Tho. Letherbrow.Lyme Hall.Larger image(194 kB)
Tho. Letherbrow.Lyme Hall.
Larger image(194 kB)
The supreme part of Disley is that which lies on the contrary side of the station, consisting in the green and lofty crest called Jackson Edge. This is reached by going a short distance along the Buxton road, then mounting a steep ascent upon the left, cottages on either side, and eventually through a lane upon the right. Due west from the summit, like a garden viewed from a balcony, the plain seen from Lyme Park is displayed even more variously. When satisfied, we may curl round by the stone–quarries, then through the fir–wood, and so back into Disley village,—a little tour just enough for those who not being very strong of limb, still go shares with the strongest in zest for mountain breath and extended prospects; or we may leave Disley again behind, and, crossing a few meadows, mount gloriousMarple Ridge.[17]Here the prospect becomes wider and more varied still: filling one also with astonishment that so much can be commanded at the cost of so little labour. The fact is that the railway does half the climbing for us, the line from Hazel Grove to Disley being almost a slope. Standing with our backs to Disley village, on the right towers the great green pyramid called Cobden Edge; then come the hills that rise above Whaley Bridge and Taxal, Kinder Scout resting upon their shoulders. In front are hills again, Werneth Low, always identified by the sky–line fringe of trees; Stirrup–benches and Charlesworth Coombs, and the three–hill–churches always remembered by their corresponding initial, Marple, Mellor, and Mottram, with Chadkirk and Compstall in the valley. Southwards, Lyme Cage and Lyme Hall, the latter half–hidden among its trees, are discoverable; and due west is the great plain now familiar,—that one which includes Vale Royal, and reaches to Chester. Let all who make a pilgrimage hither remember, as when they visit Gawsworth, to bring their opera–glasses, which however useful when there is curiosity as to a cantatrice, have nowhere a more excellent use than on the mountain–side. Cobden Edge, from its greatly superior altitude, overlooks even Marple Ridge! To reach it, after leaving Disley station, cross the wood a little beyond the hotel, and go down a steeplane, arriving presently at a slit in the wall upon the right, through which it is necessary to sidle as best one may. The canal has then to be crossed, and the river Goyt, after which there is a little glen leading the way to the path up the hill. On the top, all the grandeurs of Marple Ridge are renewed five–fold. Alderley has nearly subsided into the plain. Beeston Castle is conspicuous. Some say they can descry the great Ormes–head. Pursuing the road along the crest of the hill, we soon arrive at Marple village; or descending from it, upon the right, get almost as soon into the beautiful valley of the Goyt. Both, however, since 1867, have been rendered so much more easily accessible by means of the Midland railway, that they may be left for another chapter, the more particularly since a few miles’ continued ride from Disley brings us to another charming neighbourhood—that one which comprises the above–mentioned Whaley Bridge and Taxal.
The most manageable of the many pleasant walks within reach of the latter, is that one which leads to Taxal church, following the high road till a white gate upon the right opens into meadows descending into a dell, where the swift and limpid waters, if they do not exactly make “shallow falls,” at all events invite the birds to sing their madrigals. Quitting the dell, the path is once again upwards, soon reaching the church, and after leaving this, through the grove of trees and along the foot of the reservoir, the overflow from which often seems a rushing snowdrift. This fine sheet of wateris one of several similar storages prepared for the Peak Forest Canal, and supplies an admirable illustration of the service rendered to scenery by business enterprise, which if it sometimes destroys or mutilates, as in the case of Gatley Carrs, compensates in the gift of broad and shining lakes. An excellent characteristic of the great Lancashire and Cheshire reservoirs is that ordinarily, when in the country, like this one at Taxal, they resemble, as nearly as possible, natural meres. Established, as at Lymm, by damming up the narrow outlet of some little valley through which a stream descends, the water, as it accumulates, is allowed, as far as practicable, to determine its own boundaries; hence, excepting the one inevitable straight line required for the dam, though this can sometimes be dispensed with, the margin winds, the banks become shore–like, and the landscape is exquisitely enriched. No landscape is perfectly beautiful without water, and nowhere has so much been done undesignedly for scenic beauty than in our two adjacent counties. The same is true of the addition given by noble railway–arches to hollows filled with trees. Scenery impregnated with the outcome of human intelligence and human skill must needs, in the long run, always take deepest hold of our admiration, for the simple reason that human nature is there; just as the most precious and delightful part of home is that which is superadded by human affection. From the high grounds above the water the outlook is wonderfully romantic; when upon the crest of the hill there is an inviting walk also under the trees. Forthe vigorous, the best part of Taxal is after all upon the Derbyshire instead of the Cheshire side of the river, mounting continuously for two or three miles, and so eventually reaching Eccles Pike—a grand, green, round hill in the middle of a huge green basin. Beyond Whaley Bridge come in turn Doveholes and Buxton.
