Little country towns--The romance of the ferry--"The Bear" at
Woodstock--Curious conditions of tenure--Where the Black Prince
was born--Islip--The mystery of Joseph's Stone--An English
Holland--Boarstall Tower--The ancient town of Brill--"Acres for
Aeroplanes"--Stokenchurch--A quaint hiring fair.
After Highworth we had a hilly road, and this took us without event to
Faringdon, where it chanced to be market day, and the little town was
crowded with farmers and cattle; there were crowds in its streets, and
crowds round its inns, so we made what haste we could to get out of the
place. These little country towns, however sleepy generally, manage to
be very wide-awake once a week on market days. A long, quiet stretch of
road now followed, with wide views on either hand over fertile farming
lands. A signpost informed us we were bound for Abingdon; now Abingdon
we knew, so to avoid the familiar we after a time turned up a byway
and, crossing the Upper Thames on an ancient and very narrow bridge, we
presently espied another signpost with "North Moor" upon it; the name
suggested wildness, to North Moor we would go. We got on a rare tangle
of lanes and into a land monotonously level, but no moor did we find,
nothing but hedge-enclosed and tame fields. Curiously enough signposts
were plentiful, but only gave the names of villages we had never heard
of, and one name meant as much, or as little, to us as another.
Eventually we found ourselves by the side of the river again and at
Bablockhythe Ferry, of which Matthew Arnold has sung. I asked the name
of it, and then I found it on my map, and so our whereabouts. The
old ferry boat, the quiet river that was so still it hardly seemed
to flow at all, the leafy trees, and the road on the opposite shore
winding its white way into a distance of green woods, made such a
pretty picture that I was tempted to photograph it. Were I a poet or a
landscape painter it is a spot that would inspire me. I waited a long
time on the chance of some cattle or sheep to be crossing and so help
my picture, but during that time only a cyclist came, and I had to
make do with him. The ferryman pulled up his boat to the bank thinking
I was about to "go over," but when he told me the opposite road went
to Oxford, and it was the nearest way there, I concluded I would not
cross but trust to the lanes and the chance of coming upon a country
hostel in a fresh land. "Where be you bound for?" asked the ferryman
politely. "I might help you, for the roads about here are not gain ones
for strangers"--and this though he lost custom for his ferry. It was
an awkward question, for I knew not myself, and was nonplussed how to
answer him. To be a traveller without a destination seems such a silly
thing to the rural mind. I hope he did not take me for some lunatic
escaped in a car. It was cool by the river, for the day was growing
late, and I thought it about time to search for an inn. There was only
a public-house by the ferry, and the land around had a lonely look, so
I thought it wise to hasten on.
I cannot reason why, for some things are not open to reason, but like
an old manor-house (moated or otherwise) or a wayside inn of the
Jacobean days, of which a few are still left to us, a lonely ferry
always appeals to me with a sense of romance. There is something
so primitive and picturesque about a lonely old-fashioned ferry,
especially those one finds in the far-away Fens, that I cannot get away
from my mind a feeling of adventure connected with such: even the one
at Bablockhythe has a certain far-from-everywhere look about it, and
I gave myself up to the illusion of the spot, an illusion not only of
space but of time; and I verily believe just then, when in that mood,
if a gaily dressed Cavalier had appeared on the scene fleeing in hot
haste from his pursuers with the hurried cry of "Over," I should have
taken it quite as a matter of course. I have watched patiently by a
very out-of-the-world Fenland ferry I know, always in the vain hope
of adventure; yet so has the spirit of the place got hold of me that
I feel surely one day, when again I am there, some strange experience
will come to me.
[Illustration: BABLOCKHYTHE FERRY.]
