Two or three dark yews and a curious wooden erection, apparently an old lich-gate, lend an air of rusticity to the churchyard. The beautiful old timbered porch shewn in our sketch is the most pleasing feature of the exterior: but the window tracery is worthy of notice, being of excellent though simple character, and original in treatment. The interior of the church has been a good deal renovated, but in one of the nave windows we notice a Virgin and Child in fourteenth-century glass, and a foliated cross cut upon the sill below.
Some later glass in the aisle windows is remarkable for its quaint anagrams and inscriptions, and upon an old slab near by may be seen the following queer effort at rhyme:
Ao 1602:
in . te . hoVVer . of . hIs . poVVer . one . DeaD .
by . ChrIst . Doe . rIse .
anD . VVee . VVhose . boanes . rot . VnDer . stones .
oVr . dVst . heeL . not . despIse .
Some of the original pews in the nave are of massive old moulded oak, with geometrical patterns incised on their ends of earlier character than is usually found in such cases.
Down past the church, from the westward hills, comes a lane that in any but the best of weather must be a mere mountain torrent, paved with the naked rock and overarched by ancient yews. Our way, however, lies through the fields, until, striking the Wenlock road, we diverge to the right, cross the river Corve by a footbridge, and threading our way through deep, sandy lanes, come presently to Tugford. This takes us past Broncroft Castle, a modernized, castellated residence, seated in a curiously out-of-the-way spot for such an imposing pile.
With the ivy wreathing tower and porch, and moss and lichens encrusting its old plastered walls, Tugford church looks thoroughly in keeping with its secluded sylvan situation. Low down outside the chancel walls are certain arched recesses of unknown origin. The small blocked doorway seen in our sketch has a semicircular tympanum, carved in low relief, of evident antiquity; and a Norman arch with excellent mouldings is found inside the ivied porch. Internally, two curious, grotesque little figures are perched aloft on either side of this door.
Across the west end, hiding a good pointed tower arch, extends the musicians' gallery, where, amidst dusty music scores and other disjecta membra, the old wormeaten band-stand may still be seen. From this same gallery might be heard, until comparatively lately, those mellifluous strains of flute, clarionet, melodion and all sorts of music, wherewith the 'rude forefathers of the hamlet' were wont to wake the slumbering echoes on a Sunday morning; indeed the present rector himself can still recall those 'piping' times.
The very parish bier at Tugford boasts a respectable antiquity, as witnesses the inscription 'Bartholomew Lutley, Anno Dom. 1617,' carved upon it.
From Tugford we climb by rambling footpaths to The Heath, a secluded, upland district, forming a sort of western buttress to the Brown Clee Hill.
Emerging from a tangle of plantations, we traverse a few rough pasture fields and soon come to the Heath Chapel, a small, ancient edifice, standing all alone in a green meadow, with sheep browsing leisurely around its grey stone walls. Simple and unobtrusive as it is, this lowly chapel is extremely interesting to the antiquary, from the fact that it has remained practically untouched since the Norman builders brought their work to completion, seven hundred years ago.
The fabric consists of nave and chancel, and has a fine south doorway enriched with nook-shafts and chevron mouldings; while the walls are strengthened by the flat buttresses characteristic of that early period, through two of which, curiously enough, the east and west windows have been pierced. A plain string-course runs inside and out around both nave and chancel.
Inside, the old oaken box pews, grey with age, remain in situ, their timeworn panels bearing touches of carved work and quaint iron hinges; the walls retain their coating of faded, mildewy plaster; and the whole wears an air of archaic simplicity, and immemorial repose. Upon the rough stone-flagged floor stands a plain, bowl-shaped font, evidently coeval with the building itself, while the beams of the open-timbered roof look almost equally primitive.
The chancel arch is quite unadorned, save for a little carving upon the capitals. The altar table and rails around, though plain, are not bad specimens of their kind, and inside the western gable is suspended the solitary bell.
As may be readily understood, the congregation here is at the best of times but a scanty one; indeed, it is said that in bygone days the parson, perceiving but 'two or three gathered together,' would sometimes adjourn the service to the snug fireside of a neighbourly farmer's kitchen! The wonder, indeed, is that a church should ever have been erected in such a sparsely-peopled, out-of-the-way locality.
Well, let us now bid farewell to the Heath Chapel, not omitting to notice the old Gothic hinges upon its oaken door, now alas! bereft of that famous key which, if tales be true, was so fearfully and wonderfully constructed that the clerk alone could prevail upon it to 'open sesame!'
