“THIS,” said John Ruskin, speaking of the Vale of Yewdale, “is the most beautiful valley in England.” And it is by Yewdale that Coniston is usually approached. Wherefore let all pay a visit to Coniston, if only for the sake of passing down that charming vale.

The drive from Ambleside along the banks of the Brathay, across Skelwith Bridge and thence over Oxenfell to Yewdale and down to Coniston, is typical of many of the day excursions in Lakeland—the changing scenes of beauty en route are so entrancing in themselves that even without a chief object in view, the drive is well worth taking. For whether it is the rich lichen-covered boulders over which the Brathay gently murmurs, the pastoral enclosures on its banks, with the old boundary walls climbing up the steep fellsides beyond, the feast of colour presented by the river and dark fir trees as we cross Skelwith Bridge, the wild moorland scenery of Oxenfell with that delicious glimpse across Colwith of the Langdale Pikes and Helvellyn, or the larch trees, heather and bracken slopes of Yewdale, interspersed with grey craggy patches, or whether, finally, it is Coniston Lake itself that most impresses us would be impossible to decide with any certainty.

But Coniston Lake alone is one of the sights of Lakeland and holds a high place in the esteem of many lovers of the beautiful in nature, beside Ruskin, who loved it so well that he made his home by its margin.

The lake is about five miles long and not more than half a mile in width. On its Western side it is bounded by low, wooded slopes not unlike those at the lower end of Windermere, while on the opposite side, in great contrast, is seen the fine mountain—Old Man, whose peculiar name is a corruption of the Gaelic, Alt Maen, the High Rock. Below its rugged escarpments nestles the village of Coniston with its church, railway-station and other signs of a thriving tourist centre.

In the church-yard, beneath the fine runic cross, carved with figures symbolical of his writings, is laid to rest John Ruskin, whose name will for all time be most closely associated with this lovely spot. His home, Brantwood, is on the east side of the Lake, about two miles from the village and a mile from Tent Lodge, where Tennyson once resided.

The Furness Railway Company, under the management of Mr. Alfred Aslett, a veritable genius of organization and enterprise, has placed a comfortable steam yacht on Coniston, as well as a most picturesque gondola, and these ply continuously throughout the summer months from Waterhead to Lake Foot. The sail down the lake is one of great beauty, affording magnificent near views of the Old Man, and Dow Crags, with Fairfield, Helvellyn, Red Screes and other Lakeland giants peering over the coronal of wood at the head of the lake. Brantwood, Tent Lodge, the ivy-covered Coniston Hall and other farmsteads are in sight from the water and lend to the scenery an air of domesticity. The view from Beacon Crags, the eminence overlooking the foot of Coniston, commands the entire length of the lake with its glorious background of mountains and is second to none in the district.

If we take the main road past the head of Coniston, in an easterly direction, and follow it up the steep rise to High Cross,

beautiful peeps of Coniston are seen through the woods. Above us on the moor is the romantic sheet of water, Tarn Hows, the favourite stroll of all Coniston habituÉs. The main road continues over the hill, however, and in another mile reaches the quaintest and most old-world village imaginable. This is Hawkshead. Its old market square, pillared houses with outside stairs, quaint nooks entered by roadways passing under the houses, to say nothing of the centuries-old church, and the grammar school, with the actual desk at which Wordsworth learnt his lessons, are at once interesting and amusing. An old epitaph in the Church-yard, visited from far and near, ran as follows:—

It is sad to reflect that the above was erased by the lady’s sons-in-law, for the prosaic reason that “it wasn’t true”! To Hawkshead belongs Esthwaite Water, a reposeful sylvan lakelet, quite different from the more northerly meres, but nevertheless very alluring in its own way, with distant Langdale Pikes and Bowfell a shimmering, almost unreal, background.

