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Journals of Dorothy Wordsworth, Vol. 1 (of 2)
·
Dorothy Wordsworth
277
The
sun
had
long
been
set
before
we
returned
to
the
inn.
As
travellers,
we
were
glad
to
see
the
moon
over
the
top
of
one
of
the
hills,
but
it
was
a
cloudy
night,
without
any
peculiar
beauty
or
solemnity.
After
tea
we
made
inquiries
respecting
the
best
way
to
go
to
Loch
Ketterine;
the
landlord
could
give
but
little
information,
and
nobody
seemed
to
know
anything
distinctly
of
the
place,
though
it
was
but
ten
miles
off.
We
applied
to
the
maid-servant
who
waited
on
us:
she
was
a
fine-looking
young
woman,
dressed
in
a
white
bed-gown,
her
hair
fastened
up
by
a
comb,
and
without
shoes
and
stockings.
When
we
asked
her
about
the
Trossachs
she
could
give
us
no
information,
but
on
our
saying,
"Do
you
know
Loch
Ketterine?"
she
answered
with
a
smile,
"I
should
know
that
loch,
for
I
was
bred
and
born
there."
After
much
difficulty
we
learned
from
her
that
the
Trossachs
were
at
the
foot
of
the
lake,
and
that
by
the
way
we
were
to
go
we
should
come
upon
them
at
the
head,
should
have
to
travel
ten
miles
to
the
foot[93]
of
the
water,
and
that
there
was
no
inn
by
the
way.
The
girl
spoke
English
very
distinctly;
but
she
had
few
words,
and
found
it
difficult
to
understand
us.
She
did
not
much
encourage
us
to
go,
because
the
roads
were
bad,
and
it
was
a
long
way,
"and
there
was
no
putting-up
for
the
like
of
us."
We
determined,
however,
to
venture,
and
throw
ourselves
upon
the
hospitality
of
some
cottager
or
gentleman.
We
desired
the
landlady
to
roast
us
a
couple
of
fowls
to
carry
with
us.
There
are
always
plenty
of
fowls
at
the
doors
of
a
Scotch
inn,
and
eggs
are
as
regularly
brought
to
table
at
breakfast
as
bread
and
butter.
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