Transcription by Alex Mager
Note: transcript of complete text, with added punctuation and headings for ease of reading. Any additional wordshave been added in square brackets, where considered useful by way of explanation.
From Blaxhall, Suffolk to Shrewsbury. Wheelriding.
Faringsoutset and Uplandluncheon
I had happily gotten Uncle Edwin (Rope) to come so far as Bury St. Edmunds with me. We started from his house (that house which has always been my mindsparadise) at Little Glemham at 12.30 or thereabouts and rode through the pretty thorp of Marlesford (call’d ‘Marlsa’), whose flinten church outstands prettily and has a pattern’d turreting newly toeked. A little before the hill whereon stands Wickhammarket we offwent rightwards towards Eaton, a seemingly thrivin’ thorp mid the tokens of a busy landlord: several odd cherry-cake thatcht cots clearly new and many new yet fairly wellbuilt cots and houses of a rather flamy brick, yet strawbethatcht. There is a good flinten church much like others of this landship. We onwent to Brandeston. There is a fine flinten church therein, many pretty beplastered pantiled houses, some strawbethatcht, and a newbuilt Elizabethstylish hall. The old hall (Elizabethan) was, I believe, firefornaughted lately. Around the base of the tower are some odd panellings as on so many of the flinten Suffolkchurches [sketch in margin]. Most of the windows were decorated; some – [sketch of a window]. The door was lockt. There are wellclipt yewhedges; the westdoor is green and weatherbeaten but has thirteenth-yearhundredly carving upon it.
We then went through rich cornland to Cretingham; an offwendingsroad slopes down to the little Debenstream. There is the thorpchurch upon the slope wellseen from the Debenstream. The church has some old seats and a good Jacobish monument. It is a comely old thorp; an old inn mid joisted ceilings and old cots and barns mid weathervanes, strawthatching and pantiles as in the best Suffolkthorps. A little further on we luncht in a cloverfield. Uncle told me that he and uncle George in their walks often had as salad dandelion and suchlike worts; he told me of village-inns, how at many soakingdens they would not willingly either guest the wanderer or give him tea, zum Beispiel [for example] at Parham, where Uncle George had foraskt tea and was unmenshly served. We talkt of many things in the early-aftermiddaysunshine. Clouds rainladen floated about and anear, but no rain or thunder came; tho’ we found Stowmarket all rainwasht and heard that at midday a storm had there befallen. Not long ago Aunt Jess, Margaret and I went to Parham to see the church, which has the laves of a roodloftscreen and roodloftsteps and the old hall. The thorpcots are thoroughly pretty and wellbegardened. But the hall seemed to have stept out the elfworld or Spenserworld.
The Moated Grange
We upclomb a slopemeadow (overlooking the lowmeadows wherethrough the ironway runneth) and anon dipt down into a treeinbosomed treeshaded spot; there is the woulderly old hall: old timberwork and plasterwork and dark red tiles. Alas the owner cares not for it but has inset some ugly French windows and built himself a ghastly white Georgish building 200 yards or so away. [“What a fool!” stricken through].
There is a rich old moat all about inshutting the island whereon stands the treeshadowed elfinhouse and the garden, toft and kitchengarden all wild and dreamy, shady as some thoughtparadise which it truly is; I would fain live here. I was told that Mr. William Toker was born in such an house, and there are others in Suffolk among others Helminghamhall whereof more anon.
We reached Framsden, also a pretty thorp, and inwent an alehouse where they gave us a glass of good ale for 1d each. It was full of swains; we askt the way to Helmingham, and they all were clamorously ready with their directions too noisy to hear. [margin: “There is a beautiful church at Framsden mid Early English arches, old wooden roofing, old pulpit, decorated and perpendicular hoodmouldingrich windows and 17th yearhundredly churchwardennames inwritten in the aisleroofbeams; the walls are huewashed. (All this is from my lately recovered notes). On the tomb were in rime some of the names of typical Suffolk ‘great’ families.”] We reacht the gates of that broad treeingirt park and uprose to the old Tudorbricken moatbegirdled hall. It is not shadowed like Parham; it has a regular moat and an artfully regularly outlaid garden mid another kind of moat there eke. It is altogether far more regular and staid. The little wooden drawbridge now drops onto an iron bridge of which the pillars however are thoroughly old (or should I say ‘bastions’?), endin’ in bricken obelisks. In the moat were perch. Some of the windows have the old stone mullions, some wooden mullions; the old chimneys and ornaments and gables are fine. The brick is mellowed yet not worn like that of Parham, save in the moat where some bricks have dropt out and left the stronger cement. It needs trees, meseemeth. We left this goodly old building and went along the parkside to Gosbeck where were many pretty rosegardeny cots and houses.
