying districts are within easy reach—a remark that applies also to Windermere village. They are now-a-days almost one town, although the nucleus of each is over a mile apart. Houses and shops line the connecting road,—a steady climb up the hill, almost continuously, to Windermere Railway Station. Above the station is the eminence of Orrest Head, one of the most excellent view-points in the whole of Lakeland. It was this prospect that inspired the words which introduce this chapter. Those who walk up Orrest Head on a fine summer’s day will certainly condone, and some will endorse, this description by Christopher North.
The natives of Windermere are the direct descendants of those sturdy independent sons of the soil, the Westmerian statesmen. They perpetuate many of the best qualities of their forebears, and in spite of contact with a polyglot tourist element they also retain much of their original dialect. Only the other day I ventured to ask the opinion of one them regarding the weather. The old dalesman looked knowingly to windward and then delivered himself as follows: “Weel, it’ll mappen donk an’ dezzle a la’al bit, mappen kest a snifter, but there’ll be neah gurt pelt,” which was his way of saying that it would perhaps drizzle a bit, perhaps throw a shower, but there would be no great downpour!
But our steamer does not stay long enough to permit of much divergence, and we are soon out on the quiet water again, making for the head of the Lake. Every hundred yards now enhances the beauty of the scene. The mountains draw nearer, the details of the craggy shoulders of Wetherlam and the fine crest of Bowfell can be well seen. With the Langdale Pikes beyond, and the slopes of Wansfell Pike and the Troutbeck Hundreds a-head, they rivet one’s attention almost entirely until, after rounding a promontory, we come in sight of the Scotch firs and pier of Low Wood. The signal to call is lacking, so our vessel keeps steadily on up the lake passing Wray Castle, a picturesque, but not historical building, on our left, and on our right the tree-embowered cottage called “Dove Nest.” This was for some time the home of the gentle Mrs. Hemans who, having visited Wordsworth in 1830, could not resist the call of the beauty and solitude of Lakeland. Her descriptions of Windermere and “Dove Nest” are amongst the most spontaneous and charming word-paintings which even Lakeland has evoked, and of course this is saying a good deal. All too soon now we realize that we are at our journey’s end and that the jetty on the right, past the row of somewhat pretentious-looking lodging houses, is Waterhead. It is worth remembering that there is only one thing better than this first sail up Windermere and that is ... to repeat the performance! Certain it is that some fresh beauty, some added interest will disclose itself on the occasion of each trip.
A mile from the head of the lake is the thriving little town of
Waterhead, Windermere