Category Archives: Lake District

Fell Walk, General, History, Lake District, Legend, Natural History, Nature

Faeries Wear Boots

May 23, 2021 George Kitching 23 Comments

Green Crag, Harter Fell & Hard Knott

A waterfall liberated from Victorian excess; the southern outpost of Wainwright country; two tragic deaths; and a faery Court of Forlorn Hope, lurking in the shadow of the Scafells… Tales of Eskdale from Green Crag, Harter Fell, and Hard Knott.

Slate-grey faces of fissured rock stare solemnly from beneath a swarming canopy of foliage, a tangled green profusion of liverwort, fern, lichen, and moss. Tall trunks of sparse, spindly trees twist upward to meet a narrow crack of sky, a pale canopy above the steep jungled sides of the ravine. The air is sultry with spray from the pearl-white cascades hissing and crashing down dark walls of crag.

When the railway brought Victorian tourists to Ravenglass, Eskdale’s Stanley Ghyll was high on their must-see schedule, but Victorian curiosity was almost its undoing. Back then, Stanley Ghyll was part of the Dalegarth and Ponsonby estate, which served as a nursery to nearby Muncaster Castle. In thrall to exotica, many country estates were busy planting rhododendron, a novel Asian import that was suddenly all the rage. Muncaster was no exception, and in 1857 various species were planted on the nursery estate, including the common invasive ponticum variety, which soon took hold in Stanley Ghyll. It spreads quickly, outcompeting native flora and forming a dense canopy that shuts out the light and suppresses germination of other plant species.

A hundred years later, Stanley Ghyll was overrun, its celebrated falls mostly obscured; its biodiversity threatened, as were its visitors. Hidden hazards lurked. Rhododendron “root jacks” rock, rendering it loose and unstable; and forty years ago, a tragedy occurred. On Friday 27th June 1980, the Millom Gazette reported that “the neighbourhood of the waterfall has been made very dangerous by earth breaking away, being especially dangerous in wet, slippery weather”. At the time, newspapers were still in the habitat of describing women in terms of their husband’s accomplishments, so we learn little of Mrs Abraham from the article, not even her first name, only that she was the wife of Mr Alfred Abraham, a retired Chemist from Ormskirk. He and his wife had been staying at Eskdale Green, when they decided to pay a visit to Stanley Ghyll. Despite her 75 years of age, Mrs Abraham was described as a “very active woman”. The couple were walking near the top of the waterfall when, tragically, she slipped and fell 60 to 80 feet on to the rocks below. Her husband attempted to climb down but was unable to reach her, so he went for help at Dalegarth, over a mile away, returning with Gamekeeper Massicks, some foresters, and Police-Constable Martin, who despite the considerable difficulty afforded by the dangerous ground, managed to get Mrs Abraham’s body out of the ravine. Alas, she was already dead.

Stanley Ghyll is now a Site of Special Scientific Interest on account of its rare ferns. In 2019, the Lake District National Park (the current owners) began an operation to remove nine hectares of rhododendron to let the indigenous woodland regenerate. In doing so, they discovered several loose and hazardous rock faces and several fallen and unsecured trees lying directly above the path—which is why the upper footbridge is now padlocked. Signs warn of the imminent danger of falling rocks, and of the ongoing work to render the site safe.

Even at a safe distance, the liberated cataracts are magnificent. I turn heel at the gate and walk back through woods, the early morning air fresh with the scent of mossy awakenings.

Stepping-stones lead across the River Esk to St Catherine’s church, just outside Boot. They too look slippery and challenging, and I’m glad my journey continues on this bank.

“On the crest of moorland between the Duddon Valley and Eskdale there rises from the heather a series of serrated peaks, not of any great height but together forming a dark and jagged outline against the sky that, seen from certain directions, arrest the eye as do the Black Cuillin of Skye.” The words are Alfred Wainwright’s, describing the coxcomb ridge that reaches its zenith in Green Crag, which he chooses as the southern boundary of “fellwalking country”. They have arrested my eye many times, usually fleetingly while I’ve been driving across the lonely expanse of moorland that is Birker Fell. But parking up, crossing the boggy scrub, and gaining Green Crag from the high ground would feel like cheating, so I’m making the ascent from the valley (as Wainwright says I should).

