Away to the north-east, as we turn our backs upon Ludlow, appears a noble
range of hills, whereof we have caught frequent glimpses during our
peregrinations about the old town. And now, as we fare along through a
pleasant, pastoral country, the dark, volcanic-looking crest of
Titterstone Clee Hill looms grandly above the rolling woodlands that
clothe his lower flanks.
'Cle Hills,' as Leland informs us, 'be holy in Shropshire. The highest
Parte of Cle Hills is cawlyd Tyderstone. In it is a fayre playne grene,
and a fountaine in it. There is another Hill a 3 Miles distant from it
cawlyd the Brown Cle.'
Geologically these hills are somewhat remarkable. A cap of erupted
basalt crowns the summits of the Clees, having by its harder texture
protected the hills from the effects of denudation, and preserved from
destruction the underlying coal measures that now form the loftiest
coalfield in Britain. Hence it comes to pass that, in these utilitarian
days, the 'fayre playne grene and the fountaine' have given place to
coalpits, and to those yawning stone quarries that yield the famous road
metal locally known as 'Dhu stone.'
Leaving the old timbered farmhouse of Dodmore upon our left, we descend
into a pleasant vale, cross the Ledwych brook and bear away for
Bitterley; following a narrow, unfrequented lane, with Titterstone
making a brave show in the direction whither we are bound.
Set amidst green summer foliage, Bitterley village looks attractive
enough as we traverse its one quiet thoroughfare; but in winter-time, as
the name suggests, the district is bleak and chilly:
'Bitterley, Bitterley under the Clee,
Devil take me if I ever come to thee!'
runs a rustic couplet that tells its own tale.
[Illustration: The Haunted House, Bitterley.]
At the farther end of the village we turn aside to examine an old,
ruinous pile, rising forlorn and derelict in the midst of an adjacent
meadow. Upon nearer acquaintance this proves to be an ancient,
dilapidated edifice, in the last stages of decay. With its time-stained
brick walls and crow-stepped gables smothered in untended ivy, the
mullioned windows agape to every gale, and roof and chimneys tottering
to their fall, the old place looks a haunted house, every inch of it, as
our sketch will shew.
A solid oak newel staircase 'corkscrews' upwards in a projecting turret,
but, save a few remnants of elaborate stucco ornamentation above the
fireplace in one desolate chamber, there is little or nothing to repay
the risk of a broken neck. So, remarking certain traces of a moat in the
meadow hard by (restored by 'artist's license' in the sketch), we now
hie away through lanes and fields to Bitterley church.
[Illustration: Cross at Bitterley.]
Bitterley church and the old Court-house, with some noble trees in the
foreground and Titterstone towering behind, make a pleasing rural
picture as we draw near; and, upon passing through the wicket and
entering the green sanctuary, we come in sight of the beautiful
churchyard Cross shewn in the adjoining sketch. It dates from the
Decorated period, the slender shaft rising from a flight of worn, mossy
steps, and bearing aloft the four-sided head, or finial, in whose
crocketed niches some mouldering fragments of sculptured work may still
be discerned. This Cross is one of the finest of its kind in England.
The church itself is of Norman origin, though much altered in later
times. The best features of the interior are a fine arcaded Norman font,
a curious old lectern and iron-bound muniment chest, and slight remains
of a traceried oak roodscreen.
Beyond Bitterley church the country opens out towards the unenclosed
flanks of Titterstone Glee Hill:
'Those mountains of commande
The Clees, like loving twins, and Stitterstone that stande
Transevered,'
--as the poet Drayton hath it. So, putting the best foot foremost, we
have a lung-expanding tramp for the next half-hour amidst heather and
waving brake-fern, winning our way at last to a fine view point dubbed
the Giant's Chair. The outlook hence on a fine summer's day is a thing
to be remembered. Wide and varied as is the prospect, the gem of it all,
perhaps, is the charming bird's-eye view of old Ludlow town, down in the
vale at our feet, its warm-grey towers and house-roofs nestling beneath
the verdant slopes of Whitcliff, which in their turn are overtopped by
the brindled heights of Bringwood Chase, stretching away towards the
blue Welsh hills where the horizon meets the sky.
[Illustration: Crow Leasow.]
Having spied out the land from this lofty eyrie, we plunge down again
through the breast-high bracken, and then, working our way by
cross-country lanes, come presently to Crow Leasow.
Crow Leasow is a substantial brick farmhouse dating from the early days
of the seventeenth century. Its weatherbeaten front has some good
moulded brickwork about the doorway, eaves and gables, and a bulky
chimney-stack projects towards the northern end. The massive doors and
thick beams and rafters of the interior look quite in character; while a
gigantic oak tree, of enormous girth but hollow within, flings its vast
limbs athwart the greensward before the entrance way.
