The hall, with its carved oak chimney-piece and quaint Dutch tiles, its panelled walls and oaken floors, has a sombre, dignified air about it. In one wing of the old house is the private chapel, dedicated to St. Francis of Assisi, with a portrait of the patron saint attributed to Michelangelo. Set into the wall of this chapel is a curious old brass, representing Humphrey Plowden and his seven daughters, which was brought hither years ago from Bishop's Castle church. In an adjacent corner a sliding panel gives access to a secret passage-way, by which in the Reformation days, the officiating priest might at a moment's notice effect his escape from the mansion. The whole place, indeed, is honeycombed from cellar to roof with hidie-holes, closets and secret passages, turning and twisting amidst hatchways and bulkheads, or terminating in breakneck ladders. One of these queer gangways is said to lead out to a lonely spot amidst the woods known as the Lady's Chair; and it goes without saying that the old house has earned the reputation of being haunted.
One would suppose the builders of Plowden Hall had had in their minds the Spaniards' proverb: 'The rat that has only one hole is easily caught.'
The Plowden family can trace, it is said, an unbroken lineage from Roger de Plowden, the Crusader, down to Edmund of that ilk, who died no longer ago than 1838, nearly 700 years. This Roger distinguished himself at the siege of Acre, in 1191; and, upon being taken prisoner by the enemy, made a vow that, if ever he returned in safety to his Shropshire home, he would build a chapel by way of thank-offering; and, as we shall see by-and-by at Lydbury North, the pious knight was as good as his word.
From Edmund Plowden the estate passed to his nephew William, whose son, W. F. Plowden, Esq., is the present owner of the property.
Farewell now to Plowden. Our onward way leads beneath a green avenue of oaks and beeches, whose branches, meeting overhead, cast a dappled shade athwart the lane, and afford a playground for squirrels, woodpeckers, and many another of Nature's children.
Turning our backs upon the low hill where Billing's Ring keeps ward over the ancient Portway, we skirt the shoulder of Oakeley Mynd, Walcot Park with its big red-brick mansion and hanging woods shewing right ahead, with a dark clump of trees cutting against the skyline. Yonder lie Bury Ditches, a fine old British camp whose lofty crest forms a conspicuous landmark for many a mile around.
Avoiding a lot of odd turnings we continue to hug the highroad, which, trending now in a due westerly direction, introduces us to a pleasant, open vale, with the tower of Lydbury church peeping out from a grove of trees in the middle of the village.
Lydbury North is an ancient place, claiming some consideration. In Norman days the episcopal manor of Lydbury formed an important appanage to the Bishopric of Hereford, and the martial prelates of that period had a great stronghold in the vicinity, which, though long since dismantled and demolished, has given its name to the neighbouring town of Bishop's Castle.
But Lydbury church, having remained virtually unaltered by restoration, is one of the most interesting edifices of its kind in all Shropshire. It has a nave and chancel, with north and south chapels, a timbered porch, and broad, massive tower at the western end.
The primitive old clock upon the tower vaguely points the time with a solitary hand, and the roofs of the church are still covered with their original stone slabs, greatly enhancing the picturesque appearance of the ancient building. The solid nail-studded porch door bears traces of bullet marks, and has a pair of fifteenth-century hinges.