Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
The Cruise of the Land-Yacht "Wanderer"
Thirteen Hundred Miles in my Caravan
By Gordon Stables
Published by Hodder and Stoughton, 27 Paternoster Row, London.
This edition dated 1886.
The Cruise of the Land-Yacht "Wanderer", by Gordon Stables.
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THE CRUISE OF THE LAND-YACHT "WANDERER", BY GORDON STABLES.
PREFACE.
I need, I believe, do little more herein, than state that the following
pages were written on the road, on the _coupe_ of my caravan, and from
day to day. First impressions, it must be admitted, are not always
infallible, but they are ever fresh.
I have written from my heart, as I saw and thought; and I shall consider
myself most fortunate and happy if I succeed in making the reader think
in a measure as I thought, and feel as I felt.
It is but right to state that many of the chapters have appeared in _The
Leisure Hour_.
Some of the illustrations are from photographs kindly lent me by Messrs.
Valentine and Sons, of Dundee; others from rough sketches of my own;
while the frontispiece, "Waiting till the Kettle Boils," is by Mr
Eales, of Twyford.
Gordon Stables.
The "Wanderer" Caravan, Touring in Yorkshire, _August_ 1886.
CHAPTER ONE.
INTRODUCTORY--WRITTEN BEFORE STARTING.
No man who cannot live in his house on wheels, cook, eat, and sleep in,
on, or under it, can say that he is cut out for a gipsy life. But to do
this you require to have your temporary home well arranged--a perfect
_multum in parvo_, a _domus in minima_. The chief faults of the
old-fashioned caravan are want of space--two ordinary-sized adults can
hardly move in it without trampling on each other's toes--general
stuffiness, heat from sky or stove, or probably both combined, and a
most disagreeable motion when on the road. This latter is caused by
want of good springs, and errors in the general build.
"The man who is master of a caravan," says a writer, "enjoys that
perfect freedom which is denied to the tourist, whose movements are
governed by the time-table. He can go where he likes, stop when he
lists, go to bed at the hour which suits him best, or get up or lie
daydreaming, knowing there is not a train to catch nor a waiter's
convenience to consult. If the neighbourhood does not suit the
van-dweller, all he has to do is to hitch in the horses and move to more
eligible quarters. The door of his hotel is always open. There is no
bill to pay nor anybody to `remember;' and, if the accommodation has
been limited, the lodger cannot complain of the charges. In a caravan
one has all the privacy of a private residence, with the convenience of
being able to wheel it about with a facility denied to the western
settler, who shifts his `shanty' from the `lot' which he has leased to
the more distant one which he has bought. In the van may, for all the
passer-by can discover, be a library and drawing-room combined, or it
may be bedroom and dining-room in one, though, as the pioneers in this
mode of touring sleep under canvas, we may presume that they find the
accommodation indoors a little stuffy."
Now, this sounds very well, but at the present sitting I have my doubts
if a gipsy's--even a gentle-man-gipsy's--life be altogether as
independent and sunshiny as the sentences represent them to be.
About going where he likes, for instance? Are there not certain laws of
the road that forbid the tarrying by the way of caravan folks, for a
longer period than that necessary to water and feed a horse or look at
his feet? By night, again, he may spy a delightfully retired common,
with nothing thereon, perhaps, except a flock of gabbling geese and a
superannuated cart-horse, and be tempted to draw up and on it, but may
not some duty-bound police man stroll quietly up, and order him to
put-to and "move on?"
Again, if the neighbourhood does not suit, then the caravan-master may
certainly go elsewhere, _if_ the horses be not too tired or dead lame.
To be sure, there is inside a caravan all the privacy to be desired; but
immediately outside, especially if drawn up on a village common, it may
be noisy enough.
As regards going to bed and getting up when he pleases, the owner of a
caravan is his own master, unless he chooses to carry the ideas and
customs of a too-civilised life into the heart of the green country with
him, and keep plenty of company.
Methinks a gentleman gipsy ought to have a little of the hermit about
him. If he does not love nature and quiet and retirement, he is
unsuited for a caravan life, unless, indeed, he would like to make every
day a gala day, and the whole tour a round of pleasurable excitement--in
other words, a _farce_.
It is, however, my impression at the present moment that the kind of
life I trust to lead for many months to come, might be followed by
hundreds who are fond of a quiet and somewhat romantic existence, and
especially by those whose health requires bracing up, having sunk below
par from overwork, overworry, or over much pleasure-seeking, in the
reckless way it is the fashion to seek it.
Only as yet I can say nothing from actual experience. I have to _go_
on, the reader has to _read_ on, ere the riddle be solved to our mutual
satisfaction.
CHAPTER TWO.
THE CARAVAN ITSELF--FIRST TRIALS--GETTING HORSED.
"A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse!"
Travelling through the romantic little village of Great Marlow one
summer's day in a pony-trap, I came suddenly on a row of caravans drawn
up on the roadside. Some flying swings were started just as I
approached, and the unwonted sight, with the wild whooping and noise,
startled my horse. He shied, and made a rather thoughtless but very
determined attempt to enter a draper's shop. This resulted in damage
enough to the trap to necessitate my staying an hour or two for repairs.
I would have a look at the caravans, at all events.
