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Nights in Lakeland
NIGHTS IN LAKELAND.
TO understand a district properly it must be seen under
widely varying conditions of weather and season. Probably
few of the crowds who annually visit the English Lakes have
any adequate idea what their surroundings are like when the
last gleam of purple has died in the west, and the grey of
the distance has thickened into night. To some, natives as
well as visitors, the district is as interesting during the
hours between sunset and sunrise as when the sunshine
renders every detail of hill and valley clear and distinct.
If you are not likely to be nervous, and are not afraid of
loneliness, cross the width of the district, say by the
coach road from Windermere to Keswick, under cover of night,
and you will fully understand the beauty of darkness. It was
at one o'clock on a semi-dark June morning when I walked
through Windermere village on this trip. Once clear of the
houses, the rustle of the rabbits as they plunged deeper
into the woods, the endless craik-craik-craik of the
landrail, the occasional deep whistle of an otter from the
beck or the lake, were the only sounds to break the silence.
The lake was without a ripple as I passed along its shores
at Lowwood, the night-glow reflected on its steel-like
bosom; a charfisher sat in a motionless boat towards the
middle of the lake, a disturbed white-throat scolded from
the reed beds. I felt inclined to go no further - to sit
down on the low wall here and wait for daybreak. Surely it
would be a noble sight to watch the early sunbeams stream
over Kentmere fells and light up this beautiful lake. Not a
soul was astir as I passed through the market-place at
Ambleside, but a man walked stealthily from a side street a
little further on, and set off towards Rydal. I tried hard
to overhaul him, but could not; ultimately he evaded me by
entering a copse near Rydal Hall. By two-thirty I reached
White Moss; by this time the light had so much improved that
the fell beyond Rydalmere was clearly visible. Here the
first skylark sang, and as I struck along the old road to
Grasmere, birds rose from every meadow and mountain-pasture,
and the air rapidly filled with warblings. Looking towards
Seat Sandal I noticed the upper clouds
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