In bygone days Crow Leasow belonged to a family of the name of
Shepheard, who lived here for five successive generations, and were
probably the builders of the existing house.
At Middleton village we find vestiges of a yet more antiquated dwelling,
in the moated manor-place called the Brook House, whereof one
half-timbered gable still survives. From a map made in 1721, the mansion
would appear to have been in good preservation at that time, as the
sites of a summer-house, a large walled garden and a bowling-green, are
all marked upon it.
Laying a course due west for Stanton Lacy, we have now to negociate some
intricate byways athwart Hayton's Bent, a stretch of shaggy upland
islanded, so to speak, in Corve Dale. Up through the woodlands we go,
getting a fleeting glimpse of Downton Hall, standing in a lonely
situation amidst a richly timbered park. Anon we strike into a secluded
dingle--one of those 'Hopes,' as they are called, so characteristic of a
Shropshire countryside, with a brooklet tinkling along through a tangle
of undergrowth; while the carol of thrush, linnet and blackbird sounds
blithely in our ears.
Stanton Lacy itself is but a mile farther on; and through that quaint,
quiet village lies our way to the parish church. Stanton Lacy church is
a genuine Saxon edifice; indeed, it is considered to be one of the best
examples of pre-Norman work in this country. Upon its outer walls appear
the narrow buttresses built of long-and-short stones, and the rough,
uneven stonework with its wavy coursing, that mark the Saxon period.
[Illustration: Stanton Lacy.]
In the north nave wall is the remarkable doorway shewn in the
accompanying sketch. Here we find the long-and-short work both upon the
jambs and the semicircular head, which is surmounted by a peculiarly
shaped cross, and guttæ, or drops, like those found in classic
architecture. Though now blocked up, this doorway is still in a good
state of preservation.
The church is cruciform in plan, its massive central tower grouping
prettily amidst a setting of verdant foliage, when viewed from the
south, with the porch standing prominently out, and some curious stone
effigies of the de Lacys under low, cusped, mural arches.
Inside we find traces of various styles and dates, with scraps of
ornamentation here and there, such as the alternate shields and rosettes
upon the otherwise plain stone font, and the little carved figures that
look down from brackets on a beam of the chancel roof.
A pretty legend tells how this church first came into existence.
Milburga, the pious daughter of King Penda the Mercian, fleeing one day
from the too pressing attentions of a certain Welsh princeling, managed
to escape across the Corve, near where the church now stands, before her
lover came up. Then the good lady vowed a vow that, if permitted to
escape, she would build a church as a thank-offering; whereupon a mighty
flood swept down the stream and effectually put a stop to all pursuit;
and so it came to pass that the first church arose hard by upon the
banks of Corve.
So much, then, for Stanton Lacy church. In other ways, also, the place
seems in bygone times to have been of some importance, for Anderson
tells us that 'Stanton Lacy was free from hundredal subjection, and its
seigneural lords claimed to have a gallows, to hold pleas of bloodshed
and hue and cry, and an assize of ale.'
Upon resuming the onward route we traverse a pleasant vale, the road
following up the course of the Corve, with low, wooded hills on either
hand, and the topmost crests of the Clees peering over their shoulders.
Beyond the fine old timbered farmhouse of Langley the valley broadens
out, and the good red soil of Corve Dale shews rich and ruddy where the
ploughshare has lately passed, and ripening crops by the wayside add a
zest to the general outlook.
Anon we steer a due northerly course, with first a conspicuous Lombardy
poplar, and then a curious-looking church steeple, by way of
guide-marks. The village to which it belongs lies coyly aside from the
highway, necessitating a slight detour, and the crossing of a brawling
brook.
Thus we come to Culmington, a bucolic-looking village with several good
cottages of stone, timber and thatch; and the church, whose spire we
have already observed, rising beside the meadows overlooking the Corve.
Thitherward, then, let us now direct our steps.
Though somewhat plain, the old church has several good features, and its
curiously stunted broach spire is weathered and mildewed to a thousand
tints. The rough, plastered walls of the edifice are only relieved by a
few slender lancet windows, which are narrower and more sharply pointed
than is usual, while one of them looks like what is known as a leper, or
low-side, window.
Very plain and simple too is the interior of the church, a dark oak
roodscreen alone breaking the monotony of the whitened wall surfaces. A
good Decorated canopy with ball-flower enrichment, an aumbry and
piscina, some old carved oak pews, and the quaint memorial to a
seventeenth-century Rector, are amongst the notabilia that come under
our observation.