I handrail the River Esk as far as Low Birker Farm, where I join the old peat road up to Tarn Crag. For Wainwright, the acquaintance with these old peat roads is one of the defining joys of this walk, characteristic as they are of old Eskdale. As I approach the farm, a cacophony of bleating and barking, clipped commands and sharp whistles drifts over the trees from the open fell beyond. I am about to witness another practice, centuries old, and unlike the peat roads, still an essential part of Eskdale life. The shepherds are bringing their flocks of Herdwicks down from the hill. As I round the wood and gain the open slopes, the peat road forks left but the first of the Herdies are charging in from the right. The sight of me stops them in their tracks. They turn tail and scamper off in the opposite direction. I feel guilty: the shepherds and their dogs haven’t put in hard hours seeking, rounding, herding, and driving these sheep down the narrow fell tracks only to have me turn them back. Luckily, the sheep stop a few yards hence, wary of the dogs further up. They watch as I take the left fork. With me safely out of sight, they’ll return.

With height, the whole spectacle unfurls like an oil painting. Beneath the riven slate of naked crags, over outcrops of mossy grass, and through waves of copper bracken, tireless collies coral the dispersed flock into a funnel of white, chocolate, and charcoal fleeces. Herdies are tough in spirit as well as body, and they confound the will of the dogs as far as they can. Over to the left, clear of the main flow, three escapees hide behind a tree. Out of sight but not out of mind, it seems—the sheep dogs know their game; eventually, a border collie bounds from behind a rock, and their cover is blown. A little further up the track, I meet an old shepherd who tells me he’s heading down this way to thwart those intent on using this track as an escape route: it’s a favourite trick apparently. I can tell his knowledge is hard-won.

Near the top of the track, stands the ruins of an old peat hut. Built to house turf cut from the moor, it is slowly crumbling back into the fellside. In 1960, Wainwright lamented, “Time has marched fast in Eskdale: at the foot of the valley is the world’s first atomic power station, and peat is out of fashion. Alas!”. Three years earlier, a fire at the Windscale reprocessing plant had constituted Britain’s worst nuclear incident. That must have been at the forefront of his mind. But cutting peat also came with an environmental cost. Peat bogs are carbon sponges. Scotland’s peat moors trap more carbon than all of the UK’s woodland put together. After centuries of draining our wetlands to make farmland or stripping them for turf, we’re now scrambling to protect them.

Watching the Herdies, you’d be forgiven for thinking time stands still in Eskdale, but it continues to march fast. Sellafield’s Calder Hall Atomic Power Station closed in 2003, and its Windscale reprocessing plant is due to cease operations in 2021. Eventually, they, too, will go the way of the peat huts.

As I reach Low Birker Tarn, my boots start to squelch, but here is a sight to make the spirit soar. For me, hard wooden pews and the smell of musty hymn books have never managed to elicit a religious response; yet put me before the sheer green force of Stanley Ghyll, or the dark turrets and jagged crags that rise from this windswept moor, and tell me that here be water sprites or faery fiefdoms, and I might just believe you. I cross a moat of sodden peat hags and track beneath the irregular battlements of Crook Crag to the primordial tower of Green Crag. It is well-defended, but a little speculation reveals a breach in the crags, which affords an easy scramble to the top.

Here is the southern outpost of Wainwright country—a fine grandstand from which to survey a brooding autumnal wilderness of drab olive, fiery copper, and maroon, stippled with mauve crag and sparse patches of coniferous green. The capricious sky is overcast, wrapping the shadowy Scafells in thin veils of mist. Eastward, the colossal, cupped hand of the Coniston Fells encloses a sliver of silver—the glinting waters of Seathwaite Tarn, its outlet, a thin white trickle spilling over the gnarly knuckled thumb of Grey Friar.