There was one very pretty little one, and, seeing me admire it, the
owner, who stood by, kindly asked if I cared to look inside. I thanked
him, and followed him up the steps. It proved to be a good thing of the
class, but inside the space was limited, owing to the extraordinary
breadth of the bed and size of the stove.
I asked the address of the builder, however, and wrote to him for an
estimate. This was sent, but the penmanship and diction in which it was
couched sent no thrill of pleasure through me. Here is a sentence:
"Wich i can build you a wagon as ill cary you anyweres with 1 orse for
eity pounds, i 'as built a power o' pretty wagons for gipsies, an' can
refer you to lots on 'em for reference."
Well, to be sure, there is no necessity for a builder of caravans being
a classical scholar, but there was a sad absence of romance about this
letter; the very word "wagon" was not in itself poetic. Why could not
the man have said "caravan"? I determined to consult a dear old friend
of mine who knows everything, C.A. Wheeler, to wit (the clever author of
"Sportascrapiana.")
Why, he said in reply, did not I go straight to the Bristol Waggon
Company? They would do the thing well, at all events, and build my
caravan from my own drawings.
This was good advice. So I got a few sheets of foolscap and made a few
rough sketches, and thought and planned for a night or two, and thus the
Wanderer came into existence--on paper.
Now that the caravan is built and fitted she is so generally admired by
friends and visitors, that I may be forgiven for believing that a short
description of her may prove not uninteresting to the general reader.
Let us walk round her first and foremost and view the exterior.
A glance will show you (see illustration) that The Saloon Caravan
"Wanderer" is by no means of small dimensions. From stem to stern,
without shafts or pole, she measures nearly twenty feet, her height from
the ground being about eleven feet, and her breadth inside six feet
fully.
For so long a carriage you will naturally say the wheels seem low.
This is true; the hind wheels are little over four feet, but they are
_under_ the carriage. Had they been tall they must have protruded
beyond her considerably, and this would have given the Wanderer a
breadth of beam which would have been awkward on the road, and rendered
it impossible to get her through many gateways.
I might have had a semicircle or hollow in the sides of the caravan, in
which high wheels could have moved without entailing a broader beam, but
this would have curtailed the floor space in the after-cabin, on which
my valet has to sleep athwartships, and this arrangement was therefore
out of the question.
But she must be very heavy? Not for her size and strength. Although
solid mahogany all round outside and lined with softer wood, she scaled
at Bristol but 30 hundredweight, and loaded-up she will be under two
tons. The loading-up includes master, valet, coachman, and a large
Newfoundland dog, not one of whom need be inside except "coachee" on a
stiff hill.
Obeying my instructions, then, the builders made her as light as was
consistent with strength. The wood too is of the best and best seasoned
that could be had. A firm that builds Pullman cars, not only for
England but for America, has always a good supply of old wood on hand.
But if the Wanderer does not look light she certainly looks elegant.
Polished mahogany with black and gold mouldings and shutters--
jalousies--leaves little to be longed for as regards outside show,
neither does it give a gay appearance. The wheels and underworks are
dark chocolate, picked out with vermilion. The only "ornament" about
her is the device on the side, and this is simply a sketch of the badge
of my uniform cap--crown, anchor, and laurel leaves,--with a scroll of
ribbon of the Robertson tartan, my mother's plaid. This looks quite as
pretty and costs less than armorial bearings.
In the illustration the fore part of the caravan is visible. There is a
splashboard, an unusual luxury in carriages of this kind. The _coupe_
is very roomy; the Newfoundland lies here when he likes, and a chair can
be placed on it, or if rugs and a cushion are put down it forms a
delightful lounge on a fine day, and this need in no way interfere with
the comfort of either the driver or the great dog. The driver's seat is
also the corn-bin, and holds two bushels. From the broad panel at the
other side of the door a board lets down at pleasure, and this forms
still another seat for an extra passenger besides myself.
It may also be noticed that the front part of the roof protrudes,
forming ample protection against sun and rain. This canopy is about
three feet deep.
The brake, which is handy to the driver, is a very powerful one, and
similar to those used on tram-cars. There is also an iron skid to lock
one wheel if required on going down hill, and a roller besides for
safety in stopping when going up hill.
There is a door behind right in the centre, similar in appearance to the
front door, with morsels of stained glass let in at the upper corners.
Both doors have light shutters that are put up at night.
Under the rear door the broad steps are shipped, and at each side is a
little mahogany flap table to let down. These the valet finds very
handy when washing up. Beneath each of these flaps and under the
carriage is a drawer to contain tools, dusters, blacking-brushes, and
many a little article, without which comfort on the road could hardly be
secured.
Under the caravan are fastened by chain and padlock a light long ladder,
a framework used in holding out our after-awning or tent, a spade, and
the buckets. But there is also space enough here in which to hang a
hammock.
Under the caravan shafts are carried, which may, however, never be much
required.
In order to give some notion of the internal economy of the Wanderer I
append a linear plan of her floor.
I may mention first that there is quite as much room inside for even a
tall man to stand as there is in a Pullman car.