Very lonely, very winding and narrow were the lanes we got on, but if
you travel far enough you are sure to arrive somewhere, so we arrived
at Stanton Harcourt, a well-known spot to Oxford men, and where the old
home of the Harcourts stands with its ancient and chimneyless kitchen,
a building apart from the house with a pyramidical roof having a louvre
at the top, out of which the smoke escapes as it can. This curious
detached kitchen closely resembles the famous one at Glastonbury Abbey,
so at least I thought from a passing glance at it. If there was an inn
at Stanton Harcourt we missed it, and so we drove on, and shortly came
to Eynsham, where I noticed its medieval stone cross in the street by
the side of the church. Finding no inn to my liking, I consulted my
map and discovered that Woodstock was not far off. Now at Woodstock I
knew there was a good inn of the old-fashioned sort, so to Woodstock
we went; and so in the gloaming, with the soft light of declining day
giving all the landscape a mysterious look, we sped on the few miles to
"The Bear" at that town.
The great stableyard of "The Bear" is a graphic reminder of the
spacious inns of the coaching era of which it has been said, "A
regiment of cavalry might have been housed in them, and good wine could
be had for the ordering." You may order good wine now at country inns,
and pay the price of it, but if you think to get good wine I can only
say, I hope you may. Though I do know one or two old inns whose cellars
contain some rare old port that has lain in them for years; in one
case, the worthy landlord told me, "since the last coach took its last
change here," which may be but pleasant fiction, I cannot say; still,
in truth, the wine is very old, very rare and good. I have sampled it,
and hope to sample it again as long as the bin lasts, for such wine is
not to be had every day, not even for money.
There were only two other guests at "The Bear" that night; they came
from Yorkshire, they said--I did not ask them--and the only thing they
talked about was horses. They even dated their remarks from the day,
or year, a certain horse won the Derby, or some other horse that had
won some other race. I stood it for an hour or two, then called for my
candle, as travellers did in the days before gas or electricity, and
"to bed," as Pepys has it.
I did not visit the show-house of Blenheim, for I had seen it before;
moreover, show-houses are not to my mind. It may, however, be
interesting to call attention to the conditions on which the Blenheim
estate is held, which estate was granted by a grateful nation to the
first Duke of Marlborough and his heirs in recognition of the famous
victory of Blenheim, in Bavaria, on 2nd August 1704. "A representative
of the family has once a year to convey to Windsor Castle an
embroidered flag, which is placed in the Guards' Chamber. There it
remains for a twelvemonth, till the next rental for holding the palace
and the estate falls due. It is the only return the family have to make
for the property they enjoy."
Next morning, on strolling round the town, I saw in a shop window a
picture postcard, and on it a photograph of "The Manor-House Farm,
birthplace of the Black Prince, Woodstock." It came as a surprise
to me to learn that the Black Prince, "that mirror of knighthood and
the greatest of heroes," was born there; so I gleaned, as I travelled
on, many a forgotten historical happening. To take a schoolboy a trip
through England in a motor-car would be an excellent way of increasing
his knowledge of its history. The manor-house is very old, though I
take it, except perhaps in parts, little of the original structure can
be left. The house has a pleasant look, and possesses a curious old
chimney consisting of a stone shaft having a conical roof, the shaft
being pierced on all sides at its top with lancet openings for the
smoke to escape. The chimney looks as though it ought not to smoke
whatever the way of the wind, and that with it a down draught should be
an impossibility; it is a picturesque device that might be worth trying
in place of the ugly cowls. Finding nothing further to interest me in
the sunny and sleepy little town, I took my early departure whilst yet
the day was fresh and cool.
