The Vale of Evesham--A stormy drive--An angler's inn--A big
fish--Dating from "the flood"!--Fishermen's tales--The joys of "the
gentle craft"--Hotel visitors' books--A "quiet day"--Burford church
and its monuments--The golden age of travel--A fine old half-timber
inn--Ludlow--A Saxon doorway.
Leaving our ancient inn we proceeded westward along winding,
hedge-bordered lanes that took us through the beautiful and fruitful
Vale of Evesham, a very Land of Goshen. We had an uneventful drive to
close upon Pershore, where we found ourselves on a good main road; then
crossing a narrow bridge we drove into that quiet and ancient town,
famous for its fine old abbey church, and for what else I know not;
as for the town, it has a pleasant look. Then into the country again
and into a storm of rain. By a signpost we learnt that the road led to
Worcester, and, as it appeared to keep on high ground with the promise
of fine views, we followed it.
We had a stormy drive on to Worcester, for it rained the whole of the
way; to our left the Malvern Hills loomed up a mass of purple-grey
under the leaden sky, appearing almost mountainous, magnified in size
to the eye by the mist and rain. Approaching Worcester it poured in
torrents; if this keeps on, I said to myself, I shall seek the shelter
of an inn. I was in ill-humour with the weather; I do not mind ordinary
rain, but this was a deluge, and the roads were becoming rivers. The
hint was not lost on the weather; as we drove into Worcester the rain
ceased, or almost ceased, and ahead there even appeared a watery gleam
of sunshine. Such are the surprises of the English climate. This was
encouraging, so through Worcester we went without a stop; no inn I
needed now, and to escape the main road and straggling houses I took a
turning to the right at a venture, and we were soon in the open country
again, wet and gleaming, but we drove into fairer weather.
The country we passed through was pleasantly pastoral, the rain-washed
air was wonderfully clear and fresh, the distances distinctly blue, and
the moisture brought forth the pungent scent of the earth. Presently
we passed a finely wooded park, in which we caught sight of a little
lake mirroring the sky, the silvery water shining cheerfully bright.
Soon after this we reached the village of Great Witley, not a large
place, but perhaps "great" for a village, and it presented us with
a pretty picture with its old houses, some of half-timber, climbing
the hillside, for we were amongst the hills again, hills topped by
wind-blown firs darkly outlined against the sky.
Before arriving at Great Witley we asked a man, on the way, to where
the road led. "To Witley," he replied; "there's a decent public in
the village where they sell good beer." As though beer was man's chief
desire in life--as perhaps it is with some! I did not take the hint,
so instead of the usual twopence I simply tendered thanks for the
information given. The man was disappointed; he looked reproachfully
at me--at least so I thought. Now the "public" turned out to be a
homely but an inviting-looking inn, "The Hundred House," to wit, and,
judging of it from a passing glance, had I been benighted I would
have claimed its hospitality, and deemed myself fortunate in having
found such quiet, unpretending quarters. In truth I almost wished for
the rain to come on again as an excuse to sample its entertainment.
But as the sun was occasionally shining and the clouds were uplifting
I was not inclined to stop, when I had half the day unspent before
me for exploring. Somehow I fancy that the people I meet in such
out-of-the-way places differ from other people; at least I know I get
friendly with them quicker than with those who live where the pulse of
the world beats faster--so I have that feeling strong upon me.
After Great Witley we had for some miles a hilly drive; at once our
road began to climb steeply, only to descend again; it was all up and
down, and from the tops of the rises we obtained glorious views of the
wild Welsh cloud-loving mountains, standing in rugged array where the
remote distance met our gaze, here and there above the mists a peak
clearly showing. Next we came to a welcome level stretch of country,
our road narrowing into a lane with fine high hedges on either side,
Devon fashion; their one fault was that they effectually shut out the
view--from leagues our vision was limited to yards.
