Nooks and Corners of Shropshire
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Title: Nooks and Corners of Shropshire
Author: H. Thornhill Timmins
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Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NOOKS AND CORNERS OF SHROPSHIRE ***
[Illustration: Book Cover]
NOOKS AND CORNERS OF SHROPSHIRE
[Illustration]
[Illustration: Butcher Row. Shrewsbury.]
Nooks and Corners
of
Shropshire.
BY
H. THORNHILL TIMMINS, F.R.G.S.,
AUTHOR OF 'NOOKS AND CORNERS OF HEREFORDSHIRE,' 'NOOKS AND CORNERS
OF PEMBROKESHIRE.'
_WITH MAP AND NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS_
_BY THE AUTHOR._
LONDON:
ELLIOT STOCK, 62, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.
1899.
PREFACE
My work completed, I may be permitted to add a few words by way of envoi.
'Nooks and Corners' is the outcome of many prolonged sketching rambles
in Shropshire, where, as I roamed about the County, in search of
subjects for pen and pencil, I succeeded in gleaning a good deal of
original information anent the places I visited; and I was greeted by
all sorts and conditions of Salopians with that hospitality for which
they are proverbial, and which has left me their grateful debtor.
Though the more important places here illustrated are probably familiar
to many of my readers, there are certain scenes and objects in the
course of this work which have never been pictured or described before,
and which will, I trust, prove of interest to Salopians. Amidst such an
embarras de richesses, I have of necessity been obliged to pick and
choose the subjects dealt with; for in matter antiquarian the locality
is well-nigh inexhaustible.
But if the gentle reader, in perusing the following pages, should share
in some degree my own pleasure and interest in compiling them, I shall
have the satisfaction of feeling that I have not rambled in vain amidst
the Nooks and Corners of Shropshire.
H. THORNHILL TIMMINS.
HARROW,
_November_, 1899.
CONTENTS
PAGE
A GENERAL SURVEY. THE TOWN OF SHREWSBURY 1
FROM SHREWSBURY TO PITCHFORD, ACTON BURNELL, AND CHURCH STRETTON 21
STRETTON DALE AND THE LONGMYND. A VISIT TO STOKESAY CASTLE 42
FROM CRAVEN ARMS TO BISHOP'S CASTLE AND CLUN 60
ROUND ABOUT CLUN FOREST. TO KNIGHTON AND LUDLOW 79
ROUND ABOUT LUDLOW 94
THE CLEE HILLS, CORVE DALE, AND WENLOCK EDGE 108
WENLOCK, WROXETER, AND THE WREKIN 135
TO LILLESHALL ABBEY, TONG, AND BOSCOBEL 153
ROUND ABOUT BRIDGNORTH 171
BETWEEN SEVERN AND CLEE 194
WESTWARD HO! TOWARDS THE WELSH BORDER 214
INDEX TO ILLUSTRATIONS
BUTCHER ROW, SHREWSBURY _Frontispiece_
SHREWSBURY SCHOOL 5
OLD COUNCIL HOUSE, SHREWSBURY 7
REMAINS OF BENNETT'S HALL 11
A BYEWAY IN OLD SHREWSBURY 12
OLD MARKET HOUSE, SHREWSBURY 14
OLD HOUSES IN WYLE COP 15
ANCIENT PULPIT AT SHREWSBURY 17
OLD WINDMILL AT LYTH HILL 20
STAPLETON CHURCH 22
CONDOVER HALL 23
THE HOUSE IN THE TREE, PITCHFORD 25
PITCHFORD HALL 26
ACTON BURNELL 28
NICHOLAS DE BURNELL 29
KENLEY CHURCH 31
LANGLEY 33
FRODESLEY LODGE 34
OLD BRIDGE ON 'DEVIL'S CAUSEWAY' 35
PANEL AT CHURCH PREEN 36
PLASH 37
CARDINGTON 38
LEIGHTONS OF PLASHE 39
CHALICE AT HOPE BOWDLER 40
SIR RALPH DE PITCHFORD 41
CHURCH STRETTON 42
CHURCH STRETTON CHURCH 43
ADAM AND EVE 44
CHURCH STRETTON AND THE LONGMYND 45
WOOLSTASTON CHURCH AND RECTORY 46
FONT AT WOOLSTASTON 47
ACTON SCOTT HALL 50
ALCESTON 51
HALFORD CHURCH AND MILL 52
STOKESAY CASTLE 53
THE GATE HOUSE, STOKESAY 54
STOKESAY CHURCH 57
CARVED PANEL AT STOKESAY 59
PLOWDEN HALL 61
LEA CASTLE 66
BISHOP'S CASTLE 68
BISHOP'S CASTLE 69
GARDE DOLOREUSE 73
OLD LYCH GATE AT CLUN 75
CLUN HOSPITAL 77
SEAL OF CLUN HOSPITAL 78
BETTWS-Y-CRWYN 82
CHALICE AT BETTWS-Y-CRWYN 83
THE CANTLIN CROSS 84
STOWE 86
STAIRCASE, HEATH HOUSE 89
HOPTON CASTLE 90
BRANKS AT LUDLOW 93
LUDLOW CASTLE 95
LUDLOW CASTLE AND CHURCH 95
PALMER'S GUILD, LUDLOW 103
FEATHERS HOTEL, LUDLOW 105
A 'MISERERE' AT LUDLOW 107
HAUNTED HOUSE, BITTERLEY 109
CROSS AT BITTERLEY 110
CROW LEASOW 111
STANTON LACY 113
DELBURY CHURCH 116
CHURCH-PORCH, MUNSLOW 118
TUGFORD CHURCH 120
THE HEATH CHAPEL 121
INTERIOR OF THE HEATH CHAPEL 121
UPPER MILLICHOPE 125
RUSHBURY 126
NORMAN DOORWAY, HOLGATE CHURCH 128
SHIPTON HALL 129
HOUR-GLASS, EASTHOPE CHURCH 132
HINGE AT STANTON LONG 134
CHAPTER-HOUSE, MUCH WENLOCK 137
MUCH WENLOCK 138
OLD INN-SIGN AT BROSELEY 140
BUILDWAS ABBEY 142
MADELEY COURT 144
THE LADY OAK, CRESSAGE 146
URICONIUM AND WROXETER 148
ATCHAM 150
THE SIGN OF THE RAVEN 152
LILLESHALL ABBEY 153
SHIFFNAL 155
SHIFFNAL CHURCH 156
TONG CASTLE 158
TONG CHURCH 158
WOOD-CARVING AT TONG 159
A TREASURE FROM TONG 160
SIR ARTHUR VERNON 161
HUBBAL GRANGE 162
BOSCOBEL HOUSE 163
BOSCOBEL 163
DAME PENDEREL 164
AT WHITELADIES 166
ALBRIGHTON 168
WELL-COVER AT PEPPERHILL 169
THE ROYAL OAK 170
BRIDGNORTH 171
ANCIENT HOUSE, BRIDGNORTH 172
MARKET-PLACE, BRIDGNORTH 174
MARKET-DAY AT BRIDGNORTH 175
COTTAGE IN THE ROCK, BRIDGNORTH 179
WORFIELD 180
LUDSTONE 182
CLAVERLEY 183
DUNVALL 187
TYMPANUM, ASTON EYRES 189
UPTON CRESSETT CHURCH 191
UPTON CRESSETT HALL 192
STOCKS AT STOCKTON 193
THE BUTTER CROSS, ALVELEY 197
ALVELEY CHURCH 198
KINLET HALL 200
KINLET CHURCH 201
CLEOBURY MORTIMER 205
DOWLES MANOR HOUSE 207
BURFORD 209
ANCIENT CROSS AT HIGHLEY 213
CHIMNEYPIECE, MOAT HALL 214
MITCHELL'S FOLD 217
VIRGIN AND CHILD, CHIRBURY 221
ANCIENT SUNDIAL AT MARRINGTON 223
MARCHE MANOR FARM 227
OLD THOMAS PARR 228
BRAGGINGTON HALL 229
ALBERBURY CHURCH 232
WATTLESBOROUGH CASTLE 234
THE SHELTON OAK 235
A MAIDEN GARLAND 237
SHREWSBURY SEAL 238
MAP OF SHROPSHIRE _At end_
NOOKS AND CORNERS OF SHROPSHIRE
'On this side whiche the Sonne doth warm with his declining beames,
Severn and Teme in channell deepe doo run, too antient Streames;
These make the neibor's pasture riche, these yeld of fruit greate store;
And doo convey thro out the Shire commodities manie more.
Here hilles doo lift their heades aloft, from whence sweete springes
doo flow,
Whose moistur good doth firtil make the vallies coucht belowe.
Here goodly orchards planted are, in fruite which doo abounde;
Thine ey wold make thine hart rejoyce to see such pleasant grounde.'
A GENERAL SURVEY. THE TOWN OF SHREWSBURY.
Southern Shropshire whose nooks and corners we are about to explore is a
pleasant, fertile country, where breezy heather-clad hills alternate
with cornfields, orchards and pastures, and rich umbrageous woodlands.
Goodly rivers such as the Severn and the Teme, besides brooks, rivulets
and trout-streams, enrich the meadows in the sunny vales, or wake the
silence of the lonely hills where the curlew and the lapwing make their
homes.
Situated upon the confines of England and Wales, this border district
forms part of the March-lands which in olden times sundered the realm of
England from the Principality, and hence one may enjoy within its
comparatively moderate compass the diversified scenery peculiar to
either country. As regards its physical features, therefore, Southern
Shropshire presents in some sort an epitome or microcosm of England
itself.
A glance at the map will show that the whole south-western corner of
Shropshire is occupied by the wild hill-country known as Clun Forest;
whence a succession of lofty ridges, such as the Stiperstones, the
Longmynd, the Caradoc Hills and Wenlock Edge, ramificate towards the
north, in shape not unlike the fingers of a hand, whereof the Clee
Hills, lying a little apart to the eastward, may be taken as
representing the thumb.
This hilly region is classic ground to the geologist. The extreme
diversity of its rock structure early attracted the attention of
students; and has been so thoroughly elucidated by Murchison, Ramsay,
Salter, Lapworth, and other eminent scientists, that nowadays as the
saying goes 'he who runs may read.'
The Severn is _the_ river par excellence of Shropshire. With its
important affluent the Teme, this noble river, in its course of more
than fifty miles through the county, receives the waters of the entire
district. After parting company with the rugged hills of Wales, the
Severn emerges upon the plains of Shropshire, and sweeps in a bold curve
around the town of Shrewsbury. Thenceforth the ever-widening river
glides onward in placid reaches past the time-honoured ruins of Roman
Uriconium, and lingers beside lush green water meadows, where the ruddy
kine stand knee-deep in the rippling shallows, and the salmon fisher
drifts by in his coracle as he spreads his nets athwart stream.
Anon the Severn, changing its character, plunges along in eddying rapids
beneath the limestone escarpments of Benthall and Wenlock Edge; then,
taking a southerly trend, it skirts the groves and terraces of Apley
Park, washes the walls of picturesque old Bridgnorth, and finally the
big river takes leave of our county amidst the rough holts and heaths of
that ancient woodland which goes by the name of Wyre Forest.
Owing to the lie of the land, the more important streams of Southern
Shropshire flow, not into the Severn itself, but into its tributary the
Teme. The northern Rea, the Cound and the Worf, it is true, find their
way direct to the former river; but the waters of the Clun, the Onny,
the Ledwych and the southern Rea, go to swell the tide of the Teme.
Dividing the county of Salop from its neighbour Herefordshire, the river
Teme pursues a devious course through some of the most delightful
scenery in all these broad March-lands. From its lonely source amidst
the hills, away beyond the Welsh border, the infant Teme comes tumbling
and prattling along beneath the rolling heights of Clun Forest, and,
passing onwards to Ludlow, meanders beside the castle walls, and flows
in a graceful arc around the rocky slopes of Whitcliff. Near Tenbury the
Teme travels into Worcestershire, which it does not quit again until it
merges its waters in those of the Severn.
With all these varied attractions, its picturesque rural landscapes, its
old-world towns and villages fraught with memories of the past, and the
thousand-and-one sights, scents and sounds, that go to make up the
indefinable charm of an English countryside, the visitor to Shropshire
may find ample opportunity to gratify his particular taste, or pursue
his favourite hobby, be it that of an artist, a sportsman, a botanist,
or a votary of the 'gentle art'; while for the cyclist, and in a still
greater measure for him who fares afoot, there lurks many a secluded
nook in the unfrequented byways, or amidst the hollows of the silent
hills; nooks where he may enjoy to heart's content the harvest of the
quiet eye.
From the antiquarian point of view, Shropshire is exceptionally
interesting. Britons, Romans, Danes, Saxons and Normans, have all played
their parts in moulding its early history, and have graven upon the
natural features of the country indelible traces of their former
domination.
That Shropshire shared to the full in the drum and trumpet history of
mediæval days, is attested by the ruined castles and strongholds to be
met with on every hand. These we shall have occasion to refer to in the
course of our rambles; so turn we now to the famous old town which forms
the centre and focus of Salopian life.
* * * * *
Just about the middle of the county, islanded almost by a bold southward
sweep of the Severn, stands Shrewsbury, the Pengwern of the old Welsh
days, the Saxon Scrobbesbyrig; an ancient borough town and the capital
of the district. Shrewsbury is a clean, cheerful, yet withal
picturesque-looking city, where the tide of modern progress rolls to and
fro along the steep old streets beside its ancient castle, past
venerable parish churches and the quaint, half-timbered mansions of the
ancienne noblesse.
Hotels and lodging-houses are not far to seek, while highroads and lines
of railway ramificate from Shrewsbury throughout the county; so the
traveller who intends to explore the nooks and corners of the
surrounding district cannot do better than take up his quarters for a
time in the proud old city upon Severn side.
The topography of Shrewsbury is tolerably simple. Encompassed on all
sides save the north by the noble river Severn, the town spreads away up
a gentle hill to the walls of its guardian castle. 'The Towne of
Shrewesbury,' says John Leland, 'standeth on a Rocky Hill of Stone of a
sad redde Earth, and Severne soe girdeth in all the Towne that, saving a
little Peice, it were an Isle.'
Right through the centre of the city, from south-east towards the west,
runs the ancient highroad, or 'reddie way,' from London to North Wales;
entering by way of the English Bridge, passing through the town under
the names of Wyle Cop, High Street and Mardol, and emerging by the Welsh
Bridge. At right angles to this thoroughfare lies Castle Street, leading
up to the gates of the old Norman stronghold, and nowadays familiar to
travellers as the road to the railway-station. Castle Street leads on to
Pride Hill, one of the busiest arteries of the city, which in its turn
is prolonged down St. John's Hill to the Quarry, a public park shaded by
avenues of lofty lime trees, affording a pleasant stroll by Severn side.
Here, some three centuries ago, Churchyard the Shropshire poet beheld:
'A space belowe to bait both Bull and Beare:
For players, too, great roume, and place at will,
And in the same a Cockpit, wondrous fayre,
Besides, where men may wrestle in their fill.'
[Illustration: SHREWSBURY SCHOOL.]
Across the river rises Shrewsbury School, the handsome modern prototype
of the older foundation in the town, encompassed by spacious demesnes
and cricket fields, the scene in bygone times of the far-famed
'Shrewsbury Show.' Abbey Foregate, with its venerable monastic church,
occupies what may be called the English side of the city; while the
ancient suburb of Frankwell climbs the hill in a westerly direction,
away beyond the Welsh Bridge.
* * * * *
We now set forth on a peregrination of the town, keeping an eye lifting
for such relics of the past as may lie upon our road, and remarking the
quaint nomenclature of some of the older streets. Immediately as we step
outside the railway-station, the old city gives us a taste of its
quality; for yonder rise the ruddy sandstone walls and round-towers of
Shrewsbury Castle, 'built in such a brave Plott,' as an old writer
observes, 'that it could have espyed a Byrd flying in every Streete.'
Originally erected by the all-powerful Roger de Montgomery, all that now
remains of the feudal castle is a Norman gateway, two massive
drum-towers of the Edwardian keep, and some remnants of the inner ward
or bailey. So long ago as Henry the Eighth's time, John Leland found the
fortress 'nowe much in mine,' and although its ancient walls were
furbished up, and a garrison put in charge to hold the place for King
Charles, it was delivered by treachery into the hands of the
Parliamentarian forces, and so escaped demolition.
Turning up-hill into Castle Gates, we espy a flight of steps leading to
a sort of raised passage, called the Dana, whence the visitor, if so
minded, may survey a large portion of Shropshire. Returning now to
Castle Gates, we bend our steps towards a dignified-looking pile of grey
stone buildings, standing a little back from the roadway.
This is the Free Library and Museum, a building that for some three
centuries did duty as the Grammar School of Shrewsbury; a school founded
by King Edward the Sixth, enlarged by Queen Elizabeth, and numbering
among its masters men like Dr. Samuel Butler and Kennedy of Cambridge,
and made famous by such scholars as Philip Sidney, Fulk Greville and
Darwin, not to mention in the same breath the execrable name of Judge
Jeffreys.
Before the entrance gateway, which is adorned with the effigies of two
scholars in quaint Jacobean costume, stands the recently erected bronze
statue of Charles Darwin, the world-renowned scientist, an alumnus, and
a native of Shrewsbury.
The interior of the building proves quite in keeping with what the
outside would lead one to expect, for the low-ceiled rooms, with their
dark oaken panelling and doors carved with the names of long-forgotten
schoolboys, seem redolent of scholarly ways; and these studious
traditions are in some sense maintained by the purposes which these
quiet chambers now serve.
Once more we steer a diagonal course athwart steep, crowded Castle
Street, and, rounding the end of a modern chapel, find ourselves
immediately vis-à-vis the object of our search. An ancient archway,
surmounted by a pair of timbered gablets, admits us to a small paved
courtyard, around three sides of which extends a group of buildings,
which in bygone days formed the Council House, and occasional abode of
no less a personage than the Lord President of the Council of the
Marches of Wales. Many a stately ceremony has doubtless graced these
venerable precincts, which still impress the visitor with their look of
faded dignity, though fallen in these latter days from their honourable
estate, and converted to the purposes of private dwelling-houses.
[Illustration: OLD COUNCIL-HOUSE SHREWSBURY.]
The picturesque Gate House, however, which figures in our sketch may
very well have witnessed that memorable incident in Shrewsbury's
corporate history, when the sturdy burgesses refused Charles the First's
offer (while staying at the Council House in 1642) to create their town
a city, an occasion that earned for them ever after the title of 'Proud
Salopians.' This fine old Gate House has been but little altered, and
bears upon its ancient timbers the date A.D. 1620. An old hall to the
rear still retains its original oak panelling and chimney-piece, charged
with fantastic devices, and dated 1634; while an upper chamber contains
a massive oak tester-bedstead, whose richly carved top is supported by
moulded pillars.
Pushing onward past Plimmer's, formerly Palin's, home of the famous
cake-compounder whose praises have been sung by Thomas Ingoldsby Esq.,
we come to the trim façade of the Raven Hotel, a commodious hostelry
whose fame goes back far into the old coaching days. Then, espying a
lofty steeple peering over the nearer housetops, we cross the head of
the lane by which Cromwell's men made their way into the town, and enter
the little green close where stands St. Mary's Church.
Built of mellow-hued, weatherworn sandstone, St. Mary's proves to be a
noble cruciform edifice, with an early south porch and parvise, and one
of the finest spires in all England. The interior, too, presents a
charming diversity, from the variety of architectural styles employed,
and is spanned by a panelled oaken ceiling richly and beautifully
wrought; while the spacious 'Jesse' window in the chancel, brought from
old Grey Friars monastery, affords a combination of sweetness and light
truly pleasant to behold. Indeed, the ancient glass in St. Mary's Church
forms quite a feature of the building; and amidst its quaint imagery St.
Bernard may be detected in the act of sweeping the excommunicated flies
out of church, and a representation of the Last Judgment with Satan
figuring as a blue boar!
Amongst other interesting monuments of greater or less antiquity, we
notice a memorial to that skilled and daring seaman Admiral Benbow, a
renowned Salopian hero, and 'true patterne of English courage,' who died
at Jamaica from honourable wounds in 1702.
Beneath the shadow of St. Mary's Church nestles a group of lowly
almshouses, a charity established some time prior to 1648. Yonder
ancient half-timbered gable, overlooking the churchyard, is the
erstwhile Hall of the Drapers' Guild, where, upon passing within, we
find ourselves in a spacious, low-ceiled chamber, entirely wainscoted
with oak, and having massive oak tables, benches and lockers, coeval
with the room. Upon the wall hangs a dark old panel-picture, commonly
supposed to be the portrait of Degory Watur, the founder, and his lady
wife, who, it is recorded, used to attend with the ministers 'dailye in
Our Ladye's Churche, and kneele with them in a long Pewe, in the guise
made for them and himselfe.' And the old bedesman who does the honours
also displays one or two ancient charters connected with the foundation,
which are jealously preserved here under lock and key.
Passing on to Pride Hill--so named from a local family of that ilk who
lived in a mansion hard by--we presently descry a narrow thoroughfare,
looking for all the world like a bit of some mediæval city. This is
Butcher Row, a quaint, old-time byway, whose ancient timbered houses
lean this way or that, in sociable good-fellowship, above the little
shops that flank the lane. A sketch of Butcher Row forms the
frontispiece to this volume.
