WEYMOUTH AND PORTLAND
The fashionable Weymouth of to-day is the Melcombe Regis of the past,
and quite a proportion of visitors to Melcombe never go into the real
Weymouth at all. The tarry, fishy and beery (in a manufacturing sense
only) old town is on the south side of the harbour bridge and has
little in common with the busy and popular watering place on the north
and east. Once separate boroughs, the towns are now under one
government, and Melcombe Regis has dropped its name almost entirely in
favour of that of the older partner.
How many towns on the coast claim their particular semicircle of bay
to be "the English Naples"? Douglas, Sandown and even Swanage have at
some time or other, through their local guides, plumed themselves on
the supposed resemblance. It is as inapplicable to these as it is to
Weymouth, though the latter seems to insist upon it more than the
rest. Apart from the bay, which is one of the most beautiful on the
coast, boarding-house Weymouth is more like Bloomsbury than anywhere
else on earth, and a very pleasant, mellow, comfortable old
Bloomsbury, reminiscent of good solid comfortable times, even if they
were rather dowdy and dull. Not that Weymouth is dull. In the far-off
days of half-day excursions from London at a fare that now would only
take them as far as Windsor, the crowds of holiday-makers were wont to
make the front almost too lively. But away from such times there are
few towns of the size that make such a pleasant impression upon the
chance tourist, who can spend some days here with profit if he will
but make it the headquarters for short explorations into the
surrounding country and along the coast east and west, but especially
east.
The first mention of Weymouth in West Saxon times is in a charter of
King Ethelred, still existing, that makes a grant of land "in Weymouth
or Wyke Regis" to Atsere, one of the King's councillors. Edward
Confessor gave the manor to Winchester, and afterwards it became the
property of Eleanor, the consort of Edward I. The large village slowly
grew into a small town and port.
[Illustration: WYKE REGIS.]
Wool became its staple trade, and in 1347 the port was rich enough to
find twenty ships for the fleet besieging Calais. At this time
Melcombe Regis began to assume as much importance as its neighbour
across the harbour. The only communication between the two was then a
ferry boat worked hand over hand by a rope. Henry VIII built Sandsfoot
Castle for the protection of the ports, and while Elizabeth was Queen
the harbour was bridged and the jealousy between the towns brought to
an end by an Act passed to consolidate their interests. Soon after
this the inhabitants had the satisfaction of seeing the great galleon
of a Spanish admiral brought in as a prize of war, the towns having
furnished six large ships toward the fleet that met the Armada.
During the reign of the seventh Henry a violent storm obliged Philip
of Castile and his consort Joanna to claim, much against their will,
the hospitality of the town. The Spanish sovereigns, who were not on
the best terms with England, were very ill, and dry land on any terms
was, to them, the only desirable thing. They were met on landing by
Sir Thomas Trenchard of Wolveton with a hastily summoned force of
militia. King Philip was informed that he would not be allowed to
return to his ship until Henry had seen him, and in due course the
Earl of Arundel arrived to conduct the unwilling visitors to the
presence of the king. As we saw while at Charminster, this incident
led to the founding of a great ducal family.
It is to George III that Weymouth owes its successful career as a
watering place, although a beginning had been made over twenty years
before the King's visit by a native of Bath named Ralph Allen, who
actually forsook that "shrine of Hygeia," to come to Melcombe, where
"to the great wonder of his friends he immersed his bare person in the
open sea." Allen seems to have been familiar with the Duke of Gloucester,
whom he induced to accompany him. So pleased was the Duke with Melcombe,
that he decided to build a house on the front--Gloucester Lodge, now
the hotel of that name--and here to the huge delight of the inhabitants,
George, his Queen and three daughters came in 1789. An amusing account
of the royal visit is given by Fanny Burney. The King was so pleased
with the place that he stayed eleven weeks, and by his unaffected
buorgeois manner and approachableness quickly gained the enthusiastic
loyalty of his Dorset subjects. Miss Burney's most entertaining
reminiscence of the visit is the oft-repeated account of the King's
first dip in the sea. Immediately the royal person "became immersed
beneath the waves" a band, concealed in a bathing machine struck up
"God save Great George our King." Weymouth is in possession of a
keepsake of these stirring times in the statue of His Hanoverian
Majesty that graces(?) the centre of the Esplanade. It is to be hoped
that the town will never be inveigled into scrapping this memorial,
which for quaintness and unconscious humour is almost unsurpassed. A
subject of derisive merriment to the tripper and of shuddering aversion
for those with any aesthetic sense, it is nevertheless an interesting
link with another age and is not very much worse than some other
specimens of the memorial type of a more recent date. It has lately
received a coat of paint of an intense black and the cross-headed wand
that the monarch holds is tipped with gold. The contrast with the
enormous expanse of white base, out of all proportion to the little
black figure of the King, is strangely startling.
