The Vale of Evesham—A stormy drive—An angler's inn—A big fish—Dating from "the flood"!—Fishermen's tales—The joys of "the gentle craft"—Hotel visitors' books—A "quiet day"—Burford church and its monuments—The golden age of travel—A fine old half-timber inn—Ludlow—A Saxon doorway.

Leaving our ancient inn we proceeded westward along winding, hedge-bordered lanes that took us through the beautiful and fruitful Vale of Evesham, a very Land of Goshen. We had an uneventful drive to close upon Pershore, where we found ourselves on a good main road; then crossing a narrow bridge we drove into that quiet and ancient town, famous for its fine old abbey church, and for what else I know not; as for the town, it has a pleasant look. Then into the country again and into a storm of rain. By a signpost we learnt that the road led to Worcester, and, as it appeared to keep on high ground with the promise of fine views, we followed it.

We had a stormy drive on to Worcester, for it rained the whole of the way; to our left the Malvern Hills loomed up a mass of purple-grey under the leaden sky, appearing almost mountainous, magnified in size to the eye by the mist and rain. Approaching Worcester it poured in torrents; if this keeps on, I said to myself, I shall seek the shelter of an inn. I was in ill-humour with the weather; I do not mind ordinary rain, but this was a deluge, and the roads were becoming rivers. The hint was not lost on the weather; as we drove into Worcester the rain ceased, or almost ceased, and ahead there even appeared a watery gleam of sunshine. Such are the surprises of the English climate. This was encouraging, so through Worcester we went without a stop; no inn I needed now, and to escape the main road and straggling houses I took a turning to the right at a venture, and we were soon in the open country again, wet and gleaming, but we drove into fairer weather.

The country we passed through was pleasantly pastoral, the rain-washed air was wonderfully clear and fresh, the distances distinctly blue, and the moisture brought forth the pungent scent of the earth. Presently we passed a finely wooded park, in which we caught sight of a little lake mirroring the sky, the silvery water shining cheerfully bright. Soon after this we reached the village of Great Witley, not a large place, but perhaps "great" for a village, and it presented us with a pretty picture with its old houses, some of half-timber, climbing the hillside, for we were amongst the hills again, hills topped by wind-blown firs darkly outlined against the sky.

Before arriving at Great Witley we asked a man, on the way, to where the road led. "To Witley," he replied; "there's a decent public in the village where they sell good beer." As though beer was man's chief desire in life—as perhaps it is with some! I did not take the hint, so instead of the usual twopence I simply tendered thanks for the information given. The man was disappointed; he looked reproachfully at me—at least so I thought. Now the "public" turned out to be a homely but an inviting-looking inn, "The Hundred House," to wit, and, judging of it from a passing glance, had I been benighted I would have claimed its hospitality, and deemed myself fortunate in having found such quiet, unpretending quarters. In truth I almost wished for the rain to come on again as an excuse to sample its entertainment. But as the sun was occasionally shining and the clouds were uplifting I was not inclined to stop, when I had half the day unspent before me for exploring. Somehow I fancy that the people I meet in such out-of-the-way places differ from other people; at least I know I get friendly with them quicker than with those who live where the pulse of the world beats faster—so I have that feeling strong upon me.

After Great Witley we had for some miles a hilly drive; at once our road began to climb steeply, only to descend again; it was all up and down, and from the tops of the rises we obtained glorious views of the wild Welsh cloud-loving mountains, standing in rugged array where the remote distance met our gaze, here and there above the mists a peak clearly showing. Next we came to a welcome level stretch of country, our road narrowing into a lane with fine high hedges on either side, Devon fashion; their one fault was that they effectually shut out the view—from leagues our vision was limited to yards.