Out of Woodstock I found myself on the old highway leading to Oxford,
but I did not travel it far, taking a lane to the left with a view of
exploring that rather remote and out-of-the-way district lying in a
rough square between Oxford and Bicester, Aylesbury and Thame--at least
it looked out of the way on my map, only served by narrow roads; and
on my map I noticed a vacant place marked "Ot Moor," an odd name, with
"Joseph's Stone" also marked in the centre of the moor. I wondered
what that stone could be so plainly shown there, some "Druidical
Standing Stone" perhaps; it aroused my curiosity; and beyond these,
in the direction I was going, "Boarstall Tower" was inscribed in
bold lettering, also the forsaken little town of Brill. I felt in
an exploring mood that day, and here was an odd corner of the land
inviting me to explore it. First I came to Islip, a bleak-looking
and tiny town of stone houses, yet a town of some importance in its
day; but that was a long time ago, when King Ethelred had his palace
there, in which his son Edward the Confessor was born, he who founded
Westminster Abbey. Shortly afterwards our road led us across lonely Ot
Moor, and through the quaint village of Oddington, quaint as becomes
its quaint name. Here I inquired about Joseph's Stone, and was told
that a big stone of that name once stood on the moor, but "it has been
broken up"; nothing further of its history could I glean, nor found I
any mention of it in any guide-book I afterwards consulted, nor in any
other likely work, nor did any of my antiquarian friends know anything
about it. I was disappointed. As the stone is not now there, has not
been there, except in bits, for long years, why do they still mark it
on the map? It is so provoking to see places marked on the map, and
conspicuously marked, that arouse your curiosity, only to find they do
not exist. It was the same on Salisbury Plain; there at a spot by the
roadside between Wylye and Devizes was printed plainly on my map "St.
John á Gores Cross." I believe that a wayside stone cross once stood
there, but when that was no one seems to know. Now there is no vestige
of it, not even its stump in the ground. Possibly it was destroyed
by the Puritans. Now, trusting to my map, I went miles out of my way
purposely to see it. I look upon a map as a faithful friend, and one
does not like to find a friend at fault.
Now succeeded a level stretch of lowland country that had a look of
Holland, excepting that the cottage homes by the way were distinctly
not Dutch. A land where the eye had freedom to rove over wide spaces
of green right away to a circling horizon of blue, and a wild wind
swept over it, fresh, cool, and laden with the pungent scent of marsh
flowers--as fresh and cool as the wind that sweeps over the sea, only
without its salt savour. The wind was making holiday; it tossed the
long grasses and reeds about, it bent down the hedges before it, it
made mimic waves and Lilliputian tempests on the ponds that we passed.
It is wind that gives life to a scene, and the strife of it stirred the
blood in our veins. We rejoiced in the wind, for it came from the west,
with just a suspicion of keenness, but no harshness, of greeting.
In spite of the wind and the sur, sur, sur of it, the whole countryside
gave me the impression of great quietude. I could allow for the
wind--it would not blow so every day; few people were in the fields,
and those few seemed to be taking life easy, contentedly doing little;
the hedges were delightfully tangled, a disgrace to good farming it may
be, but that is a matter apart. Perhaps they needed some pruning, but
they best pleased my eye just wild as they were, growing as Nature
would have them. It was a land to laze in, to do nothing in haste; only
the wind stirred it up to a semblance of passion. There was no flow in
the streams that one could perceive; it was a relief to come to a land
that suggested nothing but rest. The interfering political economist
might well shake his head at all this, but I was out for my pleasure,
without a thought of what he might say. It was so peace-bestowing,
and that was its charm. It was a land of health rather than a land
of wealth--and who shall say that health is not the better thing?--a
land that conformed to no canon of beauty, but none the less pleasing
to me. I will wager that no one grew prematurely old from overwork
in it: why should he? Mere money-making is the bane of the age; it
gives a man no time to call his soul his own. "If a person," says
Stevenson, "cannot be happy without remaining idle, idle he should
remain. It is a revolutionary precept." It is. I do not go so far. I
only protest against money-making at the price of much leisure, the
making of money for money's sake only. I knew a man who toiled hard
all the week at his desk in a stuffy city office at the cost of his
health, and what for?--to keep up a needlessly pretentious home with
gardeners and carriage. One day, he confessed to me, the folly of all
this forcibly struck him; he had so little leisure to enjoy his family
or home. He thought the matter carefully over and for long, and he
came to the conclusion that by working half the time he should lose
half his income; on the other hand, he would have half the week to
himself that he could devote to his wife and the pleasures of home. So
he gave up his large house, he dismissed his gardeners, he did away
with his carriage, and took a pretty little cottage where, on his
reduced income, he could live in comfort, though without the luxuries
of gardeners and carriage; and his wife, too, had less cares in the
management of a smaller home. So happy was he and every one in the new
conditions that, though his partners laughed at him and deemed him a
fool, he declared to me that nothing would induce him to return to his
former slavery, as he called it. He was an infinitely happier man, his
family were happier too, and he enjoyed such health as he had never
known since he was a schoolboy free from all but fancied care.
