As our boat slips away, the upper lake, a field of splendid blue, comes in sight. In mid-lake a tuft of rock claims attention—the boat glides to it over the faint ripples. It proves indeed to be a cluster of loose fragments, pushed up from the lake-floor to be a resting-place for the birds of land and water. So piled are the stones that it seems impossible human hands have not been busy in the midst of this waste of waters. Anglers and others have proved by crude methods that the protrusion is the crest of a sheer column of rock, or rocks as the case may be. If the figures confidently given are approximately correct, when, if ever, Ennerdale runs dry, an inaccessible pinnacle will be found to puzzle our rock gymnasts. Herons alight here to meditate and digest their toll of troutlets; and swift warriors of the air, buzzard, peregrine, and more humble sparrow-hawk, hover down to the islet-rock to rest and plan anew their forays. When afloat on Ennerdale the mountains, with infinite variety of shadow and gleam, rock and grass and downpouring water, demand most of my attention. I seldom look to the lake’s outlet: it is a comparatively flat scene if your boat is past the rugged slopes of Revelin. A long larch-wood fringes the shore—its monotonous blob of green in strong contrast to the livelier fellside dabbed with creamy, blooming hawthorns. Next to it, over a knot of buildings, rises an unsightly shaft of brick, belonging to a long-disused thread mill. The effect of rectangular wood and cylindrical chimney is dreary, stupid; it apes a modernity which here, in God’s wilderness, is at least unpicturesque.
Our vigorous friend at the oars has meanwhile brought us close to Anglers Crag. The bottom of the lake remains invisible, though the boat’s nose grates against the sheering rock; looking over the side, through the clear water, the slabs drop lower and lower till gathering gloom hides them from sight. The “crag” above, though steep, is quite climbable; it is worth while going ashore to scramble for ten minutes. The boat accordingly turns into a narrow bay where we may land on a beach of shelving shingle. The bank above is plenteously strewed with slabs of rock, though the “crag” is to our right. Up the hillside we find our view rapidly extending to westward, though the mountains still hem us in on all other sides. Shortly the sea is visible beyond smoky West Cumberland. The forms of shipping can be made out, sailing the channels through the shoals of Solway. And farther away still, if the day be clear, the hills of Scotland rise in an undulating line of blue. St. Bees Head is the only feature in a comparatively regular shore: a mass of sandstone, it sheers up four hundred feet above the strand. Here, on its very crest, once was a monastery, the lands of which were won by a miracle. St. Bega and her zealots landed hereabouts and found the people worshippers of strange Norse gods, unwilling to hear the new gospel and impatient for the visitors to be gone.
“Your God is almighty!” sneered the chief, “I will give you all the land in my domain that to-morrow bears snow. Your God is almighty; and you need nothing from humans—ask Him, then, for snow.”
The morrow was Midsummer Day; at early morn the folks of the country rose to find a mantle of cold, glistering white covering nearly all the land betwixt mountain and sea. The chief’s jest was, so runs the tale, carried out in full, and through war and peace the monks held to their inheritance till smooth King Henry divided their lands to others.
Down we come to the lake edge again, to raid the haunt of coot and heron—both birds not rare on Ennerdale Lake, the quietude of which is just perfect. Our boat floats in as wild and savage a scene as is to be made by mere and fell. The Char Dub is visited, the huge mass of Pillar Crag noted at as near a point as possible. Now, coasting barren fields above which the skylarks are trilling, and by shores decked with star-primroses, we return from the wilderness to the forest lands of oak and ash and alder.
Ennerdale Lake, though less visited than the other waters, is in its way as beauteous as they.
CHAPTER IX
BY SOFT LOWESWATER
Close enfolded in the lap of mountains, Loweswater is seldom seen by the casual tourist. At Scale Hill, a rugged ravine with a white river dashing down, is pointed as the direction in which it lies. At the sight of that crag-set hillside the cyclist turns regretfully and, down the good Lorton road, speeds away for Cockermouth or Keswick. Yet if the writer were compelled to seek another home among the Lakes, after Rothay’s magic glen he would select Loweswater. And there are others who would do likewise, who year after year come to the little secluded lake for holiday. For tell it not loudly, its trouting is the best in the Lake Country. The angling is not public, but it is possible to obtain permission for a week’s pleasure. The trout rule large for our northern waters, fish of over three pounds being landed every season.
LOWESWATER