ROSTHERNE MERE.
When the month of May
Is come, and I can hear the small birds sing,
And the fresh flourès have begun to spring,
Good bye, my book! devotion, too, good bye!
CHAUCER.
The path to the Ashley meadows offers the best point of departure also
for far-famed Rostherne, for although the distance is somewhat less
from the "Ashley" station, the old route past Bowdon vicarage remains
the most enjoyable. Going behind it, through a little plantation, we
proceed, with many curves, yet without perplexity, into the lane which
looks down upon the eastern extremity of the mere; then, crossing the
fields, into the immediate presence, as rejoiced in at the margin of
the graveyard of the church, which last is without question one of the
most charmingly placed in England, and in its site excites no wonder
that it was chosen for the ancient Saxon consecration, as declared
in the primitive name, Rodestorne, "the lake (or tarn) of the Holy
Cross." The peculiar charm of Rostherne Mere, compared with most other
Cheshire waters of similar character, comes of its lying so much in
a hollow, after the manner of many of the most delicious lakes of
Westmoreland, Cumberland, and the romantic parts of Scotland; the area
of the surface being at the same time so considerable that there is no
suggestion, as sometimes with smaller meres when lying in hollows, of
the gradual gathering there of the produce of rain-torrents, or even of
the outcome of natural springs. At Rostherne one learns not only what
calmness means, and what a broken fringe of diverse trees can do for
still water. Contemplating it from the graveyard, we seem to have a
fragment of the scenery of our beautiful world as it showed,--begging
pardon of the geologists and the evolutionists,--"When the
morning-stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy."
The depth of the water is remarkable. About a third of the distance
across, from near the summer-house, it is over a hundred feet, thus
as nearly as possible two-thirds of the depth of the English Channel
at the Straits of Dover, where the lead sinks lowest; and a third of
what it is anywhere between Dover and the Eddystone lighthouse, so that
our lovely Rostherne Mere may well assert its claim to be of almost
maritime profundity. The area of the surface is one hundred and fifteen
statute acres. In the church there is a monument which it is worth all
the journey to see,--Westmacott's sculptured marble in memory of Miss
Beatrix Egerton.
Rostherne, in turn, is the pleasantest way of pedestrian approach
to Tatton Park, so liberally opened to visitors by Lord Egerton,
on compliance with certain rules. Visitors bent on seeing Tatton
only, should go part way from Bowdon by vehicle; for here, as at
Cotterill, we want, as in a picture-gallery, every minute, and to
let too much time be consumed in mere travel is a mistake. To make a
too hasty and thoughtless use of our opportunities of pleasure is in
any case to throw away the half of them; the pleasure of the country
beyond all others requires a calm and unhurried step, a free and
unwistful mind and eye, such as cannot possibly be if, by waste or
extravagance, we are "tied to time,"--only when, by a wise economy
of our resources in this respect, we liberate ourselves from care
about trains and timebills, do we catch nature's sweetest smiles.
The boundary measurement of this beautiful park is upwards of ten
miles, and of its two thousand one hundred and thirty-five acres no
fewer than four hundred are occupied by woods and plantations, with
seventy-nine acres of water. Here we may stroll beneath green vaults
of foliage, and be reminded of the aisles of cathedrals. Here we may
contemplate the _viridis senectus_ of glorious old oaks that have
watched the flow of generations. Here, in autumn, we learn, from a
thousand old foresters--from beech, and chestnut, and elm--that brave
men, though overtaken by inclemencies there is no withstanding, still
put a good face upon their fallen fortunes, and, like Cæsar, who drew
his purple around him, die royally; and at Christmas, when the wind
seems to mourn amid the denuded boughs, here again we feel how grand
is the contrasted life of the great, green, shining, scarlet-beaded
hollies that in summer we took no note of. The gardens, including
conservatories and fernery, access to all of which is likewise
liberally permitted, are crowded with objects of interest--one hardly
knows whether inside their gates, or outside, is the more delectable.
The park was up till quite recently, the play-ground of nearly a
thousand deer, and still (1882) contains many hundreds. The sight of
them is one of the pleasures of the return walk to Knutsford, to which
place Tatton Park more especially pertains.