The King’s Head Inn
Here my tyre downbrake. We borrowed a pump from a jolly old farmhouse and mended it by the horsepond; Uncle mended nearly all. We walkt through Helmesdon and into the markworthily lovely thorp Coddenham mid his ethel ‘street’; Alas! in that street were abandoned cots and notices of 13 cottages to sell or let! I hope they may not be downpulled. There is a lovely church here mid a clerestory, a large lovely church mostly decorated if I bemind me aright. The country is very pretty here, and there are many trees. We went by some chalkbluffs and chalkpits (from this corner Suffolk getteth her chalk) until we overwent the Gipping and wheel’d through the long oldworld street of Needhammarket foreby its towerless church and poplarbordered railway. We did not stop but rode on to Stowmarket. There is a kind of hamkin-foreburgh (hamlet suburb) here, then some too villaly houses, then the Suffolkly old town. It was duskin’ when we thereto raughten.
Two inns nearly overagainst each other forcall’d us. We chose the Kingshead, I think the best; there was a smoking-arbour, so to speak, out of doors; gardenly seats and vinely growth upclimbin’ wooden pillars; oldworld buildings; electric light. We had a good supper breakfast and bed for some 7/- each; Uncle most kindly paid my shot. We walkt about the dim shadowy old town in the late evenin’, the gaunt ghostly staid church mid its metallen spireling and its fine flint-walls and good perpendicular windows.
Next day we offstarted about 11 or after for Bury St. Edmund’s. By the by, what is the ‘Stowmarket-cart’? Haply Den would know. Stowmarket was scantly lighted, and we throughwalked the even-resty town in almost middlealdish dimness. We could not open the churchdoor, so after some offsettingsdelays we offforen towards Bury St. Edmund’s.
Destructive Times
There was a very pretty spot mid an old 17th century dwellinghouse where we offwent to Elmswell, where is a pretty church; another such house have I seen near Earlsoham or Brandisburgh—I forget which—at least on the road from Earl Soham to Eaton. I bitterly yearn for a camera now; for man longeth for wayfaringskeepsakes, and even if I could draw there were not time enough therefor. I go to some forgotten old house, haply even then jerrybuilder- or landlord-threatened, and am not overlikely to have opportunity of going thither again, or if I do win thee again, must look to see the house or building swept away and some blackguardly Gorgonbuilding in its stead. I once hated cameras, but have at last found for them an helpful field, which field is left by the self headlong destructiveness of our timegeist.
Haply among other things that will soon be gone will be
[NOTE: two pages are glued together here]
Bury St Edmunds
I cannot bemind me well now of the church at Elmswell. If I mistake not it was a fair clerestoried and mostly perpendicular-buildcraft building mid some old brasses and fragments of stonedenkmalen [-monuments] and 14th century arches; some engravings and coloured printillustrations of some queer old tradition or other under the tower. I wish I had ytaken onmarking at the time. It was large for a thorpchurch, as often befalls in Suffolk. I have also a hazy recollection of an handsome oaken roof both here and at Woolpit, a large and beautiful thorp mid a splendid church and old houses, some of them partly timbered (I saw a lovely such house at Pettistree near Wickhammarket lately), and I seem to dimly bemind me of an old fountain (This is ywritten long afterwards). I cannot find any notes of mine of the road from Stowmarket to Kentford near Newmarket. Woolpit had a short stonen spire, a seldseenness in Suffolk, where such spires as are yfounden are wontly metallen.
