ALONG THE MACCLESFIELD LINE.
It is fine
To stand upon some lofty mountain-thought,
And feel the spirit stretch into a view:
To joy in what might be if will and power
For good would work together but one hour.
Yet millions never think a noble thought,
But with brute hate of brightness bay a mind
Which drives the darkness out of them, like hounds.
J. P. BAILEY.
Stockport, the uninviting, in whatever direction we look to escape from
it, is a point of rare value for departure for scenes of interest--this
mainly because of its standing on the threshold of the hills which a
little further on become members of the English Apennine,--the grand
range stretching from Derbyshire to the Cheviots. Soon after passing
Edgley, while the original line pursues its course to Wilmslow and
Alderley, great branches strike out upon the left, one primarily
for Macclesfield, the other for Disley and Buxton. Each in its turn
leads to scenes of delightful beauty, and that before the time of
railways were scarcely known. Alighting at Bramhall, we secure the
added pleasure of a visit to the very celebrated old hall of that
name--the most admirable example in our district of the "magpie" style
of architecture, and not more charming in its external features than
rich in interest within. The oldest portions date from soon after the
middle of the fourteenth century, and are thus as nearly as possible
contemporaneous as to period of building with the choir of York
Minster. These very aged portions are found chiefly in connection with
the entrance to the chapel. Massive beams and supports, hard as iron,
refusing the least dint of the knife, and presenting the peculiar
surface characteristic of the work of their time, attest very plainly
the profound significance of "heart of oak." Everything, moreover, in
this grand old place is so solidly laid together, so compactly and
impregnably knit, that it seems as if it would serve pretty nearly
for the base of another Eddystone or Cleopatra's needle. In the most
tempestuous of winter nights, Bramhall has never been known to flinch
a hair's breadth--so, at least, the late Colonel Davenport used to
assure his friends, the writer of these lines included. No portions of
the building appear to be of later date than the time of Elizabeth,
the domestic architecture of whose reign is nowhere in England better
interpreted. The situation of Bramhall is on a par with its artistic
qualities. No dull soul was it who more than five hundred years ago
selected for his abode the crest of that gentle declivity, trees
far and near, a stream gliding below, and views from the upper
windows that reach for many miles across the undulating and sweetly
variegated greensward. The romantic bit at present is the ravine hard
by, saturated in spring with tender wild-flowers, the wood-sorrel in
myriads.
Prestbury, a few miles beyond, also has great attractions for the
antiquary, the chancel and south aisle of the church being of about
A.D. 1130, while the school-house in the graveyard is entered by a
doorway with apparently Norman mouldings. The tower is about A.D. 1460.
If in search more particularly of rural pastime, we take the contrary
side of the line, and so through the lanes and fields to the delicious
Kerridge hills. Remarkable for their very sudden rise out of the
plain, these green and airy hills command views, like those obtained
at Alderley, of truly charming extent and variety. Tegsnose, at the
southern extremity, is thirteen hundred feet above the sea-level--the
little building just above Bollington, called "White Nancy," plainly
visible from the line near Wilmslow when the sunlight falls on it, is
nine hundred and thirty feet;--no wonder that from this last, since
there is nothing to intercept, the prospect in favourable weather
reaches to Liverpool, and even to the sweet wavy lavender upon the
horizon that indicates North Wales.
Bollington is now reached also by a line (part of the Manchester,
Sheffield, and Lincolnshire system,) which diverges for Macclesfield at
Woodley Junction. This perhaps gives nearer approach to the Kerridge
hills; in any case, it is the best to take for the extremely beautiful
adjacent neighbourhood, which for its little metropolis has the village
of Pott Shrigley. Before the opening of the line in question, the
station for this part was Adlington, on the London and North-Western.
Grand as the prospects have already been, above Pott Shrigley,
excepting only the "castled crag" at Beeston, all are surpassed. No
lover of the illimitable need go to Cumberland or Carnarvonshire for
a sight more glorious. Alderley Edge, rising out of the plain below,
seems only a mound. The plain itself stretches away far more remotely
than the eye can cover, no eminence of magnitude occurring nearer
than the Overton hills. The towers and spires of Bowdon and Dunham
are plainly distinguishable; and close by, in comparison, is the fine
western extremity of the Kerridge range, with "White Nancy,"--the hill
itself on which we stand, or rather seat ourselves, remembering the
picture in Milton,
See how the bee,
Sitting assiduous on the honeyed bloom,
Sucks liquid sweet,
just such a one as suggested that other immortal portrait,
Green, and of mild declivity, the last,
As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such,
Save that there is no sea to lave its base,
But a most living landscape.
