THE OLD SOUTH-WESTERN SEA-COAST—SOMERFORD, CHEWTON GLEN, MILFORD, HURST
CASTLE, LYMINGTON.
[Illustration: Chewton Glen.]
Little has been seen of the sea, except from Calshot Castle to Leap.
Though, too, the sea-coast here, as there, is no longer in the Forest,
yet if we miss this walk we shall lose some of the most beautiful
scenery in the district.
As we leave Christchurch by the Lymington Road, Mudeford lies on the
right, and Burton, with its Staple Cross, on the left. Few things are
more touching than these old grey relics of the past, standing solitary
in our cross-roads, the dial united with the Cross, to show both how
short was man’s life, and where lay his only salvation. But we now
profane them, and turn them, as here, into direction posts, or break
them up, as at Burgate, to mend the road.
Both villages will some day be more sought after than at present, for at
Burton lived Southey, with his friend Charles Lloyd, and sang the
praises of the valley in better verse than usual. At Mudeford, Stewart
Rose, the author of _The Red King_, built Gundimore, where, in 1807,
Scott stayed, writing _Marmion_, and riding over the Forest exploring
the barrows. In the same village Coleridge lodged during the winter of
1816.[179]
A little way along the main road lies Somerford, once one of the Granges
of Christchurch Priory. Its barns and stables are partly built from the
prior’s lodgings, whose site may here and there be faintly traced; and
the chapel, which in Grose’s time was still standing, with the initials
of the last prior, John Draper, cut on the window labels.[180]
The best plan, however, is not to go along the road, but the shore as
far as Chewton Glen, and there climb up the cliff. The sands are white
and hard, strewed with fragments of iron-stone, and large _septaria_,
from which cement is made, and for which, farther on, a fleet of sloops
is dredging a little way from the shore. In the far distance gleam the
white and black and orange-coloured bands of sand and clay scoring the
Barton cliffs.[181]
The glen, or “bunny,” as it is locally called, runs right down into the
sea; the high tide rushing up it, and driving back its Forest stream.
Down to the very edge it is fringed with low oak copses, covered in the
spring, as far as high-tide mark, with blue bells, and strewed with
yellow tufts of primroses. In the summer, too, the ground is as deep a
green with ferns as the oak leaves above; whilst the stream flows
between banks bordered with blue skull-cap and purple helleborine.[182]
[Illustration: _Christ Church Bay_
_From the Ordnance Survey._]
A.—Middle Marine Bed.
B.—Fresh-water Clays and Marls.
C.—Crocodile Bed, &c., exposed.
D.—Olive Bed, well exposed.
E.—Lignite Bed at the top of Cliff.
F.—Chama Bed.
G.—Barton Clay. Fossils abundant.
H.—Green Clay, with sharks’ teeth, and bones of fish.
I.—High Cliff Sands rise.
J.—Pebble Bed.
K.—Grey Sands, interstratified with fossil-wood and iron-stone.
L.—Bracklesham Sands.
Then, as you climb up to the down, on the opposite side, stretches a
view, hard to be matched in England either for extent or beauty. On one
side rolls the English Channel, indenting the shore with its deep bay as
far as the land-locked harbour of Christchurch, shut in by Hengistbury
Head and the white Swanage rocks; and, on the other, it sweeps away by
the long beach of Hurst and its round gray castle. Opposite, glitter the
coloured sands and chalk cliffs of Alum Bay, and the white Needle Rocks
running wedge-shaped into the sea. Farther eastward, rise the treeless
downs, and the breach opens across the Island to Freshwater Gate, and
the two batteries, built into the cliff, one by one appear: the long
scene ended at last by the houses of Yarmouth—the Solent still winding
onward, like some great river.
An uninterrupted path runs, for some three or four miles, along the top
of the cliff—the scene constantly changing in its beauty. Below hangs a
broken under-cliff, shelving down to the sea, strewed here and there
with blocks of gravel, the grass and furze growing on them just as they
fell. On the shore stretch long reaches of yellow sand, separated by
narrow strips of pebbles, and patches of dark green Barton clay,
embossed with shells, and studded with sharks’ teeth.
