The view outwards was most brilliant. Sunlight on the distant range of Fairfield and Helvellyn, the serpentine Windermere appearing here and there far away to the south; Langdale in all its loveliness, with the watch-tower of Harrison Stickle at its head; and the gloomy Stickle Tarn 500 feet beneath us. Our own situation was sufficiently striking for the recollection of this pitch to remain impressed on our memories. We stood (one at a time, by the way) on the very edge of the overhanging eaves of the huge cave beneath. The side walls of the gully seemed to cut us off from all communication with the world. We could only realize the solid platform and the enduring rock to which we hung; all the rest might have been a fantasy. Even the bold fisherman down by the shores of the tarn, slowly manipulating his rod as he cautiously waded knee-deep in the water, seemed to belong to another species. It was incredible that I should be crossing London within twenty-four hours; and the thought of it only stirred slightly in my mind, without actually shaping itself until this present time of writing. The difficulty was not quite passed. To reach the top of the pitch we had to haul ourselves up a tight little corner between the boulder and the side wall. Formerly the headroom was so limited that it was necessary to keep out a little, and effect a rather sensational haul over the front of the boulder. Since the first ascent a piece of rock has fallen away, and the corner is easier. There is no actual danger for the leader, as his rope can be securely held in the interior of the cave. In fact, he may, if he chooses, obtain any desired assistance from the second man properly belayed on the platform. The corner is only ten feet high and the rocks are very good.