Entering from behind you may pass through _A_, the pantry or kitchen,
into _B_, the saloon. Folding doors with nice curtains divide the
caravan at pleasure into two compartments. _C_ is the sofa, upholstered
in strong blue railway repp. It is a sofa only by day. At night it
forms the owner's bed. There are lockers under, which contain the
bedclothes, etc, when not in use, as well as my wardrobe. _D_ is the
table, over which is a dainty little bookcase, with at each side a
beautiful lamp on brackets. _E_ is the cupboard, or rather the
cheffoniere, both elegant and ornamental, with large looking-glass over
and behind it. It will be noticed that it juts out and on to the
_coupe_, and thus not only takes up no room in the saloon, but gives me
an additional recess on top for glove-boxes, hanging baskets for
handkerchiefs, and nicknacks. The chiffoniere and the doors are
polished mahogany and glass, the bulkheads maple with darker mouldings,
the roof like that of a first-class railway carriage, the skylight being
broad and roomy, with stained glass and ample means of ventilation.
The other articles of furniture not already mentioned are simple in the
extreme, simple but sufficient, and consist of a piano-stool and tiny
camp-chair, music-rack, footstool, dressing-case, a few artful cushions,
pretty mirrors on the walls, with gilt brackets for coloured candles, a
corner bracket with a clock, a guitar, a small harmonium, a violin, a
navy sword, and a good revolver. There are gilded cornices over each
window, with neat summer curtains, and also over the chiffoniere recess.
The floor is covered with linoleum, and a Persian rug does duty for a
carpet.
The after-cabin contains a rack for dishes, with a cupboard above, a
beautiful little carbon-silicated filter,--the best of filters made--a
marble washstand, a triangular water-can that hangs above, complete with
lid and tap, and which may be taken down to be filled at a well, a rack
for hats and gloves, etc, neat pockets for tea and other towels, a box--
my valet's, which is also a seat--and a little flap table, at which he
can take his meals and read or write. Also the Rippingille
cooking-range. This after-cabin is well-ventilated; the folding doors
are shot at night, and the valet makes his bed athwartships, as I have
already said. The bed is simply two long soft doormats, with above
these a cork mattress. The latter, with the bedding, are rolled up into
an American cloth cover, the former go into a Willesden canvas bag, and
are placed under the caravan by day.
No top-coat or anything unsightly hangs anywhere; economy of space has
been studied, and this goes hand-in-hand with comfort of fittings to
make the gipsy's life on the road as pleasant as ever a gipsy's life can
be. A glance at the illustrations of our saloon and pantry will give a
still better idea of the inside of the Wanderer than my somewhat meagre
description can afford. These are from photographs taken by Mr Eales,
of Twyford. [The frontispiece to this book is also by Mr Eales.]
The Rippingille cooking-range is a great comfort. On cool days it can
be used in the pantry, on hot days--or, at pleasure, on any day--it can
be placed under our after-tent, and the _chef's_ work got through
expeditiously with cleanliness and nicety. Our caravan _menu_ will at
no time be a very elaborate one. I have long been of opinion, as a
medical man and hygienist, that plain living and health are almost
synonymous terms, and that intemperance in eating is to blame for the
origin of quite as many diseases as intemperance in drinking.
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On Getting Horsed.
A correct knowledge of horseflesh is not one of those things that come
intuitively to anybody, though I have sometimes been given to think it
did. It is a kind of science, however, that almost every one, gentle or
simple, pretends to be at home in. Take the opinion of even a draper's
assistant about some horse you happen to meet on the road, and lo! he
begins to look knowing at once, and will strain a nerve, or even two, in
order to give you the impression that _he_ is up to a thing or two.
But let a young man of this kind only see the inside of a stable a few
times, then, although he can hardly tell the heel from the knee in the
_genus equus_, how glibly does he not begin to talk, till he almost
takes your breath away, about capped hocks, side-bones, splints,
shoulders, knees, fetlocks, and feet, and as he walks around a horse,
feeling him here or smoothing him there, he verily seems to the manner
born.
Ladies are seldom very far behind men in their knowledge of hippology.
What young girl fresh from school can be found who cannot drive? "Oh,
give me the reins, I'm sure I can do it." These are her words as often
as not. You do not like to refuse, badly as a broken-kneed horse would
look. You sit by her side ready for any emergency. _She_ is
self-possessed and cool enough. She may not know her own side of the
road, but what does that matter? If a man be driving the trap that is
meeting her, is it not his duty to give place to her? To be sure it is.
And as for the reins, she simply holds them; she evidently regards them
as a kind of leathern telephone, to convey the wishes of the driver to
the animal in the shafts.
But a man or woman either may be very clever at many things, and still
know nothing about horses. It is their want of candour that should be
condemned. Did not two of the greatest philosophers the world ever saw
attempt to put their own nag in the shafts once? Ah! but the collar
puzzled them. They struggled to get it on for half an hour, their
perseverance being rewarded at last by the appearance on the scene of
the ostler himself. I should have liked to have seen that man's face as
he quietly observed, suiting action to his words,--
"It is _usual_, gentlemen, to turn the collar upside down when slippin'
it hover the 'orse's 'ead."
But what must the horse himself have thought of those philosophers?
Now I do not mind confessing that riding is not one of my strong points.
When on horseback there ever prevails in my mind an uncertainty as
regards my immediate future. And I have been told that I do not sit
elegantly, that I do not appear to be part and parcel of the horse I
bestride. My want of confidence may in some measure be attributed to
the fact that, when a boy of tender age, I saw a gentleman thrown from
his horse and killed on the spot. It was a terrible sight, and at the
time it struck me that this must be a very common method of landing from
one's steed. It seems to me the _umbra_ of that sad event has never
quite left my soul.
