THE Buttermere Round (as the famous drive through Borrowdale, over Honister Pass to Buttermere, and back by the Vale of Newlands, is called) will always be an out-standing feature of a Lakeland holiday. The rapid changes in the character of the scenery are so dramatic, the various types of beauty seen are all so distinctive and so perfect in their own way, and the drive itself is so full of incident, not to say excitement, that this could not well be otherwise.

Our char-a-banc leaves Keswick at ten o’clock, upon any morning throughout the summer, and follows the road past Castle Head and along the eastern margin of Derwentwater. Ravishing glimpses of the lake and opposing mountains are caught through the foliage of Great Wood, as we drive along under an avenue of oak and fir trees. High up on our left is the forbidding escarpment of Walla Crag, reminiscent of Lady Derwentwater’s wild escapade; this rises sheer over us until we emerge from the forest and see the face of Falcon Crag towering perpendicularly in front. It is one of the many features of our drive that we get a glimpse for a few seconds and then we lose it, to be introduced almost immediately to a scene of an entirely different character. The lake again arrests our attention and displays all its beauties for a full mile until the roar of Lodore Falls is heard in the narrow gorge in front.

Perhaps the glowing description by Southey and the glimpses of white we catch through the trees will leave us with a better impression of the falls than if we alighted and came to close quarters. Truth to tell, they will be found disappointing in normally dry weather. The American gentleman who searched for an hour up and down the gorge, and at last sat down in despair, merits our sympathy. For it was unkind of a local worthy to reply, in answer to a query as to the whereabouts of the waterfall, “Why, man, ye’re sittin’ on it”!

A mile further along we enter the “Jaws of Borrowdale,” not such a fearsome proceeding as it sounds. The “Jaws” are formed by the mountains, Maiden Moor and Brund Fell—the retaining walls of the rapidly narrowing valley. Rising from its side is the “Tooth of Borrowdale,” Castle Crag, a rocky pyramid commanding the approaches of the valley in all directions. For this reason it was occupied by the Romans as a military station. It forms a fitting background to the little village of Grange, with its picturesque, double-span bridge (over the river Derwent) which we soon pass on our right. At the far side of the bridge is unmistakable evidence of the long past Glacial Period. A large rounded slab of rock is here exposed and on its surface are to be plainly seen the scratches and long indentations made by the glacier as it slowly ground its huge mass westward towards the sea. It must have been about this period—or, at all events, very long ago, for the incident lacks confirmation—that the folk of Borrowdale built their famous wall. It is on record that the natives thought that if they could keep the cuckoo always with them, they would have eternal summer. So, early one spring they began to build a wall across the valley, just beyond Grange, but in the autumn the unappreciative migrant flew over the top of it and the good people of Borrowdale gave up their project in disgust.

After climbing a gentle gradient and rounding the corner past a slate quarry, we come upon the most lovely bit of valley scenery in England. Such at least is my humble opinion. The defile is here so narrow that there is only space for the road and the river running alongside it. Silver birches overhang our heads. Larch, oak and fir clothe the hills low down, while, above the belt of foliage, heather and bracken, the stony fellside is dominated by gaunt, grey crags, around which the ravens circle. At our feet flows the Derwent; its bed is of green slate peculiar to the neighbourhood. This has the effect of imparting to the water a brilliant emerald tinge, the splash of vivid colouring that is the key-note of the whole beautiful combination. The huge isolated rock, up on the small plateau ahead, is the famous Bowder Stone, claimed to be the largest detached boulder in England. More remarkable than its size, however, is the small space upon which it rests. So narrow is this that directly under the greatest bulk of the stone two persons, one on each side, may shake hands, and we are told that whatever they wish for at the time they are sure to get. Perhaps, this is why one so often observes a man at one side and a lady of similar age at the other!

Lack of space renders it impossible to dwell in detail upon this wonderful valley. The green, hill-girt pastures of Rosthwaite; picturesque Langstrath, guarded by the square shoulder of Eagle Crag, leading over Stake Pass into Langdale; the wild valley of Seathwaite, famous for its old plumbago mines and enclosed by the grandest and highest fells in Lakeland, and the moss-covered, old-world farmsteads and overhanging eaves of Seatoller, must be dismissed with bare mention. The steep grind up Honister Hause above Seatoller has compensation for us in the lovely woodland glen below it, with Horse Ghyll singing lustily out of the depths. Another twenty minutes finds us, after having traversed a stretch of moorland worthy of the Scottish Highlands, on the top of Honister Pass, gazing at one of the grandest cliffs in Lakeland. Honister Crag presents its almost perpendicular sweeping outline in

front of us; but one’s admiration is divided between this and the startling scheme of the fell-side colouring—great tracts of dark grey interspersed with streamers of brilliant emerald and white. This is the same beautiful colouring as we noticed in the Derwent below Bowder Stone, but whereas the latter is caused by the gently flowing stream, Honister Crag owes its vivid tints to the refuse thrown from the slate quarries near its summit ridge. Which makes enthusiasm somewhat difficult!