At Buxton, once theEl Doradoof local naturalists, the visitor finds picturesque beauty and historical associations, even if he be not in search of the recruited health which this celebrated old town is supposed to be always so willing to supply. Plenty of exhilarating rambles may be found within the compass of an afternoon, the hills being lofty, while for those who cannot climb there is the romantic valley of the Wye, called Ashwood Dale.
But the dell,Bathed in the mist, is fresh and delicateAs vernal corn–field, or the unripe flax,When through its half–transparent stalks at eveThe level sunshine glimmers with green light.
But the dell,Bathed in the mist, is fresh and delicateAs vernal corn–field, or the unripe flax,When through its half–transparent stalks at eveThe level sunshine glimmers with green light.
S. T. COLERIDGE.
THE opening of the Midland line through Marple, like that of the L. & N. W. through Disley, was hailed with immense delight by all lovers of country rambles. Access thereto previously was possible only on foot, or by canal, and in either case the journey was rather long. Chadkirk, soon reached, is a celebrated old village thought by some to preserve the name of the once greatly–honoured patron–saint commemorated also in Chadderton, Chaddock, Chatburn, and Chat Moss; by others, to refer to one “Earl Cedda.” Be that as it may, the tradition of the old missionary’s once abiding here still clings to Chadkirk, and a clear spring by the roadside, upon the left, going up the hill near the church, and now lined with mosses, is to thisday “St. Chad’s well.” The earliest ecclesiastical notice of the place does not occur till temp. Henry VIII. The hill itself, Werneth Low, is one of the highest in Cheshire, and the first of several such in that odd piece of the county which runs away to the north–east, stretched forth, as an old topographer says, “like the wing of an eagle.” Like all the other eminences hereabouts, it commands very noble and extensive views. So complete, in truth, is the look–out in all directions from the summit, that to walk from end to end, is like pacing a watch–tower. The plains of Cheshire and South Lancashire lie to the west; Lyme, Marple, and Disley are seen to the south; and eastwards there are inviting bits of Derbyshire, here separated from Cheshire by the Etherowe, the opposite side charmingly clothed by the Ernocroft woods, while in the distance rise the vast moorlands of Charlesworth and Glossop. If bound for Werneth Low it is best, perhaps, after all, to quit the train at Woodley, or to make our way to that place from Parkwood. In any case, until Werneth Low has been ascended, knowledge of our local scenery is decidedly immature.
The long and beautifully wooded glen extending from Romiley to Marple is Chadkirk Vale, and the stream, not as some suppose, the Mersey, but the above–named Goyt. That it is marked as the Mersey in Speed, and again in the Ordnance map, no doubt is true. White also calls it the Mersey,—all who do this considering that the Mersey begins with the confluence of the Etherowe with the Goyt, about half–a–mile below Compstall bridge.But the real point of commencing is where the Goyt is joined by the Tame, that is to say, a little below Portwood bridge, in the north–western suburb of Stockport. The ramble up the vale is in every portion delightful, closing in a deep ravine or clough called Marple Dell, the upper extremity spanned by the three great arches of “Marple Aqueduct.” The height of this celebrated work from the bed of the river is nearly a hundred feet; yet, to–day it is overtopped by the Midland viaduct, from which, as we glide past, the dell is seen half as much again below. Aqueducts are common enough, and so are viaducts, but it is seldom that we have the opportunity of contemplating at the same moment a twofold series of arches of equal grandeur, the viaduct consisting of no fewer than thirteen. Everywhere right and left of the Goyt, hereabouts, there are unforbidden and usually quiet and shady paths, some of them possibly entered more readily by the ancient foot–roads from near Bredbury and Hazel–grove, but all converging towards Marple village. Three or four of the most interesting little cloughs or dells within the same distance of Manchester are here associated, the prettiest, perhaps, being those called Dan–bank wood and Marple wood. Lovely strolls are at command also by aiming for Otterspool Bridge, these chiefly through meadows and by the rapid river, which, when not perplexed by shifting islands and peninsulas, decked with willow–herb and butter–bur, glides with a stilly smoothness quite remarkable for one so shallow. At Otterspool the rush of water is sometimes very strong.In the olden times it was similar at Stockport, though now subdued by the constant casting in of dirt, if there be truth, that is, in the record that in 1745, when the Stockport bridge was blown up in order to check the retreat of the Pretender, it ran beneath the arches “with great fury.” Upon the western banks of the Goyt, not very far from Chadkirk, perched upon a romantic natural terrace, there is another very interesting and celebrated Elizabethan mansion, Marple Old Hall, the more pleasing since, though subjected in 1659 to rather considerable alterations, it appears to retain all the best of the original characteristics. It is now draped also, in part, with luxuriant ivy. The historical incidents connected with Marple Hall are well known,—those, at least, which gather round the name of Cromwell. To our own mind there is something better yet,—the spectacle in the earliest months of spring of the innumerable snowdrops, these dressing the woods and slopes with their immaculate purity, almost to the water’s edge.
