Country Rambles, and Manchester Walks and Wild Flowers. Leo H. Grindon
world as it showed—begging pardon of the geologists and the evolutionists—“When the morning–stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy.” The depth of the water is remarkable. About a third of the distance across, from near the summer–house, it is over a hundred feet, thus as nearly as possible two–thirds of the depth of the English Channel at the Straits of Dover, where the lead sinks lowest; and a third of what it is anywhere between Dover and the Eddystone lighthouse, so that our lovely Rostherne Mere may well assert its claim to be of almost maritime profundity. The area of the surface is one hundred and fifteen statute acres. In the church there is a monument which it is worth all the journey to see—Westmacott’s sculptured marble in memory of Miss Beatrix Egerton.
Rostherne, in turn, is the pleasantest way of pedestrian approach to Tatton Park, so liberally opened to visitors by Lord Egerton, on compliance with certain rules. Visitors bent on seeing Tatton only, should go part way from Bowdon by vehicle; for here, as at Cotterill, we want, as in a picture–gallery, every minute, and to let too much time be consumed in mere travel is a mistake. To make a too hasty and thoughtless use of our opportunities of pleasure is in any case to throw away the half of them; the pleasure of the country beyond all others requires a calm and unhurried step, a free and unwistful mind and eye, such as cannot possibly be if, by waste or extravagance, we are “tied to time,”—only when, by a wise economy of our resources in this respect, we liberate ourselves from care about trains and timebills, do we catch nature’s sweetest smiles. The boundary measurement of this beautiful park is upwards of ten miles, and of its two thousand one hundred and thirty–five acres no fewer than four hundred are occupied by woods and plantations, with seventy–nine acres of water. Here we may stroll beneath green vaults of foliage, and be reminded of the aisles of cathedrals. Here we may contemplate the viridis senectus of glorious old oaks that have watched the flow of generations. Here, in autumn, we learn, from a thousand old foresters—from beech, and chestnut, and elm—that brave men, though overtaken by inclemencies there is no withstanding, still put a good face upon their fallen fortunes, and, like Cæsar, who drew his purple around him, die royally; and at Christmas, when the wind seems to mourn amid the denuded boughs, here again we feel how grand is the contrasted life of the great, green, shining, scarlet–beaded hollies that in summer we took no note of. The gardens, including conservatories and fernery, access to all of which is likewise liberally permitted, are crowded with objects of interest—one hardly knows whether inside their gates, or outside, is the more delectable. The park was up till quite recently, the play–ground of nearly a thousand deer, and still (1882) contains many hundreds. The sight of them is one of the pleasures of the return walk to Knutsford, to which place Tatton Park more especially pertains.
Knutsford, an admirable centre, is reached immediately, by train. But it must not be overlooked that there is a very pleasant field–way thereto from Mobberley, and that the path to Mobberley itself, one of the most ancient of the Cheshire villages, is always interesting—starting, that is to say, from Ashley station. Every portion of it is quiet and enjoyable, and those who love seclusion would scarcely find another so exactly suited to their taste. Soon after entering the fields, the path dives through a little dell threaded by the Birkin (an affluent of the Bollin), then goes on through lanes which in May are decked plenteously with primroses. The way, perhaps, is rather intricate—so much the better for the exercise of our sagacity. Let not the “day of small things” be despised. The Birkin is one of the little streams that in the great concourse called the Mersey does honour at last to the British Tyre. Drayton notices it in the Poly–olbion (1622)—
From hence he getteth Goyte down from her Peakish spring,
And Bollen, that along doth nimbler Birkin bring.[7]
The church, as would be anticipated, presents much that is interesting to the ecclesiologist. Near the chancel stands the accustomed and here undilapidated old village graveyard yew, emblem of immortality, life triumphing over death, therefore so suitable—this particular one at Mobberley the largest and most symmetrical within a circuit of many miles. Across the road, hard by, an ash–tree presents a singularly fine example of the habit of growth called “weeping,”—not the ordinary tent–form seen upon lawns, but lofty, and composed chiefly of graceful self–woven ringlets, a cupola of green tresses, beautiful at all seasons, and supplying, before the leaves are out, a capital hint to every one desirous of learning trees—as they deserve to be learned. For to this end trees must be contemplated almost every month in the year, when leafless as well as leafy. A grand tree is like a great poem—not a thing to be glanced at with a thoughtless “I have read it,” but to be studied, and with remembrance of what once happened on the summit of mount Ida.
