New Forest under its least gracious aspect. Unluckily the holiday time
is late summer, just when the full, heavy leafage takes on its most
monotonous green, dim and jaded after a dry season, gloomy in a wet
one; when flowers are few and birds are silent. In October the early
frosts will light up the woods with a rich medley of hues, ending in
the exquisite tracery of bare boughs. November has its special beauty
when the blue mists lurk in the depth of woodland ways, when the wet
bracken glows like a peat fire, and toadstools of weird and wondrous
colours adorn the damp wayside. And lovely are the rare days when the
moor lies sheeted with snow, and every spray is set with diamonds.
Presently in February comes a moment when a purple flush, like the
bloom on a ripe plum, steals over the massed woodland, though yet no
green leaf shows, and we know that life begins to stir. On the
sheltered banks snowdrops are piercing the dark mould, and soon the
early primroses peep out under last year's dead leaves, and daffodils
toss their golden heads in the pasture. So the unfolding goes on till
the "brief twenty days" of Faber's poem, when every tree is clad in
its own fresh raiment, no two alike, and scattered snow of bird cherry
or sloe and rosy flush of crab-apple lights up the dark thickets. Now
the primroses are poured out with a lavish hand, and the green glades
are turned into rivers of blue where the tall wild hyacinths stand
massed together in a sheet of amethyst and sapphire mingled; for their
changeful hue has the blue of mountains rather than of sky. But the
glory of spring flowers belongs to the coppices about Brockenhurst and
Beaulieu; Lyndhurst's proud woods have none.
THE HIGHROADS AND THE PLAYGROUNDS
To learn the Forest in its true inwardness we have left the king's
highway, we have crossed wide moors and marshy bottoms, we have
plunged through the greenwood and followed brooks by tangled, muddy
tracks. Now for a little we must accompany the ordinary tourist as
from his motor or his seat of vantage on a Bournemouth brake he
surveys the fringe of the Forest at his ease.
Fine roads cross it in almost every direction, and about them cluster
the well-known spots which are the usual goal of the visitor, and may
be called the playgrounds. One of the principal routes, which
arrogates the title of the Forest Road, leads transversely by some of
the most notable points, from Southampton to Bournemouth. Entering the
Forest at Colbury near Eling, it crosses the line at Lyndhurst Road
railway station, and thousands who think they know the Forest have
only dipped into it at this point. For here lies the favourite ground
for school treats. Quite close to the station is a wide grassy lawn
with great beech trees and shady oaks, where I can remember seeing
the wild pigs nosing about for acorns and beechmast. Now through July
and August the lawns are dotted with childish cricketers, and crowds
of little folk trot about with mugs slung round their necks. The
strong oak branches lend themselves to swings, and the thickets
farther down suggest "I spy!" One does not grudge it them; for what a
comfort it must be for the teachers to collect and count their little
flock so close to the station without risk of losing some adventurous
spirit in the enticement of long Forest rides!
Early in December the purlieus of the station are piled with
scarlet-berried holly in stacks, awaiting transport to London. This is
one of the recognized Forest industries. Licences to cut are issued to
certain gipsies and foresters, happily under limitations; they are not
permitted to cut at discretion, or the holms would soon be cleared for
the insatiable London market.
[Illustration: IN MALLARD WOOD]
At Lyndhurst the road divides, the main portion going by Bank, high
raised above the road, looking down through the shade of spreading
oaks, not too thickly planted. Having paid his duty to the Knightwood
oak, the tourist will probably visit the Ornamental Drive, unless he
prefer to go through Mark Ash and Bolderwood to the more northerly
road to Ringwood. The Bournemouth road, passing between the
beautiful beeches of Vinny Ridge and Burley Old Wood, crosses
Longslade Bottom by Markway Bridge over the Black Water and climbs the
hill to Wilverley Post, whence descending by Holmsley and Hinton, at
the "Cat and Fiddle", it issues from the Forest.
The other branch goes due south to Lymington, and from the top of Clay
Hill becomes exceedingly beautiful, wide lawns on each side separating
it from the greenwood, dense on the east and sufficiently sparse on
the west to let the setting sun filter through. Dim with motor dust
the summer through, it is lovely in May in its fresh green, the great
hawthorns by the wayside clad like brides. At Holland Wood and Balmer
Lawn more school feasts and choir outings dot the ground. The wide
shady spaces afford room for games, and are near enough to
Brockenhurst station to be easy of access.
