THREE
COUNTIES SYSTEM PREDICTED NEARLY 200 YEARS AGO?
Recently at the Red Rose
Library we had the pleasure of receiving copy of an article**(1) written
in 1820 describing the authors visit to Casterton Fell in that year. The full article
makes a fascinating read, of his perambulation to Witches Cave, the Easegill
Kirks and Bull Pot of the Witches. The
final section of the article is of particular interest as it, in all but name,
predicts the existence of the “Three Counties System”. (Dave Brook famously made a similar
prediction in the 1960’s - which proved to be correct!). The article commences with a detailed
description of the authors arrival at a knoll somewhere at the southern tip of
Casterton Fell, describing in some detail what is still very much the same
vista today. A wonderful description of cave exploration follows which our
editor I am sure would crave, in articles presented to him nowadays. Read on …,
you’ll not be disappointed.
Note:- Every effort has
been made to leave spelling and pronunciation as originally written, which
itself is interesting, as in 1820 Easegill beck itself seems to be called Eller
Beck!
As is generally the
case with all sentimental tourists, the morning was remarkably fine, when—as no
man ever goes alone on an excursion—when we commenced our pedestrian
excursion to the Witch Holes. I trust the reader will not suppose that the
first step landed us upon Casterton Fell—but, as nothing—as the readers
of Newspapers say—worthy of notice occurred before we reached a fine
green knoll, constituting the southernmost extremity of Casterton Fell, I shall
begin cur memoranda there. . The green
knoll invited us, as eloquently as a knoll could invite us, to take a seat.
Having toiled up the steep acclivity at the expense of a considerable quantity
of sweat, we willingly complied with the “silent summons,” and sat ourselves
down. And now, as the Novel writers say, for the pen of a Mrs. Radcliffe—but as
I should say, for the pen of Sir Walter Scott. For he alone could do justice to
the “sweetly varied scene.” To the right lay Kirkby Lonsdale, on whose light
blue slate the sun beams—
As a boarding school
Miss might say—were waltzing delightfully. The brilliancy of these
scintillations gave a brightness and a glow to the surrounding fields and
groves, which—like a love tale—may be better conceived than described.
Beyond the verdant
eminence which overlooks the Town—like aggregations of mist—we could just
discern the summits of the Lake Mountains; among the most conspicuous of which
we could easily distinguish the mitre-apex of Langdale
Pikes—an object which so often been eloquently portrayed by my friend Green,
whose faithful and lively representations, shall live and be esteemed, till the
hills themselves shall decay through age. .
To the south was
expanded before us the fertile vale of Lune. The meandering river, sometimes
hid, sometimes visible, appeared like serpentine ingots of liquid silver,
carelessly thrown on a large Brussels carpet. The villages, the farm
houses—But, the reader will perhaps fear that I and my friend have forgot the Witch
Holes, and are going to spend the day upon the green knoll—I will assure
the reader, if he be a reader of taste—and I am informed that none else read
this Magazine—that I viewed the prospect with delight, and left it with regret;
forming a sincere but silent promise, that many moons should not wax and wane
before I paid it another visit.
It may perhaps—but I
love to be minute, It is the fashion for travellers now-a-days, witness the
cartloads of quartos which tours through France alone have produced—it may
perhaps be unnecessary to remind the reader that it is not half so far down, as
it is up the hill; at least we found it so. We were scarcely arrived at the
“foot of the hill,” when we found ourselves in the rugged vale of Easegill.
This dell is contracted at the bottom, to what the country people denominate a
mere Beck-race. Down a channel, as rough as rocks can make it, pours the
maddening current of Eller Beck, happily for our auricular nerves, the hot
weather had “consumed the stream ;“ and no sound was distinguishable but the
rattling of a small subdued brook, and the solitary notes of a lingering cuckoo
in July. . . .