Proceeding direct to Marple by the Midland, the choicest of the many walks now at command begins with descent of the hill upon the left, then, as soon as the river is reached,—keeping as near it as may be practicable,—through the lanes and meadows as far as “Arkwright’s Mill.” No Ancoats mill is this one. Originally called “Bottoms Mill,” it was erected in 1790 by the celebrated Mr. Samuel Oldknow, of whom so many memorials exist in the neighbourhood, including a lettered tablet in Marple church, and who would seemto have been associated with Arkwright in many of his most important undertakings. The mill in question was built, as Mr. Joel Wainwright correctly states,[18]upon the lines of the famous one at Cromford. Embosomed in a romantic valley, and surrounded by fine trees, among which are walnuts—for in tree–planting, as in other things, Mr. Oldknow displayed exceptional good taste—it gives the idea less of a cotton–mill than of some great institute or retreat, and proves that in the country, at least, scenes of manufacturing need not by any means be, as usual, depôts of ugliness. Soon after passing the mill, the path continues by the river–side, through pleasant meads and under the shadow of the trees to the point where the stream is crossed by Windybottom Bridge, where the hill has now to be ascended, either leftwards for Marple Ridge and Disley, or turning to the right for Marple village. Either way, the walk is delightful, and always at an end too soon. Another charming way from Arkwright’s mill to the bridge is along the slope on the Derbyshire side of the water, called Strawberry Hill, but this is only for the privileged. Down in this sequestered valley, if we love the sight of wild–flowers, there is always great store; in May the fragrant wild–anise, and in autumn the campanula.
A third excellent Marple walk is to go up the hill fromthe station, turn instantly to the right just above the line, and alongside of it, and at the distance of a hundred yards or so find our way to the bank of the canal, crossing this and entering the fields through a stile. The path then goes past Lea Hey farm, and after awhile past Nab Top farm, beautiful prospects all the way. On the right, far below, we now soon have the river, eventually treading the meadows called Marple Dale, through which it meanders, and at the end of which the path mounts through the wood and enters Marple Park, the way back to the village now self–declared.
After Strines, from near which place there is another way to Cobden Edge, next, if travelling by train, we get to New Mills, and before long to Chapel–en–le–Frith, once again a point for new beginning, since it is here that we start for Castleton. This is a jaunt purely for pedestrians, and for vehicles not unwilling to linger on the way, being one long climb, from which even steam, that, like Lord Chatham, “tramples upon impossibilities,” for the present seems to shrink. England furnishes few such walks as this one from Chapel to Castleton, the concluding part in particular, by the ancient bridle–path, through the Windgates, or “Winnats,”—crags rising upon each side to a height so vast that at times we seem absolutely shut in. The hugeness and the loneliness of this wonderful chasm, the bare grey slopes and bluffs of projecting rock relieved only by the presence of a few sheep, powerfully recall the great passes amid the mountains of the distant north. Once, however, it musthave been comparatively well trodden, the Winnats, up to about eighty years ago, having been the sole thoroughfare from Chapel into Hope Dale. The high–road now curls round by the foot of Mam Tor, or the “Shivering Mountain,” so called because of the continual dribbling away upon one side of the loose material of which this singular pile chiefly consists. The apex of Mam Tor is one thousand three hundred and fifty feet above the sea, yet so great is the elevation of all the surrounding country that it seems quite inconsiderable. Everywhere hereabouts, in fact throughout the journey, after leaving Chapel, a remarkable negative feature of the scenery is the absence of water. Plenty of the little recesses are here that remind us of those afar where moisture drips and sparkles on green moss. But we look in vain for the slightest trickling movement. There are none of the little springs which ordinarily upon the mountain–side seem longing for the time when they shall become cascades. In Lancashire a pass like the Winnats would have had a splashing and plentiful stream, or at all events would remind us of a Palestine wady. It is further remarkable that upon these hills there is no heather, nor is there a single plant of either whortleberry or bracken. The great attraction at Castleton consists in the caverns. The Blue–john mine should be visited in order to learn what stalactite drapery means; but the best part of the “Peak–cavern” is the vestibule, open to the daylight. Pushing into the interior, the vast altitude of one small portion, revealed for a moment by means offireworks, no doubt has a kind of sublimity. Still there is nothing to please, unless it be pleasure to stand in a dark inferno that seems no part of our own world, and which can scarcely be entered without a feeling of dismay. The ruins of Peveril Castle, and the fine old Norman arch in Castleton church are both very interesting to the archæologist. The position of the former is most curious, the castle seeming from the foot of the hill to stand upon a simple slope of turf, whereas in reality just behind it there is an impassable abyss.