While Victorian sightseers flocked to Stanley Ghyll, the more adventurous set their sights on Scafell Crag and the nascent sport of rock climbing. Its buttresses and gullies are named for pioneers, and a cross carved into the rock at the foot of Lord’s Rake commemorates a 1903 climbing accident—the worst in Britain at the time. Twenty-nine years later, humble Harter Fell, rising like a pyramid from the pine-green of Dunnerdale Forest, was to claim a horror of its own. On July 29^th, 1932, the papers were preoccupied with the violence erupting on the streets of Germany, where the ascendant Nazis were venting their anger at election results which had (as yet) frustrated their grab for power. An accident on a Cumbrian fell merited only a few words; but the Dundee Evening News found space for several more.

“PINNED UNDER A ROCK
Climber’s Ordeal
A young man, Eddie Flintoff, of Hayworth Avenue, Rawtenstall, was seriously injured whilst climbing Harter Fell, a mountain about 2000 feet high at Eskdale, Cumberland.
He arrived on holiday at the Stanley Ghyll Guest House, Eskdale, a few days ago.
He was one of a party of 35 who set out to climb Harter Fell, three miles from the guest house.
The party, which included a number of women, was in charge of the host, Mr M’Lean, and they reached the summit of the mountain without mishap.
In starting the return journey, it is stated, Mr Flintoff decided to descend by the face of the mountain instead of taking the usual gully route.
Suddenly rocks on which he was standing gave way, and he was carried down a number of feet and partly buried under a rock weighing about 25 cwts (1.25 tons).
Crowbars Useless
Mr M’Lean, who has only one arm remained with the party, while Mr H. Eccles, the guest house secretary, hurried to Askdale (sic) to obtain iron crowbars with which to lever the rock and release Flintoff.
Eight men of the party remained to render assistance, but were unable to release Flintoff owing to the weight of the rock.
Mr Eccles telephoned to Whitehaven, 25 miles away, for the ambulance and a doctor. On his return, Flintoff was liberated. He had been under the rock for two hours, but he had not lost consciousness.”

Dr Henderson sedated Flintoff with morphine and chloroform, and stretcher bearers carried him down to Boot, from where he was taken to Whitehaven hospital.

Eddie Flintoff would never learn where the events in Germany were to lead. He died a few days later of his injuries.

Harter Fell is less than half a mile from the foot of Crook Crag, but reaching it is an adventure. The liminal ground is a quagmire, a sea of unstable sphagnum that sucks at my boots. I set my sights on a drystone wall which climbs the fellside—the OS map shows a right-of-way beside it—but the journey there is indirect. I cross a stream and follow a roundabout route, leaping from heathery tuft to heathery tuft (heather being good indicator of drier ground).

The heather stops a few hundred feet short, and what lies beyond is best described as a lake. Thwarted, I attempt to track right, but the ground near the stream is too soft. After sinking nearly knee deep, I retreat toward Crook Crag, bound the stream at my initial crossing, and try the other side. Thankfully, the islands of heather persist here, and it is with some relief that I gain the slope of Harter Fell.

Green Crag and Crook Crag from the quagmire

The right-of-way on the map does not translate into a path on the ground, but the wall is a handy guide. There are crags above, but the map shows a way between where the contours are gently spaced. My rudimentary navigation skills do not let me down, which is just as well as a couple who I passed at the bottom have decided to follow me. Near the summit, we pick up the path coming up from Spothow Gill. This should have been Eddie Flintoff’s way down. It was my intended route too, but from the summit, the view of the Scafells is ever more bewitching and I decide to strike on for Hard Knott.