We travelled—or had the
reader been a beholder, it would perhaps have been—we hobbled up the course of
the stream. But, as this is rough ground the sooner we are over it the better;
and to prove how much agile I am with my pen than with my feet, I will step
over a mile of the brook at a single stride and carry the reader to the Care
of the Witches. In order to induce the timid reader to accompany me, it may
not be improper to assure him, on the word of a traveller, that all the witches
who formerly— haunted this dirty gloomy cavern, are either dead or
banished to the Highlands of Scotland; where they frequently cross the paths of
a Scott or a Hogg. This cave is nothing but creeks and crannies
among the loose strata of limestone. We entered by an irregular arch as Housman
would say—that is in English, by an aperture of no definable shape. To be
partcu1ar—in order to fill my paper—to the right we found a pool of water, to
the left a pool of mud, in the middle a mixture of both. Proceeding farther—as
inveterate cave-hunters ought to do—we found the roof sunk to about two feet
arid a half high, but quickly rose again to the height of seven or eight yards.
In this apartment the floor is composed of loose stones, through the chinks of
which we let down a line of four or five yards long, into the watery cavern
below—we preferred this plan, to inspecting the cellar personally as the
witches had left it full of water. From this apartment we crept though another
of Housman’s irregular arches;—and here I would notice for the benefit
of the future visitant, that it would not be advisable for persons above a
certain rotundity, to submit themselves to this rocky embrace. We now found
ourselves in an apartment of larger dimensions, pretty lofty, and of an even
surface; but our farther progress was unceremoniously obstructed by a deep
black pool, which occupied the farthest extremity of the cave. The low beetling
rock sunk to within a few inches of the water, and, prevented our entrance to a
cave, as large as fancy had a mind to construct it. .
.
Returning from this
saloon of the witches, we ascended a rude but narrow staircase to a considerable
height. And here we found something to amuse us. The roof was formed of
limestone mingled with pieces of shining black marble, sprinkled with small
crystals, as thick as hail which glittered in the light of our candles like
stars in the firmament. And of small stalactites hung from roof like candles in
a chandler’s shop. The place was small, so that that after Purloining a few
pieces of crystal from this storehouse, w followed the passage, which led us by
a steep descent to the pool of water which we had passed in our entrance.
Finding that we had seen the entire cave, we were determined to try its echo;
and having provided ourselves with a blunderbuss, we almost. Frightened the
rocks ourselves with the report. I had imagined that the echo might surprise
me, but I never suspected that it would deprive me of hearing anything else,
for nearly half an hour after.
. .
Soon after quitting
this gloomy and irregular cavern, we observed an old man on the Fell burning
sods. And as Dr. Johnson would have said, we perambulated that portion of
the protuberant asperities which nature had obtruded between us and the
stranger “Pray friend”—every man, as
the reader knows, is a friend if we require his services—”pray friend,” said I, “whence
has this dismal spot acquired the title of ‘Witch Holes?” The old man
leaned upon his rural trident; and turning up one of those faces which Teniers
has so often drawn, replied, “ye mebbe dont believe e witches.” He suspended his voice without
bringing it to a close; keeping his droll phiz,
firmly fixed upon us, as much as to require an answer without having strictly
asked a question. It is unfashionable to believe in any kind of witches, except
the Lancashire witches —lads love them!—I therefore equivocated; “I never saw any witches,” said I, “but that is no proof of their
nonexistence.” “Wyah,”
said the old man, ‘I niver sa
any witches, mesell, but me granmudder
sed et a parshal a witches ust ta meet yance
a ear e thor hooals; an
mead a girt feast, an neabody mud gang tull it but sic as ther sels”. “Hence”,
said I, “you suppose it obtained the name
of the Witch holes?” “Its verra likely,” said our informant. .
We now ascended the bed
of’ the stream, but fortunately for us the water had vanished, and left the
broken channel exposed to the sun and wind—as the act of Parliament says, high
roads should be . About
three years since, my friend informed me, a cloud burst over the moors above,
and the waters—like Montgomery’s molehill—”collected from ocean earth and sky,”
were poured down this rugged rocky channel with a noise and a percussion that
shook the very foundations of the hills. The effects arising from this conflict
of earth and water, was visible at every step. Masses of rock five or six tons
weight, were scattered through the glen like potsherds in a baby house. Every
vestige of the soil was swept from the banks of the river, which expressed their
craggy jaws, like the remnants of a sheep’s head upon a common. The banks were
exceedingly lofty and steep, and it was with difficulty—travellers always meet
with difficulties—that we avoided the pools of water which occasionally
presented! themselves in the track which we should have trod. In one
place a deep circular hole about thirty feet deep, with about twelve feet of
water in it, obstructed our farther progress; a narrow ledge of rock, just
presenting space for our feet, and overshaded by a
projecting rock above it, was our only passage. I beg the readers not to
suppose that we felt any fear, on looking down into the deep abyss thirty feet
below us. If the reader has ever been in such a situation be may easily picture
us, laughing at the dangers which yawned below; and, if his ears be good, he
may hear my friend pointing out the security of the gulph
as a place of retreat from the Radicals. Leaving this—as Burke would call
it—sublime scene, we immediately found ourselves in Easegill Kirk. A more romantic spot I think I never saw!
