An angler's haunt--Ferries and stepping-stones--Curious old
stained-glass window--The ruins of Uriconium--Watling Street--The
Wrekin--Richard Baxter's old home--A Cabinet minister's story--A
pretty village--Buildwas Abbey--Ironbridge--The "Methodists' Mecca."
Leaving Haughmond to its ancient peace, and finding the road we were
on led to Shrewsbury, we took a byway to our left, chancing where it
might go. We did not select our road, we took the first one we came to
so as to avoid revisiting Shrewsbury, and it led us, with many pleasant
windings, through a country of great charm, and unexpectedly to many
interesting places. No guide-book could have done us better service. We
had at the start fir-crowned hills to the left of us with a tower on
the top of them, a modern one, but still a picturesque feature, and the
silvery Severn to the right, and in the narrow and pleasant stretch of
country between our road went in a dreamy, indirect fashion.
At Uffington I noticed a river-side inn with an angler, rod in hand,
standing idly in the doorway, so concluded, with the river close by,
this must be a fisherman's haunt. I was almost tempted to pull up
there and go a-fishing, for it looked such a pleasant hostelry, one
whereat a lazy man might laze contentedly. At Uffington the monks of
Haughmond had a ferry, and so in the absence of any bridge they crossed
the Severn there on the way to Shrewsbury. I am told the ferry still
exists, and I was glad to hear it, for ferries and stepping-stones
form such picturesque features in the landscape. In Wales, where I
once stopped awhile at a remote farmhouse, the only way across the
little river in front of it was by stepping-stones, and I took quite
a childish delight in crossing and recrossing them, and more than
once I discovered an artist painting the spot; there was a very real
fascination for me about this primitive way of crossing a stream, in
an age when all things are made so uninterestingly smooth and easy, a
method probably originally suggested by the boulders that strew the bed
of a mountain river.
So we followed the Severn down, now losing sight of it, now recovering
it again, till we came to Atcham, where the river flowed wide and
strong under a fine seven-arched bridge; there by the roadside stood a
large old house that had evidently been a coaching inn, and there under
the shade of some trees I pulled up the car to have a look around, for
it was a pleasant spot.
I wandered into the churchyard overlooking the river. The church
I found old and interesting. At the east end I noticed two of the
so-called leper or low-side windows that have caused so much discussion
amongst antiquaries; these were in such a position behind the high
altar that, of course, neither the altar nor the elevation of the Host
could be seen from them, and this, I think, surely proves, at least to
my satisfaction, that such windows were not for the use of lepers to
observe the service from without; but as I have already discussed the
subject, I will say no more about it.
There is some good carved old oak in the church; the reading-desk has
some quaint carvings on it of the story of the prodigal son; the fine
openwork screen too merits attention, and its walls still plainly
show the marks of the medieval masons' chisels; but what specially
interested me was a very curious and ancient stained-glass window
representing a woman kneeling and presenting a book to Queen Elizabeth
enthroned; the top lights above contain the drawings of five angels
busy with harps. The inscription below runs:--
Blanch daughter of Henry Miles Parry Esqre.
Of Newcourt Herefordshire by Alicia daughter
Of Simon Milborn Esqre. Chief gentlewoman
Of Queen Elizabeth privy chamber whom
She faithfully served from her
Highnesses birth dying at Court
The 12th of Febry. 1589. Aged 82.
Entombed at Westminster. Her bowels at Bacton in
The county of Hereford.
