Beauty and tameness--The travelling hill--Ross--The silver tankard--The
Man of Ross--The sympathetic trees--Penyard Castle--Vicissitudes of the
river--Wilton Castle--A voyage to sea in a basket--Pencraig Hill.
Comparatively speaking, there is little worthy of remark between Hereford
and Ross; and yet Gilpin's charge of _tameness_ is unjust. What it wants
is excitement. The valley of the Wye is here beautiful--neither more,
nor less; but its beauty is similar to that of the portion we have just
traversed between the Hay and Hereford, and we therefore call it tame.
Why did we not apply the word before? Because the contrast presented by
the valley after leaving Hay with the wilder or grander features we had
passed formed one of the _vicissitudes_ of the river. This will be
understood by a traveller who journeys up the stream. On reaching Ross,
after emerging from the tumult, or sublimity, of the lower passage, he
will gaze with delight on one of the most quietly beautiful landscapes in
England--whose smooth green eminences, gentle groves, orchards and hop
plantations (the latter far finer objects than the vineyards of the
continent), white cottages, villages, and village spires, give an endless
and yet simple variety to the picture. After passing Hereford, in quest
of new excitement, the scene-hunter will pronounce a similar character of
landscape _tame_.
Six miles from Hereford, the Lay adds its waters to the Wye, and near the
confluence we remark an abrupt elevation, which being wholly different in
character from the rest of the soil conveys the idea of an accident of
nature. And such it actually is.
Marclay Hill--for so the elevation is called--in the time of Elizabeth,
according to Camden, "rose as it were from sleep, and for three days
moved on its vast body with an horrible noise, driving everything before
it to an higher ground." Fuller states that the ascent gained by the
surprising traveller was eleven fathoms, that its bulk was twenty acres,
and that the time it took to perform the feat was fourteen hours. Sir
Richard Baker, in the "Chronicles of England," is still more minute. "In
the thirteenth year of Queen Elizabeth," says he, "a prodigious
earthquake happened in the east parts of Herefordshire, at a little town
called Kinnaston. On the seventeenth of February, at six o'clock in the
evening, the earth began to open, and a hill, with a rock under it,
making at first a great hollowing noise, which was heard a great way off,
lifted itself up, and began to travel, bearing along with it the trees
that grew upon it, the sheepfolds and flocks of sheep abiding there at
the same time. In the place from whence it was first moved it left a
gaping distance forty foot broad, and fourscore ells long: the whole
field was about twenty acres. Passing along it overthrew a chapel
standing in the way, removed a yew tree planted in the churchyard from
the west to the east: with the like force it thrust before it highways,
sheepfolds, hedges, and trees; made tilled ground pasture, and again
turned pasture into tillage. Having walked in this sort from Saturday
evening till Monday noon, it then stood still." The yew tree still
exists as a witness of the fact, and the church bell was dug up not many
years ago.
[Picture: Ross]
The traces of a Roman camp on Woldbury Hill, and on Eaton Hill those of
an ancient fortification, forming a link in the chain of defences which
formerly ran along this part of the country, may be inspected with
advantage by the pedestrian who is read in antiquarian lore; but to
others there will appear nothing which should detain their steps before
the little town of Ross. Here commences the tour of the lower Wye--of
that part of the river which is known to fame as _the_ Wye. As for the
town itself, it is neat and prim-looking, sitting quietly upon an
eminence above the river. It is full of memories of the Man of Ross,
which sanctify it from the boisterous vulgarities of a town. The
"heaven-directed spire" which he taught to rise is its prominent feature;
and this object keeps the lines of Pope ringing in our ears like the
church bell, and with a little of its monotony.
This bell, by the way, is something more than an ordinary bell. It bears
the name of John Kyrle, and was cast at Gloucester, in 1695, at his own
expense. Nay, it possesses a relic more valuable than his name, for
there is incorporated with its substance his favorite silver tankard. He
attended himself at the casting, and, drinking solemnly the orthodox
toast of "Church and King," he threw the cup into the molten mass. In a
local guide-book, we find several little particulars of this fine old
fellow, which are interesting from their naivete.