From this leisured land a stiff climb brought us on to high ground
and into a lighter, more exciting air. On the lowland we were content
to laze along, and desired to laze so; here we must needs speed for
a while, for the country was open and things not seen in detail; for
there is a pace at which you can best enjoy and appreciate the type
of country passed through: here, not the foreground but the distance
allured us. When you see far ahead, and all is revealed before you, as
in a stretch of open road over a wide moorland, your eye is ever on the
horizon that beckons you on to explore the unknown, and you cannot, if
human, resist its attraction. That is the magic of distance.
At a turn in the road, in a lonely spot, we caught a glimpse through
branching trees of the grey old tower of Boarstall: no longer the
distance held us in thrall; its power was gone. Boarstall, with its
four flanking and embattled towers, is all that remains of a once
fortified house. There are narrow arrow-slits in the towers that show
their ancientness, but the large front and mullioned side windows do
not suggest so early a date or a place of much defensive strength;
doubtless they were added in later years under a feeling of greater
security. The house that stood in the moat-enclosed ground beyond has
now wholly disappeared. Boarstall, however, was strengthened during
the Civil Wars, well garrisoned, and held for the king. Lord Clarendon
in his _History of the Rebellion_ says: "Fairfax attempted to take a
poor house near Boarstall, and was beaten from thence with considerable
loss, so that he drew off his men, little to his credit." Before the
siege the following correspondence took place between the commanders of
the besiegers and the besieged:--
SIR THOMAS FAIRFAX TO SIR WILLIAM CAMPION
_3 June 1645._
SIR--I send you this summons before I proceed to further
extremities, to deliver up to me the house of Borstall you now hold,
with all the ordinance, arms, and ammunition therein, for the use
and service of the kingdom, which if you shall agree unto, you may
expect civility and fair respect, otherwise you may draw upon yourself
those inconveniences which I desire may be prevented. I expect your
answer by this trumpet within one hour.--Your Servant, THOMAS
FAIRFAX.
This is the spirited reply that Fairfax received to his summons:
SIR WILLIAM CAMPION TO SIR THOMAS FAIRFAX
In answer.
SIR--You have sent me a summons of a surrender of this
house for the service of the kingdom. I thought that cant had been
long ere this very stale (considering the King's often declarations
and protestations to the contrary), now sufficient only to cozen
women and poor ignorant people: for your civilities, so far as they
are consonant to my honour, I embrace: in this place I absolutely
apprehend them as destructive not only to my honour, but also to
my conscience. I am therefore ready to undergo all inconveniences
whatsoever, rather than submit to any, much less those, so
dishonourable and unworthy propositions, this is the resolution of,
Sir, yours, WILLIAM CAMPION.
So the siege began.
Boarstall Tower stands a picturesque reminder of "the brave days of
old," with its embattled towers and weather-beaten walls. Crossing
the broad and brimming moat by a stone bridge (with the date of 1735
upon it) that replaces the drawbridge of past times, I found the door
locked, so I inquired of a farmhouse close by if it were possible to
see the building. The maid who responded to my summons said she thought
so, and presently returned with the key and permission to view it.
