WARGRAVE AND NEIGHBOURHOOD
Wargrave is one of the most delightful of Thames-side villages. There
is not much that is old among the houses that line the village street;
thatch has almost gone. Wooden beams are not noticeable, except when
used in the modern architecture that imitates the old; the material
seen everywhere is red brick. Wind and weather, however, soon tone
down the asperities of red brick, and from the rich soil creepers
spring up quickly to cover it with loving tendrils; so the street
becomes a delightful medley of casement windows, gable ends, and bushy
foliage. Not the least of the charm is that each small house has its
own ideas about frontage, and entirely refuses to stand in line with
the rest. There are houses with their doorsteps in the roadway, and
houses modestly retiring behind bushes in their strip of garden. Here
is a wistaria with a stem as thick as a man's arm, and there roses
and sweetbriar, purple clematis and starry jasmine, succeeding and
intermingling. Wargrave has learnt to choose the good and refuse the
evil of the modern spirit; she is clean and self-respecting as some
villages will never learn to be. Her small shops are good of their
kind, but self-conscious she is not, or garish, or any other of the
horrible things associated with modernity.
[Illustration: THE CHURCH AT WARGRAVE]
The place centres about cross roads, but straggles in many directions,
and on the high ground surrounding it many a new house has been built
lately, and stands amid delightful grounds.
The church, which is near the open green, where grow fine trees, is
of flint, with a red-brick pinnacled tower, half ivy-covered. In the
church is buried Thomas Day, author of _Sandford and Merton_, who was
killed by a fall from his horse in 1789. A Norman doorway, a carved oak
pulpit black with age, and a huge family pew, tell of long survival,
and give the church the same touch of self-respecting dignity that the
village has. It can be seen from the water, peeping over greenery near
a backwater, with its tower overtopped by trees.
The whole of Wargrave is seen to advantage from the water or from the
meadows opposite. Many green lawns slope down to the brink, and the
height of the bushy elms is a thing to note. A few Lombardy poplars
break the fulness of the bosky foliage with their elongated ovals, and
that most graceful of all trees, the wych elm, curves his beautiful
lines in soft arches over the velvety lawns or smoothly-flowing water.
Witch elms that counterchange the floor
Of this flat lawn with dusk and bright;
And thou, with all thy breadth and height
Of foliage, towering sycamore.
--_Tennyson._
The river turns almost a right angle at Wargrave, and, from running
eastward, goes due north. The little village, being situated at the
bend, gets the benefit of both vistas. The George Hotel, indeed, stands
exactly at the angle, and the sweep of the water catches its wharf
with full force. It boasts a signboard painted by two R.A.s; this is
preserved indoors, while another swings as its proxy in the village
street. Placed as it is in regard to the river channel, and with the
wide flats of Shiplake meadows opposite, the hotel is exposed, and
the very openness of its garden, an attraction which draws hundreds of
summer visitors, makes it a butt for the racing winds of early spring.
It is a pretty hotel built of brick, with a white painted verandah,
after the usual river pattern; and a gigantic wistaria embowers all the
front in its delicate mauve in summer, while roses trained over trellis
work flash answering colour signals.
The view over the river includes the glowing sunsets, which leave a
slowly dying splendour behind a distant bank of trees.
And there was still, where day had set,
A flush that spoke him loth to die;
A last link of his glory yet
Binding together earth and sky.
--_Moore._
Looking up to the left is the railway bridge, which is not so ugly as
it might be; below, every hundred yards shows fresh beauties.
Wargrave backwater is one of the most noted on the river, and in
summer, or early spring, is a fairyland of greenery. The entrance is
behind the large willow-covered island that lies below the hotel. The
tiny arched bridge, not far in, is so low that one has to lie full
length in a boat in order to pass under it. This is called Fiddler's
bridge, though no local tradition keeps alive the origin of the name.