There was an handsome thorp, Beighton, near Bury St. Edmunds mid a great thorpgreen that beminded me of Clanfield in Oxfordshire, sundered by a stragglin’ brooklet and bordered by good Suffolkly plastered and pantiled dwellings. A goodlookin’ inn advertised ‘pure beer brewed from malt and hops only’. A brewery at Melton, by Woodbridge, does the same thing; that brewery, moreover, occupies an old overhangin’ house. Under the trees in a furzy field near Roughamplace we sheltered from a drivin’ rainstorm which smote the land for awhile. Foreward-fain we stopt not to offwend to Rougham. I wish we had done so. We went forthright to the Angelinn in Bury, foreby two beautiful old churches and the Norman tower, a grand massive gargoyled landmark. There is a huge open space between the Angelinn and the beautiful abbeygateway overagainst it. The Angelinn is a more modern hotel with nothing left so far as I know of the Dickens-beknown guesthall. There are not many old houses in the town, but I outsought the Norman- ‘Moyseshouse’: a wonderly building.
When I saw the Maison des Plaids at Dinan in September 1901 it beminded me strongly of the ‘Moyses’-house of Bury, as the old burg is call’d in Suffolk. How I wish I had photographs, printpostcards, sketches or other keepsakelikenesses of the Suffolkly thorpchurches, Helminghamhall, the old cottages at Coddenham and the church at Stowmarket. We betalked many things over supper at the King’s Head inn, such as Uncle Edwin’s schooldays at Yarmouth, and the oldfarandliness of the fairdays there; also how my father and mother wheelrode from Stowmarket after 8 p.m. to Blaxhall, havin’ been discourteously received at one of the Stowmarketguesthouses. I wonder which was the hotel. Uncle would pay my shot for lunch at Bury. (Stowmarketchurch was an handsome old flinten building, somedeal decorated, somedeal perpendicular, mid an eastenglish metallen spirekin.) The Early English (later) abbeygateway at Bury was very beautiful. In the Angel-innhall was a picture of the old abbey, which fill’d me mid fierce loathing of the harpies of Henry VIII, and that brute himself. The two churches, of St. James and St. Mary, are handsome clerestoried perpendicular buildings, and have some old brasses. There are open churchgardens into-leading the abbeygardens, through which we wandered in the warm golden aftermidday and keenly overtalkt high- and low- churchdom. Uncle went back by train from Bury. I offsaw him and onstarted Cambridgewards. I was told that the betweenway was dull but did not find it so.
O’er the Plains
There was not much buildingcraftwork until Kentford was reacht. There were long stretches of cornland and clumps of firtree- and other hursts, and a slightly wavy land, less flat than Easterner Suffolk. Uncle and I had enjoyed our ride and parted most unwillingly, but he must needs homegon to his farm at that yeartide. I remember long grass stretches by the roadside, and in one place was an open bit of humpy woody land bebordering the road, where I beshelter’d me from a rainonset. The few buildings on the road were dull and new. Highamchurch I saw afar off, but did not, to my afterward regret, outseeken. Kentford is a pretty old village mid a tiny old church, plastered and unkempt within, flinten and comely without. Kentford’s cottages line the road adown the slope leading to the bridge over the Kennet, whence the thorpname. Beside the bridge are some scanty ragged but pretty ruins of an older bridge, if I rightly bemind me. Towards Newmarket the sandy road forebygoes open hurdled grassstretches on one hand and a beech-list on the other. A treeplanted street of new and tolerable bricken villahouses leads into the populous town of Newmarket, which seem’d very new and towny, yet clean, moderate in size and at least tolerable. I did not stop to seek for buildcraftsightworthinesses, not lookin’ to find any there; but I ought to have at least askt whether the church were old or not. The ground rises again yonsides the town, and a slightly raised tableland with widestretching hurdled racegrounds is forebypassed, and the road reaches the “Devil’s dyke” and beautiful woodlandstrips beyond.
