The Log Of The Bertol
By F. Botterill.
“But if Fate is hard on him, if he must earn his daily bread cooped up between the high walls of some great city, he will try in his distress to start a little farm for himself, and begin with a couple of pigeons and then buy a hutch for a few rabbits.” Gustav Frenssen in “Jörn Uhl.”
“The Bertol” is the name of our caravan. As private vans go it is small; for a gipsy van it is large. In it is centred, for us, all that goes to make what we call “home.” It has become the focus of our lives. If we are overtaken by storm, feel wet and cold, or lose our way, our thoughts spontaneously turn to the Bertol and its pleasant interior as a panacea for our discomfort. We acquired it as a toy, an experiment, a step beyond a tent; but impalpably it has grown upon us, from a toy it has become a part of us, inseparable from our lives, and our thoughts are reluctant to dwell upon any period when we shall re-enter the “high-wall” state. Just when the change has taken place we cannot say – it has ingrafted itself. Sometimes we wonder if we are not simply obeying some primaeval instinct. We English spring from nomadic races; Yorkshire people, more than their neighbours, have retained racial memories, customs and speech; we Ramblers most of all. Do we not adapt ourselves without complaint to the actual state of things? Failing inns we have dwelt in tents; failing tents we have dwelt in caves. Is it to be wondered at, when we find a method of living which brings us nearer to all that we call happiness, that we should adapt ourselves unquestioningly to it? The discomforts of the “Bertol” life may be counted on the fingers of one hand. It would require many hands to count the discomforts of the ” high-wall ” home, with its limited sky, its lack of sun, air, and light, its dust, its cleanings – that labour of Sisyphus – its frozen pipes, its gas-polluted air, its coughs and colds.
Not least of the “Bertol” pleasures is the scope it gives for our inventive faculty. With limited weight and space, the great question is “What can we do without?” Day by day we think of new methods of space-economy and stow-away room. For us there is no joiner, painter, tinker or tailor; we must for ourselves and the joy thereof is unknown to the “high-waller.”
Much might be said of the preliminaries, but let us break in at Drigg Station, and putting back the Bertol on to its wheels, see it slowly dragged by two powerful horses up to Wasdale Head, and fixed in its quarters, near the Schoolhouse and facing the Lake; there to commence our summer life in real earnest on the morrow.
March 22-27:-These days have been spent alternating between climbing and work at home. We have painted the outside, and re-upholstered our camp chairs. We have made a footstool and sewed an awning for the front. We have climbed Central Gully in Great End, (in ice), and vanquished the Needle Ridge. We have spent two days in Moss Ghyll, being beaten on the first day by the traverse from Tennis Court Ledge. We have failed to do Piers Ghyll in spite of 25 feet of snow, a bergschrund at the Great Pitch being too much for us. We have seen tons of ice and rock fall spontaneously from Gable Crag. The working days have been as enjoyable as the climbing, and stand out in our memories. We have had a pride in our work and the shade from the awning seems a better shade, or, shall we say, a shade better, because it is of our own handicraft. It begins to dawn upon us that one great joy in life is the joy of making things for oneself. We conceive the wish to cut down trees and build ourselves a hut in the wood; a wish so strong that we are learning the properties of timber, the correct time to fell and how to get rid of the sap.
March 28 :- We are awakened somewhat abruptly this morning to the fact that another Rambler has arrived. The van shakes terribly and there is a violent kicking at the panels. The noise comes from outside and may best be explained by the following entry in the log:-
It is here at last – The Caravan Traverse! After a week spent in reposeful peace it came upon us this morning like a bolt from the blue (s). “The great difficulty is avoiding the owner of the van. The start, which is not easy, consists in getting out unobserved. An alternative route is to take the can and say you are going for water. If this “Can Route” is taken the can must first be filled. This will no doubt deter most parties from attempting it. During the first heavy rain after the traverse was accomplished, the roof of the van, after ten minutes, leaked in two places. The owner says if the traverse is attempted again the party may as well take the whole “darned” roof home to practise on. Only a rope’s end was used. The climb is likely to become more difficult as the owner is about to place spikes on the handholds. If, as is threatened, the owner uses his revolver, it will become an exceptionally severe course.”
