Seated in a basin-shaped valley, the town of Much Wenlock lies high on
the hills, a statement which smacks somewhat of paradox, though the
explanation is not far to seek. The fact of the matter is, the place
occupies one of those upland vales, locally termed Hopes, so frequently
found in this part of Shropshire.
Much Wenlock is a town of very ancient origin, its earliest history
centring around the venerable Priory founded by St. Milburga, daughter
of Merewald, King of Mercia, towards the close of the seventh century.
Its municipal history, too, dates far away back into the past. Before
Henry the Third's time Wenlock already held its weekly market, and in
1468 Edward IV. granted the first charter of incorporation, so that Much
Wenlock can justly claim to be one of the most ancient boroughs in the
realm. And there is a story, though we know not if it be true, that the
very first member who ever entered Parliament was the Member for the
Borough of Much Wenlock!
So let us now take a look at the old town, in the centre whereof rises
the ancient Guildhall, 'buildid,' as an old record has it, 'over ye
Prisonne.' Supported upon massive oak pillars, the upper story consists
of timber and plaster, with gables and mullioned windows projecting at
intervals, and a deep tiled roof over all. Upon one of these oak pillars
you may still see the iron staples of the whipping-post, and under the
arches hard by stand the old parish stocks.
Upstairs we find the Court of Assize; the Bench surmounted by the Royal
Arms, tempore 1589, and the Sword of Justice. Adjacent is the Council
Chamber, a sombre apartment panelled with dark old oak, whose
open-timbered roof bears the appropriate legend, JUDICIUM . VERUM .
JUDICATE : ET MISERICORDIAM FACITE.
Close at hand rises the parish church, dedicated to St. Milburga, a
spacious edifice whose western tower is surmounted by a tall spire, a
rather unusual feature in this locality. A fine Norman west doorway,
masked by the tower built against it, is only one amongst several good
features to be seen here. In the old parish register we find the
following interesting record: 'Note that upon the 26 daye of June was
service celebrated first in the Englysh tonge, anno primo Elizabethæ,
1559.'
Upon leaving the church we round a corner beside a queer old timbered
cottage, and, passing the site of the Bull Ring, come full in view of
the tall grey gables of St. Milburga's ruined Priory; while a grim old
stone watch tower, now off duty, is seen rising amidst a children's
playground.
Wenlock Priory arose from very modest beginnings. Originally a nunnery
stood here, presided over by the gracious Saint Milburga, Wenlock's good
genius.
Three centuries later--just about a thousand years ago--the Danes
overran all this part of Britain, which probably accounts for an ominous
blank in the local records about that time.
Earl Leofric, husband of the famous Lady Godiva, rebuilt the ruined
church in the days of Edward the Confessor; but the place fell once more
to decay, until, as William of Malmesbury relates, Roger de Montgomery
took the matter in hand, and, about the year 1071, erected the nucleus
of the present edifice.
Of Earl Roger's handiwork, except perhaps the ruined Chapter-house,
scarce one stone remains upon another; the slender pillars and pointed
arches of the main fabric dating from about the beginning of Henry the
Third's reign. The west front is much in ruins, but such features as
remain, indicate that it was built during the Early English period.
[Illustration: The Chapter-House & Prior's Lodging. Much-Wenlock.]
Entering by the dilapidated west doorway, we see around us, springing
from the clover-scented grass, tall fragments of grey stone walls,
blotched with weatherstains, and tufted with ivy, gillyflowers and
creepers; while flocks of pigeons flit from point to point, or nestle in
the crannies of the masonry. These massive, lofty fragments convey, by
their very isolation, a striking impression of the size of the minster,
which must have been of cathedral-like proportions, and unsurpassed in
the beauty and richness of its architecture.
Indeed, the more closely we examine these beautiful and enduring
structures, the greater grows our admiration for the cunning
craftsmanship of those old monkish builders:
'Firm was their faith, the ancient bands,
The wise of heart in wood and stone.
Who reared with stern and trusty hands
These dark grey towers of days unknown.
They filled these aisles with many a thought,
They bade each nook some truth reveal:
The pillared arch its legend brought,
A doctrine came with roof and wall.'
