Situated on the western bank of the Severn, 'the Towne of Beaudley is sett on the Syde of an Hill, so comely, a Man cannot wish to see a Towne better,' as friend Leland remarks. 'At the Rising of the Sunne from East,' he tells us, 'the whole Towne glittereth as it were of gould'; an observation which shews that the famous antiquary had an eye for the picturesque.

Bewdley Bridge, an elegant stone structure, built by Telford about a century ago in place of an older one, connects Bewdley itself with its staid old neighbour Wribbenhall. 'To this bridge resort many flatt long Vessells, to carry up and downe all manner of Marchandize,' writes Leland; but the railways have driven the traffic from the river, so that nowadays the merchants' stores and warehouses stand empty and idle beside the silent highway.

Time was when this ancient borough of Bewdley drove a thriving trade in Welsh flannels, and other produce of the border; shipping her wares down-stream to Bristol, or sending them away on pack-horses by bridle-paths, such as the hollow way called the Welsh Gate that runs below Ticknell hill. The old 'George' posting-house, with a handful of substantial-looking houses, mostly of the Georgian era, lend a respectable, well-to-do air to the town: but its parish church, at the top of the main street, is unspeakably ugly; a red-brick abomination of the true 'churchwarden' type.

Bewdley has been a borough town ever since the days of Edward IV.; and, until 1885, returned its own member to Parliament. A quarter of a mile south of the town stands the old manor-house of Ticknell.

'Bewdele, the Sanctuary Towne, hath hard by it the Kynge's Maner of Tikile, stonding on a Hill.' At Ticknell was formerly held the famous Court of the Marches: and hither, in 1502, the body of Prince Arthur was brought, after his death while travelling from Ludlow. The earlier house, mentioned by Leland, was destroyed by the Covenanters, but the mansion now standing has some pretensions to antiquity.

The Tenbury and Bewdley railway, as it traverses the valley of Dowles brook, gives us some interesting glimpses of the Forest, whose russet foliage glows resplendent in the level rays of this September sunshine.

After pa.s.sing Cleobury station we run between steep, rocky banks, fringed with broom, heather and bracken, getting every now and again wide views of forest land overtopped by distant hills. Then Mawley Hall is seen, an old-time abode of the Blounts; and running past a large seventeenth-century brick-and-stone house called Reaside farm, we come by-and-by to Neen Sollers, a quiet agricultural village with an ancient cruciform church, whose old grey tower and spire are seen overtopping the nearer trees. Thenceforward we travel on amidst tranquil, rural landscapes, where the ruddy apples lie in piles about the orchards, and the willow-fringed Teme winds along through the vale on her way to meet Father Severn.

Arrived at Tenbury station we quit the train, and, pa.s.sing near the Castle Tump, a gra.s.s-grown mound marking the approach to the ancient ford, we traverse an old stone bridge and trudge on into Tenbury, a pleasant little Worcestershire town on the banks of Teme, a famous fishing river. The Swan Hotel at the entrance to the town looks the picture of an angler's inn; so there we will rest awhile.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Burford.]

A meadow path by Temeside leads us towards Burford, of whose fine church we presently obtain an effective view, its broad, richly embattled tower grouping prettily, as shewn in our sketch, with a quaint churchyard cross, and the feathery foliage of the surrounding trees.

Burford church is of very ancient foundation, but has been much altered at various times, and has recently undergone a thorough restoration by Mr. Aston Webb, the well-known architect. There is much to interest the ecclesiologist in this handsome, well-cared-for church; but chief among its attractions is the wealth and variety of its monuments.