The time to see Balmer Lawn at its fairest is on a winter morning when
the foxhounds meet at Brockenhurst Bridge. On the slope above the
river the men in pink on their fine mounts, not a few women, some
riding in the new fashion in topboots, breeches, and frockcoats, the
hounds crowding round the whip with their tails carried like
scimitars, all grouped against a background of frosted trees and
pale-blue sky, make up an oldfashioned hunting picture.
Straight on goes the road by the level crossing, avoiding Brockenhurst
village, up Tilebarn hill, coming out on Setley Plain. Here on the
height, where the Burley Road branches off, is an interesting spot
long called Cobbler's Corner. In old days it was Hobler's Corner, for
here dwelt the Hobler, the man whose duty it was to scan the distant
line of the Isle of Wight for the flare of the Beacon, and, catching
sight of it, to mount and ride posthaste to Burley Beacon, whence the
news--whether of approach of Armada or of a French invasion--should be
flashed to Bramshaw, thence to the Old Telegraph above Winchester, and
so to London.
From Battramsley Cross the road descends by shady trees, and at the
bottom of Passford Hill, where the brook forms the Forest boundary,
there is an avenue of oaks and beeches, raised on a bank, worthy to
rank with the "Gate of the Forest" at the northern border on the
Salisbury Road.
The next important road leads from Romsey to Ringwood, entering the
Forest at Cadnam. A little to the south Minstead straggles along a
by-road in as yet unspoilt picturesqueness, though the inn has been
rebuilt to meet the needs of the many visitors to the neighbouring
Rufus' Stone. It still displays its ancient sign of the "Trusty
Servant", copied from the wall of the kitchen at Winchester College.
The delightful little church is the most perfect survival of those in
which our forefathers worshipped from the eighteenth century down to
the time of the Oxford Movement. It would be nothing short of
deplorable were the hand of the restorer to be laid upon it. It
abounds in galleries, one double-tiered, and has a regular
three-decker, with the clerk's seat at the bottom. Its prime glory,
however, is the squire's pew, with a fireplace and easy chairs, railed
round with curtains, and possessing a separate entrance, so that these
high persons can go to church without mixing with the common herd.
Long may it be preserved in its integrity that we may not quite forget
one phase of our religious history.
Returning to the main road, we find the Compton Arms at Stony Cross,
where the coaches stop and set down their trippers, who descend the
steep hill afoot to the spot where Rufus fell. Here again the
scientific historian has been busy; but far be it from me to throw any
doubt upon the tale. Standing beside the stone in the hideous iron
casing rendered necessary by the pocket knives of its admirers, one
cannot but feel some indignation against those who would explain it
all away. They are as bad as the visitors who would have whittled the
stone to nothing--and with less excuse. Walter Tyrell has already been
whitewashed; soon the share of Rufus himself will be eliminated, and
we shall be told there was no corpse to be carried bleeding to
Winchester on the charcoal burner's cart. For my own part, whether it
were plot of churchmen, private vengeance, or the deed of Saxon churls
dispossessed of their rights, I doubt not that Wat Tyrell's hand sped
the fatal shaft, whether by design or misadventure, while the king
stood shading his eyes from the westering sun.
Then, seeing what he had done, the slayer mounted and, urging his
breathless horse up that steep hill, rode for Ringwood for all he was
worth. Else why did he terrorize the blacksmith at the ford, since
known as Tyrell's, and make him shoe his horse backward to confuse the
traces of his flight, and then kill the man? Dead men tell no tales,
but there must have been tales to be told. And if he did none of these
things, why does that forge pay a yearly fine to the Crown to this day
for compounding a felony? A matter which is recorded in Wise's
_History_.
All the summer through the cheap tripper in hordes is deposited beside
the historic stone. He gazes at it, and finding he can neither carve
his name nor chip off a corner, he turns away, buys a postcard view in
colours, and seeks more congenial amusement in the cocoanut shies hard
by.