March 29-April 6 :- We are experiencing many days and nights of rain. One eventful day we have guests. We are turned out during cleaning operations and lunch under the van between the wheels, pretending it is the Tennis Court Ledge. H. discovers he hasn’t had a shave for ten days. Miss Plues, the Vicar’s daughter, and Mr. and Mrs. Whiting of the Hotel, take tea with us. The entry in the log is:- “Chess , music, rain.” Our little Irish harp, (4 octaves), with its simple music, seems to please our guests. They do not realize that the surroundings have much to do with the effect. Another day is spent in the Wood, ascending by one tree and descending by another – an old-fashioned feat. Another in trying a new buttress on the Napes. The weather is clearing and we are having one of life’s greatest joys – meals in the open. We sit out in our pyjamas and eat our breakfast in the grateful warmth of the sun. How beautiful Gable looks – and the Lake shimmering in the heat – Yewbarrow with a hundred hues – Burnmoor a mysterious beyond, in the dazzling sun – the Pillar deep purple – the sky brilliant green! There is too much to look at – our brain whirls with an excess of delight and shutting our eyes we settle down in our chairs slumberously. Oh, the charm of it all! Our cup of happiness is full to the brim! To speak would break the spell.
April 7 :- We make the first ascent of the Abbey Ridge.
April 8-13 :- Our Easter guests and the fine days have come and gone. The lamp hung outside to guide them, the dancing lights of the vehicles far down the lake, the midnight arrival with its noise and bustle, and the late supper are things of the past. How different from the last few weeks are these few days of holiday! The rocks are crowded and we meet many old friends on the climbs. How pleasant it is to meet them! We seem to have been away years. How much longer our lives are here and yet every moment brings its own enchantment. Is it true that joy is fleeting? Say rather, it is everlasting. Ask the clerk with a fortnight’s holiday! For him three hundred and fifty one days have merged into one long working day; the fourteen will live in his memory for ever.
April 14-19 :- G. has arrived with his tent and taken up his abode in the Wood. We roam the mountains and meet never a soul. Clear views are followed by torrential rains; again, on the 19th, the weather is perfect. H., who goes to-morrow, leads us in splendid style up the N.W. Climb on Pillar Rock; it is a pleasure to climb behind him. What recollections crowd upon us as we ascend; each little corner and each belay is like an old friend. There, as firm as ever, is the huge cracked belay reported to have been sent down.[1] How the place is scratched at this point! Most parties seem to have traversed too far, whereas the upward route is but one stride (left) from the ledge with the loose stones on it. It has been a wonderful day.
April 25-26 :- But simple recollections remain to us of these days. We have been to tea in the Wood and the woodsman has told us strange tales of living on seven pence per day. We develop photographs until far into the night and retire thankfully into our comfortable bunk. The wind rocks us gently and the Bertol becomes a cradle, the pitter-patter of the rain a lullaby, and we sleep long, deep, dreamless sleeps.
April 26 :- Our first loaf is baked to-day. Palmam qui meruit ferat.
April 27-May 4 :- Many climbers come and pass short holidays, and many a grand old cliff echoes our voices and rings with the clink of our nailed boots. We have but one grief. No sooner do we make friends than they are called away again to civilization.
The Hounds are with us, lambs arrive in great numbers, the trees are in bloom and life is active everywhere.
We are back in winter. The snow, which has been slowly disappearing, now falls heavily; the rocks are cold and icy, and our ice-axes are requisitioned. Eight busy days are spent with two doughty Alpine men. One of them, in the district for the first time, is insatiable, doing three and four climbs in the day. We tell G. we are exhausted and suggest we should accompany him on alternate days and so tire him out. On the day before he leaves we do six climbs, but with no such result, and we learn with joy that he afterwards fell into the sea, a victim to nailed boots and Seascale’s mossy pier.
