Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

The moon now flooded the depression with peaceful light, but once across the summit the shadow of the hill was reached, and the path could only be followed with difficulty. Messrs. Johnson and Strong were fortunate enough not to get lost before they reached the valley, but here they made a mistake which cost them half an hour. On reaching the town of Keswick the walk was given up. It had extended over fifty-two miles of fell country; the total of altitude was 14,146 feet (294 feet more than Mr. Robinson’s record); total time taken, nineteen hours thirty-five minutes. The average speed per hour was near two and a half miles; and in fatigue the course approached seventy-eight miles—eight miles less than the Lorton Walkers’ record. The day was an ideal one—a day of bright sunshine, yet not overpowering heat. None of the party can ever forget the exquisite beauty of the scene at early morn as Seathwaite was left for Great Gable. The hills stood out in the deliciously pure air near to the eye, yet apparently dwarfed in height and retiring in perspective, but every crag, every cleft, every seam and line, in those majestic outlines was perfectly distinct. There is a difference in these two last-named walks which is hard to define; but the one resembled the other as much as a cycle race over sticky roads resembles the same event carried out on dry ground. Messrs. Johnson and Strong have shown themselves capable disciples of the older mountaineers, and their initial effort is sufficiently marvellous to puzzle criticism. In July, however, Mr. Westmorland and Mr. Beaty made another attempt to do the distance. They started from Threlkeld at 4.46 a.m. in bright sunshine, and took a line over Helvellyn, High Raise, Bowfell, Hanging Knott, Great End Crag, the Pikes, Scawfell, Great Gable, Skiddaw, and Saddleback, returning to Threlkeld.

The last part of this walk was accomplished in darkness, and the end was a close affair. After crossing the Caldew between Skiddaw and Saddleback at 2.40 a.m., this last mountain alone remained to be negotiated. Daylight was just beginning to show, but the higher ground was enshrouded in mist, and twenty valuable minutes were lost through the climbers missing their way. According to his own modest report, Mr. Westmorland began to lose heart here, fearing that the real top might not be found in the dense mist until the time was too far gone for success, but Mr. Beaty seemed as determined as ever. They could not decide as to which was the proper way up to the right summit of the mountain in the mist, so Mr. Beaty started off on the left-hand route, and Mr. Westmorland took that trending to the right. The latter proved to have chosen the right path, and shouted to Mr. Beaty, who joined him on the summit at 4.8 a.m. By this time only thirty-eight minutes remained of the set time, so, nerving themselves for a last almost desperate effort, the pair ran down the sharp edge of Saddleback—a rough, precipitous descent of over two miles and 2,800 feet, which was accomplished in twenty-two minutes. Such was the finish of a giant task. The course was completed in twenty-three and three-quarter hours—a magnificent performance. The nine fells had been climbed within twenty-four hours at the third attempt, and these two persevering men considered themselves rewarded.

It is granted that the month of September is the most favourable for walking, as the days are generally clear and cool; therefore it not infrequently happens, as in 1898, that the season winds up with a record. At 3.30 a.m., September 1, Mr. R. W. Broadrick started on his cycle from Windermere for Dungeon Ghyll. When he started it was dark, so he left his machine in a conspicuous position, hoping that the hotel people would take charge of it. He climbed by way of Ell Ghyll to Bowfell, reaching the summit at 5.55 a.m. Day broke as he made the tour of the Scawfell group—Great End, Scawfell Pike, Scawfell. There is in Nature nothing on so grand a scale as a rosy daybreak seen from some high mountain. The famous Wastdalian, Will Ritson, used to tell of what he witnessed from Scawfell Pikes. After following the hounds all night, he found himself by Mickledore when the light began to glow, and never having seen sunrise from such a position, he climbed the Pikes. He always referred to the sight as the finest he ever saw. Mr. Broadrick breakfasted at Wastdalehead, and then climbed by Gavel Neese to Great Gable, reaching Keswick by 12.50. On the way to Skiddaw the climber missed the path, and had to wade through knee-deep heather for about an hour. Keswick rereached, he made for Sticks Pass, by which route he gained Helvellyn by 7.40. Mr. Broadrick went hard from here, hoping to get into Grasmere valley ere complete darkness fell. At Grisedale Tarn, however, the last gleams faded; he missed the way, and after stumbling across very rough ground (the south face of Seat Sandal) he reached the top of Dunmail Raise at 8.50. The walk to Windermere—thirteen miles—took two hours fifty-five minutes—a fine performance considering previous exertions. The total distance was sixty and a half miles, in the excellent time of twenty and a quarter hours. Mr. Broadrick’s cycle played a very important part in the day’s work, placing him while still fresh at the foot of the mountains; but deducting the twelve miles, and one hour thus passed, the performance remains a great one—forty-eight and a half miles for nineteen and a quarter hours. The total of height ascended is 13,450 feet, with a fatigue equivalent of sixty-six miles level, ignoring the twelve miles’ cycle.

