A silvery mackerel sky, serene and calm, gives promise of a bright Spring
day, as, drawn by the iron horse, we spin along betwixt fields and
hedgerows en route for Dorrington Station.
Half-way out we skirt the wooded slopes of Lythwood, once upon a time a
royal forest, whence Henry the Third permitted the Hospitallers of St.
Giles's to draw wood for their firing. Presently the gently-flowing
river Cound is seen, travelling Severn-wards through a pleasant,
agricultural country; and then, detraining at the next station, we
shoulder our knapsacks and trudge away in the direction of Stapleton.
Old hawthorn hedges fling their scented sprays athwart the dusty
highway, and the verdant wheat-fields beyond them are fringed with
feathery cow's-parsley, looking for all the world like green carpets
edged with white lace. The oaks are beating the ash trees this Spring in
their race for precedence, and in yonder grounds a copper beech rears
its magnificent purple dome against the deep blue of the sky--a sight
for sair e'en!
[Illustration: Stapleton Church]
Arrived at Stapleton church, we notice that it appears to consist of two
separate and distinct churches, the one superposed upon the other; the
two having been at some past time united by removing the floor of the
upper one, giving to the interior somewhat the appearance of a college
chapel.
The lower portion of the fabric, with its thick, massive walls and
curiously narrow windows, mere loops, appears to be of early Norman
date; while the plain lancet lights above might belong to the early part
of the thirteenth century. On the south side of the chancel is a pair
of two-light windows filled with simple tracery, and between them is
seen the door that formerly gave entrance to the upper church. Near to
the latter is an arched recess, which it has been conjectured was
originally a nativity grotto. Farther east upon the same wall rises the
pretty sedilia, surmounted by the double cusped arch seen on the right
in the adjoining view. There are little trefoil lights under these
arches, but they are later insertions.
Upon the pulpit hangs an antipendium, worked in gold and silver thread
with a beautiful scrolly pattern, which, if we are to credit the local
tradition, was wrought by the hands of Mary, Queen of Scots. An Easter
sepulchre, invisible in our sketch, is in the wall beyond; and the two
tall processional candlesticks on either side the altar are exotics
here, having been brought, it is said, from Nuremberg, in Germany. They
are excellent specimens of Gothic wood-carving, and are richly coloured
and gilt.
Returning into the highroad, we follow it for about a mile, and then
strike away to the right through leafy by-lanes that land us eventually
at Condover, a pleasant, rural-looking village, almost encircled by the
waters of the little river Cound.
Near the entrance to the village stands a very ancient dwelling-house,
built after the manner of a ship turned keel upwards; the huge oak beams
that support both walls and roof curving upwards from the ground, and
passing through both storeys to meet at the ridge-pole.
Presently we come to the parish church, a large stone edifice surrounded
by luxuriant foliage, and espy, hard by the churchyard wicket, an old
derelict font doing duty as a flower-vase. The transepts are evidently
of Norman date; while the nave and the fine west tower, though they look
considerably older, were built no longer ago than the middle of the
seventeenth century.
[Illustration: Condover Hall. Shropshire.]
From the church we pass on to Condover Hall, a noble structure of the
Elizabethan period, situated on the outskirts of the village. Viewed
through the tall entrance gateway, the old mansion, with its picturesque
gables, stone-mullioned windows and clustered chimney-stacks, presents
a delightfully old-world appearance, which is enhanced by the quaintly
clipped shrubs flanking the broad carriage-drive.
The west front, shown in a neighbouring sketch, overlooks a wide tract
of park land, studded with gnarled hawthorns and ancient oaks, and
watered by the meanderings of the stream whence the place derives its
name.
The estate of Condover having been originally purchased by his father,
Thomas of that ilk, Sir Roger Owen, in the year 1598, erected the
existing mansion; calling in master Walter Hancocke, a celebrated
craftsman of that period, to assist in planning his residence.
Condover passed in after years to the Cholmondeleys, an ancient family
in whose hands the estate continued for many generations, having only
recently been disposed of, and its interesting treasures dispersed.
