I had provided myself with letters of introduction from the American
Automobile Association and Motor League, addressed to the secretary of
the Motor Union of Great Britain and Ireland, and shortly after my
arrival in London, I called upon that official at the club headquarters.
After learning my plans, he referred me to Mr. Maroney, the touring
secretary, whom I found a courteous gentleman, posted on almost every
foot of road in Britain and well prepared to advise one how to get the
most out of a tour. Ascertaining the time I proposed to spend and the
general objects I had in view, he brought out road-maps of England and
Scotland and with a blue pencil rapidly traced a route covering about
three thousand miles, which he suggested as affording the best
opportunity of seeing, in the time and distance proposed, many of the
most historic and picturesque parts of Britain.
In a general way, this route followed the coast from London to Land's
End, through Wales north to Oban and Inverness, thence to Aberdeen and
back to London along the eastern coast. He chose the best roads with
unerring knowledge and generally avoided the larger cities. On the
entire route which he outlined, we found only one really dangerous
grade--in Wales--and, by keeping away from cities, much time and nervous
energy were saved. While we very frequently diverged from this route, it
was none the less of inestimable value to us, and other information,
maps, road-books, etc., which were supplied us by Mr. Maroney, were
equally indispensable. I learned that the touring department of the
Union not only affords this service for Great Britain, but has equal
facilities for planning tours in any part of Europe. In fact, it is able
to take in hand the full details, such as providing for transportation
of the car to some port across the Channel, arranging for necessary
licenses and supplying maps and road information covering the different
countries of Europe which the tourist may wish to visit. This makes it
very easy for a member of the Union--or anyone to whom it may extend its
courtesies--to go direct from Britain for a continental trip, leaving
the tourist almost nothing to provide for except the difficulties he
would naturally meet in the languages of the different countries.
When I showed a well posted English friend the route that had been
planned, he pronounced very favorably upon it, but declared that by no
means should we miss a run through the Midlands. He suggested that I
join him in Manchester on business which we had in hand, allowing for an
easy run of two days to that city by way of Coventry. On our return
trip, we planned to visit many places not included in our main tour,
among them the Welsh border towns, Shrewsbury and Ludlow, and to run
again through Warwickshire, taking in Stratford and Warwick, on our
return to London. This plan was adopted and we left London about noon,
with Coventry, nearly one hundred miles away, as our objective point.
A motor car is a queer and capricious creature. Before we were entirely
out of the crush of the city, the engine began to limp and shortly came
to a stop. I spent an hour hunting the trouble, to the entertainment and
edification of the crowd of loafers who always congregate around a
refractory car. I hardly know to this minute what ailed the thing, but
it suddenly started off blithely, and this was the only exhibition of
sulkiness it gave, for it scarcely missed a stroke in our Midland trip
of eight hundred miles--mostly in the rain. Nevertheless, the little
circumstance, just at the outset of our tour, was depressing.
We stopped for lunch at the Red Lion in the old town of St. Albans,
twenty miles to the north of London. It is a place of much historic
interest, being a direct descendant of the ancient Roman city of
Verulamium; and Saint Albans, or Albanus, who gave his name to the town
and cathedral and who was beheaded near this spot, was the first British
martyr to Christianity of whom there is any record. The cathedral
occupies the highest site of any in England, and the square Norman
tower, which owes its red coloring to the Roman brick used in its
construction, is a conspicuous object from the surrounding country. The
nave is of remarkable length, being exceeded only by Winchester. Every
style of architecture is represented, from early Norman to late
Perpendicular, and there are even a few traces of Saxon work. The
destruction of this cathedral was ordered by the pious Henry VIII at the
time of his Reformation, but he considerately rescinded the order when
the citizens of St. Albans raised money by public subscription to
purchase the church. Only an hour was given to St. Albans, much less
than we had planned, but our late start made it imperative that we move
onward.
Our route for the day was over the old coach road leading from London to
Holyhead, one of the most perfect in the Kingdom, having been in
existence from the time of the Romans. In fact, no stretch of road of
equal distance in our entire tour was superior to the one we followed
from St. Albans to Coventry. It was nearly level, free from sharp turns,
with perfect surface, and cared for with neatness such as we would find
only in a millionaire's private grounds in the United States.
Everywhere men were at work repairing any slight depression, trimming
the lawnlike grasses on each side to an exact line with the edges of the
stone surface, and even sweeping the road in many places to rid it of
dust and dirt. Here and there it ran for a considerable distance through
beautiful avenues of fine elms and yews; the hawthorne hedges which
bordered it almost everywhere were trimmed with careful exactness; and
yet amid all this precision there bloomed in many places the sweet
English wild flowers--forget-me-nots, violets, wild hyacinths and
bluebells. The country itself was rather flat and the villages generally
uninteresting. The road was literally bordered with wayside inns, or,
more properly, ale houses, for they apparently did little but sell
liquor, and their names were odd and fantastic in a high degree. We
noted a few of them. The "Stump and Pie," the "Hare and Hounds," the
"Plume of Feathers," the "Blue Ball Inn," the "Horse and Wagon," the
"Horse and Jockey," the "Dog and Parson," the "Dusty Miller," the "Angel
Hotel" the "Dun Cow Inn," the "Green Man," the "Adam and Eve," and the
"Coach and Horses," are a few actual examples of the fearful and
wonderful nomenclature of the roadside houses. Hardly less numerous than
these inns were the motor-supply depots along this road. There is
probably no other road in England over which there is greater motor
travel, and supplies of all kinds are to be had every mile or two. The
careless motorist would not have far to walk should he neglect to keep
up his supply of petrol--or motor spirit, as they call it everywhere in
Britain.
