  Lying beyond the pale of great mountains, and only connected by rugged passes with other sights of Lakeland, the lake of Ennerdale does not attract many tourists. The approach to it, otherwise than by mountain road, is circuitous; the traveller, coming by ordinary routes from the outside world, is carried across a great ironworking district, where every stream runs red mud, and where black smeltery smoke hangs low. Yet Ennerdale in its own peculiar fashion is beautiful. In my early days the lake seemed connected, in my mind, with stories of pirates and privateers—Paul Jones hovered on the coast near by till a gale drove him and his cursing hordes out to sea—and as more intimate knowledge came to me I still found Ennerdale connected with illicit seafaring. Smugglers—and my ancestors are reputed to have been among the most active of these—landed cargoes in the coves about St. Bees Head. From there goods were sent northward by the coast to Carlisle and the Border, and eastward over the fells to Penrith, Kendal, and distant towns and villages of the Pennine. The first route was early closed, but that over the passes baffled the revenue officers for years. The head of Ennerdale was quite out of the world then. The smugglers built rough caches to store their loads in wild weather, and even engineered with skill a path over Great Gable in the direction of Borrowdale. To-day this green band is known as Moses’s Sledgate. Moses, however, was not a smuggler, but an illicit distiller who, after the decline of the finer art, reared his “worm” in the wilderness. ENNERDALE LAKE AT SUNSET A long climb over grassy open common brings the cyclist from Egremont to Ennerdale bridge: that irregular knot of houses, with its moss-veiled church, was in the past a mountain metropolis. Wordsworth’s poem, “The Brothers,” centres in this churchyard of the dale. As the poet thought out his theme, through his mind there must have passed memories of that grand, encircling chain of mountains, rugged Revelin, precipiced Pillar, and scree-strewn Iron Crag, with many more. Only in one real particular was the licence poetic indulged, for there were gravestones here, modest indeed, flat among smothering grasses or fringing the boundary walls. Perhaps not at Ennerdale, but in equally remote districts, the church was used by smugglers. Under the rush-laid floor, cellars were dug to contain kegs of liquor, the miserably paid parsons conniving, often acting as selling agents. Church attendance would doubtless arouse more enthusiasm among grown men in days when the spent bottle could be exchanged From Ennerdale bridge the road climbs a couple of miles to the lake: in fact it somewhat overclimbs, for when at last the mere is viewed the wanderer is about three hundred feet too high, and has to descend by a very steep route to the Anglers Inn. That first glimpse is splendid: for half a mile back the hedgerows have prevented the eyes from wandering far, then suddenly bursts the glory. The waters deep beneath follow the mood of the day; laugh and sparkle when the sun shines and a warm breeze whispers; well gloomy and leaden when a host of clouds presses the mountains and shadows the lake-basin; swoon tender and soft when evening’s purple vapour drifts through passes and over summits, to collect in a pool in the valley beneath; surge and heave in breakers when a gale sweeps through the air; brood silent and sombre and still as a slab of jet when winter clothes the sky with deepest blue and the steeps with majesty of white. THE PILLAR ROCK OF ENNERDALE I prefer a boat for exploring the beauties of Ennerdale Water within and without, for the road to Gillerthwaite is rough, and the path by Anglers Crag not without some difficulty. Ennerdale within is represented by some fine trout and by an occasional char. On this lake the char in early autumn will come to the lure of a red ant. These insects at this season develop feeble wings; they haunt the sandy soil near the lake and are for ever essaying flights. A slight breeze is enough to sweep whole crowds of them over the water; they fly to the end of their strength, fall into the lake and are snapped up by the fish which lie in wait near the surface. In winter the char resort to the main stream entering the lake, for the purpose of spawning. For many years a certain part of the beck was known as the Char Dub, for in it, in numbers sufficient to render the bottom invisible, the shoals of fish lay. At the present day, however, the diminished char elect to spawn on a shingle further up the stream. For its trout-fishing Ennerdale is justly noted: there can be little finer sport than trolling here, the boat moving slowly on, the waves lap-a-lap against its timbers. When the attention is taken from the water, what a fine panorama of steep and rocky mountains! Maytime among the mountains—a day of soft creeping shadows and warm sunlight, the firmament white with lofty clouds, though here and there a wide rag of blue shows between. The boat welts away from the pier; clack, clack, fall the oars on to their pins, a moment later, to a rumble and a churn of water, As our boat slips away, the upper lake, a field of splendid blue, comes in sight. In mid-lake a tuft of rock claims attention—the boat glides to it over the faint ripples. It proves indeed to be a cluster of loose fragments, pushed up from the lake-floor to be a resting-place for the birds of land and water. So piled are the stones that it seems impossible human hands have not been busy in the midst of this waste of waters. Anglers and others have proved by crude methods that the protrusion is the crest of a sheer column of rock, or rocks as the case may be. If the figures confidently given are approximately correct, when, if ever, Ennerdale runs dry, an inaccessible pinnacle will be found to puzzle our rock gymnasts. Herons alight here to meditate and digest their toll of troutlets; and swift warriors of the air, buzzard, peregrine, and more humble sparrow-hawk, hover down Our vigorous friend at the oars has meanwhile brought us close to Anglers Crag. The bottom of the lake remains invisible, though the boat’s nose grates against the sheering rock; looking over the side, through the clear water, the slabs drop lower and lower till gathering gloom hides them from sight. The “crag” above, though steep, is quite climbable; it is worth while going ashore to scramble for ten minutes. The boat accordingly turns into a narrow bay where we may land on a beach of shelving shingle. The bank above is plenteously strewed with slabs of rock, though the “crag” is to our right. Up the hillside we find our view rapidly extending to westward, though the mountains still hem us in on all other sides. Shortly the sea is visible beyond smoky West Cumberland. The forms of shipping can be made “Your God is almighty!” sneered the chief, “I will give you all the land in my domain that to-morrow bears snow. Your God is almighty; and you need nothing from humans—ask Him, then, for snow.” The morrow was Midsummer Day; at early morn the folks of the country rose to find a mantle of cold, glistering white covering nearly all the land betwixt mountain and sea. The chief’s jest was, so runs the tale, carried out in full, and through war and peace the monks held to their inheritance till smooth King Henry divided their lands to others. Down we come to the lake edge again, to raid the haunt of coot and heron—both birds not rare on Ennerdale Lake, the quietude of which is just perfect. Our boat floats in as wild and savage a scene as is to be made by mere and fell. The Char Dub is visited, the huge mass of Pillar Crag noted at as near a point as possible. Now, coasting barren fields above which Ennerdale Lake, though less visited than the other waters, is in its way as beauteous as they. |
|