Excellent as were his previous walks, Mr. Broadrick has since done still better. He called on Mr. Westmorland, who has already been mentioned, and proposed that they should together try and beat all records by including Pillar Mountain and Fairfield in the walk, and doing the whole in twenty-four hours. Mr. Westmorland prepared a time-table, and they appointed to meet at Seathwaite. They journeyed, but the day proved wet and misty, and the walk was abandoned for that time. On September 14, 1901, in company with Mr. C. Dawson of Sale, Mr. Broadrick started from Rosthwaite at 3.32 a.m. The top of Styehead Pass was reached as day was breaking, the sharp ascent of Great Gable accomplished at 5.18. At this point Mr. Broadrick’s programme departed from the orthodox, for, instead of descending again, he skirted Kirkfell and crossed Black Sail Pass to the Pillar Mountain. The ground here is very rough; you are passing along the ridge between two series of crag-climber’s cliffs, on which the Napes and the Pillar Stone need only be mentioned. The quickest descent to Wastdalehead is down a long steep scree (the Doorhead), and this was successfully done by 7.20 a.m. Here the pair breakfasted, after which Mr. Oppenheimer of Manchester joined them. The next group of peaks assailed were those favourites of climbers—Scawfell, Scawfell Pike, and Great End, where the going is exceedingly rough. Between the first and the second named mountains lies the Mickledore chasm—a great gap in the wall of rock—whilst along the Pike and the following ridge is a horrible _pave_, rocks many tons in weight lying like so many tipped bricks, and over and among these lies the route. The same class of surface is also met with in Ewer Gap, save that there the rocks are smaller. Mr. Broadrick’s party reached Scawfell at 8.45, the Pikes at 9.15, and Great End at 9.41. Bowfell was passed at 10.25, after which came the precipitous descent of the Band to Dungeon Ghyll at 11.18. Mr. Evans and a brother of Mr. Oppenheimer took the party of record-makers on from this point, and Grasmere was reached at 1.25. The next mountain was Fairfield—a splendid scree-strewn giant—and the party climbed this by 2.26. The quickest descent from the summit is down a long series of screes, quick work requiring surefootedness and careful attention. The walk to Helvellyn top, with a refreshing dip by the way in Grisedale Tarn, was negotiated in an hour and a half. Thirlspot was reached, and another excellent meal disposed of, at 4.50. The evening now began to draw on, and Saddleback’s huge summit was made at 7.55.

‘We went on very well till the top of Saddleback,’ writes Mr. Broadrick, ‘the weather conditions being perfect; but there darkness and fog came down together, and we had five hours stumbling along by compass and lantern-light, which, owing to the mist, only showed up two or three feet of the ground ahead at one time. Added to that, there was a very strong north-east wind, which blew the light out continually, and necessitated wrapping it up in a sweater. However, after making up our minds several times that it would be necessary to spend the night on the uplands, we struck the railing leading down the mountain. I don’t know whether we got to the actual top of triple-headed Skiddaw, but we got to one of the tops, and stuck our cards on the caërn. It was utterly impossible to tell which of the three it was.’ Eventually, at 12.50, after much uncomfortable scrambling and many stumbles, they reached Keswick, and, tired but triumphant, Rosthwaite at 3.4 a.m., thus claiming the record, with half an hour to spare.

The length of this record walk must be over sixty-seven miles, involving ascents equivalent to 16,600 feet, and a fatigue equal to some ninety-two miles on the flat.

To speak about the men who have carried out these big walks is difficult, but the greatest moderns are a splendid contrast. Mr. Westmorland is a splendidly developed man of over fifty years of age—Sandow’s gold medalist for his county; whilst Mr. Broadrick is a tall, lithe young man full of wire and go—the ideal of a climber and wrestler with the elements, in my opinion. Mr. Broadrick can perhaps average half a mile per hour better than his rival in a straight walk; but Mr. Westmorland’s splendid stamina and perseverance, together with his lifelong study of methods of climbing and descending, give him a strong pull when the two are compared. As an aside with a tremendous bearing on the subject, both are well-known crag-climbers: Mr. Broadrick, with his brothers, just failed to surmount the last overhanging cornice of Walker’s Gully in the famous Pillar Rock a few weeks before the late O. G. Jones and the brothers Abraham carried the whole ascent.

As I am passing these pages for press (June), news has come to hand that even Mr. Broadrick’s record has been beaten. Mr. S. B. Johnston, of Carlisle, at 5 a.m. on May 28, started from Threlkeld for the Sticks Pass and Helvellyn. This summit was gained at 7.20, Fairfield at 8.19, and the descent to Grasmere negociated by 9.12. After passing Grasmere, Mr. Johnston and his pacer, Mr. Strong, pushed over Red Bank to Langdale, where at Stool End (10.55) Mr. Westmorland was waiting. He conducted over Bowfell (12.0), and right down the Scawfell range. Here the ground is extremely rough. The day was excessively hot; yet good progress was made. Wastdalehead was reached at 3.20, and the long Doorhead Pass to Pillar Mountains essayed. A journey in the hollow of the fells here made genial James Payn assert that the Lake Country—and Wastdale in particular—was the hottest part of England. The ground from the Pillar (4.33) to Great Gable is very difficult to cross with speed; yet Mr. Johnston’s twelve hours of exertion had told but little here. Seathwaite was descended to 7.25 p.m., a really good piece of walking. Mr. Johnston allowed forty-five minutes here for rest and refreshment, after which, with Mr. Beaty in front, he did the nine miles to Keswick (two of them moderate mountain road) under the two hours. Nor did the gathering darkness in any way diminish the pace up Spooney Green Lane on the way to Skiddaw. At exactly midnight this summit was reached, and careful direction for Blencathra, last summit of the circle, taken. The two walkers marked out a course by the stars, and so kept their proper line. At 2.10 a.m. the summit of Blencathra was reached. The descent which remained is a very steep one. The ridge leading down to the lead-mines needs the greatest care at all times, and at that early hour it was not light enough to distinguish grass from rock. Also a strong breeze was blowing, which made balance on the narrow ridge a difficult matter. Fifty minutes were taken for the descent—in July, 1898, Mr. Westmorland and Mr. Beaty did it in twenty-two minutes at a later period of morning—and Trelkeld, the starting-point, was reached at 3.7 a.m. The whole journey therefore took twenty-two hours seven minutes—a remarkable performance.

