Part 2
To light upon another subject. There is in the boating alone enough to occupy many volumes. We might start from the solid punt, furnished with chairs, and shoved out into midstream by three sober snuff-coloured gentlemen; there anchored by its own poles, while the three sit on their chairs in midstream, regardless of the obstruction they form to quicker nimbler mortals, fishing, or rather holding rods, as immovable as themselves, the livelong day. The punt plays such a small part in the whole proceeding, it might well fall outside the boating classification altogether--a mud island would do as well. It has not even the dignity of a ferry boat. From here, through all varieties of broad-beamed, blunt-nosed family boats, to the long slender racing skiffs or the canoe light as a dragon-fly on the wing, we could run the gamut in the Book of the Boat.
The distance between Hammersmith Bridge and Folly Bridge, Oxford, is 103 miles, and the extent and variety of boating on this stretch, to go no lower, is unequalled on any other river in England. The first weir is to be found below Richmond, and the first lock at Teddington. In 1578 there were 23 locks, 16 mills, 16 floodgates, and 7 weirs on the river between Maidenhead and Oxford. Thirty more locks and weirs were added in the next six years. When we find that "the locks were machines of wood placed across the river, and so contrived to hold the water as long as convenient, that is, till the water rises to such a height as to allow of depth enough for the barge to pass over the shallows", we are not surprised to learn that exception was taken to the building of more locks, because so many people had been drowned! The barges were not charged for going up, but only for coming down, which seems a little unreasonable when we realize that "the going up of the locks was so steep that every year cables had been broken that cost £400".
It is curious how easily the river may be divided into "zones", each with its usual habitués quite distinct from those of other zones. Taking it generally, it may be said that the farther from London the more exclusive is the crowd, and this is perhaps because a very large number of Thames lovers live in London, and the accessibility and expense of the outing tend to thin out the number as the distance lengthens. The influence of London is felt all the way to Hampton, linked up as it now is by trams with the metropolis. Putney and Hammersmith are part of London; Chiswick and Brentford run on continuously, and are only excluded by an arbitrary line. Kew and Richmond and Hampton are the favourite playgrounds of the Londoner, and may be reckoned as much among the "sights" as the Tower or the Zoo.
The river between Putney and Barnes is associated with the greatest event of the boating year, the University Boat Race. It is the day of the year to many a quiet country clergyman, who comes up from his rural parish for the great event, even if it takes place at some impossible hour in the early morning. The hour varies according to the tide, for the race is rowed at its height, and, in spite of inconvenience or discomfort, there is always a company of enthusiasts to line the banks. On a really favourable day, when the chances are even, the route about Mortlake is alive with people on both sides of the river. Every vantage point is occupied, and trains arriving slowly on the railway bridge deposit their freights and withdraw every few minutes. Carts are drawn up on the roadway, and filled with people, happy to get a seat at a reasonable price, while the meadows on the northern shore afford room for hundreds.
The launch of the Thames conservators comes to clear the course, hustling aside the small steamers and boats. A murmur begins and grows in intensity until the rival boats are seen rounding the corner from Hammersmith. There is a moment of intense anxiety until the rival crews are distinguished, and then a roar goes up from impulsive partisans. Close behind the boats comes the umpire's launch, and half a dozen others, including press boats. The crew which gets first under Barnes railway bridge is generally considered to have the race in hand, but if the two boats are close this is by no means sure. The crowd prefers the slice of river between Hammersmith and Barnes Bridge, because from first to last so much can be seen of the race, but the curve hides the winning-post. Some few moments after the disappearance of the boats a rumour as to the winner comes swiftly back; but it is not till the umpire's launch returns, and glides smoothly down the course with the flag of the victors streaming out gallantly, that the result is known with certainty.
The next zone, including Sunbury, Walton, Weybridge, right on to Windsor, is a quiet one. It has its own charm, but lacks any exceptional features of striking interest. Placid green meadows, feathery willows, peaceful cows, and sunny little unpretentious houses are the chief components of almost every view. Weybridge is perhaps the prettiest place, because of the many turnings and windings of the river near it, but Penton Hook, Laleham, Shepperton, and Walton can all claim a quiet prettiness of their own.
Windsor stands by itself, and the influence of Eton is paramount. Then from Bray right on to Marlow we get what must be by far the most popular bit of the whole river.
Bray itself is particularly pleasant, and is associated for all time with the worthy vicar, who was content to turn his coat at the bidding of the party in power sooner than lose his beloved parish. The original vicar lived in the reigns of Henry VIII and his immediate successor, and his mental somersaults were from the Catholic to Reformed Church, and back once more; but the ballad makes him live in the days of Charles II, James II, William, Anne, and George I, a period of over fifty years. As it is rather difficult to get hold of, we may quote part of it here. It runs through all the variations from--
In good King Charles's golden days, When loyalty no harm meant, A zealous High Churchman was I, And so I got preferment. To teach my flock I never missed, Kings were by God appointed, And damn'd are those that do resist Or touch the Lord's anointed.