The time to go to this glad pinnacle is at the end of May or the
beginning of June, mounting the hill in the first instance, by the
immediate route from the station.
When the time arrives to descend, dip westwards, curve round by the
water, and through the fields which lead into the Disley road, thence
into Pott Shrigley village. No description can convey a perfect idea of
the loveliness of this part of the walk at the season indicated. The
long-extended survey of hill and dale, the innumerable trees, clothing
the slopes at agreeable distances with the most picturesque of little
woodlands, bright and cheerful in their unsullied raiment of leaves
that are only yet learning the sweetness of sunshine; the rise and fall
of the ground; the incessant turns and sinuosities of the pathway,
every separate item is a treat, and yet the ravishing spectacle of all,
at the season referred to, has still to be named. This consists in
the inexpressible, the infinite multitude of the bluebells, which far
surpasses that of the old Reddish valley. They saturate every slope and
recess that is in any degree shady, and diffuse themselves even upon
the otherwise bare hill-sides, not in a thin and niggardly way, but
with the semblance of an azure mist. In many parts, at the edges of the
little groves, where the ground is steep, they seem to be flowing in
streams into the meadows beneath, and where there are breaks among the
nearer trees they actually illuminate the opening. When the spectacle
of the bluebells comes to an end, the walk continues along a beautiful
green arcade, straight, level, and uninterrupted into the village.
By whichever of the two routes we prefer to go to Macclesfield, that
ancient and celebrated town becomes in itself a new and excellent
starting point. If desiring to go beyond, the London and North-Western
should be chosen. The massive heights on the way to Buxton, including
the well-known and far-conspicuous mamelon called Shutlings Low, are
accessible only by carriage or on foot. North Rode, on the other hand,
is but a few minutes' continued railway journey, and for this, if we
come at all, the longest day is all too short. Just in front rises
Cloud-end, the mighty promontory seen from the fields near Butts Clough
(p. 23), covered with trees, the _Vitis Idæa_ filling the open spaces,
and plenty of nuts in the neighbouring hedgerows. Keeping the mountain
to the left, descending the green lane, and passing, "on sufferance,"
through North Rode Park, agreeable scenery on each side all the way,
the end is that _beau-ideal_ of a rural retreat, pretty Gawsworth. The
ancient trees, the venerable church, the dignified old residences, all
speak at once of a long-standing and undisturbed respectability such as
few villages can now assert. In the graveyard stand patriarchal yews,
one of them, reduced to a torso, encased in ivy, and protected on the
weaker side by a little wall of steps, intended seemingly to make it
useful as a tree-pulpit. Six great walnut-trees form part of the riches
of the Hall, another pleasing old "magpie;" water also is near at hand,
thronged with fishes that sport near the surface, and gliding through
the sunbeams gleam like silver. To return to Macclesfield there is no
need to retrace one's steps to North Rode, the walk being short and
pleasant, and rendered peculiarly interesting by its beech-trees, a
long and noble avenue, if contemplated through an opera-glass never
to be forgotten, for then the half-mile of leafy colonnade is brought
close to the eye, a green and moving stereoscopic picture.
When at Gawsworth it is a pity to let slip the opportunity of visiting
Marton, for the sake alike of its fine old hall, ancient church,
and renowned oak. The hall, like so many others in this part of the
country, is a black and white of the time of Elizabeth, supplying,
in the material, yet another illustration of the ancient plenty in
Cheshire of magnificent trees; Lancashire, though it contains many
old halls and manor-houses of the same character, presenting a far
more considerable proportion of stone ones. In the old "magpies,"
very generally, so vast is the quantity of wood that one is disposed
to exclaim--Surely when this house was raised a forest must have been
felled. Inside there are many very interesting relics, as one would
expect in a primitive seat of the old owners of Bramhall. The church,
built in 1343, is in the style of Peover and the oldest portion of
Warburton, the aisles being separated from the nave by oaken pillars.
