  Jacob is wary and needs some management. First we chat about the exceeding fine autumn passing. “Aye, it’s fine, hooivver.” Jacob is slow of idea and of speech: no duty in his varied life ever needs lightning thought or action; he is decisive enough, but never precipitate. A typical dalesman—tall and broad-shouldered, stooping somewhat. Until you have walked a few miles by his side, you think he is a slow plodder, but experience teaches much. Without the slightest exertion he makes his four miles in the hour, over smooth road, soft meadow, or rocky hillside alike. As you see him face an ascent, you marvel how a man so accustomed to the work should have such an awkward style. But, defiant of all rules of the climbing and walking cults, he works his way up, down, or across the slopes with ease. Three hours of his work on the mountain is enough to tire most casual ramblers who know him. Once I worked a long day collecting sheep with him, but the sense of exhaustion was too severe to make me wish to proffer help again. “If ye’d a summer on t’ fell ye’d do varra weel,” was his comment as I wearied through supper afterwards. DERWENTWATER AND BASSENTHWAITE LAKE, FROM HIGH LODORE “Ye want me to tell ye’r frend aboot Bassenthet?” he queries. “Nay, nay, ther’s nowt to tell. In summer it’s aw wark on t’ land, and in winter aw’s ter’bl’ dree. Nay, ther’s nowt at aw, man, as I can tell ye on. I’m net yan as talks mich. I’s leev’d aw me life aboot Bassenthet, as did me father an’ gran’-father afoor me. It’s nobbut a lile farm, but ther’s a fair bit o’ heaf-gang on Skiddaw. It gives us a lock o’ wark in summer, like at clippin’ an’ weshin’. What’s that, lad? Du I ivver gang tu laik? [My friend has asked if Jacob ever goes to the lake, but has been misheard.] Well, I’s no bairn, I’s leev’d in t’ reigns o’ three kings an’ a queen, but I deu like a bit o’ spooart. You should come and hev a hunt wi’ us. We hev grand runs noo an’ then. Mr. Crozier’s hoonds are rare uns. They’ll chase a fox five er sex times roond Skiddaw rayther ’n it sud git away. John Crozier’s dead noo; he was a grand un for t’ daels [dales]—a good gentleman. Then ther’s a few hares [the Cumbrian pronunciation of this word evades the science of print] in t’ boddems. But they’re nobbut babby-wark at best, fit for a day wi’ t’ sna on t’ tops. We used to hev a bit o’ cockfeightin’ yance ower, but t’ police er doon on it noo. But, hooivver, we mannish [manage] a main noo an’ then in spite on ’em a’, eh?” “Ever do any fishing, Jacob?” I asked—my friend cannot get the old man from the fells to the lake. “Nay, nut mich. T’ lads gropple us a fry when t’ beck’s lah [low], and on a wet day ther’s a few to gitten wi’ t’ worm. But I nivver caerd [cared] for booats, and hevn’t been across t’ lake in yan mair en a duzzen times i’ me life.” “What do you think of the lake in spring?” asks my companion. Jacob is not deaf, but the tongue of a Southerner is as difficult to him as the accent of a Frenchman might be. Again he mistakes. “Ther’s a gradely many, ower many springs,” he grumbles. “I think ef they’d nobbut get to wark an’ drain it ther’d be some fairish land underneath it. Mappen we woddent need to send oor sheep away t’ winterin’. It wod mak some bonny nice pastur’, eh? Mair like sensible than throwing [Cumbrian, thrahin’] brass away to mek gomerals o’ t’ bairns an’ fine gentlemen o’ t’ skulemaisters.” “It’s gay bonny under Skiddaw in lambing-time, isn’t it, Jacob?” I interpose. The ancient is puzzling himself as to what my friend has meant; he is aware that he has again misunderstood, and is, I am afraid, becoming irritable. “I don’t see mich to blaw aboot; there’s wark enow on t’ fell, an’ precious lile leet [light] for owt else. Then yan hardly knas [knows] when it is spring. Some days it’s like midsummer, an’ then next day it’s cald enough to flay yan alive. Auld Michael Fletcher, as leev’d up at t’ Yeds, ewst [used] to say, I mind him varra weel, when yan happened to eks [ask] him aboot t’ wedder: ‘Nay, bairn, I don’t “‘Why Jacob,’ he says, ‘tou mun git a raep tull ’em.’ “‘And what gud will a raep be tull ’em, tou Daft “‘Noo, Jacob, it’s thee as is Daft Watty. Send for as menny cart raeps as tou hes, an’ I’ll show thee hoo to git doon. We hae warse sna drifts an’ rougher ghylls ner these i’ Ennerdale.’ “Well, when we gat aw t’ raeps he set three on t’ farm lads to hod t’ end, efter he hed tied ’em aw togidder, an then he stuck a gavelock in t’ drift as far as it would gang. “‘Noo, Jacob, I’s gaen ower t’ edge o’ t’ drift.’ “An sewer enough ower he went, an’ I clam along t’ crags as far as I could to watch. I tell ye it wor queer, he wor far enough frae me, to see him hingin’ away by that bit o’ threead-like. But efter a bit he gat on tull a foothod, and began to walk aboot t’ ghyll. What he was efter I didn’t see, but in a bit he come up again. “‘It’s aw reet, Jacob, aw tou hes ta dew wi’ them yows is to thra plenty o’ hay doon t’ ghyll tull em. But tou mun thra it fra here’—an’ he marked a spot—‘else it ull catch on t’ crags, an’ the yows ’ll nivver git up tull it.’ “Well, that ud niwer dew, an’ for a week we fed them yows ivvery day be thrahin’ t’ hay doon t’ drift tull em. When things hed thowed a bit nowt wod suit Tommy but gangen doon wi’ his dog. ‘I’s gaen to drive ’em oot afoor this drift starts faa’ing to bits. Some on ’em mout git laemt.’ BASSENTHWAITE LAKE “Noo, I didn’t caw him Daft Watty, but hooivver cud he git them sheep up that brant o’ sna’ whar he couldn’t climm hissel? Hooivver ower he went as I said, an’ I went ower t’ crags to watch. He hed his dog in his arms as they lowered him doon, an’ he let it off that minute he gat doon to t’ bottom—it was like lukkin intull a well frae whar I was at. Tommy hed gone reet doon to t’ end o’ t’ hooal, an’ began hoonden t’ sheep up intull yan corner. Ther was a bit on a slack theyer, an’ what wi’ him shooten an’ t’ dog hoonden it wasn’t lang afoor he hed ’em climmin’ up t’ sna like as if they wur sae manny flees. It maed me feel white dizzy to see t’ lile dog drivin’ away at ’em; an’ as fur Tommy, why he was climmin’ away up t’ drift whar it wor like a hoose end, shooten an’ whistlen as if he wur as saef as on t’ main rooad. It wasn’t many minutes afoor I sah as t’ sheep hed getten up t’ warst part o’ t’ ginnel side, an’ I went roond to meet ’em. They com up like fleein’ things, wi’ that yella-an’-tan dog worryin’ ahint. An’ aboot t’ saem time Tommy com up t’ raep, an’ shooted ‘Noo, Jacob, wha’s t’ Daft Watty?’ It wornt Tommy at enny raet. “Tommy went back to Ennerdale t’ followen summer, an’ I’s nivver seen him sen. Hae you? I mind you said yance that you hed seen him in Ennerdale last back-end.” Yes, I had seen him, and found him overjoyed to hear of his one-time chum on Bassenthwaite side. These old-timers of the fell-heads are essentially men of their own localities. A journey of ten miles would bring them often into a terra incognita. The two old men mentioned above had a sincere regard for one another, yet it never occurred to them to traverse the fifteen miles of mountain which lay between their homes, nor to expend the three or four shillings which by rail would have carried them almost to the doorstep of each other. Perhaps such an incident as the following deters them. One old man of my acquaintance held a strong regard for another who for half a century he had not seen—and the while their domiciles were hardly ten miles apart. One day after much consideration old John decided that the time was ripe for a visit to old Billy, and off he set by the low moor road, with a pocket full of provisions to eat on the way. Two hours after he had got away, a hale old chap entered the hamlet inquiring for him. “Old John?” said I to the stranger. “Why, he’s just gone over the fell to see a friend in ——” “Was it to see Billy Longmire?” “Yes.” “Then Jack’s just as daft as ivver. Here I’ve com be railyway to see him, an’ what mun he dew but set off be rooad to see me.” The two veterans did not meet, for Billy would not sacrifice the return half of his “railyway” ticket, and Jack was so disgusted at the occurrence that he would not await his friend’s return. Though the pair lived at least ten years longer, they never made another attempt to meet. BASSENTHWAITE LAKE AND SKIDDAW But it is of Jacob that I should be speaking, and of the day when in Keswick market-place I tried to lure him on to description. “I think a man like you will have met a few great men in your time,” suggested my friend in a halfhearted manner. “I mean did you ever see Southey, or Wordsworth?” “No, I can’t say I ivver did. I hae often heard of Mr. Southey, but he was often away in t’ Sooth. But ther was yan chap I mind varra weel—t’ Skidda Hermit we used to caw him. Whar he com fra we nivver knew, but yan summer we began to find ther was some body leeven in t’ huts on t’ fell as hed nowt to do wi’ shipherds. But for many a day we nivver cam across him. We fand him at last in a ghyll penten’ a picter of a waterfa’—an’ a fine picter it was hooivver. But he woddent speak tull us. We thowt he was dumb and wanted him to tell our fortens, but he was as sulky as could be. He went off aw at yance leaven his painten and things just as they wor, and for a week or two we didn’t see him again. He was a tall chap, nut varra dirty seein’ how he leeved on t’ fell, and allus was fairly put on. But though he gat as he wod talk tull sum on us, he wod nivver say nowt about his name nor whar he com frae—you hed just to mention that and he was off like a deer and ye didn’t see seet on him agaen “Coming, Jacob?” through the bleats and barks and whistles and shouts a voice interrupts; it is one of our friend’s neighbours prepared to go home. “Aye. Good-day,” this last to us, and he steps into the trap. Such is a Cumbrian’s description of Bassenthwaite. We went to hear about the lake, but alas! Jacob hardly had a word to say about it. Next time I will ask him about shepherd-life on Skiddaw and he will probably reel off stories innumerable of the water in summer and winter, and of the men who give to the lake the attention due. Jacob is typical of his class, and his reticence was not due to any wish to keep information from us. |
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