Church Stretton is 'a pretty uplandish Townelett, the cheifest Building
that is in Stretton Dale.' Thus wrote John Leland in the time of King
Henry VIII., and his description holds good to-day. Lovers of Nature
will congratulate themselves on the fact that the 'cheifest Building
'scarce attains the dignity of a town, which is seated in the midst of
one of the most charming localities in all Shropshire, an excellent
centre for anyone bent upon exploring the heather-clad hills and upland
valleys by which the place is surrounded.
The railway train that carries the traveller thither climbs steadily
up-hill all the way from Shrewsbury, halts for breath, so to speak, at
Stretton station, and then starts away upon a downward grade, following
for many a mile the southward flowing streams. Lying thus high and dry,
Church Stretton is one of the healthiest places imaginable, thanks to
pure water, and mountain breezes fraught with an invigorating tang from
their journey over leagues of gorse, heather and bracken.
Right through the vale, from north to south, runs the ancient green lane
still known as Watling Street, rubbing shoulders as it goes with the old
winding coach-road, and with that modern parvenu the railway track. For
this Stretton valley has time out of mind been the great main artery of
travel for man and beast, whether faring towards the cities of the
north, or journeying into South Wales.
[Illustration: Church Stretton.]
Church Stretton village--or should we say town?--rambles in by no means
unpicturesque fashion alongside the old highroad, half way or
thereabouts between Shrewsbury and Ludlow. Just off the street, at the
rear of the Buck's Head Inn (formerly the manor-house of Church
Stretton), stands the parish church of St. Lawrence, a fine cruciform
structure shaded by noble old elms, amidst whose green foliage its
venerable grey tower, adorned with the image of the patron saint, rises
with charming effect.
[Illustration: Church Stretton.]
[Illustration]
The chancel is evidently the work of Norman hands, but an archaic little
image, carved above its southern door, looks like an insertion from some
earlier edifice. And there are other features well worth looking at in
the nicely-proportioned interior; notably a fine thirteenth century
roof, some curiously carved oak panelling round about the altar, and
groups of heads peering out with odd effect upon the sculptured capitals
of the pillars.
Bonham Norton's fine old timbered market house, built in the year 1617,
has, unfortunately, been stupidly destroyed not so very long ago--'it
was politics as did it' is the dark saying of an old inhabitant; and its
place is now usurped by a sorry red-brick substitute of the meanest
character. Though the tide of modernization has already set in here,
there are still a few ancient timbered gables with lattice-paned windows
shewing here and there about the village, and they appear all the more
venerable, perhaps, in contrast to their spick-and-span neighbours.
Overlooking Church Stretton upon its western side rise a series of tall,
green, rounded hills, outposts of the broad backed Longmynd. In and
between these run deep, hollow dingles, or 'gutters,' as they call them
hereabouts.
Such is the Carding Mill valley, by which we may climb to the crest of
the ridge, whence a shrewd walker may push on to the solitary pole that
marks the top of the Longmynd, some 1,700 feet above the sea. If by good
fortune the day be clear, the wanderer may reckon on a widespread view
from the summit of the Longmynd; tumbled blue hills shewing all around
the horizon, like waves on a stormy ocean. An ancient grass-grown
trackway traversing these highlands is referred to in old documents as
the 'King's hie waie on Longemunde.'
Wayfarers are few on these upland byways, where the hill ponies are
often the only signs of life, and no sound breaks the stillness save the
whirr of a startled grouse, or the plaintive pipe of the curlew; 'there
the winds sweep, and the plovers cry.'
[Illustration: Church Stretton & the Longmynd.]
Bright and exhilarating looks the Longmynd in its summer panoply of
heather and golden gorse; and picturesque in the extreme when Autumn
brings the 'whim berry' gatherers, with their camp-fires and steaming
kettles, and merry shouts of children. But very different is the scene
when this vast, unenclosed moorland falls under the stern sway of
winter, and every landmark is obliterated by a mantle of untrodden snow.