Not much can be said for St. Mary's, an eighteenth-century church in
St. Mary's Street which carries the Bloomsbury-by-Sea idea to excess.
The church has a tablet, the epitaph upon which seems quite unique in
the contradictory character it gives to the deceased:
UNDETH LIES YE BODY OF
CHRISR. BROOKS ESQ. OF JAMAICA
WHO DEPARD. THIS LIFE 4 SEPR. 1769
AGED 38 YEARS, ONE OF YE WORST OF MEN
FRIEND TO YE DISTRESD.
TRULY AFFECTD & KIND HUSBAND
TENDER PART. & A SINCR. FRIEND
The artist was unfortunate in his choice of abbreviations and
strangers are sometimes sorely puzzled; some, indeed, never guess that
"worst" has any connexion with "worthiest." The altar piece, difficult
to see on a dull day, was painted by Sir James Thornhill, a former
representative of the borough in Parliament. Sir Christopher Wren was
also for a time member for Weymouth, and portraits of both, together
with the Duke of Wellington and George III, adorn the Guildhall, a
good building at the west end of St. Mary's Street. The twin towns
were unique in their choice of members; in addition to the great
architect and famous painter, a poet--Richard Glover, author of
_Leonidas_--of no mean repute in his own day, was chosen and the
_original_ Winston Churchill, father of the great Duke of Marlborough,
also sat for Weymouth.
[Illustration: OLD WEYMOUTH.]
Within the Guildhall is to be seen a chest from the captured Armada
galleon and an old chair from Melcombe Friary, of which some poor
remnants existed in Maiden Street almost within living memory. On the
other side of the harbour is Holy Trinity Church, built in 1836. This
has another fine altar painting of the Crucifixion, thought by some
authorities to be by Vandyck.
Certain portions of old Weymouth are very picturesque, with steep
streets and comfortable old bow-windowed lodging-houses patronized
almost exclusively by the better class of seafarer; merchant captains,
pilots and the like. A few of the lanes at the upper end of the
harbour may be termed "slums" by the more fastidious, but it is only
to their outward appearance that the word is applicable. Some of these
cottages are of great age and a number have been allowed to fall to
ruin. In Melcombe Regis at the corner of Edmund and Maiden Streets may
be seen, still embedded in the wall high above the pavement, a cannon
ball shot at the unfortunate town during the Civil War, in which
unhappy period much damage was done, the contending parties
successively occupying the wretched port to the great discomfort of
the burgesses.
Radipole Lake is the name given to the large sheet of water at the
back of Melcombe, formed by the mouth of the Wey before it becomes
Weymouth Harbour. The name is actually "Reedy Pool," so that "lake" is
a tautology reminding one of a similar blunder, often made by folks
who should know better, in speaking of "Lake" Winder_mere_. Radipole
is spoilt by an ugly railway bridge and some sidings belonging to the
joint railways that lie along the eastern bank for some distance. The
water is enlivened by a large colony of swans and also in the summer
by boating parties, who prefer the quietude of the pool to the
possible discomforts of the bay. But the bay is the reason for holiday
Weymouth, not only for the beauty of its wide sweep and the remarkable
colouring of the water, but for the firm sands with occasional patches
of shingle that lie between shore and sea from the harbour mouth
almost to Redcliff Point.
The chief excursion from Weymouth is to Portland, and of course every
one must take it, but there are other and finer ways out of the town,
most of which show the "island" at its best--as an imposing mass of
rock in the middle distance.
[Illustration: PORTLAND.]