Passing through a corner of the south aisle, now the only portion of the
church not open to the sky, we enter upon a beautiful sunny courtyard,
around whose velvety turf arise the grey, crumbling relics of the Priory
buildings.
Yonder upon the greensward appears the Lavabo, or washing-place of the
monks; a circular stone structure, richly carved with subjects from
Scriptural history. Beyond it rises the Refectory, an important element
in a community which entertained on so lavish a scale; and farther to
the left is seen the picturesque group of buildings that figure in the
adjoining sketch.
That long, low edifice, with its quaint, trefoil-headed windows, deep
roof and half-timbered turret, is the Prior's Lodging of bygone days;
most interesting in that its internal economy remains much as in
mediæval times, though cleverly adapted to the needs of the nineteenth
century.
Through those round Norman arches, with their characteristic
ornamentation and damaged effigy of St. Peter, we get a glimpse of the
ancient Chapter House, roofless now, it is true, but otherwise in
tolerable preservation. The walls of this fine apartment are broken up
into arcades of interlacing tracery, each tier of semicircular arches
being superposed upon the one below, giving all the effect of an arcade
of pointed arches. The work on the southern wall is profusely enriched
with carving, that on the opposite side being plainer, as though it had
never been completed.
[Illustration: Much-Wenlock.]
There is much else to be seen, for, wander where one will about the
tranquil enclave, some new beauty is ever revealing itself to the
discerning eye; while the sweet, reposeful landscape enfolds the old
ruins with its mantle of midsummer verdure. One pictures to one's self
this rich and sumptuous monastery in the zenith of its fame and
influence, the great Priory church with its crypt and chapter-house, its
library, scriptorium, and picturesque Prior's Lodging. One seems to see
the sober-liveried brethren plying their peaceful toil in cloister,
garden and field, or attending to the crowd of strangers that daily
throngs their gates; for whose benefit refectory and kitchen, vivaries,
columbarium and well-stocked cellars, yield each and all their tale of
good cheer to make glad the heart of man. Then, as nightfall draws on,
the long dormitories fill up with way-worn travellers and pilgrims;
while those in need of the leech's skill make their way to the hospital
hard by.
There are several good timbered houses dotted about the town, notably
the one seen upon the left in the annexed view. This formed part of
Ashfield Hall, an old abode of the Lawleys, which gave shelter to King
Charles after the Battle of Worcester. The house afterwards became the
Blue Bridge Inn, and has finally degenerated to a common lodging-house.
In the High Street we notice an old chequered front, relieved by an open
balcony, and inscribed: IOHN . AND . MARY . RAYNALDS . 1682. A still
older tenement in Shineton Street is said to have been the original
gaol-house of Wenlock; though its ancient Gothic doorway and traceried
window have anything but a dungeon-like appearance.
Some pleasant spots lie within a measurable distance of Wenlock.
Quitting the town by the Broseley road, we glance up at the admirable
little wrought-iron sign of the Raven Inn, as we proceed to Barrow. Our
way lies past an ancient stone grange, now used as a stable and
store-house; and a cottage farther on offers refreshment to the thirsty
traveller in the form of 'lemon aid and jingre bier!'
Then Barrow comes in view atop of a gentle rise, its old church tower
peering over the straw ricks of a barton; while far away beyond the dark
rolling woodlands of Willey Park spreads a rich, champaign country,
bounded by pale Midland hills.
Despite its small size, Barrow church proves interesting, having
considerable remains of Saxon work both in the chancel and under the
tower. This tower is a queer, bulky structure, rising in four
diminishing stages, hoary and weedgrown, at the west end of the church;
and a rather curious south porch and sundial keep it in countenance.
Out in the churchyard, beneath a flat stone slab, rests all that was
mortal of Tom Moody, the famous Whipper-in, who, when his hunting days
were ended, was 'run to earth' at this spot in the year of grace 1796. A
century ago, Tom Moody's was a name to conjure with in all this
countryside; and tradition tells how his sporting comrades, determined
to be 'in at the death,' gathered at the graveside to give their old
friend a parting 'view-halloo!'