[Illustration: Pitchford Hall]
We now push on for Pitchford, striking the main road at a place called
Cantlop Cross, and following it until we get a glimpse of the old
mansion itself, seated on a verdant slope amidst masses of shadowy
foliage. A winding pathway, overarched by beech trees and ancestral
oaks, meanders through the park, and leads us down to a low stone
bridge, where we pause awhile to enjoy the charming view of Pitchford
Hall, which our artist has portrayed.
Built by William Ottley, Sheriff of Shropshire, in the early part of the
seventeenth century, Pitchford Hall remains a beautiful and interesting
example of an old English homestead of that period. Nothing can exceed
the picturesqueness of this venerable house, its weather-stained walls
chequered by oaken timbers, its solid stone-tiled roofs carpeted with
lichens and moss, and surmounted by huge crumbling chimney-stacks of
curious design. Embosomed amidst tall trees and luxuriant shrubberies,
with a lordly peacock taking the air upon the sunny terrace, and a clear
stream whimpling along at our feet, the scene is one to be remembered;
such an one, indeed, as this rural England of ours alone can shew.
But let us take a nearer look at the old Hall. The building, after the
custom then in vogue, is fashioned like a capital E, the shorter member
being represented by a central gable of very unusual appearance,
containing a curious clock. By the courtesy of Lieut.-Colonel Cotes, the
present proprietor, we are enabled to examine the interesting features
of the interior, which contains some notable ancestral portraits, and a
singular sort of picture-map showing the Hall and grounds as they
existed in 1682. In one wainscoted chamber our attention is directed to
a secret closet, or hidie-hole, ingeniously disguised by a sliding panel
very difficult to detect; indeed, every corner of the mansion has its
interest for the antiquary.
After having been the seat of the Ottley family for considerably more
than three centuries, Pitchford Hall passed in the year 1807 into the
possession of the late Lord Liverpool, who had the honour of
entertaining Her Majesty here when, as Princess Victoria, she visited in
this locality with the Duchess of Kent, in the year of the great Reform
Bill.
[Illustration: The House in the Tree Pitchford]
Before taking leave of Pitchford, we pass out into the grounds to visit
the so-called House in the Tree. As shewn in the picture here, this
consists of a small chamber, about 9 or 10 feet square, and covered with
a peaked roof--not much in itself, yet curious from the fact that it is
built, high and dry, aloft in the fork of a huge old storm-rent lime
tree, and is approached by a crooked flight of steps. Tradition avers
that a 'house' has existed in this tree any time these two centuries
past, having been formerly used as a dwelling; and the broken stump of
more than one huge limb shews how severe have been the gales this
venerable lime tree has weathered.
Upon a slight eminence hard by the mansion rises Pitchford church, a
plain, simple structure, evidently of great antiquity. Built into its
southern wall we notice a rude stone slab, apparently older than the
church itself, with a raised cross enclosed by a circle cut in low
relief upon its surface. An otherwise ordinary-looking interior is
relieved by the handsome, recumbent effigy, of which a sketch will be
found on p. 41. This remarkable monument is entirely composed
of oak, black and smooth as ebony from lapse of time. The figure, some 7
feet in length, is that of a Crusader, habited in chain-mail, the hands
clasping a sword, and the spurred feet resting upon a couchant dog, or
talbot. Upon the base of the structure are seven trefoil arches,
enclosing shields charged with armorial bearings, all excellently
wrought, and in a good state of preservation. From its general character
there can be no doubt this monument is of very early date; indeed it is
supposed to represent Sir Ralph de Pitchford, who died in 1252.
Retracing our steps to the bridge, let us turn aside there for a moment
to look at the ancient Pitch Well, a feature probably unique of its
kind, whence the adjacent Hall derives its name.
The Well proves to be a largish shallow affair of an oval shape, and
about 2 feet in depth, while the surface of the well (which is almost
dried up this drouthy season) has little 'pockets' of semi-liquid pitch,
oozing up from below and partially caked on the top. This bituminous
spring appears, indeed, to have altered but little since Marmaduke
Rawdon visited the spot, during a tour in the seventeenth century. 'Thir
is in this Well,' he observes, 'foure littel Hooles about a halfe yard
diep, out of whiche comes lyttle lumpes of Pitche, but that which is att
ye tope of ye Well is softish, and swimes uppon the water like Tarr,
butt being skym'd together itt incorporateth, and is knead together like
untoo soft wax, and becometh harde.'