The day proving fine and clear lures us onwards towards Brown Clee Hill, whose broad, bulky mass looms prominently, no great distance away to the eastward. In about a mile and 'a bittock,' after passing through a gate, we enter upon a wild, go-as-you-please sort of country, and clamber up the steep grassy vallum of Nordy Bank, a large Roman encampment in an unusually good state of preservation. The bank is very high and steep, with a ditch on its outer side, though much lower, as the custom was, upon its inner face.
Hence a fine, wild glen comes into view, running up into the heart of the hills, Titterstone rears his dark craggy crest away to the right, and the Wrekin peeps over the shoulder of Brown Clee Hill, towards which we now bend our steps.
Dropping to a sandy ford across a stream, we slant gradually away athwart the open furze-clad hillside, and then breast the rough, steep, rock-strewn bank, called Abdon Burf, which encircles the loftier of the twin summits of Brown Clee Hill.
Perched up here beside the cairn, 1,792 feet above sea level, we look down upon every other height in all broad Shropshire; indeed, to find a rival to Brown Clee Hill, we should have to travel across the Welsh border. So let us now turn our attention to the spacious landscape which lies outspread around; a prospect that embraces the greater part of west-central England, and a good cantle of wild Wales to boot.
Away towards the south-east rise the graceful peaks of the Malvern Hills, with the Cotswolds far beyond them. Then to the left are seen the Clent and Lickey heights, and the dingy pall of smoke overhanging the Black Country. Glancing athwart a number of inferior eminences, the eye is arrested by the great rounded dome of the Wrekin, unmistakable in its lonely isolation. League upon league extends the broad plain called Yale Royal, stretching far away into Cheshire, and blurred with a filmy cloud indicating the whereabouts of Shrewsbury:
'Far set in fields and woods the town we see
Spring gallant from the shadows of her smoke.'
The Berwyns come next, a pale grey stripe silhouetted upon the skyline, followed by the sharp-peaked Breidden Hills, on the farthest confines of Shropshire. Quite near neighbours by comparison seem the Stretton heights, Caer Caradoc, and the spiny Stiperstones; while over those rolling uplands we can faintly discern the topmost crests of Cader Idris, in Wales.
Corve Dale, a chequer-work of ruddy plough lands and varied greensward, lies like a map at our feet, with the rough holts of Wenlock Edge fringing its farther side. Radnor Forest and the Black Mountains extend athwart the south-west, with perhaps a peep of the Brecon Beacons, mere shadows of a shadow these, upon the remotest horizon.
Yonder away lies Ludlow, marked by its tall church tower; and, still following along the skyline, we descry the abrupt form of the Skyrrid near Abergavenny. Finally our neighbour Titterstone Clee thrusts his rugged cone aloft; a fine, dark, basaltic crag, around whose crest the cloud shadows love to linger; fitting throne for the giant who, in days of old, haunted those lonely heights.
And overarching all this fair landscape spread the 'infinite shining heavens,' and the glorious architecture of the clouds; completing a picture worthy to be stored up in memory's garners for many a day to come.
From the carnedd we make a bee-line down through broad reaches of heather, gorse, and wine-red bilberry shoots, flushing now and then a hawk or a curlew as we tramp along. Hugging the course of a lusty stream, we soon find ourselves once more at Tugford; whence by lanes and field paths we work our way back to Munslow, crossing the Corve at Beam Bridge, where the blacksmith plies his trade in a curious, nondescript structure, half smothered in ivy, built, it is said, as a memorial to some member of the More family who was slain upon foreign soil long, long ago.
In a retired nook of the hills, about a mile and a half, as the crow flies, from Munslow, lies the old farmhouse of Upper Millichope.
The house is considered by connoisseurs to have been built in the twelfth century, and thus may claim to be the most ancient abode in Shropshire; in point of age, indeed, it probably has few rivals throughout the whole of England.
The oldest, or western, wing of the building, is massively constructed of the grey limestone of the district, its walls being in places at least 6 feet thick, while the steep roof is covered with old moss-clad stone-slates. The original entrance was through the semicircular-headed doorway seen in our sketch, the arch whereof is enriched with hallflower ornament, as is that of a small round window of similar character alongside. The other windows in the lower story are very narrow, mere ceilets, or loops such as were used for archery, but are widely splayed within.