This inestimable line, the Midland, carries us also to “Miller’s Dale,” from which station there is a branch at an acute returning angle to Buxton; thence onwards to “Monsal Dale,” Hassop, Bakewell, Rowsley, Darley, and Matlock. Monsal Dale,ipsissima, has been called the “Arcadia of the Peak.” It may be so. Remembering the ancient and golden canon that it is the eye of the lover that makes the beauty, the judgment may be let stand as one that was true and just to the man who pronounced it. The poet asks, “Who can paint like nature?” Surely he forgot the sweet facility of the human heart; in any case, there are no festoons like those woven by the spirit of man. Hassop, the next in order, is the nearest point of departure, on foot, for Chatsworth, though Bakewell has somewhat the advantage as regards scenery upon the way. Bakewell is the centre also for Haddon Hall, reached thence, on foot, in half an hour. Rowsley supplies the carriage–way to Chatsworth, and a shady and retired walk thereto along the western side ofthe stream. From this point also access is easy to Lathkill Dale, and many another of the gems of Derbyshire. Darley Dale, with its majestic yew, one of the oldest and grandest trees in England, and Matlock, with its mighty Tor, are places for the longest of summer days—we can do with no less—when the sunshine is oriental and sunset is a kaleidoscope.
For a simple afternoon, there is nothing within easy reach more delicious than Miller’s Dale itself, the significance of which name is really the lucid and babbling Wye, in its sweetest portion, and the unique recess which holds Chee Tor, not to mention the pretty Wormhill springs. The entrance to the vale is close to the station, the path lying first through a long–extended grove of trees, then changing to the green turf of a most beautiful seclusion, the ground rising in pleasant slopes, smooth except where broken by uncovered rock, while by our side, all the way, the stream runs peacefully, circling at times in quiet pools, or quickening in ripples that seem to speak, the shallower parts decked with pebbles that are covered, when the sun shines, with lacework of leaf–shadows. The springs are at the foot of the slope where a steep and rugged path leads to Wormhill. The water wells out of the ground just as in the streets of a city when some great conduit underneath has given way, being derived, there can be no doubt, from some far–distant original source, whence it has travelled by secret subterranean channels. The phenomenon is in Derbyshire by no means an uncommon one. Streams inseveral places suddenly lose themselves in the ground, bursting out again, it may be miles away, after the manner of the Guadalquiver;—here, at Wormhill, it appears, nevertheless, to have its most pleasing illustration. The Tor is found in the magnificent gorge in front, a stupendous mass of limestone, rising vertically from the water’s edge, with a grand curvilinear outline of nearly a quarter of a mile in extent, the surface uniformly grey and bare, except for scattered ivy and a few iron–like yews that are anchored in the crevices. Upon the opposite side there is a corresponding cliff, but less precipitous, and clothed in every part with half–pendulous shrubs and trees. This wonderful scene may be reached also from Ashwood Dale, starting from Buxton, and when about half–way to Bakewell creeping down on the left to the margin of the stream. The path is romantic, but cannot be recommended, being in many parts difficult and here and there decidedly perilous.
My heart leaps up when I beholdThe rainbow in the sky—So was it when I was a boy;So is it now I am a man;So be it when I shall grow old,Or let me die!
My heart leaps up when I beholdThe rainbow in the sky—So was it when I was a boy;So is it now I am a man;So be it when I shall grow old,Or let me die!
WORDSWORTH.
FOR our present purpose it is convenient to include, under the general title of the North–eastern Highlands, the vast mountain district, occupying portions of three counties, which extends from the Peak to the neighbourhood of Greenfield. Reached in part by the Manchester, Sheffield, and Lincolnshire system, in part by the L. & N. W. Huddersfield line, it is tolerably well–known to travellers by those railways. They are cognizant of it as a region of lofty moorland, bleak and uninviting except at grouse–time. To people in general, however, it is as strange as Norway; and no wonder, since a visit to any one of the better portions implies a love of adventure which, if not exceptional, is infrequent.Glorious, nevertheless, are those untouched and silent wastes. Thousands of their acres have never felt the ploughshare, nay, not even the spade, and probably never will. In parts they seem to belong less to the existing order of nature than to obsolete ages, suggesting, like the Sahara, the idea of a former and exhausted world. Seal Bark might be the relics of some ancient mountain, torn to fragments when the wind whistled among the Calamites and the Sigillarias, now nothing but bones, nameless and immemorial.
The southernmost portion of this huge tract of wilderness is occupied by Kinder Scout, the highest factor of the Peak, the elevation being nearly two thousand feet above the sea; and which, presenting a “broad bare back” or plateau of fully four miles in length from east to west, with a width of more than half as much, is distinguishable at a glance, though often cloud–capped, from all its neighbours. Unfortunately for the rightful claims of massive Kinder, this great length detracts from its majesty, since the majestic, to be appreciated, always demands a certain amount of concentration. In substance, like most other parts of our “north–eastern highlands,” Kinder Scout is millstone–grit, thickly overlaid with mountain–peat, the foothold of wiry scrub, though, here and there presenting bold escarpments. The surface is deeply fissured by rills of drainage–water, and hillocks and depressions are universal. Paths cross it in various directions, but these of course are only for the brave.
