On the brow of a hill two miles away to the eastward stands the diminutive village of Kenley, the birthplace of Sir Archibald Alison, the historian, whose father was incumbent of this parish. The road thither leads past Acton Burnell Hall, a large, white, stone-built mansion, vastly fine with porticoes and pediments, such as our ancestors loved, and seated in a broad, tree-shaded park, very pleasant to behold.
Kenley Church.
The little church of Kenley is ancient and interesting, having an aisle-less nave, south porch, and broad, low, western tower, with walls thick enough for a fortress, and narrow, deeply-splayed loops by way of windows. The lofty old pulpit, with its sounding-board and curiously carved oak panels, is a pretty feature of the interior; and the chancel window, we notice, is of rather uncommon character, having elegant flowing tracery, and minute sculptured heads outside at the springings of the hoodmould.
Out in the churchyard grows a gnarled old yew tree of immense girth; and from beneath its sombre branches we obtain a glorious prospect over a wide stretch of picturesque, broken country towards the west, with many a familiar Salopian height belted with woods and pastures, and the wild Welsh hills, cloud-capped and blue, rising far away beyond all.
Returning to Acton Burnell, we now put the best foot foremost, and push on again in a southerly direction through a hilly-and-daley country. Just outside the village our attention is arrested by a pair of patriarchal oaks rising close beside the roadway, excellent specimens of the 'Shropshire weed,' which, the rustics will tell you, date from just after the Deluge! Anon we coast beside a belt of woodland all flushed with the shimmery blue of wild hyacinths; and then pause at the crest of the bank for a glance at the distant hills, and the steeples of Salop rising from the vale beneath.
