A WANDERER’S NOTEBOOK

Otago Daily Times, Issue 20004, 22 January 1927, Page 2

A WANDERER’S NOTEBOOK

TO ENGLISH LAKELAND. XVII. Written for the Otago Daily Times. By Charles Wilson, ex-Parliamentary Librarian. 1 am not going to Indulge in any disquisition on the change of life for so many people, which has been due to the coming of the motor car. nor speculate upon the universal mania for the possession of a fleet vehicle and the ever-present desire to be oft’ somewhere or other, no matter whether you have the time or the money to spare. All I know is that the car has made things remarkably easier and more enjoyable for the tourist. And surely this fair land of England, fairer than ever this marvellously fine summer, is par excellence the country for the motorist. Practically every expatriated New Zealander 1 meet comments upon the extraordinary smoothness of the roads, and makes sundry comparisons when the Rotorua-Auckland road, the Akatarawa Gorge to say nothing of the state of Salamanca road in far away Poneke, are bound to crop up in the conversation Were 1 a motorist possessing—which I do not—even the humblest of ‘‘tin lizzjes," and had I—oh, most necessary concomitant—the required income, I would, during such a summer as this at least, have no other place to live in than England. I have already enjoyed many delightful motoring trips in the Mother Country, round London, through the charming rural districts of Derbyshire and elsewhere, and now a kindly fate has arranged it for me to journey in a comfortable Morton-Cambridge landaulette to that English lakeland which, for quiet but impressive beauty, is surely not to be surpassed anywhere in the world. At a fairly early hour in the morning we leave the usually /ery smoky west riding town of Keighley with, alas I during this wretched coal strike, so many of its tall chimneys significantly smokeless —and away for Windermere end the land of the Lake poets A STOP AT SKIPTON. It is market day in Skipton when we park our car, and, after some morning tea, by no means so widely recognised a habit as it is in New Zealand, take a stroll round the wonderfully well-preserved Castle, the modernised part of which is used at times by “the family. 1 ' This is one of the most interesting old castles I have seen durinv my visit to the Old Country, and although the custodian is even more than usually loquacious, he gives some specially interesting information as we pas? through the long dining hall where the knights and ladies fair were wont to meet at meals, or make our way very carefully, for never steeper or narrower stairs were built, to the basement rooms, far more like dungeons vile than living chambers. Stout old fellows, the earlier Cliffords must have been, and some of their lady folks were equally stalwart, in mind as in body. A MASTERFUL DAME. Here it was that was bom that particularly haughty dame, Lady Anne Clifford, Countess of Dorset. Pembro ' and Montgomery, in the reign of that Merry Monarch of whom friend Papys tells so many amusing if slightly scandalous tales, Lady Anne was a great territorial magnate in her time, and stood on her dignity very stoutly. On one occasion, a minister of the giddy Charles, being anxious to get some subservient friend into Parliament, required her to return a certain candidate for one of her many pocket boroughs, she replied with frankness; “Sir, I have been dictated to by a King, I have been bullied by a usurper, but I will not descend to submitting to a subject, /our man shall not stand.” Which story reminds me that at quaint old Ripley Castle, near Harrocate, to which I motored not long ago, we were shown the mullioned-windowed chamber where that staunch Royalist Ladv Tngleby, whose husband was away fighting with the Cavaliers, entertained to supper stern Noll Cromwell himself. Cromwell had just been bombarding Knaresborough Castle wrth his stone missiles, and was making his way across country when ho put up for the night at Ripley. Lady Tngleby entertained hinp quite unwillingly, no doubt, but, so says tradition, with true Yorkshire hospitality. She herself sat at the head of the table, but, beside her place thereat, she first laid a pair of big horse pistols. She was not the sort to stand any nonsense, even from the victorious Noll himself. A STOUT ELIZABETHAN. In the neighbouring old church so conveniently close to the castle for such of its inmates as were devoutly inclined, sleeps a sailor, Earl of Cumberland, one of the great Clifford family, who was a contemporary of those gallant Elizabethans, Drake and Hawkins, and was a famous admiral of his time. For did he not, wearing the Queen’s glove in his hat, fight his ship, the Bonaventure, so well in the great combat with the Spanish galleons of the Armada that he it was who, pressing through the fight, bore the news to Tilbury that the Dons were scattered up the Channel “like a flock of sheep”? Good old Fuller, in his “English Worthies, writes of this particular Clifford, that “his fleet may be said to be bound for no other harbour but the Port of Honour, though touching at the Port of Profit in passage thereto.” Canny Tyke that he was, he had always a keen eye to “profit, ’ for later on he took an English ship, the Malice Scourge, to the West Indies, and captured San Juan, “with great store of Spanish dubloons and all sorts of treasure.” They served Queen and country did these stout Elizabethans, with loyalty enough, but they did not disdain personal profit, even if they were of such aristocratic lineage as the Cliffords. When spoiling the Don was in course they could be as ween after the dollars, or the doubloons, as, say. Captain Flint himself was after the treasure which he amassed by his piracy. ROUND ABOUT KENDAL.