It is due to myself, however, to add that there are many worse whips
than I in single harness. Driving in double harness is harder work, and
too engrossing, while "tandem" is just one step beyond my present
capabilities. The only time ever I attempted this sort of thing I
miserably failed. My animals went well enough for a time, till all at
once it occurred to my leader to turn right round and have a look at me.
My team was thus "heads and tails," and as nothing I could think of was
equal to the occasion, I gave it up.
Notwithstanding all this, as far as stable duties are concerned, I can
reef, steer, and box the compass, so to speak. I know all a horse needs
when well, and might probably treat a sick horse as correctly as some
country vets. No, I cannot shoe a horse, but I know when it is well
done.
It is probably the want of technicality about my language when talking
to real professed knights of the stable, which causes them to imagine "I
don't know nuffin about an 'orse." This is precisely what one rough old
farmer, with whom I was urging a deal, told me.
"Been at sea all your life, hain't you?" he added.
"Figuratively speaking," I replied, "I may have been at sea all my life,
but not in reality. Is not," I continued, parodying Shylock's
speech--"Is not a horse an animal? Hath not a horse feet, organs,
dimensions, senses, affections, passions? Fed with good oats,
oftentimes hurt by the whip? Subject to the same diseases, healed by
the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer as a
Christian is?"
The man scratched his head, looked puzzled, and we did not deal.
But, dear reader, were I to tell one-tenth part of the woes I endured
before I got horsed and while still tossed on the ocean of uncertainty
and buffeted by the adverse winds of friendly advice, your kindly heart
would bleed for me.
I believe my great mistake lay in listening to every body. One-half of
the inhabitants of our village had horses to sell, the other half knew
where to find them.
"You'll want two, you know," one would say.
I believed that I would need two.
"One large cart-horse will be ample," said another.
I believed him implicitly.
"I'd have a pole and two nags," said one.
"I'd have two nags and two pair of shafts," said another.
"I'd have two nags," said another; "one in the shafts and the other to
trace."
And so on _ad nauseam_ till my brains were all in a whirl, and at night
I dreamt I was a teetotum, and people were playing with me. Perhaps
they were.
A friend to whom I appealed one day in my anguish cut the Gordian knot.
"You've got a nut on you?" he remarked (he meant my head). "Well," he
said, "make use of that."
I took his advice.
CHAPTER THREE.
FIRST EXPERIENCES OF GIPSY LIFE--THE TRIAL TRIP--A THUNDERSTORM ON
MAIDENHEAD THICKET.
"Now rings the woodland loud and long,
The distance takes a lovelier hue,
And drown'd in yonder living blue
The lark becomes a sightless song.
"Now dance the lights on lawn and lea,
The flocks are whiter down the vale,
And milkier every milky sail,
On winding stream or distant sea."
Tennyson.
It was to be our first outing--our trial trip, "by the measured mile,"
as navy sailors call it. Not so much a trial, however, for the caravan
itself, as for a certain horse that was to be attached thereto; and,
considering the weight of our house upon wheels, I thought it at least
doubtful if any one horse would be sufficient to do the work.
The horse in this instance was--a mare. A splendid powerful dark bay
draught mare, with small head, strong, shapely, arching neck, good
shoulders, and long enough in body not to look cloddy. Her tail, about
two yards long, had been specially plaited and got up for the occasion.
Matilda, as she was named, had never done anything except ploughing
before, unless it were an occasional visit to the railway station with a
load of wheat or hay. But she appeared quiet, and took the situation in
at a glance, including the caravan and its master. We put-to, and after
as much manoeuvring as would have sufficed to bring a P. and O. steamer
away from a Southampton pier, we cleared the gate and got fairly under
way.
In the matter of provisions the Wanderer was amply furnished. We had
edibles for the day, and enough for a week, my wife having been steward
and caterer for the occasion.
My companion _voyageurs_ were the two eldest members of my family--Inez
(aetat 7), Lovat (aetat 10), their summer dresses and young beauty
making them look quite gay. Besides these, I had Hurricane Bob, my
champion Newfoundland, who looked as though he could not quite
understand any part of the business.
Very slowly at first walked that mare, and very solemnly too--at a
plough-pace, in fact,--and the farmer's man walked soberly on at her
neck. A rousing touch or two of the light gig whip mended matters
considerably, and there was far less of the "Dead March in _Saul_" about
the progress after this. Matilda warmed to her work; she neighed
merrily, and even got into a kind of swinging trot, which, properly
speaking, was neither trot nor tramp, only it took us over the ground at
four knots an hour, and in pity I made the farmer's man--who, by the
way, had his Sunday clothes all on--get up and sit down.
The morning was very bright and sunny, the road hard and good, but
dusty. This latter was certainly a derivative from our pleasure, but
then gipsies do not have it all their own way in this world any more
than other people. The wind was with us, and was somewhat uncertain,
both in force and direction, veering a little every now and then, and
soon coming round again. But a select assortment of juvenile whirlwinds
had been let loose from their cave, and these did not add to our
delight.
Matilda had plenty of pluck, only she must have thought it an
exceedingly long furrow, and at the end of two miles suddenly made up
her mind to go about of her own accord. This determination on Matilda's
part resulted in a deviation from the straight line, which nearly landed
our fore wheels in the ditch; it also resulted in admonitory
flagellation for Matilda.
