Peel Island, alluded to before, is the place when in the time of the Sagas a Norseman dwelt, and a daring man he was to live on so low a rib of rock. In a wild gale the water, lashing its rocky sides, will throw spray right over it. In relief the islet is mitred; two rock ledges face the lake, leaving between a grassy depression some feet in depth. Our old Norseman built walls across this gap, then with poles and twigs from the shore-woods made a roof, and thereby obtained a home sufficient in its humble way to provide shelter in the wildest weather. In spring the glen of the islet is a mass of blue—with wild hyacinths. The lake is now becoming riverine in character, its banks are nearing rapidly, a picnic party seated on the rock-set shore wave and call merrily to the passing craft. The water is still as a pond, the reflections only broken in the wake of the passing steamer. And thus we come to Lake Bank, the end of the lake for steamer purposes, and the point to which coaches drive from Greenodd and Ulverston. It is a change for a good walker to get ashore here, and by the Brantwood shore return—a walk of some eight miles.
At first the road leads down by the rushing Crake, then crosses. The traveller passes through tall-hedged lanes, past old-world farms nestling against sheering hillsides. Once there is a beautiful glimpse—a vista of lake, Fir Island in foreground, and far away the rising fells. Just as the walker feels that Brantwood must be at hand, the woods open a little; here is a point jutting out into the lake to which he can easily pass, a shelf of shingle, overgrown with wych elms and sallows, but from it is a marvellous view. Not too far for detail to be dimmed is Coniston Hall, the church and the village, Mines valley and Yewdale crags, Old Man, Wetherlam and a number of giant hills. In autumn particularly the play of light and shade among the woodlands is glorious. The road passes within a few yards of Brantwood. If the wanderer has time to spare let him leave the road by one of the paths he sees up the hillside. There is little danger of any one complaining of trespass if you should light upon a worn path that is not public. Rising some two hundred feet up you are above coppice woods, and come among the heather, enjoying an excellent view of the lake and its surroundings. How peaceful such a place at sunset! Once I watched the sun set in a haze of blood red: the lake turned like frozen gore beneath my eyes, the hillsides mantled in crimson, the outstanding spurs of rock were wreathed in fire, a purple shadow gradually gathered in the hollows. Then, through a ravishing succession of tints, the scene melted away till I was looking down on a lake with moonlight shimmering on it, edged by blue, rocky mountains.
STEPPING-STONES, SEATHWAITE
One scene more and I have finished. It is of mid-winter—and night. Day was dying ere we left the village; with a parting glish at the snow-covered church tower, the sun left the lower glen. Now the hills were pointed with fire; from the lake a blue vapour rose as the air chilled, to join the helm of feathery smoke gradually spreading from the village. The glen was snowbound indeed; from hedges and plantations came the rustle of slipping snow; a partial thaw after the snowfall passed gave us the roads fairly clear. There were many slippery places, but to the careful and robust there was pleasure in the prospect of a walk. Large flocks of sheep are crowded into the fields lying near the farms we pass; there a weary shepherd is still at work. On the higher farms the shelter of the plantations will have been courted; down here a huge rib of rock lies athwart the wind, and the fields have been but little swept by the storm. Almost the most arduous of a shepherd’s trials is after a long snowstorm. His flock have to be mustered; if the snow has drifted at all a band of ewes are sure to be beneath it, and these have to be got out. Then comes the problem of hand-feeding perhaps a thousand. Hay and roots may be brought by sleigh, but the labour of distribution is great. The soft snow clings so tenaciously to the grass beneath that to walk a hundred yards in the fields is too hard work for any pleasure-seeker. The sheep are nosing down to the hidden grass: even in the hardest weather they forage well for themselves, though the gap between “feed” and “appetite” is often very wide. The lake looks blue and cold under its veil of soft vapour; a skin of ice is forming. There is a loud crack and a rattling echo passes along the frozen surface. Eerie it is so to hear the ice “stretching”: the frostier the night the louder and more frequent the reports. (In 1895 I was on Windermere after dark—it was a moonless night—and the loud and long continued roars which spread about the ice were almost alarming.) Soon we are in the byroad for Tarn Hows. The trees meet overhead, and if it were not for the white flashes of snow between them the way would be bad to find. The road is slippery, and time and again we have to leave the metalled part for the snow-banks to get on at all. The sounds heard in the woods on a frosty night are interesting. A faint rustle in the undergrowth as a small bird hops from one twig to another, a faint rumble and a sissing of snow as a rabbit bolts away, the thud of falling pieces of snow from the branches, the crackling of twigs as the frost nips harder, the blundering rush of a large bird through the curtain of branches, followed by a mimic snowstorm of dislodged particles; from darksome glades, the melancholy hoot of the wood owl and the shriekings of the barn owl, then from far away floats the chime proclaiming the hour, the cadence dying in sweet confusion over the tapering larches.
WINTER SUNSHINE, CONISTON
So far the way has been steep and the footing uncertain; now, however, we rise above the woods to the open hillside. The angle of ascent is less difficult and the snow firm to the tread. Our path forms a terrace above Yewdale. Beneath is a glen cumbered with snow; above, a sky liberally dusted with stars large and small, the gentle light from which is sufficient to kindle the jewels on the frosted snow. The air is chill, but our blood is too warm for us to be more than barely conscious of it. From a corner of the track we have an excellent view backward. The lake is still hidden in its curtain of mist, the dark woods of Brantwood side climb sharply into the white desolations. Coniston Old Man over the way—how truly near it looks!—is gilded by a new light; the moon is rising and the light spreads over summit and upper snowfield, over crag and bield and lower slack of white, finally touching with crystal the fields and houses in the deep dingles around. From one point we look over a wilderness of snow to other dales, but the expected mountain heads are hidden in pearly cloud. The tarn is covered with ice, and some time we spend sliding. Then to return, but first of all notice that grey moving blotch on the shoulder of Wetherlam. The glasses show a family of wild goats. Villagers of Coniston tell of a herd of over thirty observed not many seasons ago, while groups of over a dozen occasionally tempt the keen gunster out on to the chilly wastes.
The goats, I am told, were introduced about a century ago in order to prevent fell-sheep frequenting dangerous cliffs—for a goat is safe where a sheep will turn giddy, and, falling, be dashed to pieces. By nature the sheep is divided from the goat, and will not browse the same pasture. For long it was a custom of the quarrymen of Tilberthwaite to assemble on Good Friday morning, and attempt to hunt the goats haunting the fell near by. But though a kid or so, weaker than the rest, might be taken, I never heard that much success accompanied these chases. The goats from Coniston fells wander in search of toothsome grass to beyond the Duddon, and there is record of an exciting hunt among the rocks of Wallabarrow for a wandering goat. In winter only do these animals approach civilisation; their usual haunts are the crags above sequestered glens. The snow crunches under our feet, and we speedily come down to where we again catch view of Coniston Water. Now it is clear of mist, the whitened fields, blotched with woods, limned with hedges, are in sharp contrast to the grey ice, and to the glittering unfrozen water in mid-lake. A glory almost approaching that of day spreads over the scene: the queen of the heavens is indeed “walking in brightness” here.