Passing the Coastguard Station and the Gangway, we reach Becton
Bunny—very different to Chewton, but equally lovely, with its bare wide
gorge, and its beds of furze and heath fringing the edge of the
cliff.[183] Very beautiful, too, are the summer sunsets seen from this
point—the sun sinking far down the channel, lighting up the coloured
sands of Alum Bay purple and gold, tinting the white chalk cliffs with
rose and vermilion, the crimson of the sky floating on the waves as they
break along the shore.
Still following the path along the top of the cliff, we pass the
grave-yard, where stood the old cruciform church of Hordle—once in the
middle of the village, but now only a hundred yards from the sea.
Nothing of it remains except some blocks of Grey Wethers, used for its
foundation, and too large to be removed. Very interesting are these
stones, brought up from the shore, where, now and then, one or two may
be seen at low tide, tumbled from the drift above—the same stones as
those at Stonehenge, left on the top of the chalk. Gone, too, are its
mill and its six salterns, mentioned in _Domesday_, and the village
itself removed inland. The sailors, however, dredging for cement-stone
or for fish, sometimes draw up great logs of wood, locally known as
“mootes,” which may perhaps tell of the salterns, or the time when the
Forest stretched to the sea. The salterns of the Normans and the
Old-English have suffered very different fates. In Normandy the sea no
longer reaches to their sites,[184] whilst here it has long since rolled
over them.
Beyond this again is Mineway, reminding us, by its name, of the time
when the iron-stone was collected on the shore and taken to the Sowley
furnaces to be smelted.[185] Farther on, down in the valley made by the
stream, which turns the village mill, mentioned in _Domesday_, lies
Milford. The church spire rises up prettily amongst its trees, and the
church itself is a good example of our village churches, built in three
or four different styles. The tower is Early-English, surmounted by a
string-course of Norman heads. In the north side stands a curious
inserted doorway, with trefoil heading, whilst two Norman arches remain
in the nave joined by Early-English, springing from black Purbeck marble
shafts.
To the south stretches the long Hurst beach, formed, in much the same
way as the more famous Chesil Bank, of the rolled pebbles brought up
from the Barton Cliffs by the strong tides aided with the westerly
gales, making a breakwater to the whole of the Solent. Now and then
close to it appear the floating islands, known as the Shingles,
sometimes rising for only a few hours above the sea, and at others
remaining long enough to become green with bladderwort and samphire.
Across to the Isle of Wight, at the narrowest point, it is only a mile;
and so fast does the Solent tide,[186] when once the ebb is felt, pour
itself along the narrow gorge, that it fills up Christchurch Bay, higher
than at the flood, thus making, in fact, a double high-water. At the
extreme end stands Hurst Castle, built by Henry VIII., from the ruins of
Beaulieu Abbey. Whatever opinion we may have of Henry’s private
character, there can be but one as to his foresight and energy in
defending the country. Much for this may be forgiven. Hall wrote in no
exaggerated strain when he said:—“The King’s highness never ceases to
study and take pains both for the advancement of the commonwealth of
this his realm of England, and for the defence of the same....
Wherefore, his Majesty in his own personne took very laborious and
painful journeys towards the sea-coasts. Also, he sent dyvers of his
nobles and counsellors to view and search all the portes and dangers in
the coastes, ... and in all soche doubtful places his Highness caused
dyvers and many bulwarks and fortifications to be made.”[187] And of
them, Hurst Castle, like Calshot, which we have seen, was one, and still
stands, additionally fortified by guns, and guarded by the far better
defences of lighthouses, and beacons, and telegraph stations.[188]
Here it was, on the 1st December, 1642, Charles I. was brought, after
holding his mock court at Newport, by Colonel Cobbit, who had seized him
in the name of the army. Here, too, he still showed all the foolish
childishness which Laud had taught him, putting faith in the omen of his
candle burning brightly or dimly,[189] which detracts so much from any
interest we might otherwise feel for him in his days of care and sorrow.
