"...It was the exact kind of abode that I had been looking after for
weeks, for I was in that condition of mind when absolute renunciation
of society was a necessity. I had become diffident of myself, and
wearied of my kind. A strange unrest was in my blood; a barren dearth
in my brains. Familiar objects and faces had grown distasteful to me.
I wanted to be alone.

This is the mood which comes upon every sensitive and artistic mind
when the possessor has been overworked or living too long in one
groove. It is Nature's hint for him to seek pastures new; the sign
that a retreat has become needful.

If he does not yield, he breaks down and becomes whimsical and
hypochondriacal, as well as hypercritical. It is always a bad sign
when a man becomes over-critical and censorious about his own or other
people's work, for it means that he is losing the vital portions of
work, freshness and enthusiasm.

Before I arrived at the dismal stage of criticism I hastily packed up
my knapsack, and taking the train to Westmorland, I began my tramp in
search of solitude, bracing air and romantic surroundings..."