I am averse to summing up and comparing the figures quoted in this chapter, but one advantage the later record-makers have assumed: pacing and prearrangement of all kinds is considered necessary, and the record-maker is relieved of all impedimenta. Similarly, many of the mountain tracks have been much improved by use and judicious repair during the period under review, so that the number of cases in which it is an advantage to a strong walker to leave the orthodox route are now few indeed.

In conclusion I desire to acknowledge my indebtedness for many kindnesses and much valuable information to the walkers whose journeyings it is my pleasure to chronicle.

The last has not been heard of the ‘fell-walking’ records, and I trust athletes will ever be forthcoming with hearts as plucky and limbs as stout as those of the men I have written of.

THE COMPLETE RAMBLER

I. UP THE DALE

Beneath the trees in the orchards the early snowdrops are the only wild-flowers; hollies and other evergreens stand out sombre and heavy amid the sere woodlands; the closest observation reveals not an opening bud on the hardiest hedgerow. Everything is gray and dead and cold between the bridge over the rock chasm and the distant fells, where in the ghylls and hollows small fields of snow contrast chill white to the dim blue slopes around.

Such is my argument, and yet——

To begin with, the bridge beneath our feet is interesting; a score varieties of hardy ferns thrive in its crevices. The beck rushes twenty feet below its single arch, churning round in a basin scooped by its own rude efforts here, rushing with feeble thunder over an abrupt rock there, sliding in green volumes down a smooth slab anon, to settle finally in a narrow rock-bound pool. Wrens are already flitting about the dense masses of ivy which trail over one side of the gorge—opposite the gray outer wall of the old mill—the longest fairy-rope hanging nearly halfway to the pellucid waters. And what is this slumming in jerky flight upstream—a little bird decked in blue and red splendours? Where the mill-wheel resounds to the thumping of hidden waters, and lazily draws round its dripping, mossy buckets, the kingfisher hangs a second in the air. Were you to descend, you would find a ‘rat-hole’ there, in a seam of clay between heavy strata of rock, the mouth partially veiled by the rushing spent-water from the wheel. A few years have passed since, with the heedlessness of youngsterdom, I scrambled from this bridge down to the water-wheel. The mill was not working at that hour, but a fair current of water poured down the spent-way. I was standing ankle-deep in this, gazing up at the great wheel, when there was a faint snatch of a kingfisher’s song outside, and I turned to watch its burnish of blue and red glint past in the sunshine. But the bird turned, and, without abating its speed, dashed into the veil of descending water close to my feet. A minute later I had turned this aside, and was possessed of the kingfisher’s secret. Two neat bluish eggs reposed within the crevice on a bed of fish-bones, etc. Year after year the bird had hatched her brood in the sound of the mill-wheel without discovery. That bird pausing in its flight knows of the hidden dwelling, perchance has called it ‘home,’ and is now thinking of paying it an early visit But no! as it wavers it notes strange appearances above the bridge. It flirts forward, beneath us, a line of flashing metallic sheens, and goes winging upstream at a tremendous pace.

From the bridge, northward, past the stone mounting-block. Close beside, in white gushing founts, the beck is fretting its way down a rugged channel. Here and there a rock is crowned with a gray patch of grass. In summer this will be an islet of glory, its rich green pall beneath a cloud of dancing blue harebells and golden-eyed white ghoods (marguerites). The hillsides towering around are gray—gray streaked with broad lines and patches of green bog-moss and water-grass; along their slopes great boulders are strewed. These vagrant rocks are most plentiful near the cliff. Our eye catches a faint dot hovering above: a buzzard hawk—since the raven retired to less accessible peaks—the monarch of these wilds. A colony of rooks inhabit a cluster of oak-trees beside the road, their hoarse caws rising over the tumult of surging waters. Just here the river takes a sharp turn, and we are suddenly brought in sight of an old and disused bobbin-mill. Time was—and deserted Cocks Close null is a memento of it—when the trade of bobbin-making was prosperous in this and many another contiguous valley. Three mills—one near the bridge, this at Cocks Close, and one further upstream, which has completely disappeared as a building, though its excavated waterways remain—were in full swing, and every cottage for miles around was inhabited. Cocks Close is beyond the stream. A couple of thick spruces have been laid side by side, and span the chasm. Walk upon them. They sway fearsomely. Do not touch that hand-rail: of its four posts, not one is soundly fixed, and some day soon the forty feet of rail will fall away of its own accord. The two trees sag differently under our weight, so that on the perilous passage your right foot is often placed on a quivering log a foot lower than that supporting your left. I crossed here once on a wild November evening; a gale was blowing, and the river was in full flood. In the scant light prevailing great darkling jets seemed to toss within a foot of the trembling structure. Daring beyond discretion, I waited for a lull in the storm, and then started to cross. I had not got more than halfway, when, with a sharp, snarling roar, the furies were around me. It probably happened in a second, but the time seemed long hours to me. The powerful gale gradually pressed me further and further over; the frail black pathway over those dancing waters seemed to fail, and I felt something must soon give way. After a long interval my mind began to work. I threw myself flat on the pine bridge, holding on with hands and feet till the wild gust spent itself. I don’t care to be in such a position again.