By the time I reach the cairn at the top of Hard Knott Pass, it’s 4pm and I’m a long way from my car. The enchantment here is palpable, though, and on this overcast afternoon, it is dark in flavour, steeped in primeval drama. As I climb beside Hardknott Gill, damselflies flit on gossamer wings, slender flashes of yellow and black, their enormous eyes, dense clusters of photoreceptors scanning for prey. The summit cairn stands like an altar before a synod of stone deities: Slight Side, Scafell, Scafell Pike, Broad Crag, and Ill Crag huddle ahead like a congress of colossi holding court: their sharp-chiselled profiles are black in the brooding light, and their muscular crags extend like crouched limbs. They form the Roof of England; and in their shadow lies the realm of a faery king.

In 1607, William Camden published Britannia, the first topographical and historical study of Great Britain and Ireland. At Ravenglass, he noted that the locals “talke much of king Eveling, that heere had his Court and roiall palace”. Three centuries later, in an article for The Cumberland and Westmorland Antiquarian and Archaeological Society, R G Collingwood dug deeper, unearthing mythical connections between Eveling and Arthurian legend, and concluding “Ravenglass is Fairyland”. Stories of King Eveling diverge: was he husband to Morgana La Fay, the sorceress, who was, by turns, Arthur’s ally and his foe? Was Eveling perhaps another name for Affalach, Lord of the Underworld, Lord of The Isle of Apples, otherwise known as Avalon, where even now, Arthur is said to sleep? An anonymous article on the Brighthelm Stane Library website tells a darker tale: Eveling was King of the Court of Forlorn Hope, a capricious tyrant, grown vain and insular by the time King Arthur came knocking.

Eveling’s court was at Ravenglass, but his Rath, or stronghold, was a ring of stones within the old Roman fort of Mediobogdum, just below the summit of Hard Knott. Arthur had a Dream of Albion, and he travelled the land beseeching princes and chieftains to unite with him. Most bent their knees in homage, but not Eveling. He saw nothing but a naïve boy and took affront that such a nobody should fail to show due deference to the great faery king. He demanded Arthur return to the Rath after dark, when Eveling and his court would be holding a moonlit ball. Then, Eveling would teach Arthur the proper manner of a monarch.

Arthur and his army withdrew to the valley bottom where they camped, quite possibly where the village of Boot now lies. But a solitary figure stayed behind on the hill. When darkness fell, and the faery courtiers began their revelry, Merlin conjured a mist that enveloped the mountain. When it cleared, all traces of Eveling and his court were gone. Well, not quite. According to local superstition, travellers, passing the circle of stones on certain nights of the year, may yet spy the faery throng trapped in their eternal dance. Fall in step with them at your peril, however, as to do so is never to return.

The Skiddaw Hermit

March 14, 2021 George Kitching 26 Comments

The Victorian era opened the floodgates for Lakeland tourism, and a fair few of those visitors made their way up Skiddaw. Most came back down again and went home, but the mountain took one troubled soul to its breast. He lived wild on the fell and became known as the Skiddaw Hermit. A trawl through an archive of 19^th century newspapers reveals the poignant story of a gifted man, suffering with mental health issues and seeking solace among the summits and woodlands of Lakeland. It’s a story I won’t attempt to retell. I’ve collated the reports—I’ll simply let them speak for themselves.

The Westmorland Gazette and Kendal Advertiser—9th June 1866

Reproduced from an article that first appeared in the Edinburgh Courant:

“The vagaries of a man who has turned recluse and taken up his abode in a cave on Skiddaw are exciting the attention of tourists in the Cumberland Lake District this season. It appears that about three years ago an eccentric-looking man, of tall and slender build, a pale complexion, and speaking with a Scotch accent, paid a visit to Keswick, where he occupied lodgings for a week. During that period, he made frequent excursions up Skiddaw, always returning with his clothes covered with mud, and his mysterious wanderings excited considerable attention at the time, various stories being set afloat of his search for precious metals or a hidden treasure. In the course of a few days, however, the man left his lodgings and disappeared, and the mystery that had surrounded his frequent expeditions up the mountain was solved. It was found that the eccentric being had been searching for a cave in which he might take up his abode; but not having met with much success, he had made himself a “nest” on the breast of the mountain, and there he had taken up his abode for the last three years. A tourist who had visited the man, thus describes the strange “cave” and the personal appearance and habits of the recluse.

