Through crooked byways, abloom with bluebells and gay pink campion, we now make our way to Church Preen, a tiny hamlet set in a romantic dell, 'far from the madding crowd.' Overshadowed by a gigantic yew, the little church stands as a sort of appendix to Norman Shaw's handsome, half-timbered manor-house, the residence of Mr. Sparrow, the lord of the manor. Dedicated to St. John the Baptist, this church is a singular one, being only about 12 feet wide, though as much as 70 feet in length. It has neither aisles nor transepts, and is of early character, having formerly been used by Cluniac monks as a cell or chapel to Wenlock Priory. Though plain and simple to a degree, the interior looks bright and well-cared-for, and boasts a richly carved lectern and pulpit, with the date 1641 cut upon a panel.
Once more afoot, half an hour's walk through shady lanes, with scarce a cottage in sight, leads us past a large, curious-looking old farmhouse at Holt Preen, and so up the hill to Plash.
Seated upon a gentle eminence within its own walled demesne, the Manor-house of Plash is one of the most remarkable and interesting places in all this countryside. The mansion is a large, substantial brick structure, whose tall, twisted chimney stacks, and lofty mullioned windows, indicate that it was built in the days of Henry VIII. or Elizabeth, the low screen wall and ogee cupolas being additions of a later period.
Inside there is a noble sixteenth-century banqueting hall, with open timbered roof, and minstrels' gallery, supported by a massive oak screen of Jacobean character, at one end; and several fine wainscoted apartments with enriched plaster ceilings. An elaborate old fireplace of cast-iron, dated 1574, is a noticeable feature. Altogether the old mansion remains pretty much as originally built, affording an interesting study to the antiquary.
The manor of Plash, or Plaish, was held for many generations by the Sprencheaux family, the last of whom, Sir Fulk Sprencheaux, died in 1447. His portrait, and the armour worn by him, may be seen hanging upon the panelled wall in the banqueting hall at Plash. After them came the Leightons, by one of whom the existing mansion was probably erected; while a later scion of the same stock was a certain William Leighton, whose sumptuous monument we shall presently see when visiting Cardington church.
But the day wanes, and it is still a far cry to our night's bivouac at Church Stretton. So pushing merrily onwards, we call no halt this side of Cardington, our lengthening shadows bringing up the rear, and a cuckoo rehearsing his tedious lay from a solitary wych elm in the hedgerow.
The village lies high on the hills, in an out-of-the-way locality, and very picturesque the old place looks as we draw near, its weatherbeaten grey church crowning a gentle rise, a group of children playing 'hide-and-seek' about the churchyard wicket, and half a dozen antiquated cottages clustering loosely around—rough old stone-built structures most of them, with moss-grown roofs, and diamond-paned windows blinking from beneath the deepset eaves.
But let us step into the church. Entering beneath a seventeenth century timbered porch, its round-arched doorway and the two small Norman lights on either side the nave shew that the fabric is of ancient origin, although its more striking features date from a much later period. The panels of the oak pulpit are effectively carved, while some of the older pews bear the names of local manors, or townships, cut upon them.
In the chancel stands the rich, sumptuous monument of Sir William Leighton and his lady, with their children grouped in a panel of the substructure below. 'This monument was made,' as the inscription runs, 'in the year 1607, as a Memorial to Wm Leighton of Plashe, Esq., of North Wales, one of the Councell in the Marches of Wales for above fortie yeares.' Then comes the moral, 'Nemo ante obitum beatus.' A very quaint monument this. Curious, too, are the Bell-ringers' Laws set up on the tower wall.
Bidding farewell to Cardington, we have a good half-mile of collar work before us, ere the brow of the hill is won close to a singular mass of tumbled rocks called the Sharpstones, whence the view opens out towards Wenlock Edge, with Brown Clee peeping over it.
Plunging into a steep stony lane, a likely-looking field path suggests the possibility of a short cut; but, calling to mind the Spaniard's proverb, 'No hay atajo sin trabajo'—no short cut without trouble—we consult an old fellow who happens along just now. 'Yon's a weedy road,' is the best he can say for our byway, 'the medders be all-of-a-pop (boggy) down that-a-way.'
So we stick to our last, and push forwards again along the stony lane; and half an hour later find ourselves at Hope Bowdler, a lowly hamlet seated in a sheltered vale, in the lap of the Cardington hills. Passing the wheelwright's shop, with its fascinating jumble of rough timber and derelict carts, we turn through the old lich-gate and take a peep at St. Andrew's church, a poorly-restored edifice with a carved oak Jacobean pulpit, and a plain but well-proportioned silver chalice, bearing the date 1572 upon its lid.