A ferry plies between the steamer quay, just beyond Alexandra Gardens
and the Nothe, the headland extremity of the peninsula upon which old
Weymouth is built. This is one of the best points from which to view
the bay. Portland is also well seen "lying on the sea like a great
crouching anumal" (Hardy). The commanding parts of the Nothe are
heavily fortified and the permanent barracks are always occupied by a
strong force. On the south are Portland Roads, usually interesting for
the number of warships congregated there. There are exceedingly
powerful defences at the ends of the breakwaters and the openings can
be protected from under-water attack by enormous booms. The first wall
took twenty-three years to build by convict labour and it explains the
origin of the prison at Portland, which was not established as some
think, because of the difficulty of escape, but solely for the
convenience of "free labour." It is said that the amount of stone used
in the oldest of the breakwaters was five million tons.
If the road is taken into Portland the village of Rodwell, at which
there is a station, is at the parting of the ways, that to the left
leading to the shore at Sandsfoot Castle, one of Henry's block houses
that played a part in the Civil War. It is not a particularly
picturesque ruin, though its purchase by the Weymouth corporation will
prevent any more of the wanton damage it has suffered in the past. The
other route goes direct to Wyke Regis, upon the hill above East Fleet
and the Chesil Bank. Wyke is the mother church of Weymouth and is a
fine Perpendicular structure in a magnificent position. Its list of
rectors starts in 1302, so that the church must be on the site of an
earlier building. The churchyard is the resting place of a large
number of shipwrecked sailors who have met their death in the dread
"Deadman's Bay," as this end of the great West Bay is termed.
The road into Portland is across a bridge built in 1839, the first to
connect the island-peninsula with the mainland. Then follows a long
two miles of monotony along the eastern end of Chesil Beach, and the
most ardent pedestrian will prefer to take to the railway at least as
far as Portland station if not to the terminus at Easton. The lonely
stretch of West Bay, in sharp contrast to the animation of the Roads,
cannot be seen unless the high bank of shingle on the right is
ascended. Portland Castle is on the nearest point of the island to the
mainland. This also was built by Henry VIII and is in good repair and
inhabited by one of the officers of the garrison.
The road ascends to Fortune's Well, as uninteresting a "capital" as
could well be imagined and for the sheer ugliness of its buildings and
church probably unsurpassed. Its only claim to notice is the
extraordinary way in which its houses are built on the hillside, one
row of doorsteps and diminutive gardens being on a level with the next
row of roofs, so steep is the lie of the land. Above the village is
the great Verne Fort occupying fifty acres on the highest point of the
island and commanding all the approaches to the Roads.
[Illustration: ON THE WAY TO CHURCH OPE.]
The route now bears right and soon reaches a high and desolate plateau
littered with the debris of many years quarrying. The only saving
grace in the scenery is the magnificent rearward view along the vast
and slightly curving Chesil Bank which stretches away to Abbotsbury
and the highlands of the beautiful West Dorset coast. The prison is
still farther ahead to the left. There would be fewer visitors to
Portland were it not for a morbid desire to see the convicts. Parties
are often made up to arrive in time to watch the men as they leave the
quarries in the late afternoon. Soldiers and warders mount guard along
the walls and the depressing sight should be shunned as much for one's
own sake as for that of the prisoners. Good taste, however, is a
virtue that usually has to give way before curiosity.
The road now descends to Easton, a place of remarkably wide streets
and a number of well-built churches, not all of the Establishment,
however. The solid old houses, consisting entirely of the local stone,
are not uninteresting and are in keeping with the dour and bleak
scenery of the island. The mistake of importing alien red bricks of a
most aggressive hue has not been made here. Those that flame from the
hill slope above Portland station only succeed in emphasizing the
general bleakness of their surroundings. At Easton clock tower a
street called "Straits" turns left and east and presently a broad road
leads downhill to the right to the gates of Pennsylvania Castle,
built, it is said, at the suggestion of George III by John Penn,
Governor of Portland, and a descendant of the great Penn in whose
honour it was named. A narrow passage by the castle wall brings us to
Rufus, or "Bow and Arrow" Castle, to which the third name of "Red
King's Castle" has been given by Hardy in _The Well Beloved_. Its
picturesque ivy-clad shell is perched on a crag at the head of Church
Hope Cove, really "Church Ope" or opening. In the grounds of
Pennsylvania Castle, shown on application, are the ruins of an ancient
church, destroyed by a landslip. The disaster brought to light the
foundations of a far older building. Near the ruins is a gravestone
with the following mysterious epitaph:
"IN LIFE I WROATH IN STONE;
NOW LIFE IS GONE, I KNOW
I SHALL BE RAISED
BY A STONE AND B
SUCH A STONE AS GIVETH
LIVING BREATH AND SAVETH
THE RIGHTEOUS FROM THE
SECOND DEATH."