Before I reacht Newmarket I had sighted Ely-cathedral, that islanded fenglory, lonely-bestead in the even-misty farness, proudly overstandin’ the long low landstretches. The road dipt into the fenland, but unluckily it was already dusk, and I could not clearly make out the whatlikeness of the country. Cornlands I saw but could not see ditches or reeds or canals, but it was so dark. I forebywent the flinten church of Quy (pronounced Cwai) and some old houses and cots. It was dark and nightstill when I saw the endless lightrow of Cambridge’s ironwayhaltstead and made my way through the ghastly foreburg Barnley, all grime, gas, glare, gin and ghoulish; full of drunkenness and loathsome dens. I made my way in the dark about Cambridge (the town was very scantly lighted) and reacht the riverbridge in Northamptonstreet (I will not vouch for the name) and made my way at last to “Ye olde Castle” inn, overagainst Emmanuelcollege, a new-old timbered and stuccoed building, shamefully extortionate. I had jam, butter, bread and tea for supper and the same for breakfast, and they charged me 7/-! There was a visitors’-book, full of commendations. I have since written some lines on the subject; would that I had written and insetten them into the book then!
I drave the groaning twaywheel o’er the plains
with shorten’d breath and vast pulmonic pains.
And late arrived within the Cam’s domains:
Seeking a rest for my sleephungry head
“Ye olde Castle” I espied ahead:
There shelter’d, and was there profusely bled.
Their generous hospitality renown’d
I trusted that I should have freely found
when treacherous bills downsmote me to the ground.
Cambridgely Throughwanderings
As I came into Cambridge I bethought me of calling upon Alan Wace, my old schoolfriend, who might haply be up for the ‘Long’ reading. I call’d upon him at his rooms in the New Buildings of Pembrokecollege, and his friend who lived at the bottom of the staircase came and told me that he was out. I scribbled a note and resolved to call later. I then began mine throughwanderings; I saw the old conduit of the Early 17th yearhundred, whence waterrunnels run along some of the streets as at Freiburg in Baden, in Germany. I saw the buildings of Peterhall, only glancingly; also into the church of St. Mary the less I inwander’d. As far as I can now bemind me it was a decorated building without aisles or arches and mid a piscina. I then wander’d foreby the stately classical Fitzwilliam-Museum towards King’s Parade, a glorious corner. The street still has many of the old houses of the genuine old Cambridgely stamp, mid brownred tileroofs and often overbeplaster’d. These are most numerous in and near Northamptonstreet, where many of the roofs are of a twi-slope kind.
I went into the church of St. Mary the greater, an handsome welltowered church unhappily furnisht like St. Mary’s at Oxford, mid a gallery on either side. Here my pencillen onmarkings again fail me (I am writing Jan. 14, 1902). I can only remember that this church was very beautiful and, I believe, decorated. The organ loft was under the tower. Of St. Peter’s and St. Giles’ churches I can only now bemind me that they were Gothish and had some markworthinesses; there was an highspired modern R.C. church near the old conduit and another new church. I saw the round Holy Sepulchre Church, an handsome Norman building with later additions. I saw also St. Benedict’s Church, of which the tower, much like that of St Michael’s at Oxford, is Anglesaxish; and the rough arches etc. at the base of the tower [sketch of an arch] within the church. I then went to see Kings-College-Chapel through the handsome outer gate. It is a simply gorgeous building within and withouten—its traceries, all too full of Tudor portcullises and roses; its lordly fantracery and pendents; its old organscreen and wonderly choirseats; its wellproportioned grandeur of length and height; its endless wealth of windowglass throughtelling the tale of Holy Writ—all there remain a joy for ever.
I strayed over the bridge on to the Backs and that heavenly road overshadowed by gianttrees, forestlords and not boulevard-dwarflings, only matcht (so far as my travels reach) by the splendid avenue which leads out of Southampton and through Southampton-common. I went then to call on Alan, and found him, his mother and their friend Mr. Williams (they call him “Bro”), whom I had met at Linleyhouse Abbeyforegate, where they lived 1892–1898 (July). They now live at Stoney Stratford.