When, at last, the Devon-like lane ended, facing us stood "The Swan
Inn" by the Teme side, an inn where anglers congregate, for the
Teme is a troutful stream; there I put up for the night, and found
comfortable quarters, good fare, and companionship. What more could
the traveller desire? The landlord came forth to greet me in a manner
after my own heart. "Glad to see you," said he; "you always bring me
luck." I thought he had mistaken me, for, as I explained, I had not
been to Tenbury till that day. "Well," responded he, "it was certainly
not here I saw you last, but I well remember you coming to 'The Porth
Arms' at Llandysill, when I was its landlord some few years ago, and
just as you arrived one of my guests there had caught the fish of the
season." Then, thinking back, I too remembered the circumstance. "Now,"
continued he, "I've a fisherman staying here who just before you came
caught a splendid trout, as fine a trout as ever I've seen; I'll show
it you. There's as good fish in the Teme as ever came out of a river;"
and he brought the trout out on a dish for my inspection, a grand one
in truth. At least, thought I, there are big trout in the Teme. When
next I go a-fishing may I catch its like! There is a consoling old
saying that "the worst anglers catch the biggest fish." Some of those
old sayings appeal to me!
Writing of big fish reminds me that once in an old curiosity shop I
noticed, amongst the various odds and ends shown for sale there, a
glass case with a fine fat trout stuffed and carefully preserved in it.
I was surprised to find this marked at a high figure, as it appeared to
me a somewhat unlikely article to find a purchaser. So I ventured to
remark upon it. "Well," said the dealer in curiosities, "that's as good
an article to sell as any I have in the shop, though you mightn't think
it. You see, the landlord of some fishing inn is sure to buy it and
hang it up in one of his rooms, as a sample of the sport to be had in
his river. I'll get my price for it. I think I know where to place it
as it is." Have I not seen the like at certain river-side inns I know!
It is pleasant to be remembered thus on the road; twice during the
journey when arriving at a strange inn in a strange place did the
landlord of it remember me, he having moved from some other inn
elsewhere which on a previous tour I had visited. Landlords and head
waiters of country hostelries appear to have the faculty that kings are
supposed to possess of recognising faces, and of even bearing names
in mind. The waiter of "The King's Head" at Cirencester knew me from
having waited on me at another inn on the road, "and that were over
two years ago." "However do you manage to remember people and their
names?" I queried, "for you must see so many different people coming
and going in the course of the year." "I don't remember them all," he
confessed, "only the nice people." I felt flattered, though perhaps he
was thinking of his tip. A good memory is a valuable possession when
used diplomatically.
As there was still an hour or two of daylight left, I crossed the river
by a patched-up stone bridge to inspect Tenbury, for the town lay on
the other side of the Teme--a countrified little town, like those you
find here and there in the heart of the shires, so I was the more
surprised to discover it boasted of being a watering-place, though
its reputation in this respect was unknown to me, for it possesses
a Spa with a regulation pump-house where people drink and bathe in
the waters, and around the pump-house are well-laid-out grounds with
winding walks. No town that ever I was in gave me less the impression
of being a watering-place where invalids congregate, for not even a
Bath-chair did I see, nor was there a soul at the Spa. I take it that,
up to the present, Tenbury is more famous for its fishing than for its
waters; if the latter were only more pronounced, or more distasteful in
flavour, possibly Tenbury might become renowned. "They ought to do me
good," once I heard a visitor at Harrogate remark, "for the waters are
nasty enough." Well, at any rate, Harrogate waters possess that virtue
and Harrogate prospers, though I heard of one invalid who, having
tasted those waters, declared he preferred his malady!
Rain coming on I sought shelter in the church near by; I was glad I did
so, for I found much to interest me there. For the second time this
journey I discovered another curious, though unfortunately mutilated,
miniature effigy to a knight of old in chain armour with his legs
crossed; one hand is on his sword, the other holds a shield with a
coat-of-arms carved upon it. This effigy is only a little over two feet
in length and bears no inscription.
The records of his name and race
Have faded from the stone.
A possible, but doubtful, explanation of these miniature monuments is
that they are merely heart shrines; another even more doubtful is that
they are to children of knightly parents, and so are represented in
armour.
Near to this modest memorial to a warrior, in startling contrast, is
a stately altar-tomb with life-sized alabaster figures, beautifully
sculptured, of a man in armour with his wife by his side, she being
quaintly and picturesquely attired; the man's feet rest on a boar, his
lady's on nothing, for the faithful hound that presumably once was
there has disappeared. A portion of the long inscription in raised
letters over this monument runs as follows:--
Here lyeth Thomas Actone of Sutton Esqre
Who departed this lyfe in 1546
And Mary his wyfe who deceased on
The XXVIII Aprill 1564....