'There they stand, crowding together, with overhanging gables, queer
dormer windows, and panelled fronts; a curious chequer-work, wherein the
broad black lines are displayed upright, horizontal and diagonal, with
varied artifice. And here and there a bracket catches the eye, or a
pent-house roof and railed recesses, and breadths of ornament on fascia
and cornice. The ground-floors recede, and shops are gloomy, and
ceilings low; and upstairs you find the same want of height and breadth
of window, by which the olden time contrived to favour at once the
picturesque, and the plague.'
Far aloft soars the graceful spire of St. Alkmond's Church,
('Stalkmun's,' in the vernacular), the nave whereof was pulled down in a
panic a century ago, after its neighbour St. Chad's had fallen, and
rebuilt in the contemptible 'style' of that period.
'In the yere 1533,' as an old chronicler tells, 'uppon Twelffe daye, in
Shrowsburie, the Dyvyll appearyd in Saint Alkmond's churche there, when
the preest was at High Masse, with great tempeste and Darknesse, soe
that as he passyd through, he mountyd upp the Steeple in the sayd
churche, tering the wyers of the clocke, and put the prynt of his Clawes
uppon the 4th Bell, and tooke one of the pynnacles awaye with hym, and
for the Tyme stayde all the Bells in the churches within the sayde
Towne, that they could neyther toll nor ringe.'
The corner building at the farther end of Butcher Row is an excellent
example of a mediæval town-house; and the beautiful though sadly defaced
carvings about its door-jambs, windows and gables, are as good as they
are rare of their kind. There is reason to suppose the Abbots of
Lilleshall made this their city abode, and that the chantry priests of
the Holy Cross found shelter in its ancient chambers.
Be that as it may, we now direct our steps towards a mere slit of a
passage, aptly designated Grope Lane; getting a passing peep of Fish
Street, and its quaint inn-sign the Three Fishes, the cognizance of the
Abbots of Lilleshall, with St. Julian's Church-tower beyond. A queer
nook indeed is this Grope Lane, just such an one as might have inspired
the author of 'A Legend of the Dark Entry'; so narrow that one may
easily touch both sides at once, and so closely overhung by the rafters
of the adjacent premises that but a strip of sky is seen.
Having weathered the intricacies of Grope Lane we enter High Street, and
turn right-about to look at the quaint old half-timbered buildings by
which it is flanked--small but very characteristic specimens of old
Salopian house-fronts, with their quatrefoil panels, twisted pilasters,
and grotesquely carved heads. Close at hand is High Street Church, a
chapel originally erected in the days of the Act of Uniformity, and
noteworthy from the fact that for a brief space of time Samuel
Coleridge, the celebrated author of the 'Ancient Mariner,' ministered
therein.
Strolling along High Street, we soon pass the entrance to The Square,
giving a passing glance at the old Market House that rises so
picturesquely there--whereof more anon,--and pausing beneath Clive's
statue to scan the determined features and stalwart bearing of that
renowned Salopian. Then we turn our attention to a group of Fine old
black-and-white gables that rise upon the opposite side of the street,
the doorway of one handsome façade bearing the inscription, ERECTED BY
RICHARD OWEN THE ELDER, GENTELMAN, ANO. DM. 1592.
Few towns in the kingdom can boast such stately survivals as these; yet
a few yards away appears a still more striking specimen of the mediæval
builder's art. Originally the town-house of the Irelands, this noble old
fabric is still known by their name, and bears upon its ancient front
the family cognizance. Four storeys high it rears its chequered walls,
topped by tall, beetling gables, and broken into play of light and shade
by ranges of oriel windows. Bits of quaint carving are seen here and
there upon bargeboard, lintel and bracket, for the old place has happily
suffered but little from modern innovations. The nicely restored
black-and-white front of Lloyd's Bank hard by keeps its venerable
neighbour well in countenance.
[Illustration: Remains of Bennett's Hall]
Finding ourselves once more on Pride Hill, we step across that busy
thoroughfare, and, passing to the rear of Mother Noblett's Toffee Shop,
with its huge, comical signboard, we see before us the pretty Gothic
doorway that figures in our sketch. Though much the worse for neglect,
and fallen sadly into disrepair, this ancient sandstone structure is
clearly the work of at least two periods. The shaft and capital on the
left, with the broken archway above it, are of the style known as Early
English; while the graceful pointed arch, with its floreated cusps and
traces of ball-flower ornamentation, are evidently a later insertion,
and probably date from the latter part of the thirteenth century. A wide
stone arch, part of which may be noticed above the passage-way, supports
the floor of the room within; and a small arched recess, near the head
of the steps, appears to have been used as a holy-water stoup.
From these indications it is considered probable the little building
before us was at one time the private chapel of Bennett's Hall, the city
residence of the Abbot of Haughmond, who, according to the custom of
those days, had a town-house in the capital of the county.
Portions of ancient domestic buildings may be traced at the back of the
chapel, including the stonework of a good-sized hall, and some
indications of a large window. There is a tradition that these buildings
were at one time used as a mint; and the fact that a kind of oven, or
hearth, formerly existed here gives colour to the story.
[Illustration: A Byeway in Old Shrewsbury.]
Laying a course towards the tall clock-tower of the new Market Hall, we
now descend Pride Hill and turn to the right into Mardol, a steep,
oldfashioned street, boasting several half-timbered house-fronts dating
as far back as the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. About half-way
down we strike into a byway called Hill's Lane, at the corner whereof
rises an ancient frontage whose oaken beams display the date 1440. This
narrow lane, zig-zagging through one of the oldest quarters of the town,
is frequented on market-days by country folk, when the mother-tongue of
old Salopia may be heard in all its pristine purity.
After passing one or two oldfashioned inns of the humbler sort, we
stumble unexpectedly upon a lordly dwelling, standing somewhat aloof
from its dingy neighbours, and presenting an air of dilapidated
gentility, like an out-at-elbows aristocrat making shift to maintain his
dignity amidst a crowd of tatterdemalions.
Built of dark-red brick, with stone mullions, quoins and copings, this
fine old Tudor mansion is believed to have been erected by one William
Rowley, draper, and sometime alderman of Shrewsbury, about the beginning
of the seventeenth century, and is still called Rowley's Mansion. Sad it
is to see the woful plight into which the stately old fabric has fallen,
the beautiful porch that once adorned its entrance torn away and
destroyed, its mullioned windows yawning wide to wind and rain, and each
delicately-traceried ceiling thrown down, or utterly defaced. By
strolling into the yard of the old Ship Inn, we get another glimpse of
Rowley's mansion; its soaring gables and chimney stacks grouping
picturesquely, from this point, with the meaner outhouses and dwellings
by which it is surrounded.
[Illustration: Old Market House Shrewsbury.]
We next thread our way through several rather intricate lanes, until,
crossing Mardol Head, we soon find ourselves once more in The Square,
the very heart of this ancient city. Here the old Market House at once
claims our attention; a venerable sandstone structure supported, as our
sketch will show, upon a series of semicircular arches, and buttressed
at the angles. Overhead its time-stained walls are pierced with
mullioned windows, and relieved against the skyline by quaint, fantastic
battlements. That clock aloft in the gable is _said_ to occupy the place
of the one Falstaff referred to when declaring that, against tremendous
odds, he had 'fought a long hour by Shrewsbury clock.' Be that as it
may, we are on surer ground when considering the figure in the canopied
niche below; for an inscribed panel alongside announces that 'This
statue was removed by order of the Mayor from the tower on the Welsh
Bridge in the year 1791.' The effigy, that of a knight in full armour,
has a stiff, archaic appearance, and is usually supposed to represent
Edward IV., father of Richard, Duke of York. Below this figure, in
antiquated characters, are the words: THE XV DAY OF IUNE WAS THIS
BUYLDING BEGONN, WM JONES AND THOS. CHARLTON GENT. THEN BAYLIFFES, AND
WAS ERECTED AND COVERED IN THEIR TIME. The opposite gable has a similar
niche, with the figure of an angel bearing a shield charged with the
Arms of England and France, and a half-obliterated sundial. A richly
carved canopy upon the western front encloses the arms of Queen
Elizabeth, and the date of the erection of the building, 1596.
Over against the old Market House, on the eastern side of The Square,
rises an ancient timbered dwelling which goes by the name of Lloyd's
House. Its rugged beams are curiously carved; grotesque faces leer upon
the passer-by from finial and bracket; and the builder's initials are
ingeniously interwoven amidst the ornamentation of the weatherworn
bargeboard. Glancing backwards from the adjacent lane, we notice how the
nodding gables and chimneys of Lloyd's mansion, one end of the old
Market House, and a good eighteenth-century building beyond, combine to
form a characteristic street scene. Then we push onwards again in search
of other quarry.
Traversing a disused cemetery, we come to the Lady Chapel, and only
relic, of old St. Chad's, a venerable church which collapsed suddenly in
1788, after surviving the changes and chances of time, it is said, for
over a thousand years.
An odd little alley now beguiles our footsteps, where an oldfashioned
inn, its prominent signboard overtopped by St. Julian's church-tower,
appears as set in a frame beneath an ancient archway. Thence we turn to
the right, and pass a handsome new building on the site of Shearmen's
Hall, an ancient foundation that in its time had played many parts, as a
theatre, a chapel, a warehouse and a shop!
Thus we enter Wyle Cop,--how runs the verse?
'They hew, and they hack, and they chop;
And, to finish the whole, they stick up a pole,
In the place that's still called the Wylde Coppe,
And they pop
Your grim, gory head on the top!'
Several attractive-looking old structures confront us as we descend the
steep pavement, prominent amongst them the ancient abode that figures
upon page 15. This picturesque façade, with its blackened timbers and
pretty traceried window adorned by coats of arms, has an added interest
from the fact that it is 'Ye auncient house in which King Henry the VII
loged, when he went to Bosworth Field, Augst 1485.' So at least the
panel beneath the window has it, though Henry, of course, was but Harry
of Richmond until that fateful battle had won for him the crown.
[Illustration: Old Houses in Wyle Cop. Shrewsbury.]
While exploring the vicinity of Wyle Cop, many another bit of old
Shrewsbury is brought to light, notably the nicely restored frontage of
the Unicorn Hotel; and, hidden away amidst some poor cottages by Severn
side, a few scanty relics of Grey Friars' monastery, in its time one of
the stateliest religious houses in Shrewsbury. Thenceforward we hug the
river brink until, coming to the English Bridge, we traverse it, and
find ourselves in the broad thoroughfare called Abbey Foregate--
'A long greate streate, well buildid, large and faire,
In as good Ayre as may be wisht with wit;
Where Abbey stands, and is such ringe of Belles,
As is not found from London unto Welles.'
These lines by Churchyard, the old Shropshire poet, still hold good in
the main, though railway encroachments have much to answer for. But the
pièce de résistance is happily still there, and the ruddy, timeworn
tower of the Abbey Church now rises before us, while its mellow-toned
bells speak for themselves, pealing out a quaint, merry chime upon the
springlike air as we draw near.
Originally amongst the noblest and wealthiest Abbeys of the Benedictine
order in England, this venerable edifice remains to this day one of the
few ancient religious houses in everyday use as a parish church. It was
founded by no less a personage than Roger de Montgomery, William the
Conqueror's kinsman and vicegerent in the Welsh March-lands; who, life's
fitful fever ended, lies buried here in his own Abbey Church of St.
Peter and St. Paul.
Earl Roger's foundation was probably cruciform in shape, and the central
portion of the church is part of the original fabric, displaying the
thick, massive pillars and rounded arches, characteristic of the Norman
period. In pleasant contrast with their rude simplicity rises a group of
gracefully proportioned, pointed arches of a later date; while the tall,
slender traceries of the Perpendicular windows, lend a certain air of
lightness to the whole. A flat oaken ceiling spans the lofty interior,
which cannot fail to impress every beholder by its air of spacious and
reposeful dignity.
In the south aisle we notice a recumbent and much defaced stone effigy,
which, according to a brass plate upon the adjacent wall, represents
'Sir Roger de Montgomery, Second in command of the army of his kinsman,
William the Conqueror, at the Battle of Hastings, the First of the
Family of Montgomery in England. He was advanced to high honour as the
Over-lord of many counties, and created Earl of Shrewsbury. He founded
this church and abbey, wherein he, as a Brother of the Benedictine
Order, died the 1st of August, MXCV.' The monuments in the Abbey Church
will reward a close examination.
[Illustration: Ancient Pulpit in Shrewsbury.]
In the course of a walk around the outside of the church, we remark the
noble proportions of the great west window, surmounted by a canopied
niche, with its mailed figure reputed to represent King Edward III., a
picturesque two-storied north porch, and the lofty walls of Mr.
Pearson's new chancel. Thence we pass across the street, where, a
pathetic object amidst such grimy environments, stands the ancient
stone pulpit shown in our sketch, in the midst of a railway coal-yard!
This graceful structure dates from the early part of the fourteenth
century, and its cusped and richly moulded arches are charming examples
of Decorated work. The panels below are adorned with delicately
sculptured figures representing St. Peter, St. Paul, and other saints;
while the groined ceiling inside the arches is crowned by a large carved
boss, or keystone, emblematical of the Crucifixion.
Very picturesque looks this gem of Gothic art, its grey old stones
scored and wrinkled by the tooth of Time, whose ravages are but
partially concealed by a mantle of fresh green ivy. At one time the
Abbey precincts appear to have extended far and wide in this direction,
but the exigencies of modern travel and traffic have played sad havoc
with the old, monkish habitation.
This beautiful pulpit is the last remnant of the old monastic buildings,
that once nestled beneath the adjacent Abbey Church. It was attached to
the refectory, and was doubtless intended for the use of the monk whose
duty it was to read to the brethren at meal-times. Its other side gave
upon the courtyard of the monastery, and we may suppose that open-air
sermons were occasionally delivered from it.
Our sketch completed, we now turn aside from Abbey 'Forrit,' to visit
the large red sandstone mansion, paradoxically dubbed 'Whitehall.' It is
recorded that Richard Prince, its builder, commenced the erection of his
house in the year of grace 1578, but that it was not completed until
1582, 'soe was it iiij yeares in buyldinge, to hys greate chardge, with
fame to hym and hys posteritie for ever.' Prince's 'fame' in the matter
is somewhat discounted, however, by the fact that he built his dwelling
with stones torn from the fabric of the ancient Abbey, then but lately
disestablished; and, in order to disguise them, caused the walls to be
whitewashed, which gave rise to its name of Whitehall.
The building is a very fine specimen of an Elizabethan mansion, with
mullioned windows, high-peaked gables, and the tall, detached
chimney-stacks one knows so well. The gatehouse and dovecot are
interesting features, and the lawn at the rear of the mansion is
overshadowed by a magnificent walnut tree, as old, we should suppose, as
Whitehall itself.
We now push on to St. Giles's Church, turning aside to climb to the
summit of Lord Hill's Column, and enjoy the wide and varied prospect
over hill and dale, town and river, that its balcony affords.
St. Giles's is considered to be one of the oldest churches in
Shrewsbury; yet, owing to repeated restoration--'a name that,' as has
been well said, 'covers more sins than charity itself,'--a casual
observer might easily mistake it for a brand-new edifice. The church
owes its foundation, we believe, to King Henry I., who established here
a hospital or asylum for lepers, of whom St. Giles was regarded as the
special patron. A Norman doorway admits us to the interior, which,
though rigorously swept and garnished, still retains one or two of its
original windows filled with scraps of ancient stained glass, and a
richly moulded archway of rather later date.
Out in the churchyard stands a curious octagonal stone, with a
good-sized square recess, several inches deep, in its upper side. It is
known as the Pest Basin, and dates from the days when the plague was
raging in Shrewsbury, during the seventeenth century. The custom was for
the townsfolk to cast their money into the water in this basin, whence
it was taken out by the country people in payment for the 'loaves and
fishes' they supplied, thus avoiding in some sort the risk of actual
contagion.
One of the tombstones here is inscribed with the following laconic
legend:
'Here Charles Rathbon hee doth lie
And by misfortun hee did dye
On the 17th of July--1751.'
Through the quiet of the gloaming we now wend our way townwards again,
the roofs and steeples of old Shrewsbury showing darkly silhouetted
against the golden west as we cross the English Bridge. Thereafter, over
a pipe in the chimney-nook of our hostelry, we fall to 'babbling o'
green fields' and poring over Ordnance maps, intending on the morrow's
morn to quit these scenes of our 'daily walks and ancient
neighbourhood,' and fare forth into the open country.
[Illustration: Old Windmill at Lyth Hill.]
FROM SHREWSBURY TO PITCHFORD, ACTON BURNELL, AND CHURCH STRETTON.
A silvery mackerel sky, serene and calm, gives promise of a bright Spring
day, as, drawn by the iron horse, we spin along betwixt fields and
hedgerows en route for Dorrington Station.
Half-way out we skirt the wooded slopes of Lythwood, once upon a time a
royal forest, whence Henry the Third permitted the Hospitallers of St.
Giles's to draw wood for their firing. Presently the gently-flowing
river Cound is seen, travelling Severn-wards through a pleasant,
agricultural country; and then, detraining at the next station, we
shoulder our knapsacks and trudge away in the direction of Stapleton.
Old hawthorn hedges fling their scented sprays athwart the dusty
highway, and the verdant wheat-fields beyond them are fringed with
feathery cow's-parsley, looking for all the world like green carpets
edged with white lace. The oaks are beating the ash trees this Spring in
their race for precedence, and in yonder grounds a copper beech rears
its magnificent purple dome against the deep blue of the sky--a sight
for sair e'en!
[Illustration: Stapleton Church]
Arrived at Stapleton church, we notice that it appears to consist of two
separate and distinct churches, the one superposed upon the other; the
two having been at some past time united by removing the floor of the
upper one, giving to the interior somewhat the appearance of a college
chapel.
The lower portion of the fabric, with its thick, massive walls and
curiously narrow windows, mere loops, appears to be of early Norman
date; while the plain lancet lights above might belong to the early part
of the thirteenth century. On the south side of the chancel is a pair
of two-light windows filled with simple tracery, and between them is
seen the door that formerly gave entrance to the upper church. Near to
the latter is an arched recess, which it has been conjectured was
originally a nativity grotto. Farther east upon the same wall rises the
pretty sedilia, surmounted by the double cusped arch seen on the right
in the adjoining view. There are little trefoil lights under these
arches, but they are later insertions.
Upon the pulpit hangs an antipendium, worked in gold and silver thread
with a beautiful scrolly pattern, which, if we are to credit the local
tradition, was wrought by the hands of Mary, Queen of Scots. An Easter
sepulchre, invisible in our sketch, is in the wall beyond; and the two
tall processional candlesticks on either side the altar are exotics
here, having been brought, it is said, from Nuremberg, in Germany. They
are excellent specimens of Gothic wood-carving, and are richly coloured
and gilt.
Returning into the highroad, we follow it for about a mile, and then
strike away to the right through leafy by-lanes that land us eventually
at Condover, a pleasant, rural-looking village, almost encircled by the
waters of the little river Cound.
Near the entrance to the village stands a very ancient dwelling-house,
built after the manner of a ship turned keel upwards; the huge oak beams
that support both walls and roof curving upwards from the ground, and
passing through both storeys to meet at the ridge-pole.
Presently we come to the parish church, a large stone edifice surrounded
by luxuriant foliage, and espy, hard by the churchyard wicket, an old
derelict font doing duty as a flower-vase. The transepts are evidently
of Norman date; while the nave and the fine west tower, though they look
considerably older, were built no longer ago than the middle of the
seventeenth century.
[Illustration: Condover Hall. Shropshire.]
From the church we pass on to Condover Hall, a noble structure of the
Elizabethan period, situated on the outskirts of the village. Viewed
through the tall entrance gateway, the old mansion, with its picturesque
gables, stone-mullioned windows and clustered chimney-stacks, presents
a delightfully old-world appearance, which is enhanced by the quaintly
clipped shrubs flanking the broad carriage-drive.
The west front, shown in a neighbouring sketch, overlooks a wide tract
of park land, studded with gnarled hawthorns and ancient oaks, and
watered by the meanderings of the stream whence the place derives its
name.
The estate of Condover having been originally purchased by his father,
Thomas of that ilk, Sir Roger Owen, in the year 1598, erected the
existing mansion; calling in master Walter Hancocke, a celebrated
craftsman of that period, to assist in planning his residence.
Condover passed in after years to the Cholmondeleys, an ancient family
in whose hands the estate continued for many generations, having only
recently been disposed of, and its interesting treasures dispersed.
[Illustration: Pitchford Hall]
We now push on for Pitchford, striking the main road at a place called
Cantlop Cross, and following it until we get a glimpse of the old
mansion itself, seated on a verdant slope amidst masses of shadowy
foliage. A winding pathway, overarched by beech trees and ancestral
oaks, meanders through the park, and leads us down to a low stone
bridge, where we pause awhile to enjoy the charming view of Pitchford
Hall, which our artist has portrayed.
Built by William Ottley, Sheriff of Shropshire, in the early part of the
seventeenth century, Pitchford Hall remains a beautiful and interesting
example of an old English homestead of that period. Nothing can exceed
the picturesqueness of this venerable house, its weather-stained walls
chequered by oaken timbers, its solid stone-tiled roofs carpeted with
lichens and moss, and surmounted by huge crumbling chimney-stacks of
curious design. Embosomed amidst tall trees and luxuriant shrubberies,
with a lordly peacock taking the air upon the sunny terrace, and a clear
stream whimpling along at our feet, the scene is one to be remembered;
such an one, indeed, as this rural England of ours alone can shew.
