Journals of Dorothy Wordsworth, 1897, Vol. 2

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On Sunday, August 28th, we wished to cross the mountains above Glengyle to Glenfalloch, at the head of Loch Lomond, but the heavy rain made it impossible. The ferryman agreed to row us to the spot where Coleridge and I had rested while William embarked on our uncertain adventure. The hostess provided tea and sugar for our breakfast; the water was boiled in an iron pan and served to us in a jug, indicating that she did not often drink tea, although she claimed to always have tea and sugar in the house. She and her family had curds and whey for breakfast, taken directly from the pot in which she was making cheese; she insisted that I try some as well, and her husband chimed in with the old saying that it was "very wholesome." I found it exceedingly good and thought to myself that they lived well with their cow: she was food, drink, and company. Before breakfast, the housewife was milking behind the chimney, and I thought I had seldom heard a sweeter fireside sound; in the evening, sitting by a low-burning fire, it would lull one like the purring of a cat.