Kitabı oku: «Peeps at Many Lands: England», sayfa 6

When winter comes, yachts and wherries are laid up, and summer visitants fly away with the swallows; yet the Broads are not deserted. The sharp weather fills them with myriads of wild-fowl – ducks and geese, snipe and widgeon – and the wild-fowl hunter is out in his slate-coloured punt. The boat is painted of this colour in order to blend with its surroundings and escape notice, and in its bow is fixed a huge gun, often throwing half a pound of large shot at a single discharge. When this gun is fired into a flock of wild-duck, it will often fetch down ten or a dozen at once, and the skilful punt-shooter soon makes a big bag.

Then, perhaps, comes sharper weather still, and the punts can no longer move over the ice-bound waters. This is the time of the skater's festival, and a nobler skating-ground can nowhere be found. Over river and pool and broad he flies, with unnumbered miles of clear, open ice before him.

BY DALE AND FELL

The huge county of Yorkshire has many claims on our attention. It has vast manufacturing centres, and in some parts it is crowded thickly with towns and villages, packed with mills, and studded with lofty chimneys which belch out unceasing clouds of smoke. Then, again, it has a splendid coast-line, with noble cliffs and rocky headlands, dotted with quaint fishing villages and tiny ports, whence the "cobles" put out to sea with hardy fishermen aboard. And, striking right away inland, it can show some of the most beautiful scenery in its dales and fells that our country has to show.

Putting busy town and breezy fishing village aside for the moment, we will go up to the lofty moorland heights of this "county of the broad acres" and see some of their beauties, and hear some of the tales which linger around their quiet, grey stone villages.

On the western side of Yorkshire the land heaves up to the Pennine Chain – the "backbone of England," as it is often called. It is not a chain of sharply-defined peaks; it is rather a great mass of rolling moorland whose tablelands, the "fells," are divided from each other by deep valleys, long and narrow – the famous "dales." At the foot of each dale flows a swift river, which, twisting and turning round sharp angles of rock, leaping from ledge to ledge in sheets of foam, or gliding in deep quiet stretches below an overhanging wood, affords most striking and picturesque scenery.

There are many points at which the explorer may strike into the hills from the more level and cultivated part of the county. But perhaps the best of all is to enter the dales at Richmond, a beautiful old town beside the River Swale. It matters not from which point you approach Richmond, there is one feature of the view which catches the eye at once – the magnificent fashion in which the splendid Norman keep of its castle rises above the little town. The stately tower stands up four-square to every wind, just as its Norman builders left it 800 years ago, and around it cluster the red roofs of the town, just as they gathered there for shelter during the Middle Ages.

From Richmond the Valley of the Swale runs up into the Pennines, and the journey along it must be made by foot or carriage, for no railway has penetrated the solitudes of Swaledale, and, as far as one may look into the future in such matters, there seems every possibility of this loveliest and grandest of the Yorkshire dales retaining its isolation in this respect. About a mile from the town there is a lofty cliff called Whitcliffe Scar, whence the spectator may see far up the dale whither he proposes to journey. The country people call the Scar "Willance's Leap," and it has borne this name since 1606. In that year a certain Robert Willance was out hunting, and a great mist came down the dale and wrapped the hills. So thick was the fog that Willance could scarcely see a yard before him, and suddenly he found himself on the verge of the Scar. It was too late to check or turn his horse: both went headlong over the lofty cliff, and were hurled to its foot. The horse was killed on the spot, but in some miraculous fashion the rider found himself alive at the foot of the precipice, his worst injury a broken leg. Full of wonder and thankfulness, Willance erected inscribed stones to commemorate his marvellous escape, and the stones are still to be seen at that point of the cliff from which he fell. He also presented a silver cup in memory of this event to Richmond, and the cup remains in the possession of the town.

Pushing westwards through the bold and striking scenery of the dale, we pass glen after glen, each with its little beck, its moorland stream. At times the headlands spring up so abruptly as almost to shut in the dale, and in times of storm the thunder rumbles from wall to wall of the glen with tremendous echoes. Wonderful at such times of heavy rain is it to see how swiftly the little brooks become swollen, how the main stream becomes a raging, foaming torrent. Then we understand why the bridges are so high and strong. They had seemed far too large for the little river pushing over the stones: they seem none too strong now to withstand the terrific rush of flood-water sent down from the broad faces of the fells.

As we gain the higher parts of the dale, trees and corn and rich meadow-land are left behind. The farms are sheep-farms, and the moors stretch on every hand. The houses are strongly built of grey stone, and where there are fields, grey stone walls divide them, for hedges cannot grow on these windy, storm-swept heights.