But let us take a nearer look at the old Hall. The building, after the
custom then in vogue, is fashioned like a capital E, the shorter member
being represented by a central gable of very unusual appearance,
containing a curious clock. By the courtesy of Lieut.-Colonel Cotes, the
present proprietor, we are enabled to examine the interesting features
of the interior, which contains some notable ancestral portraits, and a
singular sort of picture-map showing the Hall and grounds as they
existed in 1682. In one wainscoted chamber our attention is directed to
a secret closet, or hidie-hole, ingeniously disguised by a sliding panel
very difficult to detect; indeed, every corner of the mansion has its
interest for the antiquary.
After having been the seat of the Ottley family for considerably more
than three centuries, Pitchford Hall passed in the year 1807 into the
possession of the late Lord Liverpool, who had the honour of
entertaining Her Majesty here when, as Princess Victoria, she visited in
this locality with the Duchess of Kent, in the year of the great Reform
Bill.
[Illustration: The House in the Tree Pitchford]
Before taking leave of Pitchford, we pass out into the grounds to visit
the so-called House in the Tree. As shewn in the picture here, this
consists of a small chamber, about 9 or 10 feet square, and covered with
a peaked roof--not much in itself, yet curious from the fact that it is
built, high and dry, aloft in the fork of a huge old storm-rent lime
tree, and is approached by a crooked flight of steps. Tradition avers
that a 'house' has existed in this tree any time these two centuries
past, having been formerly used as a dwelling; and the broken stump of
more than one huge limb shews how severe have been the gales this
venerable lime tree has weathered.
Upon a slight eminence hard by the mansion rises Pitchford church, a
plain, simple structure, evidently of great antiquity. Built into its
southern wall we notice a rude stone slab, apparently older than the
church itself, with a raised cross enclosed by a circle cut in low
relief upon its surface. An otherwise ordinary-looking interior is
relieved by the handsome, recumbent effigy, of which a sketch will be
found on p. 41. This remarkable monument is entirely composed
of oak, black and smooth as ebony from lapse of time. The figure, some 7
feet in length, is that of a Crusader, habited in chain-mail, the hands
clasping a sword, and the spurred feet resting upon a couchant dog, or
talbot. Upon the base of the structure are seven trefoil arches,
enclosing shields charged with armorial bearings, all excellently
wrought, and in a good state of preservation. From its general character
there can be no doubt this monument is of very early date; indeed it is
supposed to represent Sir Ralph de Pitchford, who died in 1252.
Retracing our steps to the bridge, let us turn aside there for a moment
to look at the ancient Pitch Well, a feature probably unique of its
kind, whence the adjacent Hall derives its name.
The Well proves to be a largish shallow affair of an oval shape, and
about 2 feet in depth, while the surface of the well (which is almost
dried up this drouthy season) has little 'pockets' of semi-liquid pitch,
oozing up from below and partially caked on the top. This bituminous
spring appears, indeed, to have altered but little since Marmaduke
Rawdon visited the spot, during a tour in the seventeenth century. 'Thir
is in this Well,' he observes, 'foure littel Hooles about a halfe yard
diep, out of whiche comes lyttle lumpes of Pitche, but that which is att
ye tope of ye Well is softish, and swimes uppon the water like Tarr,
butt being skym'd together itt incorporateth, and is knead together like
untoo soft wax, and becometh harde.'
Sketches completed, we now make for the village, and pace on through the
quiet, weedgrown street, where the martins are nesting under the lee of
the old stone-tiled roofs, and the still, sunny air is redolent of lilac
and early honeysuckle. Yonder gable-end with its rough yellow
plasterwork, Venetian shutters, and mantle of purple wistaria, greets
the eye with a pleasant scheme of colour, calling up visions of far-away
Italy.
Thus we take the road again, until, coming to a green, grassy lane--part
of the ancient Watling Street--we proceed to follow it up. At a point
where the lane crosses a streamlet between hollow, sandy banks, we find
unmistakable traces of a very ancient stone bridge, which, though
undermined by rabbit burrows and damaged by tangled roots and brushwood,
still shews the springing of a massive arch, apparently of semicircular
form, while tumbled blocks of mossy sandstone cumber the stream below.
'Yo' mun tek along yonder bonky piece till yo' come to th' foredraught,
and then foller it all the way; but 'tis a terr'ble weedy road,' says a
country lad of whom we ask a direction. So away we go once more, with
the blackbirds and thrushes warbling in every hedgerow; until ere long
the homely house-roofs of Acton Burnell come in sight, backed by the
rolling woodlands of the park, which spreads away in gentle undulations
up the slopes of a neighbouring hill.
[Illustration: Acton Burnell.]
A pretty, rustic spot is Acton Burnell, its comely thatched cottages,
half submerged amidst oldfashioned country flowers, extending crosswise
along the lanes, and never an inn to be found in all the place! Yet,
despite its present bucolic aspect, Acton Burnell has figured in the
annals of English history, as we shall presently see; so let us now go
in search of records of those far-away times.
After passing the cosy-looking rectory, with its cedar trees and
sweet-smelling lilac, we soon come to the church, a beautiful structure
replete with interest to the lover of old-world scenes; for Acton
Burnell church was built just at the time when Gothic architecture had
attained its high-water mark, and, though of modest dimensions, so
perfect is every detail, that the little edifice is worthy of close
examination. The annexed sketch shows the fine geometrical east window,
and a beautiful three-light window in the north wall of the chancel. The
tower, though modern, harmonizes well with the older work beside it, and
contains a peal of very sweet-toned bells:
'A nut and a kernel!
Say the Bells of Acton Burnell.'
There is much to be seen in the interior. Near the porch we observe an
elegant font, with small, well moulded arches supporting it. Overhead is
a good oak roof, though not so massive as that of the chancel. A curious
feature of the latter is a small square window low down in the north
wall, supposed to be a leper's, or anchorite's, window, as it appears
probable that an anchorite had his dwelling here in very early times. Or
may not this have been what was known as a 'dead-light,' a little window
whence a light was shown into the graveyard to scare away the ghosts!
Passing into the north transept, which has ancient tiles upon the floor,
we are at once attracted by the very handsome and well preserved marble
monument of a knight clad in rich armour, a ruff around his neck, a lion
at his feet, and a quaint little figure supporting a helmet above his
head. Near the right hand lies a gauntlet, and within it crouches a
diminutive dog, the emblem of fidelity. Alongside the knight reposes his
lady consort, her costume of ruff and stomacher, girdle and flat
head-dress, bespeaking the time of Queen Elizabeth; while in the
background appear their nine children, habited in the stiff, formal gear
of that period. Beneath the enclosing arch are inscribed the words, 'HIC
IACET CORPUS RICHARDI LEE ARMIGERI QUI OBIIT 27° DIE MAII ANNO DONI
1591.' This fine monument is carved in alabaster, and is surmounted by a
knightly helmet and squirrel crest, and coats of arms with supporters.
[Illustration: Nicholas de Brunell.]
In the angle of the adjacent wall is another marble tomb, less elaborate
than the last, but considerably older. Its arcaded sides are wrought
with consummate skill, while the upper surface is inlaid with a handsome
brass effigy of Nicholas de Handlo, who in the year 1360 married the
heiress, and assumed the name, of the Burnell family. A glance at the
sketch will show how well this fine old brass has withstood the wear and
tear of more than 500 years. The knight's head is crowned by a peaked
hauberk, and the soldierly face, with its long, flowing moustache, looks
out from a richly cusped and crocketed canopy. A leather jerkin is worn
over the tight-fitting coat of chain-mail, and a jewelled belt supports
the long-handled sword and dagger. The legs are encased in greaves; and
huge spurs, flexible foot-gear, and gauntlets upon the uplifted hands,
complete the tale of this warrior's battle harness. A couchant lion, or
griffin, keeps ward beside the feet, and upon a brass plate at the head
we read the following inscription:
Hic iacet diis Nichus Burnell miles dus
De holgot qui obiit xixo die Januarii Anno
Dni Mmo CECmo Lxxxiio Cui aie ppiciet ds am.
We have by no means exhausted the attractions of this interesting
interior, but, to make a long story short, will merely remark, en
passant, there are numerous objects worthy of note in other parts of the
church.
A stone's throw distant from the sacred edifice, overshadowed by stately
trees, rise the ivy-mantled walls and turrets of Acton Burnell Castle,
originally founded by Sir Robert Burnell, sometime chaplain and private
secretary to Prince Edward, afterwards King Edward I. It is recorded
that in the year 1284 Burnell received the royal license to crenellate
his castle at Acton, and the picturesque ruin now before us is a work of
that period.
The castle stands four-square, its length from east to west somewhat
greater than the width, a slender turret rising at either corner. The
moat is conspicuous by its absence, which goes to confirm the theory
that Acton Burnell was rather an early embattled mansion, like its
neighbour of Stokesay, than a military castle of the usual mediæval
type. These massive old ruddy-grey sandstone walls are pierced with
mullioned windows, whose vacant cavities still retain fragments of
geometrical tracery; while a pathetic-looking wooden turret, in the last
stages of decay, peeps out from the mantle of ivy that envelopes the
western front. One or two noble old cedar trees, rising close at hand,
fling their cool, dappled shadows athwart the level greensward; and
beyond them we catch a glimpse of richly timbered park land.
Out there beneath a clump of elms, where the rooks are making merry,
certain fragments of grey crumbling stonework are seen, so thither we
now bend our steps. These prove to be two lofty massive gables of early
Edwardian, or perhaps Norman, date, the last survivals of the hall of
the original castle, or manor-house, of Acton Burnell. This secluded
spot has become famous from the fact that here, for the first time in
history, Lords and Commons sat in council, under the presidency of King
Edward I., and proceeded to enact what is known as the 'Statutum de
Mercatoribus,' or Statute of Acton Burnell. That took place in the year
of grace 1283, just a year before Sir Robert Burnell began the erection
of the later mansion, whose ruins we have just visited.
So, before taking leave of the place, we call to mind that when John
Leland the antiquary journeyed this way, early in the sixteenth century,
he found at Acton Burnell 'a goodly manor Place, or Castel, iiii myles
from Shrewsbyri, wher a Parliament was kepte in a greate Barne. It was
first made,' he adds, 'by one Burnell, a Byshope.' Robert Burnell, whose
name is so closely identified with this his native place, seems to have
found favour in the sight of his Sovereign, for Edward I. advanced him
to the see of Bath and Wells, and created his faithful liege Lord
Treasurer, and Chancellor of the realm. Burnell was frequently employed
by the king in affairs of state, especially in connection with the Welsh
Marches; and, dying in 1292, was buried in his own cathedral of Wells.
His descendants dwelt subsequently at Holgate, in Corve Dale, and the
family appears to have finally died out some time in the fifteenth
century.
On the brow of a hill two miles away to the eastward stands the
diminutive village of Kenley, the birthplace of Sir Archibald Alison,
the historian, whose father was incumbent of this parish. The road
thither leads past Acton Burnell Hall, a large, white, stone-built
mansion, vastly fine with porticoes and pediments, such as our ancestors
loved, and seated in a broad, tree-shaded park, very pleasant to behold.
[Illustration: Kenley Church.]
The little church of Kenley is ancient and interesting, having an
aisle-less nave, south porch, and broad, low, western tower, with walls
thick enough for a fortress, and narrow, deeply-splayed loops by way of
windows. The lofty old pulpit, with its sounding-board and curiously
carved oak panels, is a pretty feature of the interior; and the chancel
window, we notice, is of rather uncommon character, having elegant
flowing tracery, and minute sculptured heads outside at the springings
of the hoodmould.
Out in the churchyard grows a gnarled old yew tree of immense girth; and
from beneath its sombre branches we obtain a glorious prospect over a
wide stretch of picturesque, broken country towards the west, with many
a familiar Salopian height belted with woods and pastures, and the wild
Welsh hills, cloud-capped and blue, rising far away beyond all.
Returning to Acton Burnell, we now put the best foot foremost, and push
on again in a southerly direction through a hilly-and-daley country.
Just outside the village our attention is arrested by a pair of
patriarchal oaks rising close beside the roadway, excellent specimens of
the 'Shropshire weed,' which, the rustics will tell you, date from just
after the Deluge! Anon we coast beside a belt of woodland all flushed
with the shimmery blue of wild hyacinths; and then pause at the crest of
the bank for a glance at the distant hills, and the steeples of Salop
rising from the vale beneath.
[Illustration: The Old Gate House. Langley.
Deserted Chapel at Langley, Shropshire.]
A turn to the left, and yonder is Langley Chapel, standing ruinous and
deserted in the midst of a weedgrown meadow, its weather-stained walls
and broken roof presenting such a lamentable spectacle of neglect and
desecration, that the very genius loci must shed tears, one would
suppose, to behold its sorry plight. The exterior is simple, not to say
severe, a crazy wooden bell-cot above the western gable alone relieving
the skyline of the solid old stone-tiled roof, while wooden shutters,
all awry, obscure the ancient windows.
Even worse, if possible, is the state of affairs within; for the sacred
edifice presents all the appearance of having been used as a cattle
stall or sheep pen. Yet amidst all the dust, mildew and litter, a sharp
eye may still discover here and there traces of better things. Opposite
the door by which we enter rises the old canopied Reader's pew that
figures in our sketch, its panelled roof set about with the nests of
house-martins, the little denizens twittering to and fro while we
sketch. And yonder beneath the broken east window are ranged the desks,
tables and benches, just as they were left by the old Puritan
worshippers, a curious if not unique feature of the church; while on the
opposite side may be noticed some of the original seventeenth-century
oak pews, with their bits of finely executed carving, quaint hinges, and
nicely turned finial knobs. The date 1601, cut on one of the tie-beams
of the roof, gives a clue to the age of the building.
'Scarce a myle from Acton Burnell,' says John Leland, 'standeth Langley
Hall, seated very low and flat in a Parke full of woodds, the dwelling
place of the Lees, whiche may well challendge to be ranged among the
families that are of the better worthe and greater antiquitie in the
tract.' Langley Hall is now, alas! no more, but the Gatehouse seen in
our sketch conveys some idea of the appearance it must have presented.
This fine old structure probably dates from about John Leland's time,
and, though fallen sadly into disrepair, still delights the eye with its
rough, mossy roofs, huge chimney stacks, and ancient, weather-stained
gables. A tall pointed archway constructed of stone formed the approach
to the original mansion; and part of an embattled wall that surrounded
the demesne does duty nowadays as a cartshed.
Langley was, as we have seen, for many generations the paternal abode of
the Lees, a family of much repute in this locality. Richard Lee, whose
handsome monument we saw in Acton Burnell church, was a scion of this
house, which at a later period claimed some distinguished sons in
America, Colonel Richard Lee having emigrated to that country in 1641.
General Henry Lee served under Washington, and his son Robert became
famous as the leader of the Confederate armies during the Civil War in
America.
[Illustration: Frodesley Lodge]
So much, then, for Langley. Sketches completed, we now shoulder our
knapsacks, and push briskly onwards again, dropping into a secluded lane
that runs between low, wooded hills, in the direction of the south. Away
upon the crest of the ridge to our right stands Frodesley Lodge, a
singular looking pile of Tudor brickwork, with a great stone staircase
running from top to bottom, and several large oak-panelled chambers.
Down in the vale beyond lies Frodesley village, where Sir Herbert
Edwardes, the hero of Mûltan, first saw the light, his father being
rector of Frodesley at that time. The church was rebuilt in 1809, and is
a fair sample of the dismal 'style' then in vogue, about the only relic
of antiquity that has survived being the ancient parish register, the
oldest in this county, dating from 1598.
A mile or two to the westward lies Longnor, a pretty village with
thatched, half-timbered cottages, rising with nonchalant irregularity
beside the highway. Longnor Hall, a substantial red-brick structure,
stands in the midst of a finely timbered park, in one corner whereof
rises the early eighteenth-century chapel, a curious little edifice with
the pigeon-hole pews of the 'churchwarden' era, and gates carefully
locked lest, perchance, the lover of old things should spy out the
nakedness of the land!
[Illustration: Ancient Bridge on the "Devil's Causeway."]
But we digress. Upon overhauling the Ordnance sheet, the name 'Devil's
Causeway' whets one's curiosity, and puts one upon the qui vive for what
may lie in store. Nor do we have long to wait, for, coming to a brook in
the bottom of the vale, our lane is carried across it by a little
round-arched stone bridge, showing unmistakable signs of antiquity. The
lane, too, becomes as we proceed a veritable causeway, both it and the
ancient bridge being rudely paved with large, thick, roughly squared
flagstones, partly hidden beneath grass and weeds, and forming a kind of
kerb above the ditch by the laneside.
Tradition has it that this causeway marks the track of an old, old road,
that in prehistoric times ran across country from the Watling Street,
near Acton Burnell, to the Roman encampment at Nordy Bank, on the
shoulder of Brown Clee Hill.
Anent the origin of the bridge itself, an old countrywoman
good-naturedly comes to our aid, and solves the riddle by explaining,
'It was the Devil as builded un up in one night, and when cock-crow come
er dropped they stwuns down in a hurry out of's apern, and flew away to
his own place.'
Thus enlightened we go our ways, and, breasting the hill, come by-and-by
to Chatwall, a large, antiquated farmhouse, approached through a sort of
cutting in the solid limestone rock. Though ignored by the guidebooks,
Chatwall is evidently a place that 'could a tale unfold,' had its old
grey stones but tongues wherewith to tell it. The house, a big old
structure, solidly built of timber and stone, with rough, stone shingled
roof, and low-browed, mullioned windows, was for many a day the home of
the Corfields, a family of distinction in these parts, whose initials
appear upon the carved oak panelling, with the date 1659. The
farm-kitchen inside might have served as a subject for Van Ostade, so
rude and primitive it is, with its great oaken settle in the ingle nook,
and mighty Jacobean table, inches thick, so constructed as to well-nigh
double its length when fully extended.
[Illustration: Panel at Church Preen]
Through crooked byways, abloom with bluebells and gay pink campion, we
now make our way to Church Preen, a tiny hamlet set in a romantic dell,
'far from the madding crowd.' Overshadowed by a gigantic yew, the little
church stands as a sort of appendix to Norman Shaw's handsome,
half-timbered manor-house, the residence of Mr. Sparrow, the lord of the
manor. Dedicated to St. John the Baptist, this church is a singular one,
being only about 12 feet wide, though as much as 70 feet in length. It
has neither aisles nor transepts, and is of early character, having
formerly been used by Cluniac monks as a cell or chapel to Wenlock
Priory. Though plain and simple to a degree, the interior looks bright
and well-cared-for, and boasts a richly carved lectern and pulpit, with
the date 1641 cut upon a panel.
Once more afoot, half an hour's walk through shady lanes, with scarce a
cottage in sight, leads us past a large, curious-looking old farmhouse
at Holt Preen, and so up the hill to Plash.
[Illustration: Plash. Shropshire.]
Seated upon a gentle eminence within its own walled demesne, the
Manor-house of Plash is one of the most remarkable and interesting
places in all this countryside. The mansion is a large, substantial
brick structure, whose tall, twisted chimney stacks, and lofty mullioned
windows, indicate that it was built in the days of Henry VIII. or
Elizabeth, the low screen wall and ogee cupolas being additions of a
later period.
Inside there is a noble sixteenth-century banqueting hall, with open
timbered roof, and minstrels' gallery, supported by a massive oak screen
of Jacobean character, at one end; and several fine wainscoted
apartments with enriched plaster ceilings. An elaborate old fireplace of
_cast-iron_, dated 1574, is a noticeable feature. Altogether the old
mansion remains pretty much as originally built, affording an
interesting study to the antiquary.
The manor of Plash, or Plaish, was held for many generations by the
Sprencheaux family, the last of whom, Sir Fulk Sprencheaux, died in
1447. His portrait, and the armour worn by him, may be seen hanging upon
the panelled wall in the banqueting hall at Plash. After them came the
Leightons, by one of whom the existing mansion was probably erected;
while a later scion of the same stock was a certain William Leighton,
whose sumptuous monument we shall presently see when visiting Cardington
church.
But the day wanes, and it is still a far cry to our night's bivouac at
Church Stretton. So pushing merrily onwards, we call no halt this side
of Cardington, our lengthening shadows bringing up the rear, and a
cuckoo rehearsing his tedious lay from a solitary wych elm in the
hedgerow.
[Illustration: Cardington. Salop.]
The village lies high on the hills, in an out-of-the-way locality, and
very picturesque the old place looks as we draw near, its weatherbeaten
grey church crowning a gentle rise, a group of children playing
'hide-and-seek' about the churchyard wicket, and half a dozen antiquated
cottages clustering loosely around--rough old stone-built structures
most of them, with moss-grown roofs, and diamond-paned windows blinking
from beneath the deepset eaves.
But let us step into the church. Entering beneath a seventeenth century
timbered porch, its round-arched doorway and the two small Norman lights
on either side the nave shew that the fabric is of ancient origin,
although its more striking features date from a much later period. The
panels of the oak pulpit are effectively carved, while some of the older
pews bear the names of local manors, or townships, cut upon them.
[Illustration: Leightons of Plashe.]
In the chancel stands the rich, sumptuous monument of Sir William
Leighton and his lady, with their children grouped in a panel of the
substructure below. 'THIS MONUMENT WAS MADE,' as the inscription runs,
'IN THE YEAR 1607, AS A MEMORIAL TO WM LEIGHTON OF PLASHE, ESQ., OF
NORTH WALES, ONE OF THE COUNCELL IN THE MARCHES OF WALES FOR ABOVE
FORTIE YEARES.' Then comes the moral, 'NEMO ANTE OBITUM BEATUS.' A very
quaint monument this. Curious, too, are the Bell-ringers' Laws set up on
the tower wall.