The gentle light shimmers down between the spear-leaved willows in a
veil of glory, and the stream is so narrow, one can almost touch the
banks with both hands at once. In the main stream meantime, there are
several islands decorated with the new rough stuccoed houses now so
popular in river architecture, and, at the end where the backwater
emerges again, there is a brightly-coloured boat-house. Beyond this,
again, is a long stretch where there are generally house-boats. In
winter, a little creek on the left bank is a kind of storehouse for
them. This is a fine wide reach, and above it rises Wargrave Hill with
its large white house conspicuously placed.
Further down, the river makes a succession of curves; and facing up
stream is Bolney Court, in a solid, old-fashioned style, of a dull
yellow colour, while, behind and around it, the deep blue-green of
Scotch firs is seen among the lighter foliage, and on the curving
heights which block the vista to the north, the heights above Henley,
these trees are conspicuous everywhere. Indeed, evergreens of all kinds
flourish well in the chalky soil about Wargrave.
The late C. J. Cornish said somewhere that Thames eyots always seem to
have been put in place by a landscape gardener, and those about Bolney
recall the words. They are thickly grown over by sedge and osiers, and
overshadowed by taller trees; between them, the channels of shining
water, half hidden half revealed, gain all the charm of elusiveness.
Has anyone ever reflected what a kindly thought it was of Nature's, to
arrange that trees growing on the water's edge should invariably take
an outward angle, so as to lean over the water? How much less effective
the result would have been had they grown inward, may be pictured by
imagining a river without reflections. In the stillness of a backwater,
or in the narrowed channel beside a large island, the beautiful effect
of this outward angle is best seen. If the channel be very narrow, the
trunks fold one behind the other in perspective, so as to form an arch
over a shining aisle. In the water, all the many-coloured gnarled stems
are smoothed by the gentle movement into something softer than the
rigid reality, with its hard knots of shadow. The different colouring
on the stems of the same species of tree is a thing to marvel at. From
the deep mahogany of a joint where the damp has made an open wound, to
the faint biscuit-colour of the place where a strip of bark has been
newly peeled off, the stems of pollarded willows furnish every brown
and yellow on a painter's palette. Many of them are richly crowned by
a head of ivy, whose satin-smooth leaves fall in garlands like locks,
and sway with every touch of air. These are reflected in the water as
a shaded mass of green with no detail.
There are so many varieties of willow that it is difficult for the
lay mind to remember them all, and numbers of them are to be seen
about Wargrave. It is the Crack willow and the White willow, with long
slender leaves, that are commonly pollarded as osiers, though they will
grow tall enough if they are allowed to. There is a legend that the
mournful droop of the leaves of the weeping willow is a reminiscence of
the sad time of the Captivity:
By the waters of Babylon we sat down and wept, when we
remembered thee, O Sion;
As for our harps, we hanged them up upon the willow trees
that grow therein.
Besides the willows, there are their cousins, the poplars, chief among
which, is the fine Populus tremula, whose leaves whisper perpetual
secrets, even on the stillest days. This is caused by the broad leaves
being attached to a slender flattened stalk. They are silky on the
wrong side, and when the wind blows through the foliage it turns a
soft greyish white, like a cottony mass. There is a legend that the
wood of this tree was used for the Cross, and that in consequence it
has trembled ever since, and so its leaves are in a perpetual state of
quivering.
The poplar, like the ash, is not kind to neighbouring trees, its
numerous suckers taking more than their share of nourishment and
moisture from the ground, and the leaves, when they fall, seem to be as
destructive as those of the beech, for grass will not grow where they
lie.
In spring, these trees shed their long catkins, like hairy
caterpillars, all over the water, and they are swept up in heaps into
every eddy.
In spite of the delights of summer, there is a time which well bears
comparison with it; I mean the first fine days of early spring, before
the rest of the world has awakened to the fact that winter is over.
