ENNERDALE LAKE AT SUNSET
A long climb over grassy open common brings the cyclist from Egremont to Ennerdale bridge: that irregular knot of houses, with its moss-veiled church, was in the past a mountain metropolis. Wordsworth’s poem, “The Brothers,” centres in this churchyard of the dale. As the poet thought out his theme, through his mind there must have passed memories of that grand, encircling chain of mountains, rugged Revelin, precipiced Pillar, and scree-strewn Iron Crag, with many more. Only in one real particular was the licence poetic indulged, for there were gravestones here, modest indeed, flat among smothering grasses or fringing the boundary walls.
Perhaps not at Ennerdale, but in equally remote districts, the church was used by smugglers. Under the rush-laid floor, cellars were dug to contain kegs of liquor, the miserably paid parsons conniving, often acting as selling agents. Church attendance would doubtless arouse more enthusiasm among grown men in days when the spent bottle could be exchanged after service for a full one, and there were “lashings” to drink beside. In one place where the parson could not be brought to see his “duty,” the kirkgarth was often tenanted by most eerie “corpse lights,” and had to be shunned accordingly by all honest folks and preventive men. Those “in the know,” however—and they were many—knew that brandy and rum would be plentiful next day, for a new supply of liquor had been hid in a raised vault, from which the parish clerk drew it as need arose.
From Ennerdale bridge the road climbs a couple of miles to the lake: in fact it somewhat overclimbs, for when at last the mere is viewed the wanderer is about three hundred feet too high, and has to descend by a very steep route to the Anglers Inn. That first glimpse is splendid: for half a mile back the hedgerows have prevented the eyes from wandering far, then suddenly bursts the glory. The waters deep beneath follow the mood of the day; laugh and sparkle when the sun shines and a warm breeze whispers; well gloomy and leaden when a host of clouds presses the mountains and shadows the lake-basin; swoon tender and soft when evening’s purple vapour drifts through passes and over summits, to collect in a pool in the valley beneath; surge and heave in breakers when a gale sweeps through the air; brood silent and sombre and still as a slab of jet when winter clothes the sky with deepest blue and the steeps with majesty of white.
THE PILLAR ROCK OF ENNERDALE
I prefer a boat for exploring the beauties of Ennerdale Water within and without, for the road to Gillerthwaite is rough, and the path by Anglers Crag not without some difficulty. Ennerdale within is represented by some fine trout and by an occasional char. On this lake the char in early autumn will come to the lure of a red ant. These insects at this season develop feeble wings; they haunt the sandy soil near the lake and are for ever essaying flights. A slight breeze is enough to sweep whole crowds of them over the water; they fly to the end of their strength, fall into the lake and are snapped up by the fish which lie in wait near the surface. In winter the char resort to the main stream entering the lake, for the purpose of spawning. For many years a certain part of the beck was known as the Char Dub, for in it, in numbers sufficient to render the bottom invisible, the shoals of fish lay. At the present day, however, the diminished char elect to spawn on a shingle further up the stream.
For its trout-fishing Ennerdale is justly noted: there can be little finer sport than trolling here, the boat moving slowly on, the waves lap-a-lap against its timbers. When the attention is taken from the water, what a fine panorama of steep and rocky mountains!
Maytime among the mountains—a day of soft creeping shadows and warm sunlight, the firmament white with lofty clouds, though here and there a wide rag of blue shows between. The boat welts away from the pier; clack, clack, fall the oars on to their pins, a moment later, to a rumble and a churn of water, the rower falls to work. Local men do not use the rowlock and the feathering oar; a rigid pin is fitted on the side of the boat upon which a perforation in the oarshaft slots. The contrivance has undoubted advantages to anglers, as the oars do not need to be lifted inboard when not in use; secure on their pins they can trail through the water. But why all lake boats should be so fitted is beyond comprehension, for the superiority of the rowlock and the feathering oar is palpable: a boat can be pulled faster and more easily, and in moments of danger—which on a day of sudden squalls are frequent—are not less reliable.