Pittsburg dispatch. [volume] (Pittsburg [Pa.]) 1880-1923, 1891-05-24
A GRAND COACH RIDE.
Wakeman Describes a Spin Through
the English Lake Region.
SCENES OF THE RAREST BEAUTY
From Box on Rattling, footing, Bounc-
ing English Institution.
MEMORIES THAT A TRIP BRINGS UP
rcoRREspoNDENcE OF THE D1spAroH.1


CORRESPONDENCE OF THE DIsPATCH.l
WNDERMERE, ENGLAND, May 15.-The
conventional trip taken through the lake
district is either after arrival by rail at its
southern headquarters, Windermere, by
coach north through the heart of the region
to Keswick, or on arrival by rail at Kes-
wick, over the same grand highway by
coach south to Windermere. Thus tour
lists, and particularly American tourists,
who wish to make the best use of their
hours, are enabled to secure very good
general idea of the district, and certainly
look upon that portion richest in associative
interest-while viewing its finest lakes,
loveliest wales and loftiest mountains-by
an expenditure Of but one days time. An
old travellers word for it, seldom in life
time can day be so exaltingly filed.
At Keswick or Windermere you have
daily the choice of score of four-in-hand
coaches. Some are of the old English and
Concord patterns; but most are built high
in air, open, seating at least 20 fares; are
wonderfully constructed for strength and
ightness; give delightful sense of breezy
altitude to passengers; and furnish in their
cavernous "bodies" vast storeroom for par
cells and luggage. Most of these coaches are
provided with guards with musical horns
and rosy noses, with taciturn drivers, who
loiter about the stables of the nobility in
winter and exist in a defiant attitude of
protest against questions in summer, and
with the handsomest coach horses to be
found in all England. You can leave Win
dermere or Keswick, in either direction, at
any hour of the day between and 2; and
the ride of 81 miles, through several of the
deepest valleys and over two of the highest
passes of the region, is usually accomplished
in about five hours.
|. Out at Nine in the Morning.
You are at Keswick. If you have
ffbooked'' at least three days in advance,
have paid for two fares beside your own,
and have privately consulted with stipendi-
ary notifications the driver and guard as to
the most favorable measures for viewing the
region, you can secure your seat on the box
of the most popular ''going out" coach, at
in the morning, the envy and glares of the
remainder of the "fares, whom you find
represent almost every civilized nationality,
Americans and Germans predominating If
you ask questions you will also secure the
largest number of wide-winged "out-and-
cutters" with which your credence was ever
assailed. Your own knowledge of the liter
attre and topography of the lake region is
your sole amulet against these.
Z, But your coach is away with all the shout
ing, rattle and footing necessary to remind
you that at least you are the proud possessor,
with its other monarchs, the guard and the
driver, of the box of genuine British in
stitution. The gentle thrill which accom-
panies this reflection has barely subsidized
when you have passed beautiful Greta
Bridge, and with sudden turn to the right
begin the long ascent of Castle Rigg-"the
most windin' one for 'osses O. the stretch
the driver remarks in the single truthful
statement you will receive all the way to
Windermere. But in this long, slow climb
you pass Chestnut Hill, quaint little,
crooked-roof house, with its historic syca-
more, elm and cherry tree, where Shelly
brought his school girl bride and where they
chased each other like happy children about
the 1ower-beds, until the stern Cumbrian
landlord chased thems both away AS the
coach is halted at the top of Castle Rigg,
1000 feet above Keswick, grand and beauti-
full indeed is that scene behind.
The Home of the Brigantes.
This dragging way over Castle Rigg is
one of the two great heights you will at
tain by coach on your pleasant Journey.
The other is at Dunmail Raise, just before
you pass into Westmoreland. You are in
Cumberland now. This was the Little
Britain of long ago. 1t was the home of
those fierce and unconquerable Brigantes
who, from the time the region was
known as Brigantia until it became Cum
berland, beat back the Saxons from the
east, the Welsh from the south and Picts
from the north, and met every foe outside
their mountain gates. Marvelously sweet
and fragrant is the morning as you now
smoothly spin along these noble heights.
But it seems to have scarcely reached the
deepest wales. To your right, the west
for your direction is nearly always due
south from Keswick to Windermere-are
the seemingly endless fells, odorous with
the budding heath, and here and there
mass of color from banks of violets, the
gentle breeze stirring the whole fell-side as
if with wild and riotous motion and de-
light.
In front, the wide, smooth mountain road
winds between overhanging ichened rocks,
spans shadowy dingles, and at its apparent
end seems to drop sheer into a measureless
sea of blue. But now to the left down,
down, as if into some vast witch-cauldron
the sight descends, and attempts to pene-
trate the films of mist. Morning is late in
reaching st. Johns Vale. Dense and dark
in the vales lowest depths, the mist breaks
above in feathery riffs where the rays of
the eastern sun filter through in flmy
streams of gold. Half disclosed behind
them are the dark gray outlines of the
mighty crag, Castle Rock. You cannot see
it clearly; but Scott has so nobly described
it in ''The Bridal of Triermain, +" with its
Wicket of oak as iron hard,
With iron studded, clenched and barred,
And prong'd portcullis, join'd to guard
The gloomy pass below
that you need no better view.
First Glimpse of Striding Edge.
Above this, almost on level with your
coach, which is Just beginning the long
southern descent of Castle Rigg, lies huge
moving cloud. 1t is slowly passing down
the valley. Suddenly you realize you are
above. the clouds, for "See the Striding
Edgep' is chorused by many of your COM
panions. There it lies, this grim, yellowy-
black and curved ridge of Helvellyn, ma
jestic monarch of all this grand lake region.
1t seems across that cloud to be the mighty
mural walls of some weird isle, unattainable
bevond sea of mountainous waves. A
curve in the road for few moments hides
cloud and mountain top. When Helvellyn
again appears, the cloud has been lost in and
over the Vale of st. John, and there stands
the grand old mountain, forest-hung at its !
base, cleft and SCARED above, still higher
striped here and there with far-descending
torrents, like mighty plumes in white, and
its broken summit and ''Striding Edge
showing thousands of blackened almost |
vertical burrows in the eternal stone of its |
peaks and ridges.
But YOU now have something to do be- |