Knutsford, an admirable centre, is reached immediately, by train.
But it must not be overlooked that there is a very pleasant
field-way thereto from Mobberley, and that the path to Mobberley
itself, one of the most ancient of the Cheshire villages, is always
interesting,--starting, that is to say, from Ashley station. Every
portion of it is quiet and enjoyable, and those who love seclusion
would scarcely find another so exactly suited to their taste. Soon
after entering the fields, the path dives through a little dell
threaded by the Birkin (an affluent of the Bollin), then goes on
through lanes which in May are decked plenteously with primroses. The
way, perhaps, is rather intricate,--so much the better for the exercise
of our sagacity. Let not the "day of small things" be despised. The
Birkin is one of the little streams that in the great concourse called
the Mersey does honour at last to the British Tyre. Drayton notices it
in the Poly-olbion (1622)--
From hence he getteth Goyte down from her Peakish spring,
And Bollen, that along doth nimbler Birkin bring.[7]
The church, as would be anticipated, presents much that is
interesting to the ecclesiologist. Near the chancel stands the
accustomed and here undilapidated old village graveyard yew, emblem of
immortality, life triumphing over death, therefore so suitable,--this
particular one at Mobberley the largest and most symmetrical within a
circuit of many miles. Across the road, hard by, an ash-tree presents a
singularly fine example of the habit of growth called "weeping,"--not
the ordinary tent-form seen upon lawns, but lofty, and composed chiefly
of graceful self-woven ringlets, a cupola of green tresses, beautiful
at all seasons, and supplying, before the leaves are out, a capital
hint to every one desirous of learning trees--as they deserve to be
learned. For to this end trees must be contemplated almost every month
in the year, when leafless as well as leafy. A grand tree is like a
great poem--not a thing to be glanced at with a thoughtless "I have
read it," but to be studied, and with remembrance of what once happened
on the summit of mount Ida.
On the Cotterill side of Mobberley, or Alderley way, the country
resembles that in the vicinity of Castle Mill, consisting of gentle
slopes and promontories, often wooded, and at every turn presenting
some new and agreeable feature. The little dells and cloughs, each with
its stream of clear water scampering away to the Bollin, are delicious.
The botany of Cotterill is also recapitulated in its best features;
mosses of the choicest kinds grow in profusion on every bank,--_Hypna_,
with large green feathery branches, like ferns in miniature;
_Jungermannias_ also; and the noblest plants of the hart's-tongue fern
that occur in the district. One of the dells positively overflows with
it, excepting, that is, where the ground is not pre-occupied by the
prickly shield-fern. Burleyhurst Wood, close by, contains abundance
of the pretty green-flowered true-love, _Paris quadrifolia_, more
properly _trulove_, the name referring not to the sentiment itself,
but to the famous old four-fold symbol of engagement which in heraldry
reappears in "quartering." All the spring flowers open here with the
first steps of the renewed season; and most inspiring is it, at a
time when on the north side of the town there is nothing to be seen
but an early coltsfoot, to find one's self greeted in these sweet and
perennially green woods, by the primrose, the anemone, the butter-bur,
and the golden saxifrage,--and not as single couriers, but plentiful
as the delight they give, mingling with the great ferns bequeathed
by the autumn, as travellers tell us palms and fir-trees intermix on
tropical mountains, while the _Marchantia_ adds another charm in its
curious cones, and the smooth round cups of the _Peziza_ glow like so
many vases of deepest carnelian. In the aspect of vegetation in early
spring, as it discloses itself at Mobberley and at equal distance north
of the town, there is the difference of a full month. Such at least was
the case in 1858, the year in which these lines were written. There is
no occasion to return to Ashley by the same path. Mobberley station
is scarcely more than a mile from the village, and of course would be
preferred when the object is to reach the latter promptly.