When, at last, the Devon-like lane ended, facing us stood "The Swan Inn" by the Teme side, an inn where anglers congregate, for the Teme is a troutful stream; there I put up for the night, and found comfortable quarters, good fare, and companionship. What more could the traveller desire? The landlord came forth to greet me in a manner after my own heart. "Glad to see you," said he; "you always bring me luck." I thought he had mistaken me, for, as I explained, I had not been to Tenbury till that day. "Well," responded he, "it was certainly not here I saw you last, but I well remember you coming to 'The Porth Arms' at Llandysill, when I was its landlord some few years ago, and just as you arrived one of my guests there had caught the fish of the season." Then, thinking back, I too remembered the circumstance. "Now," continued he, "I've a fisherman staying here who just before you came caught a splendid trout, as fine a trout as ever I've seen; I'll show it you. There's as good fish in the Teme as ever came out of a river;" and he brought the trout out on a dish for my inspection, a grand one in truth. At least, thought I, there are big trout in the Teme. When next I go a-fishing may I catch its like! There is a consoling old saying that "the worst anglers catch the biggest fish." Some of those old sayings appeal to me!

Writing of big fish reminds me that once in an old curiosity shop I noticed, amongst the various odds and ends shown for sale there, a glass case with a fine fat trout stuffed and carefully preserved in it. I was surprised to find this marked at a high figure, as it appeared to me a somewhat unlikely article to find a purchaser. So I ventured to remark upon it. "Well," said the dealer in curiosities, "that's as good an article to sell as any I have in the shop, though you mightn't think it. You see, the landlord of some fishing inn is sure to buy it and hang it up in one of his rooms, as a sample of the sport to be had in his river. I'll get my price for it. I think I know where to place it as it is." Have I not seen the like at certain river-side inns I know!

It is pleasant to be remembered thus on the road; twice during the journey when arriving at a strange inn in a strange place did the landlord of it remember me, he having moved from some other inn elsewhere which on a previous tour I had visited. Landlords and head waiters of country hostelries appear to have the faculty that kings are supposed to possess of recognising faces, and of even bearing names in mind. The waiter of "The King's Head" at Cirencester knew me from having waited on me at another inn on the road, "and that were over two years ago." "However do you manage to remember people and their names?" I queried, "for you must see so many different people coming and going in the course of the year." "I don't remember them all," he confessed, "only the nice people." I felt flattered, though perhaps he was thinking of his tip. A good memory is a valuable possession when used diplomatically.

As there was still an hour or two of daylight left, I crossed the river by a patched-up stone bridge to inspect Tenbury, for the town lay on the other side of the Teme—a countrified little town, like those you find here and there in the heart of the shires, so I was the more surprised to discover it boasted of being a watering-place, though its reputation in this respect was unknown to me, for it possesses a Spa with a regulation pump-house where people drink and bathe in the waters, and around the pump-house are well-laid-out grounds with winding walks. No town that ever I was in gave me less the impression of being a watering-place where invalids congregate, for not even a Bath-chair did I see, nor was there a soul at the Spa. I take it that, up to the present, Tenbury is more famous for its fishing than for its waters; if the latter were only more pronounced, or more distasteful in flavour, possibly Tenbury might become renowned. "They ought to do me good," once I heard a visitor at Harrogate remark, "for the waters are nasty enough." Well, at any rate, Harrogate waters possess that virtue and Harrogate prospers, though I heard of one invalid who, having tasted those waters, declared he preferred his malady!

Rain coming on I sought shelter in the church near by; I was glad I did so, for I found much to interest me there. For the second time this journey I discovered another curious, though unfortunately mutilated, miniature effigy to a knight of old in chain armour with his legs crossed; one hand is on his sword, the other holds a shield with a coat-of-arms carved upon it. This effigy is only a little over two feet in length and bears no inscription.

The records of his name and race
Have faded from the stone.

A possible, but doubtful, explanation of these miniature monuments is that they are merely heart shrines; another even more doubtful is that they are to children of knightly parents, and so are represented in armour.