May 5-7:- The winds are now supreme and our tent is blown down; one night we turn out and rope the van to the nearest trees. The gusts from the north are terrible; one of them lifts up the back of the Bertol; another blows a hen clean away; another takes the photographic prints, as they are drying, out of the van and round and up by the Schoolhouse; another snatches up the morning paper, opens a port, whips it through and closes down the port tight again. Such are the pranks it plays. The gusts are followed by dead calms. It is a fine sight to watch the wind sweep over the grass, shake the trees, and lash the Lake to a white foam.
We spy two men coming up the road on a tandem bicycle, and, in reply to a familiar call, rush out to find J. H. B. Approaching – the other man is his rücksack. He presents his credentials in the form of steak, sausage and cheese, and is formally engaged before the mast for a cruise in the Bertol.
May 8-14 :- Happy days with meals in the open! Days on the Pillar, building cairns and marking paths, and tea on the summit. Days on Gable, where the rough rock reflects the heat with fierce intensity, and J. H. B. murmurs strangely of “ambrosial nectar,” “bursting bubbles,” and “anger of confined gods.” It appears he carries some bottled beer in his pocket and one of the corks has blown out. Days on Scafell and tea in Hollow Stones, where W. B. finds a lady’s lace- trimmed white skirt, and cuts strange antics therein.
May 15-25 :- The dale is fox-ridden and farmers encircle their farms at night with lighted lamps. From one farm alone thirty-one lambs are lost. The glorious weather continues, and May wins the annual prize for the finest month. The Northern Lights appear and one night seven streamers are seen over the Pillar. We wander in the woods and make friends with lizards, snakes and other living things. We see an owl on the wing in broad daylight. A sheep dies, (primopera), and while still warm its eyes are picked by birds.
One cloudy day on Lingmell we see the Brocken Spectre, an awe-inspiring sight. The sun is setting over Stirrup Crag and the mist floats in masses over the face of Scafell; from the crags of Lingmell, as we gaze into the depths of Piers Ghyll, D. excitedly calls our attention to a perfect oval rainbow, and in the midst of it are two shadows. We wave our arms and the spectre does the same, and as D. makes for his camera with outstretched arms, the spectre looks exactly like a cross. We are not surprised that, in tragic moments peasants have judged it a supernatural sign. The spectre fades and disappears, the glories of the sunset increase, Scotland and the Isle of Man catch its colouring and with reluctance we descend in the gathering darkness.
The days pass swiftly on, each leaving its stamp upon us and subtly changing our outlook upon life. When our thoughts turn to the city of bricks and mortar we have left, it seems like a maze, and we on one of its walls, wondering why the people fail to find a way out.
May 26-31 :- A box of trout by post proves we have thoughtful friends and provides a feast. We contribute to the welfare of the Dale by mending the main road gate and are contented to see it swing a while longer. The woodsman proudly announces that he is living on two pence a day and invites us all to tea. We find him with a huge beefsteak pie and a leg of mutton, the gifts of compassionate friends.
June :- A month of visitors, of suppers, of tea parties in the tent, of long walks and of exploration on the rocks. One day on the North Climb of Pillar Rock we ascend directly to the summit of the High Man by the North-East Ridge. From the Nose this ridge is seen towering above one, and, missing Savage Gully and the Low Man altogether, the ascent is by easy grass ledges to a diagonal crack on the left hand of the ridge. We make a new exit from Moss Ghyll, thirty feet to the right of Collier’s Exit. It is difficult, but in winter when the Chimney is full of ice, it may be a feasible way. After an ascent of Walker’s Gully, we keep to the rocks and climb to the summit of the Shamrock by its N.W. face. One perfect day we make a second attempt on the Engineer’s Chimney on Gable Crag, and are again , repulsed, unable, beyond a certain point, to make the slightest advance, and we doubt if it be the place to give a shoulder. A girdle traverse of the Needle from shoulder to shoulder, without touching the top, is a curious variation of the ordinary ascent.