[Illustration: An Old Inn-Stick at Broseley]
Past a group of seventeenth-century Almshouses we travel on to Broseley,
home of the Broseley Clays, beloved of fireside smokers. The town, with
its mean brick dwellings, has a decayed look about it; but in one of the
streets, outside a public-house, we chance upon a rare example of local
wrought-iron work, which is illustrated above.
'Fight to the left at the cross-roads, and then you canna miss the way,'
remarks a passer-by of whom we now enquire the route to Benthall. Dumpy,
pot-bellied pottery kilns, bowered in flowering hawthorn, rise by the
roadside, where the brilliant blue Borage is abloom in untended corners.
A fine avenue of forest trees leads us to Benthall Hall, a stately
freestone mansion of the sixteenth century, its mullioned windows and
projecting porch making a goodly show in the landscape. Close at hand,
its only neighbour, appears the parish church, a curious little
whitewashed edifice, destroyed and rebuilt at the time of the Great
Rebellion, when Benthall was held for the King. Its internal economy is
a survival of the churchwarden period, down to the stiff, penitential
box-pews, and the faded red curtains in the southward windows.
In olden times an extensive tract of woodland, called the Royal Hay, or
Forest, of Shirlot, covered the rough broken country lying to the south
of Broseley.
About the centre of this district lies Willey Park, the ancient demesne
of the Foresters; an estate which has never, it is said, been bartered
for filthy lucre since first it was granted by Henry II. to the Keeper
of the Royal Forest.
The Foresters of bygone days seem to have been a free, open-handed race,
and keen sportsmen to boot. Tom Moody himself made his name famous
amongst the fox-hunting squires and parsons, who rode to hounds in the
train of my Lord Forester.
Willey Hall, a solid, substantial stone edifice, stands atop of a gentle
rise, overlooking a chain of lake-like pools embosomed amidst shadowy
woodlands. Half a mile east, in a nook of the park, lies Willey church:
near to which we notice a natural curiosity, an oak and an ash tree
enjoying life on the co-operative principle by sharing a single stem
between them.
Thenceforward our way lies through a reach of old forest land, full of
gnarled timber trees and carpeted with ferns--remains of Shirlot Forest.
In the heart of these woodlands we come upon a tall, ruinous stone
obelisk, known as the Shirlot Monument; whence, after traversing the
gorse-clad uplands of Shirlot Common, we return in due course to Much
Wenlock.
* * * * *
Road and rail keep fast company through Farley Dingle, the deep,
picturesque defile, by which one descends from Much Wenlock to the vale
of Severn. A brawling stream, as it winds adown the dingle, has been
ponded in and set to drive some rustic mills upon its banks.
About half-way down we come to a place called Lawley's, _i.e._ Lawless,
Cross; recalling the wild times when outlaws took advantage of the fact
that this spot, being on the debatable line between the franchises of
Wenlock and Buildwas, formed a sort of No-man's-land, where the arm of
the law scarce reached.
Emerging from the hanging woods of Farley Dingle, a broad, fertile
valley opens out before us, with the Severn rolling along through rich
pasture meads, and the ivy-clad ruins of Buildwas Abbey seated beside
its banks. So first for a bit of derivation. 'Build' suggests bieldy, or
bield, the Scottish equivalent for sheltered, comfortable; and 'was' is
a termination associated with a low, waterside situation, as for example
Sugwas, near the river Wye, in Herefordshire.
[Illustration: Buildwas Abbey.]
After the manner of their cloth, those old Cistercian monks, who erected
Buildwas Abbey, seem to have had an eye to the picturesque in locating
their noble foundation. Rising amidst green, folding meadows, on the
right bank of the Severn, the ruined Abbey forms the central feature in
a beautiful, tranquil scene; and, set amidst rich, dark foliage, with
the river rolling by, and cattle standing knee-deep in the shallows, has
exercised the brush of many a landscape artist.
Founded by Roger de Clinton, Bishop of Chester, early in King Stephen's
reign, Buildwas Abbey is built in a plain, severe style, offering a
striking contrast to its more elegant rival at Much Wenlock. It was the
home of a wealthy community, owning, it is said, no fewer than nine
granges in Shropshire alone. A beautiful cope, worked by the hands of
Fair Rosamund, the Lady of Clifford Castle, was amongst the most valued
chattels appertaining to Buildwas Abbey.