In actual distance it is not far from Hawkshead to Wastwater, but there is an entire contrast in the character of their scenery. Wastwater is the grandest of the lakes and is possessed of a wild, sombre beauty. Grouped around its head are Scawfell, Great Gable, Kirk Fell, Yewbarrow and the wild mass of the Pillar, the highest and most rugged of Lakeland’s mountains while—rising directly from the very edge of the water—the boulder-strewn slopes of the Screes, crowned at a height of 1,000 feet by magnificent bastions of rock, confine the southern side of the lake in almost its entire length. It is a very weird sensation to row along the lake under these Screes and see them plunge straight down into the water, until they merge into the blackness of its depths. This is the deepest of the lakes, and the steep angle of the mountain is continued under water for two hundred and fifty-eight feet. Wastwater is open to the west, whence an excellent road leads from Seascale, on the Furness Railway, up to Wastdale Head, the small village about a mile beyond the head of the lake.

Wastdale Head is almost entirely enclosed; indeed Will Ritson, the erstwhile landlord of the hotel and a great character, used to say that “t’ view frae Wastdale Heed was ’tpoorest he knew, for yan could see nowt for t’ mountains”! Many famous men have foregathered here in times past; it has appealed to natures as different as those of Darwin and Ruskin, Sir Walter Scott and Turner, Wordsworth and Professor Sedgwick, all of whom visited it many times. Will Ritson was the contemporary of these visitors and many are the tales told of the jovial times they had. Christopher North and Auld Will, as he was called, wrestled together and the Professor got the worst of three falls, but Auld Will owned that he was “a verra bad ’un to lick.” Christopher North got even with his conqueror next day, however, when, with some other dalesmen, they went on the lake together. When they were well away from the shore, the Professor fell overboard and sank like a stone. Auld Will was terribly upset and, with his companions, did all he could to rescue him when he came to the surface. But the Professor plunged about to such an extent that for long they could not get hold of him. At last one of them seized him round the neck and held him up, whereupon

the drowning man burst into laughter and climbed over the side of the boat. He was an excellent swimmer and the whole business was just a prank to get even with Auld Will!

There were merry times at Wastdale in those days, and although the old figures have departed, their place is nowadays taken by another and vastly increased generation of mountain lovers. These are the rock climbers and mountaineers, whose Mecca is the Wastwater Hotel. At Christmas, Easter and other holiday times, the valley is full to overflowing, and climbing enthusiasts, who include ’Varsity Dons, Members of Parliament and distinguished Barristers, are glad to get accommodation on the billiard table, in the bath room, or even in the barn. Early in the morning, they set out with ropes intent upon their various climbs, Scawfell Pinnacle, the famous Pillar Rock or the Needle on Great Gable.

A very favourite climb is this latter, short but exceedingly difficult and only for those of long experience. The way lies up the crack seen in the illustration and it is climbed by wedging the knee in this crack, whilst the hands grasp its rough edges above one’s head. The leader, who should be an uncommonly good cragsman, attaches the rope round his waist and when he has attained the top of the crack, rests there and takes in the rope as the next climber ascends. It is just kept taut so that in case of a slip the second man comes to no harm. When he has joined his leader, the latter climbs a stage higher to the next platform, and the performance is repeated. Then comes the crux of the climb. The top boulder overhangs considerably on one side, and the way lies up the almost vertical right-hand outline seen in the photograph. The hand- and footholds are very small, the situation is most exposed and it demands not only great gymnastic skill, but a perfectly cool and daring nerve to lead up this last bit. Once there the leader sits down—the top is about a yard square and by no means level—and takes in his companion’s rope. The descent can be made by reversing this route or by a more exposed ridge on the other side.