Sketches completed, we now make for the village, and pace on through the
quiet, weedgrown street, where the martins are nesting under the lee of
the old stone-tiled roofs, and the still, sunny air is redolent of lilac
and early honeysuckle. Yonder gable-end with its rough yellow
plasterwork, Venetian shutters, and mantle of purple wistaria, greets
the eye with a pleasant scheme of colour, calling up visions of far-away
Italy.
Thus we take the road again, until, coming to a green, grassy lane--part
of the ancient Watling Street--we proceed to follow it up. At a point
where the lane crosses a streamlet between hollow, sandy banks, we find
unmistakable traces of a very ancient stone bridge, which, though
undermined by rabbit burrows and damaged by tangled roots and brushwood,
still shews the springing of a massive arch, apparently of semicircular
form, while tumbled blocks of mossy sandstone cumber the stream below.
'Yo' mun tek along yonder bonky piece till yo' come to th' foredraught,
and then foller it all the way; but 'tis a terr'ble weedy road,' says a
country lad of whom we ask a direction. So away we go once more, with
the blackbirds and thrushes warbling in every hedgerow; until ere long
the homely house-roofs of Acton Burnell come in sight, backed by the
rolling woodlands of the park, which spreads away in gentle undulations
up the slopes of a neighbouring hill.
[Illustration: Acton Burnell.]
A pretty, rustic spot is Acton Burnell, its comely thatched cottages,
half submerged amidst oldfashioned country flowers, extending crosswise
along the lanes, and never an inn to be found in all the place! Yet,
despite its present bucolic aspect, Acton Burnell has figured in the
annals of English history, as we shall presently see; so let us now go
in search of records of those far-away times.
After passing the cosy-looking rectory, with its cedar trees and
sweet-smelling lilac, we soon come to the church, a beautiful structure
replete with interest to the lover of old-world scenes; for Acton
Burnell church was built just at the time when Gothic architecture had
attained its high-water mark, and, though of modest dimensions, so
perfect is every detail, that the little edifice is worthy of close
examination. The annexed sketch shows the fine geometrical east window,
and a beautiful three-light window in the north wall of the chancel. The
tower, though modern, harmonizes well with the older work beside it, and
contains a peal of very sweet-toned bells:
'A nut and a kernel!
Say the Bells of Acton Burnell.'
There is much to be seen in the interior. Near the porch we observe an
elegant font, with small, well moulded arches supporting it. Overhead is
a good oak roof, though not so massive as that of the chancel. A curious
feature of the latter is a small square window low down in the north
wall, supposed to be a leper's, or anchorite's, window, as it appears
probable that an anchorite had his dwelling here in very early times. Or
may not this have been what was known as a 'dead-light,' a little window
whence a light was shown into the graveyard to scare away the ghosts!
Passing into the north transept, which has ancient tiles upon the floor,
we are at once attracted by the very handsome and well preserved marble
monument of a knight clad in rich armour, a ruff around his neck, a lion
at his feet, and a quaint little figure supporting a helmet above his
head. Near the right hand lies a gauntlet, and within it crouches a
diminutive dog, the emblem of fidelity. Alongside the knight reposes his
lady consort, her costume of ruff and stomacher, girdle and flat
head-dress, bespeaking the time of Queen Elizabeth; while in the
background appear their nine children, habited in the stiff, formal gear
of that period. Beneath the enclosing arch are inscribed the words, 'HIC
IACET CORPUS RICHARDI LEE ARMIGERI QUI OBIIT 27° DIE MAII ANNO DONI
1591.' This fine monument is carved in alabaster, and is surmounted by a
knightly helmet and squirrel crest, and coats of arms with supporters.
[Illustration: Nicholas de Brunell.]
