Tag Archives: King Dunmail

Yard of Tin – the Poet & the Romany Queen

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.

Helm Crag
Helm Crag

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.”

Stone Arthur from Grasmere
Stone Arthur from Grasmere

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.

Stone Arthur and Alcock Tarn signposts
Stone Arthur and Alcock Tarn signposts

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.

Lower outcrop en route to Stone Arthur
Lower outcrop en route to Stone Arthur
Stone pitched path up to Stone Arthur
Arthur's Chair
Arthur’s Chair

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.

Grasmere and the Coniston Fells from Arthur's Chair
Grasmere and the Coniston Fells from Arthur’s Chair

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.

Windermere, Coniston Water and Grasmere from Great Rigg
Windermere, Coniston Water and Grasmere from Great Rigg
Coniston Water, Grasmere and the Coniston Fells from Great Rigg

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.

Fairfield from Great Rigg
Fairfield from Great Rigg
St Sunday Crag from Fairfield
St Sunday Crag from Fairfield

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.

Seat Sandal and Grisedale Tarn from Fairfield
Seat Sandal and Grisedale Tarn from Fairfield

“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.”

Grisedale Tarn and Dollywagon Pike
Grisedale Tarn and Dollywagon Pike

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.

Seat Sandal summit
Seat Sandal summit
Grasmere and-Coniston Water from Seat Sandal
Grasmere and-Coniston Water from Seat Sandal

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.”

Fairfield with St Sunday Crag behind and Grisedale Tarn to the left from Seat Sandal

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?”

St Sunday Crag Place Fell and Ullswater from Seat Sandal


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    Pedestrian Verse

    St. Sunday Crag, Fairfield, Seat Sandal & Grisedale Tarn

    Inspired by the words of National Trust founder, Canon Hardwicke Rawnsley, I trek over St. Sunday Crag, Fairfield and Seat Sandal to Grisedale Tarn, where a prized Celtic crown lies deep in the water, a spectral army stands guard, and a lonely rock bears a poignant inscription from William Wordsworth to his shipwrecked brother, John.

    “A sparrowhawk swung out from the crags, and the swifts screamed at us while we watched him. St. Sunday Crag itself cannot be viewed to finer advantage than from here, and the little Cofa Pike, like a watchtower guarding the portcullis, was a remarkable feature in the near foreground.

    One was sorely tempted to climb Cofa and drop down upon the narrow neck that divides Fairfield from St. Sunday Crag—for St. Sunday Crag is said to be one of the few mountain heights that can boast remarkable flowers and plant growth—but we contented ourselves with the marvellous beauty of the colouring of the red bastions of Helvellyn as they circled round to Catchedecam, with the ebon-blue water patch of Grisedale Tarn in the hollow. With memories of Faber’s love of that upland lake, and of Wordsworth’s last farewell to his sailor brother on the fell beside the tarn, we turned our faces from the battle-ground of the winds to Great Rigg, but not before we had wondered at the piling up of the gleaming cloud masses above the long range of High Street to the west, and the sparkling of the jewel of Angle Tarn between Hartsop Dod and the Kidsty Pike.”

    Grisedale Tarn and Seat Sandal from Fairfield

    Thus wrote Canon Hardwicke Rawnsley of a walk upon Fairfield—“the battle-ground of the winds”—in 1911. Rawnsley was a vicar, a social reformer and a conservationist to whom us Lakes lovers owe a significant debt. Influenced by William Wordsworth and John Ruskin, Rawnsley believed that education and immersion in nature were key to improving the lot of the impoverished. His work began in the slums of Bristol where he arranged classes and country walks for the residents of Clifton, one of the city’s poorest areas. In 1878, he moved to Cumbria to become vicar of Wray. Five years later, he moved to the parish of Crosthwaite on the outskirts of Keswick.  Here, he and his wife, Edith, founded the Keswick School of Industrial Arts as an initiative aimed at tackling the widespread unemployment that dogged the town during the winter months.

