BOULTER'S LOCK AND MAIDENHEAD
[Illustration]
Human beings are by nature sociable; and to state that a crowd of
well-dressed people will be at a certain point of the river at a
particular date, is to ensure that everyone else who possibly can
will be there too--only better dressed. It would seem to the ordinary
ungregarious bachelor that Boulter's Lock, the Sunday after Ascot,
would be a place to avoid, for there will be the necessity of waiting
for hours on a river--grilling in the sun if the day be fine, or
shivering if the day be cloudy; for the English climate never lacks
the spice of uncertainty, and at this season of the year it is more
capricious than usual. The middle of June is proverbially a time of
roses, but it is just as likely to be a time for chills, at least so
says the pessimist. To the optimist and he who "loves his fellow-men,"
Boulter's Lock, on this one day of the year, reveals itself to memory
as a day of delight and flashing colour; he has only to shut his
eyes to recall a scene as brilliant as a flower garden. Here, close
to him, lies a long, flat-bottomed punt, with gay cushions on which
lean two fair girls, their faces toned to a pink glow by the sun's
rays penetrating gently through their rose-pink sunshades. Their
large flapping hats are tied under their chins with huge bows of
ribbon as pink as their cheeks; their soft, white muslin dresses lie
in folds and frills and heaps bewildering to contemplate; they are
exactly, exasperatingly, absurdly alike. "How can a woman be such an
idiot as to duplicate her charms?" the onlooker exclaims to himself;
but he looks again. Dark eyes dancing as merrily as the ripples on
the breeze-stirred water; chatter and laugh; and babble as soft and
meaningless as the gurgle of the little tributary stream; textures of
fabric as delicate as the flowers peeping over the grey stone walls
from the lock-keeper's garden above; dainty arms bare to the elbow;
Japanese umbrellas jewelled in the sunlight; striped awnings, as gay
as Joseph's coat, flapping softly; the long low outlines of craft
of every kind, skiff and dingey and canoe, from the smoothly gliding
little electric launch to the heavy clinker-built boat on hire for its
tenth season; these items make up a scene quite unlike anything else.
For half a mile below the lock you could step across a solid bridge of
boats over half the river. Some years ago, the homely serge and sailor
straw-hat were considered the proper river costume; now, the straw is
worn only by men, whose severe flannels show little alteration from
year to year, for men are much more conservative in sartorial matters
than women. And every tantalising muslin, lace, and flower-decked hat
is considered suitable for a woman on the river. The more fantastic
and enormous, the more gauzy and lace-trimmed, the better. And, as her
grandmother did, the young girl dresses in the thinnest of muslins and
lawns, wears an open neck in the day time, and elbow sleeves.
[Illustration: BOULTER'S LOCK, ASCOT SUNDAY]
In pushing forward between the open lock-gates into the lock, a slender
canoe fits into an almost impossible space between the electric launch
and the punt. A heavily weighted boatload, where four elderly women
are rowed by one heated man, falls foul of its neighbour and has to be
righted. The chatter is silenced for a moment, but rises again when
the craft are fitted, like the pieces in an old fashioned puzzle,
inside the green and slimy walls, which throw a deep shadow on one
side. Then the gates are shut, and a wash and gurgle of water begins,
delightfully cool to hear. A nervous girl gives a little shriek and
jumps so that every boat is set a-rocking, as all are touching. Others
laugh. It is impossible to upset, for there is no room. The whole
gently swaying mass rises on the breast of the rising water up out of
the shadow into the sunlight; into the view of the waiting crowds on
the tow-path. Colours flash out once more; an excited little dog rushes
yapping from stem to stern of his boat, and finally, with a vigorous
jump, lands on the lock-keeper's garden, where there is a profusion of
sweet old-fashioned flowers, and such roses as grow nowhere but by the
river-side. Then, to the accompaniment of the dog's frantic barks, the
massive gates creak backward on their hinges, and we ride forward into
the wide expanse of the sparkling river. Only a few boats await the
opening of the lock here, for, at this time of day, more are going up
than coming down. But behind, away below the lock, a chaotic flotilla
has once more collected, and may have to wait for hours, for it is
rather like the process of ladling the river up in a tablespoon.