Gravestones of the twelfth century, thought to be the oldest
headstones in England, were brought to light in excavations consequent
on the landslip.
The Cove will possibly be considered the only pleasant place in
Portland. It is well wooded, of perfect outline, and with a miniature
beach where shingle, rocks and greenery mingle in picturesque
confusion and a remarkably crystalline sea laves the milk-white stones
and gravel. Cave Hole, near by, is a fine sight in rough weather.
[Illustration: BOW AND ARROW CASTLE.]
The road continues to the small hamlet of Southwell and paths lead
onward amid rather tame surroundings to the flattened headland known
to the world as Portland Bill, but to all Portlanders as the "Beal."
This headland is crowned by a lighthouse which has replaced two older
and discarded buildings. In wild weather the scene at the Beal is
magnificent, in spite of the low altitude of the cliff. Pulpit Rock is
the quite appropriate name given to the curiously shaped block of
limestone which stands close to the water. The "Shambles" lightship,
about three miles from the Beal, warns the mariner off the long and
dangerous sandbank known by that ominous name on which so many good
ships have perished. Around the bank, in February, 1653, the Dutch and
English fleets under van Tromp and Blake, circled and fought for three
days until the Hollanders had lost eleven ships of war and thirty
merchantmen.
To return on foot to Portland station or the mainland, the best way is
to keep along the edge of the western cliffs for the sake of the grand
forward views. The tall tower in the centre of the island in sight
from the higher parts of the roads is Reforne, the chief parish
church, built in 1706. Near the prison is St. Peter's Church crowned
by a dome and built by convict labour. The fine mosaics in the chancel
were worked by a female convict. As a rule the domestic architecture
is as dour as the huge rock upon which the cottages are built, though
a few of the older dwellings are picturesque with their heavy stone
roofs clothed in gold and green moss, but as the quarries have grown
in size and importance most of them have been swept away. As
uncompromising as their island are the Baleares--the Slingers--who
kept invaders, Roman, Saxon and Dane, for long at a respectful
distance with the ammunition that lay close at their feet. Underground
habitations of the British period were found about forty years ago and
ancient trackways of prehistoric time were to be seen in those days
when the island was merely a great sheep-walk and before gunpowder and
chisel obliterated them. The Romans named the island Vindilis. Many
traces of their occupation have been found, including several
sarcophagi.
Insular customs and prejudices among the islanders are various and
strange. Intermarrying until quite lately was the rule, and it must be
annoying to eugenists to find that the natives are such a hardy and
vigorous race. The "Kimberlin," as all foreigners from the mainland
are called, is still looked upon with a certain amount of suspicion,
and oftener than not advances are met with a surliness that must be
understood and so forgiven. Heredity is stronger in remote and insular
districts than in those where the channels of communication are free,
but the long story of brave and self-sacrificing endeavour to save
life on their inhospitable shores more than counterbalances any lack
of manners in this ancient race, which is probably very nearly
identical with that of the old men who lived in the rock chambers
under Verne. That stain on the honour of so many dwellers on the
coast--a strange and unaccountable throwback--the crime of wrecking,
has never been charged against the Portlander.
One of the most fearful storms ever recorded on this shore was that of
November, 1824, when Weymouth esplanade was practically destroyed, and
cutters and fishing boats were tossed into the main streets, one of 95
tons being washed right over the Chesil Bank. On Portland Beach in
November, 1795, several transports, with troops for the West Indies on
board, were stranded, and two hundred and thirty-four men drowned.
Dissent is strong in the island as the several squarely plain
meeting-houses testify. The constant repetition of three names on the
stones in the burying grounds--Attwooll, Pearce and Stone--will bring
home to the stranger the insularity of the "Isle of Slingers."
The royal manor of Portland antedates the Conquest. It then included
Wyke, Weymouth and Melcombe. It is semi-independent of Dorset, being
governed by a Reeve, who is appointed by male and female crown tenants
from among themselves. The "Reeve-Staff" is an archaic method of
recording the payments of rates, and is similar to the old Exchequer
tallies, to the burning of the many years' stores of which, and
consequent conflagration, we owe our present Houses of Parliament. The
Reeve Court is still held at the old "George Inn" in Reforne. Among
the old customs to be mentioned is that of the "Church-gift," in which
the parties to a sale of property meet in the church and in the
presence of two witnesses hand over deeds and purchase money. The
transaction is then as complete as it is legal.