It appears he was entered a gentleman commoner, of Baliol College,
Oxford, in 1654, and that he was intended for the bar but soon
relinquished all thoughts of that profession, and returning to Ross gave
himself up to agriculture and building, and the improvement of his native
town.
An old maiden cousin, of the euphonous name of Bubb, kept house for him
many years. In his person, John was tall, thin, and well-shaped; his
health was remarkably good, and he scarcely knew any of the frailties of
old age until within a very short time of his death. His usual dress was
a suit of brown _dittos_, and a king William's wig, all in the costume of
his day. He disliked crowds and routs, but was exceedingly fond of snug,
social parties, and "of dinnering his friends upon the market and fair
days." He was also exceedingly pleased with his neighbours dropping in
without ceremony, loved to make a good long evening of it, enjoyed a
merry story, and always seemed sorry when it was time to break up. His
dishes were generally plain and according to the season, but he dearly
loved a goose, and was vain of his dexterity in carving it. During the
operation, which he invariably took upon himself, he always repeated one
of those old sayings and standing witticisms that seem to attach
themselves with peculiar preference to the cooked goose. He never had
roast beef on his table save and except on Christmas day; and malt liquor
and good Herefordshire cider were the only beverages ever introduced. At
his kitchen fire there was a large block of wood, in lieu of a bench, for
poor people to sit upon; and a piece of boiled beef, and three pecks of
flower, made into loaves, were given to the poor every Sunday. The
number he chose at his "invitation dinners," were nine, eleven, or
_thirteen_, including himself and his kinswoman, Miss Bubb; and he never
cared to sit down to table until he had as many as made one of these
numbers. He not only superintended the labours of the road makers,
planters, and gardeners, but commonly took an active part in them
himself, delighting above all things to carry a huge watering-pot to
water the trees he had newly set in the earth. "With a spade on his
shoulder and a glass bottle of liquor in his hand, he used to walk from
his house to the fields and back again several times during the day."
Without the trees planted by John Kyrle, Ross would be nothing, so far as
the picturesque is concerned; and a delightful tradition, the truth of
which is vouched by undeniable evidence, proves that the trees were not
ungrateful to their founder. A rector, as the story goes, had the
impiety to cut down some of these living monuments of the taste of John
Kyrle, which shaded the wall of the church beside his own pew; but the
roots threw out fresh shoots, and these, penetrating into the interior,
grew into two graceful elms, that occupied his seat with their foliage.
If any one doubt the fact, let him go and see. The trees are still
there; their branches curtain the tall window that opens upon the pew;
and their beautiful leaves cluster above the seat,
"And still keep his memory green in our souls."
Besides the elms in the churchyard and neighbourhood, there is a fine
avenue, planted by John Kyrle, called the Prospect, or the Man of Ross's
Walk. It is on the ridge of a hill behind the church, and commands a
view of the valley of the Wye, about which there is some difference of
opinion. In King's anecdotes the planter's taste for prospects is
commended; and it is said that "by a vast plantation of elms, which he
disposed of in a fine manner, he has made one of the most _entertaining_
scenes the county of Hereford affords." Gilpin, on the other hand, who
travelled with an easel before his mind's eye, cannot make a picture of
it; and Gray the poet asserts, in reference to the spot in question, that
"all points that are much elevated spoil the beauty of the valley, and
make its parts, which are not large, look poor and diminutive."
The only other relic shown at Ross is a fragment of an oak bedstead, on
which Charles I. slept, on his way from Ragland Castle. A house in
Church Lane, called Gabriel Hill's Great Inn, contains the chamber so
distinguished.
Here the traveller may hire a boat, if he choose, for the remainder of
his journey. The Wye, however, is navigable to Hereford in barges of
from eighteen to forty tons; and sometimes in lighter boats even to the
Hay, but the shoals in summer and the floods in winter frequently
interrupt the navigation. In 1795 the river rose fifteen feet at the
former place within twenty-four hours, and carried away bridges, cattle,
sheep, timber, and everything that stood in its way.