Up, up we go once more, with the hills folding in as we advance, and the curious Gaerstone rock sticking up, like a miniature Matterhorn, high above the roadway. Diverging to the right, we soon drop into a sweet secluded 'cwm' beneath the shadow of giant Caradoc, whose rugged crest fairly bristles with huge rocks, as though Titans had been playing bowls up there. Anon we are footing it athwart the open hillside, pushing through gorse and breast-high bracken, and inhaling the odours of wild thyme and the thousand scents of summer.
Grandly the Longmynd bulks ahead as we descend into Stretton Dale, his massive shoulders rising purple against the amber light that still irradiates the western heavens, while the shadows of evening enfold as with dusky wings each nook and recess of the mountain. The lights of Church Stretton twinkle out through the gloom as we beat up for quarters at last, and a certain snug hostelry to which we now make our way proves a welcome haven after our long day's cross-country tramp.
hurch Stretton is 'a pretty uplandish Townelett, the cheifest Building that is in Stretton Dale.' Thus wrote John Leland in the time of King Henry VIII., and his description holds good to-day. Lovers of Nature will congratulate themselves on the fact that the 'cheifest Building 'scarce attains the dignity of a town, which is seated in the midst of one of the most charming localities in all Shropshire, an excellent centre for anyone bent upon exploring the heather-clad hills and upland valleys by which the place is surrounded.
The railway train that carries the traveller thither climbs steadily up-hill all the way from Shrewsbury, halts for breath, so to speak, at Stretton station, and then starts away upon a downward grade, following for many a mile the southward flowing streams. Lying thus high and dry, Church Stretton is one of the healthiest places imaginable, thanks to pure water, and mountain breezes fraught with an invigorating tang from their journey over leagues of gorse, heather and bracken.
Right through the vale, from north to south, runs the ancient green lane still known as Watling Street, rubbing shoulders as it goes with the old winding coach-road, and with that modern parvenu the railway track. For this Stretton valley has time out of mind been the great main artery of travel for man and beast, whether faring towards the cities of the north, or journeying into South Wales.
Church Stretton village—or should we say town?—rambles in by no means unpicturesque fashion alongside the old highroad, half way or thereabouts between Shrewsbury and Ludlow. Just off the street, at the rear of the Buck's Head Inn (formerly the manor-house of Church Stretton), stands the parish church of St. Lawrence, a fine cruciform structure shaded by noble old elms, amidst whose green foliage its venerable grey tower, adorned with the image of the patron saint, rises with charming effect.
The chancel is evidently the work of Norman hands, but an archaic little image, carved above its southern door, looks like an insertion from some earlier edifice. And there are other features well worth looking at in the nicely-proportioned interior; notably a fine thirteenth century roof, some curiously carved oak panelling round about the altar, and groups of heads peering out with odd effect upon the sculptured capitals of the pillars.
Bonham Norton's fine old timbered market house, built in the year 1617, has, unfortunately, been stupidly destroyed not so very long ago—'it was politics as did it' is the dark saying of an old inhabitant; and its place is now usurped by a sorry red-brick substitute of the meanest character. Though the tide of modernization has already set in here, there are still a few ancient timbered gables with lattice-paned windows shewing here and there about the village, and they appear all the more venerable, perhaps, in contrast to their spick-and-span neighbours.
Overlooking Church Stretton upon its western side rise a series of tall, green, rounded hills, outposts of the broad backed Longmynd. In and between these run deep, hollow dingles, or 'gutters,' as they call them hereabouts.
Such is the Carding Mill valley, by which we may climb to the crest of the ridge, whence a shrewd walker may push on to the solitary pole that marks the top of the Longmynd, some 1,700 feet above the sea. If by good fortune the day be clear, the wanderer may reckon on a widespread view from the summit of the Longmynd; tumbled blue hills shewing all around the horizon, like waves on a stormy ocean. An ancient grass-grown trackway traversing these highlands is referred to in old documents as the 'King's hie waie on Longemunde.'
Wayfarers are few on these upland byways, where the hill ponies are often the only signs of life, and no sound breaks the stillness save the whirr of a startled grouse, or the plaintive pipe of the curlew; 'there the winds sweep, and the plovers cry.'
Bright and exhilarating looks the Longmynd in its summer panoply of heather and golden gorse; and picturesque in the extreme when Autumn brings the 'whim berry' gatherers, with their camp-fires and steaming kettles, and merry shouts of children. But very different is the scene when this vast, unenclosed moorland falls under the stern sway of winter, and every landmark is obliterated by a mantle of untrodden snow. At times like these the Longmynd bears an eerie name, for lives not a few have been lost in attempting to traverse its trackless wastes, and places here and there bear ominous names such as Deadman's Hollow, Devil's Mouth, Deadman's Beach, and the like. Moreover the last fair of the year, held at Church Stretton on St. Andrew's day, has acquired the title of 'Deadman's Fair,' as men returning from it have been known to perish while endeavouring to reach their homes beyond the hills through the wild, mid-winter night. A remarkable if not unprecedented experience was that which befell the Rev. Donald Carr, the present rector of Woolstaston, who was lost in the snow upon Longmynd for a night and a day, in January, 1865.