Further up the dale the river goes far away from the road; we see it across the fields occasionally. Yonder is a heron fishing, or, more likely, feasting on fish which have met with death on the spawning-redds. Friend Jammie is a well-known beckside bird here, and we will possibly meet him later at closer quarters. That cock crows in a peculiar high-pitched clarion. Yet that is the call of the real fighting cock. The bird is leisurely strolling across the road with its harem, or ‘mantling aboot as if t’ farm belonged to it,’ as its owner avers. Stop a moment, and I will ask him about the bird and cock-fighting.

‘Ay, Tam’s varra fair,’ shortly admits the dalesman, in reply to my spoken admiration of his champion. As he speaks he eyes me curiously. This sort of conversation from a stranger means either that the other is of the ‘cocker’ cult or an ally of the powers that be ranged against that interesting sport.

‘My, but his spurs are short!’ I remark as innocently as I can possibly muster.

A glimmer of recognition lights up his face.

‘It’s thee, is it? I didn’t ken thee. What, man! I’ve nivver seen thee sen that main as was brokken up by t’ police.‘

The dalesman apparently recollects myself and that occasion well, for did he not mount guard over me? Wandering over a lonely moor, up hill and down dale, I suddenly walked into a cockpit. Two men had just released their birds, which were prancing around the tiny greensward, hectoring one another and gradually infuriating themselves to an attack. I had wandered through the line of scouts, always, in these days of persecution, posted by watchful ‘cockers’; but being where I was and a mere stripling, I was compelled to stay, lest I should put the authorities on the track, and, indeed, had got somewhat interested in the sport, when a sudden alarm caused the ring to disperse hurriedly. As I sped away, I saw the enraged cocks still battling wildly on the arena, and saw two or three sacks, which evidently contained other feathered gladiators, lying on the ground some yards away. Celerity in putting myself through the cordon of police alone saved me from being haled before the magistrates with the ‘cockers’ and their birds.

‘Dosta ken Tam? he is the varra [very] spit an’ image o’ t’ bird as wod ha’ [would have] won t’ main on t’ fell.‘

Yes, now I remember. What a beautiful form that bird had! Tam is as like it as two peas. Not leggy and tall, but compact in build, a fighter of a fighting strain. Glorious red plumage as close in texture as leather, stout thighs beneath whose short feathers the muscles quiver. But who can describe the fighting cock? There is a distinction about its movements, a pride in the poise of its head, the contour of which, though wattles and comb are clipped short, is still beautiful. But beauty and majesty are to be expected in an inheritor of three centuries of bluest blood; and as for courage, neither weight nor size matters much to the fighting cock. Like the other pet of the dalesmen, the trail-hound, it is trained to go to a finish, odds be as they may. A fighting cock and a turkey-cock were holding an impromptu main the other day in a farmyard until actively interfered with. A few words more of admiration of his pet puts the dalesman entirely at his ease, and he breaks freely into reminiscences and explanation.

‘How do we fit the spurs on to a fighting-cock? Well, wait a minute and I’ll show you.’ He steps into the whitewashed cottage, and in a few seconds returns with a pair of polished steels. ‘These are the spurs; they’re of the varra [very] best steel, and you mun [must] mind, because they’re sharp. My father hes a pair of silver ones that his grandfather wan [won] when a lad of sixteen, at a girt [great] main at Ooston [Ulverston] Fair. There used to be some cocking then, but, of course, noo it’s called illegal.’ Now flamed forth the ire of a republican countryside. ‘And why was it forbidden? For nowt [nothing] else than because the quality couldn’t show off and win all t’ mains. Old Squire———, grandfather of him that hes the Bank Hall now, paid many a hundred pound trying to pit a bird that could stand up to the first four in t’ dale when Lady Mary’s bell[1] was fought for.’

[1] The prize at the chief mains in the old time was a small silver
bell, which was worn by the victorious bird, or by its master when
his champion was actively engaged.

‘How do you fix these spurs?’

‘Well, you see’—the verbal storm had passed, and the cocker was in earnest on his sport—'the cock’s spurs are shaved down as far as possible, then’—Tam, seeing the gleaming weapons and scenting a battle, had strolled up to us, so with a dexterous sweep of the arm the dalesman captured him and gave us an object-lesson on the craft—'these are slipped on—they just fit—over the spur, and fastened round the leg. Now’—releasing Tam, who forthwith set up a defiant and hasty crowing—‘he’s fit to fight, except that his comb and wattles would have to be shorn.’

‘In cock-fighting the most active and alert bird wins. The birds face each other and try to jump, so that when descending the sharp spurs will cut into their opponent which is, of course, beneath. The wounds in cock-fighting, save for occasional pecks, are almost always on the head, neck, and back. Most are slight, the thick felting of feathers stopping all but the most directly delivered strokes. Some cockers, when the birds are fairly set to, will not allow them to be separated, but I never let my cock down into a ring unless it is agreed that any fighter cut down—that is, knocked off its feet with a blow from the spurs—is considered beaten. Most cockers want to see a kill, and they have their way.‘

‘Not much cocking done nowadays, you think. Well, as it’s you, and ye’ve seen a bit of it, I wod [would] say that there’s more going on now than ivver there’s been sen cock-fighting was put down. I know a dozen gentlemen, men with big estates and fine houses, as are magistrates and on t’ County Council, as hod [hold] many a main, and they say one parson isn’t again tekkin’ [taking] a bird on if it’s kept quiet. Way over Furness, there’s hundreds and hundreds of cockers, man, and more every year, and it’s a bonny sport more to them as takes an interest in it.’