As for the "Marton oak," it needs only to say that in dimensions it is
an acknowledged rival of the Cowthorpe, the circumference at a yard
from the ground being fifty feet, and at the height of a man more than
forty feet. It can hardly be called a "trunk," if by that word we are
to understand a solid mass of timber, the inner portion having long
since decayed, leaving only a shell, though the branches above are
still vigorous and clothed every season with unabating foliage.
Three or four miles beyond North Rode ancient Congleton comes in view,
opening the way, if we care to enter Staffordshire, to Biddulph Grange,
renowned for its gardens. Mow Cop, just on the frontiers, awaits
those who love mountain air. Trentham Park, fifteen miles further,
or about forty-three from Manchester, is the seat, as well-known, of
the Duke of Sutherland; and not far, again, from this is the Earl of
Shrewsbury's--Alton Towers. To reach the latter, we diverge from North
Rode along the Churnet Valley line, the same which leads, in the first
instance, to the beautiful neighbourhood of Rushton, famed for its
ancient church, the untouched beams of the same date as Beeston Castle;
then past Rudyard Lake and the delicious woods appertaining to Cliffe
Hall. The view from Rushton churchyard is one for painters. The valley,
receding southwards, encloses the smooth expanse of Rudyard, which,
though no more than a reservoir, has all the winning ways of a Coniston
or a Windermere, seeking to elude one's view by reliance on friendly
trees. In the north and east the hills rise terrace-wise, range beyond
range, each remoter one of different hue, Shutlings Low, that beautiful
mamelon, towering above all, and more effectively than as contemplated
from any other point we know of. After this comes the lovely walk
through the woods themselves, the water visible, intermittently, all
the way, with at last pause for rest, in Rudyard village. It is not a
little singular that Rudyard, like the reservoir at Lymm, should have
for its parent a river Dane, though here the stream does not vanish,
the Rudyard Dane being the boundary of the two counties, Cheshire and
Staffordshire.
Alton Towers, a trifle further, illustrate in the finest manner what
can be achieved by the skill of the landscape gardener. At the time
of Waterloo the grounds were simple rabbit-warren, and the site of
the present mansion was occupied by only a cottage. Worthily is it
inscribed, just within the garden gate, "He made the desert smile," the
_he_ being Charles, the sixteenth earl, under whose directions the work
was executed. The framework consists of two deep and winding valleys,
which lose themselves in a third of similar character. Over their
slopes have been diffused terraces, arbours, ivied grottoes, trees and
shrubs innumerable, green cypresses that rise like spires among the
round sycamores, and rhododendrons that in May, looked at across the
chasm, seem changed to purple sea-foam. Wherever practicable, there
have been added waterfalls and aspiring fountains, and threading in
every direction there are moss-grown and apparently interminable sylvan
paths. From many points of view, the scene is one no doubt that would
have captivated Claude or Salvator Rosa. Still, it must be confessed
that the impression, after survey, which lingers longest in the mind
is of something not simply lavish, but inordinate. Very beautiful,
without question, as an essay in constructive art, therefore invaluable
educationally, one falls back, nevertheless, when departing, on the
thought of tranquil Norcliffe, that never tires. The earl, it may be
interesting to add, to whom the Alton grounds owe their existence,
represented by lineal descent the famous Talbot of the Maid of Orleans'
story. When we part with him, we may run on, if we please, to Rocester
Junction, and thence to Ashbourne, the threshold of Dovedale, there to
chat with immortal Izaak Walton.
Shutlings Low, the old familiar and far-seen mamelon above-mentioned,
the only one we know of in Cheshire, is considered also to be the
highest ground in the county, the summit reaching an elevation of over
seventeen hundred feet. The view which rewards the rather stiff climb
is like that from the crest of Mow Cop, not only vast in compass, but
very agreeably new, from commanding as much as the eye can embrace of
Staffordshire. The ascent is best made from Wild Boar Clough, itself
the most picturesque of the many wild ravines which betoken the near
neighbourhood of Derbyshire. For pedestrians the walk from Macclesfield
to Buxton is also a glorious one, Axe Edge intervening, with at about a
hundred feet below its topmost point the celebrated hostelry, reputed
to exceed in elevation even the "Travellers' Rest" in Kirkstone Pass,
and which in name commemorates faithful Caton, _Caton fidèle_.
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