‘A visit to the place showed us a circular hole, situated about 300 yards up the breast of the mountain, and partly on the edge of a cliff; it is about three foot in depth, and four foot in diameter, which, after assiduous labour, he has contrived to line with moss, &c. The roof, or lid, is portable, and made of reeds brought from the edge of the lake, and curiously wrought together in the form of an umbrella, so that when he retires to rest he shuts it down from the inside. He has resided there nearly three years, and has stood alike the scorching rays of summer and the snow and storms of winter, although it has been seen nearly half filled with water. His appearance is ludicrous in the extreme. His hair is thrown over his shoulders and hangs far down his back, and forms the only protection to the head; his clothes seem to have been the height of fashion 20 years ago, and are quite threadbare; he wears no shoes, and goes on his peregrinations in stockinged feet. He gives the name of Smith, and judging by his language, belongs to Scotland, but when questioned on the subject gives an evasive answer. He makes almost daily visits to Keswick, where he purchases tea and sugar, mixing and eating them dry. His only cooking apparatus is a small pan, in which he cooks messes of very questionable ingredients, boiling them by the aid of a lighted tallow. Through the limited accommodation of his habitation he is obliged to lie in a circular position, much resembling a dog in a kennel. He has quite a passion for water-colour drawing, and has proved himself no mean artist. He enjoys very good health, considering his mode of living, but occasionally has a touch of rheumatism.’

The cave on Skiddaw is not, however, his only haunt. He occasionally favours Helvellyn with a visit and at times extends his peregrinations to Saddleback. Occasionally he seems to assume the appearance of a religious fanatic, and wanders about the hills preaching to the sheep; but in some of his descents into the vale his appearance frightened some of the peaceful inhabitants, and the police having had their attention directed to him he recently underwent incarceration in the county gaol for disorderly conduct at Keswick. While in prison he painted a good portrait of the governor, but it had been a great grief to him to have his hair cut. Having finished his term of imprisonment he has now gone back to his old haunts, a cleaner if not a wiser man.”

The Banffshire Journal—7th Dec 1869

“The recluse… does not confine himself to a solitude as strict as that of a medieval hermit. On the contrary, he is often to be met with on the roads or among the fells, carrying under his arm the sketching board and painting materials he uses in his secondary and more common-place vocation of travelling artist. His appearance is striking in the extreme; and anyone encountering him unawares on one of the lonely roads of the district might well be startled at first sight of so singular a being. No matter what the weather be, the Hermit is never provided with more clothing than a canvas shirt, open at the breast, and trousers, or rather knickerbockers, of coarse material. Shoes, stockings, and hat he despises altogether. His features are strongly marked, and his countenance betokens more than ordinary intelligence. A profusion of black, matted hair thickly covers his head and the lower portion of his face.”

Temporarily quitting his Skiddaw quarters, he has at present encamped in a wood a little above the village of Greenodd…

(The correspondent meets the Hermit on the road and engages him in conversation…)

“The morning was bitterly cold, the fells being white with snow, but the Hermit was, as usual, only clothed in the scanty attire I have already described. He was by no means averse to entering into conversation and informed me that from a boy he disliked wearing much clothing, and otherwise conforming to the restraints of civilised society, and that, to quote his own words, ‘he could not live except when free and in the open air’. He stated that when he is in his tent he is always in bed, said bed being either a collection of brackens or whins placed on the bare earth. In this recumbent posture he paints, his tent being so situated so that, from an aperture in front, he obtains an extensive view, and studies the effects of sunrise and sunset. On these occasions he eschews even his canvas shirt and trousers, and is in a state of complete nudity. Discovering him to be a Scotchman by his accent (a fact which I had not known before), I enquired what part of the old country he came from, and received the somewhat evasive answer, ‘Far North’. “Inverness,’ I suggested? “No; Aberdeenshire.’ ‘Turriff?’ ‘Yes, near there.’ By dint of questioning, I then extracted from him the following information.

