There are few more picturesque valleys in the Lake District than the one where the lakes of Buttermere and Crummock Water sit side-by-side. This is not the harsh landscape of Wasdale, but the chocolate box image of the Lake District. It is utterly beautiful. The tiny village of Buttermere with its 19th century Old Schoolhouse and dinky slate church, sits between both lakes overshadowed by high peaks.
Once home to neolithic peoples, it is the Vikings who settled this region in the 9th and 10th centuries who left a permanent imprint on the landscape through the Norse language. It’s even said that Buttermere is named after a Norse chieftain, Bothar. Norse may be imprinted on the valley, but JMW Turner captured its essence on canvas. Here Turner found nature at its most awe inspiring. Buttermere became a Victorian Arcadia.
It wasn’t the sublime and dramatic landscapes that brought early 19th century travellers to the shores of Buttermere though. That dubious honour was held by the many charms of Mary Robinson, the 15-year-old daughter of an innkeeper who would become known as The Maid of Buttermere. Her life reflects a devastating vein of 19th century literature – think Thomas Hardy’s Tess of the d’Urbervilles with a less tragic ending.
In 1792, Joseph Budworth ‘discovered’ Mary in Buttermere. His description of her beauty and innocence published in his guidebook, A Fortnight’s Ramble to the Lakes, made her a celebrity. After referring to her as one of the area’s tourist attractions, he went on to call her an “angel” possessing “a fine oval face, with full eyes and lips as sweet as vermillion … her cheeks had more of the lily than the rose”. She might have been a specimen for the Natural History Museum.
The story has a very contemporary feel: a young girl thrust into the limelight, her image crafted and exploited by rich men. Suddenly, the well-to-do and ne’er do wells all wanted to see this beauty, and her fame spread. William Wordsworth wrote about her in his epic poem The Prelude. When it was published posthumously in 1850 Mary was dead, but her tragic tale still resonates today thanks to the idealised epitaph of Wordsworth.
Sadly for Mary, it wasn’t just grand old men of letters who took an interest in her – not forgetting that Wordsworth had an illegitimate child in France during the early days of the French Revolution. In 1802, ‘Colonel Alexander Augustus Hope’ walked into her life. After a whirlwind romance, they were married. Hope claimed to be the brother of an Earl and news of an aristocrat marrying The Maid of Buttermere hit the news.
The problem was that Hope was actually John Hatfield, a low born impostor. Worse still, he was already married and had two children. Mary had been deceived into a bigamous marriage and the world soon found out. Hatfield was arrested, escaped, rearrested, tried and hanged in 1803. Mary must have been traumatised by the death of her ‘husband’ and father of her first child – infamy rapidly following fame – but she remarried, dying only in 1837.
Having worked for the Wordsworth Trust many years ago, this story accompanied me as I set off up Low Bank, a hill directly behind the village that leads to the delightfully named Rannerdale Knotts. It was hot and humid, making the climb quite unpleasant. The views over Buttermere and Crummock Water to Mellbreak and High Stile were gorgeous.
On the descent from Rannerdale Knotts I stopped and ate breakfast looking down the vast sweep of Crummock Water in almost total silence, with just a few Herdwick sheep strolling through the bracken for company. I walked down to the shore of the lake and back towards Buttermere village. There was a depressing amount of litter on the ‘beach’ at the end of the lake, weekend visitors who didn’t take their waste home, but even that couldn’t detract from the epic views.
Sorry about the litter.
Wordsworth reminded me – Alas – of my gaping holes in English Lit… 😉
though I am proud to say that I making my way through Great expectations. About halfway through. A first for me, I’d always balked at Dickens… 😉
Happy holidays Paul
Great Expectations is a great book, although Dickens is always a bit depressing to read. Wordsworth’s poetry is often wonderful, but it can also be hard work. It amused me to think about him writing his disgust at the litter, it would probably have run to dozens of pages.
Hope all’s well with you Brian?
haha! I have balked at Little Dorrit several times. Never could read more than twenty pages. Now halfway through Pip’s “education”. what forks to use and in what order. 😉
Having said that, the England Dickens depicts is quite harsh. And that Class conscience… (Not sure it has totally disappeared has it?)
All well, thanks. Enjoy your summer.