A low table-tomb in the centre of the chancel bears the figure of Edmund Cornwaylle, clad in plate armour, and wearing the gilded spurs of an equitis aurati. Beneath a handsome ogee canopy in the adjacent wall lies the effigy of a female, with the following inscription: HERE LYETH THE BODY OF THE MOST n.o.bLE ELIZABETH, DAUGHTER OF JOHN OF GAUNT DUKE OF LANCASTER, OWN SISTER TO KING HENRY IV., WIFE OF JOHN HOLLAND, EARL OF HUNTINGTON, AND DUKE OF EXETER; AFTER MARRIED TO SIR JOHN CORNWALL, KNIGHT OF THE GARTER. SHE DIED THE 4TH YEAR OF HENRY VI. AN DNI MCCCCXXVI.

A curious bra.s.s in the north-east corner of the chancel, bearing an inscription in old Norman-French, commemorates Dame Elizabeth, wife of Sir Elmon de Cornewaylle, a fourteenth-century knight. On the wall above is a remarkable triptych, a memento of the Cornewall family, said to be the work of one Melchior Salaboss, a foreign artist.

There is a fine fifteenth-century font; and in the south chancel wall we notice two curious little 'heart-shrines,' small circular receptacles with lids, beneath a pointed arch. The custom was in early times, when a n.o.bleman died abroad, to embalm his heart, and send it home to be buried amongst his kinsfolk; under the circ.u.mstances a convenient method of sepulture.

After the Mortimers, the Cornewalls ruled here for generations as Barons of Burford, being under service to find five men to fight in Edward the Third's Welsh wars. The Ledwyche Brook, flowing into the Teme near Burford church, gives its name to Ledwyche farm, in bygone times the home of the famous Benbows.

Retracing our steps to Tenbury station, a two-mile walk brings us to Boraston, scenes of rural industry enlivening the way. In yonder upland field the harvesters are busy carting the wheat, the golden shocks shewing up sharp and clear against the purple background of the Clee Hills; while the wavering hum of a threshing-machine drones a homely accompaniment. Then we descend into a vale, and trudge along the green alleys of a hop-yard, the fragrant bines drooping beneath their wealth of fruit and foliage, and clinging each to its neighbour with slender, outstretched tendrils.

Boraston comprises a handful of rustic dwellings, scattered about a little church, one or two of the older ones displaying half-timbered gables towards the road. Boraston church has been much restored, but retains several early-cusped windows, and an old roof whose rafters are carried half-way down the southward wall. On either side the nave is a curious, plain, arched recess, the use whereof is not apparent; and there are traces of a very ancient doorway, now built up. The apsidal east end, a south porch, and a shingled bell-turret above the western gable, are the most salient points of the exterior.

Nash chapel, a mile or so to the north, is almost a replica of Boraston.

This church has been quaintly described by Mr. Cranage as, 'a "Decorated" building which is _not decorated_.' Court-of-Hill is the most interesting house in this locality.

In the broken country west of Boraston lies the hamlet of Greete, with a small, aisle-less church, dedicated to St. James, of Norman and Early English date. The pleasant rural vicarage and oldfashioned Court-house farm are almost its only neighbours, but about a mile to the west stands Stoke House, a plain but good example of a brick-built Tudor residence.

Very rustic and unsophisticated are the country folk hereabouts, even in these fin-de-siecle days; and it is within living memory that Parson J----, coming to take up his new duty in a neighbouring parish, walked into the village driving his cow before him! Time was when some of these country parsons were mighty hunters before the Lord. There is a story of one of them who, when about to start for the meet, got wind that his Bishop was coming to pay him a visitation. Jumping into bed, scarlet jacket and all, he leaves word with his old housekeeper that he is ill upstairs, and the tale is repeated to his lordship. 'Dear me, I'm very sorry; tell him I'll walk up and see how he's getting on,' says the Bishop. The message is duly delivered, whereupon our Nimrod sends back his reply, 'No, no, it's quite impossible; I'm down with a shocking bad attack of _scarlet_ fever!'

The road ascends as we make our way northwards, with quarries and lime-works defacing the heights that b.u.t.tress Clee Hill on this side.