But even if he determine afterwards to proceed by the river, the
traveller will do well to walk from Ross to the ruins of Penyard Castle;
not that these ruins are in themselves worthy of his attention, but the
road is beautiful throughout, and from the summit, Penyard Chace, he will
see the little town he has left, and our wandering Wye in a new phasis.
The country is diversified with hills and valleys, and wooded spaces
between; and more especially when the shadows of evening are stealing
over the landscape, the whole is a scene of enchantment.
Although the lower passage of the river commences at Ross, we do not, for
two or three miles further, get fairly into its peculiarities. From the
gentle, the graceful, the gay, it glides almost insensibly into the
picturesque, the bold, and the grand. The tranquillity of its course
from the Hay--a tranquillity dearly purchased by the labours of its wild
career during the upper passage--has prepared it for new vicissitudes,
and new struggles. The following description, by archdeacon Coxe,
applies to a great part of the portion we are now entering upon, and
cannot be improved either in fidelity or style.
"The effects of these numerous windings are various and striking; the
same objects present themselves, are lost and recovered with
different accompaniments, and in different points of view: thus the
ruins of a castle, hamlets embosomed in trees, the spire of a church
bursting from the wood, figures impending over the water, and broken
masses of rock fringed with herbage, sometimes are seen on one side,
sometimes on the other, and form the fore-ground or background of a
landscape. Thus also the river itself here stretches in a continuous
line, there moves in a curve, between gentle slopes and fertile
meadows, or is suddenly concealed in a deep abyss, under the gloom of
impending woods." "The banks for the most part rise abruptly from
the edge of the water, and are clothed with forests, or are broken
into cliffs. In some places they approach so near that the river
occupies the whole intermediate space, and nothing is seen but woods,
rocks, and water; in others, they alternately recede, and the eye
catches an occasional glimpse of hamlets, ruins, and detached
buildings, partly seated on the margin of the stream, and partly
scattered on the rising grounds. The general character of the
scenery, however, is wildness and solitude; and if we except the
populous district of Monmouth, no river perhaps flows for so long a
course in a well cultivated country, the banks of which exhibit so
few habitations."
A little below Ross, on the right bank of the river, are the ruins of
Wilton Castle, which was for several centuries the baronial residence of
the Greys of the south, and was destroyed by the Hereford royalists in
the time of Charles I. Let us relate, however, as a circumstance of
still more interest, that it was left, with the adjoining lands, by
Thomas Guy, to the admirable charity in London which he founded, known by
the name of Guy's Hospital.
The Wye here passes under Wilton bridge, a construction of rather a
curious kind, which dates from the close of the sixteenth century.
Coracles are seldom seen so high up the river as this; but we mention
them here because the hero of Gilpin's often repeated anecdote was an
inhabitant of Wilton. This man, it seems, ventured into the British
Channel in a coracle, as far as the isle of Lundy; a very remarkable
voyage to be made in a canvass tub, the navigation of the estuary of the
Severn being quite as trying as that of any part of the British seas.
Previously, however, to this exploit, the very same feat was performed by
an itinerant stage-doctor of Mitchel Dean in the Forest. The coracles
are a sort of basket made of willow twigs, covered with pitched canvass
or raw hide, and resembling in form the section of a walnut-shell.
Similar rude contrivances are in use among the Esquimaux and other savage
tribes, and were employed by the ancient Britons for the navigation of
rivers. They are now the fishing-boats of the rivers of South Wales; and
when the day's work is done are carried home on the shoulders of their
owners, disposed in such a way as to serve for a hood in case of rain.
The early ships of Britain are described by Caesar and Pliny as being
merely larger coracles--clumsy frames of rough timber, ribbed with
hurdles and lined with hides. According to Claudian they had masts and
sails, although they were generally rowed, the rowers singing to the
harp.
At the farm of Weir End, the river takes a sudden bend, and rolls along
the steep sides of Pencraig Hill, which are clothed with wood to the
water's edge. Soon the ruined turrets of Goodrich Castle present
themselves, crowning the summit of a wooded eminence on the right bank,
and as they vanish and reappear with the turnings of the river the effect
is magnificent.