Access to the upper regions was obtained by a stone staircase built in the thickness of the wall. This staircase, though now partially destroyed, bears traces of having been protected by no less than three doors between the basement and the room above.
Owing to the reduced thickness of the west wall, the chamber on the first floor is larger than the room below. It is lighted by a pair of double windows in the northern and eastern sides, each window having an attached pillar with moulded cap and base, a projecting socket for inserting a beam across the window, and a stone seat, or bench, in the wall upon either side.
This first-floor room was probably the living-room, or Solar, of the establishment. A small adjacent chamber is supposed to have been used as a chapel, or oratory. In the roof are one or two rickety, dust-laden garrets, long since deserted and given over to mice, spiders, and such-like small deer.
Huge oaken beams support the floor of the Solar, and the internal walls are constructed of wattle-and-dab, now much fallen to decay.
By a 'perambulation,' ratified in 1301, Edward I. declared Upper and Little Millichope disafforested, in common with other places in the same neighbourhood. In those days all this part of the country was a vast tract of woodland, known as the Long Forest; and Millichope was doubtless at that time the manor house, or hunting lodge, of the King's Wood-ward, or Forest-ranger.
Even now the scenery about Wenlock Edge is wild and romantic; but in early times its thickly timbered dales afforded harbourage to robbers and outlaws, who, issuing from the tangled thickets, preyed upon passing travellers as they wandered through its devious, unfrequented trackways. Nor was it until the reign of Henry I. that a good road was made along the Edge, in place of the 'hollow way full of great, sharpe stones, and so narrow as scarcely to admit of two horsemen abreast,' which had formerly existed.
But to resume. From Millichope we may extend our ramble to Rushbury, a pretty village situated in Ape Dale, under the western slope of Wenlock Edge.
Though nowadays so insignificant a place, Rushbury has some claim to be of ancient origin, for it appears probable that the station named Bravinium, on the Roman road from Magna to Wroxeter, stood here, or hereabouts; and it is worthy of note that a hill above the village is to this day called Roman's Banks.
Rushbury church, too, bears traces of high antiquity, some 'herring-bone' work being visible upon the outer walls; while a noble hammer-beam roof, very massively constructed and black with age, lends distinction to the interior, and there are some good oak choir stalls and bench ends, with 'poppy-head' terminations.
Retracing our steps to Corve Dale, we travel on by meadow paths in the direction of Holgate village, whose grey church tower, surrounded by trees, is seen upon a distant hill-top, a landmark to every wayfarer who journeys along the Dale. Wild saffron appears to be the bane of the pasture fields in this locality; but for us they are decked in the purple and gold of orchids and burnished king-cups, affording a charming scheme of colour.
Holgate church is small, and has recently undergone a 'thorough restoration.' It boasts, however, a grand Norman south doorway, enriched by a triple series of arches displaying the boldly carved sculpture peculiar to that period. The font is evidently very ancient, the interlaced ornamentation around the bowl having a Celtic look, while the corners of the base are ornamented with rudely sculptured monsters.
A grove of trees near the eastern end of the churchyard hides a lofty, moated mound; and just beyond that, incorporated with some farm buildings, is a large, circular stone tower, built of good ashlar masonry, and pierced with narrow loopholes of the regulation mediæval type.
This is the only surviving fragment of Holgate castle, founded by Helgot the Norman in William the Conqueror's time. King Henry I., in 1109, honoured Herbert FitzHolgate with a visit; and six years later Richard de Belesme, Lord of Bridgnorth, held his court within these walls. Robert de la Mere, a subsequent owner, died while returning from the Wars of the Crusades.
In the year 1222, one Thomas Mauduit obtained license for a weekly market at Holgate; while the Baron of those days had his own court and private gallows here!
About the middle of the thirteenth century Holgate was alienated to Richard Plantagenet, styled the 'King of the Romans,' by whom it was conveyed to the Knights Templars. Not long afterwards the castle and demesne passed into the possession of Robert Burnell, Bishop of Bath and Wells, and sometime Chancellor of England.
In Leland's 'Itinerary' we read that 'Holgate castle standeth under Cle Hilles, hard by Corve Dale, a 6 miles from Ludlowe'; a sufficiently vague computation, about on a par with others that passed muster in those easy-going times. Holgate castle appears to have fallen into disrepair at an early date, being found utterly dilapidated in 1645.