Old Acquantaince not Forgot
They were havin’ lunch. I had seen none of them since Alan left school and Shrewsbury in July 1898—and it was a joyous and gladsome benewing of old friendship and acquaintance. Unhappily I could not refrain from asking after Emeric, the elder son, who was a bright and genial scholar and an old friend (I became acquainted with them in 1895), and so Mrs. Wace had to tell me that he had died last Eastertide of a chill. This was one of the saddest of sudden ill tidings that I have ever known. Gaveston, the younger son, is at school in Cambridge, and Audrey Wace is at home. I did not see either of them. Mrs. Wace went home, and Mr. Williams to London in the afternoon. Meanwhile I overwalked Coe Fen, and a very pretty land-stretch it was mid the several stream-arms, the long meadowstretches, the backonsight of a part of Cambridge, the old mills in the distance, the bathingstations and the throngs of boys and girls streaming towards their respective bathing-stations; there were also small gardens on a strip of land between the waters, and sedges, and boatstaithes. I made my way thence by the old mills to “the Backs” and spent the rest of the golden aftermidday wanderin’ about the collegegardens, grounds and fields of “the Backs” and along the glorious treeway up to the new yet handsome bricken Nonconformistcollege. I saw the ‘Bridge of Sighs’ and the cross at St. John’s and the grand old bricken gatetower; and this day and the next I overwent most of the colleges, but did not go into the halls or chapels.
The old brickwork of Caius and of St. John’s particularly delighted me, showin’ how noble brickwork may be when made by the true craftsman. Other old brickwork have I seen, such as Watlington old townhall and Ewelme old almshouses in Oxfordshire; Rowley’s mansion in Hill’s Lane, Shrewsbury; Aston-Hall, near Birmingham; and Helmingham Hall in Suffolk; all of them noble and fair buildings. I hope to see many more such as Layer Marney-Hall in Essex, Eton-College and older Hampton Court. I have long since left to yearn for abroad-farings, for there is more to see in England alone than can be seen in a lifetime; and English Country mid the old buildings that form part of it, so harmoniously are they hued and wroughten, is the allerloveliest landscape in the world. Shropshire, East Anglia, Oxfordshire, Northamptonshire, Somersetshire, Lincolnshire—these alone would outfurnish a lifewhile.
Summerbright Days and Moonlovely Nights
Alan asked me to stay two nights in college as his guest. I caught at the offer. That evening he guested me at Baol’s [?] Restaurant, overagainst King’s Great Gate, and we three again had midday-dinner there next day (Sunday); this time Alan’s friend* (I cannot for the life of me call to mind the name) was the guester. [added later: “I have since found from Alan’s letter that the name was Holt.”] He is an handsome wellread sensible man, who has wheelridden thousands of miles (some of them in Spain and in France, and the Pyrenees), and unlike the wonted long-distance rider he remembers thoroughly the country and places, down to small details, wherethrough he has foren: a keen lover of the country; his brother has a farm near Knutsford in Cheshire. Alan’s aunt has a farm in Montgomeryshire; and as my kinsfolk in Suffolk follow the good and Nature-endowed craft, we had all a common interest in farming.
We also talked and read literature, especially Walt Whitman and Omar Khayam. The summernights were glorious, and the moon streamed from the deep blue heavenhome over the gardenquadrangle and into the room which I had. On the Sundaynight by candle- and moon-light I throughread the glorious work, Fitzgerald’s Omar Khayyam. My grandfather knew Fitzgerald and his brother; the poet lived over a gunsmith’s shop in dear old Woodbridge, which has stampt itself in mine heart. He was a very shy retired man, and in the summer he would make short stayings at Lowestoft in Yarmouth to talk to the old fisherfolk.
On Sunday afternoon, after a late breakfast in Holt’s room (we oscillated between his room at the bottom of the staircase and Alan’s at the top), Alan showed me over several colleges and Parker’s piece and the open meadows near the boatstaithes towards Chesterfield. Cambridge is as rich in open spaces as Southampton, which it resembleth (to my mind) in more ways than one; however I may be bescoff’d for this deeming.
I shall never forget those two days—the meeting with old friends not seen since schoolleaving; the golden Godgiven summerbright days and moonlovely warm nights; the candlelight-bed-reading of Omar’s wild sad lifeonsightssong; the chatty evenings and social hours; the travelreminiscences; the bygonedays-recollection; the talk over old days; the sunbright meadows, trees, gardens and colleges, and the glassbedizened gloomglory of King’s Chapel; the parting on Mondaymorning with plighted troth under the gianttreeshadows of the ‘Backs’, wherefrom I rode towards Madingley, whither I mistakenly arrived; but the beauty of the place and the buildcraft-interest of the pretty old treesheltered church fully withloaned my waymistaking.
[NOTE: a page has been removed between pages 22 and 23. The top half of page 23 has been removed as well. Both appear to have been written on.]