Bidding farewell to Cardington, we have a good half-mile of collar work
before us, ere the brow of the hill is won close to a singular mass of
tumbled rocks called the Sharpstones, whence the view opens out towards
Wenlock Edge, with Brown Clee peeping over it.
Plunging into a steep stony lane, a likely-looking field path suggests
the possibility of a short cut; but, calling to mind the Spaniard's
proverb, 'No hay atajo sin trabajo'--no short cut without trouble--we
consult an old fellow who happens along just now. 'Yon's a weedy road,'
is the best he can say for our byway, 'the medders be all-of-a-pop
(boggy) down that-a-way.'
[Illustration: Chalice at Hope Bowdler.]
So we stick to our last, and push forwards again along the stony lane;
and half an hour later find ourselves at Hope Bowdler, a lowly hamlet
seated in a sheltered vale, in the lap of the Cardington hills. Passing
the wheelwright's shop, with its fascinating jumble of rough timber and
derelict carts, we turn through the old lich-gate and take a peep at St.
Andrew's church, a poorly-restored edifice with a carved oak Jacobean
pulpit, and a plain but well-proportioned silver chalice, bearing the
date 1572 upon its lid.
Up, up we go once more, with the hills folding in as we advance, and the
curious Gaerstone rock sticking up, like a miniature Matterhorn, high
above the roadway. Diverging to the right, we soon drop into a sweet
secluded 'cwm' beneath the shadow of giant Caradoc, whose rugged crest
fairly bristles with huge rocks, as though Titans had been playing bowls
up there. Anon we are footing it athwart the open hillside, pushing
through gorse and breast-high bracken, and inhaling the odours of wild
thyme and the thousand scents of summer.
Grandly the Longmynd bulks ahead as we descend into Stretton Dale, his
massive shoulders rising purple against the amber light that still
irradiates the western heavens, while the shadows of evening enfold as
with dusky wings each nook and recess of the mountain. The lights of
Church Stretton twinkle out through the gloom as we beat up for quarters
at last, and a certain snug hostelry to which we now make our way proves
a welcome haven after our long day's cross-country tramp.
[Illustration: Sir Ralph of Pitchford.]
STRETTON DALE AND THE LONGMYND, A VISIT TO STOKESAY CASTLE.
Church Stretton is 'a pretty uplandish Townelett, the cheifest Building
that is in Stretton Dale.' Thus wrote John Leland in the time of King
Henry VIII., and his description holds good to-day. Lovers of Nature
will congratulate themselves on the fact that the 'cheifest Building
'scarce attains the dignity of a town, which is seated in the midst of
one of the most charming localities in all Shropshire, an excellent
centre for anyone bent upon exploring the heather-clad hills and upland
valleys by which the place is surrounded.
The railway train that carries the traveller thither climbs steadily
up-hill all the way from Shrewsbury, halts for breath, so to speak, at
Stretton station, and then starts away upon a downward grade, following
for many a mile the southward flowing streams. Lying thus high and dry,
Church Stretton is one of the healthiest places imaginable, thanks to
pure water, and mountain breezes fraught with an invigorating tang from
their journey over leagues of gorse, heather and bracken.
Right through the vale, from north to south, runs the ancient green lane
still known as Watling Street, rubbing shoulders as it goes with the old
winding coach-road, and with that modern parvenu the railway track. For
this Stretton valley has time out of mind been the great main artery of
travel for man and beast, whether faring towards the cities of the
north, or journeying into South Wales.
[Illustration: Church Stretton.]
Church Stretton village--or should we say town?--rambles in by no means
unpicturesque fashion alongside the old highroad, half way or
thereabouts between Shrewsbury and Ludlow. Just off the street, at the
rear of the Buck's Head Inn (formerly the manor-house of Church
Stretton), stands the parish church of St. Lawrence, a fine cruciform
structure shaded by noble old elms, amidst whose green foliage its
venerable grey tower, adorned with the image of the patron saint, rises
with charming effect.
[Illustration: Church Stretton.]
[Illustration]
The chancel is evidently the work of Norman hands, but an archaic little
image, carved above its southern door, looks like an insertion from some
earlier edifice. And there are other features well worth looking at in
the nicely-proportioned interior; notably a fine thirteenth century
roof, some curiously carved oak panelling round about the altar, and
groups of heads peering out with odd effect upon the sculptured capitals
of the pillars.
Bonham Norton's fine old timbered market house, built in the year 1617,
has, unfortunately, been stupidly destroyed not so very long ago--'it
was politics as did it' is the dark saying of an old inhabitant; and its
place is now usurped by a sorry red-brick substitute of the meanest
character. Though the tide of modernization has already set in here,
there are still a few ancient timbered gables with lattice-paned windows
shewing here and there about the village, and they appear all the more
venerable, perhaps, in contrast to their spick-and-span neighbours.
Overlooking Church Stretton upon its western side rise a series of tall,
green, rounded hills, outposts of the broad backed Longmynd. In and
between these run deep, hollow dingles, or 'gutters,' as they call them
hereabouts.
Such is the Carding Mill valley, by which we may climb to the crest of
the ridge, whence a shrewd walker may push on to the solitary pole that
marks the top of the Longmynd, some 1,700 feet above the sea. If by good
fortune the day be clear, the wanderer may reckon on a widespread view
from the summit of the Longmynd; tumbled blue hills shewing all around
the horizon, like waves on a stormy ocean. An ancient grass-grown
trackway traversing these highlands is referred to in old documents as
the 'King's hie waie on Longemunde.'
Wayfarers are few on these upland byways, where the hill ponies are
often the only signs of life, and no sound breaks the stillness save the
whirr of a startled grouse, or the plaintive pipe of the curlew; 'there
the winds sweep, and the plovers cry.'
[Illustration: Church Stretton & the Longmynd.]
Bright and exhilarating looks the Longmynd in its summer panoply of
heather and golden gorse; and picturesque in the extreme when Autumn
brings the 'whim berry' gatherers, with their camp-fires and steaming
kettles, and merry shouts of children. But very different is the scene
when this vast, unenclosed moorland falls under the stern sway of
winter, and every landmark is obliterated by a mantle of untrodden snow.
At times like these the Longmynd bears an eerie name, for lives not a
few have been lost in attempting to traverse its trackless wastes, and
places here and there bear ominous names such as Deadman's Hollow,
Devil's Mouth, Deadman's Beach, and the like. Moreover the last fair of
the year, held at Church Stretton on St. Andrew's day, has acquired the
title of 'Deadman's Fair,' as men returning from it have been known to
perish while endeavouring to reach their homes beyond the hills through
the wild, mid-winter night. A remarkable if not unprecedented experience
was that which befell the Rev. Donald Carr, the present rector of
Woolstaston, who was lost in the snow upon Longmynd for a night and a
day, in January, 1865.
* * * * *
Extending our rambles somewhat farther afield, a few minutes' run by
train beneath the steep, wooded slopes of Caer Caradoc, brings us to
Leebotwood, the first station Shrewsbury-wards on the railway. The
village itself lies a quarter of a mile away, under a smooth green hill
called the Lawley, but is worth a detour for the sake of its pretty
thatched cottages, with their flowery garden plots and wealth of
creepers, and its quaint oldfashioned inn yclept The Pound, which bears
the date 1650, and does duty also as village post-office.
Past Leebotwood church, a small stone edifice overarched by umbrageous
beech trees, we push on along the dusty highway, which, gradually
ascending, affords fine views over the countryside, and a glimpse of a
round green 'tump' called Castle Hill, a prehistoric camp keeping ward
over the ancient Portway, which extends hence along the brow of the
Longmynd to Billing's Ring, near Bishop's Castle.
[Illustration: Woolstaston Church, and Rectory.]
A turn of the road reveals the village of Woolstaston, with its
diminutive church overshadowed by three gigantic yew trees, and snug
timbered rectory house, home of the Rev. Donald Carr, whose marvellous
adventures, when snowed up on the Longmynd, have been recorded in an
interesting little work entitled 'A Night in the Snow;' adventures which
seem to confirm the old adage that 'truth is stranger than fiction.'
[Illustration: Font at Woolstaston.]
Woolstaston church, despite its small size, is well worth a passing
visit. The chancel is entered through a doorway of true pre-Norman type,
its semicircular head being fashioned from one single stone, while the
jambs retain the holes for a wooden cross-bar. But the most notable
feature of the church is a singular pair of fonts, one standing within
the other, as depicted in our sketch. Both are evidently very ancient,
and of archaic simplicity, the lower and seemingly older one being
supposed to have originally belonged to a chapel, long since destroyed,
that stood not far from here.
Woolstaston Hall, now a large farmhouse, stands near the church. It must
have been a fine place in its time, if we may judge from a noble
panelled parlour, with a polished oak floor fit to make young people's
feet itch for a dance, and a massive stone portal, fronting upon the
garden to the rear, evidently the main entrance to the mansion in its
original state.
In the secluded country to the north of Woolstaston one stumbles upon a
bunch of out-of-the-way villages and hamlets, anent which runs the
following quatrain:
'Cothercot upo' the Hill.
Wilderley down i' the Dale,
Churton for pretty Girls,
And Powtherbatch for good Ale!'
In the same quarter lies Beatchcott, a place boasting a history of its
own, having been granted by Henry III. to Haughmond Abbey, an oratory
being in existence here at that time. Beatchcott subsequently passed to
the Ireland family, coming eventually into the possession of the
Wildings, who have held the estate for over three hundred years.
At Ratlinghope, a few miles away, the Black Canons of St. Augustine had
a small cell, or priory, founded in John's reign, and affiliated to
Wigmore Abbey.
Returning from Woolstaston to Church Stretton, we pass by Womerton,
where the older of the two fonts in Woolstaston church was found; and
then, skirting the unenclosed uplands, we drop into the highroad at or
about All Stretton.
Anent these names of Stretton hangs a tale that runs somewhat as
follows. King Charles II. (or was it James?), journeying one day towards
Shrewsbury, came in due course to Little Stretton. 'How call you this
place?' inquired the Merrie Monarch. 'Stretton, an it please your
Majesty,' was the countryman's reply. '_Little_ Stretton, methinks, were
a fitter name for so small a place,' said the King; and set forth again
towards Shrewsbury. Upon arriving at the next village, Charles again
asked where he was. 'At Stretton, sire,' someone answered. Espying the
parish church, whose bells were making music in the old grey steeple,
his Majesty exclaimed: 'Call it rather _Church_ Stretton,' and went his
way once more. Finally the King came to All Stretton, and being again
informed he was at Stretton, 'Stretton!' cried Charles in astonishment,
'why it's _All_ Stretton about here!' The story, if not absolutely true,
is at least 'ben trovato.'
* * * * *
The road from Church Stretton to Craven Arms traverses a pleasant,
smiling vale, with the Quenny brook wimpling along amidst water meadows,
and broad breezy hillslopes stretching up and away beyond the rich,
rolling woodlands that nestle around their flanks.
A short mile out of the village we strike up an isolated knoll, whose
summit is seamed with the green ramparts of Brockhurst Castle, an
ancient stronghold keeping ward over the Watling Street, of whose
history very little is known. Brockhurst was a royal foundation, and in
Henry the Second's reign was held by Engelard de Pitchford, the famous
Hubert de Burgh being Castellan in the year 1226. As early as Queen
Elizabeth's time the place, it is evident, was already deserted; for
Camden, writing at that period, finds there 'are still remaining the
ruins of an ancient castle, called Brocard's castle, surrounded by
verdant meads which anciently were fishponds.' But the site is an ideal
spot for the genus picnicker, by whom its bowery nooks and secluded,
fern-clad dingles are often-times frequented.
On descending to the highroad, we notice the level strath where
doubtless the fishponds lay. Soon afterwards we come to Little Stretton,
a tranquil hamlet charmingly located in a nook of the Longmynd, over
against the beautifully-wooded hill of Ragleth. The cottagers, we
observe, take a curious delight in garnishing their doorways with
derelict cannon-shot, which they find in the neighbouring gullies after
artillery practice on the Longmynd. Blackleaded and brightly polished,
they stand sentinel on either side the rustic porch; an innocent billet
indeed for these truculent bullets!
At the farther end of the village two humble inns, the Green Dragon and
the Crown, stand vis-à-vis on either side the highway; and, in these
modest hostelries, visitors may possibly identify the rival 'houses'
that figure in Beatrice Harraden's story of Shropshire life, entitled
'At the Green Dragon.'
Pushing on now to Marsh Brook, we turn sharp to the left at the rural
post-office, and work our way up-hill to Acton Scott, a high-lying place
some 700 feet above sea level--'Acton-super-Montem' it is called in
ancient documents.
Passing through the churchyard wicket, we pause beneath an enormous
hollow yew tree to scan the rare prospect over the rolling Stretton
hills, and a glimpse down the vale towards Ludlow. Of the church itself
there is little to be said, save that it has a good plain old oak
roodscreen; so we stroll on beneath an avenue of noble beech trees, and
presently come in sight of Acton Scott Hall.
[Illustration: Acton Scott Hall.]
As may be seen in our sketch, the mansion is a simple, massive brick
structure, with stone quoins at the angles, mullioned windows, and
clustered chimney shafts; altogether a very fair specimen of an
ancestral abode of the gentlefolk of a bygone period. And the place has
an added interest for all local antiquaries, as the home of the late
Mrs. Stackhouse-Acton, author of 'Castles and Mansions of Shropshire.'
Acton Scott Hall was in all probability erected by a certain Edward
Acton, who flourished about the middle of the sixteenth century; and it
has been noticed that the mansion bears a considerable resemblance to
its contemporary, the so-called 'Whitehall' at Shrewsbury.
A steep 'pitchy' lane, descending the hill past the cosy-looking
vicarage, now leads us across a stretch of rough common-land, where the
cottagers' geese seem disposed, more suo, to contest our right-of-way.
Thence by narrow lanes draped with ferns and wild flowers we travel on
to a place called Alceston, and at an elbow of the road come
face-to-face with the old derelict homestead that figures below; its
weather-stained roofs tufted with green mosses and house-leeks, and
overshadowed by a few ragged fir trees; while the black old timbers upon
its faded front are wrought into balusters and quatrefoil patterns.
[Illustration: Alceston.]
In its palmy days Alceston seems to have been a place of some
consequence, having been built by Humphrey Hill (a connection of the
Hills of Court-of-hill), who died here in 1585. The house was originally
much larger, great part of it having been pulled down many years ago.
Over against this ancient dwelling rises a very large and happily quite
unrestored old barn, entirely constructed of oak both inside and out; a
pleasing contrast to those modern monstrosities of galvanized iron, that
too often stare one out of countenance amidst these rural byways.
Through a pleasant, well-tended country, relieved by scraps of
common-land, we win our way to Wistanstow, a comely-looking village
extending along a quiet road, on the line of the ancient Watling Street.
Close beside the highway rises the old grey tower of its parish church,
a fine cruciform structure dating from 1180, A.D. Upon the nail-studded
south nave door hangs a so-called 'sanctuary' ring, and the great
wooden lock with its iron letters I.P.C.W., and date 1696. The walls of
the south transept bear well-executed writings of the Creed, the Lord's
Prayer and the Decalogue, of early seventeenth century date; while the
north transept retains its old original oak roof. The chancel door shews
the characteristic round arch and quaintly-carved capitals of the Norman
style.
[Illustration: Halford Church & Mill]
We have now but to steer a straight course for awhile, as the Watling
Street fares forward between its trim, green hedgerows. But anon we go
astray once more in order to get a nearer look at Halford church, which
peeps invitingly out from a leafy nook on the opposite bank of the Onny.
The little church, though considerably modernized, bears traces of no
mean antiquity, and with an old flour-mill down in the vale below is
reflected in the stream at our feet, affording as pretty a coup d'oeil
as anyone could wish to see.
So having 'bagged' a sketch of this pleasant scene we take it easy
awhile, lying prone amidst the clover-scented grass and the buttercups
under the shade of an old pollard willow, and watching the troutlets as
they rise at the silly gnats, and the swallows flashing by in the
sunlight. Then, giving Craven Arms village the go-by for the present, we
tramp the dusty half-mile of highroad that leads to Stokesay Castle.
[Illustration: Stokesay Castle. Shropshire.]
Presently the old grey-green walls and mossy roofs of castle and church
come into view beyond a clump of trees upon our right, arousing great
expectations of matters antiquarian; for, as Dr. Jessop truly remarks,
'when a man is bitten with a taste for old castles and earthworks, it is
all over with him.'
Half fortalice, half manor-house, Stokesay Castle rears its ancient
turrets in the midst of a green, sylvan vale, the luxuriantly wooded
heights that rise on either hand giving a sense of restful seclusion;
while one or two farmsteads, nestling beneath the old ivy-mantled walls,
lend a home-like air to this pleasant, rural scene.
Making our way around to its south-western side, we obtain what is,
perhaps, the best general view of the castle; its hoary towers and
gables appearing from this point mirrored in the placid surface of a
large pool, which in olden times supplied water to the moat.
The venerable structure that now rises so picturesquely before us is
regarded by antiquaries as an almost unique example of a
thirteenth-century mansion which has been fortified at some period
subsequent to the erection of the domestic portion of the buildings,
thus reversing the usual order of things.
Hence the tall crenellated tower that figures conspicuously in our
sketch is not, as would at first sight appear, the oldest part of the
castle, but was built at a later period in order to protect John de
Verdon's already existing mansion, whose mossy gables and tall mullioned
windows are seen farther away to the left. The curious-looking bastion
beyond, with its quaint, overhanging upper story, is a remarkable
feature of the edifice; its lower portion, pierced with loops for
archery, being probably older than any other part of the castle, though
the half-timbered gable above is a comparatively modern addition.
In the background rises the low grey tower of the parish church, an
interesting old edifice untouched as yet by restoration, whereof we
shall see more anon.
[Illustration: The Gate-House Stokesay Castle.]
We now proceed to the Gatehouse, a beautiful structure of timber and
plaster dating from Tudor times. Grey, worn, and weather-stained as they
are, its solid old oaken timbers bid fair to outlast many a long year
yet; while the huge angle corbels and the spandrils above the gateway
are boldly carved with the quaint, humorous conceits of the mediæval
craftsman. The story goes that in the last century this Gatehouse used
to be frequented by a fugitive, outlawed in the days when forgery was a
capital crime, who hid snugly away in some secret closet of the interior
until the hue-and-cry was well on its way elsewhere.
Let us now make our way within. A substantial oak door, nail-studded,
and loopholed for the use of muskets, admits us into the courtyard;
beyond whose level greensward rise the picturesque gables of the ancient
Banqueting Hall, its mullioned windows flanked by massive buttresses,
and surmounted with a wavy old stone-slated roof beautified by lush
green mosses and splashes of golden lichen.
Passing within, we find ourselves in a nobly proportioned hall, whose
open-timbered roof is supported by sturdy oaken beams springing from
stone corbels of elegant design. Upon either side rise lofty traceried
windows; and in the floor we see the stone slab which supported the
brazier, whose smoke has blackened the rafters overhead.
At one end of the hall a rude sort of staircase, composed of solid oak
steps, gives access to other rooms in the northern wing of the castle;
and in the opposite wall is a shouldered doorway, leading to storerooms
and nondescript cellars. High up in this wall are seen two tiny,
shuttered lights, which give upon the Banqueting Hall from an upper
chamber.
To this apartment, known as the Solar, we now make our way; climbing
thither by a flight of stone steps out in the open courtyard. With its
magnificent carved oak mantelpiece and handsome wainscoting, the Solar
must have been far and away the most sumptuous chamber in the castle,
and was probably used as a kind of parlour, or withdrawing-room, for
ladies, and guests of the better sort. This view is strengthened by the
presence of the two 'peep-hole' windows before mentioned, whence the
occupants of the Solar could, themselves unobserved, keep an eye upon
the festive scenes that went forward in the Banqueting Hall below.
The mantelpiece above mentioned is quite a marvel of elaborate
ornamentation, of that rich, florid style, in vogue towards the close of
the seventeenth century. The base of the structure, surmounting a plain
stone fireplace, is effectively carved with bold, conventional foliage,
and a pear pattern in the spandrils; while the upper portion is divided
pilaster-wise, by grotesque figures, into panels enriched with masks
surrounded by intricate strapwork. A sketch of one of these panels may
be seen by turning to p. 59, where it forms a tailplate to the
chapter.
Both wainscoting and chimney-piece retain remnants of colour and
gilding; and the chamber is lighted by traceried windows bearing a
general resemblance to those of the adjoining hall.
Old records tell of historical portraits at 'Stoke,' as it was then
called; and we can well imagine they adorned the walls of this very
apartment. Here was 'ye Picture of Charles ye Fyrst'; there, 'ye Picture
of Charles ye Seconde'; and yonder, 'Theodoric Vernon, alias Vernon with
ye redde Hand, alias the Proud Vernon, with a gold Chaine about hys neck
with a Medall at the bottom.' What with its panelled dadoes, handsome
chimney-piece, old portraits looking down from the walls, and armorial
quarterings in its stained-glass windows, the Solar must have afforded a
seductive retreat from the amenities of those rough times.
A climb to the summit of the great tower is rewarded by a capital coup
d'oeil of the castle and its pleasant environs; so now, before taking
leave of this interesting spot, let us travel back for a moment into the
domain of history.
In the Conqueror's time 'Stoke' was held by the famous Roger de
Montgomery, passing subsequently to the de Lacys, until it was bestowed
by Walter of that ilk on the family of Say, whose ancestors had fought
by Duke William's side at the Battle of Hastings. Having reverted to the
de Lacys, the last of that line bestowed the castle upon his son-in-law,
John de Verdon, who about 1240 A.D. erected the present Banqueting Hall.