It is striking to note how the houses and barns match the grey hill-sides. Not only are the walls of grey stone, but they are roofed with slabs of stone also, and these weather to beautiful shades of green and grey, and blend perfectly with the prevailing hue.

"In the upper portions of the dales – even in the narrow riverside pastures – the fences are of stone, turned a very dark colour by exposure, and everywhere on the slopes of the hills a wide network of these enclosures can be seen traversing even the steepest ascents. The stiles that are the fashion in the stone-fence districts make quite an interesting study to strangers, for, wood being an expensive luxury, and stone being extremely cheap, everything is formed of the more enduring material. Instead of a trap-gate, one generally finds a very narrow opening in the fences, only just giving space for the thickness of the average knee, and thus preventing the passage of the smallest lamb. Some stiles are constructed with a large flat stone projecting from each side, one slightly in front and overlapping the other, so that one can only pass through by making a very careful S-shaped movement. More common are the projecting stones, making a flight of steps up one side of the wall and down the other."

From the head of Swaledale a wild road crosses the fells to Wensleydale, the next great glen. The road bears the strange name of Buttertubs Pass, because it passes the edges of some vast chasms called, from their shape, the Buttertubs. There is no path leading to the depths of these immense holes, but men have been let down into them by ropes, and there found the bones of lost sheep which had fallen down the sides. It is a most unsafe road for a stranger to traverse, above all, if night is falling. The way runs along the lip of these frightful descents, and is very lonely. If a passer-by fell into one of these huge hollows, he would never be heard of again.

The road is freely used by the dalesfolk, save when winter snowdrifts block the passage, when it becomes too dangerous even for them. Snow is a terrible enemy on these bleak heights if it makes its appearance in earnest. The great snowstorm of January, 1895, will long be remembered, for it "blocked the roads between Wensleydale and Swaledale until nearly the middle of March. Roads were cut out, with walls of snow on either side from 10 to 15 feet in height, but the wind and fresh falls blocked the passages soon after they had been cut. The difficulties of the dales-folk in the farms and cottages were extraordinary, for they were faced with starvation owing to the difficulty of getting in provisions. They cut ways through the drifts as high as themselves in the direction of the likeliest places to obtain food, while in Swaledale they built sledges."

Buttertubs Pass leads us to Hawes, a quiet little town lying among splendid hill scenery; and not far from Hawes is Semmerwater, the only piece of water in Yorkshire that really deserves to be called a lake. There is an old Yorkshire legend which gives Semmerwater a miraculous origin.

"Where the water now covers the land," says the story, "there used to stand a small town, and to it there once came an angel disguised as a poor and ill-clad beggar. The old man slowly made his way along the street from one house to another asking for food, but at each door he was sent empty away. He went on, therefore, until he came to a poor little cottage outside the town. Although the couple who lived there were almost as old and as poor as himself, the beggar asked for something to eat, as he had done at the other houses. The old folks at once asked him in, and, giving him bread, milk, and cheese, urged him to pass the night under their roof. Then, in the morning, when the old man was about to take his departure, came the awful doom upon the inhospitable town, for the beggar held up his hands, and said:

 
"'Semmerwater, rise! Semmerwater, sink!
And swallow the town, all save this house,
Where they gave me meat and drink.'"
 

Of course, the waters obeyed the disguised angel; and, for proof, have we not the existence of the lake, and is there not also pointed out an ancient little cottage standing alone at the lower end of the lake?"

THE PLAYGROUND OF ENGLAND – I

In the far north-west of our land stands a group of bold rocky mountains known as the Cumbrian Group. Here rise well-known peaks, the highest land in England – Scafell, Helvellyn, Skiddaw – and among the peaks lie many most beautiful lakes.

This lovely stretch of country is called the Lake District, and every year great numbers of people go to climb the rugged, broken heights, or to wander beside the shores of these pleasant stretches of water in this playground of England.

The great charm of the countryside lies in the wonderful variety of its scenery, and all the scenes so beautiful. The traveller passing through the land by coach or motor traverses, perhaps, a frowning pass, where huge bare rocks rise in gloomy grandeur, and the scene is one of savage desolation. He gets a glimpse of a still wilder nook as he passes the mouth of some "ghyll" (a cleft in the rocks), from whose dark recesses a "force" (a wild, rushing torrent) is madly pouring. Then he whirls round a corner, rolls down a slope, and the scene is changed as if by magic. He enters a quiet vale shut in by the hills, its level floor covered with sweet verdant meadows where the cattle feed, its face dotted with the quaint grey stone houses of shepherds and cottagers, and the "force," now a quiet, shining brook, winding its silver links over the face of the tiny valley.

