Locomotive, Number One--Barnard Castle--Buying a Calf on
Sunday--Baliol's Tower--From Canute to the Duke of Cleveland--
Historic Scenery--A surprised Northumbrian--The bearded Hermit
--Beauty of Teesdale--Egliston Abbey--The Artist and his Wife--
Dotheboys Hall--Rokeby--Greta Bridge--Mortham Tower--Brignall
Banks--A Pilgrimage to Wycliffe--Fate of the Inns--The Felon
Sow--A Journey by Omnibus--Lartington--Cotherstone--
Scandinavian Traces--Romaldkirk--Middleton-in-Teesdale--Wild
Scenery--High Force Inn--The voice of the Fall.
Facing the entrance to the railway station, elevated on a pedestal of
masonry, stands the first locomotive--_Number One_. With such machines
as that did the Quakers begin in 1823 to transport coal from the mines
near Darlington to Middlesborough along their newly-opened railway.
Compared with the snorting giants of the Great Western, its form and
dimensions are small and simple. No glittering brass or polished steel
bedeck its strength; it is nothing but a black boiler, mounted on
wheels, with three or four slender working-rods standing up near one
end, and the chimney with its saw-toothed top at the other. Yet, common
as it looks, it is one of George Stephenson's early triumphs: one of the
steps by which he, and others after him, established more and more the
supremacy of mind over mere brute matter. It was a happy thought to
preserve _Number One_ on the spot where enlightened enterprise first
developed its capabilities.
Tees is one of those streams--the "silly few"--which owe a divided
allegiance, watering two counties at once. Rising high amidst the
wildest hills of the north-west, it takes a course of eighty-three miles
to the sea through many scenes of romantic beauty. Yesterday we looked
down from Rosebury on the last two or three leagues of its outfall;
to-day if all go well we shall see the summit from which it springs. It
is a glorious morning; the earliest train arrives, interrupts our
examination of the old locomotive, and away we go to breakfast at
Barnard Castle, on the Durham side of the river.
There is so much of beautiful and interesting in the neighbourhood,
scenes made classic by the pen of Scott, that I chose to pass the day in
rambling, and journey farther in the evening. The town itself,
old-fashioned in aspect, quiet enough for grass to grow here and there
in the streets, was one of the ancient border-towns, and paid the
penalty of its position. It has a curious market-cross, and touches of
antiquity in the byeways; and owing to something in its former habits or
history, is a butt for popular wit. "Barney-Cassel, the last place that
God made," is one way of mentioning the town by folk in other parts of
the county; if you meet with a fellow more uncouth than usual, he is
"Barney-Cassel bred;" any one who shoots with the long bow is silenced
with "That wunna do, that's Barney-Cassel;" and as Barney-Cassel farmers
may be recognised by the holes in their sacks, so may the women by holes
in their stockings.
One Sunday morning, a farmer, while on his way to chapel, noticed a fine
calf in his neighbour's field, and when seated in his pew, was overheard
to ask the owner of the animal, "Tommy, supposin' it was Monday, what
wad ye tak' for yer calf?" To which Tommy replied in an equally audible
whisper, "Why, supposin' it was Monday, aw'd tak' two pun' fifteen."
"Supposin' it was Monday aw'll gie two pun' ten." "Supposin' it was
Monday, then ye shall hev't." And the next day the calf was delivered to
the scrupulous purchaser.
The pride of the town is the castle--ruined remains of the stronghold
erected by Bernard Baliol to protect the lands bestowed on him by
William the Red. Seen from the bridge, the rocky height, broken and
craggy, and hung with wood, crowned by Baliol's Tower, is remarkably
picturesque. The Tees sweeps round the base, as if impatient to hide
itself once more under green woods, to receive once more such
intermingled shadows of rock and leafage as fell on it through Marwood
Chase, and where Balder rushes in about a league above. A mile of
sunlight, and then the brawling stream will play with the big stones and
crowd its bed all through the woods of Rokeby.
