Kitabı oku: «As the Crow Flies», sayfa 5

SCARBOROUGH

SCARBOROUGH. – The seaside resorts of England are numberless, and yet there is a curious lack of similarity in their surroundings, their atmosphere and in their class of visitors. Scarborough is to the north of England what Bournemouth is to the south. It is select and exclusive, but the ultra smart London set is not found in its purlieus. It is a great place of resort for the old Yorkshire families – families who can trace their descent back to Norman William and behind him to the Saxon Thanes and Earls; and who look with ill-concealed disgust upon the nouveaux riches who are so painfully to the fore just now in Belgravian drawing rooms and at crushes in Mayfair. Scarborough is not wildly gay; its visitors take their pleasures sedately, and the voice of the imitation nigger-minstrel is unheard in the land. One needs to be in rude health to enjoy Scarborough, for the sea breezes come rushing in from the lap of the Atlantic to mingle with the keen air of the downs; and if one’s lungs are sound it is a delight to live. Hotel prices are fearfully and wonderfully conceived in Scarborough, but the landlords say people eat so much on account of the splendid air that they must charge high prices in self-defence.

The amusements and distractions of Scarborough? If one hunts or shoots there is plenty of sport. Several packs of hounds meet on the downs near by, and although the country is a bit stiff, the going is fairly decent. It may perhaps be considered a drawback that hounds occasionally disappear over the cliffs in the ardour of the chase, and that a too-eager hunter might easily do the same – with his rider on his back; but most men who hunt here say that they enjoy the spice of danger.

Scarborough has two features distinctively its own: its “Spa” and its cabs. Just why the long promenade where the band plays should be called the “Spa” no one knows, but the fact remains, and every Sunday all the world and his wife walk there for “Church Parade.” The Scarborough cab is really a small Victoria, drawn by one horse, ridden by a correctly-got-up tiger, who lends a picturesque air to the trap. They go well, these small horses, and gallop up and down the long hills on which Scarborough is built, with greatest ease. The “day tripper,” with his ’Arriet, is unknown here, for the simple reason that there would be nothing for him to do.

There are no stands in the streets to display “s’rimps,” “whilks” and other questionable marine delicacies, put up in brown paper bags at “tuppence the quart”; no merry-go-rounds; no cheap photographic studios; or one-horse circuses where the manager is clown, acrobat and owner in one, to tempt the taste and gratify the curiosity of the lower classes. And there are no Americans in Scarborough. It is too far from Paris, and too quiet for the extraordinary specimens of nasal tendencies, who make an annual descent upon the Continent and swarm from Dan to Beersheba. One never meets them at home, these painfully rich and newly varnished Yankees who travel through Great Britain in great state and pomp, and whose breeding is shamed by that of the scullery maid in the cosy little inns they so disdain. It is really trying to see the impression most Englishmen have of Americans – impressions gathered simply from these inflictions who, knowing no one but the green-grocer on their corner at home, come abroad to astonish the natives; and who succeed in doing nothing but in making the appellation of American to stink in the nostrils of the foreigner.

Of course there are ruins near Scarborough, and again of course the favourite drive is to these ruins. Another excursion is to a hill overlooking the town, where tradition says that unsavoury individual yclept Oliver Cromwell, once stood, or sat or performed some other operation equally important.

Politically, as becomes its staid and exclusive clientèle, Scarborough is Conservative; and has no sympathy with an old man’s visionary plans to break up a great Empire. Irish agitators appear occasionally but not often, and they rarely carry away a full purse from the collections they invariably take up.

Descriptions of places are invariably tiresome. One place is usually like another, and the best way to know a town or city is to go there; but anyone who can picture a town built up on the cliffs and down in the hollows between, with stretches of sandy beach in front, will have a fair idea of the Bournemouth of the north. The country round about Scarborough is attractive. Quaint villages quite out of the world like Symsbury, are met with at every turn; small market towns, like Yarm, where the old custom of engaging servants by the “hold fast” in the market-place on the yearly appointed day still obtains; and small seaside resorts, like Redcar and Coatbridge; with Whitby famous for its jet; all these are worth a visit. Yorkshire men are canny, and good at a bargain and no better judges of horseflesh are found anywhere. The only drawback connected with Scarborough is its distance from London, but that is really only a drawback to Londoners. The Scarborough man is rather proud of the fact. He looks with pity upon the benighted south of England man, and has no words to express his contempt for the finnicky foreigner, who comes to Scarborough and drinks sour red wine, instead of quaffing huge draughts of the glorious old Yorkshire ale.