[Illustration: MINSTEAD CHURCH]
Leaving Stony Cross, the road runs by Bushy Bratley along the lofty
ridge that forms the backbone of the Forest to Picked Post and down
to the Avon valley. The northernmost road follows the Wiltshire
border, running from Bramshaw to Fordingbridge, lonesome exceedingly
and bleak, but commanding a magnificent outlook to Beacon Hill and
Salisbury spire on the one hand, and over the slopes of Ashley Walk on
the other. The spot where the Salisbury road enters the Forest at
Nomansland is marked by an archway of fine old oaks known as "the Gate
of the Forest".
Of all the many crossroads, with all their separate charms, which
connect these main arteries with each other, I have no space to tell.
Those who have time to linger will find they must make many a day's
journey to learn them all. We must leave them now and dive once more
into wood and moorland.
BRAMSHAW, THE HILL COUNTRY
The wildest and loneliest, if not the most beautiful part of the
Forest is to be found in the north-west, where a hilly tract lies
between the road from Cadnam to Picked Post and that from Nomansland
to Fordingbridge, and stretches westward from Bramshaw to the rampart
of high down which parts the Forest from the Avon valley. Here there
are no crossroads to break it up; only bridle-paths or rough cart
tracks, often impassable in winter by reason of bogs, connect the
lonely Forest lodges with each other.
And what variety is here! From dense woods, hushed in noonday
stillness, the wayfarer emerges on some unexpected crest, looking
clear away over the Wiltshire Downs. By some sudden slope from a long,
bleak, drear ridge he comes upon a still, dark pool with swans sailing
on it. A little lonely hamlet has sprung up at the edge of the pond,
and a modern gunpowder factory, put here to be well out of the way of
the public--as indeed it is.
Transversely run two valleys with their streams, Latchmore Brook to
make its way between the downs under Gorley Hill, and Docken Water,
widening as it flows through the marshy bottom, till it joins the Avon
at Moyles Court. Coming down the broken upland through Broomy by
winding ways and chalky ledges, at dusk one may see a little troop of
deer stooping their branchy heads to drink at the brook by Holly
Hatch, here called Broomy Water. Here one may well fancy the colt-pixy
the old tales tell of, light-stepping with waving mane and tail, "in
the likeness of a filly foal", luring the horses into the bog that
spreads from the stream up to the slopes of Ibsley Common.
From Brook, lying in a wooded hollow on the Forest border, the road
goes steeply up to Bramshaw, an unspoilt village, not grouped about
its church as an orderly village should be, but squandered all along a
mile or more of road between that and the post office. The little
sanctuary stands, as all the Forest churches do, raised upon a mound,
and is approached by a flight of steps so long and steep as to make
the tired wayfarer think of the ascent to some shrine in a Catholic
country, and wonder how much indulgence is due to him for his climb.
The quaint building has lost much of the charm that makes Minstead so
gracious. It has been to some extent brought up to date, and further
penance is imposed on the worshipper by new open sittings, hideous to
the eye, cruel to the back. Once, before a readjustment of boundaries,
it had the fascinating peculiarity of its nave being in Wiltshire and
its chancel in Hampshire.
The church passed, the road leads on through the loveliest of
beechwoods on Bramble Hill. He would be a strange traveller who would
not forsake the dusty highway and plunge into the cool tangled glades
till all sense of direction is lost. For the special and peculiar
beauty of this, unlike most Forest enclosures, is that there are no
straight rides cutting it transversely, but the winding alleys seem of
Nature's own planting, and these make it easy to stray, one fair group
of noble trees after another beckoning along the wide green ways into
the heart of the wood. One may fancy one is following the direction of
the road, but it is far out of sight in a few minutes. Never mind!
Every path must lead somewhither, and, sticking faithfully to one, we
presently emerge upon a high, wide plateau, whence the eye may travel
to Salisbury spire on the one hand and to the downs above Winchester
on the other, though its low-lying cathedral is lost in their folds.
From here one can see the Beacon on Dean Hill and the Old Telegraph on
Longwood Warren, whence Bramshaw Telegraph close by would take its
signal and hand it on to Burley Beacon.