Margin: June 17–18 1901 Oxford to Worcester. (Bleak downs between Enstone and Chipping Norton. The wooded slopes of Chastleton doubly welcome after it a slight bend of the road suddenly brings the manorhouse in sight. Near Moreton I had another glimpse of it. Beautiful village. Byway to C. winds between orchards and woods and hedges rich with hawthorn and wild rose. Past the four-shire stone to Moreton)
The White Hart
[…] soon the outhouses of Moreton were yreacht; they were not worthy of Moreton, but one or two. They were altogether out of the town and dumpt down quite in the country; a new sanitarylaundry was amongst these. After the ironwaybridge the town was reacht, a perfect little town of old Greystone and mostly greyslate houses; it was little more than one long treelined street and beminded me much of Henley in Arden or the Highstreet of Chipping-Norton. It had the same stamp as the small Berkshirely and Oxfordshirely chippingtowns; there was a good new Tudor-buildcraft townhall in the headstreet islandwise, like that of Chipping Norton, Faringdon or Abingdon. (Not unlike that of Shrewsbury. I afterwards learnt that it was Norman Shaw’s work. A little clock-tower rose over the roof. The workman’s institute built by John Mann’s exertions.) It is a good building mid comely timberwork.
If such tiny halfthorp towns have such an institute, how much more should the great slumhells have hundreds of such. The town inholdeth not more than some 1500 folk. A restful, noiseless, thoroughly oldworld little cheapingtown of sober grey comeliness; the old Oxfordshire-slates were here, tho’ some of the newer buildings were yrooft mid the cheap Welsh ‘horror’. I was too slack to go much further and lookt about for a guesthouse; endly I outchose the White Hart, an old neat postinginn. I had meant to go on to Broadway, but havin’ settled adown to tea here about 7.30 I soon found myself unlikely to go further. There were several other folk in the ‘commercial-room’, one a Stourbridge-man, another had ridden from thereabouts. The first was a quiet enough wellbred Philister [philistine]; the other was a scamp of a clergyman about 40 years old; he must have been a clergyman tho’ he wore his collar amiss. He said he had ‘officiated for the chaplain at Bicton-asylum’. Both had ridden much in Shropshire. One or two others came and went; rooms opened from both sides of an old passage or courtyard.
There was a bedroom in which Charles I slept in 1644, a newlookin’ room wellwhitewasht and not suggestin’ history at all. Both the fellowguests had fared much in England, Spain, and South America and elsewhere; one talkt of the Amazon, another of Spain, another of Italy. I could not outmake that clergyman. He seem’d a scamp, made wretched puns [added in 1951: “(I remember an extremely flippant, not to say blasphemous, response to a procession of the Blessed Sacrament in some Catholic country.)”] and of course reviled the Boers as only a fairplaylovin’ Christian Englishman can do.
I had a good nightsrest in a large canopybed and breakfasted about 8. I was much worried by my reckoning which reacht 5/9! It was not very great, but I had had plain tea and two eggs for breakfast and had hoped to get a nightsguesting for less than that. Some of our English brether are tryin’ to keep a family on 12/- weekly, and I am offthrowin’ 5/9 for one nights lodging! At 9.30 I offstarted again through lovely fields and meadows elmybordered and elmrich until I raught the foot of the Broadway hill. The pretty grey Oxfordly thorp Bourton upclamber’d this hill; its grey cots were bright mid roses and other sunbright sweethbreath’d flowers. The perpendicular-decorated church was unhappily uplocked. I onclomb the hilltop and found a bleak downlike boardland mid small stonequarries on either hand. A mile or so further on the road was bordered by two elfsheen woodlandstrips; that on the lefthand side wholly birchen, that on the righthand side birchen and firren mid other growth. The outcome was a woulderly shadeway along the lengthy boardland, a glorious gladsome leafway in all the summerbrightth of June.
An Unblemished Paradisely Townkin
This lasted almost unto the brow of the hill inntufted overlookin’ Broadway and half Worcestershire. A sideoutsight shewed me Chipping Camden [sic] mid its grey churchtower and two or three other thorpchurches anigh, in the bosom of manyfolded hillranges. When I raught the Broadwayoverlookin’ hillbrow the outsight was lordly indeed. The Malvernhills far away overagainst me, the hills anigh Tewkesbury besouth and the outstretching thes Broadwayhillranges benorth and besouth. The steamy clouds ahead offset by the burnin’ sunheat on the hillbrow forthgave a lowerin’ and darksome outlook, and let the full landscapeoutsight.