On rolls the coach, and now a vaster prospect opens out – a prospect almost filled by a wide sheet of clear bright water, one of the great lakes of the country, and the road runs along the shore, skirting bays, crossing tributary streams, passing under shade of the pleasant woods that fringe the shore, and bringing to view at every turn some fresh beauty in the ever-changing scene.

The largest of all the lakes is Windermere, a splendid sheet of water about eleven miles long and one mile wide. It may be seen admirably from the deck of a lake steamer which runs from end to end. On a summer day the great lake is a picture of beauty: its bosom is dotted with white-sailed yachts, while pleasure-boats glide from island to island or from shore to shore. Like a great river the lake winds between its banks till northwards it is shut in by lofty hills, which spring from the water's edge. The lakeside is dotted with pretty houses, peeping from amidst groves of trees, with grey old farms lying among meadows and cornfields.

At a point where the road from the town of Kendal runs down to the waterside there is a ferry across the lake. From time immemorial the dalesmen and market-folk have crossed Windermere at this point, and it is known as The Ferry.

"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 ferry-man 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. 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 mid-day there was the voice of storm in the air, though, mindful of the call of the Master on Galilee, the waters fell calm. Voices argued with the priest, whose cross, firmly planted by the edge of the lake, was surrounded by terror-struck lake-men. 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, there to remain until 'dry-shod men walk on Winander [the lake] and trot their ponies through the solid crags.'"

As we advance into the northern basin of the great lake, the scene grows in grandeur. "Over a vast plain of water the distant mountains seem to hang. There are misty indications of level meadows and woodlands next the water, but the charm lies in the craggy, shaggy braes and the uprising summits."

The voyage is ended at Ambleside, on the northern shore, where we take coach along the Rydal road to see some of the best-known parts of Lakeland, famous not only for their beauty, but also because the great poet Wordsworth lived there, and wrote of the lovely scenes which surrounded his home. Our way will take us by Rydal Water into lovely Grasmere, a sweet valley dotted with tiny lakes and ringed about by wild and lofty heights.

We pass Rydal Mount, where Wordsworth lived in old age, speed by Rydal Water, and on into Grasmere, where Wordsworth's grave lies beside the church, and the Rothay, his favourite stream, murmurs near by.

Beyond Grasmere we toil up the steep Pass of Dunmail, a wild, desolate, rock-strewn piece of country. At the head of the pass stands a pile of stones – the Cairn of Dunmail – telling of

 
"Old unhappy far-off things
And battles long ago."
 

In far-off days Dunmail was the last King of Cumbria, whose people then were Picts. Edgar the Saxon came against him to seize the crown, and of this crown of Cumbria a strange legend is told.

The crown of Dunmail was charmed, and whoever could seize it was certain to gain the kingdom. So Edgar the Saxon was eager to get it into his hands. Now, there was a wizard in those days who lived in a cave among the hills, and he held a master-charm which would make the magic power of the crown useless. Dunmail sought the cave of the wizard to slay him, and thus make himself safe in the possession of the magic crown.

But to reach the magician was no easy thing. His cave was guarded by a ring of wild wolves, who watched their master. Further, the wizard had the power to make himself invisible, save for one moment, and that at the break of day. But one morning, at peep of dawn, Dunmail burst through the ring of wolves and dashed into the cave, sword in hand. The magician leapt to his feet to utter a curse on the King, and he had called out the words, "Where river runs north or south with the storm," when the sword fell, and he was slain at a single stroke.

When Edgar the Saxon heard of this, he sent spies to find out the place of which the magician had spoken, and they found out that the words were true of Dunmail Raise. And they are true to this day. In times of storm the torrent on Dunmail will set north or south with the wind in most uncertain fashion.

In the pass the two armies met, and there was a fierce battle. At first the Picts under Dunmail held the upper hand, and the Saxons were beaten back again and again. But some of the chiefs who followed Dunmail were traitors, and they turned on their King and slew him, and gave the day to the Saxons.

As Dunmail fell, he tore off his magic crown and gave it to a faithful follower. "Bear my crown away!" he cried; "let not the Saxon ever wear it." He was obeyed. A few loyal chiefs burst their way through the foe, the crown among them, and escaped in a great cloud of mist. They fled across the hills, and came to a deep tarn. Here they flung the crown into its depths, leaving it there "till Dunmail come again to lead us."

And legend says that every year the faithful warriors come back, draw up the magic circlet from the depths of the tarn, and carry it to the pile where their King lies in his age-long sleep. They knock with his spear on the topmost stone of the cairn, and from its heart comes a voice – "Not yet, not yet; wait awhile, my warriors."