A little beyond Atcham, whilst driving along a narrow and quiet
country road and thinking of nothing in particular, I suddenly noticed
some crumbling ruins on rising ground not far away, and I asked at
a blacksmith's forge, close by, what the ruins might be, and was
told they were the ruins of the Roman city of Uriconium. This was
interesting information, and at once the low and broken, moss-grown
and ivy-clad walls assumed a look of importance. We had come upon the
site of an ancient city of wide renown. "We keep the key here," said
the blacksmith, for I found that what remains of the once great city
of "gleaming white walls" is fenced round and turned into a sort of
peep-show with "a charge of sixpence a head for admission." What an
indignity to the ancient city, perhaps the chief city of the country
when England was but a colony of Rome: how strange to think of England
as a colony! I have said perhaps the chief city of the country, for
according to J. R. Green, the historian, "the walls of Uriconium
enclosed a space more than double that of Roman London, and exceeded
in circumference by a third those of Pompeii, while the remains of
its theatre and its amphitheatre, as well as the broad streets which
contrast so strangely with the narrow alleys of other British towns,
shows its former wealth and importance." It was to Uriconium that the
famous Watling Street went direct from Dover through London, and thence
as straight as the Romans could conveniently make it to Uriconium. The
Romans wisely favoured the high ground in preference to the low for
their roads, which to keep dry were carefully trenched on either side,
but they always went straight ahead to their destination, excepting
when the gradient proved too severe or they had to round a hill, but
after such divergence straight ahead they went again; one cannot but
admire the purposefulness of them. Watling Street has now been reopened
and reconnected from Daventry to Shrewsbury, a distance of eighty-three
miles; and to be a little previous, from close to Boscobel on to
Daventry we followed the ancient street on our homeward run--excepting
for a diversion to Uttoxeter at the Lichfield turn, rejoining it at
Atherstone, missing but about fourteen miles of its length between the
point above Boscobel and Daventry--and a very pleasant rural road we
found it, delightful for its absence of towns and even villages; indeed
it took us for miles and miles right through a thoroughly old-world
sparsely peopled land. So we followed the footsteps of the Roman
legions. The foundation of most of the street, in spite of years of
neglect, is as firm to-day as when the ancient Romans made it, for they
built for centuries. Our modern road-builders might well take a hint
from those clever old engineers. There was no scamped work in those
benighted ages, for scamped work meant death--not a fortune.
But to return to Uriconium. To show the size of the ancient city,
its walls, still traceable, are over three miles in circumference,
enclosing now open fields and meadows; in these, I was told, the plough
occasionally turns up portions of mosaic pavement, bits of pottery,
tiles, and other relics. I entered what now remains of the city above
ground by a locked gate and wandered over its grass-grown streets, or
at least a very small portion of them, and amongst the fragments of
its time-worn walls that are still standing. Wild roses, brambles,
nettles, and docks were growing everywhere disorderly; ivy, moss, and
lichen were creeping over its stones at will. Some of the foundations
of the buildings have been uncovered and laid bare, but Nature is busy
at work covering them up again with many a wild growing thing. Little
enough remains, in truth, to reveal the former glory of Uriconium; the
chief wall standing, built of squared stones, varied by courses of thin
red tiles, is presumably that of the basilica; adjoining this are the
baths, the plan of which can be roughly made out, the furnace chambers
may be traced, and a number of small pillars constructed of thin bricks
reveal the hypocausts or heating arrangements. The public baths are the
best preserved parts of the city that have been unearthed, and show the
extent of civilisation to which the Romans in England had attained. I
was glad to have seen Uriconium; it made me respect the civilisation of
our early conquerors. I was impressed with the picture that I recovered
to myself of the refined life the Romans led in their British colony
close upon nineteen centuries ago! Delightful is the situation of
Uriconium on its gentle rise, with far views of the country around, and
the Severn winding just below. It seems strange that, whilst the sites
of so many Roman towns are the sites of English towns to-day, Uriconium
so favoured in position should be left desolate--given over to the
winds of heaven and the birds of the air.
Leaving the ruined city to its sole inhabitants, the birds and
perchance the rabbits, we had a fine view of the isolated hill of the
Wrekin, from the top of which flamed forth the beacon that told the
great Armada was in sight. Then
... streamed in crimson on the wind the Wrekin's crest of light.
