Nooks and Corners of Shropshire Part 7

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.'

[Ill.u.s.tration: 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 pa.s.s 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 ent.i.tled 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 pa.s.sing traffic, sleep the sleep of the just until morning looks in at the cas.e.m.e.nt.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 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 subst.i.tute 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 c.o.xwall 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 d.y.k.e, 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 d.y.k.e, 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 d.y.k.e, a huge green mound overshadowed by beech trees, whose course can be easily traced as it crosses the valley and climbs the s.h.a.ggy 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 d.y.k.e, 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.

Pa.s.sing 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 circ.u.mjacent 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!

[Ill.u.s.tration: 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 ma.s.sively 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 princ.i.p.als, 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 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 repousse 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 pa.s.sing 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 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 pa.s.sing 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 d.y.k.e 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 gra.s.s-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 cas.e.m.e.nt, we sit within bien and cosy, canopied like G.o.ds 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 t.i.tle 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 l.u.s.ty appet.i.tes, 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 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.