    The school began in 1884 as free evening classes in the parish rooms offering professional instruction in wood carving and decorative metalwork. The proceeds from sales of the work were used to fund tuition and materials, and the school rapidly gained a reputation for quality. By 1890, it was winning prizes in national exhibitions, and by its tenth year, it had outgrown the parish rooms and was obliged to move into purpose-built premises, where it continued for ninety years, finally closing in 1984.

    Understandably, Rawnsley’s belief in the benefits of the natural landscape burgeoned with his move to Lakeland, and he became an ardent conservationist, battling against the proliferation of both slate-mining and the public transport network. He campaigned to keep footpaths and rights of way open and quickly realised the biggest threat to the landscape and its traditions came from private property developers. In 1895, together with Octavia Hill and Robert Hunter, he founded the National Trust for Places of Historic Interest or Natural Beauty.  The Trust aimed (as it still does) to acquire and hold land to protect it from development.  Thanks to the efforts of Rawnsley, Hill and Hunter (and the bequest of Rawnsley’s protégé, Beatrix Potter), the establishment of the Lake District National Park was made possible.

    On this occasion, Rawnsley had climbed Fairfield from Grasmere via Stone Arthur and would return down the ridge from Great Rigg to Nab Scar—half of the horseshoe that remains the most popular way to ascend the mountain. But for my money, the finest way up is the one he gazes over: St. Sunday Crag and Cofa Pike.

    St. Sunday Crag
    St. Sunday Crag

    Inspired by Rawnsley’s words I ready myself for the route. I see a sparrowhawk before I even leave the house. It’s perched on an old wooden chair in the garden, beneath the bird feeder, wondering why the gang of sparrows that perennially besiege the spot have all mysteriously disappeared. By the time I reach Patterdale, the sun is out, marking a welcome change in what has so far been an underwhelming August.

    Sparrowhawk
    Sparrowhawk

     I’m heading for Birks but intend to forego the summit in favour of the path that crosses its north-western shoulder and provides spectacular views over Grisedale to Striding Edge, Nethermost Pike and Dollywagon Pike. I was there in February when the Helvellyn massif was a dark volcanic rampart, frosted with snow and illuminated in a spectral light that would have had you believe you had somehow traded Wainwright for Tolkien’s Pictorial Guides to Middle Earth. I’m keen to see how it has transformed in high summer. 

    Striding Edge from Birks
    Striding Edge from Birks
    Striding Edge & Dollywagon Cove
    Striding Edge & Dollywagon Cove

    It’s a tough old pull up Birks, but the backward prospect of Ullswater stretched out below, a cool blue languid pool, gives ample excuse to stop. Over a rickety stile, I gain the clear path that traverses the shoulder. The summit is up on my left, but to my right, the slopes fall steeply away to Grisedale, and across the valley are the flanks of Helvellyn, with Striding Edge a crowning wall, ahead.

    Ullswater from Birks
    Ullswater from Birks

    Some argue these fells assume their true mountain character in winter, shorn of green vegetation, their physiques chiselled, their craggy profiles sharpened and highlighted with snow. But only a churl would deny the splendour of their summer majesty; their lower slopes mottled as they are now, olive, gold and forest green; higher daubs of purple heather are stippled with exposed stone, tinged coral pink by the ever shifting splashes of sun that dance across their sides. A slim stream of silver tinkles down from the dark cliffs of Nethermost Pike to meet a broad river of light cascading over Dollywagon to illuminate its lower crags. If you don’t believe in magic, you have simply never stood here in February and then again in August.

    Nethermost Pike
    Dollywagon Pike
    Dollywagon Pike
    Nethermost Pike
    Nethermost Pike
    Helvellyn from St Sunday Crag
    Helvellyn from St Sunday Crag

    The gentle shoulder affords a temporary respite from the steepness of the incline, but beyond the col with St. Sunday Crag, the strenuous effort resumes. The stiff climb finally relents, but the remaining ground to the summit presents a fresh challenge—the wind is gusting hard. Rawnsley’s “battle-ground of the winds” has extended along the ridge. Even if I had his botanical insight, today might not be the time to study the “remarkable flowers and plant growth”. Simply staying upright is taxing, but it’s edifying, and just beyond St. Sunday Crag’s summit is a sight to further lift the spirit.