The arrangement of the several buildings is simple enough. East and west
extends the great monastic church, fairly intact still, though minus its
roof; a cruciform edifice with substantial circular pillars, slightly
pointed Transitional arches, and round-headed clerestory windows; while
a massive tower of Norman date rises above the crossing. The choir is
probably older than the nave, though the triple sedilia, with its pretty
dog-tooth enrichment, is evidently not earlier than the thirteenth
century.
Towards the north one can trace the cloister-garth, where the Chapter
House, with its groined roof and slender, elegantly-proportioned
pillars, may still be seen. Beyond this lay the Abbot's dwelling, now a
private residence; with its chapel, ambulatory, and noble dining-hall
spanned by an open-timbered ceiling. In the vale towards the west lay
the vivaries, or fishponds, fed by a stream that runs down from the
neighbouring hills.
At Buildwas Abbey, the monks of old kept alive the lamp of civilization
in dark, mediæval days. 'Within these walls peace reigned; from their
stately chambers ever arose the sound of prayer and praise; their gates
were open to the pilgrim and the traveller; hospitality, and brotherly
kindness, softened in many ways the harsh incidence of feudal custom.'
Looking down-stream, as we stand upon Buildwas Bridge, we get a glimpse
of that dun, smoky district, which, like the black patch on a Court
beauty's cheek, seems to heighten by contrast the charms of the fair
landscape around.
[Illustration: Madeley Court.]
In the heart of this dingy region stands Madeley Court, a large,
rambling old manor-house of late Elizabethan, or perhaps early Jacobean,
date. At the time of Domesday Survey, the Manor of Madeley appertained
to Wenlock Priory; and in Edward the First's reign the Priors obtained
the King's license to enclose a park from the neighbouring Forest of
Mount Gilbert.
As may be gathered from our sketch, Madeley Court is an extremely
picturesque old pile; the quaint stone gatehouse in the foreground, with
its turrets and mossy, stone-tiled roofs, contrasting pleasantly with
the mellow tints of the ancient mansion beyond.
The scene is, unfortunately, much marred by its grimy environment; and
there is little to attract one in the interior of the dwelling, which is
tenanted by several humble workmen's families. The pool at the rear is a
relic of the Prior's fishponds, whence a stream ran away to turn the
wheel at the Manor Mill hard by.
Beyond the fact that it was used as a country residence by the Priors of
Wenlock, but little is known about the history of Madeley Court. The
Ferrars family, we believe, made it their home at one time; and in
Charles the First's reign the mansion was in the hands of a stout old
Royalist, one Sir Basil Brooke.
In the grounds upon the west side of the Court stands a very remarkable
sundial, or planetarium, probably as old as the house itself. It
consists of a large block of blackened freestone, supported upon a low
base, with cup-shaped holes scooped upon three of its sides. Each of
these holes originally contained a dial, but the dials themselves have
long since disappeared. This curious astronomical instrument, besides
being used as a sundial, could, it is said, be also employed to find the
position of the moon in relation to the planets.
But to return to Buildwas. After passing the Abbey Hotel, a large,
oldfashioned hostelry, well known to brethren of the angle, we have a
delightful stroll by Severn side, with the ruins of Buildwas Abbey full
in view across the water, and a lowly church peeping out upon the
opposite side the way.
Through a country where cornfields and pasture lands alternate
pleasantly, we push briskly on into Leighton, a tree-shaded village
seated beside a wide horseshoe reach of the Severn. Time out of mind has
this noble demesne been an appanage of the knightly family which gives
the place its name; indeed, there was already, they say, a de Leighton
here when Henry I. came to the throne. The little church, close by the
Hall, contains effigies of Sir Richard de Leighton, a fourteenth-century
knight arrayed in full battle harness, and of Sir William and his lady,
who flourished about a century later.
Life, one would suppose, must be worth the living amidst these quiet,
rural scenes; and several of the villagers who rest in the green
churchyard have, we observe, well outrun a century ere they could tear
themselves away.
Vorwärts! Anon we descry Eaton Constantine, the 'Etune' of Domesday
Book, a high-lying village held by Constantine the Norman at the rental
of a pair of white gloves, valued at one penny! Richard Baxter, the
puritan Divine, spent his early days up there, where his dwelling may
still be seen.