A closet is shown where he is said to have been confined, and where his
Golden Rules are said to have hung; but from Herbert’s memoirs,
evidently neither the room where he lived or slept.[190] Herbert’s
account of Hurst is so graphic that I give it nearly in full:—“The wind
and tide favouring, the King and his attendants crossed the narrow sea
in three hours,[191] and landed at Hurst Castle, or Block House rather,
erected by order of King Henry VIII., upon a spot of earth a good way
into the sea, and joined to the firm land by a narrow neck of sand,
which is covered over with small loose stones and pebbles; and upon both
sides the sea beats, so as at spring tides and stormy weather the land
passage is formidable and hazardous. The castle has very thick stone
walls, and the platforms are regular, and both have several culverines
and sakers mounted.... The captain of this wretched place was not
unsuitable; for, at the King’s going ashore, he stood ready to receive
him with small observance. His look was stern. His hair and large beard
were black and bushy. He held a partizan in his hand; and, Switz-like,
had a great basket-hilt sword on his side. Hardly could one see a man of
more grim aspect, and no less robust and rude was his behaviour.”[192]
The account is very life-like, though some allowance must be made for
Herbert’s prejudices against this gaunt Puritan captain, who, we learn,
by-and-by became more civil. Colonel Cobbit, in whose charge the King
was, seems to have treated him with uniform respect and kindness.
Charles stayed here six-and-twenty days, walking along the beach,
watching the ships passing up and down the Solent, and receiving the
cavaliers of Hampshire, who came for the last time to pay their
respects. Then, at last, he was suddenly taken away to show at Whitehall
a better courage and wisdom in death than in life.
About three miles from Milford, on the mouth of the Boldre Water, lies
the port of Lymington, the Mark of the Limingas, as the neighbouring
hamlet of Pennington is that of the Penningas.[193] Its manor, like that
of Christchurch, once belonged to Isabella de Fortibus, and was given,
with some other possessions, by Edward I., to her rightful heir, the
Earl of Devon, whose arms are still quartered with those of the
Corporation. It is another of those towns, which, like Christchurch,
though in a very different way, is associated with the past. It has no
monastic buildings, no ruins of any kind, no church worth even a glance.
Yet, too, it can tell of departed greatness.
From the coins which have been dug up in the town, and the camp at
Buckland Rings,[194] it was evidently well known to the Romans. In
_Domesday_, the famous Roger de Yvery held one hyde here; but its woods
were thrown into the Forest, and for this reason the manor was only
rated at one half. No mention is made of its salt-works, though we know,
from a grant of Richard de Redvers, in 1147, confirming his father’s
bequest of the tithe of them to Quarr Abbey, that they were then
probably in existence.[195] Larger than Portsmouth, in 1345, it
contributed nearly double the number of ships and men to Edward III.’s
fleet for the invasion of France. We must not, however, conclude that it
has decreased.[196] Larger now than ever, like so many other old towns,
it has not increased in a relative proportion with younger rivals
favoured by the accidents of position or commerce. Like, too, all other
similar ports, it has its tales to tell of French invasions, and, like
similar boroughs, of the Civil War; but they are merely traditional,
and, therefore, vague and unsatisfactory. Loyal from first to last, it
is said to have at its own cost supplied with provisions the ships of
Prince Charles, when he lay in the Yarmouth Roads, hoping to rescue his
father from Carisbrook. In still later times, carried away by Protestant
sympathies, it espoused the cause of the imbecile Monmouth, the mayor
raising some hundred men to join his standard.[197]
Most of the places round Lymington, Buckland Rings, Boldre Church, Sway
Common, with its barrows, we have already seen. A little, though, to the
eastward, at Baddesley, near Sowley Pond, formerly stood a Preceptory of
the Knights Templar, and afterwards of those of St. John of Jerusalem.
At the Dissolution it was granted to Sir Thomas Seymour, and again by
Edward VI. to Sir Nicholas Throckmorton, but subsequently, under Mary,
restored to the Hospitallers. Nothing of it is now left.[198]
Here, then, at Lymington, we have been the whole circumference of the
Forest. I do not know that I have omitted anything of real interest.
Mere idle gossip, vague stories, I have left to those who care to write,
and those who like to read such things. The geology, and botany, and
folk-lore of the district, to which it was impossible to do more than to
make general references, will be found in the succeeding chapters. As
was before said, in the wild commons and woods themselves I have myself
taken the greatest interest, and wished to impress their beauty on the
reader, feeling that a love for Nature is the mainspring of all that is
noble in life, and all that is precious in Art. I do not know either
that I have anywhere exaggerated. On the contrary, no words can paint,
much more exaggerate, the loveliness of the woods. And of all walks in
the district, this over the Hordle and Barton Cliffs is by no means the
least beautiful, though no longer in the Forest.
[Illustration: Hurst Castle.]