And about Wargrave at such times there is to be found great charm by
those whose senses are alert. It is true that the splendid hedge that
lines the tow-path shows only the long withes of the creepers and no
starry flowers; that the graceful sprays of the wild rose now appear
barbed and polished and ferocious, instead of sweet and enticing. A
bush of barberry or berberis is not often seen in hedges, for the old
folk-lore taught that wheat never throve when the barberry was in the
hedge; therefore the farmers grubbed it up whenever they found it. But
science has confirmed the empirical wisdom of our fathers, for it was
discovered that the barberry furnishes the intermediate host for rust
in wheat. On the green river bank there are quivering blades of tender
green, but no flowers with their umbrella heads of white, or bunchy
yellow, or pale mauve. Yet still there are compensations. To begin
with, the river itself talks in spring as it never does in summer,
and what is better, one can hear it without the interruption of human
chatter or noise. One has the whole stretch to one's self, and attuning
one's ear to the key of that conversation, one can listen to it sucking
at the bank, flop-flopping under the prow of one's punt, chuckling
as it races past the pole, and, laughing a little silvery laugh of
merriment, that we call rippling--a word we have learnt to adapt to our
poor human attempts in the same direction. The river sprites are with
us, and very busy they are--ceaselessly busy about nothing at all, and
so happy in their activity that to hear them is to laugh for right good
fellowship. The wind is in the water, urging them on faster and faster;
each wavelet has its crest of foam, and, in the heights and hollows
ahead there is every shade of green, from emerald to olive. One must be
very still in order to imbibe the real spirit of the scene, for they
are shy, these river nymphs, as shy as the birds and beasts that live
around them, and have learned the fear of tempestuous man. A shy-bold
wren, with a sudden glint of sunlight on his rich brown back, flies
to the edge of the water where the punt lies drifting, and then darts
back in haste to the shelter of that commanding hedge he never likes to
leave. His pertness is all in his appearance; never did looks so belie
a timid character! A water-hen, startled by the sudden dip of the pole,
flies out of the reeds close by, and skims in a swift low line to the
islet opposite; her smooth dark body, with the elongated neck and scant
tail, resembles an Eastern water skin.
There is a gentle continuous whispering among the reeds, as if they
questioned themselves, with quiet disapprobation, why the river was
always in such a hurry. From the field behind the hedge comes the
sweet scream of a wheeling peewit, and two large wood-pigeons flap
noisily from the tall trees on the island, a very picture of contented
domesticity.
We slide on gently, close by the tow-path, until the tall hedge comes
to an end, and the green meadows stretch right away from the lip of the
river, and around them rise the tree-crowned heights in a semicircle,
like the tiers of a giant amphitheatre.
Flop! A water rat dives furtively. Though called a rat, he is in
reality a vole, and is almost exclusively graminivorous; in this
differing from his namesake, the real rat, which also haunts river
banks, especially near mills. With hoarse squawk, a wild duck rises
heavily from cover, and after the first difficult spiral, wings off
like an arrow, his long neck extended. It is a day of cloud and shadow,
and suddenly the light breaks out on the trees ahead with a wild
freshness that makes one catch one's breath. It races up stream, and
the dun is turned to gold at the touch of its breath. The sweetness of
early spring is in the air and in our blood; the larks feel it as they
rise:
Sounds of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass,
Rain-awaken'd flowers,
All that ever was
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.
--_Shelley._
And there is a stirring of sap and juice in things--small things deep
down in dark holes and corners, and in all green and growing things.
After this, how cloying the richness of summer, with its still days,
its glaring reflections, the luscious foliage, and the overpowering
scents--the thought of it strikes one's senses as the thought of a
hothouse would strike a child of the moor and the mountain. And when
we remember Wargrave regatta, with its crowded banks, its lined shores,
its flags a-flutter, and its noise, we are thankful that August is afar
off.
Though we have wandered down stream, the bit above Wargrave is equally
attractive. Just beyond the railway bridge the river Loddon flows into
the Thames. To pass up it and its tributary, St. Patrick's stream,
is no easy feat; yet by using this loop the lock may be evaded, and
it is the only place on the river where such a trick is possible. It
is, however, far the best to explore this by-way from the other end
and to come down stream by its means. To reach it, one must go high
up above the lock, beyond the last of the chain of islands which here
breaks the channel, and there turn in under a small bridge, into this
curious tributary, which starts from the river and returns to it again.