Near to this modest memorial to a warrior, in startling contrast, is a stately altar-tomb with life-sized alabaster figures, beautifully sculptured, of a man in armour with his wife by his side, she being quaintly and picturesquely attired; the man's feet rest on a boar, his lady's on nothing, for the faithful hound that presumably once was there has disappeared. A portion of the long inscription in raised letters over this monument runs as follows:—

Here lyeth Thomas Actone of Sutton Esqre
Who departed this lyfe in 1546
And Mary his wyfe who deceased on
The XXVIII Aprill 1564....

Ioyse

Their only daughter and heire being then of the
Adge of XII yeres was espoused to Sir Thomas LVCY
Of Charcot knight which Dame Ioyse in dutifull
Remembravnce of theis her loving parents
Hath erected this monument. Anno 1581.

Here we have the knight whom Shakespeare ridicules under the title of Justice Shallow in The Merry Wives of Windsor. What caused the Bard to hold up this Sir Thomas Lucy thus to ridicule no one appears to have discovered; the ancient story that the knight prosecuted Shakespeare for poaching his deer in Charlecote Park is out of court, for in those days there was neither park nor deer there.

As I was leaving the church I noticed a brass plate against the west wall about three feet from the pavement, bearing record that

On May 14th, 1886
The River Teme overflowed its Banks
And rose to the height of the mark
Placed below.

And to this day certain Tenbury folk date events "from the year of the flood," which to the unknowing sounds strangely of a period immeasurably remote.

I dined well at "The Swan" that night in the pleasant company of two anglers, one of whom had caught the big trout already mentioned. The simple dinner was excellently cooked, and my fellow-guests indulged in a bottle of good red wine; so also did I for sociability. Not but that

Pure water is the best of gifts
That man to man can bring;
But what am I that I should have
The best of everything?

Dinner ended, in the spirit of the Roman of old I could say, "Fate cannot harm me, I have dined to-day."

We three made merry over our meal (fishermen, sailors, and artists all seem to possess cheerful souls); we talked and we joked and "the good wine quaffed"; fishing stories went round the table, true every one of them—or at least they were not impossible. I scorn that cruel libel that declares "the angler goes out in the morning full of hope, returns at evening full of whisky, and the truth is not in him." But we did not talk of fishing alone; we talked of many charmed spots where tranquil rivers flow, of sleepy pools where the big trout lie, of mountain streams with their heathery banks, streams that gurgle and splash along their rocky beds; and I learnt that a trout rises to a fly either because he is hungry, or merely out of curiosity; if the former you may surely land him, if the latter it is a touch and go if you do. Many days the trout have had their fill, so they "rise short," being only curiously minded; then the angler changes his flies, but it is not a fresh fly that is needed, but a hungry trout.

Much has been said of the joys of the gentle craft.

Other joys
Are but toys,

we are told, but I think there is another craft more gentle, fully as fascinating and as pleasure-giving—to some even more so, bold though the saying be—and that is sketching from Nature, "good, right, healthy work," Ruskin calls it, and the sketcher need never return home without something to show for his day in the open air. I do not exactly see the gentleness of taking a barbed hook out of a fish's mouth, or of impaling a wriggling worm on a hook, and to do this, mind you, "as though you loved him, that is, harm him as little as you may possibly, that he may live the longer"! which is the dictum laid down by gentle Izaak Walton. After all, may it not be that the term "gentle craft" came from the fact of the use of gentles as baits? But whether one goes a-fishing or fares forth with sketch-book and colours, much of the joy that either gentle craft gives its votaries is, I take it, the pleasant scenery they habitually find themselves amongst. Now I come to think of it, our table talk was of scenery as much as of fishing, so as a listener it struck me that to some wise men fishing after all is in the main an excuse for a delightful and restful holiday with an object, not the mere catching of fish the sole aim of it.

In the coffee-room of mine inn I discovered a Visitors' Book, and I glanced through it in the faint hope of perhaps finding there some quaint or humorous effusion, but the day seems past for these things. Of old such men as Kingsley, Tom Taylor, Tom Hughes, and a host of other literary wits were not above making merry in these books; even such notables as Lord Byron, Sir Walter Scott, Samuel Pepys, to mention a few of the many, amused themselves by recording their names, scratched with diamonds, on the window-panes of some of the old inns and houses they visited, and in a few instances their signatures remain there to this day. I saw that of Sir Walter Scott in Shakespeare's birthplace not long ago. Seldom now either do I come across any quaint or notable epitaph in our churchyards, yet when I was young I came upon many a one. Indeed I had a notebook filled with them, and curious they were. As I have previously remarked, Time is not the only culprit responsible for their disappearance, though Time has had his hand in the matter, and there is now no Old Mortality to re-cut crumbling inscriptions. A case was brought to my notice where a quaint epitaph (quite harmlessly quaint, as a layman, I thought) was deliberately chiselled off a tombstone "by the parson's orders."

In the Visitors' Book at "The Swan" I came upon the following:—

In July a man came to the Swan
And the fat of the land lived upon,
"But," said he, in September
If I rightly remember,
"It's just about time I moved on."

I copied this, not that the verse has any merit, but to show the temptation there is to linger on at a comfortable country hostelry, as I have been tempted to linger often for an extra day or two, instead of travelling on. In this respect a good inn is an enemy to travel. Twice have I had pointed opportunities of confirming this attraction of an inn. I remember spending the night at a cosy little Kentish hostelry, and there I met a man who told me he had come for a week-end only, but so pleased was he with his quarters that he had stayed on three weeks, even regretting that he was obliged to leave on the morrow. But an almost startling incident of the kind I came upon at a sequestered Sussex inn; a fellow-guest there confided in me that he arrived at the inn intending to spend one night only, but so comfortable was he that he decided to stop on from day to day, and the days had grown into three years. He was a homeless bachelor, and "here," said he, "I've found a home, no trouble about servants, no rent or taxes to pay, entertaining company at times without the cost of entertaining; I've only to order what I want to get it." I felt genuinely sorry for the man that he should have to make his home with strangers at an inn, but he did not appear sorry for himself. At that same inn I also stayed a week: the portly landlord of it was the best of fellows—may his shadow never grow less! The landlady as kindly an old soul as ever breathed—long life to her! The maid who waited on me thought nothing of her trouble, the rooms were clean, and there was a large and shady garden attached where I idled many an odd hour pleasantly away, lazily reading a favourite author whilst reclining in a hammock hung between the trees. But these old, unspoilt, home-like inns are not to be found every day, though I know of a few, but wild horses could not drag from me their whereabouts. "I have certainly spent some very enviable hours at inns," remarks Hazlitt. So have I. Do I talk too much of inns? Thackeray says, "It always seems to me very good talk." A big book could be written about inns of the good old-fashioned sort, and yet not exhaust the pleasant subject; but it needs be written lovingly, as Izaak Walton wrote of fishing, so that the two works may lie side by side and ready of reach amongst the treasures of a well-selected library.

As I was leaving "The Swan" at Tenbury the landlord informed me that close to my road at Burford, and but a mile away, was a most lovely old church, beautifully decorated, and with some fine gilt and painted altar-tombs. "You really should not miss seeing it," said he. I know not why, but somehow it seemed strange to me for an innkeeper to be so keen about a church. As he was so pressing I promised the landlord I would see the church, and thither I went. I pulled up the car at the corner of a narrow lane that led to the building, proceeding the rest of the way on foot, and on my way I overtook two ladies slowly walking in front of me. I was bold enough to inquire of them, and as politely as I could, whether the church door were open, or if not where I might find the clerk. One of the ladies answered me in a low voice, and with so solemn a look that I felt I had made a mistake in addressing her; however, she said, "The doors are open. It is a quiet day." I thanked her and congratulated myself that I had come on a "quiet day," then I could inspect the church undisturbed and at leisure. I did not then know the significance of a "quiet day." Since I have learnt that a "quiet day" is one wholly devoted to silent prayer and meditation, in church and out of it, and that those taking part in such are supposed not to speak to one another during the day more words than are absolutely necessary. Further, I have been told the story of a parson who, in reply to his bishop offering to conduct "a quiet day" in his parish, declared that what his parishioners required was not "a quiet day" but an earthquake!

The church proved to be richly adorned; there were several exceptionally fine altar-tombs in it, more suitable, I thought, to Westminster Abbey than to that little country fane; there too I noticed a beautiful rood-screen, and its fine timber roof had for supporters the carved figures of angels gracefully wrought; three lights, in hanging lamps, were burning before the "altar"; I quite expected to find a faint odour of incense, but this I failed to do. It was a Protestant church after all, though to me it hardly had the look of one. But to those who do not see "the mark of the beast" in an ornate church interior, and in burning lights before the "altar," the effect and richness of such decoration is pleasing. What would one of Cromwell's stern Puritans, could he come to life again and see that church, think of it, I wonder? Without that resurrection it is enough to make him turn uneasily in his grave.

One of the tombs against the north chancel wall has the recumbent effigy of Princess Elizabeth of Lancaster under a finely carved canopy; she is represented with longhair bound round with oak leaves; two kneeling angels hold her cushioned head. Her epitaph runs:

Here lyeth the bodie of the
Most Noble Elizabeth,
daughter of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster,
own sister to King Henry IV.
......
She died the 4th yere of Henry VI.
An. Dni. 1426.

So I picked up much unknown, or wholly forgotten, family history on the road.

Another magnificent altar-tomb, glorious in gilt and colour, stands in the centre of the church; on this rests the effigy of Edmond Cornewalle, deceased 1508; he is shown in plate armour, his head on his helmet; his feet with gilded spurs are supported by a crowned lion, painted red. If a dead man could behold his monument, this Edmond Cornewalle should be very proud of his. There are other interesting and beautiful tombs, including two heart shrines, but I had to content myself with a hurried glance at these, for people were silently arriving and kneeling in the pews, and some of them looked up so reproachfully at me for wandering about that I felt ashamed I was not like them; and what else could a sinner do, under the circumstances, but take his quiet departure? I had, however, time just to note a wonderfully fine and ancient decorative panel in perfect preservation and of large size in the chancel; this has figures of the apostles painted on it, with sundry coats-of-arms, all done in rich colouring, though what the apostles have to do with coats-of-arms I cannot imagine. As I was leaving the church I was surprised to find, standing just within the porch, an old grandfather's clock marking faithful time, for it looked curiously out of place, almost as much, it struck me, as would a lectern in a drawing-room. So hushed was the church that the subdued tick of the clock was plainly audible, mildly disturbing the Quaker-like quiet of the people gathered there. In the churchyard I observed a beautiful modern stone cross raised on the ancient and worn steps of a former one doubtless destroyed by the Puritans, to whom a cross of any kind was as a red rag to a bull; but there is a cross back in the old place again, as though there had been no such thing as the wrathful Puritan. "See how these Christians love one another," once exclaimed a gentle Japanese pagan when listening to a hot dispute between a Protestant and a Roman Catholic missionary in his own peaceful land. Now I suppose both the Roman Catholic and the Puritans called themselves Christians, but there was little of brotherly love between them!

After Burford our road led us up a valley of clear streams and green pastures, bounded ahead by a long line of blue and undulating hills; we crossed one or two grey old stone bridges, so narrow that two vehicles could not pass over them at the same time. Perhaps this slight impediment to travel does not greatly trouble people in these parts, for we met little traffic on the way, only a cart for some miles, and a solitary tramp trudging along disconsolately. We had the country almost to ourselves until we came in sight of the grey old town of Ludlow, one of the most interesting and picturesque towns in England; but to see Ludlow at its best it needs to be approached, as we approached it, from the south, for to the north a collection of ugly modern brick houses has unhappily sprung up, and these are sadly out of harmony with the rest of the age-mellowed buildings. Before the railway was invented was the golden age of pleasure travel—for those who had money in their purses. Then Buggins the builder had done comparatively little harm in the matter of the uglification of the countryside; there was pleasure in posting across country in those picturesque, motorless days.

Coming to it from the south, the castle-crowned town of Ludlow greets the traveller with a genuine flavour of antiquity. He enters it, as did the traveller of centuries ago, through a narrow, arched, stone gateway with round flanking towers. The gateway stands "massive and grim across the street," a graphic reminder of the feudal days when Ludlow was surrounded by fortified walls, broken and ruined now, but they can still be traced encircling the town. Then as we drove on we had a glimpse of the famous "Feathers Inn," with its nodding gables, as fine and as well-preserved a specimen of a half-timber hostelry as one may hope to look upon. The interior of this ancient house with its elaborately carved chimney-pieces and enriched plastered ceilings is even more interesting and picturesque than the exterior, and there are many other quaint and beautiful old houses in the town, notably the Reader's House. I should like to unearth the story of the "Feathers," for it looks like an inn with a storied past, else why those stately chambers? But though, on my return home, I searched for this in many books, I could discover nothing certain about it. Probably it was originally the home of some notable personage.

We left Ludlow by the broad highway that leads to Shrewsbury, but we soon deserted it for a lane which took us across a wide and breezy common, with an open, shelterless country stretching for miles away in front. Then we observed great banks of louring clouds ahead rapidly approaching, leaving trailing lines of rain behind which blotted out all the distance. Suddenly the wind rose ominously, then followed a low growl of thunder; we were in for a storm, and our road was unpleasantly exposed. However, there was nothing to do but to drive on; then suddenly I espied, a little to the right of our open road, a village almost buried in leafy elms, that together, village and trees, stood out from the plain like a wooded island from the sea. Other shelter was there none, so to that village we sped on apace; it was a race between us and the storm, and we won by barely a minute. Stanton Lacy proved to be the name of the village, and I do not remember ever having been in one so buried in trees before—great branching trees that at one spot afforded us fair shelter from the worst of the storm. Fortunately the storm was short, though sharp, for I do not think our natural umbrella would have provided protection for long.

Having taken shelter close to the church, I thought I would while away the time whilst the rain came down by taking a glance at it, though I had already seen one church that day; for there was nothing else to do but to sit in the car beneath the drip of the trees. After all it was a fortunate storm, for without it I should not have visited that village or its very ancient church, which proved of uncommon interest. A Saxon church of old, I discovered by the "long and short" projecting stone-work on a portion of the building, and by a very perfect though simple Saxon doorway in the north wall having a boldly carved raised cross on the top, and above this a curious bit of ornamentation of which I could make nothing. In the churchyard is an eighteenth-century tombstone to Thomas Davies, whose epitaph runs:

Good-natur'd, generous, bold, and free
He always was in company;
He loved his bottle as a friend,
Which soon brought on his latter end.

The storm over, we once more resumed our way. The open fields, after Nature's copious shower-bath, were freshly green and smiling; the distant hills of Wenlock Edge stood out shapely and sharply with their fringes of fir against the now bright sky; the air was enchantingly pure and fragrant with the scent of many growing things; the road was dustless, and the brisk breeze fluttered the foliage of the few trees by the way, and sported with the long grasses in the fields as it swept over them, giving a sense of joyous movement everywhere. It was well worth suffering the storm for the after glory of the day, the peaceful evening that followed it, and the clear starlit night succeeding that.

The next village we came to was Culmington, a sleepy out-of-the-world spot on the Corve; the ancient church there attracts the eye on account of its fine and uncommon broach spire. There is little else of interest in the place. Next we turned up at the rapidly growing village of Craven Arms, curiously so named from a solitary inn of some pretence that stood there—and still stands, I believe—in the old coaching days, with a wonderful tall milestone in front of it, on which are recorded the names and distances of no less than thirty-six towns, near and afar, so important a centre of travel was the "Craven Arms"—the hostelry, that is—in past times. Now it is an important railway junction, and round about the once solitary inn has grown a large village that promises in turn and time to grow into a small town, though for the name of a village that of Craven Arms sounds strange in my ears.