Let us mount the hill and ascend the tower. The bearded hermit who
inhabits therein points the way to the stone stair constructed within
the massive wall, and presently we come to the top, where, although
there is no parapet, the great thickness admits of your walking round in
safety. The view is a feast for the eye--thick woods marking the course
of the river, the trees thinning off as they meet the uplands, where
fields and hedgerows diversify the landscape away to the hills; while in
the distance the sight of dark, solemn moorlands serves but to heighten
the nearer beauty. We can see lands once held by King Canute, now the
property of the Duke of Cleveland: we passed his estate, the park and
castle of Raby, about six miles distant on our way hither; and whichever
way we look there is something for memory to linger on:
"Staindrop, who, from her sylvan bowers,
Salutes proud Raby's battled towers;
The rural brook of Egliston,
And Balder, named from Odin's son;
And Greta, to whose banks ere long
We lead the lovers of the song;
And silver Lune, from Stanmore wild,
And fairy Thorsgill's murmuring child,
And last and least, but loveliest still,
Romantic Deepdale's slender rill."
Barnard Castle was lost to the Baliol family by the defeat of John
Baliol's pretensions to the crown of Scotland. Later it was granted,
with the adjoining estates, to the Earls of Warwick, and on the marriage
of Anne Neville with royal Gloucester, the Duke chose it as his
favourite residence. You may still see his cognizance of the boar here
and there on the walls, and on some of the oldest houses in the town.
The Earl of Westmoreland had it next, but lost it by taking part in _The
Rising of the North_. The couplet:--
"Coward, a coward, of Barney Castel,
Dare not come out to fight a battel,"
is said to have its origin in the refusal of the knight who held the
castle, to quit the shelter of its walls and try the effect of a combat
with the rebels. And so the game went on, the Crown resuming possession
at pleasure, until the whole property fell by purchase, in 1629, to an
ancestor of the present owner--the Duke of Cleveland.
"Whoy! 'tis but a little town to ha' such a muckle castle," exclaimed
one of three men who had just arrived with a numerous party by excursion
train from Newcastle, and ventured to the top of the tower. "Eh! the
castle wur bigger nor the town."
Whatever may have been, the thick-voiced Northumbrian was wrong in his
first conclusion, for the town has more than four thousand inhabitants.
But, looking down, we can see that the castle with its outworks and
inner buildings must have been a fortress of no ordinary dimensions.
Nearly seven acres are comprehended within its area, now chiefly laid
out in gardens, where, sheltered by the old gray stones, the trees bear
generous fruit. If you can persuade the hermit to ascend, he will point
out Brackenbury's Tower, a dilapidated relic, with dungeons in its base,
now used as stables; and near it a cow-stall, which occupies the site of
the chapel. Examine the place when you descend, and you will discover,
amid much disfigurement, traces of graceful architecture.
The hermit himself--a man of middle age--is a subject for curiosity. So
far as I could make him out, he appeared to be half misanthropist, half
misogynist. He quarrelled with the world about eighteen years ago, and,
without asking leave, took possession of a vault and a wall-cavity at
the foot of the great round tower, and has lived there ever since,
supporting himself by the donations of visitors, and the sale of rustic
furniture which he makes with his own hands. His room in the wall is
fitted with specimens of his skill, and it serves as a trap, for you
have to pass through it to ascend the tower. He showed me his workshop,
and pointed out a spot under the trees at the hill-foot where flows the
clear cold spring from which he draws water. The Duke, he said,
sometimes came to look at the ruin, and gave him a hint to quit; but he
did not mean to leave until absolutely compelled. I heard later in the
day that he had been crossed in love; and that, notwithstanding his love
of solitude, he would go out at times and find a friend, and make a
night of it. But this may be scandal.
