THE ENGLISH LAKE COUNTRY 



mortal man, woman, and child within that twenty and 

 odd mile breadth, and all about them. He knows 

 more about hounds and foxes than almost any one in 

 the country but the great Joe Bouman, his immediate 

 neighbour and intimate, who has only just laid down 

 the horn of the UUswater pack after thirty strenuous 

 years. He knows all about sheep and shepherds and 

 coUie dogs — in short, there is not a single feature of 

 life in this wild romantic country that my landlord 

 does not know well, and, I may confidently add, does 

 not love. He can tell local stories in the racy Cum- 

 brian or Westmoreland dialect almost inexhaustibly, 

 and the unsophisticated townsman who thinks that 

 crowds are necessary as humour-producing factors 

 makes the biggest kind of mistake. It is remote places 

 that breed originality and independence of character 

 which, with a naturally racy people, make matter for 

 the good raconteur who knows them well. And these 

 Celto-Scandinavian Highlanders of the Lake country 

 have always a waggish tongue and the keenest sense 

 of the funny side of things, offering no little contrast 

 in this particular to their Saxon neighbours of North- 

 umbria across the Pennines. 



My landlord finds time for everything. He carves 

 at the side-tables while his many nice daughters do 

 all the waiting. Indeed, the hotel is quite a family 

 affair. In a holiday week, such as Whitsuntide, when 

 the house is full with thirty odd guests, it is a great 

 sight to see mine host on the porch dispatching the 

 various parties for the day, one after the other, deliver- 

 ing the luncheon packages, bandying jokes with old 

 habitues, and giving minute directions as to paths 



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