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Gentleman's Magazine 1900 part 2 p.358
Between the distant Catbells and the nearer Great End was a
splendid vista of Borrowdale with Derwentwater - a well of
green, on which floated several darker patches. A sullen
waste of water among savage, rocky mountains - the older
guide-book writers would have described Styehead Tarn. The
Gables stood in a mighty wall across the valley, their foot
in depths unseen, their summits now wreathed in swirling
cloud. The crest a few seconds ago sheered clear and bright,
but a wave of mist overcame it. On Broad Crag we again
encountered the horrible pave of oblong blocks piled
at all angles, for which this range is notorious. As we got
along the ridge - and though laborious, the pace was fast -
Wastwater came into view over Lingmell Crags, and we then
saw that the Pike, the highest summit in England, was clear
of mist. For the last hour a steady drizzling rain had been
falling, and we had been wet through for some time, but we
faced that last loose slope eagerly. The boulders round the
summit attest to patience and ingenuity, for level paths
have been made to the half-score low shelters dotted among
the crags. From this point we got our only tolerable view of
the west. The cauldron of Ennerdale still poured its vapour
over Great Gable to roll in long irregular volumes eastward,
but through the gap of Wastwater was a darker band - the
Irish Sea. At the most favourable moment, almost the whole
coast-line from St. Bees to the Lune was in view. Wide
expanses of glittering sands marked the estuaries of Kent,
Leven, and Duddon, but further out a dense blue mist shut
out all possibilities of the view of Man, Ireland, Scotland,
and Snowdonia, for which this peak is famous. We did not
stay long by the cairn, as at any moment the western breeze
might whip an outlying cloud over us; indeed, we had not
gone more than halfway towards Broad Crag when this did
happen. It was, however, so thin that we hunted saxifrages
among the rocks, and had a look down Piers Ghyll before
going on. What a tremendous gulf this is! Half a mile down
was the main gully, with a few of its cliffs, tiny with
distance, visible. Crossing the crags to Great End was an
easier task than before, and soon after half-past five we
were near Eskhause. Just as we entered the basin of Angle
Tarn a big black raven wheeled past with a threatening
croak. I made towards the crags it had left, imagining I
heard the cries of young, but the sound evaded me. The
parent, however, was marked by my brother, who, through his
field glasses, distinctly saw it enter a gully in the crags
of Pike o' Stickle, and even so distant its angry voice was
plainly heard. As we got into Langdalehead, a horseman who
had that morning (it was not yet seven o'clock) ridden from
Seathwaite, in the Duddon
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