So saying, the dalesman turns to again admire his pet. A stranger is coming along the road—our friend swoops down on the bespurred Tam and bears him out of sight; we, feeling somewhat guilty, walk on up the dale.

The river is again close by; a slight bank separates it from the road. The waters are babbling pleasantly over a long array of shingles; here and there an attenuated trout fins languidly along. The spawning season has just passed; these valley becks are shallow, with no deep, silent pools to hold an almost inexhaustible supply of fish-food. So shallow is even the main stream on the redds that, when a long frost causes it to dwindle in volume, the fish are often frozen down to the gravel their eggs are deposited in. When the thaw floods come, the dead bodies are washed far away, into odd corners beneath bending willows and behind rocks, food in plenty for otter and heron.

Here is a bridge of the old type, tall of arch and narrow of roadway, and crowning the short ascent in front is the churchyard. It boasts a sundial, but it is loose on a decaying post. The church itself is quite a new one, superseding a mouldy, dark building of unknown antiquity. Yet the building is interesting, for does it not contain the archives of the dale—wondrously complex churchwarden accounts dating back over a hundred years, and rich in personal touches of old-time men and women? The churchwardenship was then the most responsible position in the valley; the holder was directly responsible for the welfare of the poor. Charity was dispensed with sound judgment, and only to relieve necessity. The famous Smit Book is here, but, alas! it is no longer carried by the priest[2] to the nearest Shepherds’ Meet in order that disputes may be properly settled, and lost sheep, by their fleece and horn-marks, traced.

[2] Among the fells the Church of England minister has been from
time immemorial named ‘the priest.'

The valley is now opening out; to right and left great rock-strewn bluffs bound its almost level bed. Floods are of frequent occurrence here, but they run off the land quickly. I have waked at dawn. Since midnight a storm had raged, and great films of falling rain crashed resoundingly against window and door of our cottage. Outside the level of the dale is occupied by a sullen lake, stretching far toward the mountains; the rain-squalls are ploughing its surface with wide white furrows. The storm ceases suddenly; the cloud-banks trail reluctantly from the fells, revealing a paradise of falling waters. Six hours later the broad acres are showing green and soaked, and the river is back in its channel. Such brief life, though furious, has a flood of the fell lands.

Through the leafless alders lining the ghylls we see, in gushing white, rivulets descending from the unseen moors. On our right Gray Crag heaves up its plainer, grassier shoulder; and next to it is Anchorite’s Breast, where in a shallow cave by the beckside legend says an anchorite from the monastery at Shap dwelt many a year. The monks in this district seem to have been very self-contained in their dealings, and were much misunderstood by the half-pagan, half-Christian Saxons about them. It is stated that the dwellers in the dale refused to furnish the hermit with food. His weary track over the long moor to the abbey can, it is averred, even now be traced.

But to-day, instead of pensive monks, on the wild gray tracts of grass are seen men moving at a run. The dalesman loves a fox-hunt dearly. He is tireless in the pursuit. Miles of open country glide beneath his feet. On the rough crags and moraines his dexterity is marvellous. The hunt is in full cry on the hillside. The hounds are going at a great pace; the men are every moment further and further in the rear. A quick eye might even catch the tiny brown form of the fox running for its very life. For some minutes we watch them sweep along, at first parallel to the dale, then gradually turning up and up the mountainside to its crest. Hound after hound leaps on to the tall wall, halts a brief second, his form outlined against the bright blue sky, then disappears, and faint, long-drawn-out voices are all we have of a mountain fox-hunt.

As we turn away we begin to meet numbers of the chase. They tell us the pack are well up to their fox, that they will hunt him in the next dale, maybe, but unless they kill they will bring him back again. Maybe about Yewbarrow, says one, as he trudges briskly along; about Swinbank, argues another, and takes things more leisurely. Now two men in pink are coming towards us. What a change to eyes full of sombre gray and green is a flash of warm colour! It is the veteran master of the pack and his huntsmen. The dalesmen salute the elder cheerfully. He has a word for all, and a pleasant one, too. He is wiry in build; his genial face is wrinkled. He has doffed black hunting-cap; his hair, cropped short beneath, is silvern. This is the man who for two generations has provided sport in the dales. John Peel was not less deserving of the grand hunting-song than he is. With a courteous salutation he passes us by. Many a time I have thought of and sighed for the splendid hunts he has witnessed both before and since the last ‘greyhound’ fox was killed.

A mile further on the road crosses a short rise caused by an outcropping vein of white felspar. To the right is one of those conical mounds dubbed by dalesmen either ‘ancient fortresses,’ ‘barrows,’ or ‘haycocks,’ formed by the glacial process of denudation and deposit in days long past.

For a couple of hours it has seemed as though we were walking along a level, but from this slight eminence we see that the dale is but as a shelf sloping downwards from the mountains. The bluffs which dominated the view at our starting are now insignificant in the distance, and we look over their tops to a broad, undulating valley. In front of us is the dalehead, a small subvalley, the entrance a narrow ‘gate’ between two converging ribs of mountain, the exit a rugged track winding up rock-strewn braes.

