'Fresh are the fields, and, like a bloom, they wear This delicate evening.'

Proceeding northwards upon our travels from Chirbury, we cross the Camlad, and, after joining the Newtown road, surmount a low watershed and enter the valley of the Rea. Marton Pool, a good broad sheet of water, comes in view upon the right; and then we pa.s.s near Binweston, a diminutive township with an old, faded manor-house, encompa.s.sed by a dry moat, and retaining a little oak panelling, but not much else to boast of. Hampton Hall, the seventeenth-century brick mansion of the Whitakers, lies farther away in the same direction.

Grand c.u.mulus clouds, marshalled along the horizon, threaten broken, changeable weather; and a smartish shower now warns us to look out for squalls. But 'for a morning rain leave not yr journey,' as wise old George Herbert has it; so we plod steadily on in the brunt of the breeze, prepared for whatever the Clerk of the Weather may see fit to send our way.

Ere long we come to Worthen, a village of which least said, perhaps, soonest mended; for to our minds the place has little to recommend it.

The large parish church is the only building worthy of note, and its attractions are soon exhausted. Worthen Hall, at the farther end of the village, is an early eighteenth-century stuccoed house of una.s.suming appearance.

Thenceforward we travel along with low, tumbled hills upon our left, while in the opposite quarter we look across the flat Rea valley to the high, wild ridges of the Stiperstones, whose flanks, still s.h.a.ggy with woodland, formed a royal hunting forest under the Saxon kings.

At Aston Rogers we take a glance at the Pound House, a rather shabby-looking timbered cottage of late fifteenth-century date, with remains of a circular moat; and anon we diverge from our route to visit the site of Caurse Castle.

A stiff climb through a tangle of brushwood brings us to the steep, green mounds, whereon the castle stood, though but little of it remains save a few fragments of rough, weedgrown masonry. So far as one can gather therefrom, the building took the form of a parallelogram, which adapted itself to the natural trend of the ridge, and appears to have had a round-tower at each corner. At the highest point stood the keep; and a well, supplied by the stream hard by, lay somewhere within the enceinte. The position must have been a strong one, in days when artillery was in its infancy; and it commanded the avenues of approach in every direction.

Caurse Castle was founded by Roger Fitz Corbet, one of William's Norman knights, very soon after the Conquest; and, from its exposed situation, must have formed a salient point in the series of border strongholds, which the Normans drew around these Shropshire Marches. After having been taken and burned by the Welsh, the castle was recaptured and garrisoned for Henry II., in 1165. Long afterwards the place pa.s.sed to the Barons Stafford, and was eventually captured, and its defences 'slighted' by the Parliamentarians, in 1645.

Away to the westward looms a wild, hilly, spa.r.s.ely peopled region, known in olden times as Caurseland. 'This Caurseland,' to use John Leland's phrase, 'sumtyme longinge to the Duke of Buckyngham, crooketh mervelously about the upper Parts of Shropeshire.' It still maintains its isolated character, though the forest that once overspread this portion of the county has long since ceased to exist.

Leaving Caurse Castle behind us, we next bend our steps towards Westbury, whose church, though of ancient origin, has been shockingly modernized. In the churchyard there is a curious epitaph to one Edward Gittins, a local blacksmith, who probably composed the effusion himself.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Marche-Manor Farm.]

Marche-manor Farm, the subject of the adjoining sketch, lies in a secluded dell, not far from Westbury. It is an ancient place, with a beautiful oak parlour lighted by long, low, lattice-paned windows; and contains a richly carved and panelled mantelpiece. Staircase, floors, rafters, all are of heart-of-oak; shewing how plentiful was the 'Shropshire weed' in the early days of the seventeenth century, when the house was built. Marche-manor formed part of the great Barony of Caurse Castle, and was held by the Fitz Corbets under Roger de Montgomery, the Conqueror's vicegerent; but it is one of those places which are blessed in not having a history.

The trees and shrubberies, by which the old place is surrounded, set off to great advantage its ancient timbered gables. A pretty lakelet close at hand is a favourite haunt of wildfowl; and the soft fluting of coots and waterhens, hunting among the reeds, makes a pleasant accompaniment as we sit a-sketching here.

Crossing the Welshpool road, as it traverses Wattlesborough Heath--nowadays a heath no longer--we press on to Great Woolaston; whose unpretentious, eighteenth-century chapel, otherwise not specially attractive, contains one memorial of the past familiar to many Salopians.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Old Thomas Parr.]

