THE VALLEY OF THE AVON CONTINUED.—TYRREL’S FORD, SOPLEY, AND WINKTON.
[Illustration: Tyrrel’s Ford.]
After we leave Ringwood the road for a mile or two is less attractive in
its scenery. Still, here, as in every part of England, there is
something to be seen and learnt. The Avon flows close by, famous for a
peculiar eel, locally called the “sniggle” (_Anguilla mediorostris_),
which differs from its common congener (_acutirostris_) in its slender
form and elongated under-jaw, and its habits of roving and feeding by
day.[153] The river has, also, like some of the Norwegian streams, the
peculiarity of forming ground ice.[154] For the botanist, along the
hedge banks, the blue and slate-coloured soapwort is growing throughout
the summer and autumn, with purple cat-mint and wild clary. In the waste
places the thorn-apple shows its white blossoms; whilst red stacks of
fern and black turf ricks stand by every cottage door to remind us how
close we are to the Forest.
After we pass Bisterne,[155] the road becomes more interesting. To our
right rises the range of St. Catherine’s Hills, that is, the fortified
height, where remain the four mounds of the watch-towers and the traces
of the camp. Presently we come to Avon-Tyrrel and the blacksmith’s
forge, built on the spot where Tiril’s horse is said to have been shod,
and which pays a yearly fine of three pounds and ten shillings to
Government.
The actual Ford itself is some little way from the road. Round it
stretch meadows, with strong coarse grass and sedgy weeds, branches of
the Avon winding here and there, fringed by willows, the main stream
flowing out broad and strong, with islands of osiers and rushes, where
still breed wild duck and teal, the whole backed by the gloom of St.
Catherine’s Hills crested by their darker pines. The old road, used now
only by the turf-cutters, crossing the former mill-brook, follows the
bed of one of the many streams, till, reaching the river at its widest
part, it bends across, gaining a lane on the opposite side, which leads
away past Ramsdown into Dorsetshire, and along which tradition says the
knight rode to Poole.
The next village we reach is Sopley, that is the _soc leag_, land with
the liberty of holding a court of _socmen_; just as the neighbouring
village is called Boghamton (_bócland_), the village of the
charter-land, or, as we should now say, freehold. Its interesting little
cruciform church, Early-English and Perpendicular, is dedicated to St.
Michael. The Avon flows below, and the old manor-house, now a mere
cottage, stands in an adjoining meadow. On the deep north porch rests
the archangel, on a corbel head. The fine old oak roof of the nave was
covered up some sixty or seventy years ago by a plastered ceiling; but
the corbel figures, playing the double pipe and viol, are still
standing. In the north aisle are the heads of Edward III. and his queen.
Two brackets for images project from the window in the north transept,
whose jambs, now whitewashed over, were once painted with frescoes of
the mystical vine, in green and red. Here, in the north wall, too, is an
aumbrie, whilst the broken stone stairs to the rood-loft still remain.
In the south transept a hagioscope, now walled up, looked into the
chancel, where, on the floor, lie two Early Decorated figures, formerly
placed in tombs under the rood-loft, and traditionally said to have been
brought from a church at Ripley. In the east window burns the fiery
beacon of the Comptons.
Here, too, the whole of the church has been most impartially, and, I may
add, successfully defaced. Everywhere has a snowstorm of whitewash
fallen. I know not why we in these days should think that God delights
in ugliness. Our forefathers at least thought not so. It would be well
if for a moment we would consider how He adorns his own house, leads the
green arabesque of ivy over its walls, and brightens the roof with the
silver rays of mosses, and crowns each buttress with the aureole of the
lichen.
Leaving Sopley, we come to Winkton, the Weringetone of _Domesday_, where
stood two mills, which were rented, as we have seen was often the case,
by a payment of eels.
The views here are full of quiet beauty; the river winding along between
its green walls of rushes, set with white and purple comfrey and yellow
loosestrife, flowing into the darkness of the trees, and then again
coming out by meadows, across which rises the Priory Church of
Christchurch, standing out clear and sharp against the dark mass of
Hengistbury Head.
[Illustration: The Avon at Winkton.]