I went down and took a drink at the spring which, embowered by trees and
bushes, sparkles forth from the rocky brink of the river; and rambled
away to Rokeby. There are paths on both sides of the stream, along the
edge of the meadows, and under the trees past the mill, past cottages
and gardens, leading farther and farther into scenes of increasing
beauty. Then we come to the Abbey Bridge, whence you get a pleasing
view of a long straight reach of the river, terminated by a glimpse of
Rokeby Hall, a charming avenue, so to speak, of tall woods, which, with
ferns, shrubs, and mazy plants, crowd the rocky slopes to the very edge
of the water. From ledge to ledge rushes the stream, making falls
innumerable, decked with living fringes of foam, and as the noisy
current hurries onward it engirdles the boulders with foamy rings, or
hangs upon them a long white train that flutters and glistens as
sunbeams drop down through the wind-shaken leaves. Strong contrasts of
colour enrich the effect:
"Here Tees, full many a fathom low,
Wears with his rage no common foe;
For pebbly bank, nor sand-bed here,
Nor clay-mound, checks his fierce career,
Condemn'd to mine a channell'd way,
O'er solid sheets of marble gray."
On the Yorkshire side, a few yards above the bridge, the remains of
Egliston or Athelstan Abbey crown a pleasant knoll surrounded by wood.
They are of small extent, and, on the whole, deficient in the
picturesque; but as an artist said who sketched while his wife sat
sewing by his side, "There are a few little bits worth carrying away."
The east window, in which the plain mullions still remain, is of unusual
width, the chancel exhibits carvings of different styles; two or three
slabs lying on the grass preserve the memory of an abbot, and of a
Rokeby, who figures in the still legible inscription as #Bastard;# and
the outbuildings are now occupied as a farm. Some years hence, when the
ivy, which has begun to embrace the eastern window, shall have spread
its evergreen mantle wider and higher, the ruins will be endowed with a
charm wherein their present scanty nakedness may be concealed. Yet apart
from this the place has natural attractions, a village green, noble
trees, Thorsgill within sight; and just beyond the green a mill of
cheerful clatter.
The artist and his wife were enjoying a happy holiday. They had come
down into Yorkshire with a fortnight's excursion ticket, and a scheme
for visiting as many of the abbeys and as much picturesque scenery as
possible within the allotted time. Sometimes they walked eight or ten
miles, or travelled a stage in a country car, content to rough it, so
that their wishes should be gratified. They had walked across from
Stainmoor the day before, and told me that in passing through Bowes
they had seen the original of Dotheboys Hall, now doorless, windowless,
and dilapidated. Nicholas Nickleby's exposure was too much for it, and
it ceased to be a den of hopeless childhood--a place to which heartless
fathers and mothers condemned their children because it was cheap.
What a contrast! Wackford Squeers and the Thracian cohort. Bowes, under
the name of Lavatrae, was once a station on the great Roman road from
Lincoln to Carlisle. Ere long it will be a station on the railway that
is to connect Stockton with Liverpool.
Now, returning to the bridge, we plunge into the woods, and follow the
river's course by devious paths. Gladsome voices and merry laughter
resound, for a numerous detachment of the excursionists from Newcastle
are on their way to view the grounds of Rokeby. Delightful are the
snatches of river scenery that we get here and there, where the jutting
rock affords an outlook, and the more so as we enjoy them under a cool
green shade. Leaving the Northumbrians at the lodge to accomplish their
wishes, I kept on to Greta Bridge, and lost myself in the romantic glen
through which the river flows. It will surprise you by its manifold
combinations of rock, wood, and water, fascinating the eye at every step
amid a solitude profound. This was the route taken by Bertram and
Wilfrid when the ruthless soldier went to take possession of Mortham.
You cannot fail to recognize how truly Scott describes the scenery; the
"beetling brow" is there, and the "ivied banners" still hang from the
crags as when the minstrel saw them. We can follow the two to that
"----grassy slope which sees
The Greta flow to meet the Tees:"
and farther, where
"South of the gate, an arrow flight,
Two mighty elms their limbs unite,
As if a canopy to spread
O'er the lone dwelling of the dead;
For their huge boughs in arches bent
Above a massive monument,
Carved o'er in ancient Gothic wise,
With many a scutcheon and device."