Knutsford, celebrated as the scene of Mrs. Gaskell's "Cranford,"
commands many pleasant walks, and is the threshold not only to Tatton,
but to several other parks and estates of great celebrity. Booth
Hall, with its noble avenue of lindens, the winding sylvan wilderness
called Spring Wood, and its ample sheet of ornamental water, decked
with lilies, and in parts filled with that most curious aquatic, the
_Stratiotes_, is of considerable historic interest;--Toft, a mile to
the south, with its stately avenue, now of elms, in triple rows;--and
Tabley, about a mile to the west, the park once again with a spacious
mere, also have high claims upon the attention of every one who has
the opportunity of entering. Tabley is peculiarly interesting in its
ancient hall, which stands upon an island in the upper portion of the
mere, and dates from the time of Edward III. Only a remnant now exists,
but being covered with ivy, it presents a most picturesque appearance.
When will people see in that peerless evergreen not a foe, but an
inestimable friend, such as it is when knives and shears, and the touch
of the barbarian are forbidden? It is the ivy that has preserved for
the archæologist many of the most precious architectural relics our
country possesses. Where ivy defends the surface, nothing corrodes or
breaks away.
Toft Park gives very agreeable access to Peover,--a place which may
also be reached pleasantly from Plumbley, the station next succeeding
Knutsford. Not "rich" botanically, the field-path is still one of the
most inviting in the district. The views on either side, cheerful at
all seasons, are peculiarly so in spring, when the trees are pouring
their new green leaves into the sunshine, and the rising grass and
mingled wild-flowers flood the ground with living brightness. In parts,
towards the end of May, there is hereabouts an unwonted profusion of
Shakspeare's "Lady-smock." We admit, admiringly, that it "paints the
meadows with delight:"--to the first impression, when gathered and in
the hand, it scarcely seems "silver-white." A single spray in the hand
is unquestionably _lilac_, faint and translucent, but still lilac,
exquisitely veined. Beware. Shakspeare, when he talks of flowers may
always be trusted. At all events his only error is that curious one
in _Cymbeline_.[8] Viewed from a little distance, and obliquely, the
effect of a plentiful carpet of this lovely wild-flower is distinctly
and decidedly "silver-white." In all things a good deal depends upon
the angle at which we look, and never is the rule more needed than when
the subject is one of delicate tint. They were keen observers, depend
upon it, who in the Middle Ages gave name and fame at the same moment
to the pretty flowers that still preserve the ancient association with
"Our Lady," the Virgin Mary. Lower Peover church is one of the few
examples extant of the old-fashioned timber structure, the greater
portion of the interior being constructed of oak, while externally,
excepting the stone Elizabethan tower, it is "magpie," or black and
white, like so many of the old Cheshire halls and ancient manor-houses.
An epitaph in the graveyard is not without suggestiveness:--
Peaceable Mary Fairbrother,
1766. Aged 90.
For the return walk there is a cheerful route through fields and lanes
to Knutsford, entering the town behind the prison; or, for variety,
there is Lostock Gralam station.
Pushing a few miles further, we find ourselves at Northwich, a place at
which there is little occasion to delay, unless it be wished to inspect
one of the salt mines, permission to do so being asked previously of
the proprietors. At Whitsuntide the public are in a certain sense
invited, and truly, a more interesting and wonderful spectacle than is
furnished by the Marston mine it would be hard to provide for holiday
pleasure. But at present we are seeking enjoyment upon the surface,
and to this end the journey should now be continued to Hartford, the
station for Vale Royal. "Vale Royal" is essentially the name of the
immense expanse of beautiful, though nearly level, country over which
the eye ranges when we stand amid the ruins of Beeston Castle. It is
still worthy of the praise lavished on it in 1656. "The ayre of Vale
Royall," says the old historian of that date, "is verie wholesome,
insomuch that the people of the country are seldom infected with
Disease or Sicknesse, neither do they use the help of Physicians,
nothing so much, as in other countries. For when any of them are sick,
they make him a posset, and tye a kerchief on his head; and if that
will not amend him, then God be mercifull to him! The people there live
to be very old: some are Grandfathers, their fathers yet living, and
some are Grandfathers before they be married.... They be very gentle
and courteous, ready to help and further one another; in Religion very
zealous, howbeit somewhat addicted to Superstition: otherwise stout,
bold, and hardy: withal impatient of wrong, and ready to resist the
Enemy or Stranger that shall invade their country.... Likewise be the
women very friendly and loving, in all kind of Housewifery expert,
fruitful in bearing Children after they be married, and sometimes
before.... I know divers men which are but farmers that may compare
therein with a Lord or Baron in some Countreys beyond the Seas."--A
considerable portion of this great expanse is represented in the still
current appellation of Delamere Forest,--a term not to be understood
as meaning that it was at any time covered by timber-trees, either
indigenous or planted, but that it was "outside," _ad foras_, a wild,
uncultivated and comparatively barren tract as opposed to districts
that were well farmed and sprinkled plentifully with habitations. Trees
there were, doubtless, and in abundance, but the _bonâ fide_ woods
occupied only a part of the "forest" in the aggregate. An idea of such
a forest as Delamere was in the olden time is very easily formed. We
need do no more than think of that imperishable one, "exempt from
public haunt," where Rosalind found her verses, with its stream-side
where the
Poor sequester'd stag,
That from the hunter's aim had ta'en a hurt
Did come to languish.
