WINDERMERE recalls the name of one who made it peculiarly his own—that genial-hearted philosopher, Christopher North (Professor Wilson), who has left on record that “the best time to visit it is from January 1st to December 31st.” A true lover of our largest lake, he also said that “it has the widest breadth of water, the richest foreground of wood, and the most magnificent background of mountains, not only in Westmoreland, but, believe us, in the whole world.”

Although perhaps some of us may consider that the worthy Professor’s enthusiasm carried him too far, few will deny that as a combination of wood, mountains and water, Windermere, when surveyed from certain aspects, would be difficult to surpass. It is probably the most famous of all the lakes. Many people, upon being asked if they know the Lake District answer in the affirmative, but further questioning often elicits the fact that they have only been to Windermere. Yet they have not been disappointed; and little wonder, for this lake and its surroundings form a good summary of Lakeland. Here we have sylvan beauty in perfection, dignity lent by some of our shapeliest mountains, the peculiar impression of “ancient homeliness” that most of the lakes convey, wooded islands and seductive creeks and bays, a wealth of colouring and, to complete the summary, many associations of the Lakes Poets.

The best way to see Windermere, and indeed to enter Lakeland at all, is to board one of the Furness Railway Company’s comfortable

steam yachts at Lakeside. This is the entrance to the district from the south. The pastoral, comparatively tame country hereabouts is a fitting introduction to the more impressive scenery which meets us as we sail up the lake towards Bowness and Waterhead. The steamers run in connection with the trains and the pier is alongside the railway station. The view up the lake gives promise of the good things to come. A wide expanse of water, with luxuriant woods running down to its very edge, and in the distant blue the fells of Lakeland! Hereabouts the lake is very narrow; in fact it is literally “Wooded Winandermere, the river-lake” of the poet.

For a mile or so after starting, the scene changes but little and then gradually it unfolds itself like the opening petals of some gorgeous flower. The shoulder of the “mighty Helvellyn” thrusts its bare mass above the trees on the left; further round is the flat-topped Fairfield mountain, then the rounded back of Red Screes dominated by the High Street Range and the conical spur of Ill Bell. These are the dim blue fells we noticed from Lakeside. If we keep a sharp eye above the wooded ridge on our left, Finsthwaite Heights, we shall catch a glimpse of the top of Coniston Old Man. This has hardly disappeared before, looking up to our left front, the Langdale Pikes are momentarily seen—an elusive little peep which causes us to keep a look out for them as we sail further up the lake. They are the shapeliest and most distinctive mountains to be seen from Windermere; indeed, it is the opinion of many that Lakeland itself has nothing more beautiful to show than these Twin Peaks.

On our right the white walls of Storrs Hall gleam through the trees. It is now a hotel, but it will always be reminiscent of the historic occasion when Wordsworth, Southey and Christopher North foregathered here to welcome Sir Walter Scott and Canning to a yachting regatta held in honour of the “great Northern Minstrel.” Ere long the islands claim our attention and then we touch at the Ferry, “one of the sweetest spots on Windermere.” The steam ferry-boat which plies all day long from shore to shore, carrying objects of all possible descriptions—pedestrian and otherwise—motor cars, carts and char-a-bancs, possesses an antiquity that renders it in keeping with the surroundings.

After leaving the Ferry pier we pass the largest of the islands, Belle Isle, with the cupola of a residence peeping through the trees. The islands, apart from their picturesqueness, supply one of the few “stirring incidents” that have happened hereabouts. On Belle Isle, Major Robert Philipson, locally known as “Robin the Devil,” withstood for eight months a siege carried on by a certain Colonel Briggs, an officer in Cromwell’s army and a magistrate of Kendal. Briggs ultimately failed to apprehend the gallant major and tiring of his job, withdrew to Kendal. Major Philipson followed him with a small body of picked men. They reached Kendal on a Sunday and all its inhabitants had gone to church. Not quite all, however, for Philipson went to church and, to the surprised horror of the congregation, rode his horse up one aisle and down the other in quest of his enemy; but Briggs was not there, a defection which no doubt saved his life. Philipson had reached the door again in safety when someone, plucking up courage, made a grab at his girth and succeeded in unhorsing the daring intruder. Him the major killed on the spot, succeeded in regaining his girthless saddle, mounted and was away through the church porch without further hindrance, and thence to Windermere. His head violently struck the top of the doorway as he dashed out, however, and his helmet was knocked to the ground. This was all his assailants secured, and until quite recently it hung, as a voucher for the truth of the story, in one of the aisles of Kendal Church.