Before we had gone three miles the perspiration was streaming down the
mare's legs and meandering over her hoofs, so we pulled up to let her
breathe. The day was young, it was all before us, and it is or ought to
be in the very nature of every gipsy--amateur or professional--to take
no note of time, to possess all the apathy of a Dutchman, all the drowsy
independence of a garden tortoise.
The children begged for a cake, and Inez wanted to know what made the
horse laugh so.
She might well put this question, for Matilda neighed nearly all the
way.
"Why, pa," said Inie, "the horse laughs at everything; he laughs at the
trees, he laughs at the flowers, and at the ponds. He laughs at every
horse he meets; he laughed at the cows cropping the furze, and at the
geese on the common, and now he is laughing at that old horse with its
forefeet tied together. What are the old horse's forefeet tied together
for, pa?"
"To keep him from running away, darling."
"And what does this horse keep on laughing for?"
"Why, he is so proud, you know, of being harnessed to so beautiful a
caravan, that he can't help laughing. He wants to draw the attention of
every creature he sees to it. He will be sure to dream about it
to-night, and if he wakes up any time before morning he will laugh
again."
"Oh!" said Inie, and went on eating her currant-cake thoughtfully.
In about a quarter of an hour we had started again. Lovat, who had been
aft having a view at the back door window, came running forward and said
excitedly,--
"Oh! pa, there is a gentleman with a carriage and pair behind us, making
signs and shouting and waving his whip."
I pulled to the side at once, and the party in the waggonette passed,
the gentleman who handled the ribbons scowling and looking forked
lightning at us. No wonder, the idea of being stopped on the road by
itinerant gipsies!
Well, in driving a large caravan, as you cannot look behind nor see
behind, it is as well to keep pretty near your own side of the road.
This was a lesson I determined to lay to heart. But if seeing behind me
was impossible, hearing was quite as much so, unless it had been the
firing of a six-pounder. This was owing to the rattling of things
inside the van, for, it being but our trial trip, things had not settled
shipshape.
It is but fair to the builders of the Wanderer to say that an
easier-going craft or trap never left Bristol. The springs are as
strong and easy as ever springs were made. There is no disagreeable
motion, but there is--no, I mean there was on that first day--a
disagreeable rattling noise.
Nothing inside was silent; nothing would hold its tongue. No wonder our
mare Matilda laughed. The things inside the sideboard jingled and rang,
edged towards each other, hobnobbed by touching sides, then edged off
again. The crystal flower-boat on the top made an uneasy noise, the
crimson-tinted glass lampshades made music of their own _in tremolo_,
and the guitar fell out of its corner on top of my cremona and cracked a
string. So much for the saloon; but in the pantry the concert was at
its loudest and its worse--plates and dishes, cups and saucers, tumblers
and glasses, all had a word to say, and a song to sing; while as for the
tin contents of the Rippingille cooking-range--the kettle and
frying-pan, and all the other odds and ends--they constituted a complete
band of their own, and a very independent one it was. Arab tom-toms
would hardly have been heard alongside that range.
With bits of paper and chips of wood I did what I could to stop the din,
and bit my lip and declared war _a outrance_ against so unbearable a
row. The war is ended, and I am victor. Nothing rattles much now;
nothing jangles; nothing sings or speaks or squeaks. My auxiliaries in
restoring peace have been--wedge-lets of wood, pads of indiarubber, and
nests of cottonwool and tow; and the best of it is that there is nothing
unsightly about any of my arrangements after all.
But to resume our journey. As there came a lull in the wind, and
consequently some surcease in the rolling storm of dust, we stopped for
about an hour at the entrance to Maidenhead Thicket. The children had
cakes, and they had books, and I had proofs to correct--nice easy work
on a day's outing!
Meanwhile great banks of clouds (_cumulus_) came up from the north-east
and obscured the sun and most of the sky, only leaving ever-changing
rifts of blue here and there, and the wind went down.
Maidenhead Thicket is a long stretch of wild upland--a well-treed moor,
one might call it, and yet a breezy, healthful tableland. The road goes
straight through it, with only the greensward, level with the road at
each side, then two noble rows of splendid trees, mostly elm and lime,
with here and there a maple or oak. But abroad, on the thicket itself,
grow clumps of trees of every description, and great masses of yellow
blossoming furze and golden-tasselled broom.
To our left the thicket ended afar off in woods, with the round braeland
called Bowsy Hill in the distance; to the right, also in woods, but
finally in a great sweep of cultivated country, dotted over with many a
smiling farm and private mansion.
Maidenhead Thicket in the old coaching days used to be rather dreaded by
the four-in-hands that rolled through it. Before entering it men were
wont to grasp their bludgeons and look well to their priming, while
ladies shrank timorously into corners (as a rule they did). The place
is celebrated now chiefly for being a meeting-place for "'Arry's
'Ounds."
How have I not pitied the poor panting stag! It would be far more
merciful, and give more real "sport," to import and turn down in the
thicket some wild Shetland sheep.
Some few weeks ago the stag of the day ran for safety into our wee
village of Twyford; after it came the hounds in full cry, and next came
pricking along a troop of gallant knights and ladies fair. Gallant, did
I say? Well, the stag took refuge in a coal-cellar, from which he was
finally dragged, and I am thankful to believe that, when they saw it
bleeding and breathless, those "gallant" carpet-knights were slightly
ashamed of themselves. However, there is no accounting for taste.