But ‘twas an everbemindingsworthy spot. I should fain stand there again some day neathlookin’ on the fair shires beneath. The road zigzaggy neathrambleth unto Broadway, the most blemishless oldworld grey cheapingtownkin that I have ever seen. It is halfthorply, halftownly. The buildings are almost all old; a great many of them seem’d to belong to the 17th yearhundred. Indeed not a few were yearmarkt. Almost all had the old grey slates and the Tudorwindows. Some had garrets; some had timberwork as well as greystonen building; some had Tudorchimneys. There was as it were a thorpgreen at the bottom thes towns. The church was asidewithdrawn, and I had little time so that I did not go to see it; but Broadway is the most unblemished Paradisely townkin that I have seen. Many of the new buildings such as the Postoffice were fully worthy of it; the ‘Lygon-arms’-hotel and another old Jacobish building was besonders [especially] markworthy.
I have not forgiven myself for not getting a few outsightpostcards here. It is a lovely little spot, could hardly be lovelier. I have seen no oldworld little stead so unharm’d as this. And the background of the hill tufted mid woodlandclumps and the ramblin’ neathroad!
Leavin’ Broadway I was upon a road through more or less lowlyin’ even land. On either side were welltilled marketgardens farstretchin’ and many busy folk, men and women and children, a-work therein. It seem’d to say to the unlearned beholder (such as I was) “sikerly this is a thrivin’ land”. I only hope that the steadsgeist spake truth. The neighbourin’ thorps such as Childs-Wykeham showed that the redbrick-inroad had yreacht thus far, but Childs-Wykeham has an old stonerood and church as the lightbilds in Broadway’s shopwindows tell. There were fair hills in the farness everyway; wide stretches of marketgardens and some tilled fields upfilled the lowlands, which became more wavy towards Evesham. Some mile or two ere I raught Evesham gan the wellbekenn’d plumorchards forthstretchen, acres of plumtrees to be seen at their best, I am told, in Maytime. Between the plumtrees are planted manykind vegetables and even white carnations. It is a goodly sight.
Evesham
The whole country-side from here to Spetchley seem’d to me to be thrivin’ and full of healthy stalwart uplandfolk; yet we know alle too well that “things are not what they seem.” There was an upslope a little way before Bengeworth, an upslope that was all overclad mid thrivin’ plumorchards and a few cots or houses thereamid. Bengeworth was a little thorp, I take it, but is now utterly mingled mid Evesham and must have been always within a quarter of a mile thereof. The church is an handsome new Greystone church.
The streets were dull on the whole, some older houses, most redbricken; a neathslopend streetkin brings me to the bridge that overspanneth the Avonsteam. Alongside the river (before overgoing the bridge) is a folksgardensstrip known as (Henry) Workman’s gardens, whence a steamlaunch plieth. The Avon is pretty here. Overagainst Workman’s gardens is an open slopefield then full of circus-wains and -folk. Above and below the town are sedges along the streambanks. The town is small, so much the better; the way over the bridge uprambleth the slope until it meets the High St. at right angles. There are several good old buildings in the upramblingsstreet and some eighteenth-yearhundredly bricken uprearings, some Shropshirelike timberworkhouses. An offwending foreby the new-norman townhall leads foreby one or two old houses under a stonen archway mid Norman work in the sidewalls. In stead thes archrings or stonebows was a gatewayhouse timberworkly much like that wherein I was yboren, the Gatewayhouse, Shrewsbury. This inbrought me to a churchyard forsundered into paths and deals by low railings. There were two old Early English churches mid (mostly) perpendicular windows; St. Lawrences Church was the prettiest. Each, oddly enough, had a sidechapel mid fantracery and ceilingsbedighting like that in the chancel of Christchurch-minster, Oxford, or the Divinityschools, Oxford; in one of them it was still a chapel, but in St. Lawrence’s church it held the dipstone. Each of these handsome grey churches had a like tower mid an halfspire; St. Lawrence’s had the finer work, a delicate kind of Early English strongly bemindin’ me of Chipping Norton.