The iron skid is attached and our char-a-banc ploughs its way down the pass a few hundred yards, until suddenly the road in front of us seems to go almost perpendicularly over. Soon we are on the brink. The view downward, with the stream away below us in front and an unguarded precipice on our left, strikes terror into the hearts of nervous lady passengers; many of them prefer to alight and walk down this bit. Many of the gentlemen too, with lordly unconcern, express a desire to “stretch their legs” and they also get out and walk! The danger is only fancied, however, for thousands of char-a-bancs and other conveyances come over here every season and no accident, nor anything approaching an accident, has occurred—surely a tribute alike to the care and skill of the drivers, the excellence of their horses and the vigilance of the hotel proprietors, who see that all wheels, harness and other trappings are of the very best, and in perfect order. Thence the pass runs along the valley bottom, with Honister towering above on the one hand and the almost equally bare declivities of Yew Crag on the other—the wildest bit of coach road in the district—until, after passing through a gateway we come quite suddenly upon the gem of the “round,” Buttermere Lake itself. A small sheet of water as regards size, it is nevertheless very imposing. Set deep amongst mountains descending almost sheer into the lake and traversed by gloomy ghylls and water slides, bare of foliage except for a few localized larch and oak trees, which seem to emphasise its quality of sombreness, Buttermere cannot fail to secure a lasting place amongst our memories of Lakeland. From the grand square shoulder of Honister Crag, now seen “end on,” with Great Gable peeping over its flank, followed by High Crags, the massive wedge of High Stile and the cone of Red Pike, to the distant form of Melbreak beyond Crummock Water, the mountain grouping leaves nothing to be desired—not even height or vastness; indeed, these qualities are quite features of Buttermere. Yet the lake is only a little over a mile long and the mountains less than three thousand feet above sea-level! Truly, form, proportion and atmosphere are wonderful deceivers.

The little village of Buttermere, with its hotels, church and farmsteads, lies ten minutes drive along, between the lake and Crummock Water. Here we “outspan,” lunch and then walk down through the pastures to our boat waiting to take us across the lake to Scale Force. Although this row over the lake does not form the best introduction to Crummock Water, it brings us into contact with its most typical and charming view-point. Our boat grounds a few yards away from Ling Crag, at the base of which is a veritable “silver strand” of white shingle. This forms a beautiful foreground to the still lake and massive mountain forms beyond. The black shadow of Rannerdale Knott, silhouetted against the more distant breast of the double-topped Whiteless Pike, inspires us, not with awesomeness or gloom, but with the less repulsive, indeed, often welcome, sense of solitude. The great bulk of mountain facing us as we land is Melbreak and we skirt the end of this for nearly a mile until the roar of Scale Force can be heard in a ravine to our left. This is the highest of the Lakeland waterfalls. Perhaps also it is the best worth seeing. The water comes down sheer in a single leap from a height of over a hundred feet, and is nicely set in a rocky frame, draped with mosses, ferns and undergrowth. It is worth

while to climb to the bank near the head of the cascade. As we lie stretched on the grassy hummocks, we overlook a magnificent view of the lake and mountains, with Honister Crag and Buttermere away at the head of the valley. This is an ideal spot, but the exigencies of the drive back to Keswick prevent over-indulgence and before long we must rejoin our char-a-banc at Buttermere.

The story of Mary of Buttermere and the specious scoundrel who married, and then deserted her, will be recalled—a sordid tale of imposture and only worthy of mention because of its unusual setting. One does not associate this kind of thing with the mountains. More interesting and amusing was this man’s career in Keswick, where, as the Honourable Augustus Hope, he hobnobbed with the “gentry” and fooled and fleeced them to a fine tune. More in keeping with Buttermere is the incident of the parson who refused to consummate the marriage service of a brother clerical, his reason being that a herdwick sheep stood in the doorway when the banns were called, and cried “Baa” very loudly. This, to the parson, sounded like an objection and “just cause” why the marriage should be stopped!

There are other tales told of Buttermere, but our coach is now ready and before long we swing off the main road by the little church and breast the steep pull up the fellside to Buttermere Hause. The more energetic members of the party are mutely requested to walk by the sight of the straining backs of the horses. If this is ineffectual, as I have sometimes known it to be, the driver explains the seductive delights afforded by a contemplation of the bracken and heather slopes of Sail and Eel Crags when seen “pied À terre”. Whatever the inducement, the upshot is a steep walk of about a mile until the hause, or top of the pass, is attained. A fine waterfall in the breast of Robinson—Robinson being the unromantic name of the mountain across the valley—diverts our attention from the moor intervening between us and the Vale of Newlands, with distant Blencathra beyond. A “nervy” hill, surfaced with shale in which the wheel-skids grip finely, leads us down into the valley bottom and thence follows a long stretch of moorland—a fitting preparation for the pretty wooded scenery more in evidence as we near our journey’s end. We bowl merrily along, happy in meditating on the beauties through which we have passed, when suddenly we become aware that the roadway has vanished. There is no time to protest before we find ourselves overlooking a steep brow and bating our breath as the coach tilts at an alarming angle. This is the famous “Devil’s Elbow,” an awe-inspiring hill, the descent of which is rather like a tooth extraction—pleasant enough in retrospect. The proceeding is a perfectly safe one, however, and before long we find ourselves in the heart of Newlands Vale, whence three miles of excellent going takes us through the village of Portinscale, past Crosthwaite Church to Keswick and our quarters.