A hedgeside inn at the end of the village now comes handy for rest and
refreshment, both welcome enough to wayfarers who have borne the burden
and heat of the day. Then after a sociable smoke and a chat with mine
host anent 'the weather and the craps,' we proceed again upon our
travels through the byways of Corve Dale.
The road next takes an upward grade, and, approaching the foothills of
Wenlock Edge, enters upon a rough, broken country, known in olden times
as Siefton Forest.
Anon we quit the main road, and, turning down a narrow lane, presently
espy a large, handsome old stone-built mansion of the Tudor period, the
ancient manor-house of Elsich. The front towards the road appears to
have been considerably renovated, but the rearward aspect is much more
antiquated-looking, a projecting half-timbered stair turret, roofed with
thick stone slates, rising with charmingly picturesque effect above the
last remnants of the moat.
Elsich was during many generations the home of the Baldwyns, who are
said to have first settled here in the reign of Richard II. The original
house was probably built about the year 1545 by Richard Baldwyn, whose
brother William was cupbearer to Queen Mary. Thomas Baldwyn, son of the
last named, was committed to the Tower on suspicion of being implicated
in a plot to liberate Mary Queen of Scots, and is said to have written
the following inscription on the wall while in prison there: THOS .
BAUDEWINE . JULIE . 1585 : AS . VIRTUE . MAKETH . LIFE . SO . SIN .
CAUSETH . DEATH.
Striking across the fields, we now cut off a corner and look in upon
Corfton, where, beside a large tree-covered tumulus, we find a few
scanty, very scanty, traces of The Mount chapel, a little old stone
building of unknown antiquity, which, though now a mere featureless
shell, was still in use, they say, as a place of worship within living
memory.
Another mile brings us to Delbury, or Diddlebury, to give the place its
full title. Traversing a footbridge where a stream crosses the roadway,
we make our way to the church, whose grey old stunted tower rises above
the hamlet.
[Illustration: Delbury Church.]
Dedicated to St. Peter, Delbury church is a fascinating spot to the
lover of old things, for the fabric bears the stamp of its first Saxon
builders, while other hands in later years have added variety of style
in pleasingly blended contrast.
A large portion of the north wall, including the base of the tower, is
pure Saxon work, built herring-bone wise inside, and of nicely squared
masonry without. A blocked doorway shews the long-and-short
construction, while high up in the wall is seen a small, semi-headed
window, evidently as old as the wall itself. This window bears traces of
having had an internal shutter.
The old western tower, as may be gathered from the sketch, is a curious
architectural jumble. Owing to superincumbent weight, the original arch
of the west doorway has assumed a squat, horseshoe form, and a later but
still ancient arch has been inserted beneath it. With its rough,
timeworn buttresses, and dilapidated string-courses fringed with moss
and splotched with lichens, this old tower looks exceedingly
picturesque, and forms a capital subject for a sketch.
Many quaint bits of carved work, both in wood and stone, come to light
as we potter about the interior. In the chancel, upon a brass plate
under the arch of the Easter Sepulchre, appears an inscription which
runs as follows: M . S . CAROLUS . BALDWYN . DE . ELSICH : ARMIGER . HIC
. SITUS . EST : OBIJT . 140 . DIE . FEBRUARIJ . ANO . DNI . 1674 : ANNO
. ÆTATIS . SUÆ . 77. The Charles Baldwyn here referred to held Stokesay
Castle under a long lease from Lord Craven, and his son Samuel was in
command of the garrison there at the time of the Civil Wars.
The north chapel here has been, from time immemorial, devoted to the use
of the Cornewall family, of Delbury Hall.
Regaining the highroad we get a pretty rearward view of Delbury, the
tranquil hamlet with its low grey steeple nestling in a wooded vale,
while lofty hills rise away in the background. Thence we push on for
Munslow through an orchard country, where the landscape is brightened by
the flower-laden trees whose fragrance permeates the air.
A mile short of our destination, the Swan Inn, with its half-timbered
gables, its worn stone steps and swinging sign, makes a comely show at
the crossways; and presently after we find ourselves at the Crown Hotel,
the old Hundred House of Stottesdon, on the outskirts of Munslow
village. At The Crown, then, we will outspan awhile, for, situated in
the very heart of Corve Dale, the house will suit us 'to a T' as a
starting-point while exploring that locality; the more so that, as a
rule, the Dale boasts little accommodation above the hedge-alehouse
character.
Munslow is a rather scattered village, whose cottages seem to be playing
hide-and-seek with one another about a rough, out-cropping hill. As for
the church, the place seems at first sight not to possess such an
appendage, until, surmounting a steep rocky lane, we presently come upon
it down in a secluded nook, embosomed amidst apple orchards, with the
comfortable-looking parsonage house peeping out from a grove of trees.
[Illustration: The Old Church Porch. Munslow.]