Half-a-century later, we find a certain Lawrence de Ludlow obtaining
permission to 'crenellate his Castle at Stoke-Say,' at which time the
courtyard wall, and possibly the southern tower, may have been erected.
John Leland, passing this way on his 'Laborieuse Searche for England's
Antiquities,' tells us, with scant regard for topographical accuracy,
that 'Mr. Vernon hath a place not farre from Oney, aboot iiij miles out
of Ludlo, in the waye betwixt Ludlo and Bishop Castle. Stoke-Say
belongeth sometime to the Ludlo's, now the Vernons, builded like a
Castell.' These were the Vernons of Haddon Hall fame, from whom Stokesay
passed by purchase to the Earls of Craven.
During the Civil Wars the castle was held by Sir Samuel Baldwyn, of
Elsich, and was garrisoned for King Charles; but after a short
investment fell into the hands of the Parliamentarians, who defeated and
routed a troop of Royalists, 200 strong, close to a place called
Whettleton, in the meadows below Norton Camp, on the eastern side of the
vale. Thereafter the castle was 'slighted,' or rendered incapable of
defence.
Stokesay Castle is now the property of H. J. Allcroft, Esq., by whom the
old place has been put into a reasonable state of repair, and its
ancient features carefully preserved. Those who care to know more about
this interesting fortified Manor-house, may obtain at the Gatehouse an
excellent little guidebook to Stokesay Castle by the Rev. J. D. la
Touche, the late vicar of Stokesay.
[Illustration: Stokesay Church.]
Stokesay Church, though originally Norman, was in large measure rebuilt
in the seventeenth century, as recorded upon the keystone of the tower
arch, 'Ano. Dom. 1654, this church was rebuilt by the pious oversight
of George Powell, Gent., and George Lambe, Churchwarden. This Arch was
given by John Cheshire, Joyner.' A tie-beam of the chancel roof bears a
date of ten years later.
Since those times the sacred edifice has remained practically untouched,
and consequently presents an appearance of rural simplicity, very
grateful to look upon in these 'restoration' days. The oak pulpit, with
its curious sounding-board above, and the beautiful double canopied pew
in the chancel, are excellent examples of Jacobean carpentry; while some
of the old high-backed pews retain their original wrought-iron hinges,
and touches of carved work here and there.
Recent researches have revealed, beneath the whitewash of the
'churchwarden' era, certain scriptural texts upon the walls, whose
quaint, appropriate sentiment will not be lost upon the beholder.
Alongside the pulpit, for example, runs the legend, 'As new born Babes
desire ye Sincere milk of ye Word, that ye may grow thereby.' There,
too, is the Credence, with the name 'Ponce Pilate,' after the olden
fashion.
A primitive west gallery partially obscures the well-proportioned Early
English arch opening into the tower, which latter is broad, low and
massive, and part of the original church. Outside are some very fair
seventeenth-century table tombs, one of them having its fluted pillars
scooped away in an unaccountable manner.
Before retracing our steps towards Craven Arms, we strike up into the
woods above Whettleton, in order to visit Norton Camp, an early British
earthwork altered and adapted, as is supposed, by the Romans, which
commands both the ancient Watling Street, and the Castle road going into
Corve Dale. Its mounds are large and lofty, especially upon the western
side, where the hill falls steeply to the plain, and we obtain glimpses
through the twinkling foliage of far-away heights, extending fold upon
fold to the horizon. Yonder rise the wild hills of Wales, their purple
crests shewing clear and sharp against the glowing sunset sky; while the
full moon climbs above the sombre woodlands of Corve Dale, and beams
adieu to the departing lord of day.
Then we plunge down through the twilight woods, and, traversing an
ancient suburb paradoxically called Newton, with its fine old
half-timbered mansion house, once the vicarage of Stokesay, come soon to
Craven Arms, where we take up our night's lodging in one of the
comfortable hotels for which the place is noted.
[Illustration: Carved Panel at Stokesay Castle]
FROM CRAVEN ARMS TO BISHOP'S CASTLE AND CLUN.
Our general objective to-day is the broken, picturesque country lying
around the quiet market towns of Bishop's Castle and Clun; an
out-of-the-way, rural district, less frequented, perhaps, than any other
portion of Shropshire.
The Bishop's Castle railway, commencing at Craven Arms, affords the
readiest means of approach to the locality. Away to the south as we
jaunt leisurely along we get a glimpse of Cheney Longville, a pretty
secluded hamlet hidden away amidst copses and pasture fields, with never
a highroad near it. Some slight remains of the old fortified manor-house
of Cheney Longville still exist, incorporated with an antiquated
farmhouse containing much fine carved oak furniture.
The Cheney family, whence the place derives its name, is a very ancient
clan. Roger Cheney was Seneschal to Edward, Earl of Arundel, Sheriff of
Shropshire in 1316. A second Roger held 'Cheney Longfield' in 1341;
while yet another of the same name received license from the King, 1395
A.D., to embattle his house at Cheney Longville.
After a while we join company with the little river Onny, as it meanders
through a picturesquely wooded vale, getting delightful glimpses of the
Longmynd as we draw near to our destination, his lower flanks dotted
with old stunty oaks and ancient hawthorns, while gorse and heather
brighten the foreground.
Coining to Plowden station, we shoulder the knapsacks and bear away to
the southward.
Crossing the Onny beside a rushing weir, we get a direction for Plowden
Hall from an old fellow in charge of a timber-waggon. 'You'm better tek
up the rack acrass yon bonky piece, and goo through the wicket,' says
our friend, 'you'll be apt to find it a gainer road than the one as goes
through the 'ood.' So we breast the upland meadows, and meanwhile our
gaze wanders over a goodly prospect; hill and vale, chequered by tilth
and pasture-land, lying map-like at our feet, while shafts of sunlight,
touching here and there, relieve the contours of a broken, wrinkled
country, or bring into momentary prominence some rustic homestead
surrounded by barns and haystacks.
[Illustration: Plowden Hall. Shropshire.]
Plowden Hall lies perdu until we are close upon it, for the old mansion
nestles in a nook of the hills amidst dark, umbrageous woodlands. Its
broad, somewhat low entrance front is pleasantly quaint and simple, with
nothing imposing about it, though the deep-browed portico and massive
hall door beneath lend a touch of character. But a better view is
obtained by passing to the back of the house, whence our sketch is
taken.
From this point of view the ancient Manor-house rears its yellow
weather-stained gables, slender chimneys and mossy roofs, against the
rich dark foliage that clothes the rearward hill; while the
close-cropped lawns, the trim yew hedges, and gay-coloured parterres of
the oldfashioned garden in the foreground, form an appropriate setting
for this beau-ideal of an old English homestead.
Within the mansion one finds a congeries of wainscoted and panelled
chambers, whose walls are hung with ancient tapestry, and adorned by
ancestral portraits of the Plowden family. Here is Edmund Plowden, the
eminent lawyer, who was 'accounted the oracle of the law,' and with
whose memory is associated the saying, 'The case is altered; no priest,
no mass; no mass, no violation of the law'; a saying which in course of
time passed into a common proverb. On the death of his father in 1557,
Edmund Plowden succeeded to the estates, and began the building of the
present Hall. He was treasurer of the Hon. Society of the Middle Temple,
in whose church he lies buried; and might have been Lord Chancellor
under Queen Elizabeth, had he chosen to renounce the ancient Faith of
his fathers.
The hall, with its carved oak chimney-piece and quaint Dutch tiles, its
panelled walls and oaken floors, has a sombre, dignified air about it.
In one wing of the old house is the private chapel, dedicated to St.
Francis of Assisi, with a portrait of the patron saint attributed to
Michelangelo. Set into the wall of this chapel is a curious old brass,
representing Humphrey Plowden and his seven daughters, which was brought
hither years ago from Bishop's Castle church. In an adjacent corner a
sliding panel gives access to a secret passage-way, by which in the
Reformation days, the officiating priest might at a moment's notice
effect his escape from the mansion. The whole place, indeed, is
honeycombed from cellar to roof with hidie-holes, closets and secret
passages, turning and twisting amidst hatchways and bulkheads, or
terminating in breakneck ladders. One of these queer gangways is said to
lead out to a lonely spot amidst the woods known as the Lady's Chair;
and it goes without saying that the old house has earned the reputation
of being haunted.
One would suppose the builders of Plowden Hall had had in their minds
the Spaniards' proverb: 'The rat that has only one hole is easily
caught.'
The Plowden family can trace, it is said, an unbroken lineage from Roger
de Plowden, the Crusader, down to Edmund of that ilk, who died no longer
ago than 1838, nearly 700 years. This Roger distinguished himself at the
siege of Acre, in 1191; and, upon being taken prisoner by the enemy,
made a vow that, if ever he returned in safety to his Shropshire home,
he would build a chapel by way of thank-offering; and, as we shall see
by-and-by at Lydbury North, the pious knight was as good as his word.
From Edmund Plowden the estate passed to his nephew William, whose son,
W. F. Plowden, Esq., is the present owner of the property.
Farewell now to Plowden. Our onward way leads beneath a green avenue of
oaks and beeches, whose branches, meeting overhead, cast a dappled
shade athwart the lane, and afford a playground for squirrels,
woodpeckers, and many another of Nature's children.
Turning our backs upon the low hill where Billing's Ring keeps ward over
the ancient Portway, we skirt the shoulder of Oakeley Mynd, Walcot Park
with its big red-brick mansion and hanging woods shewing right ahead,
with a dark clump of trees cutting against the skyline. Yonder lie Bury
Ditches, a fine old British camp whose lofty crest forms a conspicuous
landmark for many a mile around.
Avoiding a lot of odd turnings we continue to hug the highroad, which,
trending now in a due westerly direction, introduces us to a pleasant,
open vale, with the tower of Lydbury church peeping out from a grove of
trees in the middle of the village.
Lydbury North is an ancient place, claiming some consideration. In
Norman days the episcopal manor of Lydbury formed an important appanage
to the Bishopric of Hereford, and the martial prelates of that period
had a great stronghold in the vicinity, which, though long since
dismantled and demolished, has given its name to the neighbouring town
of Bishop's Castle.
But Lydbury church, having remained virtually unaltered by restoration,
is one of the most interesting edifices of its kind in all Shropshire.
It has a nave and chancel, with north and south chapels, a timbered
porch, and broad, massive tower at the western end.
The primitive old clock upon the tower vaguely points the time with a
solitary hand, and the roofs of the church are still covered with their
original stone slabs, greatly enhancing the picturesque appearance of
the ancient building. The solid nail-studded porch door bears traces of
bullet marks, and has a pair of fifteenth-century hinges.
The interior of the church wears an antiquated air, as of primæval
repose, and appears to belong mainly to the twelfth and thirteenth
centuries. Many of the high-backed Jacobean pews are rudely adorned with
carving, as is also the oaken pulpit; while one or two of the former
still have the link and staple, used in the 'good old times' when the
worshippers were accustomed to lock themselves up in their pews, a
habit that affords a curious insight into the everyday manners of a
bygone generation.
The font looks very primitive and ancient. A good fifteenth-century oak
roodscreen divides nave from chancel, and above it appears the
Decalogue, finely written in old English lettering of the date 1615. The
block of masonry projecting from an adjacent wall was probably a
'penance stone.'
Above the altar are seen two small stone brackets supporting a pair of
gilded wooden candlesticks, which, according to local tradition,
Archbishop Laud caused to be put there, in place of certain images that
had stood upon them before.
A stone tablet upon the north wall of the chancel is interesting in that
it records the services of the Rev. J. Ambler, who, after being ousted
from this living by the Covenanters, was reinstated at the Restoration.
North and south of the nave open out two chapels, or short transepts,
called respectively the Plowden Chapel, and the Walcot Chapel. The
Walcots of Walcot are a family of very ancient descent, who have held
estates in this locality from time immemorial. After their day, the
manor of Walcot passed to the ancestors of Lord Powis, and eventually
came into the possession of no less a personage than Robert Clive, Baron
Plassey, K.B., founder of the British dominion in India, who died at
Walcot Hall in 1774. His name may be seen inscribed in some prayer-books
still preserved in this chapel. Upon the wall above the family pew hangs
the Walcot escutcheon, with three black pawns, or rooks, amidst its
quarterings.
This is explained by the following note in a pedigree of the Walcot
family, compiled in 1643, referring to a certain John Walcot who lived
in the early part of the fifteenth century. 'This John Walcote, plainge
at the Chese with King Henry the fift, Kinge of England, gave hym the
check-matte with the Rouke; whereupon the Kinge chainged hys coate of
armes, which was the crosse with flower-de-luces, and gave hym the Rouke
for a remembrance thereof, by which he and hys posteritie hath continued
to this daye.'
The Plowden chapel is separated from the nave by a plain oak screen. As
already mentioned, this chapel was built by an ancestor of the Plowdens,
after returning in safety from captivity in Asia Minor. It is lighted by
several well-proportioned windows of early character, and contains a
much dilapidated stone altar of pre-Reformation date, with two brackets
up above it, probably intended for images.
In one corner stands a curious sort of grille, or iron railed structure,
bearing traces of colour, and surmounted at one end by a gilded iron
cross. It was customary, we understand, to place this railing around a
newly made grave, to protect it from evil disposed persons.
The tower walls are enormously thick, as though intended to withstand
attack. The fine old panelled oak nave roof is now hidden from below by
an ugly whitewashed ceiling. The bell-frame up in the belfry is
something of a curiosity, being rudely but effectively carved with
dragon-like monsters having foliated tails.
We now make for the village inn, with appetites sharp-set for such
rustic fare as the place may haply afford. Half-an-hour later finds us
climbing the ascent of Oakeley Mynd, with a fresh westerly breeze
humming through the tree-tops, and the cloud shadows chasing one another
athwart the genial landscape.
Instead of going direct to Bishop's Castle, we steer a due northerly
course towards a place named Lea. By so doing we not only avoid a spell
of hard highroad, but get into the bargain a rare outlook across a
hilly-and-daley country, with a wisp of blue smoke trailing away upon
the breeze far off on the shoulder of Longmynd. From the top of the
bank, a thousand feet above sea-level, we look across a pleasant vale,
where the brown roofs of Bishop's Castle are seen nestling beneath
tumbled hills, outliers of Clun Forest.
Then away we go down a rough footpath, or 'rack,' as they call it
hereabouts; making a bee-line for our destination, and skirting the head
of a deep wooded dingle known as Narrow Dale. Guided by the cheerful
barking of dogs, we presently come in sight of a lonely farmstead; and,
upon stepping round to the rear, descry a group of buildings all jumbled
up together in the manner shewn over page.
'The remains we see,' writes Mr. W. Phillips in 'Shropshire Notes and
Queries,' 'are probably the walls of the old square keep. They are built
of the Wenlock limestone found in the neighbourhood, and are so well
constructed that the lime is harder than the stone, so that, when an
attempt was made some years ago to utilize the material, it was found to
be less trouble to obtain fresh stones from the quarry. We owe it to
this fact that these ruins remain to awaken our curiosity.'
[Illustration: Lea Castle.]
The walls of this old keep are extremely massive, and have several
window and door openings in them of various dates from the fourteenth
century onwards. So much has been destroyed that the original dimensions
of the castle cannot now be ascertained; but the moat may still in part
be traced, besides evidences of fishponds near the little rivulet that
filled them.
The Manor of Lea formed, in early days, the largest feudal Lordship in
Shropshire held by the Bishop of Hereford. Owing to the exigences of his
position, and the turbulence of those remote times, the Bishop was often
called upon to relinquish the crozier for the sword, and to lead his
lieges against the wild Welshmen; for, in connexion with Bishop's
Castle, Lea formed an important link in the cordon of border fortresses.
The tenant of Lea, indeed, appears to have been under obligation of
doing suit and service at Bishop's Castle, when called upon by the
constable of the latter.
The old farmhouse alongside has evidently been added to and altered at
various times in a very haphazard fashion. On its staircase is a piece
of timber quartering ornamented with a rude shield on which appear the
words anno. do. 1560, proving that the place can boast a respectable
antiquity.
Amidst a chorus of 'come-back! come-back!' from the galeney-fowls in the
farmyard, we set out once again upon our travels. Giving preference to
the meadow paths, we presently happen upon a huge block of stone, as big
as a good-sized cart, lying stranded in the middle of a grass field. How
it came there is the puzzle, so we take counsel with an old fellow
breaking stones by the wayside, a furlong farther on. 'Oh,' says he, in
reply to our questions, 'they 'ud used to tell us, when we was childern,
as the Devil fell lame one day a-walkin' by here, and throwed that there
old stwun out of's shoe, and then fled away up to Stiperstones yander.
But that was afore my time, like, and behappen there's never a one now
as can tell the rights on it.' And the country folk have a saying that
the Lea Stone, as it is called, turns itself around 'every time the
clock strikes thirteen.'
[Illustration: Bishop's Castle. From an Old Print.]
With the shadows lengthening around we draw near to Bishop's Castle, a
place half town, half village, seated upon a southward sloping hill. It
was always called Lydbury Castle in the olden days, on account of the
castle of that name (built by the Bishops of Hereford to protect their
episcopal manor of Lydbury), which stood in a commanding position at the
top of the town.
When Henry II. mounted the throne, Bishop's Castle was held by Hugh de
Mortimer of Wigmore, but was regained for the see by the energy of
Bishop Gilbert Ffoliot. In the year 1263, the castle was stormed and its
constable slain by the rebellious John FitzAlan and his followers. A
visitation of Bishop Swinfield, about thirty years later, was long
remembered in the locality, on account of the sumptuous style in which
that prelate lived; indeed his Lordship and his retinue seem to have
'eaten the good people out of house and home,' as the saying goes.
[Illustration: BISHOPS CASTLE.]
Bishop's Castle is nowadays but a drowsy little market town, yet proud
withal of being the metropolis of an extensive agricultural district,
and renowned for its great cattle fairs, frequented by breeders and 'men
whose talk is of bullocks,' who are attracted hither by the fine race of
cattle for which this locality is noted. Then, on May 1, has it not its
'Mop,' or Hiring Fair, when the farm hands and servant girls 'break the
year,' as the phrase goes; and you may overhear one goodwife complaining
to another, anent some errant handmaid, ''Er's broke 'er 'ear this
marnin', I'm afeared 'er'll allus be a rollin' stwun as'll never gether
no moss!'
In bygone times Bishop's Castle was (and for aught we know is still)
ruled by a Mayor and Corporation, with fifteen Aldermen or Capital
Burgesses, a Bailiff, and a Recorder. So early as 1572 the town received
its first charter from the Sovereign, which was ratified by Charles I.
in 1648.
At the very top of the town, where the old coach roads from Wales
converge, stands the Castle Hotel, one of those large, roomy
caravansarys, frequented by wayfaring men in the days before railways
had come to rob the country roads of their cheerful tide of traffic. To
the rear of this inn lies an oldfashioned bowling-green, whose area
marks the site of the keep-tower of the erstwhile Castle of Lydbury,
built to protect the episcopal demesne against the freebooters of the
Welsh border.
In Leland's time the Castle was 'well maintenid, and set on a stronge
Rokke, not very hi,' but seems to have been already reduced to ruins
before the time of the Civil Wars.
Perched on a tall green mound, high above the old town, the position is
certainly a commanding one, affording a fine prospect over the adjacent
country, though now somewhat obscured by trees. Close at hand rises the
old Market House, now the Powis Institute and Reading Room, with the
borough arms carved upon its gable, and the date of its erection, 1781.
Over the door of an adjacent shop we espy the curious surname of
Gotobed, a clan which should be widely represented, one would suppose,
in this Sleepy Hollow! Another old lintel retains some ancient
lettering, with the figures 1685. Then, turning down the steep High
Street, we get a backward view of the town; the prim façade of an
eighteenth-century Town Hall, topped by a slender belfry, seeming to
block up the roadway, and some oldfashioned shops and dwellings flanking
the narrow footpath.
Presently we come to the church at the farther end of the town, though
tradition avers that, once upon a time, the church stood in the very
middle of it; not that the church has moved, but the town shrunk up into
itself--but that is as it may be. An ancient ivy-clad tower is about the
only relic of the older church which has survived, for, during the
troubles of the Civil Wars, the sacred edifice fell a prey to the
flames, and has only within the last forty years been rebuilt and
renovated. There are some very ancient yews in the churchyard: and a
tombstone near the belfry door bears the following inscription: 'A la
mémoire de Louis Paces, Lieut.-Colonel de Chevaux legers, chevalier des
ordres militaires des deux Siciles et d'Espayne. Mort à Bishop's Castle
le 1re Mai 1814, age de 40 ans.' This must have been one of the French
prisoners who, at the time of the Peninsular War, were billeted at
Bishop's Castle.
Bishop's Castle forms a good starting-point for exploring a
little-frequented, rural country. Northwards lie Lydham and More, Lydham
church standing, as is so frequently the case in this border district,
cheek-by-jowl with a prehistoric tumulus. More is the ancestral home of
the ancient family of that ilk, whose forbears 'came over from Normandy
with the Conqueror.'
Then there is Linley, with its stately avenues leading up towards hills
which have been mined for lead ever since the Romans were there. Amongst
these hills stands Hyssington, which we will take leave to visit, though
it lies away outside our county, over the Welsh frontier.