"To friends all round the Wrekin" is a famous Shropshire toast, and
all good Salopians know how that hill came into being: how that the
Devil, once upon a time, as the fairy story-books have it, had a grudge
against Shrewsbury, and was carrying a great load of earth and rocks
on his back, intending to dump it down in the bed of the Severn, and
so block the flow of the river and drown all the Shrewsbury people;
but even the Devil grew weary of his heavy load, and threw it down on
the spot where the Wrekin now stands, declaring he would carry it no
longer. So the mountain arose and Shrewsbury was saved. At one point or
another the Devil appears to have been very busy in Shropshire knocking
the scenery about. When later on I found myself at Ironbridge, with its
furnaces and factories, I really thought the Devil must still be busy
in Shropshire, for who but he could have entered into the mind of man
to cause him to spoil so fair a spot for the sake of mere money-making?
Remove the dirty, mean, and ugly town and all connected with it,
Madeley too, with its collieries close above, and smoky Broseley but
a mile away, and I doubt if the Severn could show in all its pleasant
meanderings from its source in lone Plynlimmon to the sea a spot so
fair as this would be--and was in the days of old.
The scenery improved with every mile as we wound our way down by the
Severn side, from which rose gently sloping and wooded hills on the
other hand, a very pleasant land in truth. Coming to the little village
of Eaton Constantine, I pulled up there to photograph an exceedingly
picturesque black and white half-timber farmhouse with a great gable
at one end, its roof sloping down to a sheltering porch. Were I an
architect and designer of country homes I certainly would seek for
inspiration in Shropshire; I know no other part of England where the
houses look more like homes. Chatting with the owner of the farmhouse,
who kindly allowed me to photograph it from his farmyard, and even
stood in front of his porch to be included in the picture--though
I did not desire this further favour of him--I learnt that it was
formerly the home of Richard Baxter, the Nonconformist divine and the
author of _The Saints' Everlasting Rest_, and quite a host of other
improving religious works well known to fame, but which I regret I have
never read. It was at Eaton Constantine, I believe, that when a boy
Richard Baxter used to rob his neighbours' orchards, but, as some one
says, "often the worst boys become the best men," a pleasant way of
excusing their peccadilloes. Even Bunyan I have somewhere read "sowed
his wild oats" freely when a youth, and I have even heard of a certain
Cabinet minister who has boasted that he frequently went poaching as
a lad. Perhaps it is because I was so good a boy that I have failed
to distinguish myself in any way; had I to live my life again I might
have got more enjoyment out of my youth, knowing now what good and
clever men bad boys can make. I heard a Cabinet minister at dinner tell
the story of how his schoolmaster one day declared to him that he was
a lazy, troublesome boy, always in some mischief, a disgrace to the
school, that he would never do any good for himself or any one else. In
after years, when the boy had become one of Her Majesty's ministers,
the very same schoolmaster, then an old man, met him and clapped him
on the back, declaring, "I'm proud of you, my boy. I always said there
was the making of a clever man in you." The story must be true, for a
Cabinet minister would not tell a lie--about a trifle, but only for the
good of his party.
[Illustration: BUILDWAS ABBEY, LOOKING EAST.]
The next village of Leighton was almost ideal, with its picturesque
black and white cottages half drowned in foliage; then our road became
as beautiful as a dream till we came in sight of Buildwas Abbey,
gloriously situated by the banks of the Severn, where the river flows
gently by. But the situation is robbed of much of its charm by the
intruding railway, that passes close to the abbey's ruined walls and
sadly disturbs its quiet. All you can do is to try and forget the
railway as though it were not. Amidst the ruins you cannot see it,
but alas! you can hear it; and how can one romance to the sound of a
railway train and the locomotive's blatant whistle?
Buildwas Abbey is the relic of a splendid building, beautiful and
stately even in decay, seemingly too proud to mourn its long-lost
grandeur, "cased in the unfeeling armour of old time." Its massive
pillars and stout walls, braving all weathers, stand strong and
enduring still. Time, that gentle healer, has tinted and adorned its
broken walls with many hues, and fringed their rugged tops with bright
wild-flowers, grasses, and weeds; here and there, too, the ivy creeps
over them and peeps in from without through the vacant windows. Its
silent stones seem laden with memories: would that they could tell
their story apart from the written one! Its open arches frame pleasant
pictures of rich meadows, of woods beyond them, of blue hills beyond
again, with bits of sky peeping above. Says Disraeli, "Men moralise
amongst ruins"; here is a rare spot to moralise in for those so minded.