[Illustration: BY BROOMY WATER]
On the edge of the level stands a little inn, and nearer the wood
cocoanut shies and Aunt Sallies are set up for the delectation of the
Salisbury and Southampton trippers. But we are soon away from such
disturbing elements. A desperate clamber up the stoniest of hills
leads to the ridge that divides the two counties. It is curious to
observe that here the moorland seems to be laid on quite different
lines to those in the south part of the Forest, partaking more of the
nature of the Wiltshire Downs. This road must be desolate and drear
enough in winter, but it commands even finer views than the vaunted
ones at Picked Post. Following it over Deadman's Hill, the sweeps of
Ashley Walk slope steeply down to Amberwood and Island Thorns.
Southward of these lies Sloden, which possesses special points of
interest. Along its fence, beds of nettles interrupt the bracken, and
where these occur a little grubbing may unearth some shards of Roman
pottery. This is said by experts to denote a regular factory of
earthenware, since the bits are too numerous and too invariably broken
to be the ordinary debris of a household, but must be the waste
product of the potter's wheel. Once, also, there existed here a grove
of noble yews, and of these some yet remain. One remarkable ring of
eleven together hint at what they were in their glory, and just
outside the enclosure a striking semicircle of half a dozen, standing
round some oaks, are better seen in the open. Density and solitude are
the chief characteristics of Sloden Wood. Here in its depth the ponies
can find a refuge from the storm, a shadow from the heat, more
impervious than many a stable. Here, too, the hind may bring forth her
young and discover the thick bushes. For this is the special haunt of
the fallow deer, and, resting quiet in the shade, one may chance to
see a little company of the graceful, stately creatures pass slowly,
with dainty footsteps, across a glade at no great distance--provided,
that is, one has taken up a position to leeward, for if the breeze
bore a taint of human breath, the shy, wild things would be gone like
a flash. Less stately and less fierce than the red deer, they are
hardly less beautiful in their dun coats, palely spotted, and the
little fawns are exquisite. Legally the stag no longer exists, but
some may yet be found in these wilder coverts, either they have
lingered on or have wandered down from Cranbourne Chace, and they
afford a finer day's sport.
People talk rather loosely of the "wild" creatures of the Forest,
including in the phrase the ponies and the pigs; but in truth nothing
larger than a fox or a badger is really wild in the sense that lions
and tigers in the jungle are--that is, masterless. The deer are the
property of the Crown, and as to the rough, shaggy, hammer-headed
ponies, though they roam at large day in, day out, winter and summer,
and find their own subsistence, their notched tails mark them as
belonging to some forester with grazing rights. At one time stallions
were turned loose in the Forest to improve the breed, but these were
Crown property, and now neither they nor bulls are allowed at large,
and boar have ceased to exist. The pigs certainly all belong to the
cottagers, and are now no longer seen in big flocks at pannage, that
is from 22 September till 25 November. There is a charming account in
one of Mr. Gilpin's volumes of the swineherd who used to take charge
of all the pigs of a large district during this season, giving them
warm food and shelter at night, so that they would collect from their
wide wanderings at the sound of his pipe. The breed of pigs which was
indigenous to the Forest has now died out--probably the make did not
lend itself to good hams. Gilpin thus describes them: "Besides these
(the domestic pigs) there are others in the more desolate parts of the
Forest, bred wild and left to themselves, descendants of the wild boar
imported by Charles I from Germany (probably at the suggestion of his
nephew, the Elector Palatine). They had broad shoulders, high crest,
bristly mane, the hinder parts light, and they were fiercer than the
common breed." Writing some fifty years later, Wise alludes to their
shaggy coats, brindled and rust colour, and I myself can remember them
as he describes them.
By Fritham and Sloden are some of the most noteworthy of those
mysterious barrows, locally called butts, which have exercised the
curiosity of antiquaries. Others are found across the valley, on the
heights by Bushy Bratley, and there are several on Setley Plain. Wise
in his _History_ gives a very full and interesting account of the
opening of some of these tumuli both by himself and by Warner, who
wrote on _The South-western Parts of Hampshire_. Invariably there was
found burnt earth and charcoal, together with calcined human remains,
in some cases contained in urns of "rude forms and large size", which
led him to the conclusion that they are the funeral pyres of the
ancient Britons, probably long anterior to the Roman Invasion. The
hints they give of life in the Forest in far-past days are indeed
scanty, but their presence, standing age-long on remote uplands,
suggests strange visions of the long succession of races that have
dwelt here.