Anent the church at Hyssington there is a curious tradition. Long, long
ago, in the old Popish days, an enormous Bull made his appearance at
Hyssington, and grew bigger and bigger every day, until the good people
of the neighbourhood went in fear of their lives by reason of the
dreaded monster. At last things came to such a pass that the parson made
up his mind to try heroic measures. So with book, bell and candle, he
sallied forth in quest of the Bull, and, by reading of appropriate
texts, managed to reduce the uncanny beast to such dimensions as would
admit of his being driven into the church. But alack! before the
creature could be finally extinguished, parson's candle had burnt out;
and ere morning came, when the reading could be resumed, the Bull had
swelled out again, until his huge body cracked the church walls from top
to bottom!
Such is the veracious legend; but whether this Bull hailed from the
Emerald Isle, or belonged to that species known as Papal Bulls, history
recordeth not; but the cracks in the church walls long remained to
confound the incredulous.
Continuing our perambulation we come presently to Church-Stoke, a
pleasant looking village of half-timbered houses seated on the river
Camlad, one of them bearing upon its gable-end the inscription, WHAT .
IS . HERE . BY . MAN . ERECTED : LET . IT . BE . BY . GOD . PROTECTED :
IOHN . MIDDLETON . GENT . AN . DO . 1685 : ÆTATIS . SUÆ . 27 . R . T . C :
Returning direct across the hills to Bishop's Castle, we pass through
Broughton, where, it is believed, the Romans had a station. Offa's Dyke,
crossing the hills to the westward, runs near to Mainstone, a village
supposed to acquire its name from a large granite stone standing near
the west gate of the churchyard. From time immemorial it has been the
custom for the village youths to test their strength by heaving this
stone aloft, and then casting it backwards over the left shoulder. The
name of Mainstone, it may be observed, shews the tendency to
reduplication in place-names, for Maen is the Welsh for stone. A still
more curious instance is that of Dollymase-meadow, near Gloucester, each
of the three syllables in this case having exactly the same
signification.
The old road from Bishop's Castle to Clun traverses a rough, hilly
country, with scarce a place big enough to be called a village all the
way. On the outskirts of the town stands Blunden Hall, a timbered
mansion, old, but much modernized. Anon our way lies up-hill, with the
tree-crowned summit of Bury Ditches rising boldly ahead.
After surmounting a sort of col amidst the dimpled hills, we begin to
drop downwards into the vale of Clun, and the little town, with its grey
old guardian castle, is seen nestling at the foot of dark, heather-clad
hills, where the drifting cloud shadows linger. By-and-bye, as we march
past the castle and enter the town, the westward-looking houses are
painted in crimson and gold by the glow from the setting sun, while we
dusty wayfarers bear away for the Buffalo Inn, whose hospitable roof is
to be our shelter to-night.
So taking up our quarters in the Blue Room, we will give the benefit of
the doubt to the local legend, and hold that this is the chamber in
which Sir Walter Scott once slept, and yonder table the very one upon
which the 'Wizard of the North' wrote the first three chapters of 'The
Betrothed'--there is nothing like being precise in matters such as
these.
Seated upon the banks of the river Clun, on the outskirts of that wild,
hilly district to which it gives its name, the quiet market town of Clun
forms the chief rendezvous for such slender commerce as goes forward in
this isolated part of our County, which time-out-of-mind has acquired
the name of Clun Forest.
In early Norman days this remote inaccessible region became a sort of
semi-independent Barony, called the 'Honour of Clun,' whose over-lords
obtained the royal license to make conquest on the Welsh, and appear to
have done pretty much as they liked with the goods and chattels of their
unlucky vassals. Nay more, in those 'good old times,' the Lord of Clun
claimed the right to inflict capital punishment, for we read of a
certain William Kempe holding a messuage and croft on tenure of carrying
to Shrewsbury the heads of felons, in order to prove that the right
person had been executed.
Save for its ruined Castle and ancient saddle-backed bridge, the townlet
is featureless enough; indeed its prim, grey, sober-fronted dwellings
look as though they had stepped across from the other side the Welsh
border. Yet in bygone times the town must have been a place of no
little importance, for we read that, at a survey held in 1605, it was
found that 'the town of Clun, through the whole time whereof the memory
of man does not exist to the contrary, is an ancient Borough
Incorporate, with two Bailiffs, and Burgesses; and the Lord of the town
has two Leet Courts, with a View of Frankpledge, held annually by the
Seneschal for the time being.'
[Illustration: Carde Doloreuse.]
A bowshot distant from the town rise the ruins of Clun Castle, whose
tall, grey, lichen-clad donjon looks out over a horseshoe bend of the
river towards the dark Welsh hills to the westward; even as in the days
when Raymond de Berenger, Knight of the Garde Doloreuse, entertained
Gwenwyn Prince of Powys in this lonesome fortalice.
Here, at Clun, the FitzAlans lorded it for many a generation over the
adjacent march-lands. After many changes and vicissitudes, the castle
passed eventually to the present Duke of Norfolk, who from this place
acquires his second title of Baron Clun.
With the exception of the keep-tower above mentioned, little remains of
Clun Castle save two ruined circular bastions overlooking the river, and
certain tall green mounds that give a clue to the original extent of the
fortress. The outer bailey with its enclosing vallations is a broad,
tree-shaded grassplot, where nowadays the townsfolk go a-pleasuring on
high-days and holiday times.
Clun Castle formed a very important link in the chain of fortresses
planted by the Normans along the Welsh frontier, to secure their
hard-won territory and control the turbulent natives. Towards the close
of the twelfth century Rhys, Prince of South Wales, swooped down from
his mountain fastnesses, and after many a fierce onslaught stormed and
set fire to the castle. At a later period the place fell a prey to that
scourge of the Welsh Marches, 'the irregular and wild Glendower,' and
was finally dismantled by the Parliamentarians during the Civil Wars. So
early, indeed, as the reign of Henry VIII., when that ubiquitous
antiquary John Leland journeyed this way, 'Clunne Castell' was 'sumewhat
ruinus,' 'though it hath bene,' he adds, 'bothe Stronge and well
builded.'
The following lines from 'The Betrothed' have been associated with the
Castle of Clun: 'A place strong by nature, and well fortified by art,
which the Welch prince had found it impossible to conquer, either by
open force or stratagem; and which, remaining with a strong garrison in
his rear, often chequed his invasions by rendering his retreat
precarious. The river, whose stream washes on three sides the base of
the proud eminence on which the castle is situated, curves away from the
fortress and its corresponding village on the west, and the hill sinks
downward to an extensive plain, so extremely level as to indicate its
alluvial origin.
'The bridge, a high narrow combination of arches of unequal size, was
about half a mile distant from the castle, in the very centre of the
plain. The river itself ran in a deep, rocky channel, was often
unfordable, and at all times difficult of passage, giving considerable
advantage to the defenders of the Castle.'
Over the old bridge in question lies our way towards Clun church; and,
as the local saw has it, 'Whoever crosses Clun Bridge comes back sharper
than he went.' The bridge itself, with its five uneven arches and bold
sparlings, is still a picturesque object, and in former days was a
favourite subject with artists: though the old cordwainer and his
ancient timber dwelling beside the bridge have long since passed away.
[Illustration: Old Lych Gate at Clun.]
So we will push ahead to St. George's church, whose massive western
tower and curious louvred steeple are already in sight, peering over an
old lych-gate in the foreground. This lych-gate is a very charming bit
of ancient carpentry, its solid substantial oak beams shewing excellent
workmanship, with just a touch of ornamentation here and there; while
the roof is covered with rough stone-shingles, overgrown with mosses and
lichens.
Passing through the wicket, we traverse a rustic grass-grown God's-acre,
beneath the shadow of one of those immemorial yews so common in our
country churchyards. Why they were planted in such a situation has
afforded no little matter for conjecture; whether they were intended as
emblems of immortality, or to serve the more utilitarian purpose of
supplying bows for the English archers who in bygone days formed the
backbone of our fighting line:
'Oh the crooked stick and the grey goose's wing,
But for which Old England were but a fling!'
The strong nail-studded west door of the church has its old iron hinges,
and some names cut in bold Roman letters upon it. The roomy north porch
by which we enter has a chamber, or parvise, over it, and stone benches
against the walls upon either side. The interior is large and spacious,
the fine oak roof being borne upon Norman pillars and arches, while
clerestory windows admit light from the southward wall. A modern screen
divides nave from chancel, and beside it rises a tall Jacobean pulpit
with a sounding-board, all carved in the style peculiar to that period.
The chancel is lighted by well proportioned windows with Purbeck marble
shafts. Suspended from the chancel roof hangs a curious
fifteenth-century canopy, nicely constructed of oak fashioned into
panels, and adorned with three small carved wooden angels. Its purpose
is uncertain, but it bears some resemblance to the canopied structure
called a baldacchino found in some continental churches.
In the vestry is a mural tablet to Sir Robert Howard: and the rough old
staircase leading up into the tower is worth a moment's notice, for the
rude simplicity of its construction. The Churchwarden's accounts here
shew that, in the year 1741, the sum of ten shillings was paid 'for
whipping the Doggs out of ye church, serviss time, and keeping people
from sleeping in church During divine serviss.'
[Illustration: Hospital of the Holy & Undivided Trinity at Clunn.]
In a retired spot upon the eastern side of the town stands the 'Hospital
of the Holy and Undivided Trinity at Clunn,' a refuge for decayed
tradesmen founded by the Right Hon. the Earl of Northampton, in the year
1614. And truly their lines have fallen in pleasant places, these
grey-headed old veterans; each lowly domicile giving upon a central plot
of greensward, with benches set against the wall in sunny nooks, and an
old wooden pump standing in one corner, with its bucket and chain for
drawing water:
'The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.'
'Eh sure, sur,' exclaims an ancient derelict with whom we chance to pass
the time of day, 'you'm makin' a purty picture of th'owd plaace, I'll
warrand, but I canna see well wi'out my speck-tackles. I binna so young
as I was, ye see, but there's several chaps 'ere as is older nor I be,
and I'm turned eighty myself.'
A tablet upon the wall of a small chapel, dedicated to the inmates' use,
bears a lengthy Latin inscription in memory of Henry Howard, Earl of
Northampton, who established similar retreats at Greenwich and Castle
Rising.
According to an ordinance duly advertised upon the wall of the dining
hall, each poor man is entitled to receive yearly, on Founder's Day, 'a
gown ready made of strong cloth or kersey, of a sad colour, to wear upon
Week Days; and also every fourth year, upon Trinity Sunday, have
delivered unto him to wear, such a livery gown of blue cloth lined
with bayes, with the Founder's cognizance set on the sleeve, to wear
upon Sundays and Festival Days.' In the dining hall, too, is preserved
an ancient cross-bow, and a large two-handed double-edged sword about
five feet in length.
Such, then, is the old Hospital at Clun; so now, after a moonlight
stroll around the environs, we turn in for the night at the 'Buffalo';
and, far removed from the din of railroad shrieks, or bustle of passing
traffic, sleep the sleep of the just until morning looks in at the
casement.
[Illustration: SEAL of CLUN HOSPITAL.]
ROUND ABOUT CLUN FOREST. TO KNIGHTON AND LUDLOW.
A glance at the map at the end of this volume will reveal, down in the
south-western extremity of the county, a remote outlying cantle of
Shropshire wedged in, as it were, between the Welsh counties of
Montgomery and Radnor. It is a wild, hilly, somewhat inaccessible
district, even in these days; but in Leland's time the 'faire Forest of
Clunne' was 'a great Forest of redde Dere and Roois,' extending over
many thousand acres, with much timber growing upon it, and 'very faire
and good Game' amongst its holts and hollows.
In and out through this sequestered region wind the clear waters of the
Clun, rippling along past rustic crofts and breadths of gorse and
fernbrake, and giving its name to a group of quiet villages and hamlets
upon its banks:
'Clunton and Clunbury, Clungunford and Clun,
Are the sleepiest places under the sun'--
as the saying goes, though one may vary the epithet ad lib., and
substitute drunkenest, dirtiest, etc., as fancy dictates. Towards the
south the country falls away to the broader valley of the Teme, which,
flowing past Knighton and Coxwall Knoll, forms the southern boundary of
the Forest, and parts England from Wales.
Camps, earthworks, etc., dotted plentifully throughout the locality,
bear witness to the days when might was the only right, and every man's
hand was against his neighbour. Tradition avers that Caractacus made his
last stand against the Romans amidst the fastnesses of Clun Forest; and
Offa's Dyke, the ancient boundary of Mercia, traverses the district from
south to north on its way from Severn to Dee:
'There is a faymous thinge
Calde Offa's Dyke, that reacheth farre in lengthe:
All kinds of Ware people might thither bringe;
It was free ground, and calde the Britain's strengthe.'
But it is time to be up and doing, for we must measure many a mile over
hill and dale to-day. Old Sol is already abroad, and a light
sou'westerly breeze is rustling the fresh young foliage as we fare forth
upon our peregrinations; while the thirsty soil emits a grateful smell
after the rain of yesternight.
Down the village street, then, we take our way, noticing the legend
'Ironmonger, Dahlia Grower and Poultry Breeder,' over an enterprising
tradesman's door. Setting a course up the vale of Clun, we drop into a
meadow path that, keeping company with a hollow, waterworn gipsy lane,
affords glimpses of the ruined castle, and so brings us presently to
Whitcot. Near Whitcot we notice an old grey maenhir, or standing-stone,
eight feet high, nearly as broad, and only about six inches in
thickness.
With the hills closing in upon either hand we push onwards along the
valley, falling into a leisurely pace as the sun warms to his work.
Another mile and we come to Offa's Dyke, a huge green mound overshadowed
by beech trees, whose course can be easily traced as it crosses the
valley and climbs the shaggy hill slope beyond. 'Aye, that's Awf's
Ditch, right enough,' says an old fellow tilling the hedgerow, 'and now
you be in Wales a'this side, like, but it's a cankersome country to live
in, I can tell yer.'
At Newcastle we find ourselves in a scattered hamlet overshadowed by
certain round green hills, whose topmost crests are scarped with ancient
camps or earthworks, whereof the name is legion hereabouts. This part of
the Forest, west of Offa's Dyke, was known in olden days as the Manor,
or Honour, of Tempseter, a district of Shropshire won from the Welsh
before Edward I. was King.
Presently we take leave of the Newtown road, and, crossing the infant
Clun at a place called Dyffryn, march away through leafy lanes en route
for Bettws-y-Crwyn. Our road goes from bad to worse as it straggles up
the bank, degenerating at last into a downright Welsh byway, so that,
like Agag of old, we have to 'walk delicately' amidst the ruts and
rivulets which do duty as a thoroughfare.
Passing two or three outlying cottages where shock-headed children are
playing around the doorways, we come in sight of Bettws-y-Crwyn church,
a little lonely fane perched so high aloft on its hill-top as to look
down, so to speak, upon every other church throughout the county; indeed
with one or two exceptions it is, we believe, the most loftily situated
church in England.
The name of this place affords an interesting clue to its history. For
Bettws-y-Crwyn, being interpreted, signifies the Bede-house of the
Skins; having been so called since, in ancient times, the shepherds who
frequented these lonesome hills had a Bede-house or Chapel here, and
paid their tribute of skins or hides to Chirbury Priory.
Up here in the churchyard we get a wonderful outlook over the hills and
dales of south Shropshire, which are seen stretching away for many a
league in picturesque gradation, with Brown Clee Hill bringing up the
rear beyond the dark ridges of Wenlock Edge.
We now step inside the church, an ancient timeworn structure whose low
grey stone walls, narrow windows and simple bell-cot, look thoroughly in
keeping with the circumjacent landscape. The old font, once the pride of
the church, was broken into pieces when the church was 'restored' about
half a century ago, and used, it is said, to repair the churchyard
walls!
[Illustration: Bettws-y-Crwyn]
By some lucky chance, the ancient roodscreen has escaped the hand of the
spoiler, and forms to-day the most notable feature of the little
edifice. It is massively constructed of oak grown black with lapse of
years, and its gothic arches are wrought into delicate tracery work.
This lofty screen rises to the tie-beam of the roof, whose curved
principals, moulded brackets and quatrefoil panels are fashioned, as
tradition tells, from Spanish-chestnut wood. Solid oaken benches of the
most primitive construction occupy the nave; their ends displaying the
names of various farmhouses, locally termed Halls, such as
Hall-of-the-Forest, Moor Hall, Cow Hall, etc.
[Illustration: Chalice at Bettws y Crwyn]
By favour of the Vicar, we are able to give a sketch of the Bettws
Communion cup. It is of silver, bearing the London hall-mark and the
date 1662, and is ornamented, as may be seen, with a repoussé flower
pattern. Though inferior in design to vessels of an earlier period, such
as the beautiful Bacton chalice, this little cup is a very fair example
of the silversmith's art of the seventeenth century.
Our way now lies past the vicarage, a modern house standing 'four-square
to all the winds of heaven,' and so loftily placed as to be a landmark
for miles around. Thence we push on due northwards across the high, open
moorlands of Clun Forest, a 'dizzy' country, as they say hereabouts,
whose contours are revealed to our sight by shafts of sunlight radiating
from the western sky. Patches of golden gorse interspersed amidst
bracken and heather fill the air with their warm, rich scent, as we
follow the devious trackway; and a shrewd, pungent whiff of peat-reek
salutes our nostrils while passing a lonely cottage, for coal is a
luxury unknown up here, seven long miles from any railway-station.
Old ways and antiquated customs linger yet in this 'back'ardly'
neighbourhood, where education has much ado to make headway against
ignorance and ancient prejudice. The time-honoured 'Wake' still holds
its own in Bettws parish; and rushlights, it is said, are in use to this
day in some of the isolated farmhouses towards the Welsh border.
[Illustration: The Cantlin Cross.]
Following a bridle track, we descend into a secluded dell which holds
the head waters of the Clun. Then, mounting up through a pine wood, we
come out upon the open braeside over against the Cantlin Cross, or
Cantlin Stone as it is sometimes called, whose counterfeit presentment
appears in our sketch. The cross itself, though handsomely carved, has
no particular claims to antiquity, having been erected, as we are
informed, about forty years ago by the late Mr. Beriah Botfield,
sometime M.P. for Ludlow. The design, however, is evidently an antique
one; and on the ground in front of the cross stands a low, flat slab of
grey limestone, rudely inscribed with the legend W . C: DECSED . HERE :
BVRIED . 1691 . AT . BETVS:
The initials are those of a certain William Cantlin, who, travelling
through the wilds of Clun Forest in the above mentioned year, met his
death at this spot, and was buried at Bettws-y-Crwyn. It is said that
upon one occasion the stone itself was produced in a court of law, in
order to prove that the place where Cantlin died was situated in the
parish of Bettws.
Upon passing through a gate in the adjacent coppice our eyes are
gladdened by a vision of folding hills, green fertile vales, and distant
cloud-capped mountains, the giants of Wild Wales--a glorious panorama!
Presently we hie away once more upon our travels, retracing our steps to
the main road, and swinging along at a good round pace, favoured by the
downward grade. Past Hall-of-the-Forest we go, not much of a place,
despite its imposing name, though originally built by Anne, Lady
Mautravers, some time in the sixteenth century, and hence formerly
called Ladye's Hall.
At Newcastle we strike up the hills to the southwards, recrossing old
Offa's Dyke and following the crest of the ridge. 'Weather's looking
very brewin',' remarks a brother tramp; for storm-clouds, gathering in
the west, hover grand and gloomily above the darkening ridges of Radnor
Forest; so, putting the best foot foremost, we spin along the
grass-grown bridle-path under the lee of the wind-tossed hedgerow. Out
leaps the lightning, the thunder rolls, and the tempest swoops down in a
whirl of seething rain-scuds; but what care we, for here in the nick of
time is the Buffalo Inn at Clun, with a good meat-tea piping hot on the
parlour table, and a cheery fire sparkling in the grate.
So while the elements work their will abroad, and the rain drops patter
at the casement, we sit within bien and cosy, canopied like gods in
clouds of tobacco-smoke; 'fighting our battles o'er again,' and
discussing plans of campaign for future excursions amidst 'fresh woods
and pastures new.'
* * * * *
The morrow, then, sees us early astir, and taking the road ere the city
man has opened his morning paper. And before the first mile is left
behind, we find reason to congratulate ourselves on having made an early
start, for the way is parlous steep, and the sun already rejoicing like
a giant to run his course. So at a leisurely pace we breast the
ascent--'chi va piano va sano,' as the Italians say--with big, rounded
hills rising upon either hand, one of them having a strange sort of
quarry-like chasm, called the Rock of Woolberry, scored deep in its
wooded flank. This collar-work continuing for a matter of two miles or
more, brings us to a moorland crest about a thousand feet above
sea-level, whence the eye ranges over leagues of broken country, with
the play of shine and shadow chequering its varied surface.
At a place bearing the euphemistic title of New Invention, we quit the
hard highroad and make a bee-line up the open hillside, until we find
ourselves in the vast, prehistoric encampment, known as Gaer Ditches, or
Caer Caradoc. The camp proves a fine example of an early British
earthwork, being oval, or rather pear-shaped, in form, and protected
upon its most vulnerable western flank by three concentric lines of
entrenchment; while upon the east, where the natural declivity is more
abrupt, there are but two, with traces of an entrance way in each of
these faces.
Tradition has been busy about this interesting spot. We are to believe
that once, in days remote, Caractacus stood here at bay against his
enemies. Nay, is not the stream at the foot of the hill still called
Redlake river, because for three whole days its waters ran red with the
blood of the combatants? And down yonder in the vale is Lurkinghope,
where tradition tells the vanquished Britons 'lurked in hope' of
retrieving their fortunes, while lying in ambush near the defile at Garn
Gap.
