Such is a Cumbrian’s description of Bassenthwaite. We went to hear about the lake, but alas! Jacob hardly had a word to say about it. Next time I will ask him about shepherd-life on Skiddaw and he will probably reel off stories innumerable of the water in summer and winter, and of the men who give to the lake the attention due. Jacob is typical of his class, and his reticence was not due to any wish to keep information from us.
CHAPTER XIV
THIRLMERE FROM THE MAIN ROAD
The fact that Thirlmere is the reservoir for the drinking water of Manchester renders it somewhat unapproachable. Main roads encircle the lake at no great distance, but the whole watershed—Dunmail, Helvellyn-side, and Armboth—has been purchased on behalf of the city, and at hardly any point can one reach the lake-shore without breaking some bylaw. There is, I believe, only one boat allowed on its surface, strictly for the surveyors responsible for the embankment, etc. Though the lake was restocked after its conversion and large trout are now fairly plentiful, angling is hardly permitted.
The city of course has a perfect right to seclude the lake if by so doing they prevent impurity in its waters, and after all it is somewhat of a satisfaction to feel that a few square miles of Lakeland are tolerably certain of escaping the builder and the miner. The mines of Helvellyn are now likely to remain closed for our generation.
Old Thirlmere, like a winding river, connected a series of wider pools; at its narrowest point, near Armboth, it was spanned by stone bridges. Now, by judicious embankment, its area has been doubled, yet there still remains a very definite river-lake. I think Thirlmere a place of beauty, though I do not forget viewing, from mid-lake (this pleasure was illicit, of course), those harsh lines through the trees and along the hillsides behind which the new roads are cunningly contrived. However, when you are on Armboth road the disagreeable “line” does not trouble; instead you admire a beautifully engineered way through the mountains, giving entrancing glimpses up narrow ghylls, vertical peeps into pretty bays, with the grand contours of Helvellyn ever present either through a film of leafage or more clearly between the groups of trees.
Most of us see Thirlmere from the coach or from our cycles. Though the scenery is so fair, there is no escape from the wheeled procession. The quiet retirement of the old bridle-road is vanished. From Grasmere the head of the lake is about half a dozen miles distant, to Keswick it is not much more than four from its foot. From the former the approach is up the pass of Dunmail.
RAVEN CRAG, THIRLMERE
And this is the scene which meets the eye after you have toiled up the long slope. Behind is the bold and curious-shaped summit of Helm Crag, sage Asphodel, the Witch crooning over her hell-kail. Far off is Loughrigg fell with larch woods clustering up its sides, and the lake of Grasmere so dull with green reflections that a quick eye is necessary to distinguish it from its surroundings. Rising from your side is Seat Sandal, a host of carrion crows wheeling round its rugged knots; Steel Fell rises opposite, flecked with wandering sheep. The sky is bright blue, with soft white clouds lazily drawing their way across the narrow gulf. In wide patches the sunshine seems to drift about the landscape, picking out a green benk here, throwing a shadow over the crags there into some deep ravine. The scene at the head of the pass is of extreme wildness. The hillsides are scattered with scree, the uneven bottoms with boulders of every shape and size. The cairn of Dunmail, last king of Pictish Cumbria slain in battle with Edgar the Saxon, is here, a formless pile of stones. There is a legend concerning this spot.
The crown of Dunmail was charmed, giving to its wearer a succession in his kingdom. Therefore King Edgar of the Saxons coveted it above all things. When Dunmail came to the throne of the mountain-lands a wizard in Gilsland Forest held a master-charm to defeat the purpose of his crown. He Dunmail slew. The magician was able to make himself invisible save at cock crow, and to destroy him the hero braved a cordon of wild wolves at night. At the first peep o’ dawn he entered the cave where the wizard was lying. Leaping to his feet the magician called out, “Where river runs north or south with the storm” ere Dunmail’s sword silenced him for ever. The story came to the ear of the Saxon, who after much inquiry of his priests found that an incomplete curse, though powerful against Dunmail, could scarcely harm another holder of the crown. Spies were accordingly sent into Cumbria to find where a battle could be fought on land favourable to the magician’s words. On Dunmail raise, in times of storm even in unromantic to-day, the torrent sets north or south in capricious fashion. The spies found the place, found also fell-land chiefs who were persuaded to become secret allies of the Saxon. The campaign began. Dunmail moved his army south to meet the invader, and they joined battle on this pass. For long hours the fight was with the Cumbrians; the Saxons were driven down the hill again and again. As his foremost tribes became exhausted, Dunmail retired and called on his reserves—they were mainly the ones favouring the Southern king. On they came, spreading in well-armed lines from side to side of the hollow way, but instead of opening to let the weary warriors through they delivered an attack on them. Surprised, the army reeled back, and their rear was attacked with redoubled violence by the Saxons. The loyal ranks were forced to stand back-to-back round their king; assailed by superior masses they fell rapidly, and ere long the brave chief was shot down by a traitor of his own bodyguard.