After a stiffish bit of collar work we come to Whitton Chapel, a simple, solitary building, with a good though plain Norman south doorway, and a primitive-looking old tower.

A bowshot farther on we enter the demesne of Whitton Court, a charming, seventeenth-century mansion, whose ruddy old brick gables, cl.u.s.tered chimney stacks and mullioned windows, all wreathed in luxuriant ivy and set against a background of autumnal foliage, make as pleasant a picture as one could wish to see. Inside and out alike, this venerable abode is a delight to the lover of things antique and curious, its owners having displayed rare good taste in such renovations as have been found needful. Though in the main of Elizabethan style, the oldest portions of the house date back as early as the fourteenth century; and some richly carved woodwork, some good pictures and curious old tapestry, are features of the interior. An admirable sketch of Whitton Court appeared in Mr. Oliver Baker's 'Ludlow Town and Neighbourhood.'

Tinker's Hill is full in view towards the west as we push on for Hope Bagot, its tree-begirt slopes crowned by the old British earthwork called Caynham Camp, of which the Parliamentarians availed themselves when besieging the town of Ludlow. In the vale below lies Caynham church, an ancient but much restored edifice, which has a curious triple chancel arch of rather unusual character.

Ashford Bowdler, with its quaint old church overlooking the Teme, lies but a few miles beyond, in a picturesque nook of the county adjacent to the Herefordshire border.

Hope Bagot itself stands high up in the world, looking out across the pleasant vale of Teme from its 'hope,' or upland valley, among the foothills of t.i.tterstone Clee. So now we stroll on to the church, which is seen a short distance away under the shoulder of Knowl Hill.

It is an ancient place, and, with its grey stone walls and timbered porch, falls in pleasingly with its rustic environment, tempting the wayfarer to make a closer acquaintance. Many notable objects here meet our gaze, a curious sedilia and piscina in the chancel, to reach which we pa.s.s beneath a chancel arch evidently built by the Normans; and the plain, bowl-shaped font is perhaps of equal antiquity, while the carving upon the old oak pulpit calls for a pa.s.sing notice.

A great dark yew-tree flings its shadow athwart the graveyard, and yonder is the Holy Well, famed in bygone times as a sovereign remedy for curing sore eyes.

But the day wears towards a close, and it behoves us to be up and away; for it is a far cry yet to our night's bivouac at Cleobury Mortimer.

So climbing the steep flank of t.i.tterstone, we win our way to the high road, 'high' indeed at this point, where we stand some 1,250 feet above the sea. Far and wide extends the bounteous landscape, a maze of hill and dale, tilth and pasturage; its remoter features veiled in the soft, warm haze of an autumn afternoon, lending an added charm to everyday, familiar objects.

Swinging along downhill we pa.s.s Hopton Wafers, a high-lying village, bowered in trees, beside a rill coming down from Clee. Anon the jolly moon rolls up above the dusky breadths of Wyre Forest; children, homeward-bound from blackberry gathering, give us a 'Good-evening' as they pa.s.s; the night wind rustles the silvery willows beside the brook, and a wandering owl raises his melancholy shout from somewhere in the vicinity.

And so beneath the frosty stars we enter old Cleobury again, and, pa.s.sing the substantial looking manor-house, come to a late meal at the Talbot, just as the curfew bell in the steeple hard by tolls the 'knell of parting day.'

[Ill.u.s.tration: Ancient Cross at Highley.]

WESTWARD HO! TOWARDS THE WELSH BORDER.

Skirting the south-eastern suburbs of the County-town, the Minsterley branch line carries us in a devious course beside the Meole Brook, amidst quiet, rural scenery, calling for no particular notice. It is worth while, however, to alight at Hanwood station, in order to take a look at one or two ancient farmhouses that lie not far away.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Moat Hall. Hanwood.]

The finest of these is Moat Hall, a place which, though altered by recent restorations, retains some interesting features. No less than three very handsome old carved oak chimney-pieces are still to be seen, the arms of the Beringtons being traceable among their ornamentation; and the domestic chapel, used in bygone times by those of the 'old faith,' retains its panelled dadoes and rich plaster ceiling. The place was of course haunted; but the ghost, with a fine sense of propriety, none too common amongst such gentry, has departed with a former owner of the estate.

At Hanwood we traverse a small local Black Country, where an outlier of the Shropshire coalfield lies under foot, and where stumpy colliery chimneys and whimsey-wheels deface the nearer landscape. But all this soon gives place to the good open country, as the train approaches Pontesbury station; and tall, cloud-capped hills begin to a.s.sert themselves, in the direction whither we are bound.

There is not much to detain the traveller here, for 'Ponsbyri,' as John Leland has it, 'is but an uplandisch Tounlet, 4 miles from Shrewsbyri.'

The church, nevertheless, was originally a collegiate foundation, and still boasts a fine, ma.s.sive tower, besides one or two other good features. Of the 'great Manor Place, or Castelle,' whose ruins Leland saw 'on the south side of the Chirche Yarde,' not one stone now remains upon another. To Pontesbury, some six centuries ago, came the famous Bishop Swinfield; paying, as is recorded, the modest sum of one penny for the ten-mile journey across the hills from Stretton, which may stand, we take it, as a record fare even to this day.

Be that as it may, we now pa.s.s on to Minsterley, the terminus of the line; a place that, whatever attractions it may possess, can certainly lay small claim to beauty. Even the Miners' Arms Inn, by its bleak-looking, brick facade, belies the comfort to be found within; and it is not until we come to the parish church that things take a turn for the better.

The little edifice is, perhaps, rather curious than beautiful. Built in the seventeenth century, it has superseded an earlier church of great but unknown antiquity, reputed to have been one of the most ancient ecclesiastical foundations in Shropshire.

Externally, the red-brick front presents a queer combination of skulls, hour-gla.s.ses, scythes and cherubs' heads, wrought amidst the cla.s.sic entablature of the Jacobean portal; a good example of the bad style then in vogue. There is not much else to detain us here, so let us look within.

The interior of Minsterley church is sober, plain and simple; but is relieved from the commonplace by the rich, dark woodwork of its ma.s.sive oak pulpit and chancel screen, and the great sounding-board which impends above the former.

Suspended from wooden pegs, near the western end of the church, hang some half-dozen Maiden Garlands, or Love Tokens, as they are sometimes called. These curious objects are constructed of ribbons, bows and rosettes, stretched upon a small bee-hive shaped framework. A Love Token was intended to commemorate a betrothed lover who had remained faithful during life, his or her fiancee having died during the time of betrothal. There is, however, another version anent the use of these Maiden Garlands. When a young damsel died, a girl of the same age as the deceased walked at the head of the funeral procession, carrying a Maiden Garland, with a pair of white gloves attached, as an emblem of the purity of the departed. These Garlands at Minsterley bear various dates in the last century, and are among the best preserved of their kind.

Quitting the village by the Bishop's Castle road, we espy upon our right hand the half-timbered gables of Minsterley Hall, a modernized manor-house of the Thynne family, now the property of the Marquess of Bath.

The hills close in as we advance, the road climbing their slopes by a long, steady ascent. Away to the left rise some great refuse-heaps, where lead has been mined at least as far back as the time of the Roman Emperors; for in Shrewsbury Museum may be seen a large 'pig' of lead, found in this neighbourhood, which bears the inscription IMP . HADRANI .

AUG.

Pursuing the course of a wimpling brook, our road now leads through the recesses of Hope Vale, a narrow dingle whose sides present an unbroken expanse of greenwood, its verdure looking fresh and bright after the pa.s.sage of the recent rains, while the carol of many a feathered friend enlivens our onward march. By-and-by this gives place to more open scenery as we approach the Gravel Mine, which is believed to be of Roman origin.