From Stone Arthur to Seat Sandal
The romance of the Mail Coach, a Lake Poet’s brush with death, a lost Celtic crown, and a Romany Queen’s prescient prediction. I walk from Stone Arthur to Seat Sandal with a head full of stories from one of Lakeland’s finest forgotten writers, W. T. Palmer.
The Yard of Tin
As the first solitary sunbeam breaks through the white pillows of cloud that stipple the sky like salmon scales, it gilds the shoulder of Helm Crag, turning its dead bracken golden. Astride the grey crags that crown the summit, those rocky outcrops, named the Lion and the Lamb, keep their eternal vigil over Grasmere, as the village yawns sleepily awake.
In his 1945 book, Wanderings in Lakeland, W T Palmer recalls Old Joe, a coachman on the Keswick run, growing frustrated at his colourful tales losing something their lustre under a German passenger’s petulant cross-examination. When she declared, “I never see the Lamb but only the Lion it is”, he quipped back, “M’um, that there’s a British lion, you see; and the lamb is now inside, eaten while you were coming up the pass.”
W T Palmer was a fine writer, and Wanderings… is a fascinating retrospective on a world he had seen change almost beyond recognition. By 1945, motor cars had replaced horse-drawn carriages; the romance they had embodied had been sacrificed for mechanical efficiency, and the rambling wildernesses of the old verges had been cut back for the sake of wider and straighter roads. The thrilling blast of the post-horn, known as the yard of tin, no longer sounded between Ambleside and Keswick, but Palmer remembered it. In his youth, he had witnessed the “coachies” in their striking red coats. He had befriended them and learned their stories.
Wordsworth’s Brush With Death
Elsewhere in Lakeland, the Royal Mail had dispensed with horse-drawn coaches years earlier, favouring the steam drawn variety wherever the new-fangled railways reached. However, the expansion of the tracks beyond Ambleside had been halted in part due to the objections of Grasmere’s most famous resident, William Wordworth. Ironically, a mail coach on this route was very nearly the death of the Lake Poet.
On Saturday 28th November 1840, The Monmouthshire Merlin carried the following account:
“The worthy and highly-esteemed bard and his respected son were riding in a one-horse gig, and had just reached Ruffa-bridge, about three miles from Keswick, on the Ambleside-road, when they observed the mail coach, coming upon them at a rattling pace. Owing to the sharp turn in the road at the top of the ascent which leads down to the bridge, the mail could not be seen until within seventy or eighty yards of that dangerous place, but in the few moments’ notice they had of its approach, the Rev. gentleman succeeded in drawing his horse close up to the side of the road, which is only narrow, but nevertheless wide enough for the coach to have passed in safety under ordinary circumstances. It unfortunately happened, however, that the off-side wheeler, which was in the habit of holding the bridal bit in his teeth, and resisting the utmost exertions of the driver, was at the moment of meeting indulging in this dangerous practice, and refused to obey the rein. Owing to this circumstance the coach came with great violence against the gig, which it sent against the adjoining wall with such force that both the horse and gig and the two riders were thrown, with part of the wall into the adjoining plantation! Fortunately the traces and shafts of the gig both broke near the body of the vehicle, which set the animal at liberty, and it was no sooner on its feet than it leaped over the wall, and, having regained the road, set off at a frightful pace, with the gig shafts attached to the harness. The escape of Mr. Wordsworth and his son was truly providential.”
Palmer recounts the story from the coachmen’s perspective:
“The vehicle and pony were knocked through the wall, and one of the gentlemen picked himself up, and said, in a solemn way, ‘I shall have this matter thoroughly investigated.’ David Johnson, the driver of the mail, pulled up sharp, with face pale as death-‘Good God! It’s Master Wadsworth.’
“Wordsworth was not much hurt; as David said when recounting the episode, ‘No, sir; thank Heaven for that! But I never heard a body’s tongue sweer gladlier though, for I thowt we’d kilt the poit’.”
