Skirting the south-eastern suburbs of the County-town, the Minsterley
branch line carries us in a devious course beside the Meole Brook,
amidst quiet, rural scenery, calling for no particular notice. It is
worth while, however, to alight at Hanwood station, in order to take a
look at one or two ancient farmhouses that lie not far away.
[Illustration: Moat Hall. Hanwood.]
The finest of these is Moat Hall, a place which, though altered by
recent restorations, retains some interesting features. No less than
three very handsome old carved oak chimney-pieces are still to be seen,
the arms of the Beringtons being traceable among their ornamentation;
and the domestic chapel, used in bygone times by those of the 'old
faith,' retains its panelled dadoes and rich plaster ceiling. The place
was of course haunted; but the ghost, with a fine sense of propriety,
none too common amongst such gentry, has departed with a former owner of
the estate.
At Hanwood we traverse a small local Black Country, where an outlier of
the Shropshire coalfield lies under foot, and where stumpy colliery
chimneys and whimsey-wheels deface the nearer landscape. But all this
soon gives place to the good open country, as the train approaches
Pontesbury station; and tall, cloud-capped hills begin to assert
themselves, in the direction whither we are bound.
There is not much to detain the traveller here, for 'Ponsbyri,' as John
Leland has it, 'is but an uplandisch Tounlet, 4 miles from Shrewsbyri.'
The church, nevertheless, was originally a collegiate foundation, and
still boasts a fine, massive tower, besides one or two other good
features. Of the 'great Manor Place, or Castelle,' whose ruins Leland
saw 'on the south side of the Chirche Yarde,' not one stone now remains
upon another. To Pontesbury, some six centuries ago, came the famous
Bishop Swinfield; paying, as is recorded, the modest sum of one penny
for the ten-mile journey across the hills from Stretton, which may
stand, we take it, as a record fare even to this day.
Be that as it may, we now pass on to Minsterley, the terminus of the
line; a place that, whatever attractions it may possess, can certainly
lay small claim to beauty. Even the Miners' Arms Inn, by its
bleak-looking, brick façade, belies the comfort to be found within; and
it is not until we come to the parish church that things take a turn for
the better.
The little edifice is, perhaps, rather curious than beautiful. Built in
the seventeenth century, it has superseded an earlier church of great
but unknown antiquity, reputed to have been one of the most ancient
ecclesiastical foundations in Shropshire.
Externally, the red-brick front presents a queer combination of skulls,
hour-glasses, scythes and cherubs' heads, wrought amidst the classic
entablature of the Jacobean portal; a good example of the bad style then
in vogue. There is not much else to detain us here, so let us look
within.
The interior of Minsterley church is sober, plain and simple; but is
relieved from the commonplace by the rich, dark woodwork of its massive
oak pulpit and chancel screen, and the great sounding-board which
impends above the former.
Suspended from wooden pegs, near the western end of the church, hang
some half-dozen Maiden Garlands, or Love Tokens, as they are sometimes
called. These curious objects are constructed of ribbons, bows and
rosettes, stretched upon a small bee-hive shaped framework. A Love Token
was intended to commemorate a betrothed lover who had remained faithful
during life, his or her fiancée having died during the time of
betrothal. There is, however, another version anent the use of these
Maiden Garlands. When a young damsel died, a girl of the same age as
the deceased walked at the head of the funeral procession, carrying a
Maiden Garland, with a pair of white gloves attached, as an emblem of
the purity of the departed. These Garlands at Minsterley bear various
dates in the last century, and are among the best preserved of their
kind.
Quitting the village by the Bishop's Castle road, we espy upon our right
hand the half-timbered gables of Minsterley Hall, a modernized
manor-house of the Thynne family, now the property of the Marquess of
Bath.
The hills close in as we advance, the road climbing their slopes by a
long, steady ascent. Away to the left rise some great refuse-heaps,
where lead has been mined at least as far back as the time of the Roman
Emperors; for in Shrewsbury Museum may be seen a large 'pig' of lead,
found in this neighbourhood, which bears the inscription IMP . HADRANI .
AUG.
Pursuing the course of a wimpling brook, our road now leads through the
recesses of Hope Vale, a narrow dingle whose sides present an unbroken
expanse of greenwood, its verdure looking fresh and bright after the
passage of the recent rains, while the carol of many a feathered friend
enlivens our onward march. By-and-by this gives place to more open
scenery as we approach the Gravel Mine, which is believed to be of Roman
origin.
Half a mile away behind the hills lies Shelve, a village given over to
mining; whence, by cross-country tracks, the Stiperstones may be
ascended. This remarkable range forms one of a series of roughly
parallel ridges, which traverse this portion of Shropshire in a
north-east to south-westerly direction. Huge, timeworn masses of quartz
rock, cropping out here and there upon the skyline, give to these hills
a strange, wild appearance; while such names as Devil's Chair, Nipstone
Rock, and the like, indicate their traditional origin. One story tells
how the Devil, rising up from his chair on the Stiperstones, and taking
a three-mile stride across Hope Vale, planted his foot upon the Lord's
Stone, a conspicuous rock on the hills to the westward, where, it is
said, his footprint may to this day be seen.
