Combe Ghyll is the name of the course that drains the north side of Glaramara, the stream making its way down the little valley that has already been described as lying between Thornythwaite and Rosthwaite Fells. At about the 1,000-feet level in the valley the land is flat and marshy; with little provocation the stream could produce a respectable lake, and the tourist in wet weather feels that such absence of deception would be to his advantage. Above this level the mountain rises abruptly, and the ghyll has to acknowledge two sources. That which sends its supply straight down the centre of Raven Crag was the first to be regarded as Combe Ghyll. But the other is longer and more obvious. Looking up from the marsh the watercourse is very distinct away to the left, though the climb is equally in evidence on the right. When a short time since three curious cragsmen (including the curious writer) penetrated to the recesses of this almost unknown country to find the climb that Messrs. Robinson and Wilson had discovered and christened as long ago as September, 1893, we were compelled by that name to tackle the east branch, but vowed at the same time to go later to the west. Our conscientiousness was praiseworthy, though mistaken, but as events developed themselves our mistake had happy consequences. We managed both ghylls, and were probably instrumental in preventing a nasty accident to a couple of would-be mountaineers whom we discovered in difficulties.
It was on a hot day in April. We had been disporting ourselves for photographic purposes in the Kern Knotts crack, and had sauntered down to Seatoller for some soda and milk to give grace to our jam sandwiches. Then we walked down the Rosthwaite Road as far as the bridge over the Derwent, and went across the opposite shoulder into the combe. It was very close down in Borrowdale, and we were glad to get out of the well of warm air and follow the water for a mile or so to the marshy upland. Here the walking was soft and pleasant. Water in our boots was no hardship, and we even hoped that there would be many waterfalls in our gully. Then came the dilemma and our decision to keep to the main stream. But the aspect of the Raven Crag gully on our right, as we skirted the boggy ground below us, was magnificent. Pitch rose above pitch apparently without any easy stretches, and the whole gully seemed to form just one vertical chimney in the rocks, five hundred feet high. Moss Ghyll itself is not grander than the Raven Crag gully as it appeared that afternoon to our longing gaze, and even now that the details of the latter climb are impressed vividly in my mind I can assure myself that it was one of the finest I have ever undertaken in Cumberland.