However that may have been, we now lay our course for Stow, a tiny
hamlet nestling in a wild rocky cirque called Ragged Kingdom. Our route
lies over Stow Hill, whose summit is marked by the blackened cairn of
the 'Diamond Jubilee' bonfire.
But lusty appetites, begotten of fresh air and hours of steady tramping,
now demand instant satisfaction. So down we sit, and, whilst feasting
our eyes on the beauties of the landscape, we regale the inner man on
more material fare: the pile of sandwiches becoming 'small by degrees,
and beautifully less,' as the moments flit by. A drink of clear water
under Holloway Rocks, and a pipe or two as we lie on the short, warm
turf, and like giants refreshed we go our ways in search of new
adventures.
[Illustration: Stowe. Shropshire.]
Coming anon to Stow, we borrow the key from the neighbouring vicarage,
and armed with this 'open sesame' proceed forthwith to the church.
This diminutive house of prayer has one or two notable features. A good
open-timbered roof spans the nave, traces of a rood-loft being visible
overhead where it joins the chancel, though no approach to it can now be
discovered. A massive oak communion table is about the only remnant of
ancient fittings here. A small wooden bell-cot rises above the western
gable, and the walls of the church, which are unusually thick, are
pierced with modernized windows.
Bidding adieu to this lofty yet lowly hamlet, we traverse a narrow green
lane where the hedgerows are a-tangle with dog-roses, briony and
'traveller's-joy,' besides many another familiar wayside wildling. In
two miles we find ourselves at Knighton, a pleasant, busy townlet, just
within the Radnorshire border.
Here we board the first up-train that comes along; the railway line
hugging the frontier, and affording glimpses of the hill country amidst
which we have recently wandered. Near Bucknall station we catch sight of
Coxwall Knoll, an isolated tree-clad monticle surrounded by ancient
entrenchments, where some authorities locate the scene of Caractacus's
last tussle with Ostorius. Bucknall village is close at hand on the
brink of the Redlake river, its grey church tower just peeping over the
trees that clothe the hills in the background. There is a curious old
font in Bucknall church with a sort of interlacing pattern carved around
its bowl, the date whereof is uncertain.
Running past Bedstone, we alight at Hopton Heath station, shoulder
sketching gear, etc., and trudge away to Heath House, which lies a short
mile to the southward. Heath House, the residence of Chas. Seaton, Esq.,
is a large, substantial edifice, dating mainly from the latter part of
the seventeenth century, and seated in a broad park-like demesne.
[Illustration: Staircase at Heath House, Clungunford.]
The interior of the mansion contains several handsome, panelled
apartments, adorned with pictures and curios that reflect the artistic
taste of their present proprietor. But the most notable feature of the
house is an elaborate old staircase hung with ancient tapestry, which,
as may be gathered from our sketch, is a marvel of massive construction.
Its huge oaken handrails and newels, and even the twisted balusters,
look as strong and simple as possible, and much of the work has the
appearance of having been fashioned with the axe. The topmost flight of
all, said to have been brought from Hopton Castle, is little better than
a ladder in point of convenience.
Broadward Hall, the next-door neighbour to Heath House, is a plain stone
building chiefly remarkable from the fact that it is built, so to say,
around a curious circular staircase. In the grounds abutting upon the
river Clun rises an artificial tump, surmounted by a group of lofty elm
trees. Via Broadward Bridge we now make our way to Clungunford;
diverging a little to take a look at Beckjay Mill, in bygone days a
favourite haunt of David Cox, the artist.
Clungunford village, rambling beside the river Clun, has a well-restored
church, flanked by a prehistoric tumulus. St. Cuthbert's church is well
worth a visit, for its ancient features have been faithfully preserved,
including one of those singular 'leper' windows that have so often
proved a bone of contention to archæologists.
On a sunny bank overlooking the river Clun stands Clungunford House, the
residence of J. C. L. Rocke, Esq., Lord of the Manor. Half a mile away
upstream is Abcott Manor-house, a large old half-timbered structure now
used as a farmhouse. A big, curiously moulded chimney stack, is a
noticeable object as we draw near; and, being shewn within, we pass
from one old dilapidated chamber to another, admiring its wainscoted
walls and plastered ceilings, which, beautiful even in decay, still
display queer heraldic monsters, lions, stags, unicorns, goats, parrots,
etc., engaged amidst interlacing strapwork. One or two old lattice-paned
windows here retain their original wrought-iron fastenings.
Abcott was for many generations the abode of the Princes, a family now
extinct in this locality, though there are monuments in plenty to them
in Clungunford church.
The Rocke Arms at the end of the village is a rustic inn of the homely,
oldfashioned sort, quite equal to providing a pint and a chop, or
finding, at a pinch, a night's lodging for the passing traveller. So
here we call a halt awhile to refresh the inner man, before tackling the
cross-country lanes that are to lead us to Hopton Castle. Pleasant it
is, as one jogs along these rural byways, to see the country children
curtseying to the stranger as he passes, a custom all too rapidly
falling into desuetude in these 'independent' days, when young brains
are crammed with undigested facts, while the character is left to make
shift as best it may.
[Illustration: Hopton Castle. Salop.]
In a nook of the hills to the westward stands Hopton Castle, a grey old
Norman keep-tower, seated in a curiously low exposed position near the
banks of a stream. Traces of ruined outworks indicate that the place was
much more extensive in former days, when it figured in some stirring
episodes of March-land history. By Camden's account, Hopton was
presented by Henry II., to Walter de Clifford, of Clifford Castle in
Herefordshire; and towards the end of the thirteenth century we find
Roger, Lord Mortimer, of Wigmore, in possession of the Castle. Passing
later to the Corbets and the Wallops, Hopton Castle held out stubbornly
for the King at the time of the Civil Wars, but in 1644 was captured and
demolished by the Parliamentarians, its garrison put to the sword, and
Samuel Moor the Governor marched off to prison at Ludlow Castle.
A curious old grant, by right of which the 'Heyres-mayle of ye Hoptons'
held this Manor of William the Conqueror, runs to the following effect:
'I, Will, King, the third of my reign,
Give to the Northern Hunter,
To me that art both Luine and Deare,
The Hoppe, and the Hoptoune,
And all the bounds, up and downe,
Under the Earth to Hell,
Above the Earth to Heaven,' etc.
Returning by a different route direct to Hopton Heath station, we pass
through Broome, 'change' upon arriving at Craven Arms, and run down past
Stokesay Castle to Onibury, whose church has an ancient, possibly
pre-Norman, chancel arch, and one or two other good features. On the
outskirts of the village stands Stokesay Court, the handsome modern
residence of H. J. Allcroft, Esq., Lord of the Manor, and owner of large
estates in this locality.
Alighting at Bromfield station we make our way to the village, as
picturesque a spot as one could wish to see, situated in a pleasant,
fertile vale, close to the place where Onny and Teme unite. At the end
of the village street we traverse an old, grey, many-arched bridge,
spanning the lively Onny, near which rises a row of lofty, storm-rent
poplars, still known as the 'Twelve Apostles,' though several veterans
have succumbed to the gales in recent years.
A furlong further on we espy a picturesque old building pierced by a
wide stone archway, and chequered with timber quarterings, over which a
fine elm tree casts its dappled shadow. This was the Gatehouse of
Bromfield Priory, a Benedictine monastery, whose history carries us very
far back into the 'queer old crumpled-up past,' for the annals of
Domesday Book shew that, even in the Conqueror's time, Bromfield was a
place of some consequence.
Originally a college of secular canons, the monastery became later on an
establishment of Canons regular of the Benedictine order; receiving
benefits at the hands of King Henry II., in whose reign Bromfield Priory
became affiliated to St. Peter's Abbey at Llanthony Secunda, near
Gloucester.
Bromfield church, whether regarded as a prominent feature in a fair
landscape, or examined in the details of its architecture, cannot but
afford the visitor much pleasant matter for contemplation. Seated upon
one of those waterside meads the monks of old so frequently selected,
its broad, massive tower and weather-stained gables are seen mirrored in
the stream that winds around the churchyard, and with the ancient Priory
ruins, flanked by a group of dark firs rising clear against the sky,
makes a charming study for the artists' brush.
Internally, too, the church has many points of interest. The chancel
arch of the old Priory church may be discerned in the eastern wall, the
chancel itself having been pulled down when the parish came into
possession. A remarkably handsome modern triptych is a noticeable
feature of the church, contrasting favourably with the plaster ceiling
overhead, whose colour-decorations have been aptly described as 'the
best specimen of the worst period of ecclesiastical art.'
Crossing the Teme by an old stone bridge, we enter Oakley Park, a
glorious stretch of ferny glades and secluded woodland dingles, boasting
such Druid oaks as it would be hard to match elsewhere. Right ahead rise
the richly timbered slopes of Bringwood Chase, a picturesque range of
hills, whose topmost crests are crowned by three conspicuous clumps of
trees, landmarks for miles around. Oakley Hall, a red-brick Georgian
mansion, lies off upon our left, and is chiefly remarkable for its
uncommonly beautiful situation on the banks of the Teme, overlooking
some of the choicest scenery in the district.
Away towards Downton lie certain parcels of land known to this day as
'Crawl Meadows,' and thereby hangs the following tale. Once upon a time,
a certain fair maid having plighted her troth with a valiant but
impecunious knight, the angry sire vowed her sole dower should be just
so much land as his daughter could crawl over, on hands and knees,
between sunset and dawn of day. Commencing her journey at Bromfield, the
young lady travelled with such vigour that, by the time old Sol peeped
over the hills again, she was well on her way to Downton, a good four
miles, as the crow flies, from her starting-place at Bromfield.
But the waning daylight warns us to be astir, while the towers of Ludlow
Castle, rising darkly against the eastward sky, tell we are within a
measurable distance of our journey's end.
So betwixt fields and hedgerows we now hasten along, exchanging a 'good
e'en' with the cottagers as we trudge through a wayside hamlet, and
coming to a bridge over Teme, where the last of the daylight flickers
upon the waters of a rushing weir. Then up a steep way through Dinham,
passing a dusky old building, now a coach-house, but once a Gothic
chapel, and rounding the outskirts of the castle: the homing rooks in
the elms overhead announcing our arrival in their own vociferous
fashion.
Thus through narrow, crowded, oldfashioned street, we come to our
night's bivouac at Ludlow; promising ourselves a treat on the morrow in
exploring the memory-haunted precincts of this historic border-town.
[Illustration: Branks at Ludlow.]
ROUND ABOUT LUDLOW.
Ludlow town occupies a fine, commanding situation upon a sort of knoll,
or promontory of high land, encompassed upon its southern side by the
windings of the Teme, whose waters, flowing through a picturesque defile
beneath the limestone scarps of Whitcliff, here divide Shropshire from
its neighbour of Hereford.
What the place was like in olden times we may gather from the records of
John Leland. 'The town of Ludlow,' he observes, writing in the reign of
Henry VIII., 'is very propre, welle walled and gated, and standeth every
way eminent from a Botom. In the side of the Town, as a Peace of the
Enclosing of the Walle, is a fair Castel. Within the Town, even yn the
mydle, is one Paroch chyrch. There be in the Wall 5 gates. Broad gate
leadeth to Broad Street, the fayrest part of the Towne. The Castel
standeth on a strong Rocke, well ditched, between Corne gate and Mille
gate. The Paroch church is very fayre and large, and richly adorned, and
taken for the fayrest in all those Quarters.'
The town, then, as Leland has it, 'standeth every way eminent from a
Botom,' with the noble old church of St. Lawrence crowning the brow of
the hill, so that its tall, ruddy tower forms a notable landmark to the
good folks of the whole countryside.
Upon the western flank of the town, just where the declivity is most
precipitous, rise the ruins of Ludlow Castle; that magnificent
stronghold of the Lords Marchers, to which the place owes its ancient
fame. To the Castle, then, let us first of all direct our steps.
[Illustration: Sir Henry Sydney's Gateway. Ludlow Castle.]
Approaching by way of Castle Square, we enter upon a broad, smooth
stretch of greensward, encompassed by stone walls and old ruined
structures, the Base court or outer Bailey of the fortress. Before us
rises a noble pile of buildings which constitute the main fabric of the
castle. Grey and weatherworn, shrouded in ivy, and overshadowed by tall
sycamore trees, these venerable ruins compose a scene picturesque to a
degree, whereof the sketch upon the opposite page may convey some
impression.
[Illustration: Ludlow Castle & Church.]
In the centre rises the great Keep or donjon tower, a vast substantial
structure of the Norman period, whose massive walls, pierced with
narrow, round-arched openings, little better than loopholes, contrast
strikingly with the mullioned windows and slender, roofless gables that
appear alongside. These latter, as is recorded by an inscription above
the entrance gateway, owe their inception to Sir Henry Sydney, President
of the Welsh Marches in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, whose arms,
conjoined with those of England and France, appear in a panel above the
archway, with the date of erection, 1581.
An isolated tower away to the left is one of the most ancient portions
of the castle. It is known as 'Mortimer's Tower,' from a tradition that
Hugh de Mortimer was imprisoned within its walls towards the close of
the twelfth century. But that is another story, whereof more anon.
Let us now pass on to the inner ward, which is surrounded by tall,
irregular structures, whose crumbling walls and battlements have been
brought to a rare state of soft, harmonious colouring, by the mellowing
touch of time.
Out in the courtyard, detached from all its neighbours, rises a small
circular twelfth-century chapel, whose beautifully enriched, semi-headed
west doorway and curiously carved string-course, bespeak the Normans'
handiwork. This chapel is almost unique of its kind in England. The fine
chancel arch still remains, but of the chancel itself only the
foundations can now be traced. In former days the chapel was hung with
'Armes in colours, sitch as fewe can shewe,'
'So bravely wroughte, so fayre and finely fram'd,
That to the Worlde's end their beauty may endure!'
We now pass out again into the green courtyard. Turning our backs upon
the entrance way we see before us an extensive group of buildings, now
roofless and half in ruin, yet stately in their decay. In the centre,
approached by a sort of sloping gangway, rises a noble hall, a spot
famed in local history as the scene of the earliest performance of
Milton's 'Masque of Comus.' One of the adjacent chambers is pointed out
as that occupied by Prince Arthur, son of Henry VII.
Beside the Keep-tower are the scanty ruins of the castle kitchen, which,
to judge from the fireplace, an enormous oven, and some rusty iron
utensils of proportionate size, must have been on a scale commensurate
even with the needs of this vast mediæval ménage. Close at hand is the
castle well, which, though not enclosed within the area of the Norman
keep, is not far away from it, and was probably protected by its
adjacent outworks.
Down in the basement of the keep is a dark, vaulted chamber, far below
the surface of the ground. This was originally used as the castle
chapel, whereof two well-proportioned Norman arches still remain,
supported upon slender pillars with simply ornamented capitals. A
curious arrangement of walls and passages here has given rise to an
obscure myth concerning lions, or other wild beasts, having been kept in
this chamber to devour obnoxious prisoners, when it was used at one time
as a dungeon.
Well, to make a long story short, a climb to the top of the ancient
Keep-tower forms a fitting finale to our explorations; for the prospect
from its lofty battlements is extremely varied and picturesque. The
castle precincts, lying at our feet, look very green and pleasant amid
their setting of verdant foliage. Beyond a group of tall elms appear the
old tiled roofs of the town, dominated by the stately tower of St.
Lawrence's church, while the bold outline of Titterstone Clee Hill rises
far away in the background. Towards the north lie the Stretton hills,
enclosing a luxuriant vale, followed by the dimpled heights that mark
the whereabouts of Clun Forest. Directing our gaze towards the south, a
goodly scene meets the eye where the Teme, winding through its hollow
gorge, washes the lower slopes of Whitcliff, whose rough, rocky terraces
merge higher up in the rich masses of woodland that clothe the
hillsides.
Many a time in the dim, forgotten past, have these old walls re-echoed
to the making of history. At the date of Domesday Survey the Manor of
Ludlow was held by Roger de Lacy, by whom the Castle was built.
Joce de Dinan, 'a strong and valiant knight,' who was Lord of Ludlow in
King Stephen's reign, was constantly at feud with his rival, Hugh de
Mortimer of Wigmore, until, having captured that knight by an ambuscade,
he shut him up a prisoner in the loftiest tower in the third ward of the
Castle, which to this day retains the name of 'Mortimer's Tower.'
Under King Stephen and his successor the fortress passed through a time
of storm and stress, marked by some stirring incidents. A romantic story
turns upon the adventures of Fulk FitzWarine and Hawyse, daughter of
Joce de Dinan; and the intrigues of Arnold de Lisle with that 'very
gentle damsel,' Marion of the Heath.
Early in the thirteenth century Ludlow Castle was seized by King John,
who, during his great struggle with the Barons, carried fire and sword
throughout the Welsh Marches. Henry III. visited Ludlow in the course of
his Border wars, and concluded there a treaty of peace with Prince
Llewelyn. During this and the succeeding reign the Mortimers, Lords of
Wigmore, attained to great influence, and eventually secured by marriage
their claim to the English crown.
Richard Plantagenet, during his chequered career, was often at Ludlow
Castle, where he was besieged by the King in October, 1459. Treachery in
the camp, however, proved the ruin of Richard's cause, and the
Lancastrians captured and plundered the castle.
After suffering eclipse, the fortunes of York were once more retrieved
at the famous Battle of Mortimer's Cross, fought a few miles from
Ludlow. At a later date Edward IV. sent his two boys for safe keeping to
Ludlow Castle; and Arthur Tudor, Prince of Wales, son of Henry VII.,
spent a portion of his short life within its precincts.
The Court of the Presidency of Wales, established about this period,
figures largely in the subsequent history of Ludlow; and by the middle
of the sixteenth century the town and castle had risen to the zenith of
their fortunes. At the time of the Civil Wars Ludlow Castle was held for
the King, and proved a hard nut for the Parliamentarians to crack, being
the last stronghold in Shropshire to fall into their hands. In 1689 the
Court of the Marches was abolished, and as a result the Castle was
finally allowed to fall into a state of ruin and decay.
A truce, now, to history. Retracing our steps to the castle-garth, we
pass through the outer doorway and fare forth into Ludlow town in search
of antiquarian spoil. Our quest is quickly rewarded, for at yonder
street corner, beyond some tall elms, rises the Castle Lodge, a
picturesque structure of timber and plaster, built by Thomas Sackford, a
burgess of Ludlow, in Queen Elizabeth's reign. Sackford held the office
of Master of Requests under that Sovereign, and in 1572 was appointed
Porter, and Keeper of the Prisoners in the Marches of Wales. The ancient
timber quartering of the upper story has only recently been brought to
light from beneath its coating of modern plaster; a laudable
restoration, which might well be imitated in the case of other old
Ludlow house-fronts.
In Castle Square, hard by, stands the new Market-house, a spick-and-span
production of the 1887 Jubilee year. Its older prototype was a plain,
unobtrusive brick edifice dating from the time of Queen Anne; of which
period one or two large, roomy houses, overlooking Castle Square, are
fair representatives.
Threading our way through a narrow thoroughfare, we presently catch a
glimpse of a quaint old structure, surmounted by a clock turret, or
belfry. This is the Butter Cross, a grey stone edifice built, perhaps, a
couple of centuries ago, and, without any great pretensions to
architectural taste, yet a pleasant object to look upon by reason of its
uneven, weather-stained surfaces, and rough irregular contours. Beneath
its old worn arches the country folk foregather of a market day; and it
is worth while to linger near on a Sunday morning to watch the Mayor's
procession, when, accompanied by the black robed mace-bearers, he
marches hence to attend service in the great collegiate church hard by,
as the time-honoured custom is. Let us follow his Worship's lead, then,
and take a look at St. Lawrence's church.
For this purpose we turn through a short narrow passage-way, which goes
by the curious name of 'Scallens,' or Kalends; at the end whereof we
find ourselves before a large hexagonal south porch with angle
buttresses and embattled parapet, a feature seldom met with in our
English churches.
St. Lawrence's church at Ludlow is undoubtedly one of the finest
throughout all broad Shropshire. Its ruddy sandstone walls, its serried
buttresses and graceful flamboyant windows, rise in charming contrast
above the sombre yew trees whose foliage enshrouds the quiet graveyard;
while, high overhead, the great central tower soars aloft into the blue,
with the jackdaws wheeling and circling around its topmost battlements,
or holding noisy conclave amidst the intricacies of its great traceried
windows.
The interior of the church, too, displays that spacious dignity
characteristic of the Perpendicular style: the clerestoried nave, the
chancel with its grand painted windows, and the lofty open lantern
beneath the tower, combining to create an appearance of cathedral-like
magnificence. What with the rich, subdued glow of ancient glass, the
dark oak screens spanning chancel and transepts, and the slender pillars
and arches soaring far aloft, the general effect is extremely noble and
impressive.
A magnificent canopied oak roodscreen divides the nave from the chancel,
which is flanked on either side by rows of stalls, used in bygone times
by the chantry priests of St. John of Jerusalem, their dark oaken
tracery contrasting beautifully with the old grey stonework around. The
miserere seats here are worth a close examination, being carved with
very quaint emblematical imagery; as, for example, the panel which
figures at the end of the present chapter.
The great Perpendicular window, which occupies nearly the whole of the
east end of the chancel, is filled with ancient stained glass,
portraying, in the realistic style dear to the mediæval mind, scenes
from the Legend of St. Lawrence, the tutelary saint of the church.
Some good old glass in the east window of the adjacent chapel of St.
John records the so-called Legend of the King. The treatment is curious
and original, as it often was in those days. Indeed, every window of
this chapel has some beauty of its own.