It flows at first through wide flat meadows, and then bifurcates, one
branch, blocked by a weir, communicating again with the Thames, and the
other falling into the Loddon, and with it rejoining the main river.
Part of St. Patrick's stream is fringed by well-grown uniform pollard
willows that hedge it like a wall. In summer, when the meadows are
rich in buttercups, and the wind hums softly over the clover, bringing
wafts of scent, and many a quaint weed adds its note of colour to the
general harmony, it is very charming. But the most delightful feature
is the growth of the Leucojum æstivum, or summer snowflake, which is so
numerous that it is popularly known as the Loddon lily. This is like
a large snowdrop in which several blooms spring from one head. It is
also to be found on several of the islands in the main river near, but
is not abundant there. The Loddon itself rises far inland: Twyford gets
its name from lying near two branches, a twy-ford. The stream is slow,
and it is only the swift current of St. Patrick that enlivens it lower
down.
Above the mouth of the Loddon there lies an interesting bit of the
river. On a large island, owned by the Corporation of London, stands
the lock-keeper's cottage, and opposite to it, on the mainland, a
delightful old mill-house with tiled roof, and that weather-worn,
rather battered appearance, which all self-respecting mill-houses aim
at as the perfection of ripeness. The long tongue of the lock island
projects down stream like the nose of a pike. In winter, the little
moorhens, partly tamed by hunger, and reassured by the absence of those
noisy humans who come in such numbers in warmer weather, run about
all over it. Other things run too, all the year round; the lock-keeper
has a fine stock of hens, but accepts philosophically the fact that he
can never rear any chickens "because of the rats." The rats, which are
attracted by the ample stores at the mill-house, and find such variety
of lodgings along the banks of the stream and in the crevices of the
much worn woodwork, are the pest of these places.
The island is a popular camping ground, and the pitches are generally
secured early in the season, having been well prepared beforehand
by being laid in sand and flints to ensure a dry foundation. There
are also a tiny bungalow, to be had for two guineas the week, and a
bathing place available. Altogether a very attractive island. The main
stream races over the weir, forming a wide tumbling pool below, and on
the other side of the island there is a pleasant stretch down to the
lock. These lock channels are among some of the most charming places
on the river. They are generally very still, with the mass of water
hardly moving. On some days every twig is reflected, and the view in
this particular one is well worth looking at, as, with the group of
the mill buildings rising high on one side, and the cottage with its
accompaniment of standard roses on the other, there are the elements
of a most satisfactory composition. The meadows slope down at just
that angle that shows them off to the best advantage; they are dotted
with fine trees and are crowned by clumps of wood, from which sounds
the homely cawing of rooks. The red cows stand knee-deep in the placid
water, lashing at the flies with their tails; and on the other side is
a mass of greenery:
I ...
Walked forth to ease my pain
Along the shore of silver streaming Thames;
Whose rutty bank, the which his river hems,
Was painted all with variable flowers,
And all the meads adorned with dainty gems
Fit to deck maidens' bowers.
* * * * *
Sweet Thames! run softly till I end my song.
--_Spenser._
Shiplake stands high above the flat meadows by the river bank. The
little flint church, in which Tennyson was married, has a prettily
buttressed tower, and around it grow many tall evergreens and waving
trees. There are also some interesting old frescoes on the walls, two
representing St. Christopher, who seems particularly appropriate in a
river church. From the porch, down between two rows of shrubs, one can
look on to the top of a mass of trees, which shuts out a bend of the
silver river, and beyond them see the blue distance, miles and miles
away. Mrs. Climenson, whose book on Shiplake was privately printed,
suggests that the name originated in schiff-laacken, for the story goes
that when the Danes got so far, their boats stuck on the shoals, and
their commander ordered them to be burnt, to prevent a possibility of
retreat.