[Illustration: BELOW BOULTER'S LOCK]
This reach at Maidenhead, is one of the most popular on the river. On
each side of the wide stone bridge half a mile below the lock, Taplow
and Maidenhead face one another. But though popular and easy of access,
being on the Great Western Railway, which runs quick trains at frequent
intervals, both stations are a little distance from the river. The
name Maidenhead is derived from Maiden-hithe, or wharf, as a large
wharf for wood at one time stood near the bridge. The bridge itself,
though a modern fabric, is of ancient lineage, for we know that in
1352 a guild was formed for the purpose of keeping it in repair. It
may be remembered that bridges at that time were considered works of
charity, and competed with masses and alms as a means of doing good
posthumously.
Another blissed besines is brigges to make,
That there the pepul may not passe [_die_] after great
showres,
Dole it is to drawe a deed body oute of a lake,
That was fulled in a fount-stoon, and a felow of ours.
And in _Piers Plowman_:
Therewith to build hospitals, helping the sick,
Or roads that are rotten full rightly repair,
Or bridges, when broken, to build up anew.
[Illustration: MAIDENHEAD]
The main road between London and Bath, a well-known coaching road,
runs this way, and a very good road it is. The railway bridge crosses
below the road, but it is of brick with wide arches, and is by no
means unsightly. Between the two is the River-side club, where a band
plays on the smooth green lawn in the season, and the smartest of
smart costumes are the rule. Near here also is Bond's boat-house and a
willow-grown islet. There are numbers of steps and railings and landing
stages, all painted white, and these give a certain lightness to the
scene. Close by the bridge are several hotels, of which the oldest
established is Skindle's, low-lying and creeper-covered, on the Taplow
side. Boats for hire line the banks everywhere, for many cater for the
wants of the butterfly visitor, out of whom enough must be taken in the
season to carry the establishments on through the winter; and the river
visitor is essentially a butterfly. Few know the charms of the Thames
in the winter, when, in an east and west stretch, the glowing red ball
of the sun sinks behind dun banks of mist; when the trees are leafless,
and the skeleton branches are outlined against a pale clear sky; when
a touch of frost is in the air, and the river glides so stilly that it
almost seems asleep.
A bitter day, that early sank
Behind a purple frosty bank
Of vapour, leaving night forlorn.
--_Tennyson._
The visitor goes to the river in the summer because of its coolness,
and though the coolness is ofttimes delusive, being in appearance
rather than reality, lying in the sight of the sparkles and the sound
of the ripples, yet it is a fine make-believe. Such river-side hotels
as cater for the season are content to lie dormant all the chill
long winter, until, with the breath of early spring, the celandines
raise their polished golden faces and the lords and ladies stud the
hedgerows. Then a few adventurous beings come down on the first fine
days, like the early swallows, a portent that summer is at hand; and
these lucky people have the river largely to themselves, and do not
find lovers in every attractive backwater; and if they have to row to
keep themselves warm, they gain an increase of vigour that no burning
summer sun can give.
The view from Maidenhead Bridge northwards--for here the river runs due
south--is spoilt by the gasometers which rise over the willow-covered
islets. But once past Boulter's Lock, the scenery improves with every
hundred yards. Close by the lock itself is Ray Mead Hotel, where the
deep carmine-tinted geraniums grow in quantities. Sometimes as many
as three hundred people are supplied with tea at the hotel on a fine
summer afternoon, while over a thousand pass through the lock. Above
Boulter's is a secluded backwater formed by the stream of a mill, and
this is one of the pleasantest retreats in the neighbourhood.
... In my boat I lie
Moor'd to the cool bank in the summer heats.
--_Matthew Arnold._
Above the river, on the east, rise the cliff-like heights of Clieveden,
wooded to their summits, and seen magnificently by reason of the curve
at the end of the reach, which gives their full sweep at one glance.
The cliff rises to a height of 140 feet, but the thickness of the
trees, and their own height towering above, make it look much higher.
