to Cheltenham, mainly through country lanes often hidden between
tall hedges and leading over steep, rough hills, as we sought quaint
and historic bits of Worcestershire and Gloucestershire. Just beyond
Shipston-on-Stour we paused before a Jacobean manor house, a slight
opening in the high hedge permitting a glimpse of the gray gables and
mullioned windows from the road. A farmer's wife, who saw us stop,
called to us and offered to conduct us through the quaint sixteenth
century building, Little Woolford Manor, as it is known. The hall, with
open-timber roof, paneled walls and minstrel gallery, lighted by tall
windows still rich with ancient glass, is an apartment to delight any
lover of the old-time domicile. This has been adapted to a schoolroom
and the remainder of the house divided into farm tenements. It is full
of odd corners and weird passageways and very appropriately has its
ghost, a certain "White Ladye," who walks the scene of her earthly
misfortunes at midnight. None of the occupants had ever seen her or
knew anything of the tradition, but no one could dispute the good taste
of a ghost who should choose Little Woolford Manor as a residence. Nor
could such a fine old house properly be without its legend of Charles
the Wanderer, and our guide showed us a small secret chamber behind
an oven where with a few retainers it is said the king hid and was
nearly roasted by a rousing fire built in the grate by the pursuing
Cromwellians.
There are other traditions and relics of the royal fugitive in the
vicinity, for we passed Little Compton Manor, plainly visible from the
road, which was once the home of Bishop Juxon, the bosom friend of
King Charles. Here for many years was preserved the block upon which
the King's head was severed, and also his favorite chair; but these
disappeared shortly after the Bishop's death.
A few miles farther, just off the upland road from Little Compton to
Moreton-in-the-Marsh, one may see the Rollright Stones, a druidical
circle; and tradition declares that these stones were once Danish
invaders who were thus metamorphosed for some presumptuous act.
Descending a long and dangerously steep hill sloping from the upland,
we came into Chipping Campden, and, possibly excepting Broadway, it has
hardly an equal in a section famous for picturesque towns and villages.
A wide street between a long array of gray gables with many time-worn
carvings, odd signs and frequent sun-dials, leads from one end of the
town, marked by a huge oak, to the other, where a giant chestnut
stands sentinel. Here again the almshouses attract attention. They are
built of soft-toned brown stone and the walls are surmounted by pointed
gables and clustered chimneys. Near by rises the graceful church tower,
overshadowing a building whose vast proportions seem to ill accord
with the decayed little town about it. But we learn that it was built
when Chipping Campden was the greatest wool market in the country, and
a brass tablet of 1401 commemorates one of the ancient benefactors of
the church as the "flower of all wool merchants in England." We found
inside some of the most perfect brasses that we had seen, but a general
restoration had quite robbed the church of its greatest charm. The
large pillared cross in the wool market and the massive proportions of
the courthouse, with its heavily buttressed walls, testify mutely of
the time when Chipping Campden was a place of much greater importance
than it is today.
Broadway is already famous. Its "discovery" is attributed to Americans,
and several American artists of note--among them Mr. F. D. Millet, who
occupies the ancient manor house of the Abbot of Pershore--have been
included in the foreign contingent. Its name is derived from the broad
London and Worcester road which passes in a long sweeping curve between
rows of fine Tudor and Jacobean houses with many fanciful gables and
massive stone chimneys. In the coaching days Broadway was of great
importance and then were built the fine inns and business houses. A
period of decadence followed, during which it gradually sank into a
neglected country village, from which oblivion the old-world charm
of its very decay finally rescued it. It shows quite markedly the
influx of outsiders and the trail of the tourist; in this regard it
is inferior to the as yet undiscovered and unspoiled town of Chipping
Campden. But while there is a touch of newness in the outskirts and
while the antique buildings show traces of returning prosperity, there
is still much in Broadway to please the eye and delight the artistic
sense. Few indeed of the old-time inns have the charm of the Lygon
Arms, where we paused for our afternoon tea. (Afternoon tea--so far
have the customs of the land of our sojourn corrupted us!) It is a
many-gabled building of soft sandstone, rich with browns verging into
reds and dashed here and there with masses of ivy which half hide the
deep-set stone-mullioned windows. To the rear its glass-roofed garage
with cement floor and modern accessories tells plainly of one source of
returning prosperity. Everywhere about the inn is cleanliness, and the
charm of the antique is combined with modern comfort. The interior is
quite as unspoiled as the outside, and nothing could be more redolent
of old-time England than the immense fireplace in the ingle nook of
the hall. Here, too, linger legends of King Charles, and there is one
great paneled room with huge fireplace and Tudor furniture that claims
the honor of association with the sterner name of Cromwell. Perhaps the
least pleasing feature of our pilgrimage was the necessity that often
forced us to hasten by places like the Lygon Arms--but one could scarce
exhaust Britain's attractions in a lifetime should he pause as long and
as often as he might wish.