This is a certain bra.s.s plate, set into the wall, and bearing engraved upon its surface the portrait here shewn, with the following inscription: 'THE OLD, OLD, VERY OLD MAN, THOMAS PARR, was born at the Glyn, in the Township of Winnington, within This Chapelry of Great Willaston, and Parish of Alberbury, in the County of Salop, In the Year of our Lord 1483. He lived in the Reigns of Ten Kings and Queens of England (viz.), K. Edwd 4th, K. Edwd 5th, K. Richd 3rd, K. Hen. 7th, K.

Hen. 8th, K. Edwd 6th, Q. Mary, Q. Eliz., K. James 1st, and K. Chas 1st.

Died the 13th and was buryed in Westminster Abby on the 15th of November, 1635; Aged 152 Years and 9 months.'

Taylor, the 'Water Poet,' writing in the year 1635, in a work ent.i.tled 'The Olde, Olde, very Olde Man,' tells us Thomas Parr was an early riser, sober and industrious, and thus describes his appearance when advanced in years:

'Though old age his face with wrinkles fill, Hee hath been handsome, and is comely still; Well-faced, and though his Beard not oft corrected, Yet neate it grows, not like a beard neglected.'

All sorts of tales were current concerning this famous centenarian. It is said that when the c.o.c.kneys, having heard of his renown, came to seek for Old Parr to carry him before the King, they addressed themselves to a very aged man whom they supposed to be Thomas Parr; and were not a little astonished when he replied, 'Oh, it ain't me, Lor' bless yer, it's my _father_ as you wants!'

That unfortunate visit to London, indeed, seems to have undermined the old man's const.i.tution; and who knows but that, had he stayed snugly at home in his native Shropshire, Thomas Parr might have been alive and hearty to this day.

Left a widower at the age of 122, our hero sought consolation in the arms of a fair daughter of Wales. Yet three years later, we hear of this ancient Lothario doing penance at Alberbury church, for having broken his marriage vow in an intrigue with a certain frail maid named Catherine Milton.

As the story goes, when brought before Charles I., the King, congratulating Thomas upon so long outrunning the allotted span, demanded what else he had done to boast of. Old Parr, taken aback by the question, could think of nothing better than his affair with Catherine Milton; whereupon His Majesty exclaimed, 'Oh fie, Thomas, fie! can you remember nothing but your vices?'

[Ill.u.s.tration: Braggington Hall. Shropshire.]

But to resume. Beyond Woolaston, in an outlying nook of the county, we happen upon the fine old Jacobean mansion called Braggington. As may be gathered from our sketch, it is a ma.s.sive brick-and-stone edifice, with mullioned windows and tall, steep gables, surmounted by stone finials.

From the recessed central bay projects the main portal, with its weatherworn stone pillars, and architrave displaying the date 1674, and oak, nail-studded door. Large, elaborately ornamented leaden spout-heads, are seen on each side below the roof. A broad old oak staircase, with ma.s.sive newels bearing the device of some ancient family, is the most prominent feature inside; the place having gone much to decay, and being now used as a farmhouse.

Out in the garden they are hiving the bees, and the beating of kettles and frying-pans makes a quaint, odd, tinkling sound, like the strains of a toy symphony, as we take our leave.

From Braggington we ramble on to Coedway, and soon lose ourselves once more among cool, leafy corners and crankling nooks, where Nature reigns untended:

'Give to me the life I love, Let the lave go by me, Give the jolly heavens above, And the byway nigh me.'

Yonder a few miles away rise the Breidden Hills, 'brewing the weather, like a Lapland witch,' and looking wonderfully mountainous for their inches; with lights and shadows chasing each other athwart their wooded flanks, and their summits wreathed in a cope of lowering storm cloud.

These hills, indeed, have a reputation to sustain in the matter of meteorology, as their name Breith-him, 'Broken-weather,' obviously indicates.

Rising abruptly from Severn-side to a height of 1,324 feet, this isolated range is a conspicuous landmark for many a mile around, keeping watch and ward over the broad Vale of Shrewsbury, much as Gibraltar Rock guards the entrance to the Mediterranean. An upthrow of volcanic rock has here thrust the local strata aside, and by its intrusion has produced the picturesque, broken scenery, found upon the flanks of the range.

Like most of these border heights, the Breidden Hills are crowned by camps and ancient 'castells'; while some authorities have located the scene of Caractacus's last battle amidst their rocky fastnesses.

Cefn-y-Castell, near Moel-y-Golia, the highest point of the range, is a good example of an early British earthwork; and Bausley Hill, an eastern spur, is the supposed site of a Roman station, in connection with the ford across the Severn at the western foot of the Breiddens. Offa's d.y.k.e traverses the country in the same quarter. Rodney's Pillar, a memento of that hero's naval victories, is a noticeable object from afar, crowning the summit of an isolated peak.

