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Journals of Dorothy Wordsworth, Vol. 1 (of 2)
·
Dorothy Wordsworth
274
I
have
said
so
much
of
this
lake
that
I
am
tired
myself,
and
I
fear
I
must
have
tired
my
friends.
We
had
a
pleasant
journey
to
Tarbet;
more
than
half
of
it
on
foot,
for
the
road
was
hilly,
and
after
we
had
climbed
one
small
hill
we
were
not
desirous
to
get
into
the
car
again,
seeing
another
before
us,
and
our
path
was
always
delightful,
near
the
lake,
and
frequently
through
woods.
When
we
were
within
about
half
a
mile
of
Tarbet,
at
a
sudden
turning
looking
to
the
left,
we
saw
a
very
craggy-topped
mountain
amongst
other
smooth
ones;
the
rocks
on
the
summit
distinct
in
shape
as
if
they
were
buildings
raised
up
by
man,
or
uncouth
images
of
some
strange
creature.
We
called
out
with
one
voice,
'That's
what
we
wanted!'
alluding
to
the
frame-like
uniformity
of
the
side-screens
of
the
lake
for
the
last
five
or
six
miles.
As
we
conjectured,
this
singular
mountain
was
the
famous
Cobbler,
near
Arrochar.
Tarbet
was
before
us
in
the
recess
of
a
deep,
large
bay,
under
the
shelter
of
a
hill.
When
we
came
up
to
the
village
we
had
to
inquire
for
the
inn,
there
being
no
signboard.
It
was
a
well-sized
white
house,
the
best
in
the
place.
We
were
conducted
up-stairs
into
a
sitting-room
that
might
make
any
good-humoured
travellers
happy--a
square
room,
with
windows
on
each
side,
looking,
one
way,
towards
the
mountains,
and
across
the
lake
to
Ben
Lomond,
the
other.
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