CLIMBING IN LAKELAND

ROSTHWAITE, NEAR KESWICK. – A couple of days since I started off with a barrister friend to do a days’ climb in the Lake country. He promised me a good view from the top of Scafell Pike, but a rough time in getting there; and took an almost pathetic interest in my boots and “shorts,” hinting darkly that certain mysterious “screes,” over which the path lay, would test their strength and durability to the utmost. We travelled third class, of course, for my friend would have thought me insane to propose anything else; and, really, we were very comfortable, as all the seats were cushioned. He wore the regulation British walking costume: stout, heavy, hob-nail boots, thick woolen stockings, and loose and impossibly wide knickerbockers; while a blue serge jacket and a peaked cloth cap clothed his upper man. Of course, his short briar-wood pipe was to the fore, and on the whole, he looked comfortable. My own get-up was more ordinary, as I had started at half an hour’s notice.

We rushed into Darlington station before long – an immense glass-covered structure, with platforms half a mile long – and there changed for Penrith and Keswick. We began to ascend soon after leaving Darlington, passing by Barnard Castle, the “beauty spot of Yorkshire” – the tracks lying over breezy moorlands. We changed at Penrith, a dreary junction, and reached Keswick about seven o’clock in a mist of half-twilight that was very kind to the distant mountains, making them appear much bigger and grander than they were ever meant to be. Fortunately, we found the Borrowdale coach still running, and as it would take us within two miles of our destination, we were well pleased. Before it started we had time to attend a very lively meeting of the Salvation Army in the Keswick market-place, where the tall, thin man who dealt out freely sundry dismal prophecies, betrayed painful need of a bronchial trochee.

The drive on the box seat of the four-in-hand was glorious. The moon came out as we reached the edge of Derwentwater and threw her soft light full on the lonely lake; and, what was of more importance, on the broad road ahead of us. The horses were fresh and the road inclining to a descent, so we rolled gaily on past the Lodore Hotel, hard-by the famous falls, until, too soon, we stopped before the Borrowdale Inn. Then, with a cheery good-night from the coachman, we started to walk the remaining two miles, our appetites forcibly reminding us that we had eaten nothing since early morning; and with a cheery feeling of expectancy for the comforts of the inn presided over by the famous Mrs. Rigg. The lights of the little hamlet of Rosthwaite soon appeared and we halted at a long, low, straggling house, buried in vines. A tall, stout lady stood in the doorway and proved herself to be the Mrs. Rigg by the way in which she bustled about in all directions, calling several buxom country lasses to her aid. She sent two of them to prepare our much-wanted supper, while she herself piloted us to our quaint, low-ceilinged bed-rooms, where every bed had curtains. Now, Mrs. Rigg is a widow, and has been ever since the memory of man, and concerning the original Mr. Rigg nothing is known; but, whoever he was, people take more interest in the fact that his wife knows how to keep a good homely inn, called by Mrs. Rigg herself the “Royal Oak,” but known to all the neighbourhood as “Mrs. Rigg’s.” Mrs. R. herself is a tall, stout old lady with a false front and an imposing cap, and when she sits in the little bar parlour behind the steaming tea kettle, reading the Family Herald, she presents a picture of comfort not easily surpassed. Mrs. Rigg is suspected of a leaning toward the village painter, to the regret of all concerned, and dismal are the forebodings of the aforesaid country lassies should she yield herself (and her inn) to his fascinations. We enjoyed our supper – huge chops served with mealy potatoes and foaming tankards of “bitter” – and then in the cozy smoke room (why never smoking room in England?), we proceeded to lay out the route for the next day. Our intention in coming to Rosthwaite had been to climb Scafell Pike and, possibly Glaramara; so we confidently looked forward to a fine day. But, oh, the despair when we woke up next morning, for the rain was coming down in a steady drizzle and the mist was floating gently over and about all the mountain tops within view. We met with rueful faces in the coffee room, for now Scafell was quite out of the question as well as Glaramara; for, of course, no view could be had on such a day, and the idea of wandering along the edge of precipices in the mist was hardly tempting.

But an inspiration came to us. It was unanimously voted a pity to waste that day, as we should be obliged to return on the next; so, after much poring over maps and guides, we decided to go as far up Scafell as possible and then, making a circuit, to return by Sty Head Pass. This sounded easy and I began to congratulate myself – rather previously, as it afterward turned out – upon the probability of getting back in time for dinner at six. We had scraped acquaintance with an “undergrad” from Oxford – Wadham College – and we invited him to go with us. We hurried over breakfast, taking care, fortunately, to eat a hearty one; and then, with a rueful look at the cozy, firelit room we were leaving, tramped out into the rain about ten o’clock. We knew we should get wet through, so we took no overcoats and simply buttoned our jackets tight about our necks to keep our flannel shirts dry as long as possible.

The road was very good for some distance, being the coach road to Buttermere, so we went gaily on. About two miles from Rosthwaite we reached the queerly-named little village of Seatollar (which our Wadham friend insisted on referring to as “Tolloller”), where we turned off into a rustic road overgrown with grass, which for some time led us among pine groves before bringing us to the famous Borrowdale yews: a group of fine old firs upon the hillside. Here our Oxonian again would have it that the name applied to the various flocks of sheep grazing near and pointed out to us some “genuine Borrowdale ewes.” It got damper and damper as we went on, but I ceased to wonder when I heard we were drawing near the “wettest place in England,” the hamlet of Seathwaite, where the annual rainfall is actually one hundred and fifty-six inches! There is not much of interest in Seathwaite except its moisture and the fact that it has no public house, as Sir Wilfred Lawson the great temperance advocate owns all the freehold.