Even with the key I found some difficulty in gaining admission, for
the ancient and possibly rusty lock was hard to turn, and the door
creaked complainingly on its hinges. Within, the building apparently
has suffered little change since the Jacobean days: the towers contain
dark circular stairs of stone, and odd and gloomy little rooms reached
by narrow passages through the thick walls; but there is one large,
well-lighted, and even cheerful apartment on the top. Judging from the
size of the gate-house, the original house which it served must have
been one of some importance. Though Clarendon calls it "a poor house,"
I take it this was intended in a military sense. Boarstall must have
been a thorn in the side of the Parliamentarians, not being far from
Oxford, and by the "constant mischievous incursions of its garrison."
The old tower makes a telling subject for the pencil, brush, or camera,
as I trust my photograph proves. I hardly think Boarstall is as well
known as it deserves to be. Situated in an out-of-the-way corner of the
land, remote from main roads, it is not easy to find, but well worth
finding.
The tradition of the origin of the name Boarstall is curious. It
appears that "once upon a time"--that convenient "once upon a
time"--it was in the centre of the royal forest of Bemwode, and that
"a tremendous wild boar, the terror of the inhabitants," haunted it,
and was eventually slain by one Nigel, the forester, who as a reward
received a grant of land by tenure of a horn, and on the land he built
a house and called it "Borrestalle" in memory of the slain boar.
[Illustration: BOARSTALL TOWER FROM THE MOAT.]
A little beyond Boarstall the country became wild and open again, and
there before us, perched right on the top of a bleak, isolated hill, a
hill much scarred with clay pits, stood the odd, little, out-of-date
town of Brill. Odd, little, out-of-date town--that just describes it,
there is no need for more words: on its hill stands one of, I think,
the oldest windmills I have ever seen working, an ancient wooden
structure with canvas sails, a mill of the kind the old masters put in
their pictures, so old must it be. Brill at one time actually tried to
transform itself into a fashionable watering-place, a spring of mineral
waters having been discovered there, said by experts to be superior
even to those of Bath. But the attempt turned out a failure; for the
success of such an adventure a place needs something beyond a mere
mineral spring. Prosperity and popularity require pretty or interesting
surroundings, decent roads, and, above all, reasonable accessibility.
Brill, though bracing in situation, has none of these other needful
advantages. Yet a pretentious pump-room was built with every required
accessory, including a spacious reception-room, all in the Doric style;
these are now hastening to decay, and Brill is left to its solitude.
Possibly if you asked the average man where Brill is, he would
respond, "I never heard of the place." So should I have done before I
discovered it and learnt the unfortunate history of its bold and, to
me, apparently hopeless bid for popularity, of which nothing came. I am
glad it did not, for it is a quaint old town, and deserves to remain so.
Beyond Brill a winding lane brought us to Long Crendon that possesses
an interesting old Court House of the fifteenth century, and a fine old
Tudor gateway, and shortly after this we found ourselves at Thame, and
there we took a by-road to our right that for some miles led us through
a quiet, pastoral land, and eventually we came out on the main London
to Oxford road. Then we drove eastward. This portion of the Oxford
road as far as to West Wycombe runs through very pleasant country, as
the many motorists who travel it well know, affording in parts wide
prospects over a well-wooded country and climbing the Chilterns with
many windings through a fragrant forest of firs.
At the hamlet of Tetsworth we noticed its rambling, brick-built,
and time-dimmed old coaching inn, and on its ancient front a board
inscribed "Petrol." How times have changed--petrol in place of corn
and hay for the passing steed of many horse power, even forty at
times; machinery in place of muscle! At another old coaching inn, on a
previous journey, I noticed a bold advertisement that ran briefly thus,
"Acres for Aeroplanes." I did not take this seriously, though there
was ample space in the hostel's large and open field for the landing
of aeroplanes; but that an ancient inn should display such a sign at
all gave me food for thought. Twice during my journey did I wholly
unexpectedly see an aeroplane flying overhead, on one occasion when I
was stopping in a village; and though the village folk looked up to see
it, attracted by the noise of its engines, I hardly think they regarded
it with more curiosity, or as a thing more wonderful, than they
regarded the motor-car when it first appeared on the road. The miracle
of to-day is but the commonplace of to-morrow, and how soon it becomes
the commonplace! "The Swan" at Tetsworth is a building of some size,
and, though it still entertains wayfarers, has such a forlorn look that
I felt quite sorry for the poor old place. Once it was known as "the
great inn at Tetsworth," and was the scene of much noisy revelry; when
we were there we saw no sign of life about the place.