Through Gargrave and sleepy-looking Settle, cross! g the here tiny Kibble which is to run its way to Preston and busy Lancashire, we make our way, ever climbing upwards to the higher levels, towards picturesque Kirby Lonsdale, where, at one of the very best of old-fashioned inns, wo lunch. I have seen a good many pretty spots, but the view from the Devil’s Bridge at this place is well nigh unsurpassable, and I don’t wonder there is today a small host of kodak-carrying tourists hard at work snapshotting. It is a fairly long run to Kendal, but we are here at last at one of the best-known gates to the Lake Country. At Kendal is what a lady companion rightly calls “a perfectly dear old church.” some parts of which date back as far as the thirteenth century. Here the verger, who happens to be near at hand, opens the church for us —why, oh i why are not English churches, as they are in France, permanently, night and day, open to the people?—and proudly points out an autobiographical “brass” inside the altar rails, which has so quaint an inscription that, despite the mild protests of our host and chauffeur, I simply must copy it down here, and I think you will agree with me that it was well worth the trouble:—“Hereunder lyeth ye body of Mr Ralph STirer, late Vicar of Kendall, Batchelor of Divinity, who dyed the 4th day of Juno, Dno, Dni. 1627.

London bredd me. Westminister feddiae. Cambridge sped me, my sister wed mo, Study taught me, Living sought me. Learning brought me, Kendall caught me, Labour pressed me, sickness distressed me. Death oppressed rne, and grave possessed me. God first gave me, Christ did save me. Earth did crave mo, and Heaven would have rne.”

Good old parson of Kendal. I feel sure that Heaven, which “would have” him did so, at least I sincerely trust it did. At Kendal, wo are in the country of which Mrs Humphrey Ward, whoso father, Tom Arnold, brother of the more famous Matthew of that ilk, was once, by the way, resident in New Zealand, wrote so delight fully in her novel, “Helbeck of Bannisdale.” Most of that story was, I am told, written at Levons Hall, a beautiful old building near here whicli dates from early Tudor times, and which has gardens that are among the show places of England. I would fain visit Levons, but the snot is “off the route” and must be passed by.

“THEY WAS FAIR GENTLEMEN.” At the curious old inn at which we stay the night at Kendal I find my way. in the evening, to the smoking parlour, where arc gathered some very jolly farmers and a sprinkling of local shopkeepers. It is good to hear from one old follow, whose sou was in the same hospital as some of our New Zealand boys, that our men were so well behaved. “I can toll you,” said the old fellow, puffing away the while at his 'churchwarden’ pipe, “They was fair

gentlemen, your chaps, you ought to be praad on ’em. There were one chap, from the Tyree, he called it, who was a fair wonder. One leg off and one arm, and yet he were 't lire and soul of the place. It raun be a fine country that you comes from." And so it is, so I heartily assured him. By the way, when I was a boy in Yorkshire, the northern farmers, when they met convivially in the inns, were wont to favour but two brands of spirituous liquor—gin, commonly called Hollands, and brandy. It was either "Gin, miss, please, for me,” or "I’ll have a drop of pale brandy.” Whisky in those days seemed to be comparatively unknown so far as the rural tipplers were concerned. Now, wherever on my journey I turn into an inn, it’s nothing but whisky if spirits are asked for. I heard a few grumbles about the allegedly weak ale, but, alas! certain medical advice concerning the effects of malt liquor upon neuritis prevented me from sampling the Worthington or Tetley or other favoured brew. More’s the pity, too, for in this hot summer weather there’s nothing to come up to the attractions of what Dick Swiveller styled “a modest tankard” of that •‘rosy” to which he was occasionally a trifle too much addicted, WINDERMERE AND WORDSWORTH’S COUNTRY,