[Illustration: LYGON ARMS, BROADWAY.]
Evesham we passed in the rain and gathering twilight. We reached
Tewkesbury at nightfall, but its inns did not strike our fancy, and we
hastened to Cheltenham, leaving the fine old towns for a later visit.
At the Victoria in Cheltenham we found things much more to our liking.
We followed a main road almost due south from Cheltenham through
Painswick, Stroud and Nailsworth, gray old towns lying deep in the
hills. At Painswick is a fine Perpendicular church, so much restored
as to present a rather new appearance. The churchyard has a wonderful
array of carefully clipped yew trees, perhaps a hundred in all,
though no one, says local tradition, can count them twice the same--a
peculiarity also ascribed to the monoliths at Stonehenge. Close to the
church walls are the ancient stocks, in this case forged from heavy
iron bars and presenting an air of staunch security that must have
struck terror to the hearts of old-time culprits; and the rough stone
slab upon which the offenders were seated still remains in place.
Stroud is a larger and better-appearing town, whose ten thousand
inhabitants depend mainly upon the manufacture of English broadcloths.
The whole section, in fact, was once the center of cloth manufacture,
but the advent of the steam engine and more modern methods superseded
the watermills. All about are half-ruined factory buildings, some of
them once of vast extent, with shattered windows and sagging roofs.
Here and there one has survived in a small way or has been adapted to
some other industry. In the neighborhood are many country houses, once
the residences of wealthy cloth-makers, but now either deserted or
turned into farm tenements.
The country is hilly and wooded, and we had few points of vantage
that afforded views more picturesque and far-reaching than from some
of the upland roads overlooking these Gloucestershire landscapes. The
road sweeps around the hills, rising at times far above the valleys,
affording a panorama of the Avon gleaming through the dense green
foliage that half conceals it. The vale presents the most charming
characteristics of rural England. One sees the irregular patchwork of
the little fields, the great parks with their sunny meadowlands and
groups of ancient trees, the villages lying in the valleys or clinging
to the hillsides, and the gray church towers that lend a touch of
majesty and solemn sentiment to almost every glimpse of Britain.
We missed the main road from Bath to Wells, wandering through a maze of
unmarked byroads, and were able to proceed only by frequent inquiry. We
did not regain the highway until just entering the town and had been a
comparatively long time in going a short distance. After a few minutes'
pause to admire the marvelous west front of the cathedral, with its
endless array of crumbling prophets, saints and kings, weatherworn
to a soft-gray blur, we were away on the highroad leading across the
wold to Cheddar, famed for its stupendous cliffs, its caverns--and
its cheese. The caverns and cliffs are there, but little cheese now
comes from Cheddar, even though it bears the name. As we ascended the
exceedingly steep and winding road we were astonished--overwhelmed.