Excelsior! is still the order of the day, on resuming our onward route,
and the landscape assumes a bleaker look as the road slants steadily
upwards. Marsh Pool, a small mere half choked by weeds, appears close at
hand below the fern-clad slopes of Stapeley Hill; while Corndon soars
aloft like a real mountain before us, dwarfing all his lesser
neighbours. At the crossways we bear away westwards, striking presently
into a rough, rambling cart-track, that leads up the unenclosed
hillside.
[Illustration: Mitchells Fold.]
Half a mile of this sort of thing brings us to Mitchell's Fold, which,
to compare small things with great, may be called the Stonehenge of
Shropshire. A dozen or more large slabs of stone are grouped into an
irregular circle, most of the stones having long since fallen down,
though three or four of them still remain upright, the tallest standing
about 6 feet above the ground.
Tradition, the garrulous jade, has her own story to tell of how
Mitchell's Fold first came into existence. Once upon a time, it seems,
there was a great famine throughout all this countryside, so that the
good folk had much ado to 'keep the wolf from the door.' All they had to
live upon was the milk from a white fairy Cow, that, night and morning,
came to this spot to be milked. Thus everybody found plenty of milk,
provided no one drew more than a pailful.
At length, however, came a wicked old witch, named Mitchell, who
proceeded to milk the good white cow into a riddle, or sieve, which she
carried in her hand, so that presently the cow ran dry. Discovering the
trick that had been played upon her, the cow became highly indignant,
and, kicking over the riddle, vanished from the scene, and was never met
with in these parts again. Indeed, it is said she turned crazy, and
going off into a far country, became transformed into the famous Dun Cow
slain by Guy, Earl of Warwick. As for the wicked old witch, she was
turned into one of these stones on the hill, and the other stones were
set around to keep her safely in; and so it comes to pass that the place
to this day bears the name of Mitchell's Fold.
With regard to the beneficent fairy Cow, one is minded to conjecture in
what relation she stood to the wonderful Bull, whose exploits we heard
of when at Hyssington. That point, however, we respectfully leave for
antiquaries to decide, and now push on again for Chirbury.
The west wind greets us lustily, as we tramp in the teeth of the breeze
across acres of heather and bracken; pausing now and then to scan the
wild moorland prospect, or to watch the gyrations of a brace of plovers,
as they circle overhead.
Calling in for a draught of milk at the first farmhouse on the edge of
cultivation, we pass the time of day with the master, who gives us a
hearty Shropshire greeting. 'You be come to a desprit lonesome place,'
remarks our friend; 'and 'tis tedious work traipsin' about them beggarly
lands such weather as this; but step in and sit ye down, and my missus
'ool bring us summat to drink.'
So down we sit in the roomy kitchen-place, surrounded by all the homely
gear of the goodwife's daily use; taking occasional pulls at Nature's
wholesome tipple from big blue china mugs, and discussing the affairs of
the countryside like men to the manner born.
Once more afoot, we traverse a stretch of broken, intricate country,
and, surmounting a ridge of low hills, drop downwards into the lower
reaches of Marrington Dingle, a narrow, picturesque defile watered by
the Camlad, whose 'crankling nookes' we hope to explore later on.
On the farther bank of the brook rises Heightley Hall, a mere farmhouse
now, though in bygone days it was the ancestral home of the Newtons, an
ancient family of more than local fame. The first to settle here, in
1501, was Sir Peter Newton, builder of the old Council House at Salop;
and ere the last scion died out, in 1681, the family had given many High
Sheriffs to Shropshire. Sir Isaac Newton, the great philosopher, was
connected with the Newtons of Heightley.
The Hall itself has been much altered and modernized: but in the
terraced gardens, with their rows of old yew trees, a large fishpond,
and some remains of an ancient corn-mill down by the banks of the
Camlad, we seem to see traces of a better state of things.
Peeping over the nearer tree-tops, the old grey timeworn tower of its
ancient Priory church announces our approach to Chirbury, a picturesque
village which can lay claim to a venerable past. Tradition avers that
the monastery which once stood here was founded early in the tenth
century by Ethelfleda, the 'Lady of the Mercians,' daughter of Alfred
the Great; to whom is also attributed the building of Chirbury Castle,
which stood at a spot known as 'King's Orchard,' on the outskirts of the
village.
In the eleventh of Henry III., a Priory of Black Canons of St.
Augustine, established at Snead, a few years previously, by Robert de
Boulers, was removed to Chirbury, where it flourished until the
Dissolution. Bishop Swinfield twice visited Chirbury Priory in the year
1285, censuring the Prior upon the first occasion for laxity of
discipline. His strictures, we may suppose, had the desired effect; for
the Bishop subsequently found reason to commend the monks of Chirbury
for their almsgiving and piety.