    In the distance, the mighty trinity of Fairfield, Seat Sandal and Dollywagon Pike form a circle as if to guard something of value in their midst. That something is Grisedale Tarn. From here, it looks like a dewdrop in the hollow, or perhaps a tear shed for the last king of Cumbria—a deep well of myth and religious impulse.

    Grisedale Tarn between Fairfield, Seat Sandal and Dollywagon Pike
    Grisedale Tarn between Fairfield, Seat Sandal and Dollywagon Pike

    Rawnsley talks of “Faber’s love of that upland lake”. Frederick William Faber was a theologian and hymn writer, and a friend of William Wordsworth, who would take long vacations in the Lake District to soothe the spiritual and intellectual stress of wrestling with divergent forms of the Christian faith. In 1840, he published a poem, Grisedale Tarn, in which he imagined that if he were “a man upon whose life an awful, untold sin did weigh,” then here is where he would build a hermitage.

    Grisedale Tarn
    Grisedale Tarn

    John Pagen White’s poem, King Dunmail, tells a darker story that links the Tarn with the large pile of stones at Dunmail Raise. According to the legend, Dunmail was the last king of Cumbria, a kingdom that then stretched as far north as Glasgow. This Celtic stronghold had long resisted subjugation by the Saxons and the Scots but was finally overthrown when they joined forces. Dunmail was supposedly slain at Dunmail Raise and his men are said to have built the large cairn to mark his grave. As White puts it:

    Mantled and mailed repose his bones
    Twelve cubits deep beneath the stones
    But many a fathom deeper down
    In Grisedale Mere lies Dunmail’s crown.

    Dunmail’s crown held magical powers and his dying wish was that it should be kept from Saxon hands. A small cohort of his men took the crown and fought their way to Grisedale Tarn where they cast it in. To this day, they keep a spectral guard, and every year their apparitions carry another stone from the tarn to Dunmail Raise.

    And when the Raise has reached its sum
    Again will brave King Dunmail come;
    And all his Warriors marching down
    The dell, bear back his golden crown.

    Grisedale Tarn
    Grisedale Tarn

    It’s a long descent to Deepdale Hause, and from the trough, the sight of Cofa Pike towering above is formidable. In actual fact, the path cuts a canny zigzag up through the crags and three points of contact aren’t required quite as often as you’d imagine. On a good day, it’s an exhilarating airy scramble, but as I start up its slopes, the heavens open and the wind whips the rain into a stinging scourge.

    Cofa Pike from St Sunday Crag
    Cofa Pike from St Sunday Crag

    In the notes to his poem, White suggests the idea of Dunmail, and King Arthur, as once and future kings may have been a legacy of the Vikings. In old Norse belief, Odin would enact a winter trance in which he rode across the sky, accompanied by wolves, ravens and an army of the dead, in pursuit of a wild boar or, in some versions, a whirlwind. Shortly after dispatching his quarry, the god himself would die, only to be born again when next he was needed. In the eye of a mountain storm, it’s a dramatic notion and one that haunts as I tread lightly over the slender summit of Cofa and climb into the mist atop the Battleground of the Winds.

    Cofa Pike from Fairfield
    Cofa Pike from Fairfield
    Cofa Pike from Fairfield

    Thankfully, the rain is easing by the time I negotiate the steep eroded path down to Grisedale Tarn. As I lose height, I come into the lee of Seat Sandal and the wind abates. After Birks, St. Sunday Crag and Cofa Pike, another stiff ascent will be taxing, but Seat Sandal shows no mercy. As I scramble up its rock steps, I’m passed by two fell runners. I catch up with them at the top. Above, the clouds are rolling back, and down towards Grasmere, summer is re-revealing itself.

