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Journals of Dorothy Wordsworth, Vol. 1 (of 2)
·
Dorothy Wordsworth
216
After
a
long
descent
we
came
to
some
plantations
which
were
not
far
from
Douglas
Mill.
The
country
for
some
time
had
been
growing
into
cultivation,
and
now
it
was
a
wide
vale
with
large
tracts
of
corn;
trees
in
clumps,
no
hedgerows,
which
always
make
a
country
look
bare
and
unlovely.
For
my
part,
I
was
better
pleased
with
the
desert
places
we
had
left
behind,
though
no
doubt
the
inhabitants
of
this
place
think
it
"a
varra
bonny
spot,"
for
the
Scotch
are
always
pleased
with
their
own
abode,
be
it
what
it
may;
and
afterwards
at
Edinburgh,
when
we
were
talking
with
a
bookseller
of
our
travels,
he
observed
that
it
was
"a
fine
country
near
Douglas
Mill."
Douglas
Mill
is
a
single
house,
a
large
inn,
being
one
of
the
regular
stages
between
Longtown
and
Glasgow,
and
therefore
a
fair
specimen
of
the
best
of
the
country
inns
of
Scotland.
As
soon
as
our
car
stopped
at
the
door
we
felt
the
difference.
At
an
English
inn
of
this
size,
a
waiter,
or
the
master
or
mistress,
would
have
been
at
the
door
immediately,
but
we
remained
some
time
before
anybody
came;
then
a
barefooted
lass
made
her
appearance,
but
she
only
looked
at
us
and
went
away.
The
mistress,
a
remarkably
handsome
woman,
showed
us
into
a
large
parlour;
we
ordered
mutton-chops,
and
I
finished
my
letter
to
Mary;
writing
on
the
same
window-ledge
on
which
William
had
written
to
me
two
years
before.
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