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Journals of Dorothy Wordsworth, Vol. 1 (of 2)
·
Dorothy Wordsworth
85
Tuesday,
29th.--A
fine
morning.
A
thin
fog
upon
the
hills
which
soon
disappeared.
The
sun
shone.
Wilkinson
went
with
us
to
the
top
of
the
hill.
We
turned
out
of
the
road
at
the
second
mile
stone,
and
passed
a
pretty
cluster
of
houses
at
the
foot
of
St.
John's
Vale.
The
houses
were
among
tall
trees,
partly
of
Scotch
fir,
and
some
naked
forest
trees.
We
crossed
a
bridge
just
below
these
houses,
and
the
river
winded
sweetly
along
the
meadows.
Our
road
soon
led
us
along
the
sides
of
dreary
bare
hills,
but
we
had
a
glorious
prospect
to
the
left
of
Saddleback,
half-way
covered
with
snow,
and
underneath
the
comfortable
white
houses
and
the
village
of
Threlkeld.
These
houses
and
the
village
want
trees
about
them.
Skiddaw
was
behind
us,
and
dear
Coleridge's
desert
home.
As
we
ascended
the
hills
it
grew
very
cold
and
slippery.
Luckily,
the
wind
was
at
our
backs,
and
helped
us
on.
A
sharp
hail
shower
gathered
at
the
head
of
Martindale,
and
the
view
upwards
was
very
grand--wild
cottages,
seen
through
the
hurrying
hail-shower.
The
wind
drove,
and
eddied
about
and
about,
and
the
hills
looked
large
and
swelling
through
the
storm.
We
thought
of
Coleridge.
O!
the
bonny
nooks,
and
windings,
and
curlings
of
the
beck,
down
at
the
bottom
of
the
steep
green
mossy
banks.
We
dined
at
the
public-house
on
porridge,
with
a
second
course
of
Christmas
pies.
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