His name is George Smith. His parents were ‘country people’ living in the neighbourhood of Turriff. He knew Banff well, having lived there for a short time about the year 1848, when he occupied himself in painting, and he revisited the town in 1859 for one day, when the death of a relative brought him to the district. He attended Marischal College for one session, and appears to have conducted himself creditably, but the confined mode of living proving extremely distasteful to him, he abandoned his studies prematurely. He did not inform me when he adopted his present wandering life and singular habits. He occasionally, but rarely, enters towns, where his extraordinary appearance gets him into trouble. He is, however, quite harmless, unless when under the influence of drink, which excites him for the time to frenzy. His natural abilities are evidently of no mean order, and it is to be regretted that he has allowed himself to lapse into his present semi-savage condition.”

Westmorland Gazette – 8th February 1890:

W. J Browne of Troutbeck writes:

“After leaving Skiddaw, the hermit took up his residence near the foot of Windermere Lake. Here, however, he did not remain long; but sometime in 1870, he made his appearance nearer to the head of the lake. The place he selected this time was New Close Wood, a wooded hill, about mid-way between the Low Wood Hotel and the village of Troutbeck; and certainly, on this occasion, his selection of a locality for his residence did much credit to him as judge of romantic and picturesque scenery. The appearance of the hermit whenever he took his “walks abroad” in the Windermere district, differed some what from the account given by the tourist in the Keswick district. His habilments were nothing more or less than simply an old shirt and pair of trousers, the latter either cut short or turned up to the knees. As for shoes and socks, he eschewed them entirely; and how his “poor feet” escaped being cut and lacerated by the many sharp stones of the district was a marvel. His hair, which was black, was not so long as previously described, but was thick, matted, and unkempt. His appearance, especially when seen in the gloaming, was of a weird and uncanny description. It was while he was residing here in the spring of 1871, that the writer of this notice made his personal acquaintance in connection with the taking of the census of that year. To find the hermit “at home” it was necessary to visit him fairly early in the morning. Accordingly, the hermit was found between seven and eight reclining in his tent, or perhaps wigwam would be the more correct term. This was a heap of brushwood, locally called “chats” that protected him from the dampness of the ground; upon this was spread an old blanket in which he rolled himself up at nights, and over all was stretched something that looked like part of an old tent covering to keep off the rain. The wigwam—if it may be so termed—was just sufficiently large to allow him to lie down at full length, and turn over. Upon the schedule being presented to him to fill up, which, in his case, would not be a very lengthy operation, he readily entered into the matter, and promised to have it filled up by the appointed time. Upon looking it over, he observed that the last column specified whether “insane, lunatic, or imbecile” and, looking up with a droll expression on his face, he inquired how that column was to be filled up. At that time, he was considered to be more eccentric than insane; or perhaps like the immortal Don Quixote, he was sane on every subject but one; as his conversation at that period was both rational and intellectual. Upon the schedule being examined, it was found that his name was George Smith, and that he was a native of Scotland; his age was given as forty-six, and the insanity column was left blank. It appears he had come of respectable parentage, as he had received a very liberal education at one of the Scottish universities. He was no mean artist, and was patronised by many of the yeomen, farmers, and inn-keepers of the district, who employed him to paint their portraits. These portraits were executed in oil upon a species of mill-board, demy size, specially prepared for the purpose. Had he given his mind more to the purpose, he might have turned out some very fair specimens. But as it was, he just worked enough to supply his immediate pecuniary wants. He remained in New Close Wood for some time longer, until several benevolent and liberal-minded gentlemen made an effort to reclaim and civilise him. For this purpose he was provided with decent and suitable clothing; and when thus equipped he was not at all like the same man. As Smith, as we must now call him, was gifted with a fair amount of artistic skill, a situation was obtained for him in the photographic studio of Mr. Bowness, of Ambleside. Here, however, he did not long remain. His insanity appeared to increase, and, although his friends might suitably clothe him, they could not clothe him in his right mind. Soon after this he wandered back again to Scotland…”

