As the Swift threads through the reefs above Storrs, we enter a new reach of the lake. In front Belle Isle’s tree-shaded level seems to close the water; to our left is the Ferry; on the right green fields and filmy woods, with, beyond and above, the mountains clustering round the vale of Troutbeck. A faint blue ruffle travels along the lake toward us, a catspaw of wind that sends a yacht which, sail-slack, had been drifting, bowing and dancing through the water. At the landing-stage our steamer has to wait till the tank-like cable-boat has completed its journey. Down the hill opposite comes the road from Kendal to Hawkshead, and about this point, from time immemorial, the lake has been crossed. Various sorts of craft have been used: in the time of the Lake poets the conveyance was a large and almost flat-bottomed boat, pulled along by sweeps. Christopher North was wont, on a Saturday morning, to come down from Elleray to steer the market-folk across. On one of these occasions he noticed a flurry in the water, as of a struggling fish. The boat’s course was diverted, and a landing-net used. Two pike, each of about six pounds weight, had been fighting. The victor had seized his antagonist by the head and endeavoured to swallow him whole. But, as an American has sagely commented, “he had bit off more than he could chew.” When North’s landing-net lifted the pair, his jaws were still locked round the victim’s shoulders, though the biter had drowned. Though badly mauled, the other fish was still feebly alive. In his fishing reminiscences of the Borders Sir Walter Scott told a similar story. Near the Tweed one day, seeing a commotion on its banks, he asked a laddie what the matter was. “I dinna ken exactly,” was the reply, “but there’s a muckle fush wi’ twa tails i’ t’ watter.” Anglers—and more veracious folk—have similar stories to tell. The version I have given above of Christopher North’s experience is not, I am aware, the accepted one: it was given me, several years ago, by a dales dweller, one of whose parents had witnessed the incident. There are legends to tell of this Ferry. The most sinister is of an awful voice which on wild nights began to peal across the turmoil—“Boat!” Once a bold ferryman answered the call, put off his boat and rowed into the storm and darkness. Half an hour later he returned, with boat swamping and without a passenger. The boatman’s face was ashen with terror; he was dumb. Next day he died. Stories there were of demons carrying off their spoils of witched souls, and even the bodies of dead saints, across the lake. No boatman, after this incident, could be prevailed to put off in darkness, so a priest was summoned from the Holy Holme. With bell and book he raised the skulking demon—at midday there was the voice of storm in the air, though, mindful of the call of the Master on Galilee, the water fell calm. Voices argued with the priest, whose cross planted firmly by the edge of the lake was surrounded by terror-struck lakemen. At the end of a long altercation the demon released from thrall the soul of the boatman, and craved for mercy. For its peace, the priest laid the evil thing in the depths of Claife, there to remain until “dryshod men walk on Winander, and trot their ponies through the solid crags.”
NEAR THE FERRY, WINDERMERE: SKATING BY MOONLIGHT
At least once the ferryboat has been wrecked: the records of Hawkshead Church show that a wedding party was drowned, about a dozen lives in all being lost. The tank-like servant of the cable now against the shingles has shown sea-like jauntiness. One Whit Saturday morning, when laden with strength and beauty going to Kendal hirings, she broke both hawsers and at a majestic pace drifted down the lake. In half an hour she touched one of the islands, from which her passengers were shortly taken off. In these times of watertight compartments, there is little chance of a disaster occurring.
The hotel in front of which our Swift is floating presents a gay appearance on yacht-racing days. The lawns are occupied by a well-dressed throng, and a small but excellent band plays appropriate music. The line of red-flagged buoys marks start and finish: some of the races are round the lake, about twenty miles; others are fought out in the northern or southern basins only. The needs of the racing have developed a special type of boat. The quest for speed dictates no great displacement of water, therefore the craft are built shallow; but the frequent and violent squalls of wind from the mountains make some stability and weight essential to prevent capsize. Windermere yachts carry heavier keels than is usual to their sail area, and there are other minor variations between them and sea-going or conventional river and lake boats. With a good breeze the yachts are very fast: they are handy too, frequently “going about” in narrow quarters. At times, when the air is dead calm, a race may degenerate into a drifting match: the lakemen say that on one occasion the yachts were over ten hours in covering as many miles. The locally developed design is eminently suited to its work. Mr. Fife, the great draughtsman, some years ago built a yacht on the Clyde for this lake. He came to see it compete, but the local boats quickly showed their superiority over the new design.