Ioyse
Their only daughter and heire being then of the
Adge of XII yeres was espoused to Sir Thomas LVCY
Of Charcot knight which Dame Ioyse in dutifull
Remembravnce of theis her loving parents
Hath erected this monument. Anno 1581.
Here we have the knight whom Shakespeare ridicules under the title of
Justice Shallow in _The Merry Wives of Windsor_. What caused the Bard
to hold up this Sir Thomas Lucy thus to ridicule no one appears to have
discovered; the ancient story that the knight prosecuted Shakespeare
for poaching his deer in Charlecote Park is out of court, for in those
days there was neither park nor deer there.
As I was leaving the church I noticed a brass plate against the west
wall about three feet from the pavement, bearing record that
On May 14th, 1886
The River Teme overflowed its Banks
And rose to the height of the mark
Placed below.
And to this day certain Tenbury folk date events "from the year of
the flood," which to the unknowing sounds strangely of a period
immeasurably remote.
I dined well at "The Swan" that night in the pleasant company of two
anglers, one of whom had caught the big trout already mentioned. The
simple dinner was excellently cooked, and my fellow-guests indulged in
a bottle of good red wine; so also did I for sociability. Not but that
Pure water is the best of gifts
That man to man can bring;
But what am I that I should have
The best of everything?
Dinner ended, in the spirit of the Roman of old I could say, "Fate
cannot harm me, I have dined to-day."
We three made merry over our meal (fishermen, sailors, and artists
all seem to possess cheerful souls); we talked and we joked and "the
good wine quaffed"; fishing stories went round the table, true every
one of them--or at least they were not impossible. I scorn that cruel
libel that declares "the angler goes out in the morning full of hope,
returns at evening full of whisky, and the truth is not in him." But
we did not talk of fishing alone; we talked of many charmed spots
where tranquil rivers flow, of sleepy pools where the big trout lie,
of mountain streams with their heathery banks, streams that gurgle and
splash along their rocky beds; and I learnt that a trout rises to a fly
either because he is hungry, or merely out of curiosity; if the former
you may surely land him, if the latter it is a touch and go if you do.
Many days the trout have had their fill, so they "rise short," being
only curiously minded; then the angler changes his flies, but it is not
a fresh fly that is needed, but a hungry trout.
Much has been said of the joys of the gentle craft.
Other joys
Are but toys,
we are told, but I think there is another craft more gentle, fully as
fascinating and as pleasure-giving--to some even more so, bold though
the saying be--and that is sketching from Nature, "good, right, healthy
work," Ruskin calls it, and the sketcher need never return home without
something to show for his day in the open air. I do not exactly see
the gentleness of taking a barbed hook out of a fish's mouth, or of
impaling a wriggling worm on a hook, and to do this, mind you, "as
though you loved him, that is, harm him as little as you may possibly,
that he may live the longer"! which is the dictum laid down by gentle
Izaak Walton. After all, may it not be that the term "gentle craft"
came from the fact of the use of gentles as baits? But whether one goes
a-fishing or fares forth with sketch-book and colours, much of the joy
that either gentle craft gives its votaries is, I take it, the pleasant
scenery they habitually find themselves amongst. Now I come to think
of it, our table talk was of scenery as much as of fishing, so as a
listener it struck me that to some wise men fishing after all is in the
main an excuse for a delightful and restful holiday with an object, not
the mere catching of fish the sole aim of it.
In the coffee-room of mine inn I discovered a Visitors' Book, and I
glanced through it in the faint hope of perhaps finding there some
quaint or humorous effusion, but the day seems past for these things.