To resume our sail, the pretty little village of Bowness and the

ivy-clad, but in every way modern and first-class Old England Hotel are now in sight, with the town of Windermere above it on the hillside. As we near the pier the view opens out wonderfully and distracts our attention from the red-cushioned rowboats, electric launches, yachts, promenade and other paraphernalia that go to make up the bustling foreshore of Bowness. From the steamer deck will be noticed, peeping over the top of the boathouses, the tower of Saint Martin’s Church, an ancient structure well worth a visit, if only to see the remains of a chancel window which originally graced Furness Abbey—

The village itself is not lacking in distinctive qualities, the juxtaposition of the antique and the modern in architecture being certainly very quaint. Its up-to-date and well-kept shops and hotels and general air of cleanliness, are features of the place. It is a favourite “excursion” centre and rightly so, for most of the outlying districts are within easy reach—a remark that applies also to Windermere village. They are now-a-days almost one town, although the nucleus of each is over a mile apart. Houses and shops line the connecting road,—a steady climb up the hill, almost continuously, to Windermere Railway Station. Above the station is the eminence of Orrest Head, one of the most excellent view-points in the whole of Lakeland. It was this prospect that inspired the words which introduce this chapter. Those who walk up Orrest Head on a fine summer’s day will certainly condone, and some will endorse, this description by Christopher North.

The natives of Windermere are the direct descendants of those sturdy independent sons of the soil, the Westmerian statesmen. They perpetuate many of the best qualities of their forebears, and in spite of contact with a polyglot tourist element they also retain much of their original dialect. Only the other day I ventured to ask the opinion of one them regarding the weather. The old dalesman looked knowingly to windward and then delivered himself as follows: “Weel, it’ll mappen donk an’ dezzle a la’al bit, mappen kest a snifter, but there’ll be neah gurt pelt,” which was his way of saying that it would perhaps drizzle a bit, perhaps throw a shower, but there would be no great downpour!

But our steamer does not stay long enough to permit of much divergence, and we are soon out on the quiet water again, making for the head of the Lake. Every hundred yards now enhances the beauty of the scene. The mountains draw nearer, the details of the craggy shoulders of Wetherlam and the fine crest of Bowfell can be well seen. With the Langdale Pikes beyond, and the slopes of Wansfell Pike and the Troutbeck Hundreds a-head, they rivet one’s attention almost entirely until, after rounding a promontory, we come in sight of the Scotch firs and pier of Low Wood. The signal to call is lacking, so our vessel keeps steadily on up the lake passing Wray Castle, a picturesque, but not historical building, on our left, and on our right the tree-embowered cottage called “Dove Nest.” This was for some time the home of the gentle Mrs. Hemans who, having visited Wordsworth in 1830, could not resist the call of the beauty and solitude of Lakeland. Her descriptions of Windermere and “Dove Nest” are amongst the most spontaneous and charming word-paintings which even Lakeland has evoked, and of course this is saying a good deal. All too soon now we realize that we are at our journey’s end and that the jetty on the right, past the row of somewhat pretentious-looking lodging houses, is Waterhead. It is worth remembering that there is only one thing better than this first sail up Windermere and that is ... to repeat the performance! Certain it is that some fresh beauty, some added interest will disclose itself on the occasion of each trip.

A mile from the head of the lake is the thriving little town of

Ambleside. Beautifully situated on the hillside above the murmuring Rothay, it is one of the best places for the tourist to “pitch his tent,” as the Romans undoubtedly did many centuries ago. Several remains of a Roman station have been unearthed in the fields at the head of Windermere—urns, coins and fragments of tesselated pavement, amongst other things—but the traces to be found now-a-days are very slight.

Ambleside has considerable claims to beauty, not only in itself and the irregularity and picturesqueness of its buildings, but in its immediate surroundings. The short walks to be made from it are unsurpassable, that through Rothay Park, past Fox Howe, the home of Dr. Arnold, of Rugby School memory, and across the old stepping stones near by, being simply charming. To those of a more strenuous turn of mind the walk up to Sweden Bridge affords a variety of scenery, “from gay to grave, from lively to severe,” difficult to surpass even in this land of quick transitions. Then there is Loughrigg, the ridgy fell on the opposite side of the Rothay, which commands the whole sylvan length of Windermere Lake to the south, with the wild recesses of Langdale, enclosed by the Pikes, Crinkle Crags and the massive buttressed peak of Bowfell away to the west. There are several other walks of equal beauty and interest, and Stock Ghyll Force, in the beautiful glen above the little town, must not be forgotten.

Many coaching excursions start from the Queen’s and Salutation Hotels at Ambleside; the scene in the Market Square on any morning in the season at about ten o’clock is one of great bustle and stir. Coniston, Ullswater and Derwentwater, with intermediate beauty spots, are within easy driving distance. The congregated vehicles range from the six-horsed char-a-banc for Kirkstone Pass, and the old-world stagecoaches to the more pretentious and hackneyed landau; to say nothing of motors of all sorts and sizes. That calm, introspective frame of mind which people seek and often find at the Lakes will be wooed in vain in Ambleside Market Square when the excursionists are getting “under way.”