In the angle of the adjacent wall is another marble tomb, less elaborate
than the last, but considerably older. Its arcaded sides are wrought
with consummate skill, while the upper surface is inlaid with a handsome
brass effigy of Nicholas de Handlo, who in the year 1360 married the
heiress, and assumed the name, of the Burnell family. A glance at the
sketch will show how well this fine old brass has withstood the wear and
tear of more than 500 years. The knight's head is crowned by a peaked
hauberk, and the soldierly face, with its long, flowing moustache, looks
out from a richly cusped and crocketed canopy. A leather jerkin is worn
over the tight-fitting coat of chain-mail, and a jewelled belt supports
the long-handled sword and dagger. The legs are encased in greaves; and
huge spurs, flexible foot-gear, and gauntlets upon the uplifted hands,
complete the tale of this warrior's battle harness. A couchant lion, or
griffin, keeps ward beside the feet, and upon a brass plate at the head
we read the following inscription:
Hic iacet diis Nichus Burnell miles dus
De holgot qui obiit xixo die Januarii Anno
Dni Mmo CECmo Lxxxiio Cui aie ppiciet ds am.
We have by no means exhausted the attractions of this interesting
interior, but, to make a long story short, will merely remark, en
passant, there are numerous objects worthy of note in other parts of the
church.
A stone's throw distant from the sacred edifice, overshadowed by stately
trees, rise the ivy-mantled walls and turrets of Acton Burnell Castle,
originally founded by Sir Robert Burnell, sometime chaplain and private
secretary to Prince Edward, afterwards King Edward I. It is recorded
that in the year 1284 Burnell received the royal license to crenellate
his castle at Acton, and the picturesque ruin now before us is a work of
that period.
The castle stands four-square, its length from east to west somewhat
greater than the width, a slender turret rising at either corner. The
moat is conspicuous by its absence, which goes to confirm the theory
that Acton Burnell was rather an early embattled mansion, like its
neighbour of Stokesay, than a military castle of the usual mediæval
type. These massive old ruddy-grey sandstone walls are pierced with
mullioned windows, whose vacant cavities still retain fragments of
geometrical tracery; while a pathetic-looking wooden turret, in the last
stages of decay, peeps out from the mantle of ivy that envelopes the
western front. One or two noble old cedar trees, rising close at hand,
fling their cool, dappled shadows athwart the level greensward; and
beyond them we catch a glimpse of richly timbered park land.
Out there beneath a clump of elms, where the rooks are making merry,
certain fragments of grey crumbling stonework are seen, so thither we
now bend our steps. These prove to be two lofty massive gables of early
Edwardian, or perhaps Norman, date, the last survivals of the hall of
the original castle, or manor-house, of Acton Burnell. This secluded
spot has become famous from the fact that here, for the first time in
history, Lords and Commons sat in council, under the presidency of King
Edward I., and proceeded to enact what is known as the 'Statutum de
Mercatoribus,' or Statute of Acton Burnell. That took place in the year
of grace 1283, just a year before Sir Robert Burnell began the erection
of the later mansion, whose ruins we have just visited.
So, before taking leave of the place, we call to mind that when John
Leland the antiquary journeyed this way, early in the sixteenth century,
he found at Acton Burnell 'a goodly manor Place, or Castel, iiii myles
from Shrewsbyri, wher a Parliament was kepte in a greate Barne. It was
first made,' he adds, 'by one Burnell, a Byshope.' Robert Burnell, whose
name is so closely identified with this his native place, seems to have
found favour in the sight of his Sovereign, for Edward I. advanced him
to the see of Bath and Wells, and created his faithful liege Lord
Treasurer, and Chancellor of the realm. Burnell was frequently employed
by the king in affairs of state, especially in connection with the Welsh
Marches; and, dying in 1292, was buried in his own cathedral of Wells.
His descendants dwelt subsequently at Holgate, in Corve Dale, and the
family appears to have finally died out some time in the fifteenth
century.
On the brow of a hill two miles away to the eastward stands the
diminutive village of Kenley, the birthplace of Sir Archibald Alison,
the historian, whose father was incumbent of this parish. The road
thither leads past Acton Burnell Hall, a large, white, stone-built
mansion, vastly fine with porticoes and pediments, such as our ancestors
loved, and seated in a broad, tree-shaded park, very pleasant to behold.
[Illustration: Kenley Church.]
The little church of Kenley is ancient and interesting, having an
aisle-less nave, south porch, and broad, low, western tower, with walls
thick enough for a fortress, and narrow, deeply-splayed loops by way of
windows. The lofty old pulpit, with its sounding-board and curiously
carved oak panels, is a pretty feature of the interior; and the chancel
window, we notice, is of rather uncommon character, having elegant
flowing tracery, and minute sculptured heads outside at the springings
of the hoodmould.
