In the evening, just before eight o'clock, I took a walk alone, by a road
which goes up the hill, back of our hotel, and which I supposed might be
the road to the town of Windermere. But it went up higher and higher,
and for the mile or two that it led me along, winding up, I saw no traces
of a town; but at last it turned into a valley between two high ridges,
leading quite away from the lake, within view of which the town of
Windermere is situated. It was a very lonely road, though as smooth,
hard, and well kept as any thoroughfare in the suburbs of a city; hardly
a dwelling on either side, except one, half barn, half farm-house, and
one gentleman's gateway, near the beginning of the road, and another more
than a mile above. At, two or three points there were stone barns, which
are here built with great solidity. At one place there was a painted
board, announcing that a field of five acres was to be sold, and
referring those desirous of purchasing to a solicitor in London. The
lake country is but a London suburb. Nevertheless, the walk was lonely
and lovely; the copses and the broad hillside, the glimpses of the lake,
the great misty company of pikes and fells, beguiled me into a sense of
something like solitude; and the bleating of the sheep, remote and near,
had a like tendency. Gaining the summit of the hill, I had the best view
of Windermere which I have yet attained,--the best, I should think, that
can be had, though, being towards the south, it brings the softer instead
of the more striking features of the landscape into view.
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