Extending our rambles somewhat farther afield, a few minutes' run by train beneath the steep, wooded slopes of Caer Caradoc, brings us to Leebotwood, the first station Shrewsbury-wards on the railway. The village itself lies a quarter of a mile away, under a smooth green hill called the Lawley, but is worth a detour for the sake of its pretty thatched cottages, with their flowery garden plots and wealth of creepers, and its quaint oldfashioned inn yclept The Pound, which bears the date 1650, and does duty also as village post-office.
Past Leebotwood church, a small stone edifice overarched by umbrageous beech trees, we push on along the dusty highway, which, gradually ascending, affords fine views over the countryside, and a glimpse of a round green 'tump' called Castle Hill, a prehistoric camp keeping ward over the ancient Portway, which extends hence along the brow of the Longmynd to Billing's Ring, near Bishop's Castle.
A turn of the road reveals the village of Woolstaston, with its diminutive church overshadowed by three gigantic yew trees, and snug timbered rectory house, home of the Rev. Donald Carr, whose marvellous adventures, when snowed up on the Longmynd, have been recorded in an interesting little work entitled 'A Night in the Snow;' adventures which seem to confirm the old adage that 'truth is stranger than fiction.'
Woolstaston church, despite its small size, is well worth a passing visit. The chancel is entered through a doorway of true pre-Norman type, its semicircular head being fashioned from one single stone, while the jambs retain the holes for a wooden cross-bar. But the most notable feature of the church is a singular pair of fonts, one standing within the other, as depicted in our sketch. Both are evidently very ancient, and of archaic simplicity, the lower and seemingly older one being supposed to have originally belonged to a chapel, long since destroyed, that stood not far from here.
Woolstaston Hall, now a large farmhouse, stands near the church. It must have been a fine place in its time, if we may judge from a noble panelled parlour, with a polished oak floor fit to make young people's feet itch for a dance, and a massive stone portal, fronting upon the garden to the rear, evidently the main entrance to the mansion in its original state.
In the secluded country to the north of Woolstaston one stumbles upon a bunch of out-of-the-way villages and hamlets, anent which runs the following quatrain:
'Cothercot upo' the Hill.
Wilderley down i' the Dale,
Churton for pretty Girls,
And Powtherbatch for good Ale!'
In the same quarter lies Beatchcott, a place boasting a history of its own, having been granted by Henry III. to Haughmond Abbey, an oratory being in existence here at that time. Beatchcott subsequently passed to the Ireland family, coming eventually into the possession of the Wildings, who have held the estate for over three hundred years.
At Ratlinghope, a few miles away, the Black Canons of St. Augustine had a small cell, or priory, founded in John's reign, and affiliated to Wigmore Abbey.
Returning from Woolstaston to Church Stretton, we pass by Womerton, where the older of the two fonts in Woolstaston church was found; and then, skirting the unenclosed uplands, we drop into the highroad at or about All Stretton.
Anent these names of Stretton hangs a tale that runs somewhat as follows. King Charles II. (or was it James?), journeying one day towards Shrewsbury, came in due course to Little Stretton. 'How call you this place?' inquired the Merrie Monarch. 'Stretton, an it please your Majesty,' was the countryman's reply. 'Little Stretton, methinks, were a fitter name for so small a place,' said the King; and set forth again towards Shrewsbury. Upon arriving at the next village, Charles again asked where he was. 'At Stretton, sire,' someone answered. Espying the parish church, whose bells were making music in the old grey steeple, his Majesty exclaimed: 'Call it rather Church Stretton,' and went his way once more. Finally the King came to All Stretton, and being again informed he was at Stretton, 'Stretton!' cried Charles in astonishment, 'why it's All Stretton about here!' The story, if not absolutely true, is at least 'ben trovato.'
The road from Church Stretton to Craven Arms traverses a pleasant, smiling vale, with the Quenny brook wimpling along amidst water meadows, and broad breezy hillslopes stretching up and away beyond the rich, rolling woodlands that nestle around their flanks.
A short mile out of the village we strike up an isolated knoll, whose summit is seamed with the green ramparts of Brockhurst Castle, an ancient stronghold keeping ward over the Watling Street, of whose history very little is known. Brockhurst was a royal foundation, and in Henry the Second's reign was held by Engelard de Pitchford, the famous Hubert de Burgh being Castellan in the year 1226. As early as Queen Elizabeth's time the place, it is evident, was already deserted; for Camden, writing at that period, finds there 'are still remaining the ruins of an ancient castle, called Brocard's castle, surrounded by verdant meads which anciently were fishponds.' But the site is an ideal spot for the genus picnicker, by whom its bowery nooks and secluded, fern-clad dingles are often-times frequented.
On descending to the highroad, we notice the level strath where doubtless the fishponds lay. Soon afterwards we come to Little Stretton, a tranquil hamlet charmingly located in a nook of the Longmynd, over against the beautifully-wooded hill of Ragleth. The cottagers, we observe, take a curious delight in garnishing their doorways with derelict cannon-shot, which they find in the neighbouring gullies after artillery practice on the Longmynd. Blackleaded and brightly polished, they stand sentinel on either side the rustic porch; an innocent billet indeed for these truculent bullets!
At the farther end of the village two humble inns, the Green Dragon and the Crown, stand vis-à-vis on either side the highway; and, in these modest hostelries, visitors may possibly identify the rival 'houses' that figure in Beatrice Harraden's story of Shropshire life, entitled 'At the Green Dragon.'
Pushing on now to Marsh Brook, we turn sharp to the left at the rural post-office, and work our way up-hill to Acton Scott, a high-lying place some 700 feet above sea level—'Acton-super-Montem' it is called in ancient documents.
Passing through the churchyard wicket, we pause beneath an enormous hollow yew tree to scan the rare prospect over the rolling Stretton hills, and a glimpse down the vale towards Ludlow. Of the church itself there is little to be said, save that it has a good plain old oak roodscreen; so we stroll on beneath an avenue of noble beech trees, and presently come in sight of Acton Scott Hall.
As may be seen in our sketch, the mansion is a simple, massive brick structure, with stone quoins at the angles, mullioned windows, and clustered chimney shafts; altogether a very fair specimen of an ancestral abode of the gentlefolk of a bygone period. And the place has an added interest for all local antiquaries, as the home of the late Mrs. Stackhouse-Acton, author of 'Castles and Mansions of Shropshire.' Acton Scott Hall was in all probability erected by a certain Edward Acton, who flourished about the middle of the sixteenth century; and it has been noticed that the mansion bears a considerable resemblance to its contemporary, the so-called 'Whitehall' at Shrewsbury.
A steep 'pitchy' lane, descending the hill past the cosy-looking vicarage, now leads us across a stretch of rough common-land, where the cottagers' geese seem disposed, more suo, to contest our right-of-way. Thence by narrow lanes draped with ferns and wild flowers we travel on to a place called Alceston, and at an elbow of the road come face-to-face with the old derelict homestead that figures below; its weather-stained roofs tufted with green mosses and house-leeks, and overshadowed by a few ragged fir trees; while the black old timbers upon its faded front are wrought into balusters and quatrefoil patterns.
In its palmy days Alceston seems to have been a place of some consequence, having been built by Humphrey Hill (a connection of the Hills of Court-of-hill), who died here in 1585. The house was originally much larger, great part of it having been pulled down many years ago.
Over against this ancient dwelling rises a very large and happily quite unrestored old barn, entirely constructed of oak both inside and out; a pleasing contrast to those modern monstrosities of galvanized iron, that too often stare one out of countenance amidst these rural byways.
Through a pleasant, well-tended country, relieved by scraps of common-land, we win our way to Wistanstow, a comely-looking village extending along a quiet road, on the line of the ancient Watling Street.
Close beside the highway rises the old grey tower of its parish church, a fine cruciform structure dating from 1180, a.d. Upon the nail-studded south nave door hangs a so-called 'sanctuary' ring, and the great wooden lock with its iron letters I.P.C.W., and date 1696. The walls of the south transept bear well-executed writings of the Creed, the Lord's Prayer and the Decalogue, of early seventeenth century date; while the north transept retains its old original oak roof. The chancel door shews the characteristic round arch and quaintly-carved capitals of the Norman style.
We have now but to steer a straight course for awhile, as the Watling Street fares forward between its trim, green hedgerows. But anon we go astray once more in order to get a nearer look at Halford church, which peeps invitingly out from a leafy nook on the opposite bank of the Onny. The little church, though considerably modernized, bears traces of no mean antiquity, and with an old flour-mill down in the vale below is reflected in the stream at our feet, affording as pretty a coup d'œil as anyone could wish to see.
So having 'bagged' a sketch of this pleasant scene we take it easy awhile, lying prone amidst the clover-scented grass and the buttercups under the shade of an old pollard willow, and watching the troutlets as they rise at the silly gnats, and the swallows flashing by in the sunlight. Then, giving Craven Arms village the go-by for the present, we tramp the dusty half-mile of highroad that leads to Stokesay Castle.
Presently the old grey-green walls and mossy roofs of castle and church come into view beyond a clump of trees upon our right, arousing great expectations of matters antiquarian; for, as Dr. Jessop truly remarks, 'when a man is bitten with a taste for old castles and earthworks, it is all over with him.'
Half fortalice, half manor-house, Stokesay Castle rears its ancient turrets in the midst of a green, sylvan vale, the luxuriantly wooded heights that rise on either hand giving a sense of restful seclusion; while one or two farmsteads, nestling beneath the old ivy-mantled walls, lend a home-like air to this pleasant, rural scene.
Making our way around to its south-western side, we obtain what is, perhaps, the best general view of the castle; its hoary towers and gables appearing from this point mirrored in the placid surface of a large pool, which in olden times supplied water to the moat.
The venerable structure that now rises so picturesquely before us is regarded by antiquaries as an almost unique example of a thirteenth-century mansion which has been fortified at some period subsequent to the erection of the domestic portion of the buildings, thus reversing the usual order of things.
Hence the tall crenellated tower that figures conspicuously in our sketch is not, as would at first sight appear, the oldest part of the castle, but was built at a later period in order to protect John de Verdon's already existing mansion, whose mossy gables and tall mullioned windows are seen farther away to the left. The curious-looking bastion beyond, with its quaint, overhanging upper story, is a remarkable feature of the edifice; its lower portion, pierced with loops for archery, being probably older than any other part of the castle, though the half-timbered gable above is a comparatively modern addition.
In the background rises the low grey tower of the parish church, an interesting old edifice untouched as yet by restoration, whereof we shall see more anon.
We now proceed to the Gatehouse, a beautiful structure of timber and plaster dating from Tudor times. Grey, worn, and weather-stained as they are, its solid old oaken timbers bid fair to outlast many a long year yet; while the huge angle corbels and the spandrils above the gateway are boldly carved with the quaint, humorous conceits of the mediæval craftsman. The story goes that in the last century this Gatehouse used to be frequented by a fugitive, outlawed in the days when forgery was a capital crime, who hid snugly away in some secret closet of the interior until the hue-and-cry was well on its way elsewhere.
Let us now make our way within. A substantial oak door, nail-studded, and loopholed for the use of muskets, admits us into the courtyard; beyond whose level greensward rise the picturesque gables of the ancient Banqueting Hall, its mullioned windows flanked by massive buttresses, and surmounted with a wavy old stone-slated roof beautified by lush green mosses and splashes of golden lichen.
Passing within, we find ourselves in a nobly proportioned hall, whose open-timbered roof is supported by sturdy oaken beams springing from stone corbels of elegant design. Upon either side rise lofty traceried windows; and in the floor we see the stone slab which supported the brazier, whose smoke has blackened the rafters overhead.
At one end of the hall a rude sort of staircase, composed of solid oak steps, gives access to other rooms in the northern wing of the castle; and in the opposite wall is a shouldered doorway, leading to storerooms and nondescript cellars. High up in this wall are seen two tiny, shuttered lights, which give upon the Banqueting Hall from an upper chamber.
To this apartment, known as the Solar, we now make our way; climbing thither by a flight of stone steps out in the open courtyard. With its magnificent carved oak mantelpiece and handsome wainscoting, the Solar must have been far and away the most sumptuous chamber in the castle, and was probably used as a kind of parlour, or withdrawing-room, for ladies, and guests of the better sort. This view is strengthened by the presence of the two 'peep-hole' windows before mentioned, whence the occupants of the Solar could, themselves unobserved, keep an eye upon the festive scenes that went forward in the Banqueting Hall below.
The mantelpiece above mentioned is quite a marvel of elaborate ornamentation, of that rich, florid style, in vogue towards the close of the seventeenth century. The base of the structure, surmounting a plain stone fireplace, is effectively carved with bold, conventional foliage, and a pear pattern in the spandrils; while the upper portion is divided pilaster-wise, by grotesque figures, into panels enriched with masks surrounded by intricate strapwork. A sketch of one of these panels may be seen by turning to p. 59, where it forms a tailplate to the chapter.
Both wainscoting and chimney-piece retain remnants of colour and gilding; and the chamber is lighted by traceried windows bearing a general resemblance to those of the adjoining hall.
Old records tell of historical portraits at 'Stoke,' as it was then called; and we can well imagine they adorned the walls of this very apartment. Here was 'ye Picture of Charles ye Fyrst'; there, 'ye Picture of Charles ye Seconde'; and yonder, 'Theodoric Vernon, alias Vernon with ye redde Hand, alias the Proud Vernon, with a gold Chaine about hys neck with a Medall at the bottom.' What with its panelled dadoes, handsome chimney-piece, old portraits looking down from the walls, and armorial quarterings in its stained-glass windows, the Solar must have afforded a seductive retreat from the amenities of those rough times.
A climb to the summit of the great tower is rewarded by a capital coup d'œil of the castle and its pleasant environs; so now, before taking leave of this interesting spot, let us travel back for a moment into the domain of history.
In the Conqueror's time 'Stoke' was held by the famous Roger de Montgomery, passing subsequently to the de Lacys, until it was bestowed by Walter of that ilk on the family of Say, whose ancestors had fought by Duke William's side at the Battle of Hastings. Having reverted to the de Lacys, the last of that line bestowed the castle upon his son-in-law, John de Verdon, who about 1240 a.d. erected the present Banqueting Hall.
Half-a-century later, we find a certain Lawrence de Ludlow obtaining permission to 'crenellate his Castle at Stoke-Say,' at which time the courtyard wall, and possibly the southern tower, may have been erected. John Leland, passing this way on his 'Laborieuse Searche for England's Antiquities,' tells us, with scant regard for topographical accuracy, that 'Mr. Vernon hath a place not farre from Oney, aboot iiij miles out of Ludlo, in the waye betwixt Ludlo and Bishop Castle. Stoke-Say belongeth sometime to the Ludlo's, now the Vernons, builded like a Castell.' These were the Vernons of Haddon Hall fame, from whom Stokesay passed by purchase to the Earls of Craven.
During the Civil Wars the castle was held by Sir Samuel Baldwyn, of Elsich, and was garrisoned for King Charles; but after a short investment fell into the hands of the Parliamentarians, who defeated and routed a troop of Royalists, 200 strong, close to a place called Whettleton, in the meadows below Norton Camp, on the eastern side of the vale. Thereafter the castle was 'slighted,' or rendered incapable of defence.
Stokesay Castle is now the property of H. J. Allcroft, Esq., by whom the old place has been put into a reasonable state of repair, and its ancient features carefully preserved. Those who care to know more about this interesting fortified Manor-house, may obtain at the Gatehouse an excellent little guidebook to Stokesay Castle by the Rev. J. D. la Touche, the late vicar of Stokesay.
Stokesay Church, though originally Norman, was in large measure rebuilt in the seventeenth century, as recorded upon the keystone of the tower arch, 'Ano. Dom. 1654, this church was rebuilt by the pious oversight of George Powell, Gent., and George Lambe, Churchwarden. This Arch was given by John Cheshire, Joyner.' A tie-beam of the chancel roof bears a date of ten years later.
Since those times the sacred edifice has remained practically untouched, and consequently presents an appearance of rural simplicity, very grateful to look upon in these 'restoration' days. The oak pulpit, with its curious sounding-board above, and the beautiful double canopied pew in the chancel, are excellent examples of Jacobean carpentry; while some of the old high-backed pews retain their original wrought-iron hinges, and touches of carved work here and there.
Recent researches have revealed, beneath the whitewash of the 'churchwarden' era, certain scriptural texts upon the walls, whose quaint, appropriate sentiment will not be lost upon the beholder. Alongside the pulpit, for example, runs the legend, 'As new born Babes desire ye Sincere milk of ye Word, that ye may grow thereby.' There, too, is the Credence, with the name 'Ponce Pilate,' after the olden fashion.
A primitive west gallery partially obscures the well-proportioned Early English arch opening into the tower, which latter is broad, low and massive, and part of the original church. Outside are some very fair seventeenth-century table tombs, one of them having its fluted pillars scooped away in an unaccountable manner.
Before retracing our steps towards Craven Arms, we strike up into the woods above Whettleton, in order to visit Norton Camp, an early British earthwork altered and adapted, as is supposed, by the Romans, which commands both the ancient Watling Street, and the Castle road going into Corve Dale. Its mounds are large and lofty, especially upon the western side, where the hill falls steeply to the plain, and we obtain glimpses through the twinkling foliage of far-away heights, extending fold upon fold to the horizon. Yonder rise the wild hills of Wales, their purple crests shewing clear and sharp against the glowing sunset sky; while the full moon climbs above the sombre woodlands of Corve Dale, and beams adieu to the departing lord of day.
Then we plunge down through the twilight woods, and, traversing an ancient suburb paradoxically called Newton, with its fine old half-timbered mansion house, once the vicarage of Stokesay, come soon to Craven Arms, where we take up our night's lodging in one of the comfortable hotels for which the place is noted.
ur general objective to-day is the broken, picturesque country lying around the quiet market towns of Bishop's Castle and Clun; an out-of-the-way, rural district, less frequented, perhaps, than any other portion of Shropshire.
The Bishop's Castle railway, commencing at Craven Arms, affords the readiest means of approach to the locality. Away to the south as we jaunt leisurely along we get a glimpse of Cheney Longville, a pretty secluded hamlet hidden away amidst copses and pasture fields, with never a highroad near it. Some slight remains of the old fortified manor-house of Cheney Longville still exist, incorporated with an antiquated farmhouse containing much fine carved oak furniture.
The Cheney family, whence the place derives its name, is a very ancient clan. Roger Cheney was Seneschal to Edward, Earl of Arundel, Sheriff of Shropshire in 1316. A second Roger held 'Cheney Longfield' in 1341; while yet another of the same name received license from the King, 1395 a.d., to embattle his house at Cheney Longville.
After a while we join company with the little river Onny, as it meanders through a picturesquely wooded vale, getting delightful glimpses of the Longmynd as we draw near to our destination, his lower flanks dotted with old stunty oaks and ancient hawthorns, while gorse and heather brighten the foreground.
Coining to Plowden station, we shoulder the knapsacks and bear away to the southward.
Crossing the Onny beside a rushing weir, we get a direction for Plowden Hall from an old fellow in charge of a timber-waggon. 'You'm better tek up the rack acrass yon bonky piece, and goo through the wicket,' says our friend, 'you'll be apt to find it a gainer road than the one as goes through the 'ood.' So we breast the upland meadows, and meanwhile our gaze wanders over a goodly prospect; hill and vale, chequered by tilth and pasture-land, lying map-like at our feet, while shafts of sunlight, touching here and there, relieve the contours of a broken, wrinkled country, or bring into momentary prominence some rustic homestead surrounded by barns and haystacks.
Plowden Hall lies perdu until we are close upon it, for the old mansion nestles in a nook of the hills amidst dark, umbrageous woodlands. Its broad, somewhat low entrance front is pleasantly quaint and simple, with nothing imposing about it, though the deep-browed portico and massive hall door beneath lend a touch of character. But a better view is obtained by passing to the back of the house, whence our sketch is taken.
From this point of view the ancient Manor-house rears its yellow weather-stained gables, slender chimneys and mossy roofs, against the rich dark foliage that clothes the rearward hill; while the close-cropped lawns, the trim yew hedges, and gay-coloured parterres of the oldfashioned garden in the foreground, form an appropriate setting for this beau-ideal of an old English homestead.
Within the mansion one finds a congeries of wainscoted and panelled chambers, whose walls are hung with ancient tapestry, and adorned by ancestral portraits of the Plowden family. Here is Edmund Plowden, the eminent lawyer, who was 'accounted the oracle of the law,' and with whose memory is associated the saying, 'The case is altered; no priest, no mass; no mass, no violation of the law'; a saying which in course of time passed into a common proverb. On the death of his father in 1557, Edmund Plowden succeeded to the estates, and began the building of the present Hall. He was treasurer of the Hon. Society of the Middle Temple, in whose church he lies buried; and might have been Lord Chancellor under Queen Elizabeth, had he chosen to renounce the ancient Faith of his fathers.
The hall, with its carved oak chimney-piece and quaint Dutch tiles, its panelled walls and oaken floors, has a sombre, dignified air about it. In one wing of the old house is the private chapel, dedicated to St. Francis of Assisi, with a portrait of the patron saint attributed to Michelangelo. Set into the wall of this chapel is a curious old brass, representing Humphrey Plowden and his seven daughters, which was brought hither years ago from Bishop's Castle church. In an adjacent corner a sliding panel gives access to a secret passage-way, by which in the Reformation days, the officiating priest might at a moment's notice effect his escape from the mansion. The whole place, indeed, is honeycombed from cellar to roof with hidie-holes, closets and secret passages, turning and twisting amidst hatchways and bulkheads, or terminating in breakneck ladders. One of these queer gangways is said to lead out to a lonely spot amidst the woods known as the Lady's Chair; and it goes without saying that the old house has earned the reputation of being haunted.
One would suppose the builders of Plowden Hall had had in their minds the Spaniards' proverb: 'The rat that has only one hole is easily caught.'
The Plowden family can trace, it is said, an unbroken lineage from Roger de Plowden, the Crusader, down to Edmund of that ilk, who died no longer ago than 1838, nearly 700 years. This Roger distinguished himself at the siege of Acre, in 1191; and, upon being taken prisoner by the enemy, made a vow that, if ever he returned in safety to his Shropshire home, he would build a chapel by way of thank-offering; and, as we shall see by-and-by at Lydbury North, the pious knight was as good as his word.
From Edmund Plowden the estate passed to his nephew William, whose son, W. F. Plowden, Esq., is the present owner of the property.
Farewell now to Plowden. Our onward way leads beneath a green avenue of oaks and beeches, whose branches, meeting overhead, cast a dappled shade athwart the lane, and afford a playground for squirrels, woodpeckers, and many another of Nature's children.
Turning our backs upon the low hill where Billing's Ring keeps ward over the ancient Portway, we skirt the shoulder of Oakeley Mynd, Walcot Park with its big red-brick mansion and hanging woods shewing right ahead, with a dark clump of trees cutting against the skyline. Yonder lie Bury Ditches, a fine old British camp whose lofty crest forms a conspicuous landmark for many a mile around.
Avoiding a lot of odd turnings we continue to hug the highroad, which, trending now in a due westerly direction, introduces us to a pleasant, open vale, with the tower of Lydbury church peeping out from a grove of trees in the middle of the village.
Lydbury North is an ancient place, claiming some consideration. In Norman days the episcopal manor of Lydbury formed an important appanage to the Bishopric of Hereford, and the martial prelates of that period had a great stronghold in the vicinity, which, though long since dismantled and demolished, has given its name to the neighbouring town of Bishop's Castle.
But Lydbury church, having remained virtually unaltered by restoration, is one of the most interesting edifices of its kind in all Shropshire. It has a nave and chancel, with north and south chapels, a timbered porch, and broad, massive tower at the western end.
The primitive old clock upon the tower vaguely points the time with a solitary hand, and the roofs of the church are still covered with their original stone slabs, greatly enhancing the picturesque appearance of the ancient building. The solid nail-studded porch door bears traces of bullet marks, and has a pair of fifteenth-century hinges.
The interior of the church wears an antiquated air, as of primæval repose, and appears to belong mainly to the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Many of the high-backed Jacobean pews are rudely adorned with carving, as is also the oaken pulpit; while one or two of the former still have the link and staple, used in the 'good old times' when the worshippers were accustomed to lock themselves up in their pews, a habit that affords a curious insight into the everyday manners of a bygone generation.
The font looks very primitive and ancient. A good fifteenth-century oak roodscreen divides nave from chancel, and above it appears the Decalogue, finely written in old English lettering of the date 1615. The block of masonry projecting from an adjacent wall was probably a 'penance stone.'
Above the altar are seen two small stone brackets supporting a pair of gilded wooden candlesticks, which, according to local tradition, Archbishop Laud caused to be put there, in place of certain images that had stood upon them before.
A stone tablet upon the north wall of the chancel is interesting in that it records the services of the Rev. J. Ambler, who, after being ousted from this living by the Covenanters, was reinstated at the Restoration.
North and south of the nave open out two chapels, or short transepts, called respectively the Plowden Chapel, and the Walcot Chapel. The Walcots of Walcot are a family of very ancient descent, who have held estates in this locality from time immemorial. After their day, the manor of Walcot passed to the ancestors of Lord Powis, and eventually came into the possession of no less a personage than Robert Clive, Baron Plassey, K.B., founder of the British dominion in India, who died at Walcot Hall in 1774. His name may be seen inscribed in some prayer-books still preserved in this chapel. Upon the wall above the family pew hangs the Walcot escutcheon, with three black pawns, or rooks, amidst its quarterings.
This is explained by the following note in a pedigree of the Walcot family, compiled in 1643, referring to a certain John Walcot who lived in the early part of the fifteenth century. 'This John Walcote, plainge at the Chese with King Henry the fift, Kinge of England, gave hym the check-matte with the Rouke; whereupon the Kinge chainged hys coate of armes, which was the crosse with flower-de-luces, and gave hym the Rouke for a remembrance thereof, by which he and hys posteritie hath continued to this daye.'
The Plowden chapel is separated from the nave by a plain oak screen. As already mentioned, this chapel was built by an ancestor of the Plowdens, after returning in safety from captivity in Asia Minor. It is lighted by several well-proportioned windows of early character, and contains a much dilapidated stone altar of pre-Reformation date, with two brackets up above it, probably intended for images.
In one corner stands a curious sort of grille, or iron railed structure, bearing traces of colour, and surmounted at one end by a gilded iron cross. It was customary, we understand, to place this railing around a newly made grave, to protect it from evil disposed persons.
The tower walls are enormously thick, as though intended to withstand attack. The fine old panelled oak nave roof is now hidden from below by an ugly whitewashed ceiling. The bell-frame up in the belfry is something of a curiosity, being rudely but effectively carved with dragon-like monsters having foliated tails.
We now make for the village inn, with appetites sharp-set for such rustic fare as the place may haply afford. Half-an-hour later finds us climbing the ascent of Oakeley Mynd, with a fresh westerly breeze humming through the tree-tops, and the cloud shadows chasing one another athwart the genial landscape.
Instead of going direct to Bishop's Castle, we steer a due northerly course towards a place named Lea. By so doing we not only avoid a spell of hard highroad, but get into the bargain a rare outlook across a hilly-and-daley country, with a wisp of blue smoke trailing away upon the breeze far off on the shoulder of Longmynd. From the top of the bank, a thousand feet above sea-level, we look across a pleasant vale, where the brown roofs of Bishop's Castle are seen nestling beneath tumbled hills, outliers of Clun Forest.
Then away we go down a rough footpath, or 'rack,' as they call it hereabouts; making a bee-line for our destination, and skirting the head of a deep wooded dingle known as Narrow Dale. Guided by the cheerful barking of dogs, we presently come in sight of a lonely farmstead; and, upon stepping round to the rear, descry a group of buildings all jumbled up together in the manner shewn over page.
'The remains we see,' writes Mr. W. Phillips in 'Shropshire Notes and Queries,' 'are probably the walls of the old square keep. They are built of the Wenlock limestone found in the neighbourhood, and are so well constructed that the lime is harder than the stone, so that, when an attempt was made some years ago to utilize the material, it was found to be less trouble to obtain fresh stones from the quarry. We owe it to this fact that these ruins remain to awaken our curiosity.'