You will long to lengthen your hours into days for wanderings in this
lovely neighbourhood. You will be unwilling to turn from the view at
Mortham Tower--one of the old border peels, or fortresses on a small
scale--or that which charms you from the Dairy Bridge. Then if the risk
of losing your way does not deter, you may ramble to "Brignall Banks"
and Scargill, having the river for companion most part of the way. And
should you be minded to pursue the road through Richmondshire to
Richmond, the village and ruins of Ravensworth will remind you of
"The Baron of Ravensworth prances in pride,
And he views his domains upon Arkindale side.
The mere for his net and the land for his game,
The chase for the wild, and the park for the tame;
Yet the fish of the lake, and the door of the vale,
Are less free to Lord Dacre than Allen-a-Dale!"
Or, if inspired by a deeper sentiment, you prefer a pilgrimage to a spot
of hallowed memory to every Englishman, choose the river-side path to
Wycliffe, and see how ever new beauties enchant the way, and say on
arrival if ever you saw a prettier village church or a more charming
environment. Shut in by woods and hills here, as some writers show, is
the birthplace of John Wycliffe, to whom freedom of conscience is
perhaps more indebted than to Luther. One may believe that Nature
herself desires to preserve from desecration the cradle of him who
opened men's hearts and eyes to see and understand the truth in its
purity; cleansed from the adulterations of priestcraft; stripped of all
the blinding cheats of papistry; who died faithful to the truth for
which he had dared to live; who bequeathed that truth to us, and with
God's blessing we will keep it alive and unblemished, using it manfully
as a testimony against all lies and shams whatsoever and wheresoever
they may be found.
The church was restored, as one may judge, in a loving spirit in 1850.
It contains a few interesting antiquities, and is fraught with memories
of the Wycliffes. One of the brasses records the death of the last of
the family. Sir Antonio a-More's portrait of the great Reformer still
hangs in the rectory, where it has been treasured for many generations.
You may return from this pilgrimage by the way you went, or walk on
through Ovington to Winston, and there take the train to Barnard Castle.
I preferred the banks of Tees, for their attractions are not soon
exhausted. One of the houses at Greta, which was a famous hostelry in
the days of stage-coaches, is now a not happy-looking farm-house. It has
seen sore changes. Once noise and activity, and unscrupulous profits,
when the compact vehicles with the four panting horses rattled up to the
door at all hours of the day or night, conveying passengers from London
to Edinburgh. Now, a silence seldom disturbed save by the river's voice,
and time for reflection, and leisure to look across to its neighbour,
wherein the wayfarer or angler may still find rest and entertainment.
From Greta Bridge to Boroughbridge was considered the best bit of road
in all the county. Now it is encroached on by grass, and the inns which
are not shut up look altogether dejected, especially that one where the
dining-room has been converted into a stable.
If you have read the ballad of _The Felon Sow_, we will remember it
while repassing the park:
"She was mare than other three,
The grisliest beast that e'er might be,
Her head was great and gray:
She was bred in Rokeby wood,
There were few that thither goed,
That came on live away.
"Her walk was endlong Greta side,
There was no bren that durst her bide,
That was froe heaven to hell;
Nor ever man that had that might,
That ever durst come in her sight,
Her force it was so fell.
* * * * *
"If ye will any more of this,
In the Fryers of Richmond 'tis
In parchment good and fine;
And how Fryar Middleton that was so kend,
At Greta Bridge conjured a feind
In likeness of a swine."
I got back to Barnard Castle in time for the omnibus, which starts at
half-past five for Middleton-in-Teesdale, nine miles distant on the road
to the hills. I was the only passenger, and taking my seat by the side
of the driver, found him very willing to talk. The road ascends
immediately after crossing the bridge to a finely-wooded district, hill
and dale, rich in oak, ash, and beech. Deepdale beck yawns on the left,
and every mile opens fresh enjoyment to the eye, and revives
associations. Lartington is a pretty village, which hears night and morn
and all day long the tremulous voice of innumerable leaves. "Them's all
Roman Catholics there," said the driver, as we left it behind; and
by-and-by, when we came to Cotherstone--Cuthbert's Town--"Here 'tis
nothin' but cheese and Quakers." There is, however, something else, for
here it was
"----the Northmen came,
Fix'd on each vale a Runic name,
Rear'd high their altar's rugged stone,
And gave their gods the land they won.