[Illustration: The Lady Oak, Cressage.]
Passing by a timber bridge across the Severn, we travel on to Cressage;
going near a very old manor-house now known as the Eye, or Island, farm.
This pretty village near Severn side derives its Domesday name of
Cristes-ache (_i.e._ Christ's-oak) from a tradition that the Gospel was
first preached in this locality beneath the shade of an oak tree. This
tradition is supported by the fact that a very ancient oak, in the last
stages of decay, standing on the outskirts of the village, has from time
immemorial been known as the Lady Oak ('Our Lady's Oak'), probably a
mediæval perversion of the earlier Saxon name.
Belswardine House, on the hillside overlooking Cressage, is associated
with Judge Jeffreys, of execrable memory, who lived there for a time.
Upon regaining the Leighton road we soon come to an elevated spot called
Watch Oak, whence we get a rare view over the plain of Shropshire, and
the towers and spires of the county-town, with the blue hills of Wales
soaring far away beyond the border-land heights.
Eyton village lies only a mile away now, on a hill overlooking the
Severn. Eyton claims, we believe, to be the birthplace of that
accomplished scholar and author, Lord Herbert of Chirbury. The remains
of Eyton Hall are now incorporated with a farmhouse; it was built by Sir
Thomas Bromley, one of the executors of King Henry the Eighth's will,
and Lord Chancellor of England, in the last year of Edward VI. From the
Bromleys the estate subsequently passed, by the marriage of Sir Thomas's
heiress, to the Bridgman family.
An obscure, winding lane, brings us in due course to the village of
Wroxeter. Here we are on ground classic to the archæologist, for
beneath our feet lie the ruins of Roman Uriconium. 'The site of this
long-deserted town,' writes Professor Paley, in the _Nineteenth Century_
magazine, 'probably the most important one between Dover and Chester
(London not even excepted, till the latter days of the Roman
occupation), is of great extent, and it must have formed one of the
chief places of defence against the turbulent inhabitants of Wales.
Probably it was built as a precaution that the extremely strong position
of the Wrekin should not be occupied by the enemy.'
Towards the close of the fifth century Uriconium was overwhelmed by the
Saxons; when the 'high-placed city of Wrecon,' as Llywarch-Hên, the old
Welsh bard, styles it, was utterly destroyed, and reduced to a heap of
ruins. In mediæval days these ruins doubtless fell a prey to the pious
monkish builder, who was very busy about that period: and, as time still
wore on, meadows and cornfields covered the forgotten site, and the
countryman wondered to see the coins and curious ornaments turned up by
his passing ploughshare.
Thus matters remained until about the middle of the present century;
when the Shropshire Antiquarian Society opened up so much of the ruins
as funds would allow, though by far the larger portion of the 'English
Pompeii' remains to this day a terra incognita. Some fine day, perhaps,
this fascinating search will be renewed; for, in its glorious
uncertainty, the quest for antiquities is like prospecting for gold.
'You can't tell anything about gold,' a digger once remarked, 'you're
just as likely to find it where it ain't as where it are!'
A green mound, running across country in a horseshoe form, marks the
limits of ancient Uriconium. Of this wall, the only portion remaining
above ground is a large mass measuring about 20 feet in height, by 3
feet or so in thickness, and constructed, as was usual in Roman work,
with bonding-courses of thin red tiles, alternating at intervals with
the small squared stones of the masonry.
Traces of arches with lateral walls between them are visible upon its
southern side; and somewhat farther from the wall, on the south, or
'city' side, may be seen the massive substructure of a building
considered to have been the Basilica, or, perhaps, Government Hall, of
the town. Close at hand appears an elaborate system of hypocausts and
tiled flues that supplied the hot baths, all in a very fair state of
preservation. Several skeletons were discovered in this portion of the
ruins, besides a number of coins, whose superscriptions gave a clue to
the date of the city's destruction. A hut near the entrance contains
many interesting objects brought to light in course of the excavations.
But for the finer, more perishable objects found here, we must go to the
excellent Museum at Shrewsbury, where one may study at one's leisure the
countless articles of household use, personal adornment or what-not,
that speak, more eloquently than any description, of the everyday life
of Uriconium, sixteen hundred years ago.