Arthur’s Chair
The Lion and the Lamb are not the only outcrops keeping watch over Grasmere. To the northeast, over trees still naked of leaves, rise clay-red slopes, steep and smooth to a slate grey eminence of pointed rock, an organic fortress standing proud and defiant like the stronghold of mythical Celtic king. But its apparent independence is a sham. As Wainwright suggests:
“Without its prominent tor of steep rock, Stone Arthur would probably never have been given a name for it is merely the abrupt end of a spur of Great Rigg although it has the appearance of a separate fell when seen from Grasmere. The outcrop occurs where the gradual decline of the spur becomes pronounced and here are the short walls of rock, like a ruined castle, that give Stone Arthur its one touch of distinction.”
Like many, I have visited Stone Arthur on a short detour from the course of the Fairfield Horseshoe, but to do so is to deny it that touch of distinction. From above, it is just one of several rocky outcrops on the descent from Great Rigg, distinguished only as the superior viewpoint. To understand why it has earned its name, you must view it from Grasmere and ascend from here. Technically, the name Stone Arthur belongs to the ridge. The outcrop resembling a ruined castle is Arthur’s Chair, a flight of romantic fancy, imagining a link with the One and Future King. It is a title it shares with Blencathra, which some have claimed translates as Arthur’s Seat.
The ascent is no Sharp Edge or Hall’s Fell Ridge, but it is steep enough to command a little respect. A footpath branches off the road that runs behind the Swan Hotel, and soon comes to a junction of ways. Straight ahead climbs to Alcock Tarn, left climbs to Stone Arthur. Above a small copse, an outcrop of rock contrives to make you think you’ve made the ascent in record time, but as the path veers east, away from it, common sense prevails, and you realise Stone Arthur is another 500ft above. Soon the path turns north to handrail Greenhead Gill, and Wainwright’s ruined castle comes into view.
To the west, a panorama of iconic Lakeland peaks pierces the skyline: Wetherlam and Wet Side Edge, Pike O’ Blisco, Crinkle Crags, Bowfell and Harrison Stickle. Good stone pitching eases the steepest section, and soon I am crossing green spring grass to Arthur’s Chair.
The top is a panoramic viewpoint. Below rocks streaked yellow with maritime sunburst lichen, the shadowed waters of Grasmere gleam like a teardrop of polished Onyx. Beyond, distant Coniston Water is a silver glimmer among charcoal hills, and to the left, nestled in the greening slopes of Heron Pike, Alcock Tarn is a tiny white shimmer.
Looking north-east, any pretence at independence is punctured, as the spur continues, more gently now, to the summit of Great Rigg. If Stone Arthur plays second fiddle to Great Rigg, Great Rigg itself is overshadowed by its loftier neighbour, Fairfield. Too often, it is seen as a stepping stone to that greater summit, a mere waypoint on the horseshoe to which Fairfield gives its name. Yet Great Rigg too is a superlative viewpoint. Southward over the downward line of the horseshoe’s western ridge and the lower summits of Heron Pike and Nab Scar, Windermere and Coniston Water stretch out in divergent directions toward a thin band of silver on the horizon, barely distinguishable from the white sky, the merest hint of the Irish Sea. Above, the quilted blanket of white cloud is beginning to break, expanses of deep blue appearing at its receding edge, its fringe turned a brilliant ethereal white as the strengthening sun endeavours to break through.
The Lost Crown
I fall in step with a lad walking the Horseshoe, and we chat as far as Fairfield, where he heads towards Hart Crag. I look north at St Sunday Crag and recall the airy ridge that links it over the slender spike of Cofa Pike.
But no ridge runs out to Seat Sandal. Its ascent requires a steep and loose descent down an eroded path to Grisedale Tarn. It is worth every careful step. The thrill as the tarn hones into view is hard to suppress for this is one of Lakeland’s most mysterious and atmospheric spots. Grisedale Tarn inspired my first ever walking tale. The guidebook I was carrying hinted at the legend of King Dunmail’s lost crown, but frustratingly neglected to tell the full story. The tarn had an Arthurian air—I could imagine the Lady of the Lake holding forth Excalibur from its dark and inscrutable waters—so I was keen to know its story. A little research yielded the myth, and it inspired me to retell it in my first ever blog, The Stuff of Legend. I have retold it again since, but it would seem as remiss as that original guidebook to omit it here. So, this time, I’ll let W T Palmer recount it.
“That first ladder of boulders which starts above the great hawthorn on Dunmail Raise is famous. Up here, says the legend, rushed the bearers of King Dunmail’s golden crown on that disastrous day nine centuries ago when the monarch of old Cumberland was killed by the invading Saxons.