The trees are of all kinds, oak and beech, chestnut and ash, and many a
dark evergreen; while here and there a Lombardy poplar shoots up like a
straight line, and the wild clematis throws its shawls of greenery from
tree to tree, giving the whole the appearance of a tropical forest.
Seen in early spring, when the tender green of the beeches and the
bursting gummy buds of the horse-chestnut are shedding a veil over the
fretwork of twig and bough, they are glorious enough; but in autumn,
when orange and russet break out in all directions, they are, perhaps,
more imposing. River people do not, as a rule, see them at their
best, for before that touch of frost has come which sends a flame of
crimson over the maples, and heightens the orange of the beeches, the
fairweather boatsman has fled to his fireside.
At one point we catch a glimpse of Clieveden itself, standing high and
facing downstream. Evelyn says in his diary:
I went to Clifden, that stupendous natural rock, wood,
and prospect, of the Duke of Buckingham's, buildings of
extraordinary expense.... The stande, somewhat like Frascati
as to its front, and on the platform is a circular view to
the utmost verge of the horizon, which, with the serpenting
of the Thames, is admirable.... But the land all about
wretchedly barren, and producing nothing but fern.
The taste of those days differed from ours; now we should prefer to see
an expanse of ferns to a field of potatoes.
The first great mansion here was built by "Steenie," the Duke of
Buckingham, King Charles's favourite. He was a villain, even for a time
of slack morals, and the chief association connected with his house
is that he brought here a comrade in every way suited to him, in the
person of the Countess of Shrewsbury, who stood by, dressed as a page,
holding his horse, while he killed her husband in a duel. The house was
twice burnt down; the present one was built about the middle of the
nineteenth century, and belongs to Mr. Astor. A pleasanter memory is
that of the poet Thomson, whose masque _Alfred_ was acted here in 1740,
on the birthday of Princess Augusta. This contained, as a kernel, the
song "Rule Britannia," destined to survive long after its husk had been
forgotten.
Opposite Clieveden the ground is low lying, and, to use Evelyn's word,
the river "serpents" a good deal. There are several islands, on one of
which, called Formosa, there is a house. There are several side-streams
crossed by footbridges, and in one of these is the lock. The main
stream continues in a great sweep, and is guarded by two weirs. The
fishing here is very popular, and though it belongs to Lord Boston,
permission to fish may be obtained by writing beforehand. Hedsor Church
stands well on high ground near; and with its bosky foliage and many
islets, the river here is not a bad place in which to idle away many an
hour.
The hotel at Cookham is right down on the water's edge, and from its
lawn a charming view is gained of the main stream breaking into its
many channels, with the wooded island of Formosa in the middle. All
about here is a favourite place for anglers, and many a punt is moored
across stream with its ridiculous chairs on which sit two or three
solemn elderly men, content to sit, and sit, and watch the dull brown
water rush beneath for hour after hour, without once raising their eyes
to see the green of the witching trees, or listening to the hum of the
joyous life around them. To an onlooker they appear to be quaffing the
flattest part of the sport, having missed all its head and froth. How
different the punt fisher's day from that of the man who starts off
up-stream, through many a low-lying willow-fringed meadow, who reaches
over to land his fly in the deep brown pool into which the stream
falls. Punt fishing, like loch fishing, must have its fascinations, or
few would do it, but it lacks all the sparkle expressed in such a song
as that of Walton's, for instance:
In a morning, up we rise,
Ere Aurora's peeping,
Drink a cup to wash our eyes,
Leave the sluggard sleeping.
Then we go
To and fro,
With our knacks
At our backs,
To such streams
As the Thames,
If we have the leisure.
The less said about the rhyme the better, but this has the swing and
lilt of the true feeling!
From Cookham Bridge we can see the gaily covered lawn of the hotel,
where a perfect flotilla of craft is anchored, while the owners have
tea or more cooling drinks; and turning we can view the wide expanse
of Bourne End, where the races of the Upper Thames Sailing Club are
held all the summer, and where, about the end of June, when the great
regatta is held, the surface of the water is dotted with swan-like
boats.
[Illustration]