The best route, when it is desired to ascend this noble eminence, isviâHayfield, beginning at Bowden Bridge, and going up the valley past Farlands. It is indispensable, however, either to be provided with a map, or to be accompanied by a guide, as well as to take precautions in regard to possible trespass.[19]Once upon the summit, the reward is ample, alike in the magnificent scenery, rich with distant purple shadows, and in the inspiring atmosphere. If in the landscape there is nothing gay and festal, no slight thing is it to stand in the presence–chamber of these antique solitudes, reading the silent history of centuries of winter ravage, so terrible that no wonder the very rocks have thrust up their grey heads to ask the meaning of it. No slight thing is it either at any time to find ourselves beside the very urn of a bounding and musical stream, such as trots along the valley, this one having its birth in “Kinder Downfall”—a far–seen shoot of water from the western cliff, a single silver line of pretty cataract that might have heard of Terni and the Bridal Veil, and so much the more precious because the only one of its kind within the distance, which is from Manchester, say precisely twenty miles. Rain of course is needed, as at Lodore, for the full development.
The writer of the “Guide” says that another very beautiful and not infrequent spectacle to be witnessedhere is when in wet weather, or after a storm, the wind blows strongly from the W.S.W. “Coming from the direction of Hayfield, it sweeps over the Upper Moor and the bare backs of the bleak Blackshaws, and beating against the high flanking walls of rock is concentrated with prodigious power into the angle of the mountain, forcing back the whole volume of the cascade, and carrying it up in most fantastic and beautiful lambent forms, which are driven back again as heavy rain and mist for half a mile across the bog, then perhaps to return to be shivered into spray once more, unless in some momentary lull the torrent rushes down in huge volume.” “Sometimes,” he adds, “in winter, the fall, with the huge walls of rock flanking its sides, becomes one mass of icy stalactites, which as the sun declines present a magnificent spectacle.” According to Mr. H. B. Biden, inNotes and Queries, Feb. 16th, 1878, though other writers think differently, and, as it seems to us, less reasonably, it is to the downfall that Kinder Scout owes its name. Kin–(cin)–dwr–scwd, he tells us, in Cymraeg signifies “High water cataract.”
Keeping to the main line, the original “Sheffield and Manchester,” half an hour carries us to Broadbottom and Mottram–in–Longdendale, where we stop in order to make acquaintance with the lively Etherowe, which here divides Cheshire from Derbyshire, running on to Compstall, where, as above stated, it enters the Goyt. The scenery all the way to the point of confluence is alluring. On the Cheshire side of the stream the slope is occupiedin part by Bottoms–hall Wood, through which there is a footway to Werneth Low, and then to Hyde or Woodley, a very pleasant sufficiency for an afternoon. On the Derbyshire side, after crossing a few fields, Stirrup Wood forms a beautiful counterpoise to Bottoms–hall; and when through this we are upon Stirrup–benches, famous for profusion of the Oreads’ fern—that fragrant one so fittingly dedicated to the nymphs who once upon a time danced on green slopes around Diana,
Hinc atque hinc glomerantur Oreades.
Botanists call it theLastrea Oreopteris. It is well to be reminded by them that scientific nomenclature is something more than Greek and Latin, and a burden for the memory, and that all the best and oldest portion of it lies bosomed in poësy. The mythical Oreads themselves are not required, for we have better ones in our live companions; but of the memory of them it would be an irreparable loss to be despoiled.
Above Stirrup–benches comes Ludworth Moor. Then far away, again up above, the grand mountain–terrace called Charlesworth Coombs, the semi–circular and denuded face of which is in some parts very nearly perpendicular, the ridge affording, yet once again, supreme views. On every side there is a tumultuous sea of mountain–crests, with intermixture of sweet green knolls, often wooded, in the relish of which, as upon Kinder, one thinks of the immortals in art and literature,
Who never can be wholly known,But still their beauty grows.
Who never can be wholly known,But still their beauty grows.
On the contrary side are the Glossop moors; within the valley, the thriving town after which they are named; and the remarkably beautiful cone, covered with trees, called Shire Hill, an isolated mound that looks as if it might have been tossed there in pastime by the Titans. Glossop, as every one knows, has a station of its own, which should be remembered not only for the sake of Shire Hill, but for Lees–hall Dingle, Ramsley Clough, Chunal Clough, Melandra Castle, and Whiteley Nab, the climb to the brows of which last is no doubt somewhat arduous, but well repaid. On summer Sunday mornings, very early, when the smoke has had time to dissolve, the Glossop people say they can distinguish even Chester and the sea. Ramsley Clough, a romantic defile, apparently under the special protection of the deities of the fountains, and the stream down which would be more fitly designated a thousand little waterfalls, is remarkably prolific in mosses and other green cryptogamous plants. “Melandra Castle”—an old rampart, with a vast quantity of stones dug out or still embedded, is supposed, on the showing of some fragments of Roman tiles, to date from not later thanA.D.500.