I recall a very unpleasant experience of my own on the Needle. It was on the bitterly cold Christmas day of 1897, that a party of three of us climbed to its apex. We had no sooner arrived there than it came on to rain and as the rain fell it froze immediately on the rock; the Needle became almost like a huge inverted icicle. I essayed the descent, but the small handholds near the top were veneered with ice. It was quite impossible, so, with great difficulty, I regained my companions on the top. By this time a driving wind had sprung up and it behoved us to descend at once, or else be frozen and then blown off. It was an unpleasant dilemma, but we got out of it in the following manner. The strongest man of the party lowered first one and then the other of us, swinging round and round on the rope end like a spider at the end of its clew, until we reached the neck between the Needle and the mountain, seen in the illustration. Then the last man tied his rope round the top of the rock and came down hand over hand for about twenty feet, when off slipped the rope from the top and he came tumbling down on to us. Fortunately he retained his grasp of the rope and, as we were tied to the other end, we were able to arrest his fall before he had gone far. Beyond a severe shaking he was no worse, and this, with a bruised shoulder where his boot struck me as his body flew through the air, was all the damage sustained in our escapade.

For those whose ideas of exercise lie in a milder direction, the walk up Great Gable or Scawfell Pike, the highest English mountain, will suggest itself. The views from these summits are magnificent in every direction and embrace the wild fastnesses of the Pillar, the silvery light over the sea, where the Isle of Man glimmers in the

distance, the soft beauties of Windermere, Derwentwater and Skiddaw, with Wastwater, “abode of gloom and congregated storms,” in the valley at our feet. Auld Will used to do a bit of guiding when business was slack at the inn, and one day he accompanied a parson up Scawfell Pike. The fell side was stony and the going so rough that this gentleman was led to indulge in language that quite disgusted Auld Will, who had always a great respect for “the cloth.” He said nothing in reproof, however, until he had seated his charge safely on the top of Scawfell Pike, when he stood back, mopped his brow and delivered himself to the parson as follows: “Theer, me man, thoo can mak t’maist o’ that, for it’s as near Heaven as thoo’ll ivver get!”

No description of Lakeland could pretend to completeness without some reference, however brief, to the monastic ruins of Furness Abbey. From Wastwater to Seascale Station is twelve miles by road and thence the Furness Railway takes one in a very short time to the secluded Vale of Beckans Ghyll—a fitting retreat for an edifice which had for its chief object complete withdrawal from every-day life. This charm of aloofness and sequestration still hovers around the spot where the Abbots of Furness centuries ago, for the Abbey was founded by Stephen, in 1127, eschewed all dealings with “the world, the flesh and the devil.”

It ranks second to Fountain’s Abbey in opulence and extent, but if we add beauty of detail, the ruins of Furness are equal to any in Great Britain. It was originally a filiation from the monastery of Savigny, in Normandy, which belonged to the order of Benedictines, but before many years had passed, the brethren entered the Cistercian order, changing grey for white habiliments. The chief abbot was endowed with great civil, as well as ecclesiastical influence. In his criminal courts, the power of life and death was his; he had control of the militia; every mesne lord was bound to contribute his quota of armed men at the Abbot’s summons, and, save to the King, he was answerable to no man.

The hand of time has lain heavily upon some portions of the abbey, but sufficient can be deduced from “the roofless pile of ruins” to enable us to gather some conception of its original beauty and importance. Amongst its finest features are the deeply recessed trio of Transitional Arches; the Sedilia, with well-preserved canopies in the richest style of the Decorated Period; the northern gate of the Abbey, a really beautiful Gothic arch; the Chapter House, one of the most exquisite bits of early English architecture preserved to us, and the great East Window of the Choir or Chancel.

In addition to the Abbey itself, the little dell in which it is situated contains the hotel and railway station, and it redounds greatly to the credit of their designers, that neither of these mars the scenic effect of the landscape. In the hotel, amongst other topical mementoes, are some beautiful and very ancient bas reliefs and the Abbot’s Room, an apartment which revives in all who visit it the atmosphere of Furness Abbey as it was in the days of its pristine glory.

Much remains to be said. Many picturesque spots have barely been mentioned, Haweswater, Loweswater and Ennerdale Water among others, and even if the tourist should spend six months in this wonderful district, his position will be very much that of mine in compiling this book. He will by no means have exhausted all its beauties.