SHERBORNE TO CERNE ABBAS AND WEYMOUTH
(_continued_)
PAST Nether Cerne and Godmanstone, the road leads, consistently straight
and on a down gradient, to Charminster, where, in consonance with the
place-name, a minster-like church stands. It is rich in monuments of the
Trenchards—bearing their motto, _Nosce Teipsum_, Know Thyself—of the
neighbouring historic mansion of Wolveton, one of whom—a Sir Thomas—built
the tower, in or about the year 1500, as duly attested on the building
itself, which displays his cypher of two T’s.
Wolveton, standing in the rich level water-meadows where the rivers Cerne
and Frome come to a confluence, is, as the Man of Family narrates in the
story of _The Lady Penelope_, in _A Group of Noble Dames_, “an ivied
manor-house, flanked by battlemented towers, and more than usually
distinguished by the size of its mullioned windows. Though still of good
capacity, the building is much reduced from its original grand
proportions; it has, moreover, been shorn of the fair estate which once
appertained to its lord, with the exception of a few acres of park-land
immediately around the mansion. This was formerly the seat of the
ancient and knightly Drenghards, or Drenkhards, now extinct in the male
line, whose name, according to the local chronicles, was interpreted to
mean _Strenuus Miles_, _vel Potator_, though certain members of the
family were averse to the latter signification, and a duel was fought by
one of them on that account, as is well known.”
[Picture: Cerne Abbas]
The Lady Penelope, who jestingly promised to marry all three of her
lovers in turn, and by that jest earned such misery when Fate ordained
that her words should come true, was an actual living character. A
daughter of Lord Darcy, she in turn married George Trenchard, Sir John
Gage, and Sir William Hervey. As the story truly tells, the Drenghards,
or rather Trenchards, are extinct in the male line.
Passing by Poundbury, the “Pummery” of Dorset speech, we enter
Dorchester, already described at considerable length, and, passing down
South Street and by the Amphitheatre, of gloomy associations, come out
upon the Weymouth—or, as Mr. Hardy would say the “Budmouth”—road.
[Picture: Wolveton House]
For the distance of close upon a mile this Roman road, the chief means of
communication between their seaport station of Clavinium, near Weymouth,
and their inland town of Durnovaria, runs on the level, bordered by the
fine full-grown elms of one of Dorchester’s many avenues. Then it sets
out with a grim straightness to climb to the summit of that geological
spine, the Ridgeway, which places so stubborn an obstacle on these nine
miles of road that many a faint-hearted pilgrim from Dorchester fails to
reach Weymouth, and many another from Weymouth gives up the task at less
than half-way.
Climbing here, the vast mass of Maiden Castle rises on the right,
conferring a solemnity upon the scene, due not so much to the bulk given
it by nature as to the amazing ditches, mounds, scarps, and counterscarps
terraced along its mighty bosom by—ay, by whom? Many peoples had a hand
in the making of this great fortification. The British Durotriges are
said to have styled it “Mai-Dun,” the “Castle of the great Hill,” and to
have established their capital here; and at a later date the Romans
camped upon it and must have cursed the Imperialism which brought them
here to wilt and wither in face of the bitter blasts of an inclement
land.
It was the Dunium of Ptolemy, and has been the wonder of many ages, not
easily able to understand by what enormous expenditure of effort all
these great mounds were heaped up and what enemies they feared who delved
the ditches so deeply and ramped the ridges so steeply and so high.
Maiden Castle is still occupied, although the last defender left it
perhaps a thousand years ago; for as the curious traveller to these
prehistoric earthworks climbs exhaustedly up the steep rises, over the
short grass, he may see the rabbits mounting guard by thousands against
the skyline, or fleeing panic-stricken, in admirable open order, showing
myriads of white flags formed by their tails as they go loping away over
the field.
