It is a far cry and a rugged way to Grisedale tarn, but the climb is worth doing. Up the ghylls you climb on your route to Fairfield; and when you reach the topmost ridge in sight, you find the deep narrow gulf of Deepdale lies between. You detour round the head of this glen. It is glorious wild country, this home of shepherd craft. There is no good path; you follow the wandering sheep-tracks where they serve, and leave them the moment you find their trend unfavourable. It is eerie when the mist suddenly wraps around. Then you may have to trust to dead reckoning for your safety. But, on a clear day, the vertical views from the narrow approach to Fairfield, into Rydal and Deepdale are charming: on either horizon is the flash of water—Windermere, Coniston, Ullswater. The ridge of Fairfield crossed, suddenly breaks a new glen into the mountain wall, and at the same time there is revealed to you a whirlpool of distant summits. Right below is the tarn of Grisedale. Seen on a dull day it is an abode of mystery: deep, so deep blue that one feels that it were a lower firmament; pure, so pure and fresh that it seems impossible that through it one might not journey to a fairy paradise.
This grand cleft in the mountain wall was haunt of the wild boar and of great eagles for long after less wild regions were cleared. To-day you see nothing sterner than the peregrine whizzing after towering larks. I well remember assisting to drive a flock across this upland basin. Of all scenes in dales life, few are prettier than well-driven sheep passing over open land. The collies, watchful, obedient to call or whistle of their master, follow the wings of the mob; the shepherd is behind the centre, and the broad front of grey fleeces and black faces, a thousand or more strong, steadily, readily, moves to pastures new, and the delicate green grass, with grey crags and darker stripes of moss, combines all into an idyllic picture.
KIRKSTONE PASS AND BROTHERS’ WATER
From Grisedale, there is Helvellyn to climb on the way to Red tarn, and to a tiny pool beneath the northern screes known as Keppel Cove tarn. A tour further afield would be across the knife-like Edges of Saddleback to the lonesome tarns immured beneath their cliffs. We, however, journey over the ridge between Fairfield and Seat Sandal for Grasmere’s sweet vale. There are many views across the pass to Helm Crag, with its uncouth rocks on top, figures of monsters frozen speechless from the dim twilight of time.
From Grasmere there is a particularly fine mountain walk, with a ring of tarns as its objective. Starting from the tourist village one passes up Easedale, then begins to ascend the side of Sour Milk ghyll. Come when there has been rain and a tortured chain of water flies down four hundred feet of rocks, in a succession of gleaming spouts. But in the days of drought the rocky pathway is bare and almost dry, the rivulet drips noiselessly down the inclined rocks. At the head of the force you enter the realm of the fell properly. The true mountain moth flutters by; the moss beneath your feet is racemed with fox’s tail, least civilised of plants. The ring-ouzel, the blackbird of the fells, is often here—in the waterworn rocks are its nesting-places. The bracken throws off its sweetest scent. The tarn side is a peaceful scene under most conditions, but when a gale rages you see the water fly off in sheets. The scene is glorious, but the buffetings are tremendous. Easedale tarn is among the larger in size, its trout are more easily caught at hours and seasons when the tourist is unknown. At evening get out the boat and float toward the outlet. The weeds here are the nightly haunt of the best fish.
Our next tarn is Codale, perched on a shelf six hundred feet higher than Easedale tarn—a mere rock pool, but in situation most romantic. Fishing here—well, there are a few trout to be got by the lucky. “Codale tarn? Ah, we used to come at it after we had done Stickle tarn. Old Jonty knew it well. Once when I was with him—it was a blazing June day—he said he could get the fish in Codale. ‘How?’ I asked. ‘By minding my own business.’ He produced two lengths of line, and along them fixed the hooks and baits common to the lath. ‘Noo, thee gang that side o’ t’ tarn, ah’ll gang this.’ The line was between, and we soon dragged the narrow water from one to the other. There wasn’t a fish missed. One after another they swum up; what the baits were Old Jonty wouldn’t say—salmon roe most like, for he was a terrible poacher. We got four pounds of fish with the single drag, more than I had seen in a week of tarn fishing in that blazing weather.”
STEPPING-STONES, FAR EASEDALE, GRASMERE
A few weird things are told of the wild upland where lies Codale tarn, stories as wild as the demon hunts of Dartmoor. Through the mists the wanderer often fancies a face distraught with pain and toil. It is the weird of a lost soul. The first time I was a-wandering in this region I was caught in a dense cloud, and, the stories still fresh in my mind, I felt rather nervous that some horror would come to light. It is wonderful what vivid imaginings come when one is astray in the mist. I have a great many times seen visions in the grey beards—so clear, so true, that once I hailed a comrade whose face I saw, though he himself was forty miles away. Codale tarn, to my mind, is the prettiest mere of all: stand back from its outlet and drink in the picture—the narrow dark band of water, the great pile of rock dabbed with spits of grass, seamed with moss-laces and with parsley fern. Above the crags, where a spot of snow oft lingers till June, is the azure sky, and the dots of winged things.