Out in the churchyard grows a gnarled old yew tree of immense girth; and
from beneath its sombre branches we obtain a glorious prospect over a
wide stretch of picturesque, broken country towards the west, with many
a familiar Salopian height belted with woods and pastures, and the wild
Welsh hills, cloud-capped and blue, rising far away beyond all.
Returning to Acton Burnell, we now put the best foot foremost, and push
on again in a southerly direction through a hilly-and-daley country.
Just outside the village our attention is arrested by a pair of
patriarchal oaks rising close beside the roadway, excellent specimens of
the 'Shropshire weed,' which, the rustics will tell you, date from just
after the Deluge! Anon we coast beside a belt of woodland all flushed
with the shimmery blue of wild hyacinths; and then pause at the crest of
the bank for a glance at the distant hills, and the steeples of Salop
rising from the vale beneath.
[Illustration: The Old Gate House. Langley.
Deserted Chapel at Langley, Shropshire.]
A turn to the left, and yonder is Langley Chapel, standing ruinous and
deserted in the midst of a weedgrown meadow, its weather-stained walls
and broken roof presenting such a lamentable spectacle of neglect and
desecration, that the very genius loci must shed tears, one would
suppose, to behold its sorry plight. The exterior is simple, not to say
severe, a crazy wooden bell-cot above the western gable alone relieving
the skyline of the solid old stone-tiled roof, while wooden shutters,
all awry, obscure the ancient windows.
Even worse, if possible, is the state of affairs within; for the sacred
edifice presents all the appearance of having been used as a cattle
stall or sheep pen. Yet amidst all the dust, mildew and litter, a sharp
eye may still discover here and there traces of better things. Opposite
the door by which we enter rises the old canopied Reader's pew that
figures in our sketch, its panelled roof set about with the nests of
house-martins, the little denizens twittering to and fro while we
sketch. And yonder beneath the broken east window are ranged the desks,
tables and benches, just as they were left by the old Puritan
worshippers, a curious if not unique feature of the church; while on the
opposite side may be noticed some of the original seventeenth-century
oak pews, with their bits of finely executed carving, quaint hinges, and
nicely turned finial knobs. The date 1601, cut on one of the tie-beams
of the roof, gives a clue to the age of the building.
'Scarce a myle from Acton Burnell,' says John Leland, 'standeth Langley
Hall, seated very low and flat in a Parke full of woodds, the dwelling
place of the Lees, whiche may well challendge to be ranged among the
families that are of the better worthe and greater antiquitie in the
tract.' Langley Hall is now, alas! no more, but the Gatehouse seen in
our sketch conveys some idea of the appearance it must have presented.
This fine old structure probably dates from about John Leland's time,
and, though fallen sadly into disrepair, still delights the eye with its
rough, mossy roofs, huge chimney stacks, and ancient, weather-stained
gables. A tall pointed archway constructed of stone formed the approach
to the original mansion; and part of an embattled wall that surrounded
the demesne does duty nowadays as a cartshed.
Langley was, as we have seen, for many generations the paternal abode of
the Lees, a family of much repute in this locality. Richard Lee, whose
handsome monument we saw in Acton Burnell church, was a scion of this
house, which at a later period claimed some distinguished sons in
America, Colonel Richard Lee having emigrated to that country in 1641.
General Henry Lee served under Washington, and his son Robert became
famous as the leader of the Confederate armies during the Civil War in
America.
[Illustration: Frodesley Lodge]
So much, then, for Langley. Sketches completed, we now shoulder our
knapsacks, and push briskly onwards again, dropping into a secluded lane
that runs between low, wooded hills, in the direction of the south. Away
upon the crest of the ridge to our right stands Frodesley Lodge, a
singular looking pile of Tudor brickwork, with a great stone staircase
running from top to bottom, and several large oak-panelled chambers.
Down in the vale beyond lies Frodesley village, where Sir Herbert
Edwardes, the hero of Mûltan, first saw the light, his father being
rector of Frodesley at that time. The church was rebuilt in 1809, and is
a fair sample of the dismal 'style' then in vogue, about the only relic
of antiquity that has survived being the ancient parish register, the
oldest in this county, dating from 1598.
