The Cruise of the Land-Yacht "Wanderer" Part 12

Wherever we stop we are surrounded by people, so we make haste to shake the dust of civilisation from our carriage-wheels, and are happy when we once more breathe country air, and see neither perambulators nor boarding-school girls.

At the top of a hill some two miles out of town we come upon a cosy wee hotel--the Harrogate Hill Hotel.

"A've little convenience," says the landlord, in his broad Durham brogue, "but A'll clear anoother stall, and A'll turn t'ould pony oot o'

his. A'll mak' room."

And the Wanderer is steered up a narrow lane and safely landed in a tiny meadow, o'ergrown with rank green gra.s.s and docks and sheltered with fine elms and ashes. And here we lie to-night.

Supper will soon be ready. I shall have a ride on my tricycle; there is always something to see; then beds will be made, shutters put up. I will read and write, while Foley in his cabin will write up his road-log, and by eleven every one on board will be wrapped, we hope, in dreamless slumber.

This then is a true and faithful account of one day in the life of a gentleman gipsy. Quiet and uneventful, but very pleasant, almost idyllic.

Do you care for the picture, reader?

CHAPTER TWELVE.

AT DURHAM--THE BRITISH MINER AT HOME--GOSFORTH--AMONG NORTHUMBRIAN BANKS--ACROSS THE TWEED.

"March! march! Ettrick and Teviotdale, Why, my lads, dinna ye march forward in order?

March! march! Eskdale and Liddesdale, All the blue bonnets are over the border.

Many a banner spread flutters above your head; Many a crest that is famous in story; Mount and make ready then, Sons of the mountain glen: Fight for your Queen, and the old Scottish glory!"

July 11th.

A six-miles' drive, through some of the most charming scenery in England, brought us into Durham. The city looks very imposing from the hilltop; its n.o.ble old castle, and grand yet solemn looking cathedral.

Eight hundred years of age! What a terrible story they could tell could those grey old piles but speak! It would be a very sad one to listen to. Perhaps they do talk to each other at the midnight hour, when the city is hushed and still.

It would take one a week, or even a fortnight, to see all the sights about Durham; he would hardly in that time, methinks, be tired of the walks around the town and by the banks of the winding Weir.

It is a rolling country, a hilly land around here. The people, by the way, call those hills banks. We had a hard day. John's gloves were torn with the reins, for driving was no joke. I fear, however, the horses hardly enjoyed the scenery.

The streets in Durham are badly paved and dangerously steep. We did not dare to bring the Wanderer through, therefore, but made a sylvan _detour_ and got on the north road again beyond.

If we reckoned upon encamping last night in a cosy meadow once more we were mistaken, we were glad to get standing room close to the road and behind a little public-house.

Miners going home from their work in the evening pa.s.sed us in scores. I cannot say they look picturesque, but they are blithe and active, and would make capital soldiers. Their legs were bare from their knees downwards, their hats were skull-caps, and all visible flesh was as black almost as a n.i.g.g.e.r's.

Many of these miners, washed and dressed, returned to this public-house, drank and gambled till eleven, then went outside and fought cruelly.

The long rows of grey-slab houses one pa.s.ses on leaving Durham by road do not look inviting. For miles we pa.s.sed through a mining district, a kind of black country--a country, however, that would be pleasant enough, with its rolling hills, its fine trees and wild hedgerows, were, it not for the dirt and squalor and poverty one sees signs of everywhere on the road. Every one and everything looks grey and grimy, and many of the children, but especially the women, have a woebegone, grief-stricken look that tells its own tale.

I greatly fear that intemperance is rampant enough in some of these villages, and the weaker members of the family have to suffer for it.

Here is an old wrinkled yellow woman sitting on a doorstep. She is smoking a short black clay, perhaps her only comfort in life. A rough-looking man, with a beard of one week's growth, appears behind and rudely stirs her with his foot. She totters up and nearly falls as he brushes past unheeding.

Yonder are two tiny girls, also sitting on a doorstep--one about seven, the other little more than a baby. An inebriated man--can it be the father?--comes along the street and stops in front of them. He wants to get in.

"Git oot o' t'way!" he shouts to the oldest.

His leg is half lifted as if to kick.

"And thou too,"--this to the baby.

One can easily imagine what sort of a home those poor children have. It cannot be a very happy one.

More pleasant to notice now a window brilliant with flowers, and a clean and tidy woman rubbing the panes.

On and on through beautiful scenery, with peeps at many a n.o.ble mansion in the distance. Only the landscape is disfigured by unsightly mine machinery, and the trees are all a-blur with the smoky haze that lies around them.

The country around the village of Birtley is also very pretty. A mile beyond from the hilltop the view is grand, and well worth all this tiring day's drag to look upon.

Everywhere on the roadside are groups of miners out of work, lying on the gra.s.s asleep or talking.

The dust is trying to the nerves to-day; such a black dust it is, too.

We stop at Birtley. I trust I shall never stop there again.

"No, there is no stabling here;" thus spoke a slattern whom I addressed.

"Water t' hosses. Dost think I'd give thee water? Go and look for t'

well."

Some drunken miners crowded round.

"For two pins," one said, "I'd kick the horses. Smartly I would."

He thought better of it, however.

We pushed on in hopes of getting stabling and perhaps a little civility.

We pushed on right through Gateshead and Newcastle, and three miles farther to the pleasant village of Gosforth, before we found either.

Gosforth is a village of villas, and here we have found all the comfort a gipsy's heart could desire.

We are encamped on a breezy common in sight of the Cheviot Hills, and here we will lie till Tuesday morning for the sake of our horses if not ourselves.

I shall never forget the kindly welcome I received here from the Spanish Consul.

_July 14th_.--Down tumbled the mercury yesterday morning, and down came the rain in torrents, the rattling, rus.h.i.+ng noise it made on the roof of the Wanderer being every now and then drowned in the pealing of the thunder. But this morning the air is delightfully cool, the sky is bright, the atmosphere clear, and a gentle breeze is blowing.

Left Gosforth early. The country at first was somewhat flat, spa.r.s.ely treed, well cultivated and clean.

The first village we pa.s.sed through is called, I think, Three Mile Bridge. It is quite a mining place, far from wholesome, but the children looked healthy, a fact which is due, doubtless, to the bracing, pure air they breathe. All are bare-legged and shoeless, from the lad or la.s.s of fifteen down to the month-old kicking baby.

Came to a splendid park and lodge-gates, the latter surmounted by two bulls couchant; I do not care to know to whom the domain belongs.

I find it is best not to be told who lives in the beautiful mansions I am pa.s.sing every day in my journey due north. I can people them all in imagination. A name might banish every morsel of romance from the finest castle that peeps through the greenery of trees in some glen, or stands boldly out in the suns.h.i.+ne of some steep hill or braeland.