    “They’ve got sunshine down there”, one says.

    “And beer”, replies the other.

    And with that, they take off down the southern ridge.

    Down the valley towards Grasmere

    I sit awhile in the shelter of the summit wall, then retrace my steps down to the water’s edge, now dark and inscrutable as the legend it harbours. Beyond the far shore, I follow the stepping-stones across the tarn outlet to join the Patterdale path.  In the shadow of Dollywagon’s Tarn Crag, I keep my eyes peeled for a brass sign affixed to the top of a hefty boulder.

    Wordsworth Brothers Parting Stone
    Wordsworth Brothers Parting Stone

    Here did we stop; and here looked round
    While each into himself descends,
    For that last thought of parting Friends
    That is not to be found.


    Brother and Friend, if verse of mine
    Have power to make thy virtues known,
    Here let a monumental Stone
    Stand–sacred as a Shrine;

    The words are William Wordsworth’s, inscribed on a slab set into a rock that stands about 200 metres from the path. The stone is now so weather-beaten, the words are hard to read, but they combine two halves of different stanzas from Wordsworth’s Elegiac Verses, written, “In Memory of My Brother, John Wordsworth, Commander of the E. I. Company’s Ship, The Earl Of Abergavenny, in which He Perished by Calamitous Shipwreck, Feb. 6th, 1805”

    This is the spot where the brothers bade farewell, neither knowing it would be for the last time.

    The brass sign says, “The Brothers Parting, Wordsworth”. It was a later addition, intended, I suppose, to highlight the stone’s whereabouts to those passing along the path. I confess to having walked by unawares before, but after reading Raymond Greenhow’s blog, I’ve come looking for it. Raymond’s article provides rich historical detail and tells the little-known story of how the brass sign went missing just before the outbreak of WWI. It was retrieved, some years later, from Grisedale Tarn, where, like Dunmail’s crown, it had apparently been flung.

    Wordsworth Brothers Parting Stone
    Wordsworth Brothers Parting Stone

    Inspired by Wordsworth’s elegy, Raymond asks an interesting question: “What would you say if you knew it was the last you would ever see of your kin”? This gets right to the heart of why this simple inscription retains such power to move. Wordsworth elevates his account of his brother’s loss above the personal and speaks to us all about our own uncomfortable farewells to those we love. It captures the awkward reticence, the sense of something left unsaid, that intangible emotion we perpetually fail to put into words. There will, we assume, be time enough for that anon. But what if that opportunity is denied us as it was for William?

    Robbed of the opportunity to ever see his brother again, the Lake Poet wishes for a monumental stone to stand on this spot as a shrine to John. That wish was granted some thirty years after the William’s death by the Wordsworth society and Canon Hardwicke Rawnsley… And here it stands, a monument to fraternal love, near the site of Faber’s imagined hermitage and the watery refuge of a lost Celtic crown, it’s inscription now as spectral as Dunmail’s army.

    When in late September 1800, John, William and their sister, Dorothy, said their last goodbyes, William and Dorothy returned to Grasmere, but I turn now in the opposite direction and follow in John’s footsteps—down through Grisedale to Patterdale.

    Grisedale Tarn and Dollywagon Pike
    Grisedale Tarn and Dollywagon Pike from Seat Sandal

    Further Reading

    Raymond Greenhow’s blog on the Brother’s Parting Stone is well worth a read:

    https://scafellhike.blogspot.com/2019/08/the-wordsworth-brothers-parting-stone.html

    … as is the Grisedale Family blog, which has an interesting quote from Dorothy Wordsworth about her brother, John, and features the full Elegiac Verses at the end:

    https://grisdalefamily.wordpress.com/tag/brothers-parting-stone/

    You can find Frederick William Faber’s poem, Grisedale Tarn, here:

    https://www.poetrynook.com/poem/grisedale-tarn

    … but you’ll have to look for John Pagen White’s Lays and Legends of the English Lake Country (1923), which contains his King Dunmail, in printed form, or search harder than I on t’Internet.


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