We had not expected to find natural scenery upon such an amazing
scale in the heart of England--gray pinnacled cliffs rising, almost
sheer, five hundred feet into the sky. Not often may British scenery
be styled imposing, but the towering cliffs of Cheddar surely merit
such description. In the midst of the gorge between the great cliffs
there are two prehistoric caverns extending far into the earth. We
entered one of them, now a mere passageway, now a spacious cavern
whose domelike roof glistens with translucent stalactites. Here we pass
a still, mirrorlike pool, and there a deep fissure from which comes
the gurgle of a subterranean river. Altogether, there is much that is
interesting and impressive. Perhaps it all seems a little gaudy and
unnatural because of the advertising methods and specious claims of
the owner and alleged discoverer, but none the less a visit is worth
while. The museum of relics found in the cavern contains a remarkable
prehistoric skull, with low, thick frontal bone and heavy square jaw,
but its queerest feature is little spurlike projections of the temporal
bone just above the ear. It is estimated by archaeologists that the
possessor of this curious skull had lived at least forty thousand years
ago and mayhap had made his dwelling-place in the Cheddar Caves. We
were assured that an offer from the British Museum of five thousand
pounds for the relic had been refused.
The sun was low when we left Cheddar, and Taunton seemed the nearest
place where we might be sure of good accommodations. We soon reached
Axbridge, a gray little market town, so ancient that a hunting-lodge
built by King John still stands on the market square. Near Bridgewater,
a few miles farther, is the Isle of Athelney--once an island in a
marsh, perhaps--where King Alfred made his last desperate stand
against the Danish invaders, defeating them and finally expelling them
from Britain. Not less in interest, though perhaps less important in
its issues, was the Battle of Sedgemoor, fought here in 1685, when the
Duke of Monmouth was disastrously defeated by the Royal Army--the last
battle worthy of the name to be waged on English soil.
But we were to learn more of Monmouth at Taunton and to have again
impressed upon us how easy it is in Britain for one to hasten through
places of the deepest historic interest quite unaware of their tragic
story. We had passed through Taunton before, seeing little but a staid
old country town with a church tower of unmatched gracefulness and
dignified proportions; but Taunton's tragic part in the parliamentary
wars and her fatal connection with "King Monmouth" never occurred to
us, if, indeed, we knew of it at all. Taunton was strongly for the
Parliament, but it was a storm center and was taken and retaken until
the iron hand of Fairfax crushed the Royalists before its walls. Its
record stood against it when the King "came into his own again." Its
walls were leveled to the ground, its charter taken away and many of
its citizens thrown into prison. Discontent and hatred of the Stuarts
were so rampant that any movement against their rule was welcomed
by the Taunton Whigs, though it is hard to see any consistency in
the unreasoning support they gave to the Duke of Monmouth--the son
of Charles II. and one of his many mistresses--in his pretensions
to the throne occupied by James II. Monmouth entered Taunton amidst
the wildest acclamations, and it was from the market square of the
rebellious town that he issued his proclamation assuming the title of
King. He was followed by an ill-organized and poorly equipped army of
seven thousand men, who were defeated by four thousand Royal Troops.
Then followed a reign of terror in Taunton. The commander of the King's
forces hanged, without pretense of trial, many of his prisoners, using
the sign of the old White Hart Inn as a gallows. Then came the Bloody
Assizes, held by Jeffreys of infamous memory, in the great hall of the
castle. After trials no more than travesties of brutal jests and savage
cruelty, more than three hundred Somersetshire men were sentenced,
according to the terrible customs of the time, to be "hanged, drawn
and quartered," and a thousand were doomed to transportation. Here the
active history of Taunton may be said to have ended.
But Taunton has little to remind us of these dark and bloody times
as we glide through her fine old streets and draw up in front of the
London Hotel, where the host himself in evening dress welcomes us at
the door. Every attention is given us and The London certainly deserves
its official appointment by the Royal Automobile Club as well as the
double distinction accorded it by the infallible Baedeker. It is one
of the charming old-fashioned inns, such as perhaps inspired the poet
Shenstone with the sentiment expressed in his well-known quatrain:
"Whoe'er has traveled life's dull round,
Whate'er his stages may have been,
May sigh to think that he has found
His warmest welcome at an inn."
Modern Taunton is a city of some twenty thousand people, and being the
county town, with some manufactories, it enjoys a quiet prosperity. Of
its ancient landmarks, the castle, dating from the eleventh century,
is the most notable and has appropriately been turned into a museum.