Here we left the road and struck up the side of the valley, having Glaramara and Great Gable in front of us, two big mountains covered with clouds; while Talyors-Gill poured its rushing, thread-like stream down the hillside opposite. Here we first began to walk on grass, and grass that had been rained on for the last hundred years without intermission, judging from its appearance. But we said little and pushed on by the side of the beck for some time, until it became necessary to go straight up the mountain by the sheep track, which was marked only by an occasional cairn or small heap of stones. It was hard work to climb over slippery rocks almost perpendicular; but we persevered and surmounted the hill, only to find ourselves struggling in a green bog at the top. The rain now came down harder than ever and as the Oxford man began to whistle “Wot Ch’er?” we felt gloomy. We pushed on in single file, each one dripping as he walked, the sound of the water swashing about inside our boots being painfully evident. We went on like this for some time. My friend suddenly broke into a shout, “Here we are, boys, thank goodness, this is Eske Hause.” “Oh, then we are half way up Scafell,” said the Oxonian – “hang the mist!”

This last observation was timely, for a thick Scotch mist had now shut in upon the small plateau known as Eske Hause, where we stood, but as to the derivation of that name deponent sayeth not. We stopped here for a few minutes while our Oxonian produced a guide map, and with the water pouring down from the peak of his cap, proceeded to mark out our path. The rest of us wrung ourselves out and paid as much attention as we could.

“We must go down by Sprinkling Tarn (good name, that) and then by Sty Head Tarn until we get to the Pass. Now, shall we lunch up here or down by the tarn?” We decided to postpone luncheon until we reached a lower and presumably warmer level, and we eagerly proceeded to make the descent. The path, or track, was steep and stony and the stones were slippery. I will draw a veil over that descent, but when we got down by Sprinkling Tarn (a small, lonely bit of water) we felt like being put through a wringer. We hurried on, not noticing that the path had merged itself imperceptibly in the surrounding turf, until our Wadham friend exclaimed: “Oh, I say, you know, this can’t be right. It’s quite time we were at that confounded tarn and I haven’t seen a cairn this half hour.” It was too true. We were off the track. There was mist all about us and the keen rain was chilling us through and through. We searched for the path in vain, until we were entirely discouraged, when some one suggested that it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have a bite; so we stood about in a dripping group as we got out our sandwiches and flasks. We were wet and chilled, and I doubt if Sir Wilfred himself would have objected to a taste of Scotch whisky under the circumstances. But the sandwiches! Oh, Mrs. Rigg, Mrs. Rigg, how we blessed you, there, on the steep side of Scafell as we found that the ham of which they were exclusively composed had “gone bad!” We said little, but we thought hard just then.

After that we went sadly and silently on. Soon we found we were going down instead of up, which we knew to be wrong, as Sty Head Pass was above us. And now the thunders of a torrent swollen by recent rains began to be heard, and presently we came in sight of a tumbling mass of water hurrying along the bottom of the valley. We stood aghast, for this we knew must be Lingmell Beck, and the valley the one leading to Wastwater, miles away from the Pass. Night was closing in and the mist was nothing lighter, while it was really hard to carry the wet and dripping mass our clothes had become. We wandered up and down this valley for some time in bewilderment, not finding any trace of a path. But at last my friend, who had been carefully examining the mountain side, cried but: “Look, boys, there’s the Pass, way above us! We must push straight up if we ever want to get back to-night.”

We looked doubtfully at the thin black line that might be the Pass, and which seemed miles above us, and then, with one determined look, set our teeth and went up the mountain. I say went, for we didn’t walk, although we used every other means of progression, for we crawled and crept and stumbled along, sometimes on our hands and knees, frequently sliding back with great agility. I never experienced such a climb anywhere, even in Greece among the wild Theban mountains; for, dripping wet, with our clammy clothes clinging to us, we went a solid mile up that hill before we found the Sty Head Pass. That, although rough, was child’s play compared with what we had come through, and when we reached the small cairn that marks the highest part of the Pass, we shuddered as we looked down the almost perpendicular mountain and wondered how on earth we ever came up.

From the top of the Pass it was a fairly easy walk to Rosthwaite by Sty Head Tarn, which, owing to the encircling mist, looked like an immense ocean.

Mrs. Rigg was at the door when we got down and looked so cheerful and glad to see us that we forgot to mention that ham. But we haven’t got the damp of that walk out of ourselves yet; and it is doubtful if anything but the warm Italian sun is capable of removing the general mildew that enshrouds us.