On the Cotterill side of Mobberley, or Alderley way, the country resembles that in the vicinity of Castle Mill, consisting of gentle slopes and promontories, often wooded, and at every turn presenting some new and agreeable feature. The little dells and cloughs, each with its stream of clear water scampering away to the Bollin, are delicious. The botany of Cotterill is also recapitulated in its best features; mosses of the choicest kinds grow in profusion on every bank—Hypna, with large green feathery branches, like ferns in miniature; Jungermannias also; and the noblest plants of the hart’s–tongue fern that occur in the district. One of the dells positively overflows with it, excepting, that is, where the ground is not pre–occupied by the prickly shield–fern. Burleyhurst Wood, close by, contains abundance of the pretty green–flowered true–love, Paris quadrifolia, more properly trulove, the name referring not to the sentiment itself, but to the famous old four–fold symbol of engagement which in heraldry reappears in “quartering.” All the spring flowers open here with the first steps of the renewed season; and most inspiring is it, at a time when on the north side of the town there is nothing to be seen but an early coltsfoot, to find one’s self greeted in these sweet and perennially green woods, by the primrose, the anemone, the butter–bur, and the golden saxifrage—and not as single couriers, but plentiful as the delight they give, mingling with the great ferns bequeathed by the autumn, as travellers tell us palms and fir–trees intermix on tropical mountains, while the Marchantia adds another charm in its curious cones, and the smooth round cups of the Peziza glow like so many vases of deepest carnelian. In the aspect of vegetation in early spring, as it discloses itself at Mobberley and at equal distance north of the town, there is the difference of a full month. Such at least was the case in 1858, the year in which these lines were written. There is no occasion to return to Ashley by the same path. Mobberley station is scarcely more than a mile from the village, and of course would be preferred when the object is to reach the latter promptly.
Knutsford, celebrated as the scene of Mrs. Gaskell’s “Cranford,” commands many pleasant walks, and is the threshold not only to Tatton, but to several other parks and estates of great celebrity. Booth Hall, with its noble avenue of lindens, the winding sylvan wilderness called Spring Wood, and its ample sheet of ornamental water, decked with lilies, and in parts filled with that most curious aquatic, the Stratiotes, is of considerable historic interest;—Toft, a mile to the south, with its stately avenue, now of elms, in triple rows;—and Tabley, about a mile to the west, the park once again with a spacious mere, also have high claims upon the attention of every one who has the opportunity of entering. Tabley is peculiarly interesting in its ancient hall, which stands upon an island in the upper portion of the mere, and dates from the time of Edward III. Only a remnant now exists, but being covered with ivy, it presents a most picturesque appearance. When will people see in that peerless evergreen not a foe, but an inestimable friend, such as it is when knives and shears, and the touch of the barbarian are forbidden? It is the ivy that has preserved for the archæologist many of the most precious architectural relics our country possesses. Where ivy defends the surface, nothing corrodes or breaks away.
Toft Park gives very agreeable access to Peover—a place which may also be reached pleasantly from Plumbley, the station next succeeding Knutsford. Not “rich” botanically, the field–path is still one of the most inviting in the district. The views on either side, cheerful at all seasons, are peculiarly so in spring, when the trees are pouring their new green leaves into the sunshine, and the rising grass and mingled wild–flowers flood the ground with living brightness. In parts, towards the end of May, there is hereabouts an unwonted