Inigo Jones first discovered the virtues of Portland stone and built
Whitehall with it. Sir Christopher Wren was so struck with its good
qualities that he decided to use it for the new St. Paul's and many of
the city churches and public buildings. It is now the most widely used
building stone in this country, and though it lacks the beautiful
colouring of West of England sandstone, to "Bath" stone and the rest
it is immeasurably superior in wearing qualities. Apart from the crown
quarries, where convict labour is employed, the stone is worked by a
kind of guild, very similar to that in operation near Swanage; the
employment being handed down from father to son.
To make a brief exploration of the country east of Weymouth the road
should be taken that keeps close to the shore until the coastguard
station at Furzy Cliff is reached. Here a path, much broken in places,
ascends the cliff, and continues to Osmington Mills, the usual goal of
the summer visitor in this direction. Not far away is the great fort
on Upton Cliff, built to command the Eastern approaches to Portland
Roads. Holworth Cliff was, in the twenties of the last century, the
scene of a curious outbreak of fire. The inflammable nature of the
strata caused the miniature Vesuvius to smoulder for a long time, with
dire effect upon the atmosphere for many miles around. It is possible
for the pedestrian to proceed to the beautiful coast that culminates
in the lovely region about Lulworth Cove. About eight miles from
Weymouth the path reaches one of the several Swyre Heads in Dorset.
This commands wide views over a remote and seemingly deserted
countryside. From this point one may penetrate inland by bridle-ways,
in two miles, to the village of Chaldon Herring, situated in a
pleasant combe to the North of Chaldon Down. The church is remarkable
for the new fittings, all designed by and for the most part the work
of, a former incumbent. The Saxon font and Norman chancel arch are
also of much interest.
The highroad from Wareham to Dorchester makes a wide loop southwards
from the railway at Wool and approaches Chaldon a mile away to the
north. Between the village and the turnpike is a ridge upon which are
the remarkable tumuli called "The Five Maries." From this spot is
another wide and beautiful view embracing the greater part of Dorset,
and in its absence of habitations emphasizing the loneliness of the
central portion of the county. The highroad may now be taken by
Overmoigne to Warmwell Cross on the return to Weymouth, but a better
way, covering about nine miles in all, is, for those who can sustain
the fatigue of "give and take" roads with rather indifferent surface,
to take the hill top to near Poxwell. This is a delightful village
with a very beautiful Manor House dating from 1654. The situation of
this house, backed by the smooth Down, is exquisite, and the building
reminds one of many fine old houses that stand just below the
escarpment of the Sussex Downs. On the hill beyond the village is a
small prehistoric circle of fifteen stones within a miniature wall and
ditch; from this point there is a good marine view toward Weymouth and
Portland. The direct road to these places now passes through
Osmington, rapidly becoming suburban, although three miles from the
town centre. The rebuilt church is of little interest, but its
immediate surroundings are very pleasant. In the churchyard is a small
portion of the wall of the old Manor House. An inscription on the
church wall should be noticed, it runs thus:
MANS LIFE.
MAN IS A GLAS. LIFE IS
A WATER THATS WEAKLY
WALLED ABOUT: SINNE BRING
ES DEATH: DEATH BREAKES
THE GLAS: SO RUNNES
THE WATER OUT
FINIS.
Beyond the village, a startling apparition breaks upon the view to the
right. This is the hero of Weymouth on his white Hanoverian horse.
"Although the length is 280 feet and its heighth 323 feet, yet the
likeness of the King is well preserved and the symmetry of the horse
is complete." The fact that the horse is galloping away from Weymouth
has often been remarked; this was a blunder on the part of "Mr. Wood,
bookseller, who carried the great work to a successful conclusion."
Sutton Poyntz, in a charming situation between spurs of the hills, has
been spoilt by the erection of the Weymouth Waterworks. This is the
"Overcombe" of Hardy's _Trumpet Major_. Chalbury Camp, to the west of
the village, is a prehistoric hill fort with traces of pit-dwellings
within the entrenchment. To the south-east of the camp, on a spur of
the hill and in the direction of Preston, is a remarkable and
extensive British cemetery, from which numbers of cinerary urns and
other relics have been excavated. It is to be hoped that this sort of
curiosity has now exhausted itself and that these resting places of
dead and gone chieftains will be allowed to remain unmolested in the
peaceful solitudes which their mourners chose for them.