Further towards the brow of the slope that overlook the Avonstream was a lordly gawmly ycorven richly ylight belltower, whereunder was a way into the folksfield. The tower might have been a small minstertower offtaken and set lonely here atop the streamsideslope. The chimes were rich; I heard them a-resting in Workmansgarden yonsides thes streams. The sight of the three towers from Workman’s Gardens was lordly indeed and artworkworthy.
The Highstreet was treeylined like that of Chipping-Norton. Over the ironwaybridge one road goes straight on to Alcester and upwinds a wellwooded hill not unlike the inway to Oxford from Headington. Another road offwendeth leftwards along the Avonstream and underwindeth the wellbewooded hill whose woods after a mile or so give way again to plumorchards on the lower slopes. This Craycombe-hill is a lovely hill, and I have yknowen few lovelier winsomer roadstretches than this Avonsideway under Craycombe-hill and his wellwooded orchardrich marketgardenful slopes.
Spetchley and Worcester
The afternoon was hot but goldenbright, and the walk was a wide and fair one through a lovely shire. The uplandwomen in their white mobcaps, the busy men and women and children afield, the rich bearth of the land, the orchards, the miles of fair marketgardens, the glimpses of far greystonen thorpkirks, the pretty roseupclimbt thorpcots and towards Worcester the long stretches of fair woody meadows and wellshaded road, the long parkgrounds at Spetchley: all this I hope to bear in mind always. Some three miles or so from Worcester I askt the time of a man who was a-driving a low cart full of oilbarrels, and he offered me a lift which I was glad to take, for I was forlongin’ the end. We throughwent the estate aught of some Catholish family (Berkeley) at Spetchley mid a great treewalk and a Swissbridge over the road (like that of the beerking at Oxford on the Headingtonhillborder). It had been let to some partner in the Lea & Perrins sauce-firm, but it was hoped that the family-heir would soon againcome.
Ere long we reacht the brow of the slope that neathdippeth to Worcester. The cheap and scornworthy cardboard-jerrybuildings of Worcester have long been upcreepin’ this slope. I find that one of these brick- and slate-regions is call’d ‘Cherry Orchard’; this exactly repeats the case of one of Shrewsbury’s raw-new suburbs.
From what I have seen of it both now and in Jan. 1900 Worcester is an hideous illbuilt sprawlin’ thickpackt town but for the Minster which is woulderly, and some of the churches. The town is allerugliest, wretchedest; and lovely country is bein’ everywhere destroyed to make way for contemptible jerrybuildings worthy of London or the Black Country.
The man was thankful for a 6d I gave him; he was a civil man and told me many things about Worcester and the neighbourhood, and that Mrs. Browne was one of the guardians.
The Last Stretch
I was not sorry to leave Worcester by ironway.
I had little money left and more than 50 miles to go so that I upgave the thought of further walking. The last Severnvalleytrain had gone, so I must needs faren through Stourbridge, (Droitwich, Kidderminster,) Dudley, Brierly Hill and Wolverhampton, through the abomination of desolation mid here and there a churchtufted green knoll to tell of the landloveliness which a godless commercialism has striven with idiot-glee to lay waste, more barbarous than any Zulu or Australian. After an hot day a cold night inset, and it was weary work waiting at Wolverhampton for the 11.02 train. In the 3rd class waiting- and befreshings-room a fuddled Jingo was unfolding’ maudlindrunken muddleheaded khakipatriotism.
The train at last incame and crawled as slow as might be to Shrewsbury, which it reacht at almost 12.15. I walkt home. I did not know whether to knock and upwake them all or not; my mother’s roomlight was out, and I bethought me of againgoing to the station and trying to get a nightsrest in the waitingroom. I found the ironwayshaltstead upshutten and then bethought me of the Quarry, but found it too bleak, dark, cold and dismal, and came again to our garden makin’ a pillow of my parcel, and mid but a scrap of sleep I outwatcht the night. ‘Twas cold bitter waiting. It was foolish though wellmeant. I spent the next day mostly asleep to make up for the night that I had lost. I was glad indeed to have reacht home.
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