Mottram–in–Longdendale, like Charlesworth, abounds in bold and romantic scenery, though the elevation is much less, the height of Mottram church above the sea being only about four hundred and fifty feet. Tintwistle and the neighbourhood also furnish endless recreation, as, indeed, does the whole country as far as Woodhead. The railway runs up the valley of the Etherowe, whichriver rises in the moors above, and has at this part been converted, by barricading, into five successivequasi–lakes,—not so picturesque, perhaps, as some of the other great reservoirs we have made acquaintance with, but still furnishing an agreeable spectacle, alike from the train and from the hills. They contribute the chief portion of the Manchester waterworks storage; the collecting–grounds, which are estimated to have an extent of nearly nineteen thousand acres, consisting chiefly of moorland, covered, as at Kinder, with immense sponges of mountain–peat. Retaining the rain, these serve a purpose corresponding to that of the snows and glaciers upon the Alps, so various are the ways in which the munificence of nature is expressed. Mounting on to the moors at the entrance to the Woodhead tunnel (by the brookside) we presently find a clough, a waterfall, and the beginnings of the river Derwent. Crossing the river, as the alternative, there is a fine walk to Tintwistle, and thence, over other seemingly boundless moors, to Staley Brushes.
But now we get to a district better sought by travel on the L. & N. W. line, the long and picturesque portion of it, that is, which runs through the Saddleworth valleyen routefor Leeds. With the mind absorbed in thought of the place one is bound to, or of the duties or occupations there awaiting our arrival, the scenery right and left of a railway often receives a very indifferent amount of attention. The line from Ashton to Huddersfield, excepting only the great tunnel, is one of those,however, which should never be used heedlessly. The prospects are never wide–extended, for the track is entirely through deep valleys: it is the slopes ascending from these which are in many parts picturesque; if we think ever so slightly of what they lead up to, they possess the still better quality of significance.
In the bygones the “Brushes,” briefly so designated, were almost as noted with the old Lancashire naturalists as Cotterill. The ravine so called, grey crags guarding the entrance, and a stream, with innumerable little mossy waterfalls descending from some undiscovered fount above, was renowned not more for its wild grandeur than for its botany and ornithology. Now it is only historical, the adaptation of the best part to the purposes of a waterworks company having effaced all the leading characteristics. The wheel–path remains much as it was, at least above the dam, and by pursuing this, a somewhat long ascent, we find ourselves once again upon the moors, here called “North Britain.” Two courses present themselves now. One is to bend to the right, returning by way of Hollingworth; the other to strike off sharply to the left, and after a while, descend to the railway. The first–named supplies views of extraordinary breadth and changefulness, extending up and across the Tintwistle valley, and covering the hills above Dinting and Glossop; the Hollingworth reservoirs (supplementary to those of Woodhead, and well set–off with trees,) contributing in the best manner to the power of the landscape as a whole. The Holyngworthe family (forsuch is the ancient and proper spelling of the name) up to the time of the death of the last representative, had been seated here from times anterior to the Conquest, thus reminding one of the Traffords of Trafford Park. The hall, a quaint relic of the past, now tenanted by Mr. Broderick, is to a considerable extent, of temp. Henry VI. By taking the leftward path, over the heather, opportunity is acquired for mounting the lofty crest, said to have been once occupied by “Bucton Castle;” a fortress, to say the least of it, semi–fabulous, though there is no reason to doubt that in the Armada times, Bucton, like Alderley Edge, was used as a signalling station. In case of need, flames shooting up from the topmost peak, would be visible, on clear nights, at a distance of at least twenty miles.
Reference was made, a page or two back, to Seal Bark. For this we quit the line at Greenfield, first ascending past “Bin Green” to the “Moorcock,” vulgarly “Bill’s–o’–Jack’s,” from the heights around which the outlook over the adjacent country is once again marvellous. Very curious, too, and in itself well worth the climb, is the far–seen rock “Pots and Pans,” well, if not elegantly, so named, for on drawing near it is discovered to be an immense mass of millstone–grit, left there since the glacial period, with about a dozen roundish cavities upon the top, the largest of them more than a yard across by about fifteen inches in depth, and nine of the group usually holding water. Local superstition, as would be expected, attributes these singular basins to the Druids,who are supposed to have excavated them for ritual purposes; but, as in other places—for such cavities are by no means confined to Greenfield—there can be no hesitation in regarding them as pure works of nature. Millstone–grit is, in parts, peculiarly inadhesive. Exposed as this rock has been for untold ages to the beating of tempests, its softer portions, where the cavities are, have been slowly fretted away, and we are asked to recall nothing more than the ancient proverb. Keeping to the road, by degrees the elevation becomes so great that the topmost part is playfully termed the “Isle of Skye.” It is hereabouts that the cloudberry, that most artistic of northern fruits, never seen and unable to exist upon lower levels, is for our own neighbourhood, so plentiful. When ripe, so thick is the spread of rosy amber that the spectacle is most bright and pretty, the ground seeming strewed with white–heart cherries. Singular to say, although very nice to human palates, the grouse leave it untouched, turning to the whortleberry and the cranberry.