BURLEY, THE WESTERN BORDER
The western border of the New Forest is a great contrast to the
eastern. Towards Southampton Water the boundary is an arbitrary
one--the farms and woodlands on the one hand are much the same as on
the other--but on the west a natural rampart divides the wild down
country from the Avon valley, along which an elm-shaded road connects
a chain of pretty villages. From the height of Godshill and Windmill
Hill on the north the ridge runs southward by Hydes Common through the
two Gorleys, by Ibsley, sloping away to Latchmoor Bottom, till it
reaches Mockbeggar, an oddly named hamlet nestling in the downs. On
the one side are rugged uplands, on the other smiling villages, elm
trees, and orchards of red apples--for this is a fine cider country.
At Moyles Court the downs break off to let Docken Water through to
meet the Avon. It is a fine old house, interesting as having been the
home of Lady Alice Lisle, the innocent victim of her charity to
Monmouth's defeated soldiers, though she, unlike Mrs. Knapton of
Lymington, was in no way implicated in the rebellion. Hard by stands
an oak which should have been the prime glory of the Forest; for it is
finer than any within its present precincts.
After the ford the hills rise again steeply to Picked Post, a high
point which looks across the intervening forest, over wood beyond
wood, to Bramshaw Telegraph, a hundred feet higher still. From here by
Bushy Bratley extends a lofty plateau right away to Stony Cross, over
which roam multitudes of Forest ponies, and on a hot noonday it is a
curious sight to see a drove of them gathered together on an open
spot, locally called a "shade"--apparently from the absence of
anything of the sort--standing close in a circle, heads inward, waving
tails outward, to defend them from the Forest fly. The cows do the
same thing, but they keep to themselves.
A little to the south Burley lies in a dip between the hills,
sheltered yet high. Its fine position has been the destruction of its
charm, for it has attracted too many residents, who have cut up the
surrounding oak groves with up-to-date "artistic" houses, and brought
the usual train of shops, motor garages, and civilization generally to
mar the village street. Unfortunately some years ago the owner of
Burley Manor found himself obliged to part with much of the land,
which was developed for building, with disastrous effect, especially
at Burley Lawn, which might really pass for a suburb of Clapham
Common. The church does nothing to redeem it. It is a mean little
structure, belonging to the worst period of ecclesiastical
architecture, when three lancet windows at the east end were
considered the acme of good taste.
[Illustration: BURLEY MOOR]
An interesting feature is the annual pony fair. There is one also at
Swan Green, by Lyndhurst, and another at Brockenhurst, but that at
Burley is the best, affording more space. The one at Brockenhurst,
where the ponies are penned into a dirty yard by the station, has
little charm for a looker on. At Burley one can see their paces tried
over the open lawn, and great and smart is the concourse of horsemen,
carriages, and motors. A still more interesting business, but one
not so easily seen, is the gathering them in from the Forest. Men on
clever, well-trained ponies go out, armed with long stock whips,
driving the startled creatures together, often into bogs to secure
them.
Westward and southward towards Holmsley the moor is broken into
heights and hollows, giving a magnificently varied outline, and
diversified with wooded enclosures on the lower slopes. Here the
fallow deer may often be met with, though the red hardly come so far
south. Wilverley Post, at the crossroad, is a favourite spot for
deerhound meets as well as foxhound, and the coverts to the north-west
are seldom drawn in vain. Eastward slopes of broken ground, lightly
wooded and dotted with clumps of thorn, tangled in honeysuckle and
bramble, lead down to the chain of woods towards Lyndhurst. One of the
most beautiful of these is Burley Old Wood. This still keeps many of
its fine old oaks, besides magnificent beeches, and there is more
variety than in most of the enclosures, for besides these there are
ash, chestnut, and hornbeam, mingled with the dainty elegance of the
silver birch; some yews, too, as large and old as any at Sloden. So
fine is the grouping, that even on a grey day of drizzling rain, with
none of the dappling sun and shadow that lend such a charm to woodland
ways, it lost nothing of its magic. To pass through the gate into
Burley New Enclosure is like a sudden step from a mediæval city into a
modern industrial suburb. The trees are in straight, ruled lines, too
thick-set to admit of fair growth, and gladly we extricate ourselves
and, returning by the raised causeway that crosses the stretch of bog
at Longslade Bottom by Markway Bridge, we regain the highroad at
Wilverley Post.