Here one may enter the hall where Jeffreys held his court. Though two
centuries or more have elapsed, the "horror of blood" seems still
to linger in the gloomy apartment. The market-place retains its
old-time characteristics, and though the house occupied by Jeffreys
has disappeared, the White Hart Inn still stands. But the glory of
Taunton is St. Mary's Church, one of the most graceful examples of
the Perpendicular period in England. The splendid tower seems almost
frail in its airy lightness--and perhaps it is, for it is a recent
restoration, or rather replacement, of the older one, which had become
insecure.
Sherborne Abbey we had missed in our former wanderings, though once
very near it, and we felt that we must make amends though it cost us
a detour of sixty miles. And yet, what hardship is it to go out of
one's way in Britain? Indeed, can one ever go out of his way in rural
England? Scarcely, from the point of view of such nomads as ourselves.
The great tower of Curry Rivell Church dominates in such a lordly
manner the village straggling up the hill toward it that we were
tempted to look inside, and a mild curiosity was aroused, from which we
have never yet been able to rid ourselves. For, chained to one of the
iron railings of a sixteenth century tomb, is a queer little iron-bound
oaken cabinet. It is scarcely more than a foot in length, the wood is
worm-eaten and the massive lock and heavy hinges are red with rust.
What mystery does it contain and why did it escape the church-looters
of Puritan times? The church is rich in antique carvings, among them a
delicately wrought screen and fine fifteenth century bench ends. The
tomb to which the coffer is chained is a very unusual one. It bears
on its altar the effigies of two mail-clad warriors, while at either
side kneel figures of their wives over two tiny cribs with several
gnomelike children tucked in each. Overhead, borne by four pillars, is
a domed canopy upon which are painted four sprawling cherubs. All very
quaint and strange and illustrative of the queer mortuary ideas of the
medieval period.
We followed the winding, hilly and often indifferent road that leads
through Somerton, Ilchester and Yeovil to Sherborne, and while our
lunch was preparing at the slow-moving Antelope--there is little in
a name, in this instance--we wandered down old-world streets to the
abbey, the goal of all pilgrims to Sherborne. It seemed odd to find the
old town crowded with rural visitors all agape at a fantastic circus
parade that was winding along the crooked streets, but Sherborne is
fond of parades and pageants, for we were assured that the historical
pageant now the rage in the older towns of England was originated in
Sherborne. The town itself is a charming place--I borrow the words of
an enthusiastic admirer whose picture may be better than I can paint:
"It is a bright town, prim and old-fashioned, and unsullied by the
aggressive villas and red brick terraces of the modern suburb. Although
a small place, it is yet of much dignity. Here are timber-faced
dwellings, where the upper story overhangs the lower, and where the
roof breaks out into irrelevant gables; houses with the stone-mullioned
casements of Tudor days or the round bow window of the Georgian
period; houses with gateways under them leading into courtyards; humble
buildings fashioned out of stone filched from a church; cottages with
the arched doorways of a convent or with buttresses worthy of a chapel;
pieces of old wall and other miscellaneous fragments which the town
with its love for the past has never had the heart to cast aside. Over
the grey roofs can be seen the trees upon the hilltop, while over many
a crumbling wall comes the fragrance of garden or orchard."
But as we rounded a corner and came upon a full view of the abbey
church, we felt that it had rightly been styled the "glory of
Sherborne." Perhaps its low tower gives an impression of incompleteness
and lack of proportion--but it seemed to accentuate the mighty
proportions of the church itself and it was with a feeling almost
verging upon awe that we entered the majestic portals. And we learned
it as we know only few historic churches in England, for the gem of all
vergers is at Sherborne. To him his work is a labor of love, not the
usual perfunctory performance in hope of a fee. He had made discoveries
of importance himself in whiling away his time in the abbey and had
located and uncovered an ancient effigy that had been inconsiderately
built into the walls in earlier days. He told us of the checkered
history of the abbey, of the wars of the monks and citizens, as a
result of which the church suffered from a great fire, the marks of
which still remain in the red stains on the soft yellow stone, of the
Dissolution and the cavalier manner in which Henry the Wrecker bestowed
the abbey on one of his friends, who in turn sold it to the parish for
two hundred and fifty pounds--all of which would be too long to record
in detail in this crowded chronicle. But the interior of Sherborne
Abbey--where is there another like it? Not in all England; probably not
in the world. It lacks the "dim religious light" that pervades, like a
soft-toned mist, most of the great church buildings; the windows flood
the yellow stone with many-colored beams and lighten the splendors of
the golden fan vault with its rich bosses and heraldic devices until
every detail comes out clearly to the beholder below.
