Chapter 12
Loughrigg Fell
We arrived at Kendal, the Gateway to the Lakes, well before noon.
John reckoned the horses were still strong enough to take us the further thirteen miles to Ambleside, arriving at the Salutation Hotel at three o’clock in the afternoon.
We had followed the southerly route to Lake Windermere, passing through the little village of Bowness.
Travelling northwards toward the head of the lake, the views were excellent, and every rising ground afforded something new.
Rayrigg Bank had the most complete view of the whole lake, and from Troutbeck Bridge, a little further north, the range of mountains extending from Coniston Old Man to Langdale Pikes appeared to great advantage: the Pikes on Scawfell—the highest land in England—were seen to the left of Bowfell; and, between it and Langdale Pikes, stood Great End and Great Gable, sentinels guarding the pass at Sty Head.
I had purchased Mr. Otley’s guide to the English Lakes and Mountains—the Cumbrian names, so very strange to the ear of a child of Hertfordshire, would soon, I hoped, be as familiar as the hills near Meryton.
“Lizzy, the mountains are so much grander than Oakham Mount! Surely you do not intend to climb any of them?”
I laughed, for truly I was as daunted as Mama by the prospect of climbing the hills which soared above us, but I would not admit to it. There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be intimidated—certainly, I would not allow either wind-swept mountains or craggy peaks to overset me.
“No Mama, I shall not attempt any such ascent until we have completed more gentle walks. Mr. Otley describes many easy trails. Perhaps to Rydal Falls, which Uncle Philips described, and is said to possess a spectacular upper cascade.”
“I trust, Lizzy,” said Mama, “that you are not dissembling. You persuaded me to walk with you in the woods near Meryton, and, indeed, I feel much healthier for it. But if you believe I shall scramble with you up those peaks, you are surely mistaken.”
She gave me such a wry look, not at all reassured by my assurances that we would only follow the easiest of trails.
Of course, I had planned that each day we would increase the distance covered—likely interspersed with visits to some of the most important sites by carriage, including Furness Abbey, and boating on Lake Windermere.
For now, the matter was dropped; but I hoped that I could at least climb the Gable, if not Scawfell itself.
Our rooms at the Salutation Hotel were comfortable, if a trifle old-fashioned, and from the window I could, in the distance, spy a sliver of the head of the lake.
John had seen to our trusty pair of Cleveland Bays—likely, pulling the coach was easier work than the plough—while Jacob and the hotel porter unloaded our luggage.
Mama sat with me in the front parlour of the hotel with a cup of tea, surveying the arrangements with evident satisfaction. We had arrived!
Having refreshed ourselves, we ventured out to stroll along the banks of the River Rothay, intending to view Lake Windermere.
We crossed Borrans Field, where we were told the Romans had maintained a fort, but there was nothing to be seen except overgrown grass and a few grey stones peeking above the sward.
We continued a little further to Waterhead Landing, where all manner of boats were moored.
Fearful of missing dinner and exceedingly hungry after a long day in the carriage, we turned and retraced our steps to the hotel.
Mama delighted in the novelty of the local fare—a first course of white soup, followed by Windermere char, a cold-water salmon caught in the lake and considered a local delicacy; the second course was potted rabbit with fresh vegetables from the inn’s garden, together with a crisp country wine.
Altogether, a very pleasing end to our day—tomorrow, we would begin our explorations in earnest.
* * *
I had thought to walk to Loughrigg Fell, a nearby hill of some eleven hundred feet in elevation—an easy climb of just four hundred feet above Ambleside—not dissimilar to Oakham Mount.
In the foyer of the hotel, Mr. Appleby, who had introduced himself as a retired soldier turned artist, offered to guide us on the route, being very familiar with the terrain.
“Ma’am, Miss,” he bowed, touching his wide-brimmed straw hat. “I could not help but overhear that you intend to ascend Loughrigg Fell. Oh dear, you must forgive my impertinence—we have not been introduced—Mr. Appleby, former sergeant-major in His Majesty’s army.”
Both Mama and I curtseyed. Though propriety was breached, the gentleman seemed harmless enough, his wide whiskers accenting a slightly florid countenance.
“I am Miss Bennet, and my mother, Mrs. Bennet. Indeed, sir, we intend to take the circular route up the fell, then visit Rydal Cave, which my guidebook states is quite magical.”
“A glorious day for such a walk,” replied Mr. Appleby. “Would you permit me a further impertinence, if I were to accompany you? I know the trail, which, apart from the final ascent to Loughrigg Fell, is easy enough. It would be my pleasure to guide you.”