An easy run and the faithful MortonCambridge deposits us at a snug private hotel at Grasmere. At Bowness. on Windermere, we bad seen several launches going off for journeys round the lake, but resisted the temptation to join the party. Windermere itself is the largest, I believe, of the English lakes, but personally. I prefer the smaller sheets of water in these parts. This is a perfectly delightful country for excursions of all kinds. Here we are in the country of the Lake Poets, of Wordsworth and Southey, of Coleridge and the opium-haunted iJe Quincey, the author of so many charming essays. At Grasmere we go through that Dove Cottage which was so many years the residence of Wordsworth. Three separate parties of tourisre had preceded us at the cottage that day, but the pleasant-man-nered young lady who was our cicerone was just as chattily informative and apparently just as keen to show us anything and everything—"you come from so far”— as she had been no doubt with her first set of visitors. The poet lived at Dove Cottage, the simples* of homes, for seven years. Thirty-seven years he was at his larger house at Rvdal Mount, overlooking that tiny but exquisitely beautiful sheet of water which lies between Windermere and Grasmere, and he and his wife and that wonderfully gifted sister of his, Dorothy, and his childre. all lie peacefully in the little graveyard alongside the church, across the wall of which, the day I am there, one of the most famous water-colour painters in England is sketching. The poet’s o n study seems an absurdly small room, yet here he hrd many a long talk with Coleridge. It was at this quiet little house that De Quincey lived for more than 20 years. KESWICK AND DERWENTWATER, We are still in the country of the Lake Poets when we are at Keswick, where we spend the next day, for close to is Gret Hall, where Southey lived so many years, writing poet, >' which, I fear, no one ever reads nowadays and inditing articles for the Quarterly and other High Tory periodicals t, which, in his youthful days, then the sternest of Radicals, he would have scoffed the very idea of contributing. No, I did not visit those Falls of Lodore where Southey described, in a famous noem, the waters rushing down. It is a hard climb up to the best view point, and, well, the weather was sultry, and I am lazy, and so I take the Falls as “read.” Op the whole I did not regret my loafing afternoon at Friars’ Crag, where I sprawled full length on the grass and dreamt of far-away Pon.Ke and Waitemata. For at dinner that evening appeared a party cf ladies who assured me that cojnparati ely “only a few quarts of water were coming down.” I grieve to say tba' some nasty remarks were made about the farnot- Falls. Besides the poets, one hears here much reference to the great art critic Ruskin, who dwelt for many years at Brantwood on Lake Coniston, to which we make an excursion, and a rough-hewn mem* rial to whom stands at the end of a promontory on Derwentwater. MORE LAKELA MEMORIES. ■