Then, Balder, one bleak garth was thine,
And one sweet brooklet's silver line,
And Woden's Croft did title gain
From the stern Father of the Slain;
But to the Monarch of the Mace,
That held in fight the foremost place,
To Odin's son, and Sifia's spouse,
Near Stratforth high they paid their vows,
Remembered Thor's victorious fame,
And gave the dell the Thunderer's name."
A delightful day might be spent hereabouts in exploring the glen of the
Balder, and the romantic scenery where it flows into Tees; the Hagg
crowned by fragments of a stronghold of the Fitzhughs; and the grand
rock on the river's brink known as Pendragon Castle. The whole region
for miles around was once thickly covered by forest.
The pace is sober, for some of the hills are steep. We come to
Romaldkirk, and the folk, as everywhere else along the road, step from
their houses to inquire for parcels or replies to messages, and the
driver has a civil word for all, and discharges his commissions
promptly. He is an important man in the dale, the roving link between
the villagers and the town--"Barn'd Cas'l'," as they say, slurring it
into two syllables. It does one good to see with how much good-nature
the service can be performed.
Hill after hill succeeds, the woods are left behind, the country opens
bare and wild, rolling away to the dark fells that look stern in the
distance. Big stones bestrew the slopes; here and there a cottage seems
little better than a pile of such stones covered with slabs of slate or
coarse thatch. "Poorish wheat hereabouts," says the driver, as he points
to the pale green fields. The farms vary in size from seventy to one
hundred and fifty acres; and he thinks it better to grow grass than
grain. Then we come in sight of Middleton, and presently he pulls up,
while a boy and girl get inside, and he tells me they are his children,
who have come out half a mile to meet him.
Middleton, with its eighteen hundred inhabitants, has the appearance of
a little metropolis. There are inns and shops which betoken an active
trade, maintained probably by the lead mines in the neighbourhood. I
did not tarry, for we had spent two hours on the journey, and I wished
to sleep at the _High Force Inn_, nearly five miles farther. We are
still on the Durham side of the Tees, with the river now in sight,
winding along its shallow, stony bed. The road is an almost continuous
ascent, whereby the landscape appears to widen, and every minute the
shadows grow broader and darker across the vale. At last the sun drops
behind the hill-top, and the lights playing on the summits of the fells
deepen into purple, umber, and black, darkest where the slopes and
ridges intersect. Cliffs topped with wood break through the acclivities
on the left, and here and there plantations of spruce and larch impart a
sense of shelter. Every step makes us feel that we are approaching a
region where Nature partakes more of the stern than the gentle.
There is room for improvement. I interrupted three boys in their pastime
of pelting swallows, to examine them in reading; but they only went
"whiles to skule," and only one could read, and that very badly, in the
"Testyment."
I left Winch Bridge and the cascade which it bestrides about three miles
from Middleton, unvisited, for I was tired with much rambling. The clean
white front of _High Force Inn_ gleaming at last through the twilight
was a welcome sight; and not less so the excellent tea, which was
quickly set before me. Cleanliness prevails, and unaffected civility;
and the larder, though in a lone spot a thousand feet above the sea,
contributes without stint to the hungry appetite.
It happened that I was the only guest: hence nothing disturbed the
tranquil hour. Ere long I was looking from my chamber window on the dim
outlines of the hills, and the thick wood below that intercepts the view
of the valley beneath. Then I became aware of a solemn roar--the voice
of High Force in its ceaseless plunge. Fitfully it came at times, now
fuller, now weaker, as the night breeze rose and fell, and the tree-tops
whispered in harmony therewith.
I listened awhile, sensible of a charm in the sound of falling water;
then pushing the sash to its full height, the sound still reached me on
the pillow. Strange fancies came with it: now the river seemed to utter
sonorous words; anon the hills talked dreamily one with another, and the
distant sea sent up a reply; and then all became vague--and I slept the
sleep of the weary.