Born at Montgomery Castle in the year 1581, the celebrated Lord Herbert
of Chirbury spent much of his time at this place, whence he derived his
title. Lord Herbert was created first Baron Chirbury, one of the titles
still borne by the Earls of Powis. His literary achievements attracted
considerable notice in the reign of James I.
So now let us turn our attention to St. Michael's church, which makes a
pleasant picture, its massive western tower soaring above a great yew
tree, and roses, ivy and creepers, wreathed about the headstones in the
foreground.
The existing parish church is all that remains of the great Priory
church of the Austin Canons, 'Llanffynnon-wen,' the 'Church of the Fair
Spring,' to give it its poetical Celtic name. A runnel of pure water
still rises on the outskirts of the village; and some few years ago a
stone water-conduit was brought to light in a garden close to the
church.
Though shorn of much of its ancient distinction, Chirbury church is by
no means devoid of interest. Owing to neglect and supineness in bygone
times, the fabric was fast falling to decay; but of late years the
venerable building has been put into a state of thorough repair, thanks
to the judicious care of the Rev. John Burd, the present vicar.
The tower door, by which we enter, is surmounted by a small carved
figure representing the Virgin and Child. Upon the stone door-jamb are
several of those nicks, or scratches, we have puzzled over before--could
yonder old yew tree but speak, perchance it might explain that they were
caused by sharpening arrows, in the days when long-bows were fashioned
from its tough, sinewy limbs.
The interior of Chirbury church is broad, spacious and lofty; for those
Austin Friars loved a roomy church to preach in. Owing to the
'spreading' of the roofs, the nave arcades and the walls above lean
considerably outwards, though the walls of the aisles are upright; and
there are many evidences that, for some reason or other, the present
church was 'run up' in a hurry.
There was formerly a fine old roodscreen at Chirbury church; but it was
removed many years since to Montgomery. On the wall near the chancel
arch we notice a curious tablet to 'Ric Lloid, 1589,' with the Lloyd
arms, and a skull, or 'memento mori,' set in a deeply sunk circle.
Another small mural tablet displays a shield and the letters H. M., the
initials of Hugh Myddleton, the last Prior of Chirbury. The font, which
is large and extremely archaic-looking, was rescued some years ago from
a neighbouring garden, where it had long done duty as a water-trough!
From its close resemblance to certain ancient holy-water stoups,
recently exhibited at Shrewsbury, Mr. Burd, the vicar, considers this
font was originally the holy-water stoup of the earlier monastic church.
There is a curious entry in the Parish Book, for the year of grace 1808,
which goes to shew it cost more in those days to pay for ale, to assuage
the Psalm Singers' thirst, than to defray the cost of their musical
instruction! Payment was made, in 1604, to provide 'a bell and cordes to
kepe the dogge out of the Churche, in tymes of divine service and
preachinge'--autre temps autre moeurs.
Out in the churchyard, near the vestry door, lie the mortal remains of a
former vicar, his brother, and their two wives, whereof the united ages
amounted to 378 years, or the respectable average of over 94 years each.
A portion of a richly moulded pillar, or rather 'respond,' and some
beautiful thirteenth-century floor tiles in the porch of an adjacent
house, are remains of the old monkish church.
[Illustration: Virgin & Child, Chirbury.]
Some few years ago a small bronze matrix, representing the Virgin and
Child, was dug up by chance in Chirbury churchyard, and is now in the
possession of the vicar, by whose courtesy we are enabled to give a
sketch of a cast from it. The late Mr. Bloxam considered, from the
costume and the pose of the figure, that this interesting matrix dates
from about the latter part of the fourteenth, or the beginning of the
fifteenth century. It is of a kind very rare, if not unique, in this
country.
In Chirbury vicarage is preserved a very valuable Library of Chained
Books, probably the most complete private collection of its kind in this
country:
'Antique Books--rare old Books--
Gathered from many old corners and nooks!'
The books, 207 in number, treat mainly of theological matters, and are
of various dates from 1530 to 1684; most of them retain the iron chains
and swivels by which they were fastened in the cabinet. They probably
formed part of the library established at Montgomery Castle by George
Herbert, the poet and divine; and were transferred to their present
resting place by the Rev. Edward Lewis, who, during nearly half of the
seventeenth century, was vicar of Chirbury.
Being a man of strong Puritan leanings, Parson Lewis was badly treated
by the Royalists. One Sunday morning, when the vicar was in the act of
addressing his flock, a troop of horsemen rode into the church, haled
the good pastor out of his pulpit, and carried him prisoner to Captain
Corbet, who at the time was in command of the King's forces in that
locality.
