For we must call at the Swan. Was it
not the Swan that Wordsworth's "Waggoner" so triumphantly passed? Was it
not the Swan to which Sir Walter Scott used to go for his beer when he was
staying with Wordsworth at Rydal Water? And behind the Swan is there not
that fold in the hills where Wordsworth's "Michael" built, or tried to
build, his sheepfold? Yes, we will stay at the Swan whatever befalls.
And so the jolly days go by, some wet, some fine, some a mixture of both,
but all delightful, and we forget the day of the week, know no news except
the changes in the weather and the track over the mountains, meet none of
our kind except a rare vagabond like ourselves--with rope across his
shoulder if he is a rock-man, with rucksack on back if he is a tourist--and
with no goal save some far-off valley inn where we shall renew our strength
and where the morrow's uprising to deeds shall be sweet.
I started to write in praise of walking, and I find I have written in
praise of Lakeland. But indeed the two chants of praise are a single
harmony, for I have written in vain if I have not shown that the way to see
the most exquisite cabinet of beauties in this land is by the humble path
of the pedestrian.
Pages:
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295