July 1-31 :- The weeks become months and the summer slips away. People ask us if we do not tire of the mountains and if holidays do not pall. We smile as we think of our active existence and tell them that as yet we have only touched the fringe of our life in the mountains, for we are in a busy world and live busy lives. Nature’s invitations crowd upon us, but our lives are too short to accept them all and many are refused. To her call, however, to meet her in the woods we always yield, and, in a little glade we make a fire of twigs and take tea with her. We have books with us, but they lie unopened, for the pink summit of Gable is above us, set in a frame-work of trees, and the scent of the firs, the songs of birds, the buzz of insects all around. A something enters our souls; we are reading in the Book of Life.
August :- Each day we probe a little further into the primitive, and each day impresses us more with our ignorance of our surroundings. If we were alone in the World how helpless we should be! Why, the very things we use every day – guns, ammunition, matches, lamp wicks, paper, needles – would not exist for us. We grieve that, although we have learnt to spin and weave in a fashion, we have never seen flax growing; but we mean to learn these things, although the knowledge may be of little value in a world where the results of the most complex process or manufacture may be purchased for a copper.
The Postman drives to our door and leaves a strange and bulky assortment of luggage, including a grocer’s barrow, and a nice box of provisions, evidently the gifts of some kind friend. Although we have no use for the barrow, the provisions will be useful, and we open the box and are sampling the dried apricots when two campers arrive to take them away! Fate is hard upon us this day but our rancour is appeased, when, at two o’clock one wild morning, the dispirited campers, in bedrenched pyjamas, abandon their wrecked tent and seek shelter from the storm.
September :– We have given up climbing, for the time being, and have taken to gathering nuts and berries.
As we roam about we notice many of those brilliant blue beetles rolling sheep-dung into little holes in the earth. They back into the holes, walking on their hind legs and rolling the balls in after them. When the hole is dug out it discloses a score of these balls tightly packed, probably for warmth during the winter. These beetles have hard shell-like cases and many have parasites feeding at the conjunction of the legs with the body. Sometimes the joints are eaten through and the legs drop off.
We have noticed also a species of large spider, with tiger-like stripes on its back, quite the largest we have seen, except a black species near Kirkdale Cave in Yorkshire. One of these tiger spiders spins his web in the panel of the Bertol. We feed him regularly with flies, smaller spiders and centipedes, which he enmeshes by tearing out a portion of his web and rolling the prey into a ball. We accidently destroy the major portion of his web and during the night he spins another, a few panels away. One day he disappears altogether and we learn later that he has been ruthlessly destroyed by the Steward. These spiders spin quite the strongest threads we know of. In one case a thread three yards long, suspended horizontally between trees, supported a twig weighing half an ounce, in the middle. This particular spinner had caught and vanquished a bee, and the wrecked web testified to the battle that had taken place.
In the Wood we find a species of monogamist spider who lives in a web suspended nearly vertically amongst bushes. This little chap is most ferocious, rarely refuses combat and fights to the death. He finds for himself a wife who has already prepared the home, and whilst she sits in the centre waiting for prey, he occupies one corner and looks on. She does all the work, it seems, and her husband rarely comes to her assistance, and she, as is only fair, has the disposal of the food also. But should a male of the same species come courting his lady, then the husband is most warlike and will sell his life like an Englishman, in defence of his home. They seem unable to see, and never quite know the whereabouts of their opponent until actually at grips with him. The spider, unlike most insects, seems to succumb to one stab in the body with a fine needle, and the combatants try to effect this. By transferring the male from its own web to that of another, we have fine gladiatorial sports, the victor delivering the body of his victim, (often the late husband), to the lady, and proceeding to make love to her while she feeds upon it.
Another species usually spins a very fine horizontal web underneath that of our matrimonial friends. Being rather nervous, he lives on the under side, and seizes his prey through the web and so does not come into actual contact with his victim. Anything which may have escaped from the webs above falls a victim to the horizontal spinner below.
December :- And now as we write, the winter is upon us and all these things are past and gone. We have had a peep into a wonderful world and it seems as if the edge of a curtain had been lifted and dropped again. It is said to have been a wet year; to us it has been unprecedented sunshine. We begin to forget our little sadnesses and only the joys remain. No gay songs of birds greet us in the morning now, the days are dull and lifeless and the wind howls mournfully around, but the Bertol has no spare-room for sadness and we look forward hopefully to the future