In the secluded rural district around Chirbury, the oldfashioned rustic
Stage Plays held their own until the early decades of the present
century, long after they had ceased elsewhere; and to this day one may
occasionally meet with an ancient greybeard, who in his salad days has
figured upon the boards.
These performances generally took place close to some country inn,
which, while providing refreshment for the thirsty audience, formed a
sort of 'green-room' for the actors themselves. The play, in which two
male actors usually took part, was performed, to the scraping of a
fiddle, upon a stage improvised for the occasion, by placing some boards
upon a couple of farm-waggons borrowed for the purpose.
The plays themselves appear to have been of a simple, not over-refined
character, interspersed with broad jokes and scraps of local badinage,
to suit the taste of the bucolic audience. 'Prince Mucidorus, or St.
George and the Fiery Dragon,' 'Rigs of the Times,' 'Valentine and
Orson,' and a piece entitled 'Doctor Forster,' were the favourites. The
hero of the latter is none other than our old acquaintance Faust, and it
was supposed to be only acted on the sly, being considered such a very
wicked play that something was sure to happen to put a stop to the
performance; and the arrival upon the stage of his Satanic Majesty was
regarded as the signal for an outbreak of thunder, lightning and hail,
if nothing worse.
A mile or so out of Chirbury, in an undulating, well wooded park, on the
verge of Marrington Dingle, stands the ancient timbered mansion of
Marrington Hall, 'a very noble and sweete place,' as old Pepys would
have said. In early documents the name is Maritune, though it was always
known to the Welsh as 'Hafod-wen,' the 'Fair Summer Dwelling,' a name as
appropriate as pretty, for a more delightful situation for such an
'abode of ancient peace' it would be difficult to imagine.
[Illustration: Ancient Sundial at Marrington.]
Embosomed amidst ancestral oaks, under the lee of a range of high,
heather-clad hills, this old Elizabethan homestead faces out towards the
distant highlands of Montgomery, commanding a prospect of rare extent
and beauty. Near one corner of the mansion grows a hollow oak, of
enormous bulk and immemorial age, a veritable patriarch among his
fellows: while upon the adjacent lawn rises the Sundial shewn in our
sketch.
This curious Sundial, one of the most remarkable of its kind in England,
consists of a stone monolith with chamfered edges set upon a large
square base, the whole structure being about 5 or 6 feet in height. The
figures 1595, cut upon the stone, mark the date of its erection; and
around the base runs the inscription: FOR . CHARITI . BID . ME . ADW .
WHO . WROUGHT . THIS . STONE . FOR . THE . TOMB . OF . R . LL. A queer
figure, carved upon one face of the pillar, may pass for a portrait of
Richard Lloyd, the founder; whose arms, with those of the Newtons and
other local families, appear upon the shaft.
On the top of the pillar is fixed a sundial, or gnomon; while smaller
dials were inserted into every nook and cranny whither the sun's rays
could penetrate. Upon the shaft are inscribed various suitable mottoes:
THESE . SHADES . DO . FLEET . FROM . DAY . TO . DAY; AND . SO . THIS .
LIFE . PASSETH . AWAIE: DEUS . MIHI . LUX: FINIS . ITINERIS .
SEPULCHRUM: FUI . UT . ES; ERIS . UT . SUM: UT . HORA . SIC . VITA:
etc., besides many devices and emblems more or less appropriate to the
subject.
In the reign of Henry III., the Manor of Marrington was presented by Sir
Robert de Boulers, founder of Chirbury Priory, to a kinsman, and was
held for many generations by that ancient family. Passing subsequently
to the Lloyds, a Welsh rhymester concocted for the occasion the
following curious couplet:
'Lle Bowdler mor ber ar bange,
Yw lle Dafydd Lloyd ifange.'
'Where Bowdler so long had spit and board,
Is now the place of young David Lloyd.'
To vary the route, we will return to Chirbury by way of Marrington
Dingle. Here the Camlad has carved out for itself a deep, narrow gorge,
running in a due northerly direction; a famous place for wildflowers,
ferns and mosses, which flourish amain beneath the cool shade of the
overarching copses, draping with a mantle of luscious verdure the banks
of the winding stream.
Tranquil and secluded as is the vale to-day, there are evidences that,
in the remote past, Marrington Dingle has proved a bone of contention to
successive races of men. Camps and earthworks are planted upon many a
salient corner and vantage point: and artificial tumuli abound upon the
neighbouring lands.
Rhyd-y-Groes, on the ancient course of the Camlad, tells a different
tale; for here, there is reason to believe, the monks in mediæval times
stationed their processional cross, while the pilgrims passed through
the rippling shallows at Rhyd-y-Groes, the 'Ford of the Cross.'
As we make our way thus towards Chirbury again through these quiet,
unfrequented byways, a restful calm, 'hushing the harboured winds,'
overspreads the pleasant landscape. The sun has taken his last look at
Chirbury, ere we re-enter the village and come to our night's lodging at
the Herbert Arms, beneath the shadow of St. Michael's old steeple.
