The English Lakes

by William T. Palmer

HAZY TWILIGHT, HEAD OF ULLSWATER

My taste is not for big hotels, but I will admit that the Ullswater, with its back to wooded Glenridding, has a splendid site. It faces across the lake the bloomy sweep of Place fell, and Helvellyn, with a tumult of hills around it, is also visible from its grounds. At the foot of its garden is the steamer pier. To me there seems little of anachronism about the Ullswater boats—I wonder why? At Windermere the yachts always seem out of sympathy; at Coniston this is glaringly so (such opinion does not prevent my using them when convenient); Derwentwater’s toy fleet plies between Portinscale and Lodore, from one palatial hotel to its neighbour. The boats here are more business-like. The sharp, near fells, the deep blue of the water, make one think of beauteous Norwegian fiords, of arms of the sea where the rise and fall of tide is scarcely marked on the upspringing rocks, rather than a lake of quiet England.

Our boat is turned inshore, and we feel the coolness of nearing woodlands. Above our heads oaks are clinging in thin profusion to every ledge of a lofty crag—this is Stybarrow, the rocky hill dividing Glenridding from its eastern neighbour. Nowadays a main road has been cut through the foot of the fell, just above the level of the water, but a disused zigzag track shows the way dalesmen of the past travelled to market. Difficult was the track for friends, with many a rut and spongy mire, sharp curves and slippery ascents; but for foes from northward it was for centuries impassable. Little has history to tell of the head of Ullswater; the customs of the country-side, the lack of fortified places, of even a Border tower or of a cattle keep, tell plainly of uninvaded peace. But though their lands were free from harrying, the yeomen of Patterdale were ever willing to fight under the banners of Greystoke and Yanwath. And for thus leading the foray the wild Scots of Liddelsdale once almost dealt them retribution. A strong band stole across the Esk, and during the night rode hard up the Eden valley and across the grassy fells towards the lake. Marching unsignalled, from an unusual direction, their presence was first noted by the shepherds as they rose from sleeping in the folds on Helvellyn. One ran to rouse the glen, the others made a rush down the mountain wall between Glencoin and their home, hoping to hold the road, the key of the situation, long enough for their friends to rally and beat back the invasion. Mounsey was a stout yeoman, had seen service long and hard in Border campaigns, and he it was who took command. He placed his few where the road narrowed between two crags and was steepest, where the rocky ground prevented the dreaded charge of the enemy’s horse. The Scots came riding on, unaware that their presence had been discovered till a flight of arrows whizzed from rock and bush. Thrown into disorder by these, a second volley sent the raiders hot-trod to the foot of the hill. Here they formed an attack, leaving their ponies, taking what cover they could find. They reached the belt of timber, and carefully crept through it without finding an enemy, for the men of the dale had after their ambush retired, so that the shock with the full weight of the Scottish force could not be brought to bear on them at a disadvantage.

A MOUNTAIN PATH, SANDWICK, ULLSWATER

The leader halted at the upper edge of the forest to survey the situation. To his eye, there was no way of winning up that lofty hill while the bows were plied from shelter secure. Accordingly he halted, sending scouts to right and left. The chief had certain knowledge of the number of men-at-arms in Patterdale; he had brought a party strong enough to crush their utmost resistance, and had cut off their chance of alarming their allies of the low country. One scout told that away to the left the fell became a terrific precipice, along the wooded ledges of which a party might move to attack the dalesmen’s rear. Fifty were accordingly detached to force the way of the cliff. Safely they passed through the wood of Glencoin, then swarmed cautiously from ledge to ledge of the dizzy crag; the blue lake beneath received the stones they dislodged. Of a sudden the leader of the forlorn hope reeled, threw up his arms, fell back and down—down—down. Undaunted by his wild cry and the splash which after a pause showed that his body had fallen from ledge to ledge into the lake, from their path in mid-air the Scots sought the archer in vain. Another man, with a strange gurgle, swung round, grasping at the cloth-yard that had transfixed him. He too fell into the abyss. When the tenth had been struck, one of the Scots espied the enemy. So far away, and deep below, that he looked merely a doll, an archer stood on a rock by the shimmering water. Mounsey had divined their plan, and with his strong arm and sure aim saved Patterdale from invasion.

