Our lengthy peregrinations have now brought us, once more, within a mile of Woodhall Spa; thither let us proceed, “rest and be thankful.”
* * * * *
And now, gentle readers, it would seem we have arrived at a fitting “period, or full stop,” in our somewhat arduous undertaking; and here we might well shake hands and finally part company,—we would fain hope, with a hearty “au revoir.”
I find myself much in the mood of the Alpine guide who feels that he has had more than one long day with his trusty alpenstock, although with a willing heart in the work, and, we might say, even proud that he has been able to show his party through so many attractive scenes. He stands, as it were, before them, hat in hand [251] awaiting the “pour boire,” the due recompense of his services. Freely he has given, freely he hopes to receive, that he may retire to his quiet châlet on the hill, where he may rest awhile, till perchance he finds a fresh engagement. But, at this juncture, he is accosted by one of the party to this effect: “Mon cher Guide Walder, you have taken us through more than one enjoyable round in your
interesting country. We have looked with pleasure upon many a long vista in the past, and on many a wide-spreading prospect of varied character. You have, indeed, given us a bonne-bouche, to finish with, in Kirkstead, but we would ask, ‘Why have you omitted Somersby, Somersby not so very far away, and hallowed as the birth-place of the Bard of the Century, who is reckoned as one of the High Priests of Poesy, wherever our English tongue is spoken?’” We confess the omission. Our apology is, that our excursions have already, in the more immediate neighbourhood, been only too long. As to Somersby, as its associations are sui generis, so it lies in a direction of its own; not easily to be combined with other places of interest; but the fault can be remedied. Quid multa? A short supplementary excursion is arranged; and we are to muster on the morrow for the last, but not least, of our Looks at Lincolnshire.
SUPPLEMENTARY.
In the year 1890, an enthusiastic Tennysonian, giving an account in the “Globe” newspaper, of an excursion to Somersby, which he approached from Louth, says that he was somewhat disgusted to find that his Jehu, though familiar with every ragamuffin on the road, and with the gossip and traditions of the villages through which they passed, had never heard the name of Tennyson. Somersby itself, at the time when Tennyson there enjoyed ramble and reverie, was so withdrawn from the outer world that it is said that the battle of Waterloo was not heard of there until a month after it had been fought. But all this has now been changed, and is changing. Not long ago, the proprietor of Somersby (now, alas! an absentee), complained to the writer that his carpets were being worn into holes by the feet of the many pilgrims to this modern poetic “Mecca,” who seemed to think they had a right freely to intrude everywhere; with the barren compensation to himself that his paternal home was becoming historical. Sympathising fully with the country squire whose privacy has been thus invaded, we are now ourselves about to make the pilgrimage, which may soon be as common as that to the birthplace of the immortal Bard of Avon.
Having arrived at Horncastle by train, or otherwise, we pass through the town, by Market-place, Bull Ring, and over the far bridge, where we turn due eastward, by East street. At the end of a mile
or so we arrive at High Toynton, with a modern church of Spilsby sandstone on our right, in good condition, but of no special interest; here we turn to the left, and 100 yards further on, again eastward to the right. We are now on the Wolds, and have before us a steady rise, followed by three steepish descents with their corresponding rises, till, as we approach Holbeck Hall, we see before us, to the left, a hill in the shape of an obtuse truncated cone. This is Hoe Hill (Norse ‘hof,’ holy and so possibly a sacred place for heathen worship; or, the Norse ‘haugr’ or ‘howe,’ a burial place, possibly the resting-place of some Viking chief, the names all round having Danish elements). It has a Dyke, or scarpment, running round it, like a collar, and was probably a British or Danish encampment; geologically it consists of ironstone, quite distinct from the sandstone formation on the lower ground. At Holbeck it is worth the while to turn in at the Lodge gate, and proceed some 250 yards along the drive, when we find ourselves among very pretty scenery; the modern Hall confronting us, built by the late J. Fardell, Esq., who was M.P. for Lincoln for about a week. We pause in a woody dell with a picturesque lake and rocks on each side of us. (N.B.—In these rocks the badger still survives). Retracing our steps into the main road again, and some 200 yards back towards Horncastle, by a guide-post the road turns off southward, and, following this, we arrive at Ashby Puerorum, or Ashby “of the boys,” so called to distinguish it from the other two Ashbys, not far off, the name being derived from the fact that certain lands in the parish are appropriated to the maintenance of the choristers of Lincoln Cathedral, the Dean and Chapter being patrons of the benefice. The road here is somewhat tortuous, but we find our way to the church, the chancel of which was restored by the patrons in 1869, and the rest of the building in 1877. It is a small fabric, consisting of nave, north aisle, chancel, small porch, and western tower. The main building is Early English. A lancet window still remains in the south wall, and at the west end of the aisle. The other windows of the nave are mostly Perpendicular. On the south side of the chancel is a two-light, square-headed, decorated window. The arcade has two chamfered arches, on low cylindrical piers. The tower is a low, stunted example of Perpendicular, the green sandstone picturesquely patched with brick. The west doorway is well proportioned, and the three-light Perpendicular window above, and the tower arch, are plain but good. There is
a plain octagonal font. On the south wall is a brass to Richard Littlebury, of Stainsby, in the parish (obiit 1521); his wife Elizabeth, daughter of Sir Edmund Jenny, of Suffolk (died 1523); and their ten children. The brass, according to Haines, was not cut till 1560, at the same time with another of a knight in armour, now without inscription, but probably one of the six sons of the above. In the pavement is a the incised slab of blue marble, representing a priest in Eucharistic vestments, with chalice on the breast. The head, hands, chalice, and other portions were of brass, but these have disappeared. As has been elsewhere stated, in 1794, a Roman sepulchre was discovered three feet below the surface,—a stone chest, containing an urn of strong glass of greenish hue. The urn held small pieces of calcined bone, and, among them, a small lacrimatory of very thin green glass. Sir Joseph Banks thought it not improbable that, some day, the site of a Roman villa might be found near at hand. [254]