As the “Druidical” origin has been popular, and lest there may still be a lingering doubt with some as to the natural origin of the “Pots and Pans,” it may be added that upon the high grounds within a few miles of Todmorden there have been reckoned up nearly eight hundred similar cavities, the diameter varying from a few inches to four or five feet. They may be observed indeed in every stage of formation, thus altogether neutralizing the idea of their having been produced by artificial means.They occur, moreover, only in this particular series of the millstone–grit, other descriptions of grit in the neighbourhood—those not so amenable to the action of the weather—being entirely without. Very often, too, the basins are in positions such as neither Druids or any one else would ever select for ritual or ceremonials. The number of basins is itself an argument against the Druidical origin, since so many would never possibly be required, to say nothing of the fairly determined fact that the Druidical altar was usually acromlech, formed by placing a great slab of stone horizontally upon the edges of two other slabs fixed in the ground vertically.
But we are bound for Seal Bark. To get hither, the road must be quitted near the “Moorcock,” and a way found through the fir–wood to the bottom of the valley, then re–ascending by the borders of the stream. A water so wild and beautiful it would be difficult to find nearer than Scotland or Carnarvonshire. Sliding, gliding, tumbling, in every conceivable mode, now it hurries along a smooth and limpid current; now it plays with the boulders, and changes to little cascades; now it fills little bays and recesses with reposing foam as white as snow, or that are alive with circular processions of untiring bubbles that swim awhile delicately, round and round, then, like the dancers in Sir Roger de Coverley, when they bend beneath the arch of lifted arms, rejoin their first partners and away down the middle, away and away, as swift as thought. Great defiles open on the right and left, Rimmon Clough and Birchen Clough, atthe foot of which stands the one solitary tree of this grand wilderness—a mountain–ash, the tree of all others accustomed to loneliness. Above, at a vast height, is Ravenstone Brow, so named from the number of birds that once nested thereabouts, and where cuckoos still come. When at length we arrive at Seal Bark, who shall mistake it? All the waste and broken rock of a kingdom seems to have been pitched over the brow, and let fall and roll or stop just where it liked. The probability is that at some remote period the torrent undermined one side of the gorge, the ruins toppling over much in the same way as those of the ancient Clevedon shore, where it is plain that the fragments owe their present position to the remorseless beating of the sea.
For those who care to run on through the great Standedge tunnel, three miles and sixty–four yards long, thus getting to Marsden, there is an extremely fine mountain–pass called Wessenden Clough, the heights on either hand not less than a thousand feet, and once again a rushing torrent. There is a path back to Greenfield over the moors, but the way is rather long, except for the practised. The great tunnel at Woodhead, upon the Sheffield line, often thought to exceed the Standedge, is, we may here remark, twenty yards shorter.
So rich a shade, so green a sod,Our English fairies never trod;Yet who in Indian bower has stood,But thought on England’s “good green wood?”And bless’d, beneath the palmy shade,Her hazel and her hawthorn glade,And breath’d a prayer (how oft in vain!)To gaze upon her oaks again?
So rich a shade, so green a sod,Our English fairies never trod;Yet who in Indian bower has stood,But thought on England’s “good green wood?”And bless’d, beneath the palmy shade,Her hazel and her hawthorn glade,And breath’d a prayer (how oft in vain!)To gaze upon her oaks again?
HEBER.