The Watling Street, that great military highway of the Romans, passed
through the city of Uriconium on its way from London to North Wales.
Another Roman road went southwards from the city; running viâ Church
Stretton, Leintwardine and Kenchester, to Abergavenny in Monmouthshire.
[Illustration: The Ruins of Uriconium, and Wroxeter Church Tower.]
We now retrace our steps to Wroxeter, and, crossing the line of the
ancient fosse, soon come to the parish church. Its tall,
picturesque-looking tower is relieved by ornamental string-courses, and
small niches with figures in them; while queer, uncouth gargoyles
project from the angles, as may be noticed in the sketch.
Wroxeter church was originally a collegiate foundation, with four
resident priests, and a chantry dedicated to St. Mary the Virgin. In
1155 William FitzAlan, Lord of Wroxeter, presented the church to the
monastery of Haughmond, to which it continued to belong until the
Dissolution.
From the Normans onwards, many builders have left their impress upon
this fine old fabric. Good Norman windows and a doorway of the same
period occupy the south wall of the chancel, where are several table
monuments, of which the most interesting, perhaps, is that to Sir Thomas
Bromley, whose house we have lately noticed at Eyton, and an elaborate
table-tomb, with effigies of Sir Richard Newporte, and Dame Margaret his
wife.
An ancient register chest in the vestry has its surface traceried over
with elaborate ironwork. The font is curious, being fashioned from a
Roman capital; and various architectural odds-and-ends of Roman origin
are preserved in a garden adjoining the churchyard. Even the pillars on
either side the gateway, seen in our sketch, are treasure-trove from the
buried city.
[Illustration: ATCHAM.]
Farewell now to Uriconium, and to Wroxeter, its offspring, with their
time-honoured associations. Along the old Watling Street lies our way,
until, entering the Salop road, we cross the Bell brook near the site of
the Roman wall and trudge on past Attingham, serenely seated amidst its
broad demesne, with rich pastures and umbrageous woodlands spreading
away on either hand. Traversing Tern Bridge we presently come to Atcham,
a trim, well-cared-for-looking village, with a fine old church close by
Severn side, a handsome balustraded bridge spanning the broad river, and
memories of Ordericus Vitalis, the historian of William the Conqueror, a
native of Atcham.
Dedicated to St. Eata, Atcham church is built of a reddish stone,
supposed to have been brought from the ruins of Uriconium. It has a
seventeenth-century timbered porch, and a fine traceried oak roodscreen,
brought, we believe, from Worfield church; while the carved panels of
the oak lectern illustrate the parable of the Prodigal Son.
The only monument worthy of note is that of Jocosa Burton, an incised
slab brought from Old St. Chad's, Shrewsbury, and dated 1524. In one of
the south nave windows we notice some good stained glass representing
Blanch Parry, one of Queen Elizabeth's gentlewomen, kneeling at her
mistress's feet, with the Parry arms and an inscription recording her
death in 1589. This glass was brought from Bacton Church, Herefordshire,
where Blanch Parry's fine monument is still to be seen. It was
illustrated in 'Nooks and Corners of Herefordshire,' some few years ago.
Crossing the bridge, we obtain a good view of the church reflected in
the placid river; and thereafter we stretch away along the Watling
Street, Rome's grand Prætorian thoroughfare of days gone by. Presently
Uppington and its ruined castle appear upon our left, looking across
Tern river to Withington, where the curious church brasses are.
By-and-by we come to Hay Gate, where, as the name suggests, we enter
upon the 'Royal Haye of Wellington,' a tract of woodland emparked by the
Normans from the Forest of Mount Gilbert. This forest was formerly very
extensive, spreading over more than one of the old Domesday Hundreds;
and it was not until John's reign that a charter was obtained to
disafforest the district.
So now, with the smoke of Wellington lurking upon the rear, we set our
faces southwards, where the dark wooded flanks of the Wrekin swell
upwards to meet the sky. Geologists tell us the Wrekin is the oldest
mountain in England; and, as the typical hill of our county, it has
given rise to the time-honoured Salopian toast, 'To All Round the
Wrekin.'