We now press on to Shipton, not failing to notice the fine Early English hinges upon its south door, as we rest in the porch at Stanton Long church. Approaching Shipton village, the old Hall of the Myttons comes in sight backed by green, wooded heights, making a delightful picture.
As was frequently the case at that period, Shipton Hall follows the plan of the letter E, and is a very dignified example of the builder's art as practised in Good Queen Bess's reign. Between the broad, gabled wings rises a slender stone tower; mullioned windows give back the glitter of the noonday sun, and tall, curiously twisted brick chimneys soar above the roof-tree.
A quaint, oldfashioned garden forms a suitable setting to the mansion, whose silver-grey stone walls and ivied gables rise with charming effect above the flowering plants and creepers that adorn the balustrades in front. Close at hand is an old stone pigeon-cot, covered with a conical roof of thick, mossy stone tiles.
This lordly dwelling was for many generations the ancestral home of the Myttons; having been devised by John Lutwyche to his cousin, Edward Mytton, of Worcester, in the year 1549, previous to which the Manor of Shipton had appertained to Wenlock Priory. The place does not appear to have figured much in local history, but was a veritable treasure-house of heirlooms and antiquities. Times have changed, however, and the tap of the auctioneer's hammer has dispersed these household gods to the four winds.
As befits an abode of 'the quality,' Shipton Hall stands a little apart from the village, with the diminutive parish church nestling under its lee. Thitherward, then, let us now direct our steps.
Shipton church is a building of various dates, and so far has remained untouched by restoration. At its western end rises a weather-boarded bell-turret, while a coating of roughcast of a bright salmon-red tint lends an air of cheerful distinction to the exterior.
A plain Norman chancel arch, having a small arched aperture on each side, gives access to the chancel itself, built, as is recorded in Old English characters on a brass plate let into the wall, in the time of Queen Elizabeth: this . chauncell . was . reedified . and . builded . of . newe . at . the . chardges . of . iohn . lutwich . of . lutwiche . in . the . xxxj . yeare . of . the . gracious . reigne . of . queene . elizabeth . 1589. The name of Mytton figures upon most of the monumental tablets on these walls. Some scraps of old painted glass may still be discovered in the window above the altar.
A by-lane, running up beside Shipton Hall, brings us in about a mile to Wilderhope, a great, stone-built manor-house of the Tudor period, standing in a secluded spot amidst the woods and pastures of Hope Dale.
Here in days of yore lived a family of the name of Smallman, a race that flourished in this locality during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, Major Thomas of that ilk being the hero in a certain episode in connection with a spot called the 'Major's Leap,' whereof more anon.
A spacious stone porch gives access to a large room now used as the farm kitchen, whose ceiling retains some elaborate plaster enrichments, the Tudor rose, portcullis, fleur-de-lys, etc., the letters i . e . s . u on a heart, and certain half-obliterated words, mal . mea . dea . est, thus they appear to run. Repeated here and there are seen the initials of Francis and Ellen Smallman, who about the year 1601 erected the existing mansion; and a small wainscoted chamber has t . s . 1, 1672, cut above its fireplace.
We now hark back to Shipton: noticing a curious sort of grotto, or cavity in the limestone rock, as we pass through the village. Then Corfield is left behind, a place that gives its name to an old Shropshire family; and we get a peep at Larden Hall, an ancient seat of the Mores, pleasantly situated in a well-timbered park under Wenlock Edge.
At Brocton the Feathers Inn affords opportune rest and refreshment; so, after a spell of dolce far niente, we presently strike across country to Great Oxenbold, where in bygone times the Priors of Wenlock had a grange, or residence.
All that remains of the old place is now incorporated with a farmhouse; but the lancet windows of the chapel and the corbel-table above can be detected outside, while a piscina and aumbry, and the brackets that supported the chapel roof, are visible within; besides traces of a circular stone stairway leading down to the cellars, whose ceiling is ribbed with sturdy oaken beams. Evidences, too, are not wanting that a moat formerly surrounded the whole.
Beneath overarching groves and moss-clad rocks lies our way from Brocton to Easthope; ferns and wildflowers decking the laneside, and rustic children lingering to gather posies, only to throw them aside, as children will, when some new fancy takes them.
Before entering the village, Easthope church is seen, standing in a quiet nook a little aside from the roadway; a small, plain, roughcast structure, of thirteenth century date. From its southern side projects an old stone porch, and a timber bell-cot rises atop of the western gable, all very rustic and simple, and quite innocent as yet of restoration. Upon the porch door still hangs the 'sanctuary' ring; and the interior of the church (which is dedicated to St. Peter) has a very reposeful, old-world air about it, as though time stood still, year in, year out, within these hallowed walls.
The stiff, high-backed pews have a little carved work upon them, with the following inscription: Edward . Ball . of . London . gave . this . pulpit . & . pewes . to . this . parishe . wheare . he . was . borne . iune . 28 . anno . domini . 1623.
Yonder is the old carved oak pulpit; and upon it hangs the ancient hour-glass, a relic of bygone days. As shewn in our sketch, the hour-glass is enclosed in a sort of cage, or basket, of wrought and twisted iron, from which projects a banner-like sheet of metal ornamented with nicely fashioned fleurs-de-lys, a heart, and the letters s, s, and surmounted by the figures 1662, indicating the year it was made. Hour-glasses were much in vogue amongst the Covenanters; but although one sometimes meets with the cage, or holder, in country churches, it is rare to find the glass itself in situ as we see it here.
A plain, massive oak roodscreen spans the church, which, besides other antiquated features, has a 'leper' window with fifteenth-century hinge, a bowl-shaped font, and two good Queen Anne chairs in the chancel.
A short mile out of the village stands Lutwyche Hall, the beautiful seat of the Bensons, charmingly situated in an umbrageous nook of the Edge, and surrounded by terraced gardens set about with noble forest trees. Though considerably modernized, the mansion is of ancient origin, as is attested by the date 1587 inscribed upon its front; and there is a rare old plaster ceiling in the entrance hall.
The early British camp on a neighbouring hill was probably an outwork, linking up Caer Caradoc with Nordy Bank.
Setting our faces toward Wenlock, we now follow a high-lying ridgeway road commanding fine views in the direction of the west. Anon we strike into one of the numerous footpaths that zigzag down through the woods, and make for a sort of cave, or rather cranny, high up in the limestone rocks of the Edge, amidst tumbled boulders and brushwood.
This is Ippikin's Rock, the haunt of a robber knight of that ilk, whose deeds were famous in days of yore throughout all this countryside. Here, as the story goes, Ippikin was wont to foregather with his merry men all; issuing forth and levying blackmail on passing travellers, and hiding the stolen treasure in these rocky fastnesses, where the print of the knight's gold chain, it is said, may still be seen. Strange lights, twinkling like Will-o'-the-wisps at dead of night, struck terror into the hearts of the country folk as they gazed in fear and trembling from the rustic homestall, while Ippikin and his crew held high revelry in their unapproachable eyrie.
Eventually Ippikin himself was slain, and his band dispersed, so that they troubled the King's peace no more. But if tales be true his ghost still 'revisits the glimpses of the moon,' and may be summoned from the vasty deep by anyone who cares to stand atop of the cliff at midnight, and cry three times:
'Ippikin! Ippikin!
Keep away with your long chin!'
Footing it merrily along the white ridgeway road, we traverse the watershed of the infant Corve, which babbles away hence towards a place called Bourton. A large old manor-house with a square stone columbarium is the most noticeable object at Bourton; unless, indeed, we except the parish church, a nondescript edifice encompassed by yew trees, overlooking the village upon the north.
Presthope with its limestone quarries is left behind; and then, turning aside near a solitary toll-house, we soon come to a flat-topped rock on the crest of the Edge, known as the 'Major's Leap.' Tradition tells that, in the days of the Civil Wars, Major Smallman of Wilderhope was endeavouring to escape from a troop of Roundheads, when, finding himself hard pressed as he rode along Wenlock Edge, he took a desperate leap from the top of this rock down into the woods below. As luck would have it, a crab-tree broke his fall, though his horse was killed on the spot; and, under cover of the rocks and brushwood that abound hereabouts, the Major made good his escape to his own home at Wilderhope.
Thenceforward, save the goodly outlook upon our left, there is little worthy of note until we draw near to Much Wenlock; and we seek in vain for a certain country inn which greeted the wayfarer in this wise:
'Now Robin Hood is dead and Gone,
Step in and drink with Little John.'
Descending from the uplands, our footsteps echo through the quiet streets of Much Wenlock as we trudge on to our journey's end, while the arrowy swifts are screaming around St. Milburga's tall church-steeple, and the waning daylight flickers slowly away beyond the hills on the western horizon.
eated in a basin-shaped valley, the town of Much Wenlock lies high on the hills, a statement which smacks somewhat of paradox, though the explanation is not far to seek. The fact of the matter is, the place occupies one of those upland vales, locally termed Hopes, so frequently found in this part of Shropshire.
Much Wenlock is a town of very ancient origin, its earliest history centring around the venerable Priory founded by St. Milburga, daughter of Merewald, King of Mercia, towards the close of the seventh century.
Its municipal history, too, dates far away back into the past. Before Henry the Third's time Wenlock already held its weekly market, and in 1468 Edward IV. granted the first charter of incorporation, so that Much Wenlock can justly claim to be one of the most ancient boroughs in the realm. And there is a story, though we know not if it be true, that the very first member who ever entered Parliament was the Member for the Borough of Much Wenlock!
So let us now take a look at the old town, in the centre whereof rises the ancient Guildhall, 'buildid,' as an old record has it, 'over ye Prisonne.' Supported upon massive oak pillars, the upper story consists of timber and plaster, with gables and mullioned windows projecting at intervals, and a deep tiled roof over all. Upon one of these oak pillars you may still see the iron staples of the whipping-post, and under the arches hard by stand the old parish stocks.
Upstairs we find the Court of Assize; the Bench surmounted by the Royal Arms, tempore 1589, and the Sword of Justice. Adjacent is the Council Chamber, a sombre apartment panelled with dark old oak, whose open-timbered roof bears the appropriate legend, judicium . verum . judicate : et misericordiam facite.
Close at hand rises the parish church, dedicated to St. Milburga, a spacious edifice whose western tower is surmounted by a tall spire, a rather unusual feature in this locality. A fine Norman west doorway, masked by the tower built against it, is only one amongst several good features to be seen here. In the old parish register we find the following interesting record: 'Note that upon the 26 daye of June was service celebrated first in the Englysh tonge, anno primo Elizabethæ, 1559.'
Upon leaving the church we round a corner beside a queer old timbered cottage, and, passing the site of the Bull Ring, come full in view of the tall grey gables of St. Milburga's ruined Priory; while a grim old stone watch tower, now off duty, is seen rising amidst a children's playground.
Wenlock Priory arose from very modest beginnings. Originally a nunnery stood here, presided over by the gracious Saint Milburga, Wenlock's good genius.
Three centuries later—just about a thousand years ago—the Danes overran all this part of Britain, which probably accounts for an ominous blank in the local records about that time.
Earl Leofric, husband of the famous Lady Godiva, rebuilt the ruined church in the days of Edward the Confessor; but the place fell once more to decay, until, as William of Malmesbury relates, Roger de Montgomery took the matter in hand, and, about the year 1071, erected the nucleus of the present edifice.
Of Earl Roger's handiwork, except perhaps the ruined Chapter-house, scarce one stone remains upon another; the slender pillars and pointed arches of the main fabric dating from about the beginning of Henry the Third's reign. The west front is much in ruins, but such features as remain, indicate that it was built during the Early English period.
Entering by the dilapidated west doorway, we see around us, springing from the clover-scented grass, tall fragments of grey stone walls, blotched with weatherstains, and tufted with ivy, gillyflowers and creepers; while flocks of pigeons flit from point to point, or nestle in the crannies of the masonry. These massive, lofty fragments convey, by their very isolation, a striking impression of the size of the minster, which must have been of cathedral-like proportions, and unsurpassed in the beauty and richness of its architecture.
Indeed, the more closely we examine these beautiful and enduring structures, the greater grows our admiration for the cunning craftsmanship of those old monkish builders:
'Firm was their faith, the ancient bands,
The wise of heart in wood and stone.
Who reared with stern and trusty hands
These dark grey towers of days unknown.
They filled these aisles with many a thought,
They bade each nook some truth reveal:
The pillared arch its legend brought,
A doctrine came with roof and wall.'
Passing through a corner of the south aisle, now the only portion of the church not open to the sky, we enter upon a beautiful sunny courtyard, around whose velvety turf arise the grey, crumbling relics of the Priory buildings.
Yonder upon the greensward appears the Lavabo, or washing-place of the monks; a circular stone structure, richly carved with subjects from Scriptural history. Beyond it rises the Refectory, an important element in a community which entertained on so lavish a scale; and farther to the left is seen the picturesque group of buildings that figure in the adjoining sketch.
That long, low edifice, with its quaint, trefoil-headed windows, deep roof and half-timbered turret, is the Prior's Lodging of bygone days; most interesting in that its internal economy remains much as in mediæval times, though cleverly adapted to the needs of the nineteenth century.
Through those round Norman arches, with their characteristic ornamentation and damaged effigy of St. Peter, we get a glimpse of the ancient Chapter House, roofless now, it is true, but otherwise in tolerable preservation. The walls of this fine apartment are broken up into arcades of interlacing tracery, each tier of semicircular arches being superposed upon the one below, giving all the effect of an arcade of pointed arches. The work on the southern wall is profusely enriched with carving, that on the opposite side being plainer, as though it had never been completed.
There is much else to be seen, for, wander where one will about the tranquil enclave, some new beauty is ever revealing itself to the discerning eye; while the sweet, reposeful landscape enfolds the old ruins with its mantle of midsummer verdure. One pictures to one's self this rich and sumptuous monastery in the zenith of its fame and influence, the great Priory church with its crypt and chapter-house, its library, scriptorium, and picturesque Prior's Lodging. One seems to see the sober-liveried brethren plying their peaceful toil in cloister, garden and field, or attending to the crowd of strangers that daily throngs their gates; for whose benefit refectory and kitchen, vivaries, columbarium and well-stocked cellars, yield each and all their tale of good cheer to make glad the heart of man. Then, as nightfall draws on, the long dormitories fill up with way-worn travellers and pilgrims; while those in need of the leech's skill make their way to the hospital hard by.
There are several good timbered houses dotted about the town, notably the one seen upon the left in the annexed view. This formed part of Ashfield Hall, an old abode of the Lawleys, which gave shelter to King Charles after the Battle of Worcester. The house afterwards became the Blue Bridge Inn, and has finally degenerated to a common lodging-house.
In the High Street we notice an old chequered front, relieved by an open balcony, and inscribed: Iohn . and . Mary . Raynalds . 1682. A still older tenement in Shineton Street is said to have been the original gaol-house of Wenlock; though its ancient Gothic doorway and traceried window have anything but a dungeon-like appearance.
Some pleasant spots lie within a measurable distance of Wenlock. Quitting the town by the Broseley road, we glance up at the admirable little wrought-iron sign of the Raven Inn, as we proceed to Barrow. Our way lies past an ancient stone grange, now used as a stable and store-house; and a cottage farther on offers refreshment to the thirsty traveller in the form of 'lemon aid and jingre bier!'
Then Barrow comes in view atop of a gentle rise, its old church tower peering over the straw ricks of a barton; while far away beyond the dark rolling woodlands of Willey Park spreads a rich, champaign country, bounded by pale Midland hills.
Despite its small size, Barrow church proves interesting, having considerable remains of Saxon work both in the chancel and under the tower. This tower is a queer, bulky structure, rising in four diminishing stages, hoary and weedgrown, at the west end of the church; and a rather curious south porch and sundial keep it in countenance.
Out in the churchyard, beneath a flat stone slab, rests all that was mortal of Tom Moody, the famous Whipper-in, who, when his hunting days were ended, was 'run to earth' at this spot in the year of grace 1796. A century ago, Tom Moody's was a name to conjure with in all this countryside; and tradition tells how his sporting comrades, determined to be 'in at the death,' gathered at the graveside to give their old friend a parting 'view-halloo!'
Past a group of seventeenth-century Almshouses we travel on to Broseley, home of the Broseley Clays, beloved of fireside smokers. The town, with its mean brick dwellings, has a decayed look about it; but in one of the streets, outside a public-house, we chance upon a rare example of local wrought-iron work, which is illustrated above.
'Fight to the left at the cross-roads, and then you canna miss the way,' remarks a passer-by of whom we now enquire the route to Benthall. Dumpy, pot-bellied pottery kilns, bowered in flowering hawthorn, rise by the roadside, where the brilliant blue Borage is abloom in untended corners.
A fine avenue of forest trees leads us to Benthall Hall, a stately freestone mansion of the sixteenth century, its mullioned windows and projecting porch making a goodly show in the landscape. Close at hand, its only neighbour, appears the parish church, a curious little whitewashed edifice, destroyed and rebuilt at the time of the Great Rebellion, when Benthall was held for the King. Its internal economy is a survival of the churchwarden period, down to the stiff, penitential box-pews, and the faded red curtains in the southward windows.
In olden times an extensive tract of woodland, called the Royal Hay, or Forest, of Shirlot, covered the rough broken country lying to the south of Broseley.
About the centre of this district lies Willey Park, the ancient demesne of the Foresters; an estate which has never, it is said, been bartered for filthy lucre since first it was granted by Henry II. to the Keeper of the Royal Forest.
The Foresters of bygone days seem to have been a free, open-handed race, and keen sportsmen to boot. Tom Moody himself made his name famous amongst the fox-hunting squires and parsons, who rode to hounds in the train of my Lord Forester.
Willey Hall, a solid, substantial stone edifice, stands atop of a gentle rise, overlooking a chain of lake-like pools embosomed amidst shadowy woodlands. Half a mile east, in a nook of the park, lies Willey church: near to which we notice a natural curiosity, an oak and an ash tree enjoying life on the co-operative principle by sharing a single stem between them.
Thenceforward our way lies through a reach of old forest land, full of gnarled timber trees and carpeted with ferns—remains of Shirlot Forest. In the heart of these woodlands we come upon a tall, ruinous stone obelisk, known as the Shirlot Monument; whence, after traversing the gorse-clad uplands of Shirlot Common, we return in due course to Much Wenlock.
Road and rail keep fast company through Farley Dingle, the deep, picturesque defile, by which one descends from Much Wenlock to the vale of Severn. A brawling stream, as it winds adown the dingle, has been ponded in and set to drive some rustic mills upon its banks.
About half-way down we come to a place called Lawley's, i.e. Lawless, Cross; recalling the wild times when outlaws took advantage of the fact that this spot, being on the debatable line between the franchises of Wenlock and Buildwas, formed a sort of No-man's-land, where the arm of the law scarce reached.
Emerging from the hanging woods of Farley Dingle, a broad, fertile valley opens out before us, with the Severn rolling along through rich pasture meads, and the ivy-clad ruins of Buildwas Abbey seated beside its banks. So first for a bit of derivation. 'Build' suggests bieldy, or bield, the Scottish equivalent for sheltered, comfortable; and 'was' is a termination associated with a low, waterside situation, as for example Sugwas, near the river Wye, in Herefordshire.
After the manner of their cloth, those old Cistercian monks, who erected Buildwas Abbey, seem to have had an eye to the picturesque in locating their noble foundation. Rising amidst green, folding meadows, on the right bank of the Severn, the ruined Abbey forms the central feature in a beautiful, tranquil scene; and, set amidst rich, dark foliage, with the river rolling by, and cattle standing knee-deep in the shallows, has exercised the brush of many a landscape artist.
Founded by Roger de Clinton, Bishop of Chester, early in King Stephen's reign, Buildwas Abbey is built in a plain, severe style, offering a striking contrast to its more elegant rival at Much Wenlock. It was the home of a wealthy community, owning, it is said, no fewer than nine granges in Shropshire alone. A beautiful cope, worked by the hands of Fair Rosamund, the Lady of Clifford Castle, was amongst the most valued chattels appertaining to Buildwas Abbey.
The arrangement of the several buildings is simple enough. East and west extends the great monastic church, fairly intact still, though minus its roof; a cruciform edifice with substantial circular pillars, slightly pointed Transitional arches, and round-headed clerestory windows; while a massive tower of Norman date rises above the crossing. The choir is probably older than the nave, though the triple sedilia, with its pretty dog-tooth enrichment, is evidently not earlier than the thirteenth century.
Towards the north one can trace the cloister-garth, where the Chapter House, with its groined roof and slender, elegantly-proportioned pillars, may still be seen. Beyond this lay the Abbot's dwelling, now a private residence; with its chapel, ambulatory, and noble dining-hall spanned by an open-timbered ceiling. In the vale towards the west lay the vivaries, or fishponds, fed by a stream that runs down from the neighbouring hills.
At Buildwas Abbey, the monks of old kept alive the lamp of civilization in dark, mediæval days. 'Within these walls peace reigned; from their stately chambers ever arose the sound of prayer and praise; their gates were open to the pilgrim and the traveller; hospitality, and brotherly kindness, softened in many ways the harsh incidence of feudal custom.'
Looking down-stream, as we stand upon Buildwas Bridge, we get a glimpse of that dun, smoky district, which, like the black patch on a Court beauty's cheek, seems to heighten by contrast the charms of the fair landscape around.