ULLSWATER is at once the finest and the tamest of all the lakes. This seeming paradox is explained when one realizes that it is formed of three distinct reaches, all of which are hidden from the others. The lowest reach stretches out in a thin wedge of water to the confines of the mountains at Pooley Bridge; the higher fells are away at the other end. In its length of nine miles the lake stretches further and further into the recesses of the hills, until, at its head or upper reach, it nestles amongst the most beautiful and impressive combination of mountains and woods in Lakeland. The middle reach also, has a beauty of its own, a mixture of the sublime and the ordinary. Its chief charm lies in its loneliness, evidence of human habitation being almost entirely lacking.

As we sail up from the foot of the lake there is ever present the feeling that we are working up to a climax, and this is attained when the top reach bursts on our view in a way that is quite dramatic and which exceeds our most sanguine expectations. The richly wooded slopes on our right descend to the water’s edge, whilst above they merge into the craggy fellsides, in many places overgrown by purple heather and golden bracken, with sombre Scotch firs interspersed in lavish style. Beyond this front array stretches the long, lean flank of Helvellyn, glimpses of which are caught away at the heads of all the side valleys. In front of us the fine sweep of St. Sunday’s Crag, one of the most perfect outlines in the district, forms a centre-piece. Its beautiful curve sweeps gracefully down towards the Grisedale Valley, like a high-born lady acknowledging the existence of a humbler presence. Further round still is the deep valley of Kirkstone, bounded on the left again by the High Street range and its dependencies. Place Fell—variegated with masses of dark gorse and crag, but almost devoid of trees—fills in the scene on the left, an excellent foil to the luxuriance which is the dominant note of the opposite shore.

Ullswater is more reminiscent of the lakes of Switzerland or Scotland than any of the others, and no doubt those visitors who award the palm of beauty to it have previously formed their ideals in these two districts. Perhaps these are the people whose opinion is the soundest and most discriminating; however this may be, Ullswater certainly disputes the sovereignty of beauty with Windermere and Derwentwater.

After the sail up the lake on one of the comfortable steam yachts which run continuously throughout the season, the best idea of Ullswater is to be obtained by walking from Howtown Bay to Patterdale, along the western margin of the water. A rough, unobtrusive path leads us past the flank of Hallin Fell, whence the full sweep of the lowest reach is in full view with the rounded form of Dunmallet, an old Roman fort, away in the distance. After ten minutes stroll through knee-deep bracken, with its fragrant scent in our nostrils and the song of birds in our ears, we reach the tree-covered rocky point known as Kailpot Crag. This gets its name from a curious water-wrought rock basin, near the water’s edge, known as the “Devil’s Kailpot,” which is about a foot deep and eighteen inches across. There is a common local tradition that it brings luck to those who drop money into it. And this proceeding does undoubtedly bring luck—to the knowing ones who collect the coppers after the credulous tourist has taken his departure!

Across the lake from here are the Mell Fells, and a short distance farther up, also on the opposite side, Gowbarrow Park, recently purchased by the National Trust. This is now open to the public for ever and a debt of gratitude is undoubtedly due to those sixteen hundred public spirited persons who subscribed the necessary funds. Long after our district has been bought up by private owners and their notice-boards stare one in the face at every turn, this, the most beautiful, wooded glen in Cumberland, will be open for ever to the nature lover without let or hindrance—a great national infirmary where hard workers can come and drink in Nature’s own medicine. Not only is this Gowbarrow Park beautiful in itself, with its wealth of parkland, its glorious foliage, under which the red and fallow deer feed, and its torrent-filled glen, but the views of Ullswater as seen from here impart to it a character possessed by no other park in the length and breadth of the land.

The gorge down which dashes the waterfall, Aira Force, is the most beautiful spot in the park and the fall itself, a single leap of about sixty feet in height, is one of the finest in Lakeland. Gowbarrow Park and the fell above it were opened by the Speaker in 1906, when he felicitously recalled the mountain in labour which brought forth a mouse—“but,” to quote his words on this occasion, “it is the mice that have been in labour and brought forth a mountain.” More “mice” are needed. Lakeland estates are constantly coming into the market and it would be a fine thing if funds were always in readiness to secure them for the nation. Canon Rawnsley, of Keswick, is the honorary secretary of the National Trust, and will always be glad to receive donations to this end.

It was on the margin of the water below Gowbarrow that Wordsworth saw the daffodils which inspired his poem, ridiculed by the critics of his time but now recognised as a glory of our national literature. The last verse is so typical of Wordsworth’s conception of nature that I take the liberty of quoting it:

After rounding Kailpot Crag the path winds along the side of Hallin Fell and Birk Fell for a couple of miles until it crosses Silver Point, and we come into full view of the upper reach of the lake. Ullswater looks magnificent from here. Right across from us, seen over the little island of House Holm, is richly wooded Glencoin, above which the bleak Dodds of Helvellyn stand out in distinctive contrast. Further up the lake the arrangement of the mountains and valleys is that already described from the steamer: reference to the two accompanying photographs, which are taken hereabouts, will afford a better idea of the scene than any amount of verbal description. It is well to continue our walk as far as the little village of Patterdale, for every step is a delight, and variety of scenic effect nullifies the distance marvellously. A glance into the quaint little church is well worth while, and then we follow the main road along through Glenridding village to Stybarrow Crag, a jutting promontory beneath which the road has barely room to wind because of the nearness of the lake. It was at this narrow pass that the dalesmen once made a successful stand against a band of Scottish Mosstroopers. Nowadays, it witnesses nothing more stirring than parties of picnickers and it must be admitted that it is an ideal place for the purpose.

Helvellyn, the second highest mountain in England, affords a grand scramble from Glenridding or Patterdale. Although its ascent involves no hand to hand climbing, all true mountaineers must enjoy the

fine walk along the twin edges, Striding Edge and Swirrel Edge, between which lies the wild mountain lakelet, Red Tarn. Much has been written about the terrors of Striding Edge and I have met nervous people who have been vastly pleased with themselves for having crossed it in safety. In reality it is merely a rough traverse of a rocky ridge along which, be it spoken low, a path runs! The central position of Helvellyn and its great height render the view from its top one of the finest in Lakeland. The prospect Eastward over the twin edges, with Ullswater beyond, and away on the far horizon the Pennines, dominated by Cross Fell, vies in interest and beauty with that in the opposite direction where all the chief lakeland heights, from Coniston Old Man to Scawfell and Skiddaw, show to great advantage.

Ullswater has its chief communication with the southern Lakeland over Kirkstone Pass, a high mountain coach road crowned at the top by the inevitable “highest house in England.” I wonder how many there are altogether. About a couple of miles beyond the head of Ullswater the road skirts the minor lake, Brother’s Water, and almost immediately afterwards climbs the steep gradient between Red Screes and Caudale Moor. A large block of stone,

stands on the slope of Red Screes near the top of the pass. This is the Kirk Stone. The road forks beyond the “Travellers Rest”—the highest house. The descent to Ambleside by the right-hand road is short, but appallingly steep. When taken in the opposite direction six horses are necessary to haul up a large char-a-banc and even then it well deserves its local name, “the struggle.”

The other road diverges to the left and runs down through the beautiful Troutbeck Valley, a distance of seven miles, to Windermere. It was in the little village of Troutbeck that the uncle of William Hogarth, the most truly English of all our great painters, lived. The genius of the uncle, “Auld Hoggart,” as he was locally called by his fellow yeomen, evidenced itself in a wonderful facility for composing rhymes, short dramas in verse and cynical epitaphs. Particularly satirical is the following, and typical of much that he wrote