Country Rambles, and Manchester Walks and Wild Flowers. Leo H. Grindon
the neighbourhood of Manchester. Mark first what he says of the place he lived in. ‘And if, after the manner of the Emperor Aurelius, I should return thanks to Providence for all the separate blessings of my early situation, these four I would single out as worthy of special consideration—that I lived in a rustic solitude; that this solitude was in England; that my infant feelings were moulded by the gentlest of sisters; and finally, that I and they were dutiful and loving members of a pure, and holy, and magnificent church.’ And now mark where lay this ‘rustic solitude.’ He is describing the expected return of his father:—‘It was a summer evening of unusual solemnity. The servants and four of us children were gathered for hours on the lawn before the house, listening for the sound of wheels. Sunset came, nine, ten, eleven o’clock, and nearly another hour had passed without a warning sound, for Greenhay, being so solitary a house, formed a “terminus ad quem,” beyond which was nothing but a cluster of cottages, composing the little hamlet of Greenhill; so that any sound of wheels coming from the country lane which then connected us with the Rusholme Road, carried with it of necessity, a warning summons to prepare for visitors at Greenhay.’ ‘Greenhay’ was the centre of the modern Greenheys, and the ‘hamlet of Greenhill’ the predecessor of the present Greenhill Terrace.”
The changes foreboded have to an extent not unimportant, already come to pass. Almost the whole of the great suburb which includes the Alexandra Park has grown up since about 1860, effacing meadows and corn–fields. In the contemplation of this new scene of busy life there is pleasure, since it signifies human welfare and enjoyment. In other directions, unhappily, the change has been for the worse, as indicated in the notes to the original portraiture of Boggart–hole Clough, Mere Clough, and the Reddish Valley. Before deciding to visit any particular place in the immediate neighbourhood of the town it will be prudent, accordingly, to read to the end. Never mind. Few things ever go absolutely. Against the losses we are able to put the opportunities for enjoyment in localities opened up by recent railway extensions—places quite as charming as the extinguished ones—it is simply a question now of a little longer travel.
The present volume, be it remembered, is neither a gazetteer nor an itinerary. The limits are too narrow for its making pretensions even to be a Guide–book, though the style, often, I am aware, too swift and abbreviated, may give it the semblance of one;—it proposes only to supply hints as to where and how to secure country pastimes. While constrained to leave many places with only a touch, others have been treated so admirably by Mr. Earwaker, Mr. Croston, and Mr. Waugh, that to tread the same ground would, on my own part, be alike needless and ungraceful. Others again I have described only within these few months in the “Lancashire,” to which work I may be permitted to refer the reader for particulars not here given.
Except in some few instances, I have not cared either to give minute directions as to paths and gates. One of the grand charms of a rural ramble consists in the sensation, at times, of being slightly and agreeably lost; to say nothing of the pleasure which comes of being called upon to employ our own wits, instead of always asking, like a child, to be led by the hand.
If, when visited, some of the places seem over–praised, it must further be understood that the descriptions are of their appearance in pleasant weather, in sunshine, and when cherished companions help to make the hours glad. I can say no more than that the descriptions are faithful as regards my own experience, and that I hope earnestly they may become true to the experience of every one else. From this point of view the little book is a kind of record of what I have seen and felt during forty years.
Nothing has been written for mere “cheap–trippers.” The book is addressed to the intelligent, the peaceful, and the cultivated; those who, when they visit the country, desire to profit by its inestimable sweet lessons. In many parts it is addressed especially to the young, who have ductile material in them, and are the hope of the future for us all. Neither has it been written for learned botanists or antiquaries. The botanical details are simply such as it is hoped may encourage the beginner. My main desire is to be educational, and by this I would be judged.
Many of the places described or referred to are strictly private. Permission to view them must therefore be asked some days before. Common–sense and the courtesy of civilized beings will prescribe in every case the proper method of procedure.
I have, in conclusion, to express my thanks to the artists who have so pleasingly illustrated the work, Mr. W. Morton, and very particularly, Mr. Thos. Letherbrow.
By some odd lapsus calami the passage from Wordsworth on page 139 has been mis–written. The third line should read, “So was it when my life began.”
LEO H. GRINDON.
Manchester,
May 1st, 1882.
FULL–PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS.
| Page | |
| Rostherne Mere. Drawn and Engraved by W. Morton, Frontispiece. | |
| Oldfield, Dunham. Drawn and Etched by Thos. Letherbrow | 64 |
| Barlow Hall. Drawn and Etched by Thos. Letherbrow | 82 |
| Lyme Hall. Drawn and Etched by Thos. Letherbrow | 124 |
| Halewood Church. Drawn by W. Hull, Etched by Thos. Letherbrow | 168 |
| Hale Hut. Drawn and Etched by Thos. Letherbrow | 254 |
Country Rambles.
CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCTORY.
The meanest floweret of the vale,
The simplest note that swells the gale,
The common sun, the air, the skies,
To him are opening Paradise.
WIDE as may be the circle covered by a great town, we come to the country at last. Let the bricks and mortar stride far as they will over the greensward, there are always sanctuaries beyond—sweet spots where we may yet listen to the singing of the birds, and pluck the early primrose and anemone. We need but take our survey from a sufficiently high point, to see that the vastest mass of houses ever heaped together by man is still only an encampment in the fields. Like the waves of the sea upon the shores of the islands, the surge of the yellow corn is still close upon our borders. We need but turn our faces fondly towards rural things and rural sights, and we shall find them.
Manchester itself, grim, flat, smoky Manchester, with its gigantic suburb ever on the roll further into the plain, and scouts from its great army of masons posted on every spot available for hostile purposes—Manchester itself denies to no one of its five hundred thousand, who is blessed with health and strength, the amenities and genial influences of the country. True, we have no grand scenery; no Clyde, no Ben Lomond, no Leigh Woods, no St. Vincent’s Rocks, no Clevedon, no Durdham Down; our rivers are anything but limpid; our mountains are far away, upon the horizon; our lakes owe less to nature than to art; as for waterfalls,