G. E. Mitton

When two villages stand facing one another across a bridge, it is inevitable that comparisons, however impertinent, will be made. And it may be said at once that Streatley, for all its old church, its pretty hotel, and its mill, cannot dispute the palm with Goring, which has an older church and a more charming mill, and many other advantages. Streatley church is singularly vivid in colouring. Rarely is there to be seen a deeper green-gold than that made by the lichen on the red roof, and when the sunshine flashes out upon it the effect is positively startling.

Not less attractive in its way is the red-roofed hotel with its backing of thick, green foliage, its tiny grass plots on the river's edge, and its gay flowers. The flour mill would be a valuable asset in the beauty items of any place not eclipsed by so near a neighbour.

There are islands in the stream, and the bridge which runs across them is singularly picturesque. This is one of the few old wooden bridges remaining, and it is doubtless destined soon to be replaced by one of iron, as has been done at Pangbourne. At this one can hardly cavil, for delightful as are the long slender wooden piles to look at, they do seem as if they might give way unexpectedly at any minute.

STREATLEY

If we stand down by the lock there are numberless views in all directions, each good in itself. It is a hot day in summer, and the vivid scarlet and the deep carmine of the lock-keeper's geraniums literally strike one's eyeballs with their colour. We do not, alas! hear the wash of the water tumbling over the weir, for weirs in summer often run dry, or give only a small trickle, though it is just the time when their gay music would most appeal to the heart of man. The lock-keeper has stories to tell of the days before the "pound" locks, as they used to be called, were made. What we call the weirs were then the "locks." The great barges had to be towed up the weirs by means of rope and capstan; and sometimes, when the water ran low, they had to wait for weeks for a freshet that would enable them to get up. The lock here is only five-eighths of a mile below that at Cleeve, and these two are the nearest together on the river, except those of Temple and Hurley. Beyond Cleeve there is a long stretch of six and a-half miles before the next, Benson Lock. It almost seems as if the powers that deal with locks had in their justice tried to make things even by multiplying them in the beauty spots, so that those who want only the best have to pay for it by the worry of passing locks; while those who are content with something less can have it without bother. Some locks, however, have been done away with as unnecessary. There used to be one between those of Cleeve and Benson, and another at Hartslock Wood, below Goring; but these have disappeared.

The ancient road known as the Icknield Street crosses the river at Streatley; it was used by the Romans, but made long before their time.

High beyond the bridge, and, rising above it, as we stand at the lock, is the grand sweep of hill locally known as Greenhill, in distinction from Whitehill on the Goring side.

To the right, on the top of the heights, are the golf links, and the small white road winds steeply up, carrying with it a touch of melancholy, which the sight of a far-away and steep road always gives, a suggestion of a journey that winds "uphill all the way."

Reading has now established a regatta to keep its own folk in its own neighbourhood on the August Bank-Holiday; and a great boon this has been to the quiet up-river places, for they are not now invaded by launches full of rollicking, bottle-shying crowds, such as are characteristic of the neighbourhood of all great towns, and on these occasions apt to become remarkably prominent.

GORING CHURCH

Goring stands high among Thames villages, literally and figuratively. Its main street runs winding up-hill to the station, and though there are few of the genuine old cottages left, the small houses which have replaced them have been mostly built in the best modern river style, with exterior beams, porches, projecting windows and ornamental gables. Creepers flourish abundantly. From the river the church is easily seen. A small and narrow backwater leads under a bridge to within fifty yards of the tower.

The building is very old, and was originally the church of the Augustinian priory. It is partly covered with rough stucco, which is peeling off untidily in patches. The tower is Norman, and has a bastion turret, which greatly adds to its appearance, and, what is more uncommon, the east end is an apse, though we are bound in honesty to say an apse rebuilt.

Close by the church is the mill, which eclipses that at Streatley in appearance, and shows adaptability in applying its power as an electric generating station, while Streatley remains conservative, and still grinds the sweet-scented white flour. But the electric charging has not spoilt the mossy roof, gleaming green and russet alternately, or the pretty pigeon-house from which flocks of white pigeons often sweep round over the glistening water and the low islands. A very large and neat boat-house lies below the bridge on the Goring side.

Between this and Pangbourne we have at first rich well-covered heights on the one side, and high, open chalky hills on the other, dotted with the neat circular clumps usually associated with chalk uplands. But after a while these are replaced by the famous Hartslock Woods.

Speaking of the valley of the Thames between Goring and Henley, in his introduction to the Flora of Oxfordshire, Mr. G. Claridge Druce says:

"We may wander for miles through verdant alleys whose groundwork begins in early spring with the glossy gold of the smaller celandine, followed by the pale stars of the wood anemones and myriads of primroses, these giving place to sheets of hyacinths, 'that seem the heavens upbreaking through the earth,' the blue being here and there relieved by the yellow archangel or brightened with stitchwort; still later on the bluebells are replaced by masses of the fragrant woodruff, and these by the more sombre colouring of the bugle. Then come the creamy-white flowers of the helleborine, the dull, livid spikes of the bird's nest orchis and the blue forget-me-nots, giving place to a galaxy of summer flowers, brightening in later months into the brilliant yellow of the ragworts and the purple of the foxgloves. The grassy downs, too, in spring are resplendent with the milkwort in all its purity of colour, whether of that typical blue which rivals the Swiss gentian in beauty, or fading into white or blushing to pink; while mixed with it are brilliant patches of rich orange yellow hippocrepis. Later on appear the rosy crimson spikes of the pyramidal orchis and the pale lemon flowers of lady's fingers, and the drooping blue-flowered campanula. If perchance the land have remained fallow, the bright flowers of iberis, sometimes suffused with rich purple, the glaucous foliage of rare fumarias, the deep crimson petals of the hybrid poppy, the bright rosy pink spikes of sainfoin and yellow toad flax, combine to form a varied show."

Before reaching Pangbourne we pass acres of osier beds on the right. Pangbourne and Whitchurch stand to each other in the same relation as do Goring and Streatley, but in this case it is the southern side to which the palm must be awarded. At Pangbourne the old wooden bridge has given place to an iron one, but the deed has been carried out in a manner that reflects credit on the doer, for the new bridge runs in a graceful curve, and its sides of latticed ironwork are painted white. Seen in glimpses between the islands, the new bridge does not detract from the charms of Pangbourne, but rather adds to them.

There are numbers of islands at Pangbourne, and they lie in a great basin between and beneath the weirs, which are small and frequent. The pool is full of beauty. The trees grow freshly and well, and throw a veil of tender green over the water, which is, on a summer day, brilliant in hues of blue and green, cobalt, sea-green, pale apple, indigo; these can all be traced lying in strips and sections where the riotous torrent from the weirs frays out its inquietude and loses itself. In one corner by a pretty cottage is a splash of vivid crimson, an arcade of roses. Near the bridge great launch works are a blot and an eyesore, but it is so seldom we find our ointment without the proverbial fly.

Pangbourne village is quaint and pleasing enough, but it is not so beautiful as some of the villages along the Thames side. No village built haphazard, with a little river bridged over in its main street, with a brick-towered church, with dark evergreens, and a fair amount of creepers, could fail to be attractive in some sense. But there is too much new brick in Pangbourne. The river Pang is a tiny streamlet, and the winding ways do not hold that charm which can be felt even as one races by in a motor. Further up the river a row of neatly-built, red-brick and white-balconied houses stands up against a high chalk bank overlooking the river; behind this, in a deep cutting, runs the railway line. Above the bridge there is a landing on the Whitchurch side close to the church, which is a well-kept flint building. In the chancel there is a monument to the Lybbe family, dated 1599. Whitchurch is mostly built of red brick, and is neat and clean, but without any very great attractions. Before reaching Mapledurham a fine old house, Hardwicke, is passed. Charles I. stayed here and played bowls. The house itself is well protected by trees, but it stands in rather open country, amid bare chalk uplands, where sometimes may be seen a curious opaline glow in pale sunshine.

Mapledurham is greatly spoilt by the churlishness of its main landlord. The lock-keeper is strictly forbidden to ferry anyone across the river, and though the crossing would be but short, and would involve only a walk of a few seconds along the bank to the mill, it is not permitted. As the nearest bridges on each side are those of Pangbourne and Caversham, it is necessary for anyone going by road to keep to the north side of the river between these points if he wants to see Mapledurham. The place certainly is worth some trouble, but it is small, and the restrictions are tiresome. The fine old Elizabethan house is a real mansion of the good old sort; one could imagine endless stories of romance connected with it. It was fortified during the civil wars by Sir Arthur Blount, governor of Reading, and is still held by the same family. The principal entrance is by an avenue of elms nearly a mile long, but the house is perhaps best seen through the gates from the churchyard. The church is small, and Perpendicular in style, with the exception of the tower, a modern addition in flint and brick. There is within a Blount chapel with many family memorials, including an altar-tomb.

The mill at Mapledurham is also a great delight to look upon, and numbers of artists sketch it from every point of view. The islands lying in the swirl of the weir-pool afford many a quiet nook in which to anchor, though landing is forbidden. From this it may be judged that if Mapledurham is a Paradise, it is sternly guarded with notices, which meet one on every side with the persistence of the flaming sword.