Just across the Welsh border, we find the Old Hand and Diamond Inn at Coedway, a quiet little roadside house, near the junction of Severn and Vyrnwy, whither fishermen resort for the sport on those well-known waters. Mine host is himself an ardent devotee of 'the gentle art,' and a guide and counsellor of no mean calibre in matters piscatorial.

Close beside the Vyrnwy, a few miles hence, stands Melverley, about the most un-come-at-able village in Shropshire; 'Melverley, G.o.d help us!' is the local phrase, which sufficiently explains its own meaning. Yet they say if you ask a native whence he hails, he will reply, 'Whoy from Melverley, wheer else?' as though not to know Melverley argued oneself unknown.

Duly rested and refreshed we now set forth from Coedway, and, pa.s.sing the Prince's Oak, a memento of King George the Fourth, we follow a road that gives us pretty peeps of Loton Park and its handsome red-brick Hall, the residence of Sir Bryan Leighton, whose forbears have been seated here since the Conqueror's time.

Close under the lee of Loton Park nestles the diminutive village of Alberbury, a quiet, old-world looking spot, innocent of any 'public;'

and where Her Majesty's postal affairs are conducted by the universal provider who runs the one and only shop. But Alberbury church, the subject of our next ill.u.s.tration, will well repay a visit.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Alberbury Church. Shropshire.]

It is a structure of many different dates, and has all the charm that such variety lends. The Loton Chapel, seen in the front of the picture, was built about the year 1340, its windows having the rather intricate tracery in vogue about that time. Overhead we get a glimpse of the tower, a work of earlier date, with its curious, steep, saddle-backed roof, and primitive weather-vane. The east end of the chancel, the oldest part of the church, is pure Norman work.

An ancient churchyard cross with tall, slender shaft, backed by the sombre verdure of some yew trees, adds a pleasing feature to the scene.

The south aisle, used time out of mind as a chapel by the Leightons of Loton Hall, has a richly ornamented open-timber roof, with cherubs'

heads cut upon the brackets that support it; and the ma.s.sive old carved oak benches, black with age, should not be overlooked. Quite out of the common, also, are the windows already referred to, with their peculiar geometrical tracery, and sc.r.a.ps of fourteenth-century gla.s.s.

An ugly barrel-vaulted ceiling evidently disguises the original timbered roof of the nave, one princ.i.p.al whereof is still visible at the west end, with its big stone supporting corbels. The chancel is lighted by two semi-headed windows, surmounted by a circular light, all of Norman date; and some fine bra.s.ses and mural tablets, to the Leightons and the Lysters, are seen here and there about the interior.

'By Alberbyri Chirche,' notes Leland, 'appere the Ruines of Fulk Guarine the n.o.ble Warriar's Castel.' The remains of this early, thirteenth-century stronghold, rise a stone's throw south-westward from the church; but they are so fragmentary and devoid of detail as to have little attraction for the antiquary; indeed, one crumbling ivy-mantled tourelle is about the sum-total of the fabric.

Alberbury Priory, an establishment of Benedictine monks, founded by Fulk FitzWarine early in the thirteenth century, is represented by a few Gothic fragments in a farmhouse called White Abbey, close to the Severn, a long mile north-east of the village. The princ.i.p.al remains are the groined ceiling of the chapel, which springs from stone corbels, and has curious carvings, at the intersections of the ribs, representing the Agnus Dei, a monk's head, and an angel wrestling with the Evil One; and one or two good pointed doorways in the lower story. The monastery was suppressed in Henry the Sixth's reign, when the estate was granted to All Souls' College, Oxford.

Turning our backs upon the Severn, which here flows along in easy curves between low, red, clayey banks, we now pa.s.s through a pair of tall iron gates near Alberbury church, and make our way via Loton Deer Park to Wattlesborough Castle.

The walk across the Park introduces us to some picturesque bits of woodland relieved by rough, rocky dingles, where old gnarled hawthorns and hazel bushes thrive amain; while from the higher reaches of the Park there is a varied prospect over the neighbouring countryside, half English in its snug, cultivated lowlands, half Welsh where the s.h.a.ggy hills loom stern and wild.

Arrived at Wattlesborough, our tramp is rewarded by the sight of the curious old farmhouse shewn in the sketch over page. In the centre, surrounded by buildings of no particular age, rises a low, ma.s.sive, quadrangular tower of good ashlar masonry, with the flat b.u.t.tresses characteristic of Norman work, and one or two windows of later date.

This tower, with portions of a projecting wing, formed part of the original Castle, and is very solidly constructed, the tower walls measuring as much as 7 or 8 feet in thickness. A circular stone stairway leads up to the several stages, some of the chambers retaining their rude stone fireplaces, and other simple contrivances; while on the topmost floor is a sort of closet, or prison-hole, and certain slanting ledges on the wall indicating the position of an earlier and lower roof.