To the ancient wayside tavern
Comes the noisy throng no more.
Even the motor-car does not appear to have revived its fortunes. There
we pulled up for petrol, not that we required it, but it was an excuse
to linger about the old inn, for, though I cannot say exactly why, it
mildly fascinated me; the building, old and weather-stained, with its
broad front to the street, told its silent tale of past days and doings
as eloquently and plainly as though it were told on the printed page.
After much waiting I procured the petrol I did not want, and, more to
the point, I obtained a glance within at the inn's ancient chambers;
they had a faded, antiquated look, not, to me, altogether displeasing;
I think I could have spent the night at "The Swan" quite comfortably
had I needed. It is an inn of memories.
Then followed a level stretch of open, cheerful, and sunlit road, with
extensive prospects over a rich green land to a long line of low and
undulating hills; after this a winding ascent through fragrant woods
brought us presently to the bleak little village of Stokenchurch,
situated high up on the top of the Chilterns, and there I caught
sight of another old decayed coaching inn, but, to my eye, this was a
hard-featured, unattractive building, wholly lacking in that peculiar,
indescribable character that suggests a romantic past, for buildings
have their characters as well as men: some appeal to you, some do not.
A little beyond Stokenchurch began the long and steep descent of the
famous Dashwood Hill, at the foot of which we found ourselves in the
sleepy village of West Wycombe, with one or two rather curious old
houses, but having nothing else to boast of. High Wycombe succeeded to
West Wycombe; there is but a short and an uninteresting mile or two
between them. High Wycombe is an old-fashioned, wide-streeted town,
as those who travel the Oxford road are aware, with rather a quaint,
much-mellowed, red-brick market-hall raised on stone arches. At High
Wycombe the curious custom of Michaelmas hiring still prevails and
flourishes. I think a short account of this that I cull from a local
paper of the past year may prove interesting:--
Yesterday one of the oldest Michaelmas hiring fairs in England was
witnessed in our ancient market-place. From a wide radius, including
parts of the three counties of Bucks, Berks, and Oxon, farmers
and agricultural employees in all spheres flocked into the town
early in the morning. The attendance was large, and there was a
general disposition to "change hands," though the average terms of
remuneration showed very little alteration. Several old-time customs
still prevail, both at the hiring and in regard to the conditions
upon which the farm hands are engaged for the ensuing twelve months.
For instance, ploughmen decorate their button-holes with pieces of
whipcord to denote their distinctive calling, shepherds display tufts
of wool in their forelocks and their caps, and other farm hands
utilise horsehair and fancy ribbons and rosettes for their personal
adornment.
A good deal of time was occupied in making the best terms, and in
accordance with the precedent of many years' standing, the engagements
were conditional on the supplying of beer, or harvest money in its
place.
Leaving High Wycombe we followed a while the side of the little river
Wye that turns an ancient mill on its way, and across the river rose
some of the beautiful beech-clad hills for which Buckinghamshire is
so justly famed. There is something about the form and growth of the
close-leafed beech that causes it to clothe the hills with a graceful
and following contour that no other tree does.
Now an unattractive five miles of road, with a climb on the way and
at the end of it, brought us to the elevated and breezy little town
of Beaconsfield that, considering it is within twenty-four miles of
London, has retained its ancient air surprisingly; for its low, old
houses, that face its wide and quiet street, still possess a pleasant
and ancient look that charms. The town seems almost as remote and
dreamy as though it were somewhere far away in the distant shires. May
it long retain its primitive character! but I doubt it, for the railway
has at last found it out.