The engines are now re-starting, and our steamer cleaves toward Curwens’, or Belle Isle, which for long has seemed to close the way. Now, however, narrow channels open to both right and left. The yacht bears right away past two small holmes. One of these, a cluster of trees and a level sward, is ofttimes used for kennels for the puppies of the Windermere harrier pack. Here they are quite at liberty and yet out of mischief, a remarkable circumstance in a puppy’s career. Often I have laid on the oars to watch the little hounds romping and playing, under the blinking superintendence of an elder. Then their game would stop, and a pell-mell of puppydom charge to the shingles and bay its infantile delight. Belle Isle is the only island of Windermere on which a house is now standing. In the long ago a branch of the Philipsons of Calgarth held it. During the Civil War this family was Royalist. One, a major in the king’s Northern army, was shut up in Carlisle by the Roundheads; another was here beleaguered. For several weeks the men of the Parliament tried to carry the island by storm, but failed. The major had been apprised of his brother’s peril, and immediately the siege of the Border city was raised he came south with a troop and dispersed the Roundheads. Now to the daring Robert came the hope of reprisals. The island was fully relieved at Sunday dawn; three hours later Royalist horsemen were on their way to Kendal. Colonel Briggs, the Cromwellian commander, attended divine service regularly. Robert accordingly made straight into Kendal Church. Though the building was crowded, he galloped through the tall doorway and up the aisle. Sword in hand he rode to where his antagonist usually sat, but Briggs was not at church. The townsfolk rose, and Robert was forced to gallop down the other aisle to prevent being overwhelmed by numbers. The doorway to the right is lower than the central: Robert’s head struck the arch, and he was thrown. His steel helmet received most of the concussion, and Robin was on his feet again in a moment. One townsman caught his horse; the saddle girth had broken when the rider had been hurled backward. Robert instantly threw the saddle across his charger’s back and leapt into it. Suddenly and cruelly spurred, the horse reared up and jerked the rein from its detainer’s hand, while the intruder clove him to the chin. Without further interruption, the Cavaliers rode back to their island fortress.
The steamer has been bearing us through the narrow channel to Bowness Bay. The scene here is usually a busy and a pretty one. The public fore-shore is narrow, and rowboats are crowded toward it. The steamer-pier and two long jetties make the narrowness still more emphatic. But Bowness Bay, with the Old England hotel to our left, looks perfect. Beyond the short promenade, laid out in trees and terrace-gardens, the ground rises to rocky Biskey Howe, whence is a glorious view of the lake. Quite close at hand is Windermere parish church, with some stained glass removed here from Cartmel Priory at the Dissolution. The walls were at one time decorated with texts, but the Lutherans rebelled against these and hid them beneath ignoble whitewash. But what the sixteenth century despised, the twentieth reveres, and the old Scripture paintings have been carefully restored. The village of Bowness presents little noteworthy except its attention to visitors: its reputation in this respect is thoroughly justified.
THE OLD FERRY, WINDERMERE
If you take a walk ashore, the various boatmen will embarrass you with offers of craft. “Fishing tackle? oh, I’ll lend you that with pleasure, and bait too.” Now this is all very well for the disciple of Walton who insists on having a competent person on board to select the fishing-ground. But the average man may be fairly warned by the following note: “Hired a boat for the day and set out to fish with six rods, plenty of bait, and a hopeful word of success from the boatman. We cast our lines right and left, back and front, but not a fish did we see. Whether the fish or the bait were enchanted we could not say, but concluded that the lines were lent to make people believe they could catch fish.” In answer I had to point out (my complainant knew sea and a quiet variety of river fishing well) that, under a blazing June sun, perch and trout were not likely to feed. There are times when the fishing is good—out of the tourist season mainly. Some anglers regularly come to Windermere for sport; but these swallows do not make a summer, and Windermere is far from being an angler’s paradise yet. The lapsus linguæ of the boatmen is perhaps excusable: others delude in less satisfactory fashion.