'Fresh are the fields, and, like a bloom, they wear
This delicate evening.'
* * * * *
Proceeding northwards upon our travels from Chirbury, we cross the
Camlad, and, after joining the Newtown road, surmount a low watershed
and enter the valley of the Rea. Marton Pool, a good broad sheet of
water, comes in view upon the right; and then we pass near Binweston, a
diminutive township with an old, faded manor-house, encompassed by a dry
moat, and retaining a little oak panelling, but not much else to boast
of. Hampton Hall, the seventeenth-century brick mansion of the
Whitakers, lies farther away in the same direction.
Grand cumulus clouds, marshalled along the horizon, threaten broken,
changeable weather; and a smartish shower now warns us to look out for
squalls. But 'for a morning rain leave not yr journey,' as wise old
George Herbert has it; so we plod steadily on in the brunt of the
breeze, prepared for whatever the Clerk of the Weather may see fit to
send our way.
Ere long we come to Worthen, a village of which least said, perhaps,
soonest mended; for to our minds the place has little to recommend it.
The large parish church is the only building worthy of note, and its
attractions are soon exhausted. Worthen Hall, at the farther end of the
village, is an early eighteenth-century stuccoed house of unassuming
appearance.
Thenceforward we travel along with low, tumbled hills upon our left,
while in the opposite quarter we look across the flat Rea valley to the
high, wild ridges of the Stiperstones, whose flanks, still shaggy with
woodland, formed a royal hunting forest under the Saxon kings.
At Aston Rogers we take a glance at the Pound House, a rather
shabby-looking timbered cottage of late fifteenth-century date, with
remains of a circular moat; and anon we diverge from our route to visit
the site of Caurse Castle.
A stiff climb through a tangle of brushwood brings us to the steep,
green mounds, whereon the castle stood, though but little of it remains
save a few fragments of rough, weedgrown masonry. So far as one can
gather therefrom, the building took the form of a parallelogram, which
adapted itself to the natural trend of the ridge, and appears to have
had a round-tower at each corner. At the highest point stood the keep;
and a well, supplied by the stream hard by, lay somewhere within the
enceinte. The position must have been a strong one, in days when
artillery was in its infancy; and it commanded the avenues of approach
in every direction.
Caurse Castle was founded by Roger Fitz Corbet, one of William's Norman
knights, very soon after the Conquest; and, from its exposed situation,
must have formed a salient point in the series of border strongholds,
which the Normans drew around these Shropshire Marches. After having
been taken and burned by the Welsh, the castle was recaptured and
garrisoned for Henry II., in 1165. Long afterwards the place passed to
the Barons Stafford, and was eventually captured, and its defences
'slighted' by the Parliamentarians, in 1645.
Away to the westward looms a wild, hilly, sparsely peopled region, known
in olden times as Caurseland. 'This Caurseland,' to use John Leland's
phrase, 'sumtyme longinge to the Duke of Buckyngham, crooketh
mervelously about the upper Parts of Shropeshire.' It still maintains
its isolated character, though the forest that once overspread this
portion of the county has long since ceased to exist.
Leaving Caurse Castle behind us, we next bend our steps towards
Westbury, whose church, though of ancient origin, has been shockingly
modernized. In the churchyard there is a curious epitaph to one Edward
Gittins, a local blacksmith, who probably composed the effusion himself.
[Illustration: Marche-Manor Farm.]
Marche-manor Farm, the subject of the adjoining sketch, lies in a
secluded dell, not far from Westbury. It is an ancient place, with a
beautiful oak parlour lighted by long, low, lattice-paned windows; and
contains a richly carved and panelled mantelpiece. Staircase, floors,
rafters, all are of heart-of-oak; shewing how plentiful was the
'Shropshire weed' in the early days of the seventeenth century, when the
house was built. Marche-manor formed part of the great Barony of Caurse
Castle, and was held by the Fitz Corbets under Roger de Montgomery, the
Conqueror's vicegerent; but it is one of those places which are blessed
in not having a history.
The trees and shrubberies, by which the old place is surrounded, set off
to great advantage its ancient timbered gables. A pretty lakelet close
at hand is a favourite haunt of wildfowl; and the soft fluting of coots
and waterhens, hunting among the reeds, makes a pleasant accompaniment
as we sit a-sketching here.
Crossing the Welshpool road, as it traverses Wattlesborough
Heath--nowadays a heath no longer--we press on to Great Woolaston; whose
unpretentious, eighteenth-century chapel, otherwise not specially
attractive, contains one memorial of the past familiar to many
Salopians.
[Illustration: Old Thomas Parr.]