There is but one tenement in sight, an ancient sheep-farm perched quite close to the rocky river-bed. Its buildings are very old; one or two possess floors of trodden earth probably dating back four hundred years. The yeoman who possesses the domain is much respected. Further up the stream than Sacgill is a level strewn with beaches of stone. Here at some time has been a small lake, but the torrents have completely buried it in débris. Their activity is so great that the whole dale has to contribute to the cost of a retaining barrier here. Otherwise in a single winter 10,000 tons of stones would be washed down, the river-bed would be choked for miles, and the stream would run riot down the dale, turning into marshy bogs what are now carefully-drained pastures. The prophecy of ‘Every valley shall be exalted, and every hill brought low,’ was once preached from a dales pulpit. ‘But net in oor day [but not in our time], O Lord!’ fervently ejaculated an aged hearer.

The dalehead, as we travel into it, presents rather a dreary aspect. Even the bogs are gray, not green as on lower heights. A few thin patches of scrubby coppice show on the slopes immediately behind the farm; a little patch of soil near the opening of a deep ghyll is clothed with a large plantation. Gray grass and tangles of rotting bracken are on the braes, but the area of naked rock, scree, and scattered boulders far exceeds these. The whole outlook is barren and forbidding. How can a farmer wrest a living from such a place? How indeed! The sheep-farm is barely remunerative in these days of cheap wool; but mountain mutton is renowned, though the producer benefits little by this.

In about half an hour we reach the choked tarn area. When its dark waters laved the lowermost scree-beds of these steep fells, the dalehead must have made a perfect picture. Even now to our left Goat Scaur raises its grand head nearly 2,000 feet above us, while on our opposite side in one huge cliff the Gray Crag stands almost as high. Both mountains are plenteously splashed with white. On the lower pitches the snow in the deepest gullies are remains of great drifts, but as the eye rises higher the white areas become more numerous; they are connected one with another, and at the top of the brae a long white curling drift resists the spring sunlight. The level beams of eventide shoot over the hills from westward, flushing the snowfields with crimson bars and glorious rosy shadows. At last, by a rough, water-torn road, we reached the summit of the pass, 2,000 feet or so above sea-level,

‘With a tumultuous waste of huge hilltops before us,’

Kidsty Pike, where the wild deer of Martindale often roam. On a day like this we saw over the glistering snowfields a stag and three hinds galloping toward Swindale, a splendid sight! Branstree, a rounded mammoth on our left, is the home of giant foxes; many a stiff run has started from its benks (grass ledges). The deeper hush of night is even now falling on the voiceless wastes. Hark! what is that? The crunching of a foot in the snow, and round a corner in the pass, toiling upwards, comes a dalesman. We hail him with delight, for the very air breeds lonesomeness.

‘I was just coming from Mardale,’ says he. ‘I’ve been driving a few sheep over as had strayed.’

He is a man of rather more than middle age, hard, wiry, full of vigour and life.

‘How long have you lived in this valley?’ I ask.

‘Was born here at a little house halfway down the dale; you’ll remember it—there are a few sap-trees overhanging it. Just before you came to that farm where dead foxes are hanging in t’ trees.‘

‘Been a shepherd all your life?’

‘Well, yes; I was ten year old when I began to shepherd on t’ fell hard aside of home. Things were a bit different then.‘

The sound of a triple tramp on the snow-patched road is all that is heard for a few moments; then, from its feast of carrion beside a rock, a great raven soars croaking up, up, up, high above the dale to where the sun still reigned. The sight of this swooping bird fills the shepherd with wrath.

‘Ay, thoo may croak,’ he says sadly, ‘but maybe we’ll be the better of thee in nesting-time.’ Then to us: ‘Those ravens are a nuisance. Every spring we have to go out nesting to keep down their numbers. They think little of attacking a weakly lamb and carrying it off among the rocks.

‘I remember well one day we went after some ravens in Goat Scaur front. Four shepherds joined me and we took plenty of ropes. Getting opposite where I thought the nest was, we descended the cliff as far as there was foothold. On the last ledge a gavelock [crowbar] was fixed to let out the rope by; then, tying a noose round my body, I stepped and downward. I could hear the old bird croaking away beneath. My mates kept letting the rope come slowly, and, of course, I went down with equal speed. At last, when I should think some fifty feet of rope had been let out, I stopped on a narrow ledge.

‘Looking cautiously about, I soon found traces of my quest: on that jutting rock it seemed that father raven had sat watching his mate sitting her couple of eggs. I carefully clambered forward to the splinter, and to my joy found the raven’s nest in sight. But in a moment my hopes were dashed. A deep narrow crack lay between me and my goal. Try as I would, the gulf could not be passed, and the old raven sitting there in security seemed to croak derision at me. However, by returning to my companions and being relowered from some more favourable spot, I hoped yet to turn the tables. So up I went, assisting my friends by rapid runs up any face of rock which gave a possible angle. In a moment I explained the situation and we were traversing the great cliff in the desired direction. When a platform for our rope-head was found, I made another descent; but, instead of the straight course I had fancied possible, a great rock overhanging the gully sent me dangling in mid-air, unable to reach foothold. However, it was possible to avoid the ugly cornice and then I climbed down the side of the gully. The old raven flapped off her nest with a wild croak as I came near, but she never went far away. More than once, with a whistling swoop, die came almost within arms’ length, and every time I prepared to parry some sudden attack with beak or wings. Probably, had her mate been within call they would not have hesitated to attack me, for in defence of its nest the raven is pretty vicious. As soon as they were within reach, I scooped up the eggs from the barrowful of filth—remains of rats and carrion lay on a bed of wool and sticks—and was rapidly drawn up to safety. One raven was shot shortly afterwards, at which the other left the neighbourhood. A good riddance for us shepherds, too!‘