Two or three dark yews and a curious wooden erection, apparently an old
lich-gate, lend an air of rusticity to the churchyard. The beautiful old
timbered porch shewn in our sketch is the most pleasing feature of the
exterior: but the window tracery is worthy of notice, being of
excellent though simple character, and original in treatment. The
interior of the church has been a good deal renovated, but in one of the
nave windows we notice a Virgin and Child in fourteenth-century glass,
and a foliated cross cut upon the sill below.
Some later glass in the aisle windows is remarkable for its quaint
anagrams and inscriptions, and upon an old slab near by may be seen the
following queer effort at rhyme:
AO 1602:
IN . TE . HOVVER . OF . HIS . POVVER . ONE . DEAD .
BY . CHRIST . DOE . RISE .
AND . VVEE . VVHOSE . BOANES . ROT . VNDER . STONES .
OVR . DVST . HEEL . NOT . DESPISE .
Some of the original pews in the nave are of massive old moulded oak,
with geometrical patterns incised on their ends of earlier character
than is usually found in such cases.
Down past the church, from the westward hills, comes a lane that in any
but the best of weather must be a mere mountain torrent, paved with the
naked rock and overarched by ancient yews. Our way, however, lies
through the fields, until, striking the Wenlock road, we diverge to the
right, cross the river Corve by a footbridge, and threading our way
through deep, sandy lanes, come presently to Tugford. This takes us past
Broncroft Castle, a modernized, castellated residence, seated in a
curiously out-of-the-way spot for such an imposing pile.
[Illustration: Tugford Church.]
With the ivy wreathing tower and porch, and moss and lichens encrusting
its old plastered walls, Tugford church looks thoroughly in keeping with
its secluded sylvan situation. Low down outside the chancel walls are
certain arched recesses of unknown origin. The small blocked doorway
seen in our sketch has a semicircular tympanum, carved in low relief, of
evident antiquity; and a Norman arch with excellent mouldings is found
inside the ivied porch. Internally, two curious, grotesque little
figures are perched aloft on either side of this door.
Across the west end, hiding a good pointed tower arch, extends the
musicians' gallery, where, amidst dusty music scores and other disjecta
membra, the old wormeaten band-stand may still be seen. From this same
gallery might be heard, until comparatively lately, those mellifluous
strains of flute, clarionet, melodion and all sorts of music, wherewith
the 'rude forefathers of the hamlet' were wont to wake the slumbering
echoes on a Sunday morning; indeed the present rector himself can still
recall those 'piping' times.
The very parish bier at Tugford boasts a respectable antiquity, as
witnesses the inscription 'Bartholomew Lutley, Anno Dom. 1617,' carved
upon it.
From Tugford we climb by rambling footpaths to The Heath, a secluded,
upland district, forming a sort of western buttress to the Brown Clee
Hill.
[Illustration: The Heath Chapel.]
Emerging from a tangle of plantations, we traverse a few rough pasture
fields and soon come to the Heath Chapel, a small, ancient edifice,
standing all alone in a green meadow, with sheep browsing leisurely
around its grey stone walls. Simple and unobtrusive as it is, this lowly
chapel is extremely interesting to the antiquary, from the fact that it
has remained practically untouched since the Norman builders brought
their work to completion, seven hundred years ago.
[Illustration: Interior of the Heath Chapel. Looking East.]
The fabric consists of nave and chancel, and has a fine south doorway
enriched with nook-shafts and chevron mouldings; while the walls are
strengthened by the flat buttresses characteristic of that early period,
through two of which, curiously enough, the east and west windows have
been pierced. A plain string-course runs inside and out around both nave
and chancel.
Inside, the old oaken box pews, grey with age, remain in situ, their
timeworn panels bearing touches of carved work and quaint iron hinges;
the walls retain their coating of faded, mildewy plaster; and the whole
wears an air of archaic simplicity, and immemorial repose. Upon the
rough stone-flagged floor stands a plain, bowl-shaped font, evidently
coeval with the building itself, while the beams of the open-timbered
roof look almost equally primitive.
The chancel arch is quite unadorned, save for a little carving upon the
capitals. The altar table and rails around, though plain, are not bad
specimens of their kind, and inside the western gable is suspended the
solitary bell.
As may be readily understood, the congregation here is at the best of
times but a scanty one; indeed, it is said that in bygone days the
parson, perceiving but 'two or three gathered together,' would sometimes
adjourn the service to the snug fireside of a neighbourly farmer's
kitchen! The wonder, indeed, is that a church should ever have been
erected in such a sparsely-peopled, out-of-the-way locality.