This is a certain brass plate, set into the wall, and bearing engraved
upon its surface the portrait here shewn, with the following
inscription: 'THE OLD, OLD, VERY OLD MAN, THOMAS PARR, was born at the
Glyn, in the Township of Winnington, within This Chapelry of Great
Willaston, and Parish of Alberbury, in the County of Salop, In the Year
of our Lord 1483. He lived in the Reigns of Ten Kings and Queens of
England (viz.), K. Edwd 4th, K. Edwd 5th, K. Richd 3rd, K. Hen. 7th, K.
Hen. 8th, K. Edwd 6th, Q. Mary, Q. Eliz., K. James 1st, and K. Chas 1st.
Died the 13th and was buryed in Westminster Abby on the 15th of
November, 1635; Aged 152 Years and 9 months.'
Taylor, the 'Water Poet,' writing in the year 1635, in a work entitled
'The Olde, Olde, very Olde Man,' tells us Thomas Parr was an early
riser, sober and industrious, and thus describes his appearance when
advanced in years:
'Though old age his face with wrinkles fill,
Hee hath been handsome, and is comely still;
Well-faced, and though his Beard not oft corrected,
Yet neate it grows, not like a beard neglected.'
All sorts of tales were current concerning this famous centenarian. It
is said that when the Cockneys, having heard of his renown, came to seek
for Old Parr to carry him before the King, they addressed themselves to
a very aged man whom they supposed to be Thomas Parr; and were not a
little astonished when he replied, 'Oh, it ain't me, Lor' bless yer,
it's my _father_ as you wants!'
That unfortunate visit to London, indeed, seems to have undermined the
old man's constitution; and who knows but that, had he stayed snugly at
home in his native Shropshire, Thomas Parr might have been alive and
hearty to this day.
Left a widower at the age of 122, our hero sought consolation in the
arms of a fair daughter of Wales. Yet three years later, we hear of this
ancient Lothario doing penance at Alberbury church, for having broken
his marriage vow in an intrigue with a certain frail maid named
Catherine Milton.
As the story goes, when brought before Charles I., the King,
congratulating Thomas upon so long outrunning the allotted span,
demanded what else he had done to boast of. Old Parr, taken aback by the
question, could think of nothing better than his affair with Catherine
Milton; whereupon His Majesty exclaimed, 'Oh fie, Thomas, fie! can you
remember nothing but your vices?'
[Illustration: Braggington Hall. Shropshire.]
But to resume. Beyond Woolaston, in an outlying nook of the county, we
happen upon the fine old Jacobean mansion called Braggington. As may be
gathered from our sketch, it is a massive brick-and-stone edifice, with
mullioned windows and tall, steep gables, surmounted by stone finials.
From the recessed central bay projects the main portal, with its
weatherworn stone pillars, and architrave displaying the date 1674, and
oak, nail-studded door. Large, elaborately ornamented leaden
spout-heads, are seen on each side below the roof. A broad old oak
staircase, with massive newels bearing the device of some ancient
family, is the most prominent feature inside; the place having gone much
to decay, and being now used as a farmhouse.
Out in the garden they are hiving the bees, and the beating of kettles
and frying-pans makes a quaint, odd, tinkling sound, like the strains of
a toy symphony, as we take our leave.
From Braggington we ramble on to Coedway, and soon lose ourselves once
more among cool, leafy corners and crankling nooks, where Nature reigns
untended:
'Give to me the life I love,
Let the lave go by me,
Give the jolly heavens above,
And the byway nigh me.'
Yonder a few miles away rise the Breidden Hills, 'brewing the weather,
like a Lapland witch,' and looking wonderfully mountainous for their
inches; with lights and shadows chasing each other athwart their wooded
flanks, and their summits wreathed in a cope of lowering storm cloud.
These hills, indeed, have a reputation to sustain in the matter of
meteorology, as their name Breith-him, 'Broken-weather,' obviously
indicates.
Rising abruptly from Severn-side to a height of 1,324 feet, this
isolated range is a conspicuous landmark for many a mile around, keeping
watch and ward over the broad Vale of Shrewsbury, much as Gibraltar Rock
guards the entrance to the Mediterranean. An upthrow of volcanic rock
has here thrust the local strata aside, and by its intrusion has
produced the picturesque, broken scenery, found upon the flanks of the
range.
Like most of these border heights, the Breidden Hills are crowned by
camps and ancient 'castells'; while some authorities have located the
scene of Caractacus's last battle amidst their rocky fastnesses.
Cefn-y-Castell, near Moel-y-Golia, the highest point of the range, is a
good example of an early British earthwork; and Bausley Hill, an eastern
spur, is the supposed site of a Roman station, in connection with the
ford across the Severn at the western foot of the Breiddens. Offa's Dyke
traverses the country in the same quarter. Rodney's Pillar, a memento of
that hero's naval victories, is a noticeable object from afar, crowning
the summit of an isolated peak.
Just across the Welsh border, we find the Old Hand and Diamond Inn at
Coedway, a quiet little roadside house, near the junction of Severn and
Vyrnwy, whither fishermen resort for the sport on those well-known
waters. Mine host is himself an ardent devotee of 'the gentle art,' and
a guide and counsellor of no mean calibre in matters piscatorial.
