Who can ever think of Henley without its regatta? And yet Henley is very well worth thinking of at all times of the year. It is a pleasantly-built, middle-aged, red-brick town. Its history does not reach back so far as that of Abingdon or Reading. It boasts neither abbey nor cathedral. Near the esplanade above the bridge, there are one or two of the tumble-down, out-of-perpendicular style of cottages, which invariably add so much to a river scene; but the main part of the town, which is, of course, of red brick, has a homely air of the seventeenth century about it. The solid and stately Red Lion Hotel, close to the bridge, is one of the most historic houses in the place. Charles I. stayed here in 1632, when, after severe dissensions, he was trying the method of ruling England without a Parliament, and when the terrible fate that was to befall him had not yet "cast its shadow before." It is doubtful if he paid his bills, for he was in chronic want of money; but he left a memento behind him which has more than repaid the hotel, for it forms a perennial source of interest. This is a large fresco painting of the royal monogram and coat of arms over one of the mantelpieces, and from the date it is evident it was done at the time of this visit. It was not discovered till 1889, having probably been hastily concealed during the troublous days of Cromwell's ascendency. Being on one of the principal coaching roads, Henley received more than its share of celebrated visitors. On July the 12th, 1788, George III., with the Queen and three of his daughters, had breakfast at the Red Lion; George IV. once dined here; and the celebrated Duke of Marlborough regularly kept a room here that he might use it in his journeys from Blenheim; his bed is still preserved. After these associations, that of Shenstone, who wrote a poem with a diamond on a window-pane, comes as an anticlimax. The poem begins:
To thee, fair Freedom, I retire,
From flattery, cards, and dice, and din;
Nor art thou found in mansions higher
Than the low cott or humble inn.
And the last verse, which is often quoted, runs:
Whoe'er has travell'd life's dull round,
Whate'er his stages may have been,
May sigh to think he still has found
The warmest welcome at an inn.
In summer the red brick of the hotel is almost hidden by the creepers which embrace it; especially noticeable is the glorious wistaria, most lovely of all the climbing plants.
RED LION HOTEL, HENLEY
The bridge was built in 1786, and is of stone. The keystones of the central arch are adorned with sculptured masks of Thame and Isis. They were the work of Mrs. Damer, a cousin of Horace Walpole's, and as such falling within the limits of the great man's kindly appreciation. Behind the hotel and well seen from the bridge, is the church, with its four corner pinnacles.
At the time of the regatta, and for some weeks before, it is impossible to get accommodation in the town anywhere. Of all the river regattas Henley is by far the greatest, and comes even before the Boat Race in the estimation of some people. The races used to end at the bridge, and so the lawn of the Red Lion was in the position of a favoured grand-stand, but now the winning post is a quarter of a mile short of this, opposite the last villa on the left bank. The starting point is near Temple or Regatta Island, and the reach certainly makes a fine one for the purpose. The course is railed off by piles and booms, and all the hundreds of craft which gather to the scene have to cram themselves in somehow, so as not to cause obstruction. It is well not to select an outrigged boat for such an occasion. The best and most commonly seen craft are punts, worked by means of canoe paddles; for the punts are too solid to collapse easily in the pressure that may be put upon them, and the paddles, requiring little room to work, are less dangerous to one's neighbours than poles. But all kinds of skiffs and canoes appear, and some are even bold enough to tempt fate in Canadian canoes. On a brilliant day, when the light sparkles on the water, and there is enough wind to set the pennons and streamers flying, the scene is undeniably gay and pretty. All the luncheon tents on the green lawns near form a bright adjunct. Salter and Talboys, from Oxford, and other boat-builders, have landing-stages for the week, and the various clubs entertain largely. Chief among these is the Leander, whose fine club-house is on the right bank not far from the bridge; it also has a lawn further down. Not far off are the grand-stand, the Grosvenor, and the New Oxford and Cambridge Clubs, and one large lawn is taken as a clubland pied-À-terre for the use of any members of London clubs in general. But beside these there are the Isthmian, Sports, and Bath Clubs on the left bank, and Phyllis Court, with smooth lawns; and then a long line of house-boats begins, continuing past Fawley Court on to Temple Island, with just one break for the lawns of the Court. Bands play, luncheons are consumed, flags flutter; everyone is gay and lively, and the scene is one that can hardly be described justly in mere word painting. At noon the first race is rowed. A bell is rung to clear the course. All sorts of boats and canoes have slipped out between the openings left for them, and they must hurry back and crush into the already tightly wedged mass; in a moment everything else is forgotten in the excitement of the special event. On the last evening of the regatta there is a grand firework display and a procession of illuminated boats; and, as may very well be guessed, the real success of Henley depends greatly upon the weather, which, even in the first week of July, when it takes place, is not always kind.
As we have said, the surroundings of Henley are of a sort to attract attention, even without the additional glories of the regatta. Above the bridge is a long ait, and high on the right bank rise the woods of Park Place. Here the brilliant green of the beeches is diversified by the dark blue-greens of fir and cedar. The Place was once the residence of Frederick, Prince of Wales, and the grounds were greatly improved by Field-Marshal Conway, a cousin of Horace Walpole. A long glade is cut through the wood. It runs under a bridge made of blocks of stone taken from Reading Abbey, and over this passes the road. From the river a peep of the striking vista can be had. Higher up again is Marsh Lock.
But the influence of Henley extends down as well as up the river. Phyllis and Fawley Courts both at one time belonged to Bulstrode Whitelocke. Fawley was wrecked very early in the civil wars; but Phyllis was strongly fortified, and some of the earthworks may still be seen. Henley was a Parliamentarian stronghold, and was annoyed by the neighbourhood of plucky little Greenlands at Hambleden, which, "for a little fort, was made very strong for the King."
It belonged in the time of the Stuarts to Sir Cope d'Oyley, who was a staunch Royalist. When he died his eldest son held Greenlands for the King, and his house was battered by the cannon of the Parliamentarians from across the water. In the nineteenth century the Rt. Hon. W. H. Smith lived here, and his widow took from the village the title he himself never lived to enjoy. In Hambleden also there is a fine old manor house, and some of the clipped yews in the gardens of private houses are very remarkable. High above the place rise the woods near Fingest and Stokenchurch. The weirs at Hambleden are the most attractive on the river. Long curved bridges run across them from shore to shore, and are open to the public as a right-of-way. The curves strike off at different angles, and every moment the point of view changes. Whether we are passing over tumbling weirs, where the water glides across long mossy planes, or over sluice-gates where it bursts through, the enchantment is the same. Flags and tall yellow irises and the greenest of green tufts grow in the water and about the foundations of the bridges. Looking back at the mill, we see it reflected in the calm, deep water above the weirs as in a polished looking-glass. There are old cedars and red-roofed cottages, and plenty of Scotch firs and yew hedges in the background. Away up the river is the white mass of Greenlands with its pierced look-out tower.