II. HARVEST-TIME ON THE FELLS

As I wandered in solitary thought across the moor I heard voices in front of me. As the tones were in complete accord with my mood and with that region of cheerful silence, I was but mildly curious as to their origin. I lingered on the summit of a splintered outcrop of rock and looked around me. To my eye the scene was perfect. The heather was in full bloom; the air was resonant with the humming of bees, intent on petty plundering of the purple flowerets; around the heather-beds were here and there solid banklets of dainty crimson and white heatherbell, and next them the harebell’s large sky-blue corolla curtseying on its slender stalk to every swerve of the breeze. Beneath the domain of the hardy heather a waving green wilderness marked the haunt of the bracken, very rugged with fragments in its upper portion, from the crumbling hillside above, but lower down opening out an almost level ledge of the mountain.

Descending leisurely to this, I recognised some of my neighbours at work among the bracken. One was cutting the stout stems with a scythe, leaving a thick swath behind him, which another spread out so that the sun’s rays might dry it. Some two score yards away three other men were loading a sleigh with the dark-brown harvest cut some days ago, and now ready for the barn. This was a great contrast to the lowland hayfield of the farm. The ground, which from above looked so smooth and almost level, was in reality furrowed with innumerable watercourses and seamed with rocky places. One moment the sleigh timbers creaked as a sudden strain was put upon them by an unseen hollow; next the stout, handy horse drew it clear of this, and the runners were sliding with unpleasant grinding sound over a pavement of boulders. These men had been on the moors since soon after daybreak, and shortly they would have to return to their farms. I assisted to bind on the dusky load, and made down the hillside in their company. The path taken by the rude conveyance was, it seemed to me at first, a dried-up watercourse; it fell so steeply that at places our combined resistance alone prevented the sleigh from overrunning the sturdy little mare in front, while the unevenness kept us continually on the alert lest the load should, as the dalesmen put it, ‘keck ower’ at some particularly awkward point. But the cautious and sure-footed animal in the traces brought down the load with safety to the level of the mountain tarn, of which we had enjoyed almost a bird’s-eye view.

In our Lake Country dales it is impossible to grow enough straw for bedding purposes in winter, and the hayfield is often insufficient for forage; therefore the farmer turns to the uplands and draws thence the necessary supplies. Large areas of bracken are cut every year, and by primitive sleigh routes brought down to where carts can be used conveniently. The scythe used in cutting bracken is a much shorter contrivance than the ordinary one, but the work is more tiring. The ground is so covered with stones or otherwise uneven that but seldom can the labourer get two swinging strokes together, and the perpetual jerking to avoid the blade being damaged accounts for many a man’s dislike to the work.

A couple of gamekeepers as we came to the mereside were preparing a boat to row to the other end of the tarn, and, as I wished to ramble in that direction, I embarked with them. In the clear, peaty depths trout were lazily finning in and out among the gently-swaying water-weeds, and smaller fry disported nearer the surface. As we approached one point the keepers ceased rowing, in order that we might float over where a large pike lay in wait for its prey, and at a rocky islet ran ashore that I might inspect the trees where the recently shot vermin were gibbeted. The boat was forced through a fringe of blue irises to the mouth of a tiny beck, where I landed. Soon the faintly-rutted track I was following changed direction, and I struck across the heathy waste. Grouse rushed away with querulous cries, curlew and heron banished silence from the wilds, while from tussock and cevin small birds chirped and twittered. A lark high above was singing a joyous roundelay; suddenly his ringing notes were hushed, and down from his crazy height he rushed, for the raucous voice of a buzzard struck terror to the tiny winger. Wave after wave of moorland—a sameness which might almost become monotony. Each hollow, opening out its treasures, gave the same tiny stream, with myriad sphagnum bogs and stunted willows; every shallow glen was carpeted with bracken and heather. But now a change.

A great knot of fir-trees rose on the near horizon; and as I stepped up the stony ridge to which they anchored with huge cablelike roots, in front there appeared a series of distant blue mountains—the heights of Lakeland—while nearer at hand stretched outward a long triangular plateau, its apex touching the nearest fell, its base the ridge on which I stood. In about the middle of this expanse was a fairly large tarn. In about half an hour I was close to its shores. As the lower ground was reached, a score small tumuli met my eye, and on approach these proved to be of peat—miniature stacks loosely piled, so that the air circulated freely through them, and though built wet, their contents would soon become dry. At the tarn edge I spent some minutes in collecting the fine yellow water-lilies, which occur only in this tarn in our vicinity; then, espying a man at work in the distance, I made in his direction. The intervening space was swampy; sometimes by a series of grass banks I gained far, only to be stopped by a spongy bog too wide to leap. But here and there, retracing my steps, I gradually found a track across the maze; the man was mowing the reeds which in wide stretches favour such surroundings—not an easy task when the disproportion of sound land is considered. Of course, he only mowed the more accessible places; but even then he had to garner the cut stems on a hand sleigh, and draw them to a hillside where the tarn waters, if overpent after a thunder-storm, were little likely to reach. The reeds also were to be used for winter bedding; and so large a quantity is required in the dales abutting the plateau that half a dozen barns for their summer storage are in the immediate vicinity of the swamps.