The Scottish leader waited hour after hour for the wild slogan which should proclaim that his men had attacked the ridge, then a few stragglers returned from the face of the cliff and told him of the disaster which had befallen. The word was given at once “to horse,” and the raiders sped back to the Border. For his service the men of Patterdale claimed the Mounsey as their king. He was given the best house and land, on condition that he, and his heirs for ever, should be able and willing to lead the dalesmen to victory. For centuries the family held their post with distinction. The first Scottish rabble to break into the glen were the men of the Forty-Five. And they did not get far beyond, for the men of Troutbeck manned the narrow head of their dale and, unaided by the Royal army, beat back the invasion. For which the courage of Patterdale is still slighted across the fell. The last King of Patterdale flourished a century ago; his estates were afterwards sold to the Marshall family. The name and lineage of Mounsey still exists in the dale.

I find legend a too-fascinating topic; get the boat pushed forward if we have to see Aira Force this golden afternoon. The wavelets rattle gay under the bow as we sweep past soft Glencoin, with a solitary house glimmering through the trees—Seldom Seen, once, it is said, the jewel-house of the Howards in time of serious war. But the greatest beauty is on Place fell. In bands of green and brown and golden yellow, in purple streak and white, it rises rock on rock, slope on slope, more the presiding genius of Ullswater than vaunted but distant Helvellyn. The rugged Gowbarrow we are approaching is tame and smooth compared with the giant across the water. Tree-fringed, with brake of bramble and low bushes, the road runs along the northern shore; beyond bay after bay we find it keeping pace with us apparently. It is a level run for the cyclist, and happy is he who first at sunset approaches by it. On a curve of white shingle we land; the field is glorious with water buttercups, and the last wild roses star the brakes around. The gorge of Aira is quite half a mile from the lake. Leaving the road Lyulph’s tower cannot be evaded by the observing eye. Who Lyulph was is a disputed point among the Doctors; his name was given to this place after he was long dead: he wasn’t foolish enough to design or build this erection. Relief comes to the soul when, rising up the hill, you see the meadows where the daffodils blow, the place where Dorothy Wordsworth pointed out to her gifted brother the flowers dancing in the breeze and struck the chord which gave us the fine poem known as “The Daffodils.” Aira Force too has its story of love and romance, which is briefly stated thus: A lady dwelling beneath knotty Gowbarrow loved a knight of Cumbria, and they were wont to tryst by the waterfall. The lover, to prove his love and gain honour, joined a crusade. No news of him came from Syria for years—he was a prisoner there—and the lady, lonely and much troubled, began to fear that he had fallen. At length the knight broke prison and hastened home. At night he approached the trysting place of old, and through the trees saw a lady in white moving. He sprang forward to meet her—it was his own true love for whom he had jeopardised his life—just as she came to the crag which overhangs the torrent’s leap. In his arms he held her a moment, then she started back, back, and out of sight—down that terrible rock, into the gloom of the spout. After her leapt the brave knight—he found her in the whirlpool, caught her, and reached the shore. And there, as he bent over her, she opened her eyes a moment and recognised him; with his name on her lips she died. The sudden shock, the fall, the deep waters, had beaten out the frail life of the somnambulist. By the waterfall the knight built him a cell, and, a hermit, dwelt in the solitude.

The hollow of Aira is a gloomy place: moist-loving ferns spread over the rocks, there is wet moss everywhere, spray ever hangs dank in the air. In height Aira is great among our waterfalls. In flood-time it is a glorious medley: flying waters, shiny fangs of rock, dripping trees and grass and weed and fern.