At times like these the Longmynd bears an eerie name, for lives not a
few have been lost in attempting to traverse its trackless wastes, and
places here and there bear ominous names such as Deadman's Hollow,
Devil's Mouth, Deadman's Beach, and the like. Moreover the last fair of
the year, held at Church Stretton on St. Andrew's day, has acquired the
title of 'Deadman's Fair,' as men returning from it have been known to
perish while endeavouring to reach their homes beyond the hills through
the wild, mid-winter night. A remarkable if not unprecedented experience
was that which befell the Rev. Donald Carr, the present rector of
Woolstaston, who was lost in the snow upon Longmynd for a night and a
day, in January, 1865.
* * * * *
Extending our rambles somewhat farther afield, a few minutes' run by
train beneath the steep, wooded slopes of Caer Caradoc, brings us to
Leebotwood, the first station Shrewsbury-wards on the railway. The
village itself lies a quarter of a mile away, under a smooth green hill
called the Lawley, but is worth a detour for the sake of its pretty
thatched cottages, with their flowery garden plots and wealth of
creepers, and its quaint oldfashioned inn yclept The Pound, which bears
the date 1650, and does duty also as village post-office.
Past Leebotwood church, a small stone edifice overarched by umbrageous
beech trees, we push on along the dusty highway, which, gradually
ascending, affords fine views over the countryside, and a glimpse of a
round green 'tump' called Castle Hill, a prehistoric camp keeping ward
over the ancient Portway, which extends hence along the brow of the
Longmynd to Billing's Ring, near Bishop's Castle.
[Illustration: Woolstaston Church, and Rectory.]
A turn of the road reveals the village of Woolstaston, with its
diminutive church overshadowed by three gigantic yew trees, and snug
timbered rectory house, home of the Rev. Donald Carr, whose marvellous
adventures, when snowed up on the Longmynd, have been recorded in an
interesting little work entitled 'A Night in the Snow;' adventures which
seem to confirm the old adage that 'truth is stranger than fiction.'
[Illustration: Font at Woolstaston.]
Woolstaston church, despite its small size, is well worth a passing
visit. The chancel is entered through a doorway of true pre-Norman type,
its semicircular head being fashioned from one single stone, while the
jambs retain the holes for a wooden cross-bar. But the most notable
feature of the church is a singular pair of fonts, one standing within
the other, as depicted in our sketch. Both are evidently very ancient,
and of archaic simplicity, the lower and seemingly older one being
supposed to have originally belonged to a chapel, long since destroyed,
that stood not far from here.
Woolstaston Hall, now a large farmhouse, stands near the church. It must
have been a fine place in its time, if we may judge from a noble
panelled parlour, with a polished oak floor fit to make young people's
feet itch for a dance, and a massive stone portal, fronting upon the
garden to the rear, evidently the main entrance to the mansion in its
original state.
In the secluded country to the north of Woolstaston one stumbles upon a
bunch of out-of-the-way villages and hamlets, anent which runs the
following quatrain:
'Cothercot upo' the Hill.
Wilderley down i' the Dale,
Churton for pretty Girls,
And Powtherbatch for good Ale!'
In the same quarter lies Beatchcott, a place boasting a history of its
own, having been granted by Henry III. to Haughmond Abbey, an oratory
being in existence here at that time. Beatchcott subsequently passed to
the Ireland family, coming eventually into the possession of the
Wildings, who have held the estate for over three hundred years.
At Ratlinghope, a few miles away, the Black Canons of St. Augustine had
a small cell, or priory, founded in John's reign, and affiliated to
Wigmore Abbey.
Returning from Woolstaston to Church Stretton, we pass by Womerton,
where the older of the two fonts in Woolstaston church was found; and
then, skirting the unenclosed uplands, we drop into the highroad at or
about All Stretton.