FORTY years ago no part of our neighbourhood more abounded in natural attractions than the district which comprises Moston, Blackley, Boggart–hole Clough, Middleton, Bamford Wood, and the upper portions generally of the valleys of the Medlock and the Irk, the latter including that pretty little cup amid the grassy and tree–clad slopes still known as “Daisy Nook.” How charmingly many of these places have been introduced into our local literature needs no telling. Samuel Bamford was not the man to misapprehend the beauty of nature. Throstle Glen was one of his favourite resorts.Edwin Waugh, happily, is still with us, not alone in perfect story, but ready with the always welcome living voice. The spread of building and of manufacturing has induced heavy changes in almost every portion of the district mentioned, changes partaking, only too often, of the nature of havoc, especially in the immediate vicinity of the streams. So long, however, as it holds centres of social and intellectual culture and refinement—Mr. George Milner lives at Moston—the mind does not care to contrast the present with the past, accepting the record, and in that quite willing to rest. The district in question is peculiarly interesting also from the fact of its having been one of the principal scenes of the work done by the old Lancashire “naturalists in humble life” during the time that they earned their reputation. A noted locality for hand–loom silk weaving, it was long distinguished in particular for its resident entomologists, the delicacy of touch demanded by that elegant art being just that which is needed when one’s play–hours are spent with Psyche; upon the same occupation would seem indeed to have arisen yet another of the old characteristic local tastes—that for the cultivation of dainty flowers, such as the auricula and the polyanthus. Floriculture is still pursued with fair success, though on a smaller scale; entomology, we fear, is like the hand–loom, almost forgotten. We should remember, also, that Alkrington Hall, near Middleton, was the residence of the celebrated Sir Ashton Lever, gentleman, scholar, and naturalist, and that it was by him that the innumerable objects of thefamous Leverian Museum were brought together. While a resident at Alkrington Hall (the ancient family seat) he had the best aviary in the kingdom. In 1775 the museum was removed to London, and ten years afterwards it was sold by auction piecemeal. Sir Ashton’s Manchester town house was that one in “Lever’s Row,” now called Piccadilly, which has for many years been the “White Bear” hotel. When he died, in 1788, this house was advertised as eligible for a ladies’ school, being so far away from the centre of business, and fields within a few yards!
“White Moss,” as before–mentioned(p. 60), has long since been converted into farm–land, but in the days referred to was still in its glory, dull to look at, no doubt, but to the interrogator a local garden of Eden. Never shall we forget the genial smile that rippled old George Crozier’s broad, round, rosy, white–fringed face as one sunny afternoon in Whitsun–week, 1839, we stepped with twenty or more under his guidance for the first time upon the elastic peat, and beheld the andromeda and the pink stars of the cranberry, these also for the first time. To Crozier the pretty flowers were familiar as the hills; his joy was to watch the delight they gave the juveniles. Presently a man came up and asked if we were “looking forbrids.” A little puzzled at first by the strange inquiry, the mystery was soon solved by his taking off his hat and showing it stuck full of butterflies, the “birds,” or in his homely Anglo–Saxon, the “brids” caught during his ramble. Among the more remarkable insects then to becaptured on White Moss were the showy beetle calledCarabus nitens, the glittering green stripes of its wing–cases edged with a band of brilliant copper–colour; the fox–moth,Lasiocampa rubi, so called from its peculiar foxy colour; and the emperor–moth,Saturnia pavonia, for which the moss had been from time immemorial a noted locality. Great has been the sport of many an entomologist, as, sitting on White Moss on a fine day in early summer, with a captured virgin female of this beautiful creature, theantennæof which are like ostrich plumes, the males have flocked to him, or rather toher, by the hundred, for the virgin female of the emperor–moth, though she can fly, prefers to sit still until she has been visited by an individual of the other sex. Up to this period she exudes a delicate odour which attracts the latter from long distances, those which have far to come, and arrive late, or not till after the advent of the first, turning back, unless captured by the entomologist’s net, as soon as they perceive by their wonderful instinct that she is virgin no longer. The wings of the males, as with most other kinds of butterfly, are rarely found perfect, except when first fledged. Flying about in ardent search of the female, they tear and chip them against the heath and other plants with which they come in contact through their impatience. The plant that chiefly attracted attention on that memorable day was the cotton–sedge, the most beautiful production of the moorlands, and conspicuous from afar as its silvery–white tassels bend and recover before the breeze. Carrying off a great handful,“Look!” said the rural children in the lanes, amazed that any one could care for such rubbish, “there’s a man been getting moss–crops!” All the mosses about Manchester produce the cotton–sedge, but never have we seen such luxuriant specimens as in the ditches that were then being cut for the draining of White Moss. Three species occur, the broad–leaved, the narrow–leaved, and the single–flowered, the tufts of the latter being upright instead of pendulous. Their beauty, unhappily, is their only recommendation, for the herbage is rough and coarse, and altogether unfit for pasture, and the cotton, so called, is cotton only in name. It cannot be manufactured; the hairs are too straight and too brittle. Instead of twining and entangling, like the filaments of true cotton, they lie rigidly side by side, resembling true cotton merely in their whiteness, and could no more be spun into yarn than slate–pencils could be twisted into a cable.
Boggart–hole Clough, a little nearer Manchester, was reached most readily at the time spoken of, and of course is so still, by way of Oldham Road, going by omnibus or tram–car as far as the end of the first lane carried over the railway. There are plenty of roadsunderarches formed by the railway, but these will not do; it must be the first that goesoverthe embankment. Crossing the line at the point in question, a descending path presently brings us to Jack’s Bridge, a sweet little dell, consecrated by one of nature’s own poets, then a resident at Newton Heath: