The Cruise of the Land-Yacht "Wanderer" Part 10

From the balcony of this log-hut one could have rabbit-shooting all day long, and pigeon-shooting in the evening. I hope no one ever will though.

We went home a different way, Mr Tebbet opening the double-padlocked gates for us. We pa.s.sed the Parliament Tree, as it is called, where they tell us King John used to a.s.semble his councillors. It is an oak still, a skeleton oak hung together by chains.

From the brow of a hill which we soon reached, we enjoyed a panorama, the like of which is not elsewhere to be seen in all broad England.

From Howitt's "Rural Life in England" I cull the following:

"Near Mansfield there remains a considerable wood, Harlowe Wood, and a fine scattering of old oaks near Berry Hill, in the same neighbourhood, but the greater part is now an open waste, stretching in a succession of low hills and long winding valleys, dark with heather. A few solitary and battered oaks standing here and there, the last melancholy remnants of these vast and ancient woods, the beautiful springs, swift and crystalline brooks, and broad sheets of water lying abroad amid the dark heath, and haunted by numbers of wild docks and the heron, still remain.

But at the Clipstone extremity of the forest, a remnant of its ancient woodlands remains, unrifled, except of its deer--a specimen of what the whole once was, and a specimen of consummate beauty and interest.

Birkland and Bilhaghe taken together form a tract of land extending from Ollerton along the side of Th.o.r.esby Park, the seat of Earl Manvers, to Clipstone Park, of about five miles in length, and one or two in width.

Bilhaghe is a forest of oaks, and is clothed with the most impressive aspect of age that can perhaps be presented to the eye in these kingdoms... A thousand years, ten thousand tempests, lightnings, winds, and wintry violence have all flung their utmost force on these trees, and there they stand, trunk after trunk, scathed, hollow, grey, and gnarled, stretching out their bare st.u.r.dy arms on their mingled foliage and ruin--a life in death. All is grey and old. The ground is grey beneath--the trees are grey with clinging lichens--the very heather and fern that spring beneath them have a character of the past.

"But Bilhaghe is only half of the forest-remains here; in a continuous line with it lies Birkland--a tract which bears its character in its name--the land of birches. It is a forest perfectly unique. It is equally ancient with Bilhaghe, but it has a less dilapidated air. It is a region of grace and poetry. I have seen many a wood, and many a wood of birches, and some of them amazingly beautiful, too, in one quarter or another of this fair island, but in England nothing that can compare with this... On all sides, standing in their solemn steadfastness, you see huge, gnarled, strangely-coloured and mossed oaks, some riven and laid bare from summit to root with the thunderbolts of past tempests.

An immense tree is called the Shamble Oak, being said to be the one in which Robin Hood hung his slaughtered deer, but which was more probably used by the keepers for that purpose. By whomsoever it was so used, however, there still remain the hooks within its vast hollow."

But it is time to be up and off. We lay last night in Mr Tebbet's private meadow. Had a long walk before I could secure a suitable place.

But the place was eminently quiet and exceedingly private, near lawns and gardens and giant elms. The elm that grows near the pretty cemetery, in which haymakers were so busy this morning, is, with the exception of the oak at Newstead Abbey gates, the finest ever I have seen; and yet an old man died but recently in Mansfield workhouse who remembered the time he could bend it to the ground.

Warsop, which we reached over rough and stony roads and steepish hills, is a greystone village, the houses slated or tiled blue or red, a fine church on the hilltop among lordly trees, a graveyard on the brae beneath with a white pathway meandering up through it to the porch.

At the sixth milestone we reached a hilltop, from which we could see into several counties. Such a view as this is worth wandering leagues to look at. We watered the horses here, at the last of the Duke of Portland's lodges.

Thou down hill again. How lovely the little village of Cuckney looks down there, its crimson houses shimmering through the trees! We bought eggs at the inn called the Greendale Oak. There is a story attached to this oak which my reader has doubtless heard or read.

This is the land of oaks, and a smiling land too, a land of wealth and beauty, a great garden-land.

CHAPTER TEN.

DONCASTER--BRENTLEY--ASKERN--DINNER ON A YORKSHIRE WOLD.

"Was nought around save images of rest, Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between, And flowery beds, that slumberous influence kest, From poppies breathed, and beds of pleasant green."

It is the morning of the 4th July, and a bright and beautiful morning it is. The storm clouds that yesterday lowered all around us have cleared away and the sun shines in an Italian sky. We are encamped in a delightful little level meadow close to the worthy brewer and farmer to whom it belongs. How did we come here? Were we invited? No, reader, we invited ourselves.

Not quite liking the accommodation recommended to us by a villager, I called on Mr E--, and coyly--shall I say "coyly?"--stated my case.

Though good Mr E--has a wife to please, and the gentle, kindly lady is an invalid, he granted me the desired permission, and when we were fairly on the lawn and...

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stunted than the giants we have left behind us. Mulberry-trees have now made their appearance, and splendid acacias, ta.s.selled over with drooping blooms. But the maple or plane-trees are also a sight; they are now in seed, and the hanging bunches of pods are tinted with carmine and brown.

Large elder-bushes, like enormous white-rose trees, brighten the dark-green of the hedgerows; beds of yellow sweet-pea, beds and patches of the blue speedwell, the purple tapering stachys, solitary spikes of crimson foxglove, roses, and honeysuckle meet the eye wherever I look.

In some places the sward is covered as with snow by the lavish-spreading fairy-bedstraw.

At the little cosy town of Askern, with its capital hotels and civilised-looking lodging-houses, on stopping to shop, we were surprised at being surrounded by hosts of white-haired cripples--well, say lame people, for every one had a staff or a crutch.

But I soon found out that Askern is a watering-place, a kind of a second-cla.s.s Harrogate, and these people with the locks of snow had come to bathe and drink the waters; they are sulphureous. There is here a little lake, with a promenade and toy stalls. The lake has real water in it, though it looks somewhat green and greasy, and a real boat on it, and real oars to pull it. There are fish in the lake too. This is evident from the fact that a twenty-pound pike was lately landed. On being opened, his stomach was found to contain a roach and two copper coins of the reign of our present blessed Majesty the Queen. It is evident that this pike was laving up against a rainy day.

But Askern is really a good resort for the invalid. Things are cheap, too, and the place would soon flourish if there were abundance of visitors.

We have halted to dine in the centre of a Yorkshire wold. The road goes straight through the hedge-bound sward, and can be seen for miles either way.

A wold means a wood--a wild wood. I like the word, there is a fine romantic ring about it. This wold has been cleared, or partially so, of trees, and fields of waving grain extend on all sides of us. Very delightful is this wold on a sweet summer's day like this, but one can easily imagine how dreary the scene must be in winter, with the road banked high with snowdrifts, and the wind sweeping over the flats and tearing through the leafless oaks.

The horses are enjoying the clover. Hurricane Bob and I are reclining among our rugs on the broad _coupe_. Foley is cooking a fowl and a sheep's heart; the latter for Bob's dinner. There are rock-looking clouds on the horizon, a thunderstorm is within a measurable distance.

How pretty those purple trailing vetches look! How sweet the song of yonder uprising lark! There is an odour of elder-flowers in the air. I hear a hen cackling at a distant farm. Probably the hen has laid an egg. Hurricane Bob is sound asleep. I think I shall read. Burns is by my elbow:

"Oh, Nature! a' thy shows and forms To feeling pensive hearts hae charms!

Whether the summer kindly warms Wi' life and light, Or winter howls in gusty storms, The lang dark night."

How lovely those dog-roses are, though! They are everywhere to-day; roses in cl.u.s.ters, roses in garlands, wreaths and wind-tossed spray, white, crimson, or palest pink roses--roses--

"The dinner is all on the table, sir."

"Aw--right."

"The dinner is _quite ready_, sir."

"To be sure, to be sure. Thank you, Foley."

"Why, you have been sound asleep, sir."

We are once more settled for the night and settled for the Sabbath, in a delightful clovery meadow near a fine old Yorkshire farm, round which blue-rock pigeons are flying in clouds.

A herd of fine shorthorn cows have arranged themselves in a row to look at us. A healthful, "caller" country la.s.sie is milking one. Her name is Mary; I heard a ploughboy say "Mary" to her. Mary is singing low as she milks, and the sleek-sided cow is chewing her cud and meditating.

Yonder is a field of white peas all in bloom, and yonder a field of pale-green flax.

It must be a great satisfaction for those pigeons to see those peas in bloom.

"Good-night, Mary."

"Good-night, sir."

Away marches Mary, singing, "Tra, la, lalla, la lah."

What a sweet voice the little maiden has!

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF A GENTLEMAN GIPSY.

"He journeyed on like errant-knight the while, While sweetly the summer sun did smile On mountain moss and moor."