|  | Gentleman's Magazine 1900 part 1 p.441 type, with an unusually cramped defile at the foot. Right in 
front, as you cross the narrow switchback bridge from the  
cluster of ancient houses known as Sacgill (sic) and turn up 
the edge of the torrent, are Harter and Grey Crags, the  
abrupt front of the former continuing in Goat Scar, a pile  
of rough fox-haunted crags. Grey Crag is a pyramid of huge  
cliffs where the more daring dalesmen annually climb to the  
nests of hawks accused of harassing the sheep.  
Carrion-feeders these undoubtedly are, but hardly guilty of  
this heinous crime. As the walk is proceeded with, a curious 
depression in the dale-head is reached - a flat entirely  
covered with stones, which at some distant time had  
evidently been a tarn. Portions of this level are still  
banked up to make pools for sheep washing, and a strong wall 
has been built across at the foot to prevent loose debris  
washing at flood time upon the cultivated valley below. At  
the head of the depression comes our ghyll. At first the  
usual succession of small cataracts, each with its clear  
pool where the water swirls awhile ere escaping down the  
water-worn green slabs which constitute the steep river bed. 
The path, or rather the sheep track, which serves this  
purpose, becomes steeper, and the falls correspondingly  
higher. You rise from the valley in a succession of mighty  
steps; the shelf on which you are standing prevents your  
seeing the route by which you came, giving in return a  
distant view of the valley shimmering in the bright  
sunshine, with still further, range after range of moorish  
hills, with here and there a rough cliff, till the distant  
sea closes the view. You are now in the very jaws of the  
pass; a spur of Goat Scar approaches the stream from the  
left, and a tall corner of Gray Crag forces itself into the  
narrowing glen opposite. Now the more immediate river banks  
rise higher, the rolling waters in front come by a swiftly  
descending curve. At this point we climb round the foot of  
the rocky bank, here some fifty feet high, and find a  
standing place on a small beach. This is the only place in  
the rock basin where such a foothold is possible. Behind us  
the crags rise, covered with tiny clumps of mountain sage  
and fringed at their tops with waving bracken fronds.  
Beyond, higher and higher rise the stony ridges to the  
crags, which strike the eye in whichever direction it is  
turned. The beck tumbles into the small cleft, and as yet  
its unbroken descent is out of sight, but the soft, liquid,  
churning sound betrays its presence.
 As other venues fail us, a tough scramble up the grass hung  
bank commences. From the bank of the gorge are several grand 
vertical views through luxuriant mountain ashes of the  
stream dimpling in the deep crevice, and then of the  
waterfall, with its brink twenty feet
 
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