The "forest," so late as two centuries ago, comprised no fewer than
eleven thousand acres of wood and wilderness. Much has now been brought
under cultivation, so that only about eight thousand acres remain
untilled, and of these about one-half have been planted with Scotch
fir, whence the peculiar and solemn aspect which masses of conifers
alone can bestow.
Entering this part of the "Vale," we are at once attracted to the
beautiful park, woods, and waters, distinguished particularly as
"Vale Royal," or in full, Vale Royal Abbey, the mansion,--the ancient
country seat of the Cholmondeley family--being nearly upon the site of
the famous monastic home founded in 1277 by Edward I. Lord Delamere
liberally permits access to the grounds, the approaches to which
are eminently sweet and pleasant. The railway should be quitted at
Hartford, quiet lanes from which place lead into the valley of the
Weaver.[9] Thence we move to the margin of Vale Royal Mere, with
choice, upon arrival, of one of the most charming sylvan walks in
Cheshire, obtained by going through the wood, or a more open path
along the opposite shore. To take one path going, the other returning,
and thus to secure the double harvest, of course is best. So, for the
final homeward journey, which should not be by way of Hartford, but
_viâ_ Cuddington. A drive through the glorious fir-plantations which
abut upon Vale Royal carries the privileged to another most beautiful
scene,--Oulton Park, the country seat of the Grey-Egertons. Here again
is a sheet of lilied water; here, too, are some of the noblest trees
in Cheshire, including one of the most remarkable lindens the world
contains.
For the visitor to Delamere Forest there is after all no scene more
inspiring than is furnished by Eddisbury. Cuddington station will do
for this, but the walk is rather too long; it is best to go direct
to "Delamere," thence along the road a short distance, and so to the
foot of the hill. In the time of the Heptarchy, it was an important
stronghold. Rising to the height of five hundred and eighty-four feet
above the sea, when in A.D. 914 that admirable lady, Ethelfleda,
daughter of Alfred, and widow of Ethelred, king of Mercia, sought to
establish herself in positions of great strength, her feminine sagacity
at once pointed to Eddisbury as impregnable. Ethelfleda, says the old
chronicler, was "the wisest lady in England, an heroic princess; she
might have been called a king rather than a lady or a queen. King
Edward, her brother, governed his life, in his best actions, by her
counsels." We have admirable women of our own living among us--women in
every sense queenly by nature:--let us never forget, in our gratitude
to God for the gift of them, that in the past there were prototypes
of the best. Continued in her rule, by acclamation, after the death
of her husband, Ethelfleda, "the lady of the Mercians," reigned for
eight years. Rather more than eleven acres of the green mound we
are now speaking of were defensively enclosed by her, partly with
palings, partly with earthworks, traces of which remain to this day.