Sometimes even until this day Maidenhead Thicket is not safe. Not safe
to cyclists, for example, on a warm moonlit summer's night, when tramps
lie snoozing under the furze-bushes.
But on this, the day of our trial trip, I never saw the thicket look
more lovely; the avenue was a cloudland of tenderest greens, and the
music of birds was everywhere around us. You could not have pointed to
bush or branch and said, "No bird sings there." It was the "sweet time
o' the year."
Where the thicket ends the road begins to descend, and after devious and
divers windings, you find yourself in the suburbs of Maidenhead, two
long rows of charming villas, with gardens in front that could not look
prettier. The pink and white may, the clumps of lilac, the leafy
hedgerows, the verandahs bedraped with mauve wistaria, the blazes of
wallflower growing as high as the privet, and the beds of tulips of
every hue, and beds of blood-red daisies in the midst of green lawns--it
was all a sight, I can assure you! It made Matilda laugh again, and the
children crow and clap their tiny hands with glee.
We passed through the town itself, which is nice enough, and near the
bridge drew to the side and stopped, I walking on and over the bridge to
find a place to stand for a few hours, for Matilda was tired and
steaming, and we all looked forward to dinner.
The river looks nowhere more lovely and picturesque than it does at
Maidenhead in summer. Those who cross it by train know this, but you
have to stand on the old bridge itself and look at it before you can
realise all its beauty. The Thames here is so broad and peaceful, it
seems loth to leave so sweet a place. Then the pretty house-boats and
yachts, with awnings spread, and smart boats laden with
pleasure-seekers, and the broad green lawns on the banks, with their
tents and arbours and bright-coloured flower vases, give this reach of
the Thames quite a character of its own. How trim these lawns are to be
sure! almost too much so for my ideas of romance; and then the chairs
need not be stuck all in a row, nor need the vases be so very gaudy.
I found a place to suit me at last, and the Wanderer was drawn up on an
inn causeway. Matilda was led away to the stable, the after-steps were
let down, and the children said, "Isn't it dinner-time, pa?"
Pa thought it was. The cloth was spread on this soft carpet, and round
it we all squatted--Hurricane Bob in the immediate rear--and had our
first real gipsy feed, washed down with ginger-ale procured from the
adjoining inn.
I wondered if the Wanderer really was an object of curiosity to the
groups who gathered and walked and talked around us?
Younger ladies, I know, were delighted, and not slow to say so.
But I do not think that any one took us for hawkers or cheap-Jack
people.
"If I had that caravan, now, and a thousand a year," we heard one man
observe, "I'd kick about everywhere all over the country, and I wouldn't
call the king my cousin."
Soon after we had returned from a walk and a look at the shops a couple
of caravans with real gipsies crossed the bridge.
"Stop, Bill, stop!" cried one of the tawny women, who had a bundle of
mats for a chest protector. "Stop the 'orses, can't yer? I wouldn't
miss a sight o' this for a pension o' 'taters."
The horses were stopped. Sorry-looking nags they were, with coffin
heads, bony rumps, and sadly swollen legs.
"Well I never!"
"Sure there was never sich a wan as that afore on the road!"
"Why, look at her, Sally! Look at her, Jim! Up and down, and roun' and
roun', and back and fore. Why, Bill! I say, that wan's as complete as
a marriage certificate or a summons for assault."
We people inside felt the compliment.
But we did not show.
"Hi, missus!" cried one; "are ye in, missus? Surely a wan like that
wouldn't be athout a missus. Will ye buy a basket, missus? Show your
cap and your bonny face, missus. Would ye no obleege us with just one
blink at ye?"
They went away at last, and soon after we got Matilda in and followed.
With her head towards home, and hard, level road, Matilda trotted now,
and laughed louder than ever.
But soon the road began to rise; we had to climb the long, steep
Maidenhead hill.
And just then the storm of rain and hail broke right in our teeth. At
the middle of the hill it was at its worst, but the mare strode boldly
on, and finally we were on fairly level road and drew up under some
lime-trees.
The distance from Twyford to Maidenhead is nine miles, so we took it as
easy going: as we had done coming.
We had meant to have tea in the thicket, but I found at the last moment
I had forgotten the water. There was nothing for it but to "bide a
wee."
We stopped for half-an-hour in the thicket, nevertheless, to admire the
scenery. Another storm was coming up, but as yet the sun shone brightly
on the woods beyond the upland, and the effect was very beautiful. The
tree masses were of every colour--green elms and limes, yellowed-leaved
oaks, dark waving Scottish pines, and black and elfin-looking yews, with
here and there a copper beech.
But the storm came on apace. The last ray of sunlight struck athwart a
lime, making its branches look startlingly green against the dark purple
of the thundercloud.
Then a darting, almost blinding flash, and by-and-bye the peal of
thunder.
The storm came nearer and nearer, so that soon the thunder-claps
followed the flashes almost instantly.
Not until the rain and hail came on did the blackbirds cease to flute or
the swallows to skim high overhead. How does this accord with the poet
Thomson's description of the behaviour of animals during a summer
thunderstorm, or rather the boding silence that precedes it?--
"Prone to the lowest vale the aerial tribes
Descend. The tempest-loving raven scarce
Dares wing the dubious dusk. In rueful gaze
The cattle stand," etc.