Preston is a little over two miles from Weymouth. There are still a
number of old thatched cottages here and a Perpendicular church with a
Norman door. The visitor will notice the ancient font; also a
hagioscope and holy water stoup. At the foot of the village is an old
one-arched bridge over the brook that comes down from Sutton Poyntz.
It is said to be of Norman date and was even supposed at one time to
be Roman. Not far from the church is a Roman villa with a fine
pavement, unearthed in 1842. Breston is supposed to be on or near the
site of Clavinium.
The monotonous line of the Chesil Beach that has been seen from
Portland is, in its extreme length, from Chesil Bay under Fortune's
Well to near Burton Bradstock, where it may be said to end, more than
eighteen miles long and the greatest stretch of pebbles in Europe,
ranging from large and irregular lumps at Portland to small polished
stones at the western extremity. It is said that a local seafarer
landing on the beach in a fog can tell his whereabouts to a nicety by
handling the shingle. For about half the distance, that is to
Abbotsbury, the Fleet makes a brackish ditch on the landward side.
Behind this barrier is a country of low hills and quite
out-of-the-world hamlets seldom visited or visiting. Chickerell, the
nearest of them to Weymouth, has a manufactory of stoneware and a
golf-course, so that it is not so quiet and remote as Fleet, Langton
Herring and the rest, which depend almost entirely on the harvest of
the sea for a livelihood.
The first place of any importance west of Weymouth is Abbotsbury. The
best method of getting there is by the branch railway from Upwey
Junction, which for some occult reason is at Broadwey, leaving Upwey
itself a mile away to the north. Here is the "Wishing Well" beloved of
the younger members of the char-a-banc fraternity who come in crowds
from Weymouth to drink part of a glass of very ordinary water and
throw the remainder, at the instance of the well keeper, over the left
shoulder. As far as the writer is aware there is no particular history
attached to this spring. The arch and seats have been erected for the
benefit of the visitor. But there are less harmless ways of spending a
summer afternoon, and for those who have no "wish" to make, a visit to
the sixteenth-century church will be appreciated. Here is some ancient
woodwork, a pulpit dating from the early seventeenth century, and
three carved figures of the apostles in quaint medieval costumes.
Nottington, a mile to the south of Broadwey, was once a spa, first
resorted to as far back as the reign of George I. The well house,
visited by the third George, is now a residence and the pleasant
surroundings are made picturesque by an old water mill.
The railway penetrates a lonely stretch of country with one wayside
"halt" on the way to Portesham (indifferently "Porsham" or "Posam").
This is a convenient station from which to visit the Blackdown
district. The large village was the birthplace of Admiral Hardy, whose
ugly monument upon the hill does not improve the landscape. The Norman
and Early English church has a fine tower with a bell turret. A good
Jacobean pulpit and panelled ceiling are among the details of the
interior. The brook that runs down the street gives a pleasant
individuality to a village otherwise uninteresting.
[Illustration: PORTESHAM.]
Blackdown is 789 feet above the sea, and the Hardy column, 70 feet
high, is a conspicuous landmark over a wide circumference. This hill
and its outliers are a museum of stone circles and dolmens, the best
known of which is the "Helstone," or Stone of the Dead. On Ridge Hill,
north of Abbotsbury, are the five large stones, almost lost in a
tangle of nettles and undergrowth, called the "Grey Mare and her
Colts."
Abbotsbury is famous for its Abbey, St. Catherine's Chantry, and the
Swannery. The latter is probably the most attractive of the sights to
the majority of visitors, and it is certainly worth seeing.
Application must be made, during the afternoon as a rule, to the
keeper. On a board near the gate is a record of the great sea flood
during the storm of 1824, when the country around was inundated to a
depth of 22 feet. Besides the sight of the long lines of white swans
on the Fleet, there is an interesting decoy for trapping wild duck,
the procedure being explained by the courteous attendant. The history
of the Swannery takes us back to Elizabeth's days, when one John
Strangeways was in possession not only of the swans but of the abbey
and much else besides. It is still in the possession of his
descendant, Lord Ilchester, to whom the new Abbotsbury Castle belongs.
