In itself the vale of Grasmere, a happy mixture of beauty and domesticity, with its pretty little lake and surrounding mountains dotted here and there with farmsteads, cottages and villas, has strong claims upon the tourist. In addition to its innate beauty, it possesses the distinction of being the home of Lakeland’s richest literary associations. Not a nook or corner in it but breathes the memory of the Lake Poets, for it was here that the greatest of them lived, worshipped and died. William Wordsworth chose this spot for his home. First at the cottage at Town End, then at Allan Bank and ultimately at Rydal Mount, but a very short distance away, he “communed with solitude” and gave to the world the beautiful poems which have done so much to immortalize both Lakeland and himself. To the tourist who passes through on the main road in the day’s excursion, Grasmere and Rydal are beautiful--perhaps delectable is a better word--but to see them properly and rightly to appreciate them, it is necessary to stroll along the fellsides by which they are overlooked. At the northern end of Rydal a wooden bridge crosses the stream--Rothay Beck, which joins Grasmere and Rydal--and gives access to a path known as Loughrigg Terrace. This was one of Wordsworth’s favourite walks, and as we follow along the breast of Loughrigg Fell and gaze down upon Grasmere, with its rich cordon of mountains and woods, we can easily realize the influences which chained a man of his temperament to this vale. Away at the far end of the lake is the little village with its square-towered church, in whose God’s Acre he is laid to rest. Beyond and above it is the gap in the mountains called Dunmail Raise, the entrance to Grasmere from the north. To the right of it rise the bare shoulders of Helvellyn and Seat Sandal; to the left Helm Crag--with its shattered rock summit--and further round the wildly secluded valley of Easedale, bounded by the wooded slopes of Silverhow. Truly a scene of singular charm! Grasmere Church is the chief object of attraction in the valley. A quaint old edifice, its once time-weathered beauty has now been greatly marred by a coating of cement, rendered necessary by the ravages of time and a congregation which prefers to worship in a dry building. The inside of the church is quite old-time, however, and Wordsworth’s lines are still true in every detail, “Not raised in nice proportions was the pile, But large and massy for duration built, With pillars crowded and the roof upheld By naked rafters intricately crossed.”