[Picture: Weymouth and Portland, from the Ridgeway]
As one progresses, more and more slowly with the acuter gradient, up the
roadway, the church-tower of Winterborne Monkton, among its encircling
barns, ricks, and cow-byres, comes into view, the observer’s eye on a
higher level than the rooftop. Village there is none, and the clergyman
who on Sundays conducts services here must do so—between the peals of the
organ, and in midst of the quieter-spoken passages of morning and evening
prayers—to the commentatory lowing of cattle or the grunts of pigs,
sounding like the observations of grudging critics. There was once a
saint who, like a broody hen that will nurse strange things, preached to
the fowls of the air and the beasts of the field, and the spiritual
shepherd of Winterborne Monkton not infrequently has among his
congregation a barn owl, and a cheerful concourse of sparrows in the
roof, much given to brawling in church.
Roman directness was all very well, but later races found it much too
trying for their horses, and thus we find, nearing the summit, that the
straight ancient road across the ridgeway has long been abandoned, except
by the telegraph-poles, for a cutting through the crest and an S curve
down the southern and much steeper side. This expedient certainly eases
both ascent and descent, but it does not suffice to render the way less
than extremely fatiguing to climb and nerve-shaking to descend.
As a view-point it has remarkable features, for the whole expanse of
Portland Roads, the Isle of Portland, and the site on which Weymouth and
Melcombe Regis are built are exposed to gaze, very much as though the
spectator looking down upon them were bending in an examination of some
modelled map of physical geography. White spires at Weymouth and equally
white groups of houses at Portland gain striking effects from backgrounds
of grey rock or the dark green of trees, massed by distance to the
likeness of dense forests; and the mile-lengths of harbour walls and
breakwaters, punctuated with forts, out in the roadstead are shrunken by
distance to the likeness of a cast seine-net supported by cork floats.
On a ridge inland a row of circular ricks with peaked roofs showing
against the sea looks absurdly like beehives, and down there in the
middle distance is the curving line of embankment where the railway from
Dorchester goes, after piercing the hill on which we stand by the
Bincombe Tunnel.
[Picture: The Wishing Well, Upwey]
Descending the hill, we come to the valley of the Wey. The older part of
the village of Upwey marks the source of that little stream to the right,
and the newer part, with the village of Broadwey, are scarcely to be
distinguished from one another, ahead. The original Upwey, the Upwey of
the “Wishing Well,” lies under the flanks of a great down, where, if you
climb and climb and continue climbing, you will presently discover the
poppy-like scarlet buildings of the Weymouth waterworks. But there is no
need to seek them while the Wishing Well, nearer to hand, calls.
The “Wishing Well” is a pretty spot, overhung with trees and still a
place resorted to by tourists, who either shamefacedly, with an implied
half-belief in its virtues, drink its waters, or else with the quip and
jest of unbelief, defer the slaking of their thirst until the nearest inn
is reached, where liquors more palatable to the sophisticated taste—or
what Mr. Hardy’s rustics would term “a cup of genuine”—are obtainable.
Once the haunt of gipsies, who used the well as a convenient pitch, and,
when you crossed their palms with silver in the approved style,
prophesied fulfilment of the nicest things you could possibly wish
yourself—and a good many other things that would never occur to you at
all—it is now quite unexploited, save perhaps by a little village girl,
who, with a glass tumbler, will save the devotee from stooping on hands
and knees and lapping up the magic water, like a dog. The gipsies have
been all frightened away by the Vagrants Act, and no great loss to the
community in general. The inquisitive stranger, curious to know whether
the villagers themselves resort to their famous Fount of Heart’s Desire,
receives a rude shock when he is told by one of them that, “Bless ’ee,
there baint a varden’s wuth o’ good in ’en, at arl. Mebbe ’tis good ver
a whist (a stye) but all them ’ere magicky tales be done away wi’.” The
Age of Faith is dead.
And so into Weymouth, down a road lined with long rows of suburbs.
Radipole is come to this complexion at last, and its spa is, like a
service rendered and a benefit conferred, a thing clean forgot.