When royal James obtained the crown And Popery came in fashion, The Penal laws I hooted down And read the Declaration. The Church of Rome I found would fit Full well my constitution, And had become a Jesuit But for the Revolution.
* * * *
When George in pudding-time came o'er, And moderate men looked big, sir, I turned a cat-in-a-pan once more And so became a whig, sir. And thus preferment I secured From our new faith's defender, And almost every day abjured The Pope and the Pretender.
* * * *
For this is law I will maintain Until my dying day, sir. Whatever king in England reign I'll still be Vicar of Bray, sir.
Maidenhead bridges, rail and road, span the river above Bray. Maidenhead is easily accessible by the Great Western Railway main line, and, with Taplow, which comes down to the river on the opposite bank, counts its devotees in thousands. Taplow village is a little distance away, but Skindle's Hotel on that side counts largely in itself as representing Taplow. Not even the sacred Ganges itself could show a crowd more ardent or more gaily clad than this stretch of the river on a fine summer day. The rich ochres and purples of the East are outshone by the soft brilliancy of blues and pinks, the rose-reds and yellows of the gayer sex both in their garments and sunshades. And if the great day, the Sunday after Ascot, be in any way tolerable, Boulter's Lock, all the more sought apparently because of its congestion, is a sight indeed. People come in crowds to stand on the banks and view it as a show.
But all the year round, even in winter, a few visitors may be found in the reach above Boulter's, under the magnificent amphitheatre-like sweeps of the Cliveden woods. The cliff itself rises to a height of 140 feet and is clothed to the very summit. Oak, beech, ash, and chestnut show up against clumps of dark evergreen. The bosky masses are broken here and there by a Lombardy poplar pointing upward, and the whole is wreathed and swathed in shawls of the wild clematis, the woodbine of the older poets, otherwise traveller's joy. Beyond the Cliveden reach is Cookham, beloved of many, with its pretty little church tower peeping over the trees, and opposite is Bourne End, near which is a wide, open reach used as a course for sailing boats. The only woods that can rival those of Cliveden are the Quarry Woods, opposite Great Marlow, and they lose in effect from not coming right down to the water but sweeping away inland. The Quarry Woods are largely beech and evergreen, and in the autumn the stems, owing to the damp atmosphere, are covered with a vivid green lichen, the thick leaves, turning the burnt red colour peculiar to beeches, not only shine overhead, but make a rich carpet for the ground. Then the woods might well be the enchanted woods of a child's fairy tale, so glorious is their aspect. Between Marlow and Henley, as we have seen, most of the ancient historical associations cluster; within that short space are Bisham, Lady Place, Medmenham, and Greenlands, and the reach of the river is quite pretty enough to tempt people without the added glamour.
Medmenham Abbey is now a carefully composed ruin, with a most attractive-looking cloister close to the river. So well has art aped reality, that it is regarded with much more reverence than many genuinely old buildings which make less display. It is at present a private house, but began its career in the orthodox way as an abbey, being founded about 1200 for Cistercian monks. Few of the thirteenth-century stones can now remain, unless it be as foundations.
A weird and ghostly flavour was imparted to the place by its being chosen as headquarters by the roistering crew of the eighteenth century who called themselves "The Hell-Fire Club", and professed to worship Satan. The leader of the revellers was Sir Francis Dashwood, who succeeded his uncle in the title of Baron le Despencer in 1763. The club motto was _Fay ce que voudras_, and each member tried to outdo the rest in eccentricity. Though they gloried in their wild doings and set afloat many tales which made quieter folk catch their breath in horror, it is probable that, apart from open blasphemy, their proceedings were more foolish than horrible. Once, as a joke, someone sent an ape down the chimney while they were gathered together, and the frightened gibbering creature, soot-begrimed, was mistaken by the terror-stricken revellers for Satan himself.
Not far off is the old Abbey Hotel, beloved of artists, and farther on up the green lane is a curious old house which once belonged to Sir John Borlase, friend of King Charles II, who was visited here by His Majesty on horseback, often accompanied, so tradition goes, by Nelly Gwynne.