Long before we reached Coventry, we saw the famous "three spires"
outlined against a rather threatening cloud, and just as we entered the
crooked streets of the old town, the rain began to fall heavily. The
King's Head Hotel was comfortable and up-to-date, and the large room
given us, with its fire burning brightly in the open grate, was
acceptable indeed after the drive in the face of a sharp wind, which had
chilled us through. And, by the way, there is little danger of being
supplied with too many clothes and wraps when motoring in Britain. There
were very few days during our entire summer's tour when one could
dispense with cloaks and overcoats.
Coventry, with its odd buildings and narrow, crowded streets, reminded
Nathaniel Hawthorne of Boston--not the old English Boston, but its big
namesake in America. Many parts of the city are indeed quaint and
ancient, the finest of the older buildings dating from about the year
1400; but these form only a nucleus for the more modern city which has
grown up around them. Coventry now has a population of about
seventy-five thousand, and still maintains its old-time reputation as
an important manufacturing center. Once it was famed for its silks,
ribbons and watches, but this trade was lost to the French and
Swiss--some say for lack of a protective tariff. Now cycles and motor
cars are the principal products; and we saw several of the famous
Daimler cars, made here, being tested on the streets.
Coventry has three fine old churches, whose tall needlelike spires form
a landmark from almost any point of view in Warwickshire, and give to
the town the appellation by which it is often known--"The City of the
Three Spires." Nor could we well have forgotten Coventry's unique
legend, for high up on one of the gables of our hotel was a wooden
figure said to represent Peeping Tom, who earned eternal ignominy by his
curiosity when Lady Godiva resorted to her remarkable expedient to
reduce the tax levy of Coventry. Our faith in the story, so beautifully
re-told by Tennyson, will not be shaken by the iconoclastic assertion
that the effigy is merely an old sign taken from an armourer's shop;
that the legend of Lady Godiva is common to half a dozen towns; and that
she certainly never had anything to do with Coventry, in any event.
Leaving Coventry the next day about noon in a steady rain, we sought the
most direct route to Manchester, thereby missing Nuneaton, the
birthplace and for many years the home of George Eliot and the center
of some of the most delightful country in Warwickshire. Had we been more
familiar with the roads of this country, we could have passed through
Nuneaton without loss of time. The distance was only a little greater
and over main roads, whereas we traveled for a good portion of the day
through narrow byways, and the difficulty of keeping the right road in
the continual rain considerably delayed our progress. We were agreeably
surprised to find that the car did not skid on the wet macadam road and
that despite the rain we could run very comfortably and quite as fast as
in fair weather. I had put up our cape top and curtains, but later we
learned that it was pleasanter, protected by water-proof wraps, to dash
through the rain in the open car. English spring showers are usually
light, and it was rather exhilarating to be able to bid defiance to
weather conditions that in most parts of the United States would have
put a speedy end to our tour.
A few miles farther brought us to Tamworth with its castle, lying on the
border between Warwickshire and Staffordshire, the "tower and town" of
Scott's "Marmion." The castle of the feudal baron chosen by Scott as the
hero of his poem still stands in ruins, and was recently acquired by
the town. It occupies a commanding position on a knoll and is
surrounded by a group of fine trees.
A dozen miles more over a splendid road brought in view the three spires
of Lichfield Cathedral, one of the smallest though most beautiful of
these great English churches. Built of red sandstone, rich with
sculptures and of graceful and harmonious architecture, there are few
cathedrals more pleasing. The town of Lichfield is a comparatively small
place, but it has many literary and historical associations, being the
birthplace of Dr. Samuel Johnson, whose house is still standing, and for
many years the home of Maria Edgeworth. Here, too, once lived Major
Andre, whose melancholy death in connection with the American Revolution
will be recalled. The cathedral was fortified during the civil war and
was sadly battered in sieges by Cromwell's Roundheads; but so completely
has it been rebuilt and restored that it presents rather a new
appearance as compared with many others. It occurred to us that the hour
for luncheon was well past, and we stopped at the rambling old Swan
Hotel, which was to all appearances deserted, for we wandered through
narrow halls and around the office without finding anyone. I finally
ascended two flights of stairs and found a chambermaid, who reluctantly
undertook to locate someone in authority, which she at last did. We were
shown into a clean, comfortable coffee room, where tea, served in
front of a glowing fire place, was grateful indeed after our long ride
through the cold rain.
[Illustration: THE THREE SPIRES OF LICHFIELD.