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the everlasting quiver of the ash sprays, and swaying of the young birches which hang over from the ledges of the precipice. A path then leads him under the rocks, now on this side of the stream, and now on that, till he emerges from the ravine, and winds his way through the hazel copse to the gate.
It may be thought that our travellers have not leisure for much of this meditating in the glen: and it is true that by this time, the sun is sloping westwards; but there are only six miles to be travelled; and there are no more rough mountain tracks to-day, but a good road,- (wonderfully red) across Eskdale, and all the way to Strands.
After crossing the Esk, and passing the little inn at Bout,
the road runs above the river, till, at the King of Prussia
Inn, it turns up out of Eskdale, and crosses into Miterdale.
Before Eskdale is lost sight of, the opening of the valley
to the sea affords a fine view, with the little town of
Ravenglass seated in the bay where the Irt, the Mite, and
the Esk flow into the sea. Then comes a long ascent, and
more views of the levels towards the coast,- rich with woods
and fields, bounded by sands and sea. Then there is a
descent, to cross the Mite; and another ascent; and a
descent again to pretty Santon Bridge, on the winding Irt.
Instead of passing the bridge, however, the road to the
right must be taken, which leads, in two miles, to Strands.
There is again a long ascent: but even the tired traveller
will not complain of it, when the circle of mountains round
Wast Water opens before him. The lake is not visible; but
there is no mistaking where it lies. To
|-- Stanley Force|