Of old such men as Kingsley, Tom Taylor, Tom Hughes, and a host of
other literary wits were not above making merry in these books; even
such notables as Lord Byron, Sir Walter Scott, Samuel Pepys, to
mention a few of the many, amused themselves by recording their names,
scratched with diamonds, on the window-panes of some of the old inns
and houses they visited, and in a few instances their signatures remain
there to this day. I saw that of Sir Walter Scott in Shakespeare's
birthplace not long ago. Seldom now either do I come across any quaint
or notable epitaph in our churchyards, yet when I was young I came
upon many a one. Indeed I had a notebook filled with them, and curious
they were. As I have previously remarked, Time is not the only culprit
responsible for their disappearance, though Time has had his hand in
the matter, and there is now no Old Mortality to re-cut crumbling
inscriptions. A case was brought to my notice where a quaint epitaph
(quite harmlessly quaint, as a layman, I thought) was deliberately
chiselled off a tombstone "by the parson's orders."
In the Visitors' Book at "The Swan" I came upon the following:--
In July a man came to the Swan
And the fat of the land lived upon,
"But," said he, in September
If I rightly remember,
"It's just about time I moved on."
I copied this, not that the verse has any merit, but to show the
temptation there is to linger on at a comfortable country hostelry, as
I have been tempted to linger often for an extra day or two, instead of
travelling on. In this respect a good inn is an enemy to travel. Twice
have I had pointed opportunities of confirming this attraction of an
inn. I remember spending the night at a cosy little Kentish hostelry,
and there I met a man who told me he had come for a week-end only, but
so pleased was he with his quarters that he had stayed on three weeks,
even regretting that he was obliged to leave on the morrow. But an
almost startling incident of the kind I came upon at a sequestered
Sussex inn; a fellow-guest there confided in me that he arrived at the
inn intending to spend one night only, but so comfortable was he that
he decided to stop on from day to day, and the days had grown into
three years. He was a homeless bachelor, and "here," said he, "I've
found a home, no trouble about servants, no rent or taxes to pay,
entertaining company at times without the cost of entertaining; I've
only to order what I want to get it." I felt genuinely sorry for the
man that he should have to make his home with strangers at an inn, but
he did not appear sorry for himself. At that same inn I also stayed
a week: the portly landlord of it was the best of fellows--may his
shadow never grow less! The landlady as kindly an old soul as ever
breathed--long life to her! The maid who waited on me thought nothing
of her trouble, the rooms were clean, and there was a large and shady
garden attached where I idled many an odd hour pleasantly away, lazily
reading a favourite author whilst reclining in a hammock hung between
the trees. But these old, unspoilt, home-like inns are not to be found
every day, though I know of a few, but wild horses could not drag from
me their whereabouts. "I have certainly spent some very enviable hours
at inns," remarks Hazlitt. So have I. Do I talk too much of inns?
Thackeray says, "It always seems to me very good talk." A big book
could be written about inns of the good old-fashioned sort, and yet
not exhaust the pleasant subject; but it needs be written lovingly,
as Izaak Walton wrote of fishing, so that the two works may lie side
by side and ready of reach amongst the treasures of a well-selected
library.
As I was leaving "The Swan" at Tenbury the landlord informed me that
close to my road at Burford, and but a mile away, was a most lovely
old church, beautifully decorated, and with some fine gilt and painted
altar-tombs. "You really should not miss seeing it," said he. I know
not why, but somehow it seemed strange to me for an innkeeper to be so
keen about a church. As he was so pressing I promised the landlord I
would see the church, and thither I went. I pulled up the car at the
corner of a narrow lane that led to the building, proceeding the rest
of the way on foot, and on my way I overtook two ladies slowly walking
in front of me. I was bold enough to inquire of them, and as politely
as I could, whether the church door were open, or if not where I might
find the clerk. One of the ladies answered me in a low voice, and with
so solemn a look that I felt I had made a mistake in addressing her;
however, she said, "The doors are open. It is a quiet day." I thanked
her and congratulated myself that I had come on a "quiet day," then I
could inspect the church undisturbed and at leisure. I did not then
know the significance of a "quiet day." Since I have learnt that a
"quiet day" is one wholly devoted to silent prayer and meditation, in
church and out of it, and that those taking part in such are supposed
not to speak to one another during the day more words than are
absolutely necessary. Further, I have been told the story of a parson
who, in reply to his bishop offering to conduct "a quiet day" in his
parish, declared that what his parishioners required was not "a quiet
day" but an earthquake!