Close beside the Vyrnwy, a few miles hence, stands Melverley, about the
most un-come-at-able village in Shropshire; 'Melverley, God help us!' is
the local phrase, which sufficiently explains its own meaning. Yet they
say if you ask a native whence he hails, he will reply, 'Whoy from
Melverley, wheer else?' as though not to know Melverley argued oneself
unknown.
Duly rested and refreshed we now set forth from Coedway, and, passing
the Prince's Oak, a memento of King George the Fourth, we follow a road
that gives us pretty peeps of Loton Park and its handsome red-brick
Hall, the residence of Sir Bryan Leighton, whose forbears have been
seated here since the Conqueror's time.
Close under the lee of Loton Park nestles the diminutive village of
Alberbury, a quiet, old-world looking spot, innocent of any 'public;'
and where Her Majesty's postal affairs are conducted by the universal
provider who runs the one and only shop. But Alberbury church, the
subject of our next illustration, will well repay a visit.
[Illustration: Alberbury Church. Shropshire.]
It is a structure of many different dates, and has all the charm that
such variety lends. The Loton Chapel, seen in the front of the picture,
was built about the year 1340, its windows having the rather intricate
tracery in vogue about that time. Overhead we get a glimpse of the
tower, a work of earlier date, with its curious, steep, saddle-backed
roof, and primitive weather-vane. The east end of the chancel, the
oldest part of the church, is pure Norman work.
An ancient churchyard cross with tall, slender shaft, backed by the
sombre verdure of some yew trees, adds a pleasing feature to the scene.
The south aisle, used time out of mind as a chapel by the Leightons of
Loton Hall, has a richly ornamented open-timber roof, with cherubs'
heads cut upon the brackets that support it; and the massive old carved
oak benches, black with age, should not be overlooked. Quite out of the
common, also, are the windows already referred to, with their peculiar
geometrical tracery, and scraps of fourteenth-century glass.
An ugly barrel-vaulted ceiling evidently disguises the original timbered
roof of the nave, one principal whereof is still visible at the west
end, with its big stone supporting corbels. The chancel is lighted by
two semi-headed windows, surmounted by a circular light, all of Norman
date; and some fine brasses and mural tablets, to the Leightons and the
Lysters, are seen here and there about the interior.
'By Alberbyri Chirche,' notes Leland, 'appere the Ruines of Fulk Guarine
the noble Warriar's Castel.' The remains of this early,
thirteenth-century stronghold, rise a stone's throw south-westward from
the church; but they are so fragmentary and devoid of detail as to have
little attraction for the antiquary; indeed, one crumbling ivy-mantled
tourelle is about the sum-total of the fabric.
Alberbury Priory, an establishment of Benedictine monks, founded by Fulk
FitzWarine early in the thirteenth century, is represented by a few
Gothic fragments in a farmhouse called White Abbey, close to the Severn,
a long mile north-east of the village. The principal remains are the
groined ceiling of the chapel, which springs from stone corbels, and has
curious carvings, at the intersections of the ribs, representing the
Agnus Dei, a monk's head, and an angel wrestling with the Evil One; and
one or two good pointed doorways in the lower story. The monastery was
suppressed in Henry the Sixth's reign, when the estate was granted to
All Souls' College, Oxford.
Turning our backs upon the Severn, which here flows along in easy curves
between low, red, clayey banks, we now pass through a pair of tall iron
gates near Alberbury church, and make our way viâ Loton Deer Park to
Wattlesborough Castle.
The walk across the Park introduces us to some picturesque bits of
woodland relieved by rough, rocky dingles, where old gnarled hawthorns
and hazel bushes thrive amain; while from the higher reaches of the Park
there is a varied prospect over the neighbouring countryside, half
English in its snug, cultivated lowlands, half Welsh where the shaggy
hills loom stern and wild.
Arrived at Wattlesborough, our tramp is rewarded by the sight of the
curious old farmhouse shewn in the sketch over page. In the centre,
surrounded by buildings of no particular age, rises a low, massive,
quadrangular tower of good ashlar masonry, with the flat buttresses
characteristic of Norman work, and one or two windows of later date.
This tower, with portions of a projecting wing, formed part of the
original Castle, and is very solidly constructed, the tower walls
measuring as much as 7 or 8 feet in thickness. A circular stone stairway
leads up to the several stages, some of the chambers retaining their
rude stone fireplaces, and other simple contrivances; while on the
topmost floor is a sort of closet, or prison-hole, and certain slanting
ledges on the wall indicating the position of an earlier and lower roof.
There are said to have formerly been three other towers at
Wattlesborough Castle, but that they were pulled down to provide stones
for building the Loton Chapel, at Alberbury. Be that as it may, the
Castle certainly seems to have covered more ground at one time; and the
sites of two moats, a watch-tower and drawbridge, are pointed out in an
orchard on the western side of the farmhouse.
