I found this old volume in Grasmere earlier on this year. I couldn't resist it, and now I'm part way through.
It's a delightful account of Dorothy's travels around the Lake District and Europe, sometimes with brother William ("Daddy Wordsworth" to the Suffolk poets) and sometimes not. Coleridge seems to be around quite a bit.
Dorothy's language is like poetry. It flows gently from sentence to sentence, from page to page, light as air and full of rich description.
It is never boring or verbiose. It leaves me wondering how much input Dorothy may or may not have had into William's poems. Or perhaps the whole family had a share in the Wordsworth talent.