Banffshire Reporter—18th July 1873:

“At present, he has paid a sort of professional visit to his native parish of Forglen, and he has taken up house in a way that seems most congenial to his fancy…The “house”, which is entirely of his own manufacture, is of the most primitive kind and could be erected with much less trouble than the wigwam of an American Indian. It simply consists of branches of broom built in the form of a rustic arbor…It is situated a few hundred yards up the private road to Forglen Home Farm…It is not at all unlike a large bird’s nest, and in the present weather, it looks to be dry and comfortable enough, although the proprietor does not think it would be impervious to a continued shower of rain…It is in a very romantic situation, the artist’s eye evidently having been charmed with the beauty of the surroundings…Of the man himself, so much has already been said by those better able to speak on such a subject than us, that we would prefer to leave him as he is. In appearance, he is far from repulsive, as many people with an aberration of intellect are…That there is a decided want of “balance” no-one who listens to him five minutes could doubt.”

The Edinburgh Evening News—10th June 1876:

The East Aberdeenshire Observer of yesterday states that George Smith, “The Skiddaw Hermit,” who was an object of much interest some years ago, has escaped from Banff Lunatic Asylum, and is supposed to be making his way back to Skiddaw. He was an artist of great skill, but has always been subject to insanity, and has lately been suffering from religious excitement, believing he was an Apostle, and could work miracles. His friends belong to Banffshire, and had placed him in the asylum.

Westmorland Gazette – 8th February 1890:

“Besides being a very clever portrait painter, he (the hermit) was endowed with phenological skill, and a writer of his life adds that he often heard him, “delineating characters with as much minuteness and truthfulness as if he had known them all their lives… He was converted by Captain S. V. Henslowe, of Seacombe, near Liverpool, who preached the Gospel several times in Bowness Bay. Soon after his conversion he paid more respect to his dress, and instead of appearing in his Skiddaw outfit—a pair of trousers rolled up to his knees, and a wincey shirt—he was attired in a new suit of clothes, and wore, what he had seldom done before, a hat to cover his profuse, dark, bushy hair. With respect to his dislike of sectarianism, he could not endure it in any form. If he was averse to the habits of society in the past time of his life, much more was he averse to the formula and rules of the various churches and chapels. Nothing but the “one thing”—The word of God, without rule, law, or system added—would he have to do with. Once he was persuaded to go into a chapel at Windermere, but he came out with the protestation, “Ye worship he know not what”. In 1873 he left Windermere and went home to his friends in Banffshire, but with the full intention of returning to his friends in Windermere, amid the scenes he loved so well. But it was otherwise ordered, and he was soon placed… first in Banffshire Asylum, then Aberdeen Asylum, and finally into Banffshire Asylum again, where he died on the 18th of September, 1876. Dr. M. Cullock, of that asylum, writing to a friend respecting him, wrote:—That although of weak mind, “I do believe he was a true Christian. He was fond of his Bible to the last”. I think enough has been given to show what spirit he was of, and even amid much weakness of mind, he had a very fine intellect, which even then stood out in beautiful outline through the fading light of his last days on earth. Once to a friend near Bowness, he said, “I am a worshipper of Nature. But, ah! she is a fickle goddess. I never know where I have her. Sometimes I lay down on a mossy bank, and she is so lovely that I drop asleep, while she bathes my face in sunshine, and fans my locks with soft breeze; and lo! when I wake up again, in hour or two, she is frowning on me coldly, and clattering the hailstones against my teeth”.

Lakeland Walking Tales

Category Archives: Lake District

Faeries Wear Boots

Green Crag, Harter Fell & Hard Knott

Further Reading / Sources

Enjoyed this post?

Like this: