  Preliminary Observations.—Preparations for a Tour.—Rail to Shrewsbury.—Battlefield Church.—Chirk.—The Castle.—Brynkinalt.—Viaducts and Aqueducts.—A Delightful Walk.—Llangollen.
Various, as the features of human nature, are the sources of human happiness. Some derive their choicest pleasure from historical accounts of men who lived in by-gone ages, and in re-creating events that have long since been engulphed in the abyss of time,—breaking down the barrier of intervening years, and mingling, in idea, with those who were once deemed the glorious of the earth, who now lie blended with its grossest atoms, or are confounded with the purer elements. Some, parching with the thirst of knowledge, seek to slake the fever of their minds with most
and among this class of beings the author of these pages may be ranked, although he willingly confesses nature has the power of charming him in her most minute as in her most stupendous works, from the curious and confined instinct of the ant and of the bee to the wonderful and exhaustless energies of the human mind,
The court, the city, and the country, present an endless variety of subjects for contemplation; and the latter being the region of delight to those whose business confines them to the metropolis for the winter months, the author of this volume is anxious to be thought a useful and amusing companion to such tourists who, in pursuit of health and the charms of nature, may wander
where the sublime and beautiful present themselves To a mind capable of estimating fine scenery, how delightful are the hurry and bustle which usually take place on the morning of departure, in fond expectation of realizing the anticipated pleasure of viewing those beauties of nature the imagination has but weakly painted! The sun is scarcely sooner up than the traveller; and, although, perhaps, it is yet three hours to the time of departure, his anxiety preponderates over the now slighted comforts of his bed of down, and with an agile leap he quits his restless pillow, and hastily despatching the business of his toilet, with his heart beating high, and his knapsack already stuffed with three shirts, as many pairs of stockings, guide books, and as few other necessaries as may be, in order to make his walking wardrobe as light as possible, he prepares to take the road. If a disciple of old Izaac Walton and Cotton, he will not fail to have his book of flies, lines, reels, &c., and a light fly-rod to carry in his hand, and for which he is sure to have use whenever he feels inclined for piscatory pastime on his tour. So stocked and provided, he bids defiance to the evils of life; and may exclaim with the poet
“The cab is at the door, Sir.” “Very good.” “Yes, Sir.” “Well, good-bye!” “Now, my man, drive to Euston-square Station.” “All right, Sir.” And away we went, What a scene of bustle and confusion a metropolitan railway station presents a few minutes before the starting of a train, and more especially in holiday time. Men, women, and children, in every direction, hurriedly traversing the crowded platform; luggage barrows, with porters, rushing to and fro; newspaper venders bawling “Times! Chronicle! Punch!” Cabs galloping into the yard with anxious passengers; others, after having deposited their living burthens, slowly quitting it; the crowd of persons pressing forward for their tickets, jamming and jostling each other, as if the existence of each individual depended upon his or her obtaining that necessary passport. At length all are supplied and seated in their various carriages. Phiz! goes the steam, and the train slowly and majestically quits the station, gathering fresh speed in its progress, until the travellers find themselves whirled along at the rate of thirty or forty miles an hour; station after station appear and disappear like the lightning flash of a summer’s cloud—
and in the short space of a few hours the journey to Shrewsbury is accomplished.
Within two miles of Shrewsbury, and nearly the same distance from the railway, upon the right of the line, the traveller will behold Battlefield Church, built by Henry the Fourth to commemorate the celebrated Battle of Shrewsbury, which, like that of Bosworth, has been immortalised by the magic pen of Shakspere. Who cannot call to remembrance the gallant and fiery Hotspur, or the future Hero of Agincourt?—“Young Harry with his beaver on,”—and last, not least, fat Jack Falstaff, his humourous catechism upon “Honour;” with whom discretion was the better part of valour, notwithstanding his “long hour’s fight by Shrewsbury clock?” Here, covered with wounds, the ambitious Hotspur fell, and his dead body, which had been buried on the field, was unearthed, and barbarously bruised between two millstones, and afterwards beheaded and quartered. SHREWSBURY.The old town of Shrewsbury contains many objects of considerable interest and historical association, which will afford to the antiquary or the curious abundant gratification for the few hours he may devote to them. Those to which the traveller should in particular direct his attention are the Castle, the Abbey, and St. Giles’s Church; the two former were built by the first Norman Earl of Shrewsbury, Roger de Montgomery. The town is beautifully situated on the Severn, on a Having stayed the night in Shrewsbury, the following morning I once more placed myself in a railway carriage for a short ride upon the line to Chirk, at which place I had made up my mind to commence my pedestrian tour. I think it necessary, however, to impress upon the minds of tourists that the Llangollen Road Station (which is a mile beyond Chirk) is unquestionably the key upon this side of the country to the very heart of the finest scenery in Wales, and that from thence he can obtain public conveyances which run daily to Capel Curig, Snowdon, Bala, Barmouth, Dolgelley, and a hundred other enchanting places in the Principality. Arriving at Chirk Station, I, like the Honourable Dick Dowlas, with my wardrobe on my back, and a light heart, proceeded on the road to the village. Bees hummed, birds sang, and blossoms sent forth their fragrance, to delight the traveller as he gaily trudged “the footpath way.” Cheerfulness was above, beneath, and around me, and in my heart. I had not taken many paces when I was accosted by an elderly person, in a straw hat, fustian shooting coat, knee breeches, gaiters, and shoes, he had a stout cudgel in his hand, Fortunately, we were pursuing the same route, and a desultory dialogue commenced with the never-failing observation— “A fine morning, Sir.” “Very.” “A great admirer of the charms of nature, I presume?” “An enthusiastic one.” “You’re for the Welsh vales, I suppose?” “And mountains high,” I exclaimed, warming to my loquacious companion—
sang he, in a round-toned voice, with which I chimed in, and we were the best friends on a sudden. There certainly is no society so interesting as that picked up by the tourist, who leaves with contempt the starched formalities of a great city behind him, and walks forth unencumbered by care, to enjoy the society of mankind in its varied and unsophisticated nature. Every person we meet affords us information and delight; for a kindred spirit animates almost every individual whom you may chance to encounter in countries remarkable for beauties of scenery, and especially in a region like North Wales, where inns of the best There is no want of society, nor any difficulty in selecting that with which you are best pleased; for every evening brings in fresh comers from various quarters to the different places of rest and refreshment. The exchange of information respecting routes, the different adventures of the day, the peculiar feelings displayed in their recital, and countenances lit up with pleasure, give a degree of animation to the evening, never to be equalled in the brilliant drawing-room, the blaze of which seems to put out the eyes of reason,—
THE VILLAGE OF CHIRKis agreeably situated upon the northern bank of the river Ceiriog, which divides England from Wales. The village church is dedicated to St. Mary, and is an impropriation belonging to Valle Crucis Abbey, and contains some monuments erected to the memories of the Chirk families. The most interesting is that of the famous Sir Thomas Myddelton. In the churchyard are some fine aged yew trees.
Taking the road upon the left of the church, we entered the charming park of Brynkinalt, and visited one of the most picturesque seats in the Principality. This elegant mansion, with its ivy-covered walls, is the principal residence of the Viscount Dungannon, who is descended from Tudor Trevor, Earl of Hereford, founder of one of the fifteen tribes of North Wales. Valle Crucis Abbey, as well as many of the churches in the neighbourhood, have been greatly improved at his lordship’s expense, who is distinguished for archÆological taste and research. The house was built during the reign of James the First, from a design by Inigo Jones, and is delightfully situated upon the brow of a hill, from which circumstance it derives its name. The park is divided by the river Ceiriog. The late Duke of Wellington was maternally descended from this house. His mother, the Countess of Mornington, who was a daughter of Arthur Hill-Trevor, first Viscount Dungannon, spent much of her time here during the boyhood of our illustrious hero, who frequently visited his noble parent during the Eton holidays. There are yet living those who remember the boyish frolics of him who was at a later period destined to act so conspicuous a part in the world’s history. By permission of the noble proprietor, the house and grounds are accessible to strangers during the summer months, and the paintings by Claude, Titian, Salvator CHIRK CASTLE.
Chirk Castle is delightfully situated on the spacious domain, spreading over the summit of, what would be deemed, by a southern, a lofty mountain, but which is here only designated a hill, projecting from the range of the Berwyn Mountains, and is well calculated to recall the stories of the days of old, when flourished—
It is built of solid stone; and the ivy, mantling over the walls, gives them an appearance of solemnity and grandeur peculiarly interesting. It is quadrangular, and is strengthened by five massive towers, one at each corner, and the fifth projecting from the principal front, through which is a lofty entrance into the court-yard, 165 feet in length, and 100 feet in breadth, surrounded on every side by noble suites of apartments. The picture gallery measures 100 feet in length, by twenty-two in breadth, and contains some very excellent paintings, and several portraits of the Myddelton family. Amongst the latter is that of Sir Thomas Myddelton, The walls of the castle are eighteen feet in thickness; but sleeping and other apartments have been cut into them, for the accommodation of the family. The celebrated picture of Pistyll Rhaiadr, in the dining-room, shows that noble waterfall tumbling into the sea, where several ships are quietly riding at anchor. “Pistyll Rhaiadr,” i.e. “The Spout of the Cataract,” is considered the largest fall in Wales. In the valley of Mochnant, about four miles from Llanrhaiadr, the river falls over an almost perpendicular rock, 240 feet high; thence rushing furiously under a natural arch towards the bottom, it plunges into a deep black pool, overhung with impervious shaggy wood. The story of the artist’s introducing the ocean, with ships, is rather curious. He was a foreigner, and but little acquainted with the English language; and when he had completed the picture, one of the persons to whom it was first shown observed, that “a few sheep placed near the foot of the fall would be a great improvement.” Misunderstanding sheep for ship, his The present building was completed in two years. The first stone being laid in the year 1011, and in 1013 the castle frowned defiance to the foe. It was built by Roger Mortimer, Earl of Wigmore, as a stronghold to defend him from the just vengeance he had created by the murder of the sons of Gruffydd ab Madoc, to whom he was appointed guardian, in conjunction with John, Earl of Warren, in the hope of inheriting their joint estates. Mortimer was to seize upon Nanheudwy and Chirk, the property of the youngest; and Warren upon the lands of Bromfield, Yale, and Dinas Bran, belonging to the eldest. Travellers should not neglect to visit this noble specimen of warlike architecture. Its picture gallery and dungeon will, in their different styles, excite admiration. On the foundation of the present castle anciently stood Castle Crogen; and the territory around bore the name of Trev-y Waun, the property of the lords of Dinas Bran, which continued in their possession up to the death of Gruffydd ab Madoc, in the reign of Edward the First. The view from the highlands of the park is very extensive, and commands a prospect of seventeen different counties. The remains of Offa’s Dyke, the ancient boundary between England and Wales, are still visible near the castle, and may be traced a considerable distance through the park. The Vale of the Ceiriog at Chirk, like that of the Dee between Chirk and Llangollen, is distinguished by two specimens of architectural skill and enterprise, each valley being crossed by the Ellesmere Canal and the Shrewsbury and Chester Railway, upon long ranges of arches, at a considerable elevation. In this lovely village we put up at the Chirk Castle Arms to take luncheon, which was served with much civility—cold meat, a cream salad, and a capital Cheshire cheese, with the best of Shropshire ale. This excellent inn is kept by Mr. Moses. After proceeding about a mile and a half on the Llangollen Road, and leaving Wynnstay, the noble mansion of Sir Watkin Williams Wynn, Bart., M.P., on the right, we were conducted along the banks of a beautiful canal (the same that crosses the valley at Chirk), which was here planted with laurel and hazel in pleasing variety on either side. On a sudden, an opening in the foliage presented us with a splendid view of the Vale of the Dee, with the two noble structures, the viaduct and aqueduct, gracefully stretching from hill to hill, and the waters of the river making their way amongst the broken rocks and embowering trees, and rolling under their arches with that delightful sound which is only heard in mountain scenery. Seldom had I experienced so delightful a sensation as the present prospect occasioned. All was so calm, so quiet, it seemed, indeed, “the Happy Valley.” Shortly after, however, we found that no golden pleasure is entirely free from alloy, for on turning a projection At length, however, having happily passed these belligerents, my companion led me in triumph into a little public house on the road side, which overlooked a precipice, the Aqueduct Tavern, the exterior of which promised little better accommodation than is met with in an Irish cabin. We entered, nevertheless, and although the floor was of brick, it was very clean, and the household utensils glittered along the walls. “Pray, gentlemen, walk into the back parlour,” said a comely-looking, good-natured landlady of forty-three. We gladly accepted her invitation, and were agreeably surprised to find a neat room, carpeted, with a sofa, and half-a-dozen hair-bottomed chairs, and every thing rurally comfortable. The window looked upon the aqueduct, and commanded a beautiful prospect. Having discussed our beverage, and lighted cigars, we quitted the comfortable little cottage, and bent our steps towards the aqueduct, to cross by it to the opposite side of the Vale. A cigar in the cool of the evening is delightful,—
We soon reached the centre of the aqueduct; it extends, from hill to hill, in length 980 feet; it is sustained by twenty piers, 115 feet in height from the bed of the river Dee, and the span of the arches is forty-five feet. The length of the viaduct is 1,538 feet; its height 147 feet, the number of arches nineteen, and the span of each arch is sixty feet. I never felt the influence of the sublime mingled with the beautiful so deeply as when I stood upon this wonderful work of art; wherever I turned my eyes the scene was calculated to excite the warmest feelings of admiration. The Dee flowing beneath, shadowed by the rich tints of the summer foliage; the ruined bridge; the dark mountain masses upon either side, patched with gloomy pines, intermingled with the relieving brightness of the graceful larch. Here waves the lovely blooming heather, there stands the blasted rock in its naked majesty, the noble amphitheatre at the extremity of the vale, with a distant view of the viaduct; the twittering of the birds, as they settled to repose upon the trees around, altogether gave a charm to the evening which can only be felt while witnessing the scene, and which exceeds the power of description. Having crossed the aqueduct, we proceeded by the left bank of the canal, passing a forge, that nearly stifled us with gaseous smoke, along a pathway made of Trees of every description hung over our heads, and sloped down a deep declivity to the margin of the Dee, while on the opposite bank the mountain frowned above us. The partial glances we obtained of the vale through the woods, discovered scenes which the artist’s fancy might vainly attempt to equal. At length we reached the Bridge of Llangollen, whence the river is seen to great advantage, tumbling over its rocky bed, and rushing beneath the dark shelter of the over-hanging trees. The village is small, and contains two respectable hotels, viz., the Hand, at which we stopped by the advice of my companion, and the Royal Hotel. We were shown into a very good parlour, and after ordering a tea and supper dinner, my friend, somewhat exhausted by the day’s march, flung himself upon a sofa, while I resumed my journal, and soon afterwards retired to my bed-room, where the murmurs of the flowing Dee were distinctly heard beneath the window. “Here I am, then,” said I, soliloquising, as I pressed the pillow; “here am I, at length, in the Vale of Llangollen; in the village of Llangollen,—a spot which I have so often longed to visit!”
and in a few moments I sank soundly to sleep. |
|