The abbey church is cruciform in plan, with a central tower ruined low;
its stout Norman pillars with their square capitals are very effective
in their suggestiveness of strength. There is a massive dignity,
purity, and simplicity about the architecture of Buildwas that pleases
the cultured eye; there is nothing petty or pretty about it, rather
perhaps it errs on the side of sternness, if it errs at all. Grace of
outline rather than ornamentation was evidently the monkish designer's
guiding inspiration, but what the building lacks in richness of detail
it gains in breadth and quiet harmony.
The site of the abbey in a valley formerly lonely and of much sylvan
beauty, with a river running by, was one that commended itself to the
Cistercians, and none were better judges of scenery than they. How did
the abbey come by its name? Some antiquaries assert that it came from
"beild," a shelter, and "was," a level; others declare, equally sure
they are correct, that it came from "build" and "was," a building by
the wash of the river. I am inclined to favour the former view; but
when learned antiquaries disagree, how shall a mere layman decide?
[Illustration: BUILDWAS ABBEY, LOOKING WEST.]
It was an unwelcome change, from the rural pleasantness of the country
about Buildwas, coming to the squalid and smoky town of Ironbridge in
Coalbrookdale, a town that climbs the steep hillside above the Severn,
and practically joins the almost as mean a town of Madeley above,
around which latter are numerous collieries with their tall chimneys
and heaps of slack, that scar and make hideous the countryside.
Ironbridge gains its name, of course, from the bridge of iron that
spans the Severn there in one bold arch. At the time of the building of
this bridge in 1779 it was considered a great engineering feat, even a
thing of beauty, though I saw no beauty in it excepting the curve of
its arch. Its black colour is out of tone with the landscape; it seems
to have no part in it. Now a bridge constructed of the local stone,
such as the monks would have built, would be in agreeable harmony with
the scene, and, growing grey with age, would not force its unwilling
attention on the traveller; moreover, stone does not need periodical
painting to keep it from rusting. Such a fine stone bridge as the one
that takes the old mail road over the Towy at Llandilo with one mighty
arch, how grandly effective a similar bridge would look spanning the
Severn boldly so at Ironbridge! There are one or two places called
Stonebridge in England, I believe, and to me the name has a pleasant
sound; but that of Ironbridge has not. I can imagine a picturesque
bridge of stone, perhaps old and weather-worn and stained, but what can
one imagine of an iron bridge but something very precise and proper?
Nothing about it with any appeal to sentiment. I believe that this
structure at Ironbridge was the first of the kind of any size that was
built in England, and was thought a wonder in its day. How distant
seems that day! Now people have ceased to wonder at it, or at anything
else. A wireless message from Mars would probably be but a nine days'
wonder; to fly across the Atlantic a no astonishing thing.
Climbing through Ironbridge to Madeley, I pulled up there to replenish
my petrol supply. Madeley has been called the "Methodists' Mecca," for
there lies buried the famous Methodist, the Rev. John Fletcher, of whom
Southey said, "He was a man of whom Methodism might well be proud as
the most able of its defenders." But what a Mecca! Whilst waiting for
my petrol I got a-chatting with a motor cyclist who was on the same
errand as I. I am afraid I made a not very complimentary remark about
the place to him, but he did not resent it. He even owned he thought
the same; but, said he, "I can tell you of something worth seeing
close by. There's an old house called Madeley Court not a mile away
that might interest you, and prove that there is something worth seeing
here. It's a grand old house, and worth a visit. Charles II. once hid
in it, they say. Lots of people go to photograph it." Then he kindly
described the way to it, "down a roughish and narrow lane"; but I
thought I might as well escape Madeley in that direction as well as any
other, in spite of the rough lane. On consulting my map I found Madeley
Court plainly marked upon it, so I presumed it was, or at least it had
been, a house of some importance. My road that day had provided me with
many pleasant surprises, and here was still the promise of another.