‘I will lead again,’ he breathed, as the bright circlet was lifted from his brows. The warriors climbed the gorge and dropped the crown into Grisedale tarn across the mountain, then melted into the boiling mist, where they await his summons. And once a year, the story goes, they become impatient and return to the earth.
“They arm themselves, lift the crown from the deep water, and bear it down to the mighty tumulus under which the King’s body is buried. Thrice does the leader strike the stones with his spear, but each time has come the answer-‘Not yet, not yet; wait a while, my warriors.’ And so the phantom army disappears into the whirling mist and darkness once again.”
A biting breeze swept the top of Fairfield but Grisedale Tarn shelters in the lee of a trinity of mountains: Fairfield, Seat Sandal, and Dollywagon Pike. As I reach its shore, I feel summer-like warmth instead of wintery bluster. The sunshine has burned off any veils of mist and Dunmail’s spectral soldiers must have melted away with it, but the waters themselves are midnight blue and hold fast to their air of mystery.
Seat Sandal and the Romany’s Reading
The pull to the top of Seat Sandal is a stiff climb following a broken wall. When I reach the top, the sun has freed itself of cloud, and the cold fingers of receding winter have given way to sun-kissed touch of spring. I sit behind a boulder to eat lunch, gazing out over Grasmere to the south and the tip of Ullswater to the north. A fine grassy ridge leads down to the west. I will descend back towards Grasmere with Tongue Gill to my left, but a right fork leads to Dunmail Raise, where the legend insists that Dunmail’s body lies under the large cairn on the grassy island that separates the two carriageways of the A591.
In the days of the coaches, Romany children from a nearby camp would frequent the Raise to cadge money from well-heeled passengers. W T Palmer once rescued a young child who had fallen into the path of an on-coming coach. He was rewarded with a grumpy diatribe from the driver as to what a nuisance these bairns were, and some praise for his bravery from a German lady, but his act did not go unnoticed by the gypsy folk.
“There had been a volley of shouts to and from the gipsy camp, and now I was the centre of some chattering Romany men, women and children. It was soon borne in on me that I was accredited with a deed of no small importance. Different men, one a big, burly chap fit to eat me, took my elbows, and with gentle force I was conducted to the central tent of the group. I don’t remember hearing much English nor, when I made out the presence of an ancient crone, smoking a short black pipe in the back of this tent, was I greatly impressed. But the others talked hurriedly and apparently to the point in Romany, their remarks cut into by her whip-like queries, and then the old lady deigned to address me. My bodyguard side-stepped, and I was allowed the full force of her shrill but apparently benevolent remarks.
“The situation was not without its humour. The old lady, seeing that I didn’t understand a single word, screamed something loudly, and the chatter behind me instantly ceased. A gorgeously dressed lady of a younger generation (by the way, she was smoking a small black cheroot) came to the front and began to act as interpreter.”
The younger lady explained that the child Palmer had saved was the seventh child of a seventh child, which made them a particularly important member of the family, and the family wanted to reward Palmer for his bravery. When he refused to accept the pile of yellow coins they poured on to a red handkerchief, the matriarch offered to read his fortune instead.
The old lady, who he was given to understand was a Romany Queen, descended from someone biblical (Lot’s wife, or Eve, or possibly the Queen of Sheba), made the following prediction:
“You may hope to live long, for the days of ill-health are behind. You may hope to rise in the world, but it will be slowly, for you have too much pride and will not bend where you should. You never will be lucky in money matters, picking up money which you have not sown, but you will never be without money or dis-hon-our-ab-ly in debt. Whatever you want, you will have to work for and work hard for, but you will get it in good time. Hills and rocks and mountains, mountains and rocks and torrent-sides will be your pleasure and your fortune, but not for gold, not for gold.”
Fifty years on, Palmer would reflect on how remarkable accurate the Romany Queen’s reading of his character and fortune had turned out to be. It seems pretty close to my own too, but as I descend Seat Sandal in glorious spring sunshine after several hours of time-out from the tumult of “civilisation”, I’m infused with a feeling of supreme contentment, and I ask myself, “who needs gold, when you have hills and mountains, and rocks and torrent-sides?”