Anent these names of Stretton hangs a tale that runs somewhat as
follows. King Charles II. (or was it James?), journeying one day towards
Shrewsbury, came in due course to Little Stretton. 'How call you this
place?' inquired the Merrie Monarch. 'Stretton, an it please your
Majesty,' was the countryman's reply. '_Little_ Stretton, methinks, were
a fitter name for so small a place,' said the King; and set forth again
towards Shrewsbury. Upon arriving at the next village, Charles again
asked where he was. 'At Stretton, sire,' someone answered. Espying the
parish church, whose bells were making music in the old grey steeple,
his Majesty exclaimed: 'Call it rather _Church_ Stretton,' and went his
way once more. Finally the King came to All Stretton, and being again
informed he was at Stretton, 'Stretton!' cried Charles in astonishment,
'why it's _All_ Stretton about here!' The story, if not absolutely true,
is at least 'ben trovato.'
* * * * *
The road from Church Stretton to Craven Arms traverses a pleasant,
smiling vale, with the Quenny brook wimpling along amidst water meadows,
and broad breezy hillslopes stretching up and away beyond the rich,
rolling woodlands that nestle around their flanks.
A short mile out of the village we strike up an isolated knoll, whose
summit is seamed with the green ramparts of Brockhurst Castle, an
ancient stronghold keeping ward over the Watling Street, of whose
history very little is known. Brockhurst was a royal foundation, and in
Henry the Second's reign was held by Engelard de Pitchford, the famous
Hubert de Burgh being Castellan in the year 1226. As early as Queen
Elizabeth's time the place, it is evident, was already deserted; for
Camden, writing at that period, finds there 'are still remaining the
ruins of an ancient castle, called Brocard's castle, surrounded by
verdant meads which anciently were fishponds.' But the site is an ideal
spot for the genus picnicker, by whom its bowery nooks and secluded,
fern-clad dingles are often-times frequented.
On descending to the highroad, we notice the level strath where
doubtless the fishponds lay. Soon afterwards we come to Little Stretton,
a tranquil hamlet charmingly located in a nook of the Longmynd, over
against the beautifully-wooded hill of Ragleth. The cottagers, we
observe, take a curious delight in garnishing their doorways with
derelict cannon-shot, which they find in the neighbouring gullies after
artillery practice on the Longmynd. Blackleaded and brightly polished,
they stand sentinel on either side the rustic porch; an innocent billet
indeed for these truculent bullets!
At the farther end of the village two humble inns, the Green Dragon and
the Crown, stand vis-à-vis on either side the highway; and, in these
modest hostelries, visitors may possibly identify the rival 'houses'
that figure in Beatrice Harraden's story of Shropshire life, entitled
'At the Green Dragon.'
Pushing on now to Marsh Brook, we turn sharp to the left at the rural
post-office, and work our way up-hill to Acton Scott, a high-lying place
some 700 feet above sea level--'Acton-super-Montem' it is called in
ancient documents.
Passing through the churchyard wicket, we pause beneath an enormous
hollow yew tree to scan the rare prospect over the rolling Stretton
hills, and a glimpse down the vale towards Ludlow. Of the church itself
there is little to be said, save that it has a good plain old oak
roodscreen; so we stroll on beneath an avenue of noble beech trees, and
presently come in sight of Acton Scott Hall.
[Illustration: Acton Scott Hall.]
As may be seen in our sketch, the mansion is a simple, massive brick
structure, with stone quoins at the angles, mullioned windows, and
clustered chimney shafts; altogether a very fair specimen of an
ancestral abode of the gentlefolk of a bygone period. And the place has
an added interest for all local antiquaries, as the home of the late
Mrs. Stackhouse-Acton, author of 'Castles and Mansions of Shropshire.'
Acton Scott Hall was in all probability erected by a certain Edward
Acton, who flourished about the middle of the sixteenth century; and it
has been noticed that the mansion bears a considerable resemblance to
its contemporary, the so-called 'Whitehall' at Shrewsbury.
A steep 'pitchy' lane, descending the hill past the cosy-looking
vicarage, now leads us across a stretch of rough common-land, where the
cottagers' geese seem disposed, more suo, to contest our right-of-way.