A mile or two to the westward lies Longnor, a pretty village with
thatched, half-timbered cottages, rising with nonchalant irregularity
beside the highway. Longnor Hall, a substantial red-brick structure,
stands in the midst of a finely timbered park, in one corner whereof
rises the early eighteenth-century chapel, a curious little edifice with
the pigeon-hole pews of the 'churchwarden' era, and gates carefully
locked lest, perchance, the lover of old things should spy out the
nakedness of the land!
[Illustration: Ancient Bridge on the "Devil's Causeway."]
But we digress. Upon overhauling the Ordnance sheet, the name 'Devil's
Causeway' whets one's curiosity, and puts one upon the qui vive for what
may lie in store. Nor do we have long to wait, for, coming to a brook in
the bottom of the vale, our lane is carried across it by a little
round-arched stone bridge, showing unmistakable signs of antiquity. The
lane, too, becomes as we proceed a veritable causeway, both it and the
ancient bridge being rudely paved with large, thick, roughly squared
flagstones, partly hidden beneath grass and weeds, and forming a kind of
kerb above the ditch by the laneside.
Tradition has it that this causeway marks the track of an old, old road,
that in prehistoric times ran across country from the Watling Street,
near Acton Burnell, to the Roman encampment at Nordy Bank, on the
shoulder of Brown Clee Hill.
Anent the origin of the bridge itself, an old countrywoman
good-naturedly comes to our aid, and solves the riddle by explaining,
'It was the Devil as builded un up in one night, and when cock-crow come
er dropped they stwuns down in a hurry out of's apern, and flew away to
his own place.'
Thus enlightened we go our ways, and, breasting the hill, come by-and-by
to Chatwall, a large, antiquated farmhouse, approached through a sort of
cutting in the solid limestone rock. Though ignored by the guidebooks,
Chatwall is evidently a place that 'could a tale unfold,' had its old
grey stones but tongues wherewith to tell it. The house, a big old
structure, solidly built of timber and stone, with rough, stone shingled
roof, and low-browed, mullioned windows, was for many a day the home of
the Corfields, a family of distinction in these parts, whose initials
appear upon the carved oak panelling, with the date 1659. The
farm-kitchen inside might have served as a subject for Van Ostade, so
rude and primitive it is, with its great oaken settle in the ingle nook,
and mighty Jacobean table, inches thick, so constructed as to well-nigh
double its length when fully extended.
[Illustration: Panel at Church Preen]
Through crooked byways, abloom with bluebells and gay pink campion, we
now make our way to Church Preen, a tiny hamlet set in a romantic dell,
'far from the madding crowd.' Overshadowed by a gigantic yew, the little
church stands as a sort of appendix to Norman Shaw's handsome,
half-timbered manor-house, the residence of Mr. Sparrow, the lord of the
manor. Dedicated to St. John the Baptist, this church is a singular one,
being only about 12 feet wide, though as much as 70 feet in length. It
has neither aisles nor transepts, and is of early character, having
formerly been used by Cluniac monks as a cell or chapel to Wenlock
Priory. Though plain and simple to a degree, the interior looks bright
and well-cared-for, and boasts a richly carved lectern and pulpit, with
the date 1641 cut upon a panel.
Once more afoot, half an hour's walk through shady lanes, with scarce a
cottage in sight, leads us past a large, curious-looking old farmhouse
at Holt Preen, and so up the hill to Plash.
[Illustration: Plash. Shropshire.]
Seated upon a gentle eminence within its own walled demesne, the
Manor-house of Plash is one of the most remarkable and interesting
places in all this countryside. The mansion is a large, substantial
brick structure, whose tall, twisted chimney stacks, and lofty mullioned
windows, indicate that it was built in the days of Henry VIII. or
Elizabeth, the low screen wall and ogee cupolas being additions of a
later period.
Inside there is a noble sixteenth-century banqueting hall, with open
timbered roof, and minstrels' gallery, supported by a massive oak screen
of Jacobean character, at one end; and several fine wainscoted
apartments with enriched plaster ceilings. An elaborate old fireplace of
_cast-iron_, dated 1574, is a noticeable feature. Altogether the old
mansion remains pretty much as originally built, affording an
interesting study to the antiquary.