Henley, of course, boasts the regatta of the Thames; other regattas there are in plenty, but none can compare with Henley in importance. Its heats are telegraphed abroad, and as a sporting event it ranks only second to the boat race. The regatta is held the first week in July. The course is lined by booms, within the shelter of which every variety of craft is seen wedged together so tightly as to make upsetting a sheer impossibility. Punts worked with canoe paddles are perhaps the most popular, but skiffs and frail Canadian canoes, as well as the solid hired craft of the boat builders may be seen. Gondolas regularly make their appearance, and seem to vanish in between from year to year. It used to be fashionable to wear simple muslins and straws at Henley, but year by year fashion has screwed up things to a higher pitch, until nowadays gowns which, in their elaborate affectation of simplicity, would not disgrace Ascot itself, are to be seen everywhere, especially on the lawns of the clubs which run down to the water behind the waiting craft. The scene is a gay one, and for days before every available room is taken, every available boat hired. The Red Lion--and Henley would hardly be Henley without the Red Lion--could be filled several times over. It was of this inn Shenstone wrote:--
Whoe'er has travelled 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.
The whole poem, of which this is a verse, was written on a window of the inn, and though the window was broken the relic is preserved. Charles I stayed at the Red Lion in 1632, on his way from London to Oxford, and a large fresco painting of the Royal Arms, done in commemoration of this visit, was discovered over a fireplace during alterations. Doubtless it had been purposely hidden in the days when Henley was hotly Parliamentarian and striving vainly to subdue poor little Greenlands.
Owing to its position as a sort of halfway house between London and Oxford, Henley enjoys a good deal of society. The great Duke of Marlborough actually furnished a room at the inn that he might frequently occupy it. It is at Henley that the daily steamer stops when running between Kingston and Oxford in the summer months.
Between Henley and Sonning lies the most intricate part of the river bed, and here are the most bewitching reaches. The numerous islets, the backwaters and sheltered nooks, make it a favourite part with boating men.
Wargrave backwater, indeed, is the most famous on the river, and is in summer simply a fairyland of greenery. The entrance, behind a willow-covered island, conveys something of mystery, and as one floats gently along a waterway so narrow that one could almost touch the banks on either side, with the sun showering down between the meshes of the delicate veil of leaves, one might be sailing into the palace where lies the sleeping princess. Fiddler's Bridge is so low that it is necessary to lie down full length in the boat in passing under it, and two boats meeting must certainly make some arrangement for mutual safety, even if it be not exactly that of the goats in the fable.
Wargrave itself might be taken as a typical Thames-side village. Here we have collected together many of the features to be found singly in other river villages, notably the weather-worn look about the small irregular houses, probably due to the damp atmosphere, and, though not exactly an attraction from the house-hunter's point of view, yet a most desirable feature in the eyes of artists. No crudity can long exist by Thames side; with gentle fingers the soft atmosphere caresses the hard red brick and adds a touch of lichen here and there, and straightway the wall becomes a thing of beauty. Added to this, this same atmosphere, aided by the rich soil, possibly at one time part of the river bed, produces creepers in profusion in every nook and corner; and those asperities which will not yield to gentler methods are veiled by climbing clematis, by masses of wistaria, or by the stretching withy branches of rose bushes. The result is a sweet vista of glory in flower-time, a glory out of which peep casement windows, gable ends, and irregular angles. Roses and sweetbrier, purple clematis and starry jasmine, tall garden plants, and delicate overhanging mauve blooms of wistaria, looking like rare coloured bunches of grapes, mingle with or succeed one another from spring to autumn. The prolific growth in Thames village gardens is one source of beauty to the river. In autumn no strip of a few square yards but has its tall hollyhocks, its royal sunflowers, and, in gay carpets, its scented stocks. The gardens of the lock-keepers, often situated on small islands, are among the gayest on the river; a prize is offered every year for the best of them, a prize which, I believe, Goring has carried off frequently. Matthew Arnold must have had some of these cottage gardens in his mind, when he wrote:
Soon will the musk carnations break and swell, Soon shall we have gold-dusted snapdragon, Sweet-william with his homely cottage smell, And stocks in fragrant blow; Roses, that down the alleys shine afar, And open jasmine-muffled lattices.
Besides its flowers and its general architecture, Wargrave has other claims to rank as a typical Thames-side village. The old inn, The George, whose lawn runs down to the water, is just the kind of hostelry one expects to find. Its signboard, indeed, was painted by two R.A.s, a fact eloquent of the kind of "wild-fowl" which forgathers at Wargrave. This unique sign is preserved indoors, while an understudy swings out over the village street.
Wargrave church, too, is no whit behind expectation. It is of flint, as are the most part of the Thames-side churches, and has a square tower with pinnacles, half ivycovered; so it acts up to all that is required of it. Thomas Day, the author of _Sandford and Merton_, which so delighted the last generation of children, is buried in the church; he was killed by a fall from his horse. To add to the list of its self-respecting virtues, the tower of Wargrave church can be seen from the river, peeping out from among the tall trees that surround it.
Above Wargrave is Shiplake, between which and Sonning is the curious channel known as the Loddon and St. Patrick's stream. These two, making a loop by which the lock may be avoided, are tempting to boatmen, for nowhere else on the river may such a feat be performed. Yet if the boatman try the passage up-stream it is likely he will regret it and wish he had favoured the lock, with all its bother and its unwelcome toll instead; for St. Patrick's Stream has a swift current.
Of Sonning who can write with sufficient inspiration? The wonderful old red-brick bridge has drawn artists by the score, whereupon they have drawn it in retaliation! The hotel rose garden, famous for the variety and beauty of the blooms, is an attraction only second, and the hotel itself is second to none on the river.
The mills on the Thames might well have a book to themselves; they are so ancient and so picturesque. Several, including the one at Sonning, are actually mentioned in _Domesday Book_. They are more ancient in their establishment even than the records of the monasteries, and so can claim to be the oldest things on the river, though some of the bridges might run them close. In the hot summer days the backwater of a mill is a place beloved of many. There, beneath the shelter of a broad-leaved horse-chestnut, so thick and rich of growth it makes the water almost black, one may lie in still content, hearing the splash of the falling water, and perhaps seeing it dashing from the mighty flaps of the wheel in glittering cascades. The very sight helps to keep one cool.
Of bridges, too, much might be said, and yet records are hard to find. Sonning bridge must rank high in age, as also that at Abingdon, of which we read:
King Herry the Fyft in his fourthe yere, He hath i-founde for his folke a brige in Berkschire For cartes with cariage may go and come clere, That many wynters afore were mareed in the myre. Culham hythe hath caused many a curse, I-blessed be our helpers we have a better waye, Without any peny for cart or for horse. --_Geoffrey Barbour._
The building of bridges was in old days considered an act of charity, in the same way as the founding of almshouses and "hospitals". People left bequests with this object.
Between Reading and Wallingford are two other noted beauty bits, which could not be omitted in any book on the Thames, however limited the space. Mapledurham, with its beautiful little church, its fine old Elizabethan house near by, and its most delightful mill, is visited by everyone who can make the pilgrimage. It is, however, rather spoilt by the near neighbourhood of Reading, which is the only town which can be called such, in the real "towny" sense, between London and Oxford. Yet Reading is not exactly on the riverside, but has a river suburb at Caversham. Henley, Wallingford, Abingdon, and the rest are so thoroughly in accordance with the spirit of the river, so charming in themselves, and above all so comparatively limited in extent, they add to rather than detract from the Thames scenery. Reading, in spite of its undoubted features of interest, in spite of its ancient history, is still a manufacturing town, and as such spreads around an atmosphere which is uncongenial to true Thames lovers, who regard it as a blot.
The abbot of Reading was mitred, and ruled with a powerful hand; indeed, the abbey over which he held sway was third in England, and had the privilege of coining, a royal prerogative. Adela, second queen of King Henry I, is buried here, also his daughter the Empress Maude. When the Dissolution came, the abbot in office, Hugh Farringford, thirty-first of his line, nourished on the proud traditions of his predecessors, refused to yield to Henry VIII, and was in consequence hanged, drawn, and quartered in front of his own gate.
There was a castle in Reading as well as an abbey, though the only reminiscence of it left is in the name of Castle Street. From the time of the Danes the castle played its part in history; in the Civil Wars it was at first a stronghold for the King and later for the Parliamentarians. St. Giles's Church still bears the marks of the artillery from which it suffered. Archbishop Laud was born at Reading and educated at the Free School there. At present, as everyone knows, Reading is renowned for its biscuits and seeds.
Farther up we have a repetition of twin villages, linked by a bridge, veritable Siamese twins, a fact which is interesting and curious. Pangbourne and Whitchurch dwell in the same sort of amicable rivalry as do Streatley and Goring. They may be at war between themselves but they hold together against the world.
Streatley certainly cannot fail to yield the palm to Goring for beauty. For Goring is considered by many critics to be the very prettiest village on the river, a claim which its quaint main street, falling down the hillside to the river at right angles, does much to establish. But the surroundings of Streatley, the splendid sweep of heights, which back it up, cannot be rivalled by Goring. The road running through both crosses the river, and it is ancient in very truth. It was used by the Romans and formed part of the famous Icknield Way, but was made long before their time. For generations before history begins bands of furtive men, ready for surprise, and as suspicious as wild animals, must have padded on bare feet down one line of hills, across the river ford, and mounted the heights again, keenly scanning the country for possible enemies. No neat creeper-covered red brick cottages then, no church even, though Goring church is very old, dating back to Norman times, and having been the church of an Augustinian priory. No mills even, not the most primitive, and though neither village can be accused of ruining its beauty in a frantic search after modernism--the mill at Goring, in spite of its mossy roof, gleaming green and russet, frequented by the flocks of white pigeons, has adopted an electric generating station! From the electric-power methods to the Ancient Britons is indeed a far cry!