Well, let us now bid farewell to the Heath Chapel, not omitting to
notice the old Gothic hinges upon its oaken door, now alas! bereft of
that famous key which, if tales be true, was so fearfully and
wonderfully constructed that the clerk alone could prevail upon it to
'open sesame!'
The day proving fine and clear lures us onwards towards Brown Clee Hill,
whose broad, bulky mass looms prominently, no great distance away to the
eastward. In about a mile and 'a bittock,' after passing through a gate,
we enter upon a wild, go-as-you-please sort of country, and clamber up
the steep grassy vallum of Nordy Bank, a large Roman encampment in an
unusually good state of preservation. The bank is very high and steep,
with a ditch on its outer side, though much lower, as the custom was,
upon its inner face.
Hence a fine, wild glen comes into view, running up into the heart of
the hills, Titterstone rears his dark craggy crest away to the right,
and the Wrekin peeps over the shoulder of Brown Clee Hill, towards which
we now bend our steps.
Dropping to a sandy ford across a stream, we slant gradually away
athwart the open furze-clad hillside, and then breast the rough, steep,
rock-strewn bank, called Abdon Burf, which encircles the loftier of the
twin summits of Brown Clee Hill.
Perched up here beside the cairn, 1,792 feet above sea level, we look
down upon every other height in all broad Shropshire; indeed, to find a
rival to Brown Clee Hill, we should have to travel across the Welsh
border. So let us now turn our attention to the spacious landscape which
lies outspread around; a prospect that embraces the greater part of
west-central England, and a good cantle of wild Wales to boot.
Away towards the south-east rise the graceful peaks of the Malvern
Hills, with the Cotswolds far beyond them. Then to the left are seen the
Clent and Lickey heights, and the dingy pall of smoke overhanging the
Black Country. Glancing athwart a number of inferior eminences, the eye
is arrested by the great rounded dome of the Wrekin, unmistakable in its
lonely isolation. League upon league extends the broad plain called Yale
Royal, stretching far away into Cheshire, and blurred with a filmy cloud
indicating the whereabouts of Shrewsbury:
'Far set in fields and woods the town we see
Spring gallant from the shadows of her smoke.'
The Berwyns come next, a pale grey stripe silhouetted upon the skyline,
followed by the sharp-peaked Breidden Hills, on the farthest confines of
Shropshire. Quite near neighbours by comparison seem the Stretton
heights, Caer Caradoc, and the spiny Stiperstones; while over those
rolling uplands we can faintly discern the topmost crests of Cader
Idris, in Wales.
Corve Dale, a chequer-work of ruddy plough lands and varied greensward,
lies like a map at our feet, with the rough holts of Wenlock Edge
fringing its farther side. Radnor Forest and the Black Mountains extend
athwart the south-west, with perhaps a peep of the Brecon Beacons, mere
shadows of a shadow these, upon the remotest horizon.
Yonder away lies Ludlow, marked by its tall church tower; and, still
following along the skyline, we descry the abrupt form of the Skyrrid
near Abergavenny. Finally our neighbour Titterstone Clee thrusts his
rugged cone aloft; a fine, dark, basaltic crag, around whose crest the
cloud shadows love to linger; fitting throne for the giant who, in days
of old, haunted those lonely heights.
And overarching all this fair landscape spread the 'infinite shining
heavens,' and the glorious architecture of the clouds; completing a
picture worthy to be stored up in memory's garners for many a day to
come.
From the carnedd we make a bee-line down through broad reaches of
heather, gorse, and wine-red bilberry shoots, flushing now and then a
hawk or a curlew as we tramp along. Hugging the course of a lusty
stream, we soon find ourselves once more at Tugford; whence by lanes and
field paths we work our way back to Munslow, crossing the Corve at Beam
Bridge, where the blacksmith plies his trade in a curious, nondescript
structure, half smothered in ivy, built, it is said, as a memorial to
some member of the More family who was slain upon foreign soil long,
long ago.
* * * * *
In a retired nook of the hills, about a mile and a half, as the crow
flies, from Munslow, lies the old farmhouse of Upper Millichope.
[Illustration: UPPER MILLICHOPE.]
The house is considered by connoisseurs to have been built in the
twelfth century, and thus may claim to be the most ancient abode in
Shropshire; in point of age, indeed, it probably has few rivals
throughout the whole of England.
The oldest, or western, wing of the building, is massively constructed
of the grey limestone of the district, its walls being in places at
least 6 feet thick, while the steep roof is covered with old moss-clad
stone-slates. The original entrance was through the semicircular-headed
doorway seen in our sketch, the arch whereof is enriched with hallflower
ornament, as is that of a small round window of similar character
alongside. The other windows in the lower story are very narrow, mere
ceilets, or loops such as were used for archery, but are widely splayed
within.