But to return to the chancel. Beneath the great window, from wall to
wall, extends an elegant stone reredos, brought to light some years
since in the course of restorations. It is divided up into a series of
canopied and crocketed niches, containing small sculptured statues of
considerable beauty. Behind this screen is a remarkable little chamber
lighted by a single early pointed window, and supposed to have been used
either as the church-treasury, or for communicating with lepers, or
outcasts.
In the south chancel wall there is a handsome sedilia of Perpendicular
date; and opposite to it a large, arched recess, where the Easter
Sepulchre was displayed in pre-Reformation days.
The south or Lady-chapel has a fine Jesse window, besides other notable
features. The backs of the stalls, dividing this chapel from the
chancel, are painted in Old English lettering with 'The commandemente of
Almyghty God,' set up, by order of the royal commissioners, in the reign
of good Queen Bess. In olden times it was customary for the Cordwainers
and other honourable companies to hold their meetings in this chapel; as
did the Fletchers, or Arrowsmiths, in the north transept, the gable
whereof is still surmounted by their cognizance, an arrow. An unusually
fine flamboyant window is, unfortunately, hidden from the interior by
the large and very excellent organ that almost monopolizes this
transept.
Though not so numerous as one might expect, there are several handsome
monuments in Ludlow church. The oldest of these is a much mutilated
table-tomb in the north aisle, reputed to be that of Arthur, Prince of
Wales, son of Henry VII., who died near Ludlow. On the top of this tomb
are piled, and doled out thence every Sunday morning, twelve goodly
quartern loaves for the benefit of as many poor widows.
Under the before-mentioned arch of the Easter Sepulchre, upon a panelled
table-tomb, repose the effigies of an Elizabethan knight and his lady,
with the ensuing inscription: 'HEARE LYETH THE BODYES OF SYR ROBART
TOWNESHEND, KNIGHT, CHIEF JUSTES OF THE COUNSELL IN THE MARCHES OF
WALLES AND CHESTER, AND DAME ALICE HYS WYFF.' In the panels below appear
their 'VI. SONNES AND VI. DOUGHTERS, LAWFULLY BEGOT.'
Over the way is a similar but plainer tomb, which, though now lacking
the 'Closet fayre in-wrought, where Lords may sit in stately solemn
wise,' that Churchyard the poet saw, displays still some handsome
hatchments, set into the wall above. 'HEARE LYETHE,' runs the legend,
'THE BODYE OF AMBROSIA SYDNEY, IIIITH DOUGHTER OF THE RIGHT HONORABLE
SYR HENRYE SYDNEY, KNIGHT OF THE MOSTE NOBLE ORDER OF THE GARTER, LORDE
PRESIDENT OF THE COUNSELL OF WALLES, ETC., AND OF THE LADYE MARYE, HYS
WYEF, DOUGHTE OF YE FFAMOUS DUKE OF NORTHUMBERLAND, WHO DYED IN LUDLOWE
CASTELL, YE 22ND OF FEBRUARI, 1574.'
An adjacent monument to Edmund Walter and his lady, dated 1592, shews
traces of a degenerate style creeping in, Time with his hour-glass
appearing atop of the arch, with scrolls and pediments introduced by way
of enrichments.
This sort of funereal gear, so much in vogue at a later period, is well
seen upon the eighteenth-century memorial to Theophilus Salwey, Esq.,
with its chubby, smiling cherub, placidly seated upon an hour-glass, and
surrounded by skulls, bones, and such-like disjecta membra, a curious
conjunction! Salwey, with equal mind, declares himself by the
inscription, 'Pro Rege Sæpe, Pro Republica Semper.'
The antiquary may discover much matter of this sort in the course of a
stroll through St. Lawrence's church; but, not to pursue the subject ad
nauseam, we will now sally forth into the town again, and continue our
peregrinations. Before leaving the church, however, let us glance at the
ancient font, a strange, archaic-looking stone vessel, large, plain and
bowl-shaped, and bearing traces of the days when it did duty as a
watering trough somewhere in the vicinity.
Once more in the open air we turn towards the east end of the
churchyard, where the ancient abode known as the Reader's House raises
its old weatherbeaten gable beside the pathway; a delightful jumble of
rough stonework, carved beams and dim, diamond-paned windows. The low
portal, enclosing an ancient nail-studded door, is beautiful with rare
old Jacobean carving, and a row of plain brick dwellings alongside
contrast not unpleasingly with their venerable neighbour.
* * * * *
A terraced walk on the north side of the churchyard occupies the site of
the old town wall, and embraces a fair prospect over the surrounding
country, a goodly, fertile landscape, very pleasant to behold. In
ancient times, before the Normans built their church on the site of the
present edifice, a prehistoric tumulus occupied the western end of what
is now the graveyard. From this monticle the town is said to acquire
its name, the word Ludlow being derived from Leod-hlaw, the People's
Hill, shewing the place is at least as old as Saxon times.
[Illustration: Palmers Guild, Ludlow.]
Of the 'fayre House' of the Palmers' Guild 'at the west end of the
Paroche Churche-yard,' there are some scanty remains incorporated amidst
more modern buildings, now not easy to find, nor yet very imposing when
discovered. And as for the 'Hospitall or Almes-house of a 30 poore
Folke,' built by one Hosyer in the year of grace 1468, and noticed by
Leland, its place is now usurped by the gaunt red-brick edifice opposite
the west front of the church.
We now retrace our steps to the Butter Cross, calling to mind old
Churchyard's lines on Ludlow:
'Who that lists to walk the Towne about
Shall find therein some rare and pleasant things.'
Yonder before us lies Broad Street, a spacious, respectable-looking
thoroughfare still, if not as in Leland's time, 'the fayrest part of the
Towne;' with Butcher Row under the pillars to the left, the Angel Hotel
farther on, and the solitary survivor of Ludlow's seven town-gates
spanning the lower end of the street.
So down Broad Street we now take our way, pausing beneath the grim old
archway to notice the grooves for the portcullis in its massive masonry.
Two semicircular towers, jutting boldly forth, protect the gateway upon
its outer side, and command the approach from Ludford Bridge. Sober,
antiquated tenements cling like parasites around the ancient gateway,
and the humble Wheat-Sheaf Inn thrusts out its bar-parlour window upon
the site of the old town moat.
A bowshot farther we come to Ludford Bridge; and, as in Leland's day,
'there be three fayre arches in this bridge over Teme,' though the
'pretty chapel upon it of St. Catherine' is now no more. Huge sparlings,
wider than the bridge itself, afford tempting nooks wherein to linger
and gaze upon the clear tide swirling past the bold cutwaters below,
where house-leeks, ground-ivy and such-like wildlings, have made their
homes in the crannies of the stonework.
The view hence is delightful, look which way we will; trees, rocks,
bustling rapids and deep, calm pools that reflect the sky, combining to
form a scene of rural harmony. A picturesque old flour-mill and some
dilapidated tanneries still cling to the bank hard by, though Peter
Undergod's ancient fulling-mill is now a thing of the past, having been
swept away in an unprecedented flood a dozen years ago.
Beyond the bridge rise the church, the ancient manor-house and timbered
cottages of Ludford, a fascinating spot; but Ludford lies without our
province, in shire Hereford. So turning presently to the right-about, we
leave upon our dexter hand the site of an Hospital, founded by Peter
Undergod in King John's reign and dedicated to St. John Baptist, whereof
the name alone now survives. Then, passing through Broad Gate again, we
strike thence into a narrow lane running alongside the old town-wall.
This brings us to Mill Street, near a row of humble stone tenements
wherein Mr. Oliver Baker discovered, some few years ago, traces of old
work dating back as far as the thirteenth century. These are supposed to
be the remains of Barnaby House, a guest-house where, in mediæval times,
pilgrims used to break their journey when travelling into Wales.
Arrived in Mill Street, we make for the Grammar School, a long, low,
whitewashed building relieved by dormer windows, and retaining, in a
couple of two-light trefoil-headed windows and a wide arched doorway,
relics of antiquity. It is a place of very early foundation, having been
established by the Palmers' Guild in the thirteenth century, and
afterwards made over to the Ludlow Corporation with the stipulation that
they 'alwayes finde in ye same Towne, at their own charges, a free
Grammar schole, with a schoolmaster and an Hussher, for the erudicion of
youth in the Latine tonge.' Chartered by King Edward VI., the School,
one of the most ancient in the Kingdom, still continues its useful and
prosperous career.
The Ludlow Natural History Society has a small but well arranged
Museum near the top of Mill Street, which is replete with objects of
interest to the antiquary and the naturalist.
Here, in the district where they were originally brought to light, the
famous fossils of Siluria may be studied; while birds, fishes, and
shells of various kinds are well in evidence. Then there are the relics
of bygone Ludlow, a curious olla podrida; here a rusty iron-bound
deed-chest, there a quaint money-box with intricate lock; or something
'loathely and grim' in the way of torturing gear, such as the Branks
shewn in the sketch at the end of the foregoing chapter, a horrid engine
used for compressing the heads and branding the cheeks of malefactors.
Upon the wall above the Museum door hang two big wooden balls, with a
rope's-end attached to each. These were used in olden times upon Shrove
Tuesday, when a kind of municipal tug-of-war took place. At either end
of a long rope (whereof we here see the remnants) the men of Broad and
Castle Wards confronted the champions of Corve Street and Old Street,
each party endeavouring to pull their opponents over to their side of
the town, until the end of the rope went into the Teme or the Corve, as
the tide of contest swayed.
The Butter Cross is once again our rendezvous. Passing thence towards
the Bull Ring, we notice several fine old timber-framed houses, besides
others that hide their charms beneath a disfiguring mantle of whitewash.
Some of these ancient residences retain their handsome plaster ceilings,
and oaken staircases with massive newels and twisted balusters.
[Illustration: The "Feathers" Hotel. Ludlow.]
The Bull Ring itself, where our 'rude forefathers' enjoyed the
exhilarating sport of bull-baiting, is encumbered with some oldish
houses, not bad ones of their kind. But such attractions as they offer
are quite put into the shade by a beautiful half-timbered edifice which
rises but a stone's-throw away, so thitherward let us now direct our
steps.
This is the Feathers Hotel, an ancient hostelry which, as may be
gathered from our sketch, is a magnificent example of mediæval domestic
architecture. Observe how the venerable house seems to 'stand at ease,'
as it were, in these days of its ripe old age; its tall beetling gables
and quaintly carved beams leaning this way or that, quite regardless of
perspective. With what picturesque effect its diamond-paned oriel
windows jut forth from beneath the deep-browed eaves, and the queer
carven monsters ogle the passer-by from bulging bracket and beam end;
and how charmingly the flowering creepers on the balcony relieve its
grim old timbers.
Upon stepping within we notice the letters R.I. on the lock-plate of the
door; but whether this refers to King James I., or to Mr. Jones, the
traditional builder of the house, we leave others to decide. The same
letters reversed figure upon the beautiful carved oak chimney-piece in
the coffee-room, which, with its elaborate plaster ceiling, intricately
carved oak panelling, and low, lattice-paned windows, has quite a
mediæval appearance. Hard by is another fine wainscoted chamber, where
some visitor of bygone days has set his signet in the form of a family
hatchment, duly 'erased' and 'impaled,' in true heraldic fashion.
In point of historic interest, the record of this fine old hostelry is
little better than a 'perfect and absolute blank.' But from the general
style of its architecture, and the presence of the royal arms in its
principal chamber, it has been conjectured that The Feathers was in some
way connected with the Courts of the Marches, which played such an
important part at Ludlow in mediæval days.
Over the way stands The Bull, another oldfashioned hotel, with one of
those large, rambling inn-yards, familiar to travellers of a bygone
generation. Upstairs in the dining-room are preserved those 'armes in
colours, sitch as fewe can shewe,' which, as we have seen, once graced
the ancient castle chapel; and amongst them may be found the armorial
bearings of many a one who bore a name to conjure with in the brave days
of old.
Thomas Lane, in the year 1674, established at Ludlow an alms-house for
aged and decayed women. Its habitat in Old Street is still known as
Lane's Asylum, a picturesque structure of timber and stone displaying
the half obliterated letters E.C. upon a gable-end, and a date that
looks like 1621. The house itself is evidently of great age, but has
nothing of interest within, save and except an old coat-of-arms in the
refectory, supported by the lion and winged griffin, and ensigned by a
royal crown and the initials E.R.
Of the Whitefriars Monastery, that 'fayre and costly thinge' which
Leland noticed on the banks of Corve, scarce one stone has been left
upon another; or, to speak more precisely, one solitary arch stands
tottering to its fall. Being far gone into disrepair, the place was
pulled down about a century ago, and its materials carted away to build
pigstys and the like.
In the same quarter is to be seen a group of ancient almshouses built by
one of the Foxes of Bromfield, whose coat-of-arms, with the date 1593,
appears upon the low grey stone façade fronting on the highway.
Thus it will be seen that, hidden away amongst the nooks and corners of
Ludlow town, there are many relics of ancient domestic architecture,
such as lend a quaint, mediæval appearance to its older streets. The
surrounding country, too, is equally favoured, for it is full of the
charm of secluded, rural beauty; while rustic villages and smiling
homesteads are to be met with on every hand.
So now let us bid farewell to the pavements, and, taking to the leafy
lanes, push forth again into the open country.
[Illustration: A "Miserere" at Ludlow.]
THE CLEE HILLS, CORVE DALE, AND WENLOCK EDGE.
Away to the north-east, as we turn our backs upon Ludlow, appears a noble
range of hills, whereof we have caught frequent glimpses during our
peregrinations about the old town. And now, as we fare along through a
pleasant, pastoral country, the dark, volcanic-looking crest of
Titterstone Clee Hill looms grandly above the rolling woodlands that
clothe his lower flanks.
'Cle Hills,' as Leland informs us, 'be holy in Shropshire. The highest
Parte of Cle Hills is cawlyd Tyderstone. In it is a fayre playne grene,
and a fountaine in it. There is another Hill a 3 Miles distant from it
cawlyd the Brown Cle.'
Geologically these hills are somewhat remarkable. A cap of erupted
basalt crowns the summits of the Clees, having by its harder texture
protected the hills from the effects of denudation, and preserved from
destruction the underlying coal measures that now form the loftiest
coalfield in Britain. Hence it comes to pass that, in these utilitarian
days, the 'fayre playne grene and the fountaine' have given place to
coalpits, and to those yawning stone quarries that yield the famous road
metal locally known as 'Dhu stone.'
Leaving the old timbered farmhouse of Dodmore upon our left, we descend
into a pleasant vale, cross the Ledwych brook and bear away for
Bitterley; following a narrow, unfrequented lane, with Titterstone
making a brave show in the direction whither we are bound.
Set amidst green summer foliage, Bitterley village looks attractive
enough as we traverse its one quiet thoroughfare; but in winter-time, as
the name suggests, the district is bleak and chilly:
'Bitterley, Bitterley under the Clee,
Devil take me if I ever come to thee!'
runs a rustic couplet that tells its own tale.
[Illustration: The Haunted House, Bitterley.]
At the farther end of the village we turn aside to examine an old,
ruinous pile, rising forlorn and derelict in the midst of an adjacent
meadow. Upon nearer acquaintance this proves to be an ancient,
dilapidated edifice, in the last stages of decay. With its time-stained
brick walls and crow-stepped gables smothered in untended ivy, the
mullioned windows agape to every gale, and roof and chimneys tottering
to their fall, the old place looks a haunted house, every inch of it, as
our sketch will shew.
A solid oak newel staircase 'corkscrews' upwards in a projecting turret,
but, save a few remnants of elaborate stucco ornamentation above the
fireplace in one desolate chamber, there is little or nothing to repay
the risk of a broken neck. So, remarking certain traces of a moat in the
meadow hard by (restored by 'artist's license' in the sketch), we now
hie away through lanes and fields to Bitterley church.
[Illustration: Cross at Bitterley.]
Bitterley church and the old Court-house, with some noble trees in the
foreground and Titterstone towering behind, make a pleasing rural
picture as we draw near; and, upon passing through the wicket and
entering the green sanctuary, we come in sight of the beautiful
churchyard Cross shewn in the adjoining sketch. It dates from the
Decorated period, the slender shaft rising from a flight of worn, mossy
steps, and bearing aloft the four-sided head, or finial, in whose
crocketed niches some mouldering fragments of sculptured work may still
be discerned. This Cross is one of the finest of its kind in England.
The church itself is of Norman origin, though much altered in later
times. The best features of the interior are a fine arcaded Norman font,
a curious old lectern and iron-bound muniment chest, and slight remains
of a traceried oak roodscreen.
Beyond Bitterley church the country opens out towards the unenclosed
flanks of Titterstone Glee Hill:
'Those mountains of commande
The Clees, like loving twins, and Stitterstone that stande
Transevered,'
--as the poet Drayton hath it. So, putting the best foot foremost, we
have a lung-expanding tramp for the next half-hour amidst heather and
waving brake-fern, winning our way at last to a fine view point dubbed
the Giant's Chair. The outlook hence on a fine summer's day is a thing
to be remembered. Wide and varied as is the prospect, the gem of it all,
perhaps, is the charming bird's-eye view of old Ludlow town, down in the
vale at our feet, its warm-grey towers and house-roofs nestling beneath
the verdant slopes of Whitcliff, which in their turn are overtopped by
the brindled heights of Bringwood Chase, stretching away towards the
blue Welsh hills where the horizon meets the sky.
[Illustration: Crow Leasow.]
Having spied out the land from this lofty eyrie, we plunge down again
through the breast-high bracken, and then, working our way by
cross-country lanes, come presently to Crow Leasow.
Crow Leasow is a substantial brick farmhouse dating from the early days
of the seventeenth century. Its weatherbeaten front has some good
moulded brickwork about the doorway, eaves and gables, and a bulky
chimney-stack projects towards the northern end. The massive doors and
thick beams and rafters of the interior look quite in character; while a
gigantic oak tree, of enormous girth but hollow within, flings its vast
limbs athwart the greensward before the entrance way.
In bygone days Crow Leasow belonged to a family of the name of
Shepheard, who lived here for five successive generations, and were
probably the builders of the existing house.
At Middleton village we find vestiges of a yet more antiquated dwelling,
in the moated manor-place called the Brook House, whereof one
half-timbered gable still survives. From a map made in 1721, the mansion
would appear to have been in good preservation at that time, as the
sites of a summer-house, a large walled garden and a bowling-green, are
all marked upon it.
Laying a course due west for Stanton Lacy, we have now to negociate some
intricate byways athwart Hayton's Bent, a stretch of shaggy upland
islanded, so to speak, in Corve Dale. Up through the woodlands we go,
getting a fleeting glimpse of Downton Hall, standing in a lonely
situation amidst a richly timbered park. Anon we strike into a secluded
dingle--one of those 'Hopes,' as they are called, so characteristic of a
Shropshire countryside, with a brooklet tinkling along through a tangle
of undergrowth; while the carol of thrush, linnet and blackbird sounds
blithely in our ears.
Stanton Lacy itself is but a mile farther on; and through that quaint,
quiet village lies our way to the parish church. Stanton Lacy church is
a genuine Saxon edifice; indeed, it is considered to be one of the best
examples of pre-Norman work in this country. Upon its outer walls appear
the narrow buttresses built of long-and-short stones, and the rough,
uneven stonework with its wavy coursing, that mark the Saxon period.
[Illustration: Stanton Lacy.]
In the north nave wall is the remarkable doorway shewn in the
accompanying sketch. Here we find the long-and-short work both upon the
jambs and the semicircular head, which is surmounted by a peculiarly
shaped cross, and guttæ, or drops, like those found in classic
architecture. Though now blocked up, this doorway is still in a good
state of preservation.
The church is cruciform in plan, its massive central tower grouping
prettily amidst a setting of verdant foliage, when viewed from the
south, with the porch standing prominently out, and some curious stone
effigies of the de Lacys under low, cusped, mural arches.
Inside we find traces of various styles and dates, with scraps of
ornamentation here and there, such as the alternate shields and rosettes
upon the otherwise plain stone font, and the little carved figures that
look down from brackets on a beam of the chancel roof.
A pretty legend tells how this church first came into existence.
Milburga, the pious daughter of King Penda the Mercian, fleeing one day
from the too pressing attentions of a certain Welsh princeling, managed
to escape across the Corve, near where the church now stands, before her
lover came up. Then the good lady vowed a vow that, if permitted to
escape, she would build a church as a thank-offering; whereupon a mighty
flood swept down the stream and effectually put a stop to all pursuit;
and so it came to pass that the first church arose hard by upon the
banks of Corve.
So much, then, for Stanton Lacy church. In other ways, also, the place
seems in bygone times to have been of some importance, for Anderson
tells us that 'Stanton Lacy was free from hundredal subjection, and its
seigneural lords claimed to have a gallows, to hold pleas of bloodshed
and hue and cry, and an assize of ale.'
Upon resuming the onward route we traverse a pleasant vale, the road
following up the course of the Corve, with low, wooded hills on either
hand, and the topmost crests of the Clees peering over their shoulders.
Beyond the fine old timbered farmhouse of Langley the valley broadens
out, and the good red soil of Corve Dale shews rich and ruddy where the
ploughshare has lately passed, and ripening crops by the wayside add a
zest to the general outlook.
Anon we steer a due northerly course, with first a conspicuous Lombardy
poplar, and then a curious-looking church steeple, by way of
guide-marks. The village to which it belongs lies coyly aside from the
highway, necessitating a slight detour, and the crossing of a brawling
brook.
Thus we come to Culmington, a bucolic-looki
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