The church proved to be richly adorned; there were several
exceptionally fine altar-tombs in it, more suitable, I thought, to
Westminster Abbey than to that little country fane; there too I
noticed a beautiful rood-screen, and its fine timber roof had for
supporters the carved figures of angels gracefully wrought; three
lights, in hanging lamps, were burning before the "altar"; I quite
expected to find a faint odour of incense, but this I failed to do.
It was a Protestant church after all, though to me it hardly had the
look of one. But to those who do not see "the mark of the beast" in an
ornate church interior, and in burning lights before the "altar," the
effect and richness of such decoration is pleasing. What would one of
Cromwell's stern Puritans, could he come to life again and see that
church, think of it, I wonder? Without that resurrection it is enough
to make him turn uneasily in his grave.
One of the tombs against the north chancel wall has the recumbent
effigy of Princess Elizabeth of Lancaster under a finely carved canopy;
she is represented with longhair bound round with oak leaves; two
kneeling angels hold her cushioned head. Her epitaph runs:
Here lyeth the bodie of the
Most Noble Elizabeth,
daughter of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster,
own sister to King Henry IV.
* * * * *
She died the 4th yere of Henry VI.
An. Dni. 1426.
So I picked up much unknown, or wholly forgotten, family history on the
road.
Another magnificent altar-tomb, glorious in gilt and colour, stands
in the centre of the church; on this rests the effigy of Edmond
Cornewalle, deceased 1508; he is shown in plate armour, his head on his
helmet; his feet with gilded spurs are supported by a crowned lion,
painted red. If a dead man could behold his monument, this Edmond
Cornewalle should be very proud of his. There are other interesting
and beautiful tombs, including two heart shrines, but I had to content
myself with a hurried glance at these, for people were silently
arriving and kneeling in the pews, and some of them looked up so
reproachfully at me for wandering about that I felt ashamed I was not
like them; and what else could a sinner do, under the circumstances,
but take his quiet departure? I had, however, time just to note a
wonderfully fine and ancient decorative panel in perfect preservation
and of large size in the chancel; this has figures of the apostles
painted on it, with sundry coats-of-arms, all done in rich colouring,
though what the apostles have to do with coats-of-arms I cannot
imagine. As I was leaving the church I was surprised to find, standing
just within the porch, an old grandfather's clock marking faithful
time, for it looked curiously out of place, almost as much, it struck
me, as would a lectern in a drawing-room. So hushed was the church that
the subdued tick of the clock was plainly audible, mildly disturbing
the Quaker-like quiet of the people gathered there. In the churchyard
I observed a beautiful modern stone cross raised on the ancient and
worn steps of a former one doubtless destroyed by the Puritans, to whom
a cross of any kind was as a red rag to a bull; but there is a cross
back in the old place again, as though there had been no such thing
as the wrathful Puritan. "See how these Christians love one another,"
once exclaimed a gentle Japanese pagan when listening to a hot dispute
between a Protestant and a Roman Catholic missionary in his own
peaceful land. Now I suppose both the Roman Catholic and the Puritans
called themselves Christians, but there was little of brotherly love
between them!
After Burford our road led us up a valley of clear streams and green
pastures, bounded ahead by a long line of blue and undulating hills;
we crossed one or two grey old stone bridges, so narrow that two
vehicles could not pass over them at the same time. Perhaps this slight
impediment to travel does not greatly trouble people in these parts,
for we met little traffic on the way, only a cart for some miles, and a
solitary tramp trudging along disconsolately. We had the country almost
to ourselves until we came in sight of the grey old town of Ludlow, one
of the most interesting and picturesque towns in England; but to see
Ludlow at its best it needs to be approached, as we approached it, from
the south, for to the north a collection of ugly modern brick houses
has unhappily sprung up, and these are sadly out of harmony with the
rest of the age-mellowed buildings. Before the railway was invented was
the golden age of pleasure travel--for those who had money in their
purses. Then Buggins the builder had done comparatively little harm in
the matter of the uglification of the countryside; there was pleasure
in posting across country in those picturesque, motorless days.