The manor of Plash, or Plaish, was held for many generations by the
Sprencheaux family, the last of whom, Sir Fulk Sprencheaux, died in
1447. His portrait, and the armour worn by him, may be seen hanging upon
the panelled wall in the banqueting hall at Plash. After them came the
Leightons, by one of whom the existing mansion was probably erected;
while a later scion of the same stock was a certain William Leighton,
whose sumptuous monument we shall presently see when visiting Cardington
church.
But the day wanes, and it is still a far cry to our night's bivouac at
Church Stretton. So pushing merrily onwards, we call no halt this side
of Cardington, our lengthening shadows bringing up the rear, and a
cuckoo rehearsing his tedious lay from a solitary wych elm in the
hedgerow.
[Illustration: Cardington. Salop.]
The village lies high on the hills, in an out-of-the-way locality, and
very picturesque the old place looks as we draw near, its weatherbeaten
grey church crowning a gentle rise, a group of children playing
'hide-and-seek' about the churchyard wicket, and half a dozen antiquated
cottages clustering loosely around--rough old stone-built structures
most of them, with moss-grown roofs, and diamond-paned windows blinking
from beneath the deepset eaves.
But let us step into the church. Entering beneath a seventeenth century
timbered porch, its round-arched doorway and the two small Norman lights
on either side the nave shew that the fabric is of ancient origin,
although its more striking features date from a much later period. The
panels of the oak pulpit are effectively carved, while some of the older
pews bear the names of local manors, or townships, cut upon them.
[Illustration: Leightons of Plashe.]
In the chancel stands the rich, sumptuous monument of Sir William
Leighton and his lady, with their children grouped in a panel of the
substructure below. 'THIS MONUMENT WAS MADE,' as the inscription runs,
'IN THE YEAR 1607, AS A MEMORIAL TO WM LEIGHTON OF PLASHE, ESQ., OF
NORTH WALES, ONE OF THE COUNCELL IN THE MARCHES OF WALES FOR ABOVE
FORTIE YEARES.' Then comes the moral, 'NEMO ANTE OBITUM BEATUS.' A very
quaint monument this. Curious, too, are the Bell-ringers' Laws set up on
the tower wall.
Bidding farewell to Cardington, we have a good half-mile of collar work
before us, ere the brow of the hill is won close to a singular mass of
tumbled rocks called the Sharpstones, whence the view opens out towards
Wenlock Edge, with Brown Clee peeping over it.
Plunging into a steep stony lane, a likely-looking field path suggests
the possibility of a short cut; but, calling to mind the Spaniard's
proverb, 'No hay atajo sin trabajo'--no short cut without trouble--we
consult an old fellow who happens along just now. 'Yon's a weedy road,'
is the best he can say for our byway, 'the medders be all-of-a-pop
(boggy) down that-a-way.'
[Illustration: Chalice at Hope Bowdler.]
So we stick to our last, and push forwards again along the stony lane;
and half an hour later find ourselves at Hope Bowdler, a lowly hamlet
seated in a sheltered vale, in the lap of the Cardington hills. Passing
the wheelwright's shop, with its fascinating jumble of rough timber and
derelict carts, we turn through the old lich-gate and take a peep at St.
Andrew's church, a poorly-restored edifice with a carved oak Jacobean
pulpit, and a plain but well-proportioned silver chalice, bearing the
date 1572 upon its lid.
Up, up we go once more, with the hills folding in as we advance, and the
curious Gaerstone rock sticking up, like a miniature Matterhorn, high
above the roadway. Diverging to the right, we soon drop into a sweet
secluded 'cwm' beneath the shadow of giant Caradoc, whose rugged crest
fairly bristles with huge rocks, as though Titans had been playing bowls
up there. Anon we are footing it athwart the open hillside, pushing
through gorse and breast-high bracken, and inhaling the odours of wild
thyme and the thousand scents of summer.
Grandly the Longmynd bulks ahead as we descend into Stretton Dale, his
massive shoulders rising purple against the amber light that still
irradiates the western heavens, while the shadows of evening enfold as
with dusky wings each nook and recess of the mountain. The lights of
Church Stretton twinkle out through the gloom as we beat up for quarters
at last, and a certain snug hostelry to which we now make our way proves
a welcome haven after our long day's cross-country tramp.
[Illustration: Sir Ralph of Pitchford.]