“Oh!” said I, “that Westall was here; this would be a
scene to his mind.” Easegill kirk is a dry hole in
the bed of the river: and without the stream be more than usually high, the
whole area may be traversed. The kirk has no other
ceiling than the blue vault of heaven. Indeed what more beautiful canopy could
a church possess! The walls are perhaps one hundred feet high perpendicular or
overhanging; ornamented here and there with a stunted ash, or a clasping ivy.
The floor is paved in a grotesque manner with freestone and limestone; but not
in the Mosaic style; it might perhaps more properly be called the Adamic style of paving.
At the northern extremity of the kirk the
stream—when there is one—falls down a broken rock about forty feet high in a
fine foaming sheet, at least imagination told us so. Not far from the water
fall the Choir of the kirk opens under a fine arch,
seven or eight feet high at its lowest part. We entered; and found an extensive
vault about thirty feet high and forty long, perfectly light and agreeable. A
curious black rock overgrown is with aquatic moss, from the trickling of water
which falls from the roof, has obtained the name of the Priest of Easegill kirk. We sat down on one of the stone seats with which this
kirk abounds; And my friend drew his pocket a flask. “I always make it a point of duty,” said
he, ‘to drink the parson’s good health,
whenever I come this way.” “And I shall be very happy to pledge Mr. Stone too,”
said I. And we contrived to empty the bottle.
Pleased with our
entertainment- at Easegill kirk we ascended a rude
winding stair case, in one corner of the choir, which led us to the top of the
hill. Pursuing our way up the dell for half a mile farther we were agreeably
surprised to find ourselves in another recess of the rocks, similar to that we
had left; but upon a smaller scale. We sat down, being tired—as a Roman would
hare said—and tried the effects of our blunderbuss. But, though the report was
astonishingly loud, it was nothing compared to that in the Witch holes’ cave.
We found on making the attempt that we could not proceed. The smooth faced
rock, down which the water pours, was too high to ascend, and we were on the
point of sounding a retreat, when the face of a friend and philosopher
presented itself on the apex of one of the highest rocks. He immediately joined
us below, and informed us of some astonishing caverns on the same moor close
by. We accompanied him; and quickly found the object of our search. What a
field—I should say—what a cavern was here for philosophers to expatiate upon.
The place is called the BULLPOTS. But for what reason we could not learn. The
opening is nothing more than an irregular fissure in the rocks, about forty
yards long, and of unequal width. The deepest part was ninety six feet deep,
perfectly dry seemingly pretty level in the bottom. On minutely searching, we
found a crevice in the rock through which we descended about thirty or forty
feet; and would have gone farther if possible. The cavity here expanded to a
considerable extent, and we could discern the bottom—a fine limestone flag.
Nearly opposite to where we stood, we perceived a large hole in the other wall
of the cavern; into this we threw stones, which slowly rattled down a descent,
till the sound died away—and by way of rounding the period, I may add—and we
heard them no more. What extent of a cave may be here concealed from human
eyes, I cannot possibly inform the reader, but our joint imaginations painted,
or rather designed it, a remarkably large one.
Our philosophic friend could see no reason why it should not be
connected with the caves at Ingleton, or even in Derbyshire! I could not prove
the contrary, and therefore left him to suppose, if the idea pleased him, that
there might be a cave in Casterton Fell, above a hundred miles long. I have
nothing more to say, than that we got home, a truth which the reader has very
probably already suspected,
VALENTINE
**(1)
The Lonsdale Magazine or Provincial Repository. Vol.1 No. VIII August 1820 pp. 338-341
Mel Wilkinson