Our birds and beasts in Berkshire are not nearly so frightened at
thunder as those in Thomson's time must have been, but then there were
no railway trains in Thomson's time!
The poet speaks of unusual darkness brooding in the sky before the
thunder raises his tremendous voice. This is so; I have known it so
dark, or dusk rather, that the birds flew to roost and bats came out.
But it is not always that "a calm" or "boding silence reigns."
Sometimes the wind sweeps here and there in uncertain gusts before the
storm, the leaf-laden branches bending hither and thither before them.
We came to a part of the road at last where the gable end of a pretty
porter's lodge peeped over the trees, and here pulled up. The thunder
was very loud, and lightning incessant, only it did not rain then.
Nothing deterred, Lovat, kettle in hand, lowered himself from the
_coupe_ and disappeared to beg for water. As there was no other house
near at hand it was natural for the good woman of the lodge, seeing a
little boy with a fisherman's red cap on, standing at her porch begging
for water, to ask,--"Wherever do you come from?" Lovat pointed upwards
in the direction of the caravan, which was hidden from view by the
trees, and said,--
"From up there."
"Do ye mean to tell me," she said, "that you dropped out of the clouds
in a thunderstorm with a tin-kettle in your hand?"
But he got the water, the good lady had her joke, and we had tea.
The storm grew worse after this. Inez grew frightened, and asked me to
play.
"Do play the fiddle, pa!" she beseeched. So, while the "Lightning
gleamed across the rift," and the thunder crashed overhead, "pa"
fiddled, even as Nero fiddled when Rome was burning.
CHAPTER FOUR.
TWYFORD AND THE REGIONS AROUND IT.
"I heard a thousand blended notes
While in a grove I sat reclined
In that sweet moor, when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
"One moment now may give us more
Than fifty years of reason;
Our minds shall drink at every pore
The spirit of the season."
Wordsworth.
Not to say a word about Twyford--the village that has given me birth and
bield for ten long years--would be more than unkind, it would be
positively ungrateful.
I must hasten to explain, however, that the Twyford referred to is THE
Twyford--Twyford, Berks. About a dozen other Twyfords find their names
recorded in the Postal Guide, from each and all of which we hold
ourselves proudly aloof. Has Twyford the Great then, it may reasonably
enough be asked, anything in particular to boast of? Well, methinks to
belong to so charming a county as that of Berks is in itself something
to be proud of. Have we not--
"Our forests and our green retreats,
At once the monarch's and the muse's seats,
Our hills and dales, and woods and lawns and spires,
And glittering towns and silver streams?"
Yes, and go where you will anywhere round Twyford, every mile is sacred
to the blood of warriors spilt in the brave days of old. Not far from
here Pope the poet lived and sang. The author of "Sandford and Merton"
was thrown from his horse and killed at our neighbouring village of
Wargrave, the very name of which is suggestive of stirring times. Well,
up yonder on the hillhead lived the good old Quaker Penn, the founder of
Pennsylvania. Yet, strange to say, no Americans are ever known to visit
the spot. There is at Ruscombe (Penn's parish) a pretty and
rustic-looking church, and not far off is the cosy vicarage of redbrick,
almost hidden in foliage. On a knoll behind it, and in the copse at one
side, is quite a forest of waving pines and larches and oaks. Hidden in
the centre of this forest is a rude kind of clearing; in reality it has
been a quarry or gravel-pit, but it is now charmingly embanked with
greensward, with here and there great patches of gorse and bramble.
This place all the livelong summer I made my everyday retreat, my
woodland study. But it is not of myself I would speak. At one side of
this clearing stands a great oak-tree. It rises from a flat grassy
eminence, and affords an excellent shelter from showers or sun. At the
foot of this tree sometimes, on moonlight midnights, a tall and aged
figure, in a broad-brimmed hat, may be seen seated in meditation. It,
or _he_, ever vanishes before any one is bold enough to approach. Can
this be the ghost of Penn? Mind, I, myself, have never seen _it_ or
_him_, and the apparition may be all fancy, or moonshine and flickering
shadow, but I give the story as I got it.
Twyford the Great is not a large place, its population is barely a
thousand; there is a new town and an old. The new town is like all
mushroom villages within a hundred miles of the city--a mere tasteless
conglomeration of bricks and mortar, with only two pretty houses in it.
But old Twyford is quaint and pretty from end to end--from the lofty
poplars that bound my orchard out Ruscombe way, to the drowsy and
romantic old mill on the Loddon. This last is worth a visit; only, if
you lean over the bridge and look at this old mill for any length of
time, you are bound to fall asleep, and I am bound to tell you so.
Twyford in summer, as well as the neighbourhood all round, may be seen
at their best. The inhabitants of Twyford are at their best any day. I
have strong reasons for believing the village must have been founded by
some philosophical old Dutchman, or Rip van Winkle himself. And the
peace of Penn seems to rest for ever around it.
The amusements in my wee village are few, rural, and primitive. Amateur
cricket in summer, amateur concerts in winter, sum up the enjoyments of
"Twyford at home."
But the most delightful time of all in our Twyford is the season from
March to June. Concerts are over, cricket has not commenced, and
therefore dulness and apathy might now be reasonably supposed to prevail
among us. Perhaps; but the lover of nature is now quite as happy as the
birds and the early flowers and budding trees.