But we are lingering too long at the abbey; we were to return to the
Antelope in half an hour, and thrice that period has elapsed. We hie
back to our inn and do not complain of our cold repast. "It is ten
minutes' walk to the castle," said our host. Then why take the car? A
ten minutes' walk will give us a little of the exercise we need. We
start under the sweltering sun--it is a hot day, even as we reckon
it--and follow the crooked streets. Here is a high wall--it must be
the castle. No, the castle is farther on; and we repeat the wearisome
experience until half an hour has elapsed and we are only at the
entrance gate of the park. We are almost exhausted, for our long tramp
on the "abbey stones" did not especially invigorate us, but we will go
on after having come so far.
It was hardly worth while--Cromwell had left very little of Sherborne
Castle. It seemed melancholy, indeed, that the riddled gateway and the
straggling pieces of wall should be all that remains of such a lordly
building. We were interested to know that it had been granted to Sir
Walter Raleigh "forever" in 1597--but only six years later the knightly
founder of Virginia was indicted for treason and fell a victim to the
cowardly malice of King James, and Sherborne Castle reverted to the
crown. It was less than half a century later that Fairfax received its
surrender in the name of the Parliament, and when the gunpowder mines
were fired the active days of the fortress were at an end.
We retrace our steps to the Antelope, thinking mournfully of the
car, which would have made such short and easy work of our weary
trip, and we heave a sigh of relief when once more, having donned our
"seven-league boots," we hear the soft purr of the motor and enjoy the
rush of the cool, sweet air--after our "ten minutes' walk."
It grows late and Exeter is far away, but we are sure of comfort at
the Rougemont and we give the car rein. How she sweeps over the sunset
hills and glides along the cool valleys, pausing cautiously to pass
some rose-embowered village, now gathering speed again for another rush
over the fine road! She is ahead of schedule at Honiton, and one of our
party remembers that the Honiton lace is famous. It is an expensive bit
of recollection, but all things go in a motor tour. After a half-hour's
pause, we are away again, and before long catch sight of the huge bulk
of Exeter Cathedral looming above the old city against the twilight
sky.
V
RAMBLES IN THE WEST COUNTRY
"Through the heart of Dartmoor forest" may bring up many fascinating,
even weird associations, but on our map we regarded the thin red line
of our road rather dubiously. It runs almost straight from Exeter
to Prince Town--the prison town of the moor--and on either side for
many miles lies a waste country, apparently quite devoid of villages
and even of roads. The road as shown on the map is thickly studded
with arrow heads, denoting dangerous hills, and the description in
the road-book is far from alluring. But we were not to be deterred
from exploring Dartmoor, as we had been on a previous occasion,
though indeed we found the first few miles between Exeter and Moreton
Hampstead trying and almost terrifying in places. The hills offered
little impediment to our motor, but for all that one has a rather eery
feeling when clinging to a precipitous incline. If something should let
loose! But nothing did.
Moreton Hampstead is a bleak, lonely little town set well into the
western edge of the moor and surrounded by rugged tors on every hand.
It is not without a bit of antiquity, for it has a sixteenth century
building, called the Arcade, whose Moorish touches are decidedly
picturesque. It is like a bit of Spain in the hills of Dartmoor and
seems strangely out of place. Only three miles from Moreton Hampstead,
lying in a secluded valley, is Chagford, famous for its quaint old inn
and wild surroundings.