Frail and perishable in its materials, the "city of Eddisbury," as
historians call this once glorious though simple settlement, in the
very nature of things could not last. A good river, essential to the
prosperity of an inland town, it did not possess. After the death,
moreover, of Ethelfleda, who went to her rest in 920, the subsidence
of the Danish invasions reduced the importance of such fortresses,
and so, by slow degrees, the famous old "city" disappeared. The name
of Eddisbury occurs, it is true, in Domesday Book, but apparently as
a name and nothing besides. Places like Eddisbury are to England
what the sites of Nineveh and Palmyra are to the world. Standing upon
their greensward, the memory of great things and greater people passes
before the mind in long and animating procession. The once so great
and powerful "Queen of the East," proud, chaste, literary Zenobia,
was not nobler in her way than Saxon Ethelfleda. Thinking of her,
pleasant it is to note how the little wild-flowers, the milk-wort and
the eyebright, the unchanged heritors of the ground, are virtually just
as she left them. Upon these, in such a spot, Time lays no "effacing
finger." "States fall, arts fade, but Nature doth not die." Not without
interest, either, is the fact that from the name of the people or
kingdom she ruled so well, comes that of our chief local river. The
Mersey was the dividing line between Mercia and Northumbria, and of the
former it preserves memorable tradition. All the way up the stream till
we get to the hill country, the topographical names further illustrate
the ancient Saxon presence. The view from storied Eddisbury is of
course very extensive and delightful, including, to-day, the venerable
Cathedral of Chester, Halton Castle, and the broad bosom of the river,
not to mention the boundless champaign to the south and east, and afar
off, in the quiet west, grey mountains that seem to lean against the
sky.
The "Delamere Hotel," to which all visitors to these regions very
naturally bend their steps, is the place to enquire at for the exact
way to the borders of Oakmere; most pleasing, after Rostherne, of the
Cheshire waters. For here, in the autumnal sunshine, the soft wind
is prone so to waft over the dimpling surface that it becomes covered
with lucid ripples, while at the margin, if the "crimson weeds" of the
mermaids' country are not present, there are pretty green ones that
"lie like pictures on the sands below,"
With all those bright-hued pebbles that the sun
Through the small waves so softly shines upon.
The borders of Oakmere abound with curious plants. One of the rarest of
British grasses, the _Calamagrostis stricta_, grows here. The locality
is also a noted one for the _Utricularia minor_, though we do not find
that interesting fern of the Vale Royal wood, the _Lastrea Thelypteris_.
Contemplating this lovely mere, whether from Eddisbury, or its own
borders, and remembering the many similar waters close by,[10] a group,
after that one to which Windermere leads the way, without parallel in
our island, it is impossible not to feel curious as to their history.
The simple fact appears to be that all, or nearly all the Vale Royal
meres are referable to the existence, underneath, of great salt crystal
beds which give occupation to the people of Northwich. The surface-soil
of the Cheshire salt district consists of a few feet of drift-sand
or clay. Below this there is a considerable depth of "New red marl,"
and below this there is good reason to believe there is a nearly
continuous bed or deposit of the crystal. The "new red sandstone" rock
in which these deposits are embedded, is very porous and much jointed.
Water is constantly filtering into them from above; the salt crystal,
exposed to its action, slowly dissolves into brine, which, as the
height is at least a hundred feet above the sea-level, slowly drains
away. Then the overlying strata gradually sink; depressions are caused,
of less or greater magnitude, and in course of time these become basins
of water. Mr. Edw. Hull, the distinguished geologist, considers that
should the process go on, the whole of the valley of the Weaver will
some day be submerged. Most of the salt sent from Cheshire is prepared
from this natural brine. To extract the crystal is not so cheap as
to let the water do the mining, then to pump up the solution, and
evaporate it.
[Illustration]
Footnotes
[7: Song the eleventh, p. 171, facing which is a map of
Cheshire, showing the rivers, out of every one of which rises a sort of
tutelary nymph, in design droll beyond imagination.--_Vide_ the Chetham
Library copy.]
[8:
On her left breast,
A mole, cinque-spotted, like the _crimson_ drops
I' the bottom of a cowslip.]
[9: This noted Cheshire river rises upon Buckley Heath, near
Malpas, going thence past Nantwich and Winsford. At Northwich it joins
the Dane; soon afterwards there is confluence with the Peover, the
united waters eventually entering the Mersey, not far from Frodsham.]
[10: In addition to the meres already mentioned, there are
Pickmere, Rudworth Mere, Flaxmere, Doddington Mere, Combermere, and
several others.]
[Illustration]