There are dozens of guide books on the English Lakeland, but perhaps the intending visitor would do best to reaa Wordsworth’s long poem, “The Excursion,’’ if he wants to have a general idea of this most picturesque of regions. From Keswick it is a very short drive to one ui the hotels at Borrowdale to the south or the motor will soon take you to picturesque Passenthwaite to the north, where we picnicked happily on the side of the road and gazed up at the not tar distant Skiddaw, on which mountain —I’m afraid most Now Zealanders .will irreverently call it a hill—there was a nasty accident shortly before our visit to the neighbourhood, a young Cambridge man and his wife being killed. If you’re unskilled or unlucky enough as an alpine climber, there s no need to go to Switzerland for vour fatality. 'The Lake District can supply plenty ol opportunity for mishap. At a farm on Lake Bassenthwaite was born James Spedding, who was Omar Fitz Gerald’s Cambridge friend, and who spent nearly a life time writing a Life of Lord Bacon. Some of these parts were once visited by Charles Lamb, spending three weeks with Coleridge at Keswick. No doubt he enjoyed the change, but, like most good Londoners, he was glad to get back to Cockaigne. Writing to his friend Manning, he said that after all “Fleet street and the Strand are better places to live in for good and all than amidst Skiddaw," Quite in the Johnsonian strain this paying of that devoted Cockney, Charles Lamb. BACK TO YORKSHIRE. I should have dearly liked to take a trip to Ullswater and o several of he smller lakes, Cru.nmock Water, Emmerdale Water, and that far western lake. Wastwater, which I hear is situated in one of the wildest and most beautiful districts in all this country. But m->' companion, host and chauffeur combined, had chalked out a long cross-country route, which brought us to the' coast not far f m St. Bee’s Head. Here wp were in a mining region, and saw many of he hardy miners beguiling their self-enforced leisure with letting racing pigeons off from baskets at certain points. The coal strike was on, and all through this district the collieries were idle. But how bad a job this is for England you all know no doubt by cable long ago. It is a specially long day’s journey from the tiny coastal village of Seascaio, which is noted these days for its fine boarding schools and where we spend a week-end, to Keighley, but we start very early in the morning, and crossing much precipitous country along which, however, the roads were wonderfully good, we succeeded in reaching pretty Kirkby Lonsdale , for lunch, and made our way into the smoky West Riding and to Keighley while yet the evening was comparatively young. Great are the English roads, admirable the conduct. for several hundreds of miles, of that Moi f nn-Cambridge car. AU REVOIR. JOHN BULL. ’! time, alas, has come when I must end n,v notes so far as the Old World is concerned. These scattered jottings on the Luke district belong, in strict chronology, to an earlier period in my visit to the dear old Motherland, but it has fallen in better with the general scheme of these letters to place them last. In a few days I shall bo on the briny once more, crossing the Atlantic, and on my way home to Maoriland. There is much more I would fain have written on my European experiences. These have all been very pleasant, but the most enjoyable of all nave been my visits to interesting places in the Old Country. Ever to my mind, more than ever, will England remain the most beautiful land of all. Never was I more proud of being English-born and of being a citizen of that great British Empire which was founded from England and of which she is the real centre. You may hear what you like, you may tend what you like about her alleged decadence. All bunkum! Bho is having her troubles it is true—troubles unequalled by those which any country has had to undergo. Unquestionably there are certain classes in the Old Land that are not rising to their responsibilities, and much grievous harm has been done to the nation by the, perhaps at one time necessary but now much abused, dole. But I firmly believe, nay, I am sure, the heart of the nation is as sound as ever. No doubt the Great War has left behind it a sad track of disorganisation. But give England time and all will bo well with her again. John Bull may yet recover his old strength. HAPPIER TIMES AHEAD. Once this fearful awful coal strike is over, as over it may be, God grant, before I reach my own good, little country of New Zealand, and she will make mighty strides ahead. In great emergencies, as in that general strike By which the Reds endeavoured to ruin English commerce, industry, and indeed England herself as a nation and a Power, she has proved she can rise to the occasion and display all that British pluck, sound horse sense, and true citizenship, which she has exhibited so often before Very largely—and don’t you forget it—that strike was planned and engineered from Russia. England has been far too easy over the admittance

of aliens who have at heart only her destruction. It should be a lesson to us in New Zealand to keep a sharp lookout that we don’t get too many aliens amongst us. Let us keep our country all-British as carefully as we can. As for English hospitality, English kindness to the stranger within her gates, more specially bfe he or she from those overseas dominions, the importance of which John Bull is every day more and more precelving—as to these and so many other features of the men and women of my native land, space limits prevent me saying more. A fortnight or so, and I shall be on board the good ship Tuscania bound for New Vork —and Ho me lAu rovoir John Bui!. With all your faults you’re one of the very best fellows in. the world. "May you live long and prosper, you and all your family.” Depend upon it, one at least of your overseas -on- will never forget the trip no paid in hie comparative old age to the land of his liiith. 'Tis ?ure!v the best land in the

Ihe previous articles of this series appeared in our issues of August 2 S, September 4. September 11, September 18, October 2. October 25, October 50, November 6. November 15. November 20. November 27, December 4, December 11, December 18. December 24- and January 8.