[Illustration: Wattlesborough Castle.]
Planted upon an outlying spur of the Breidden Hills, Wattlesborough must
have held a position of some strategic importance, controlling with
Alberbury Castle the passes of the Severn, and the road into Wales
between this and Caurse Castle.
Of its history, so far as we are aware, there is little to be said. A
Fitz-Corbet held Wattlesborough under Roger de Montgomery, at the time
of Domesday Survey. In after years the Castle passed to the de la Poles,
and the de Burghs, coming eventually by marriage to the Leighton family,
whose property it remains to this day. Wattlesborough is reputed to be
one of the few estates which have never been bartered for 'filthy
lucre,' since the days when the Normans first lorded it over English
land.
With shadows lengthening before us, we now set our faces towards
Shrewsbury. Half an hour's tramp brings us near Rowton Castle, the
Rutunium, as some assert, of Roman days. Then we catch a glimpse of
Cardeston Church away to the south, and presently pass under the viaduct
which carries the defunct Potteries line across the highway. Ford
village, whose church boasts a fine old roodscreen, is but a mile
distant towards the north, with Shrawardine castle-mound keeping it in
countenance on the farther bank of Severn.
[Illustration: The Shelton Oak.]
On past Dunthall and Onslow Hall, the erstwhile abode of the renowned
Mr. Speaker Onslow, we bowl along the dusty highway with homeward-bound
Salopians, until, some two miles short of our journey's end, we call a
halt to take a look at the Shelton Oak, one of the 'lions' of the
locality.
Yonder it stands, a storm-rent relic of the immemorial past, holding its
own bravely yet ''gainst the tooth of time and razure of oblivion,'
though bereft of many a stalwart limb by the gales of a thousand
winters.
This venerable tree still rears aloft its gaunt, grey, wrinkled
branches, lifeless now, save for some ragged foliage that yet clings
around the lower part of the trunk. The latter has become hollow inside,
where a sort of paved chamber affords standing-room for perhaps a dozen
people.
As seen in our sketch, a sturdy prop, itself a fair-sized tree, serves
to buttress the old giant upon the side towards which he inclines.
According to a time-honoured tradition, the Welsh Prince, Owen
Glendower, climbed up amidst the branches of the Shelton Oak, in order
to watch thence how the fortunes of war progressed during the famous
Battle of Shrewsbury:
'The bloody rout that gave
To Harry's brow a wreath--to Hotspur's heart a grave.'
Soon after leaving the Shelton Oak, the towers and steeples of the
County-town put in an appearance ahead; here and there a country house
is seen, overlooking the Severn as it winds through the vale, and bricks
and mortar begin to usurp the place of trim green fields and hedgerows.
That red-brick mansion upon yonder bank is The Mount, birthplace of that
very distinguished Salopian, the late Charles Darwin.
Anon we descend a hill, and enter the 'antient streete callyd
Fraunckarell this many a daye,' a transpontine suburb of Shrewsbury,
deriving its name from the fact that, in earlier days, its denizens were
exempted from payment of certain tolls levied upon their neighbours over
the water.
Across the street rises a group of half-timbered houses, whose quaint
congeries of beetling gables, chequered beams, lattice-paned casements,
and dark, timeworn archways, make an old-world picture. More ancient
still, perhaps, is the long, low, two-storied house front a little
farther on; its massive old moulded cornices black with age, and curious
louvred lights in the upper story--a venerable specimen.
[Illustration: A Maiden Garland from Minsterley.]
And here at last is the Welsh Bridge, in Leland's time the 'greatest,
fayrest, and highest Bridge upon Severne Streame.' At that period, as
Leland tells us, the Bridge had 'six great Arches of stone, with a great
gate at one end of it to enter by into the Towne, and at the other end
towardes Wales a mighty stronge Towre, to prohibit Enimies to enter into
the bridge.'
Old paintings and woodcuts shew it to have been an extremely picturesque
structure, with bold buttresses, and narrow, pointed arches; and a tall,
machicolated tower, with frowning gateway, portcullis, and mailed figure
of King Edward IV. keeping guard at the western end of the Bridge--a
subject worthy the brush of a James Holland, or a Samuel Prout.
* * * * *
So now, with our arrival at Shrewsbury, we have completed the circuit of
our Shropshire wanderings. The subject treated of is so wide, so varied,
and of such many-sided interest, that one can do little more than
scratch the ground, so to speak, within the compass of a volume such as
this. But we venture to hope that the perusal of these pages may lead
others to explore this pleasant land for themselves; and it only remains
for us to bid farewell to the gentle reader, by whose courtesy we have
rambled thus far together amidst the 'Nooks and Corners of Shropshire.'
[Illustration: Shrewsbury.]
[Illustration: Shropshire.]