Thence by narrow lanes draped with ferns and wild flowers we travel on
to a place called Alceston, and at an elbow of the road come
face-to-face with the old derelict homestead that figures below; its
weather-stained roofs tufted with green mosses and house-leeks, and
overshadowed by a few ragged fir trees; while the black old timbers upon
its faded front are wrought into balusters and quatrefoil patterns.
[Illustration: Alceston.]
In its palmy days Alceston seems to have been a place of some
consequence, having been built by Humphrey Hill (a connection of the
Hills of Court-of-hill), who died here in 1585. The house was originally
much larger, great part of it having been pulled down many years ago.
Over against this ancient dwelling rises a very large and happily quite
unrestored old barn, entirely constructed of oak both inside and out; a
pleasing contrast to those modern monstrosities of galvanized iron, that
too often stare one out of countenance amidst these rural byways.
Through a pleasant, well-tended country, relieved by scraps of
common-land, we win our way to Wistanstow, a comely-looking village
extending along a quiet road, on the line of the ancient Watling Street.
Close beside the highway rises the old grey tower of its parish church,
a fine cruciform structure dating from 1180, A.D. Upon the nail-studded
south nave door hangs a so-called 'sanctuary' ring, and the great
wooden lock with its iron letters I.P.C.W., and date 1696. The walls of
the south transept bear well-executed writings of the Creed, the Lord's
Prayer and the Decalogue, of early seventeenth century date; while the
north transept retains its old original oak roof. The chancel door shews
the characteristic round arch and quaintly-carved capitals of the Norman
style.
[Illustration: Halford Church & Mill]
We have now but to steer a straight course for awhile, as the Watling
Street fares forward between its trim, green hedgerows. But anon we go
astray once more in order to get a nearer look at Halford church, which
peeps invitingly out from a leafy nook on the opposite bank of the Onny.
The little church, though considerably modernized, bears traces of no
mean antiquity, and with an old flour-mill down in the vale below is
reflected in the stream at our feet, affording as pretty a coup d'oeil
as anyone could wish to see.
So having 'bagged' a sketch of this pleasant scene we take it easy
awhile, lying prone amidst the clover-scented grass and the buttercups
under the shade of an old pollard willow, and watching the troutlets as
they rise at the silly gnats, and the swallows flashing by in the
sunlight. Then, giving Craven Arms village the go-by for the present, we
tramp the dusty half-mile of highroad that leads to Stokesay Castle.
[Illustration: Stokesay Castle. Shropshire.]
Presently the old grey-green walls and mossy roofs of castle and church
come into view beyond a clump of trees upon our right, arousing great
expectations of matters antiquarian; for, as Dr. Jessop truly remarks,
'when a man is bitten with a taste for old castles and earthworks, it is
all over with him.'
Half fortalice, half manor-house, Stokesay Castle rears its ancient
turrets in the midst of a green, sylvan vale, the luxuriantly wooded
heights that rise on either hand giving a sense of restful seclusion;
while one or two farmsteads, nestling beneath the old ivy-mantled walls,
lend a home-like air to this pleasant, rural scene.
Making our way around to its south-western side, we obtain what is,
perhaps, the best general view of the castle; its hoary towers and
gables appearing from this point mirrored in the placid surface of a
large pool, which in olden times supplied water to the moat.
The venerable structure that now rises so picturesquely before us is
regarded by antiquaries as an almost unique example of a
thirteenth-century mansion which has been fortified at some period
subsequent to the erection of the domestic portion of the buildings,
thus reversing the usual order of things.
Hence the tall crenellated tower that figures conspicuously in our
sketch is not, as would at first sight appear, the oldest part of the
castle, but was built at a later period in order to protect John de
Verdon's already existing mansion, whose mossy gables and tall mullioned
windows are seen farther away to the left. The curious-looking bastion
beyond, with its quaint, overhanging upper story, is a remarkable
feature of the edifice; its lower portion, pierced with loops for
archery, being probably older than any other part of the castle, though
the half-timbered gable above is a comparatively modern addition.
In the background rises the low grey tower of the parish church, an
interesting old edifice untouched as yet by restoration, whereof we
shall see more anon.