So many lightning-tipped pens have written about spring and its
enjoyments, that I shall not here attempt to sing its praises. I may be
excused for saying, however, that while the inhabitants of towns and
cities like, as a rule, to have their spring all ready-made when they
pay a visit to rural districts, the orchards all in full bloom, the may
all out, and the nightingales turned down, we simple-minded "country
bodies" delight in watching and witnessing the gradual transformation
from leafless tree to glittering leaf; from bare brown fields, o'erswept
by stormy winds, to daisy-covered leas, cowslip meads, and primrose
banks.
To me--and, no doubt, to many--there is far more of beauty in a
half-blown floweret of the field, say the mountain-daisy, Burns's "Wee
modest crimson-tipped flower," than there is in a garden favourite full
outspread--take the staring midday tulip as a familiar example.
Down here in bird-haunted Berkshire spring begins in February even,
whatever it may do in Yorkshire. Now noisy rooks begin to build; the
mavis or thrush, perched high on some swaying tree, sings loud and sweet
of joys in store; on sunny days I've known an invalid-looking hedgehog
or dormouse wriggle out from his hibernal grave, look hungrily around,
sun himself, shiver, and wriggle back again. But the sly snake and the
sage old toad stick close to bank until the days are longer. Even thus
early an occasional butterfly may be seen afloat, looking in vain for
flowers. He cannot be happy; like the poet, he is born before his time.
But soon after big humble bees appear about gardens and woodland paths,
flying drowsily and heavily. They are prospecting; they get into all
kinds of holes, and I may say all kinds of scrapes, often tumbling
helplessly on their backs, and getting very angry when you go to their
assistance with a straw.
Did it ever strike the reader that those same great velvety bees are
republicans in their way of thinking? It is true. One humble bee is
just as good as another. And very polite they are to each other too,
and never unsheath their stings to fight without good occasion. Just
one example: Last summer, in my woodland study, I noticed one large bee
enter a crimson foxglove bell. Presently round came another--not of the
same clan, for he wore a white-striped tartan, the first being a Gordon,
and wearing the yellow band. The newcomer was just about to enter the
bell where bee Number 1 was. Bee Number 1 simply lifted his forearm and
waved the intruder back. "I really beg pardon," said bee Number 2. "I
didn't know there was any one inside." And away he flew.
In February, down with us, the hazel-trees are tasselled over with
catkins. Every one notices those, but few observe the tiny flower that
grows on the twig near those drooping catkins. Only a tuft of green
with a crimson tip, but inexpressibly beautiful. At the same time you
will find the wild willow-bushes all covered with little flossy white
cocoons.
There will be also a blaze of furze blossom here and there in the copse,
but hardly a bud yet upon the hedgerows, while the great forest trees
are still soundly wrapped in their winter sleep.
But high up on yonder swaying bough the thrush keeps on singing. Spring
and joy are coming soon.
"It is the cuckoo that tells us spring is coming," some one may say.
The man who first promulgated that notion ought to have been tried by
court-martial. The cuckoo never comes till leaves are out and flowers
in bloom. Nor the noisy wryneck nor melodious nightingale. These are
merely actors and musicians, and they never put in an appearance till
the carpet has been spread on the stage, and the scenery is perfect.
A cherry orchard is lovely indeed when its trees are snowed over with
the blossoms that cluster around the twigs like swarms of bees, their
dazzling whiteness relieved by just the faintest tinge of green. An
apple orchard is also beautiful in the sunshine of a spring morning when
the bloom is expanded. I grant that, but to me it is far more to be
admired when the flowers are just opening and the carmine tint is on
them.
Probably the pink or white may looks best when in full unfolded bloom;
but have you ever noticed either of these just before they open, when
the flowerets look like little balls of red or white wax prettily set in
their background of green leafage? The white variety at this stage
presents an appearance not unlike that of lily-of-the-valley bloom, and
is just as pretty.
The ordinary laurel too is quite a sight when its flowers are half
unfolded. The Portuguese laurel blooms later on; the tree then looks
pretty at a distance, but its perfume prevents one from courting a too
close acquaintance with it.
But there is the common holly that gives us our Christmas decorations.
Has my city reader noticed it in bloom in May? It is interesting if not
beautiful. All round the ends of the twiglets, clustering beneath last
year's leaves, is first seen an excrescence, not unlike that on the beak
of a carrier pigeon. This opens at last into a white-green bunch of
blossom, and often the crimson winter berries still cling to the same
twiglet. This looks curious at least--May wedded to bleak December,
Christmas to Midsummer.
The oak and the ash are among the last trees to hear the voice of spring
and awaken from their winter's sleep. Grand, sturdy trees both, but how
exceedingly modest in their florescence! So too is the plane or
maple-tree.
The first young leaves of the latter are of different shades of brown
and bronze, while those of the stunted oaks that grow in hedgerows are
tinted with carmine, making these hedges gay in May and June even before
the honeysuckle or wild roses come out.
The oak-trees when first coming into leaf are of a golden-green colour,
and quite a feature of the woodlands. The tall swaying poplars are
yellow in leaf at first, but soon change to darkest green.
But in this sweet time of the year every tree is a poem, and the birds
that hide among their foliage do but set those poems to music.