I looked to Mama, who nodded. “A guide is always welcome,” I replied. “Do you sketch, sir? And, I suspect, you know much of the local history—both Mrs. Bennet and I are very keen to know more of the Lakes.”
We had found in Mr. Appleby a gem, for he was writing a guidebook for the area and became almost garrulous when describing the town and its history.
The gentleman led the way through the small market square towards the River Rothay, retracing our steps of the evening before.
We then turned onto the Under Loughrigg road, which wound westward, more of a cart track, but very easy walking.
We were well equipped for our walk, having purchased new walking boots from the boot-maker in Meryton; my only concern was that the boots were too stiff, and Mama’s feet would suffer.
But we wore two pairs of stockings and trusted that our feet would soon adjust to the new leather.
“Mr. Appleby,” I asked, “you said you are writing a guidebook?”
He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Miss Bennet, I should very much like to say that inspiration flows as readily as the Rothay here, but I fear I am too much a creature of habit. I write, I sketch, I walk—and at times, I rewrite and walk again. But the Lakes are a patient muse.”
“You must have seen every path in the district,” said Mrs. Bennet. “I do admire a man who is so industrious.”
Mr. Appleby bowed, a little stiffly. “There it is, madam, and in company such as this, even the steepest fell becomes a pleasure. Now, if you look to your right, you will see Loughrigg Fell itself, rising above the trees.”
I gasped. “It is truly impressive from below. From the town, framed by the mountains behind, it looked a mere hill.”
“Are you sure, Lizzy, that I can climb it? We have done so little walking of late—certainly, treading the staircases of Blenheim is not equal to what lies ahead.”
“The trail is quite easy, Mrs. Bennet,” assured Mr. Appleby, though he was careful to lend her his hand whenever the path became too rutted by the incessant rills that flowed from the hills.
We soon reached Clappersgate, a hamlet if no more than a handful of cottages with a narrow bridge of stone arching over the river. A fisherman in a battered hat nodded as we passed, and Mr. Appleby tipped his own in return.
“From here, our path leads away from the river, up through the lanes and fields,” he said, gesturing towards a wooden signpost. Some five minutes later, a flock of sheep barred our passage, regarding us with unblinking insouciance.
“Oh! They are so different from our flocks, Lizzy,” said Mrs. Bennet, stepping forward and shooing the animals aside.
“I see you are a country lass,” said Mr. Appleby, regarding Mama with respect. “Most ladies find sheep rather fearsome, with their curled horns.”
“Oh, they will butt sure enough,” said Mama, “but only if annoyed. I shall endeavour to speak to them excessively politely!”
Mr. Appleby laughed as the sheep ambled away. The lane grew narrower and the hedgerows higher, punctuated by wildflowers—foxglove, campion, and the occasional spray of honeysuckle. We came to a stone stile, and Mr. Appleby paused to allow us to rest a moment.
“Are you quite well, Mama?” I inquired, noting the flush of her cheeks.
“I am tolerably well, Lizzy. The boots are a trial, but I shall not complain. I am determined to reach the summit, if only for the sake of my pride.”
“I assure you, Mrs. Bennet, the summit is well worth the effort,” said Mr. Appleby. “And if I may say so, you have a most admirable spirit.”
Buoyed by this praise, Mama pressed on, and soon we emerged from the last field onto a rise that overlooked Loughrigg Tarn. The tarn, nestled in a hollow, held two men fishing with very long rods. A pair of grebes floated serenely near the shore.
“It is so beautiful!” I found the scene captivating.
“Do you have your sketchbook, Lizzy?” asked Mama, then turned to Mr. Appleby. “Do you often sketch here?”
He nodded, producing a small, battered book from his coat. “Indeed, Mrs. Bennet. This tarn is a favourite of mine. I have found it looks quite different in the morning mist, or at sunset, with its long shadows and the sun glancing off the tops of the hills. Would you care to see?”
He opened the book, revealing delicate pencil sketches—one of the tarn at dawn, the distant peaks blurred by rain. Carefully, he turned the pages.
“They are lovely,” I said. “I wish I could draw as you do.”
“But you also sketch, do you not?”
Unconsciously, I had withdrawn the sketchbook from my satchel, which often accompanied me up Oakham Mount. I hesitated, but Mama urged me on. “Go on, Lizzy. It will rest your feet and amuse you. I am content to sit a moment.”