Folk-lore, too, has had its say anent this famous hill. 'The Devil,' so
the story runs, 'had an old spite against Shrewsbury, so he determined
to bring a flood upon it: he would stop up the Severn! For this purpose
he came with a great spadeful of earth; but, outwitting himself, as many
of his children do, he lifted more than he could carry. Presently he
became fatigued upon his way to the river, and let some of the mould
fall--that is the Ercal (a smaller hill adjoining the larger). Then he
upset it all--and that is the Wrekin.'
Beneath the hanging woods of Ercal lies our onward way. After passing
Buckatree, _i.e._ Buck-i'-the-Tree, Hall, we traverse a shady dingle,
and tackle the climb to the summit of old Wrekin himself; an
exhilarating pull beneath whispering fir-trees, and by grassy glades
carpeted with soft moss and springy pine needles, glimpses of blue
distance between whiles whetting one's appetite for the good things to
come. Nor is the scene wanting in animation, the ubiquitous lover and
his lass figuring prominently in every prospect: for Wrekin's brow is a
favourite haunt of picknickers and holiday folk from all the Midland
parts.
From 'Hell's Gate' we ascend to 'Heaven's Gate,' and so win our way to
the brow of the Wrekin, 1,335 feet above the sea. 'There is on the Toppe
of this Hill a delicate plaine Ground, and in this plaine a fayre
Fountaine,' wrote Leland, the antiquary, long ago. No water is to be
found there now except such as collects, from time to time, in the
'Raven's Bowl,' a cup-like depression on the top of a conical outcrop of
rock, known as the 'Bladder, (or Balder's) Stone.' At the foot of this
rock there is a deep, narrow, crooked cleft, yclept the 'Needle's Eye.'
Now the fable goes that, if any young maid dips her foot into the
Raven's Bowl, and then 'threads the Needle's Eye,' by scrambling through
the cloven rock, she will be married within a twelvemonth, 'so sure as
there's acherns in Shropshire.'
Owing to an isolated situation, the Wrekin commands a better all-round
view than some of his loftier compeers. To merely chronicle a lot of
remote hill-tops would, however, convey but a bald impression of a scene
which owes so much to atmospheric effect; so we will only remark that
the prospect embraces hills so wide asunder as Axe Edge, near Buxton,
and the Brecon Beacons in South Wales; Cader Idris, above Dolgelly, and
Bardon Hill in Leicestershire--'a delightfully awful prospect,' as
someone has quaintly described it.
A goodly cantle of Shropshire lies at our feet, like a map unfurled on a
table; its heights and hollows beautifully diversified by cornfields and
orchards, verdant pastures and ruddy plough-fields; while in and between
the green hedgerows are seen, like the meshes of a huge net.
Towards the east, the landscape is sadly marred by the smoke of the
Shropshire coalfield; so we turn to the opposite quarter, where the
Wrekin, falling away by Primrose Hill, bathes his feet in the silver
Severn. Yonder in the vale we can just descry the ruined Abbey of
Buildwas, with Wenlock church-steeple peeping over a neighbouring hill.
That high-lying village away to the left is Little Wenlock, 'Wenlock
under the Wrekin,' as it was anciently called.
After 'boxing the compass' in a final farewell glance, we bid adieu to
the Wrekin, and plunge downhill again by way of 'Hell Gate'--facilis
descensus Averni--until by-and-by we come to Wellington, a place that,
from the diminutive 'vill' of King John's days, has grown to a
smoke-begrimed mining centre, with little attraction for travellers,
like ourselves, in search of the picturesque.
But near the Watling Street, about a couple of miles away, we find
'metal more attractive,' in the form of a fine old timbered manor-house,
called Arleston. The date 1614, upon one of its gable-ends, is probably
not that of the main structure, which looks considerably older.
There are some very fine plaster ceilings inside, with fruit and foliage
elaborately interwoven amidst scenes from the chase, etc., and curious
plaster pendants. A small painted figure, let into the wall, is said to
represent King James I. In olden times Arleston was used as a
hunting-box by the Lords Forester; when, no doubt, it was a place of
some consequence. It is now occupied as a farmhouse.
[Illustration: The Sign of the Raven. Much-Wenlock.]