[Illustration: The Gate-House Stokesay Castle.]
We now proceed to the Gatehouse, a beautiful structure of timber and
plaster dating from Tudor times. Grey, worn, and weather-stained as they
are, its solid old oaken timbers bid fair to outlast many a long year
yet; while the huge angle corbels and the spandrils above the gateway
are boldly carved with the quaint, humorous conceits of the mediæval
craftsman. The story goes that in the last century this Gatehouse used
to be frequented by a fugitive, outlawed in the days when forgery was a
capital crime, who hid snugly away in some secret closet of the interior
until the hue-and-cry was well on its way elsewhere.
Let us now make our way within. A substantial oak door, nail-studded,
and loopholed for the use of muskets, admits us into the courtyard;
beyond whose level greensward rise the picturesque gables of the ancient
Banqueting Hall, its mullioned windows flanked by massive buttresses,
and surmounted with a wavy old stone-slated roof beautified by lush
green mosses and splashes of golden lichen.
Passing within, we find ourselves in a nobly proportioned hall, whose
open-timbered roof is supported by sturdy oaken beams springing from
stone corbels of elegant design. Upon either side rise lofty traceried
windows; and in the floor we see the stone slab which supported the
brazier, whose smoke has blackened the rafters overhead.
At one end of the hall a rude sort of staircase, composed of solid oak
steps, gives access to other rooms in the northern wing of the castle;
and in the opposite wall is a shouldered doorway, leading to storerooms
and nondescript cellars. High up in this wall are seen two tiny,
shuttered lights, which give upon the Banqueting Hall from an upper
chamber.
To this apartment, known as the Solar, we now make our way; climbing
thither by a flight of stone steps out in the open courtyard. With its
magnificent carved oak mantelpiece and handsome wainscoting, the Solar
must have been far and away the most sumptuous chamber in the castle,
and was probably used as a kind of parlour, or withdrawing-room, for
ladies, and guests of the better sort. This view is strengthened by the
presence of the two 'peep-hole' windows before mentioned, whence the
occupants of the Solar could, themselves unobserved, keep an eye upon
the festive scenes that went forward in the Banqueting Hall below.
The mantelpiece above mentioned is quite a marvel of elaborate
ornamentation, of that rich, florid style, in vogue towards the close of
the seventeenth century. The base of the structure, surmounting a plain
stone fireplace, is effectively carved with bold, conventional foliage,
and a pear pattern in the spandrils; while the upper portion is divided
pilaster-wise, by grotesque figures, into panels enriched with masks
surrounded by intricate strapwork. A sketch of one of these panels may
be seen by turning to p. 59, where it forms a tailplate to the
chapter.
Both wainscoting and chimney-piece retain remnants of colour and
gilding; and the chamber is lighted by traceried windows bearing a
general resemblance to those of the adjoining hall.
Old records tell of historical portraits at 'Stoke,' as it was then
called; and we can well imagine they adorned the walls of this very
apartment. Here was 'ye Picture of Charles ye Fyrst'; there, 'ye Picture
of Charles ye Seconde'; and yonder, 'Theodoric Vernon, alias Vernon with
ye redde Hand, alias the Proud Vernon, with a gold Chaine about hys neck
with a Medall at the bottom.' What with its panelled dadoes, handsome
chimney-piece, old portraits looking down from the walls, and armorial
quarterings in its stained-glass windows, the Solar must have afforded a
seductive retreat from the amenities of those rough times.
A climb to the summit of the great tower is rewarded by a capital coup
d'oeil of the castle and its pleasant environs; so now, before taking
leave of this interesting spot, let us travel back for a moment into the
domain of history.
In the Conqueror's time 'Stoke' was held by the famous Roger de
Montgomery, passing subsequently to the de Lacys, until it was bestowed
by Walter of that ilk on the family of Say, whose ancestors had fought
by Duke William's side at the Battle of Hastings. Having reverted to the
de Lacys, the last of that line bestowed the castle upon his son-in-law,
John de Verdon, who about 1240 A.D. erected the present Banqueting Hall.
Half-a-century later, we find a certain Lawrence de Ludlow obtaining
permission to 'crenellate his Castle at Stoke-Say,' at which time the
courtyard wall, and possibly the southern tower, may have been erected.
John Leland, passing this way on his 'Laborieuse Searche for England's
Antiquities,' tells us, with scant regard for topographical accuracy,
that 'Mr. Vernon hath a place not farre from Oney, aboot iiij miles out
of Ludlo, in the waye betwixt Ludlo and Bishop Castle. Stoke-Say
belongeth sometime to the Ludlo's, now the Vernons, builded like a
Castell.' These were the Vernons of Haddon Hall fame, from whom Stokesay
passed by purchase to the Earls of Craven.
During the Civil Wars the castle was held by Sir Samuel Baldwyn, of
Elsich, and was garrisoned for King Charles; but after a short
investment fell into the hands of the Parliamentarians, who defeated and
routed a troop of Royalists, 200 strong, close to a place called
Whettleton, in the meadows below Norton Camp, on the eastern side of the
vale. Thereafter the castle was 'slighted,' or rendered incapable of
defence.
Stokesay Castle is now the property of H. J. Allcroft, Esq., by whom the
old place has been put into a reasonable state of repair, and its
ancient features carefully preserved. Those who care to know more about
this interesting fortified Manor-house, may obtain at the Gatehouse an
excellent little guidebook to Stokesay Castle by the Rev. J. D. la
Touche, the late vicar of Stokesay.
[Illustration: Stokesay Church.]
Stokesay Church, though originally Norman, was in large measure rebuilt
in the seventeenth century, as recorded upon the keystone of the tower
arch, 'Ano. Dom. 1654, this church was rebuilt by the pious oversight
of George Powell, Gent., and George Lambe, Churchwarden. This Arch was
given by John Cheshire, Joyner.' A tie-beam of the chancel roof bears a
date of ten years later.
Since those times the sacred edifice has remained practically untouched,
and consequently presents an appearance of rural simplicity, very
grateful to look upon in these 'restoration' days. The oak pulpit, with
its curious sounding-board above, and the beautiful double canopied pew
in the chancel, are excellent examples of Jacobean carpentry; while some
of the old high-backed pews retain their original wrought-iron hinges,
and touches of carved work here and there.
Recent researches have revealed, beneath the whitewash of the
'churchwarden' era, certain scriptural texts upon the walls, whose
quaint, appropriate sentiment will not be lost upon the beholder.
Alongside the pulpit, for example, runs the legend, 'As new born Babes
desire ye Sincere milk of ye Word, that ye may grow thereby.' There,
too, is the Credence, with the name 'Ponce Pilate,' after the olden
fashion.
A primitive west gallery partially obscures the well-proportioned Early
English arch opening into the tower, which latter is broad, low and
massive, and part of the original church. Outside are some very fair
seventeenth-century table tombs, one of them having its fluted pillars
scooped away in an unaccountable manner.
Before retracing our steps towards Craven Arms, we strike up into the
woods above Whettleton, in order to visit Norton Camp, an early British
earthwork altered and adapted, as is supposed, by the Romans, which
commands both the ancient Watling Street, and the Castle road going into
Corve Dale. Its mounds are large and lofty, especially upon the western
side, where the hill falls steeply to the plain, and we obtain glimpses
through the twinkling foliage of far-away heights, extending fold upon
fold to the horizon. Yonder rise the wild hills of Wales, their purple
crests shewing clear and sharp against the glowing sunset sky; while the
full moon climbs above the sombre woodlands of Corve Dale, and beams
adieu to the departing lord of day.
Then we plunge down through the twilight woods, and, traversing an
ancient suburb paradoxically called Newton, with its fine old
half-timbered mansion house, once the vicarage of Stokesay, come soon to
Craven Arms, where we take up our night's lodging in one of the
comfortable hotels for which the place is noted.
[Illustration: Carved Panel at Stokesay Castle]