Access to the upper regions was obtained by a stone staircase built in
the thickness of the wall. This staircase, though now partially
destroyed, bears traces of having been protected by no less than three
doors between the basement and the room above.
Owing to the reduced thickness of the west wall, the chamber on the
first floor is larger than the room below. It is lighted by a pair of
double windows in the northern and eastern sides, each window having an
attached pillar with moulded cap and base, a projecting socket for
inserting a beam across the window, and a stone seat, or bench, in the
wall upon either side.
This first-floor room was probably the living-room, or Solar, of the
establishment. A small adjacent chamber is supposed to have been used as
a chapel, or oratory. In the roof are one or two rickety, dust-laden
garrets, long since deserted and given over to mice, spiders, and
such-like small deer.
Huge oaken beams support the floor of the Solar, and the internal walls
are constructed of wattle-and-dab, now much fallen to decay.
By a 'perambulation,' ratified in 1301, Edward I. declared Upper and
Little Millichope disafforested, in common with other places in the same
neighbourhood. In those days all this part of the country was a vast
tract of woodland, known as the Long Forest; and Millichope was
doubtless at that time the manor house, or hunting lodge, of the King's
Wood-ward, or Forest-ranger.
Even now the scenery about Wenlock Edge is wild and romantic; but in
early times its thickly timbered dales afforded harbourage to robbers
and outlaws, who, issuing from the tangled thickets, preyed upon passing
travellers as they wandered through its devious, unfrequented trackways.
Nor was it until the reign of Henry I. that a good road was made along
the Edge, in place of the 'hollow way full of great, sharpe stones, and
so narrow as scarcely to admit of two horsemen abreast,' which had
formerly existed.
[Illustration: Rushbury.]
But to resume. From Millichope we may extend our ramble to Rushbury, a
pretty village situated in Ape Dale, under the western slope of Wenlock
Edge.
Though nowadays so insignificant a place, Rushbury has some claim to be
of ancient origin, for it appears probable that the station named
Bravinium, on the Roman road from Magna to Wroxeter, stood here, or
hereabouts; and it is worthy of note that a hill above the village is to
this day called Roman's Banks.
Rushbury church, too, bears traces of high antiquity, some
'herring-bone' work being visible upon the outer walls; while a noble
hammer-beam roof, very massively constructed and black with age, lends
distinction to the interior, and there are some good oak choir stalls
and bench ends, with 'poppy-head' terminations.
Retracing our steps to Corve Dale, we travel on by meadow paths in the
direction of Holgate village, whose grey church tower, surrounded by
trees, is seen upon a distant hill-top, a landmark to every wayfarer who
journeys along the Dale. Wild saffron appears to be the bane of the
pasture fields in this locality; but for us they are decked in the
purple and gold of orchids and burnished king-cups, affording a charming
scheme of colour.
[Illustration: Northern Doorway. Holgate Church.]
Holgate church is small, and has recently undergone a 'thorough
restoration.' It boasts, however, a grand Norman south doorway, enriched
by a triple series of arches displaying the boldly carved sculpture
peculiar to that period. The font is evidently very ancient, the
interlaced ornamentation around the bowl having a Celtic look, while the
corners of the base are ornamented with rudely sculptured monsters.
A grove of trees near the eastern end of the churchyard hides a lofty,
moated mound; and just beyond that, incorporated with some farm
buildings, is a large, circular stone tower, built of good ashlar
masonry, and pierced with narrow loopholes of the regulation mediæval
type.
This is the only surviving fragment of Holgate castle, founded by Helgot
the Norman in William the Conqueror's time. King Henry I., in 1109,
honoured Herbert FitzHolgate with a visit; and six years later Richard
de Belesme, Lord of Bridgnorth, held his court within these walls.
Robert de la Mere, a subsequent owner, died while returning from the
Wars of the Crusades.
In the year 1222, one Thomas Mauduit obtained license for a weekly
market at Holgate; while the Baron of those days had his own court and
private gallows here!
About the middle of the thirteenth century Holgate was alienated to
Richard Plantagenet, styled the 'King of the Romans,' by whom it was
conveyed to the Knights Templars. Not long afterwards the castle and
demesne passed into the possession of Robert Burnell, Bishop of Bath and
Wells, and sometime Chancellor of England.
In Leland's 'Itinerary' we read that 'Holgate castle standeth under Cle
Hilles, hard by Corve Dale, a 6 miles from Ludlowe'; a sufficiently
vague computation, about on a par with others that passed muster in
those easy-going times. Holgate castle appears to have fallen into
disrepair at an early date, being found utterly dilapidated in 1645.
We now press on to Shipton, not failing to notice the fine Early English
hinges upon its south door, as we rest in the porch at Stanton Long
church. Approaching Shipton village, the old Hall of the Myttons comes
in sight backed by green, wooded heights, making a delightful picture.
[Illustration: Shipton Hall. Shropshire.]
As was frequently the case at that period, Shipton Hall follows the plan
of the letter E, and is a very dignified example of the builder's art as
practised in Good Queen Bess's reign. Between the broad, gabled wings
rises a slender stone tower; mullioned windows give back the glitter of
the noonday sun, and tall, curiously twisted brick chimneys soar above
the roof-tree.
A quaint, oldfashioned garden forms a suitable setting to the mansion,
whose silver-grey stone walls and ivied gables rise with charming effect
above the flowering plants and creepers that adorn the balustrades in
front. Close at hand is an old stone pigeon-cot, covered with a conical
roof of thick, mossy stone tiles.
This lordly dwelling was for many generations the ancestral home of the
Myttons; having been devised by John Lutwyche to his cousin, Edward
Mytton, of Worcester, in the year 1549, previous to which the Manor of
Shipton had appertained to Wenlock Priory. The place does not appear to
have figured much in local history, but was a veritable treasure-house
of heirlooms and antiquities. Times have changed, however, and the tap
of the auctioneer's hammer has dispersed these household gods to the
four winds.
As befits an abode of 'the quality,' Shipton Hall stands a little apart
from the village, with the diminutive parish church nestling under its
lee. Thitherward, then, let us now direct our steps.
Shipton church is a building of various dates, and so far has remained
untouched by restoration. At its western end rises a weather-boarded
bell-turret, while a coating of roughcast of a bright salmon-red tint
lends an air of cheerful distinction to the exterior.
A plain Norman chancel arch, having a small arched aperture on each
side, gives access to the chancel itself, built, as is recorded in Old
English characters on a brass plate let into the wall, in the time of
Queen Elizabeth: THIS . CHAUNCELL . WAS . REEDIFIED . AND . BUILDED . OF
. NEWE . AT . THE . CHARDGES . OF . IOHN . LUTWICH . OF . LUTWICHE . IN
. THE . XXXJ . YEARE . OF . THE . GRACIOUS . REIGNE . OF . QUEENE .
ELIZABETH . 1589. The name of Mytton figures upon most of the monumental
tablets on these walls. Some scraps of old painted glass may still be
discovered in the window above the altar.
A by-lane, running up beside Shipton Hall, brings us in about a mile to
Wilderhope, a great, stone-built manor-house of the Tudor period,
standing in a secluded spot amidst the woods and pastures of Hope Dale.
Here in days of yore lived a family of the name of Smallman, a race that
flourished in this locality during the sixteenth and seventeenth
centuries, Major Thomas of that ilk being the hero in a certain episode
in connection with a spot called the 'Major's Leap,' whereof more anon.
A spacious stone porch gives access to a large room now used as the farm
kitchen, whose ceiling retains some elaborate plaster enrichments, the
Tudor rose, portcullis, fleur-de-lys, etc., the letters I . E . S . U on
a heart, and certain half-obliterated words, MAL . MEA . DEA . EST, thus
they appear to run. Repeated here and there are seen the initials of
Francis and Ellen Smallman, who about the year 1601 erected the existing
mansion; and a small wainscoted chamber has T . S . 1, 1672, cut above
its fireplace.
We now hark back to Shipton: noticing a curious sort of grotto, or
cavity in the limestone rock, as we pass through the village. Then
Corfield is left behind, a place that gives its name to an old
Shropshire family; and we get a peep at Larden Hall, an ancient seat of
the Mores, pleasantly situated in a well-timbered park under Wenlock
Edge.
At Brocton the Feathers Inn affords opportune rest and refreshment; so,
after a spell of dolce far niente, we presently strike across country to
Great Oxenbold, where in bygone times the Priors of Wenlock had a
grange, or residence.
All that remains of the old place is now incorporated with a farmhouse;
but the lancet windows of the chapel and the corbel-table above can be
detected outside, while a piscina and aumbry, and the brackets that
supported the chapel roof, are visible within; besides traces of a
circular stone stairway leading down to the cellars, whose ceiling is
ribbed with sturdy oaken beams. Evidences, too, are not wanting that a
moat formerly surrounded the whole.
Beneath overarching groves and moss-clad rocks lies our way from Brocton
to Easthope; ferns and wildflowers decking the laneside, and rustic
children lingering to gather posies, only to throw them aside, as
children will, when some new fancy takes them.
Before entering the village, Easthope church is seen, standing in a
quiet nook a little aside from the roadway; a small, plain, roughcast
structure, of thirteenth century date. From its southern side projects
an old stone porch, and a timber bell-cot rises atop of the western
gable, all very rustic and simple, and quite innocent as yet of
restoration. Upon the porch door still hangs the 'sanctuary' ring; and
the interior of the church (which is dedicated to St. Peter) has a very
reposeful, old-world air about it, as though time stood still, year in,
year out, within these hallowed walls.
The stiff, high-backed pews have a little carved work upon them, with
the following inscription: EDWARD . BALL . OF . LONDON . GAVE . THIS .
PULPIT . & . PEWES . TO . THIS . PARISHE . WHEARE . HE . WAS . BORNE .
IUNE . 28 . ANNO . DOMINI . 1623.
[Illustration: Hour-Glass at Easthope Church.]
Yonder is the old carved oak pulpit; and upon it hangs the ancient
hour-glass, a relic of bygone days. As shewn in our sketch, the
hour-glass is enclosed in a sort of cage, or basket, of wrought and
twisted iron, from which projects a banner-like sheet of metal
ornamented with nicely fashioned fleurs-de-lys, a heart, and the letters
S, S, and surmounted by the figures 1662, indicating the year it was
made. Hour-glasses were much in vogue amongst the Covenanters; but
although one sometimes meets with the cage, or holder, in country
churches, it is rare to find the glass itself in situ as we see it here.
A plain, massive oak roodscreen spans the church, which, besides other
antiquated features, has a 'leper' window with fifteenth-century hinge,
a bowl-shaped font, and two good Queen Anne chairs in the chancel.
A short mile out of the village stands Lutwyche Hall, the beautiful seat
of the Bensons, charmingly situated in an umbrageous nook of the Edge,
and surrounded by terraced gardens set about with noble forest trees.
Though considerably modernized, the mansion is of ancient origin, as is
attested by the date 1587 inscribed upon its front; and there is a rare
old plaster ceiling in the entrance hall.
The early British camp on a neighbouring hill was probably an outwork,
linking up Caer Caradoc with Nordy Bank.
Setting our faces toward Wenlock, we now follow a high-lying ridgeway
road commanding fine views in the direction of the west. Anon we strike
into one of the numerous footpaths that zigzag down through the woods,
and make for a sort of cave, or rather cranny, high up in the limestone
rocks of the Edge, amidst tumbled boulders and brushwood.
This is Ippikin's Rock, the haunt of a robber knight of that ilk, whose
deeds were famous in days of yore throughout all this countryside. Here,
as the story goes, Ippikin was wont to foregather with his merry men
all; issuing forth and levying blackmail on passing travellers, and
hiding the stolen treasure in these rocky fastnesses, where the print of
the knight's gold chain, it is said, may still be seen. Strange lights,
twinkling like Will-o'-the-wisps at dead of night, struck terror into
the hearts of the country folk as they gazed in fear and trembling from
the rustic homestall, while Ippikin and his crew held high revelry in
their unapproachable eyrie.
Eventually Ippikin himself was slain, and his band dispersed, so that
they troubled the King's peace no more. But if tales be true his ghost
still 'revisits the glimpses of the moon,' and may be summoned from the
vasty deep by anyone who cares to stand atop of the cliff at midnight,
and cry three times:
'Ippikin! Ippikin!
Keep away with your long chin!'
Footing it merrily along the white ridgeway road, we traverse the
watershed of the infant Corve, which babbles away hence towards a place
called Bourton. A large old manor-house with a square stone columbarium
is the most noticeable object at Bourton; unless, indeed, we except the
parish church, a nondescript edifice encompassed by yew trees,
overlooking the village upon the north.
Presthope with its limestone quarries is left behind; and then, turning
aside near a solitary toll-house, we soon come to a flat-topped rock on
the crest of the Edge, known as the 'Major's Leap.' Tradition tells
that, in the days of the Civil Wars, Major Smallman of Wilderhope was
endeavouring to escape from a troop of Roundheads, when, finding himself
hard pressed as he rode along Wenlock Edge, he took a desperate leap
from the top of this rock down into the woods below. As luck would have
it, a crab-tree broke his fall, though his horse was killed on the spot;
and, under cover of the rocks and brushwood that abound hereabouts, the
Major made good his escape to his own home at Wilderhope.
Thenceforward, save the goodly outlook upon our left, there is little
worthy of note until we draw near to Much Wenlock; and we seek in vain
for a certain country inn which greeted the wayfarer in this wise:
'Now Robin Hood is dead and Gone,
Step in and drink with Little John.'
Descending from the uplands, our footsteps echo through the quiet
streets of Much Wenlock as we trudge on to our journey's end, while the
arrowy swifts are screaming around St. Milburga's tall church-steeple,
and the waning daylight flickers slowly away beyond the hills on the
western horizon.
[Illustration: Hinge of Stanton Long.]