Coming to it from the south, the castle-crowned town of Ludlow greets
the traveller with a genuine flavour of antiquity. He enters it, as
did the traveller of centuries ago, through a narrow, arched, stone
gateway with round flanking towers. The gateway stands "massive and
grim across the street," a graphic reminder of the feudal days when
Ludlow was surrounded by fortified walls, broken and ruined now, but
they can still be traced encircling the town. Then as we drove on we
had a glimpse of the famous "Feathers Inn," with its nodding gables,
as fine and as well-preserved a specimen of a half-timber hostelry as
one may hope to look upon. The interior of this ancient house with its
elaborately carved chimney-pieces and enriched plastered ceilings is
even more interesting and picturesque than the exterior, and there are
many other quaint and beautiful old houses in the town, notably the
Reader's House. I should like to unearth the story of the "Feathers,"
for it looks like an inn with a storied past, else why those stately
chambers? But though, on my return home, I searched for this in many
books, I could discover nothing certain about it. Probably it was
originally the home of some notable personage.
We left Ludlow by the broad highway that leads to Shrewsbury, but we
soon deserted it for a lane which took us across a wide and breezy
common, with an open, shelterless country stretching for miles away in
front. Then we observed great banks of louring clouds ahead rapidly
approaching, leaving trailing lines of rain behind which blotted out
all the distance. Suddenly the wind rose ominously, then followed a low
growl of thunder; we were in for a storm, and our road was unpleasantly
exposed. However, there was nothing to do but to drive on; then
suddenly I espied, a little to the right of our open road, a village
almost buried in leafy elms, that together, village and trees, stood
out from the plain like a wooded island from the sea. Other shelter was
there none, so to that village we sped on apace; it was a race between
us and the storm, and we won by barely a minute. Stanton Lacy proved to
be the name of the village, and I do not remember ever having been in
one so buried in trees before--great branching trees that at one spot
afforded us fair shelter from the worst of the storm. Fortunately the
storm was short, though sharp, for I do not think our natural umbrella
would have provided protection for long.
[Illustration: SAXON DOORWAY, STANTON LACY CHURCH.]
Having taken shelter close to the church, I thought I would while away
the time whilst the rain came down by taking a glance at it, though I
had already seen one church that day; for there was nothing else to
do but to sit in the car beneath the drip of the trees. After all it
was a fortunate storm, for without it I should not have visited that
village or its very ancient church, which proved of uncommon interest.
A Saxon church of old, I discovered by the "long and short" projecting
stone-work on a portion of the building, and by a very perfect though
simple Saxon doorway in the north wall having a boldly carved raised
cross on the top, and above this a curious bit of ornamentation of
which I could make nothing. In the churchyard is an eighteenth-century
tombstone to Thomas Davies, whose epitaph runs:
Good-natur'd, generous, bold, and free
He always was in company;
He loved his bottle as a friend,
Which soon brought on his latter end.
The storm over, we once more resumed our way. The open fields, after
Nature's copious shower-bath, were freshly green and smiling; the
distant hills of Wenlock Edge stood out shapely and sharply with their
fringes of fir against the now bright sky; the air was enchantingly
pure and fragrant with the scent of many growing things; the road was
dustless, and the brisk breeze fluttered the foliage of the few trees
by the way, and sported with the long grasses in the fields as it swept
over them, giving a sense of joyous movement everywhere. It was well
worth suffering the storm for the after glory of the day, the peaceful
evening that followed it, and the clear starlit night succeeding that.
The next village we came to was Culmington, a sleepy out-of-the-world
spot on the Corve; the ancient church there attracts the eye on
account of its fine and uncommon broach spire. There is little else
of interest in the place. Next we turned up at the rapidly growing
village of Craven Arms, curiously so named from a solitary inn of
some pretence that stood there--and still stands, I believe--in the
old coaching days, with a wonderful tall milestone in front of it, on
which are recorded the names and distances of no less than thirty-six
towns, near and afar, so important a centre of travel was the "Craven
Arms"--the hostelry, that is--in past times. Now it is an important
railway junction, and round about the once solitary inn has grown a
large village that promises in turn and time to grow into a small town,
though for the name of a village that of Craven Arms sounds strange in
my ears.