This was destroyed by fire about nine years ago and has since been
rebuilt. The original "Castle" is a small prehistoric entrenchment
west of St. Catherine's Chapel. The grounds of Lord Ilchester's
mansion are very fine, the sub-tropical garden being of especial
interest, and contains many rare plants and trees. Admission is
granted at certain times, and advantage should, if possible, be taken
of the permission.
The sixteenth-century church with its sturdy embattled tower is
interesting. In the doorway will be noticed the lid of a sarcophagus
that has the presentment of an abbot carved upon it, but nothing to
show who the one-time occupant was. Some old stained glass still
remains in the windows and an archaic carving of the Trinity may be
seen upon the wall of the tower. It is conjectured that this was
removed from the abbey at the time of the Dissolution.
A skirmish took place within the church during the Civil War and marks
are pointed out in the Jacobean woodwork of the pulpit as those of
bullets fired during the fight. Doubts have been thrown upon this, and
the damage placed to the account of amateur decorators at the time of
harvest festivals! The writer prefers the more romantic explanation,
but is open to correction. The sounding board over the pulpit is
contemporary with the base and is a fine piece of work.
Close to the churchyard is Abbey Farm. Portions of the buildings
include remains of the once famous Benedictine Abbey of St. Peter,
founded about 1040 by Orc, a one-time steward of Canute and afterwards
in the service of Edward the Confessor. At the Dissolution the abbey
came into the possession of an ancestor of the Strangeways who owned
the Swannery when that first became known to history. The abbey, like
many others, is said to have been built on the site of an older
religious house, dating from very ancient days. There is a gatehouse,
with an arch of later date, remaining, besides the fragmentary
portions in the farmhouse. Many houses in Abbotsbury have pieces of
ecclesiastical stonework or carving built into their heavy walls, and
arched windows seem to have been transplanted bodily from the
dismantled abbey to the dwellings in the village.
By far the most notable building in Abbotsbury is the
fifteenth-century Monastic Barn, a fine structure 276 feet long. Its
plan is as perfect as its simple but imposing architecture; the
ecclesiastical appearance is heightened by the lancet windows between
the heavy buttresses and the slight transeptal extensions that give
the structure the form of a cross. The abbey fish pond, fed by the
stream that runs through Portesham street, till remains below the
tithe barn, and though its farmyard surroundings are very different to
those it had when the brethren gathered around the banks on Thursdays
of old, it is still, with its island centre of old trees, a
picturesque finish to the scene.
St. Catherine's Chapel on the hill above the sea is an erection in a
situation similar to that of the far older building on St. Aldhelm's
Head. Its appearance, however, is quite different, and it is
Perpendicular in style. The turret at the north-west corner, the two
porches and clerestory, are very evidently of another age to the heavy
Norman of St. Aldhelm's, though St. Catherine is solidly built and has
weathered many a fierce storm without suffering any apparent damage.
The walls are nearly four feet thick and the buttresses are sturdy in
proportion. The fine stone roof is greatly admired and is a wonderful
piece of work. The turret was probably used as a beacon, and the
chapel seems to be identical in everything but style with St.
Aldhelm's. On the east side of the south door are three curious
depressions in the stonework said to be "wishing holes," one for the
knee and the higher ones for the hands.
[Illustration: ST. CATHERINE'S CHAPEL.]
The views of the Dorset seaboard during the climb to this exposed
eminence are as fine as one would imagine. The contrast between the
hilly country to the west and the long sweep of the Chesil Beach
backed by the "fleets" is very striking. From our vantage point the
stretch of coast immediately to the west is shown to be quite bare of
hamlet or settlement of any kind beyond a few isolated houses.
Puncknoll, which we shall reach in the next chapter, is the nearest
village, fully four miles from St. Catherine's and nearly half that
distance from the sea.
Winding lanes, solitary also of human kind and delightful to wander in
for the sake of their treasures of flower and insect life, meander
across White Hill and its sister ridge. One of them passes within a
short distance of the "Grey Mare" and her children and, farther on,
another group of mysterious stones. This way would take us to Little
Bredy, a village which, of no interest in itself, has been made a
scene of much beauty by the artificial widening of the little Bride
just below its source as it passes through the grounds of Bridehead.
The last resting places of our Neolithic ancestors are scattered in
great numbers about the heights that enfold the narrow cleft of the
infant stream.
[Illustration: THE CHARMOUTH ROAD.]