bridge which spanned the river next to the church. In its keystone was carved a three-pronged mark, the signature of the stone mason who built it, a mark which was also found in one of the cornerstones of Measand Hall. For the last three hundred years or more there often could be seen a man or a child pausing on the bridge to look below at the water, idling in conversation with a companion, or as a solitary, watching the trout rise and flick between the reeds under the bridge. Casting an eye over the river, as if for no other reason than there was water flowing past.
I:III
One bright day at the back of the winter of 1936, a man came into the Mardale valley with the intention of changing it for ever. He came as the spokesman for a project so strange and vast that at first it was not taken seriously by the village. It was as if the man spoke to them in another tongue, or in abstracts far removed from the life of these men and women. His purpose was inconceivable.
The first that the village heard of this man was a low throaty growl, the mechanical purr of a smooth engine, as he drove up the winding east lake road in his new car. The sound rose gradually above the movement of elements, the fussing of livestock; it was an easy and toned hum, unlike the roar and splutter of the ancient iron-wheeled tractor struggling up the incline to High Bowderthwaite Farm, the clanking of chains in the dairy barn of Whelter.
The artist Levell, hearing the engine, came to the window of his studio room, once a grand dining hall, where he had been finishing an oil portrait of Blencathra mountain. On the periphery, moving glassy light caught his eye. Flashes of low red and silver flickered between the trees on the road. Almost immediately he was aware that the automobile was very new and very fine. And utterly incongruous with the environment in which it now found itself, ten miles at least from the next village. The driver not yet realizing he was lost. Hearing the sound louder, Levell left the building and walked along the walled track from Measand Hall to the village, pulling on his beret and a sheepskin coat against the cold. And all the while the vision of Blencathra’s sharp saddleback edges never deserted him, but became clearer as he left his canvas.
A traveller had come astray, perhaps having taken a wrong turn at the Shap junction, meaning to go on up to Penrith, or more likely to the city of Carlisle, for such a vehicle was rare in the parochial border towns. But the car came fast and in a high gear, flashing between the trees, too fast for the conditions, for the ice blackening on the ground. The driver was not slowing or pausing to look for a widening of the road where he could turn round, nor were the gears clashing in frustration at the predicament. He drove without the use of a brake, he drove casually, comfortable with the hazardous terrain, utterly without timidity. And as the trees thinned and the Naddle forest gave way to open land, a sleek red automobile was revealed, glittering in the low sun. A sports car. A young man’s dream, thought Levell.
Transfixed, Levell watched the man turn into the village and park beside the church. He got out of his vehicle, which made pinc-pinc sounds as the engine died, then finally quietened. Levell was still a fair distance from the stranger, and he heard the definite slam of the car door a moment after it had been shut, as the echo moved sharply up the valley in the frigid air. Closer over the frosty field, the artist paused within calling range but did not lift his voice. The drag of a match on the rough side of a box as a cigarette was lit. The air was clear, crisp, bringing unadulterated sound. There was the slight scuff of a heel as the man pivoted to look up at the summit of Kidstey Pike, one gloved hand sheltering his eyes from the winter glare, pausing a fraction away from his forehead. He was wearing a dark-green suit, like a forest at night, and his shoes had been polished to a
I:III
One bright day at the back of the winter of 1936, a man came into the Mardale valley with the intention of changing it for ever. He came as the spokesman for a project so strange and vast that at first it was not taken seriously by the village. It was as if the man spoke to them in another tongue, or in abstracts far removed from the life of these men and women. His purpose was inconceivable.
The first that the village heard of this man was a low throaty growl, the mechanical purr of a smooth engine, as he drove up the winding east lake road in his new car. The sound rose gradually above the movement of elements, the fussing of livestock; it was an easy and toned hum, unlike the roar and splutter of the ancient iron-wheeled tractor struggling up the incline to High Bowderthwaite Farm, the clanking of chains in the dairy barn of Whelter.
The artist Levell, hearing the engine, came to the window of his studio room, once a grand dining hall, where he had been finishing an oil portrait of Blencathra mountain. On the periphery, moving glassy light caught his eye. Flashes of low red and silver flickered between the trees on the road. Almost immediately he was aware that the automobile was very new and very fine. And utterly incongruous with the environment in which it now found itself, ten miles at least from the next village. The driver not yet realizing he was lost. Hearing the sound louder, Levell left the building and walked along the walled track from Measand Hall to the village, pulling on his beret and a sheepskin coat against the cold. And all the while the vision of Blencathra’s sharp saddleback edges never deserted him, but became clearer as he left his canvas.
A traveller had come astray, perhaps having taken a wrong turn at the Shap junction, meaning to go on up to Penrith, or more likely to the city of Carlisle, for such a vehicle was rare in the parochial border towns. But the car came fast and in a high gear, flashing between the trees, too fast for the conditions, for the ice blackening on the ground. The driver was not slowing or pausing to look for a widening of the road where he could turn round, nor were the gears clashing in frustration at the predicament. He drove without the use of a brake, he drove casually, comfortable with the hazardous terrain, utterly without timidity. And as the trees thinned and the Naddle forest gave way to open land, a sleek red automobile was revealed, glittering in the low sun. A sports car. A young man’s dream, thought Levell.
Transfixed, Levell watched the man turn into the village and park beside the church. He got out of his vehicle, which made pinc-pinc sounds as the engine died, then finally quietened. Levell was still a fair distance from the stranger, and he heard the definite slam of the car door a moment after it had been shut, as the echo moved sharply up the valley in the frigid air. Closer over the frosty field, the artist paused within calling range but did not lift his voice. The drag of a match on the rough side of a box as a cigarette was lit. The air was clear, crisp, bringing unadulterated sound. There was the slight scuff of a heel as the man pivoted to look up at the summit of Kidstey Pike, one gloved hand sheltering his eyes from the winter glare, pausing a fraction away from his forehead. He was wearing a dark-green suit, like a forest at night, and his shoes had been polished to a
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