Half a mile on—I was now facing eastward to reach one of the valleys—I came across a party of men digging peat. The heather tufts had been burnt away, and the thin veil of soil thrown aside to lay bare the deposits. Then, with a long narrow spade, cuts were made in the chocolate-coloured pile, so that an oblong mass was easily separated, and these were collected and wheeled aside to be piled into the loose erections previously mentioned. The dexterity of the spademan was pretty to watch; the blade of the tool was plied as freely and easily as a knife. Peat-digging on the flanks of the fells is easy compared with the same work on the lowlands, for here drainage is rapid and sufficient, and the deposits less dense and moist. Many of the dales farms still use little other fuel but peat and coppice-wood. As I stood near the labourers, I noticed a violet in bloom—a rare occurrence on such an exposed situation—and into my mind rushed an anecdote of Wonderful Walker, Vicar of the mountain parish of Seathwaite a century ago, whose life of industry and nobility of character claimed the admiration of William Wordsworth. Said he: ‘See you that violet?’—pointing to a little simple pansy that was bending its graceful flower close to the spot on which he stood. ‘Look at it, and think how it came there. Last autumn this spot was covered with bog-earth, which had probably rested on this bleak and barren moor ever since the Deluge. It was disturbed last year by the spade of the turf-getter, and now this beautiful flower has sprung up in this place! For ages and ages its seed must have remained embedded in this sour and barren bog; yet, once disturbed by the hand of man, it springs up fresh and lively, to show that God can keep alive what to the eye of man may seem to perish, and can deck with grace and beauty even the most unpromising spots of creation.’

III. A MOUNTAIN RAMBLE

Diverse are days among the fells—some wet, some fine. On some the mountains seem to palpitate in sultry haze; on others they stand statue-like and distinct against the bright blue skies of spring and autumn. The rocks and slopes possess ever-changing moods: grim with snow and icicles in early spring, green with grass and fern and moss later on, russet and crimson with the dying fires of the fall, gray and wan washed with the rains of winter.

* * * * *

Eskdale in the pride of summer. The woods are covered with heavy foliage; in the bright morn light the brackens clothing the rocky tors waves, and their fronds sparkle with drops of glory. Down the glens and over the rocks bright rivulets are dashing; sunny waters are sleeping in every hollow. The air feels buoyant, leaping with life, as though all Nature were revelling after the dun span of night. Thus for half an hour, till a cloud-bank swirls up from seaward. A dark shadow stalks along the valley; great billows of rain slash against the trees and rattle among the quivering leaves. The mountains, fringed and studded with rock, seem to throw back the storm-wrack from their sides; they tower dimly through the dark tide of drops, and as each brief paroxysm subsides they peer down again on the soaked dale. Then the squall passes on as rapidly as it came: the cap of wind soughs itself out among the swaying branches, and in a minute the air is clear, the sky blue and joyous, and with a flash the sun looks through the fast-retiring beards of mist and rain, cheering the dripping woods and bedrenched meadows, rousing skylark from the field, thrush in the brake, gilding the hurrying, foaming rills and beds of watery fern. So, with regular portions of rain and fair weather, passed two hours of the morning.

When I started the air was clear; a gray bank of cloud was wandering among the distant mountains. The bright sun glinted on Eskdale’s emerald braes and laughing cataracts. A cloudlet of steam marked the laborious approach of the tiny decrepit train which runs between Boot and Ravenglass. Many years ago a geologist traced a rich outcrop of hematite in the hills here. Capital was easily found to exploit the series of mines; labourers in hundreds flocked to the old-world valley. Nine miles of light railway were hurriedly laid. Then the mines suddenly ‘petered’ out. The expected El Dorado was a mere surface-seam of ore. Now ghylls and hillsides hide the great abrasions of that brief dawn of human energy ‘neath deep bracken and heath. The costly machinery at the pits is mere scrap, not worth transport; at some places the whole outer structure has fallen down great declivities, to rust in tangled, dismal ruin. The cabins of the miners have almost entirely disappeared; the cottages, unroofed and with trembling walls, are nearly gone. On my right the river was running with surcharged speed. Its banks could not hold its volume; the alders and rowans rooted in the water’s realm shook as the current buffeted them. Every hundred yards or so an islet divided the force of the stream. Channels long ago deserted by the river were full and strong again, surrounding large slices of meadowland, on which kingcups bloomed in profusion.

After about half an hour’s walk, I turned in where a bridge spans a gorge, where Esk would be tumbling and churning and roaring in flood lust and fury. Yesterday hardly a foot of water flowed quietly far beneath the bridge, but now the raving torrent, pent in by immovable rocks, shot beneath the arch, throwing up, as obstacles buried far beneath were struck, a smother of spray. The water had risen eight feet during the night at this point, and was probably still rising. From a rock ledge next the bridge a veteran angler was trying for sea-trout. Again and again he swung his line into the wild turmoil of currents. Possibly this man had been out since daybreak, for the sea-fish were running in large numbers. While I was present two fine fish came to his net. The second, aided by the tremendous power of the downcoming waters, made a splendid and exciting fight. Esk in flood is never more than mildly turgid, and it was not difficult to follow the fish’s evolutions. Once, with a vicious backward leap, I thought it had broken clear; but my veteran had anticipated such a move, and his line ran slack accordingly.

‘Catch many?’ I asked.

‘Season’s been rayther bad till noo,’ was his reply. ‘It’s oor first spate, this, and near t’ end of August, too.‘

‘How have you done this morning?’

‘Varra fair. Twelve, but they’re nobbut lile uns’ [only little ones]. Which to my mind was a fiction. That second sea-trout must have been a three-pounder, and that will be reckoned a big fish for Esk.