Over Fen and Wold

by James John Hissey

CAUGHT IN A STORM

At Martin we descended to a narrow stretch of fen, here almost treeless and hedgeless, and wholly wanting the wild, weird beauty of the wider Fenland with its magic of colour, and mystery of distance. Across this monotonous flat, our road led us “as straight as an arrow” for three or four miles, at a rough guess. Half-way over, where there was no possible shelter, it suddenly began to rain, then it poured in torrents and the wind began to blow—well, I am of opinion that you can get as wet on an exposed fenland as anywhere! After all we were not sorry that the road was so straight, we could the sooner get over it.

Leaving the dreary fens without regret, we reached the embanked and slothful river Witham at a spot marked “Ferry” on our map, but where we fortunately found an iron swing-bridge. It was an ugly affair, whereas a ferry would most possibly have been picturesque, like that of Stixwold a little higher up the same river, which I sketched next day, and is herewith engraved, but it was raining hard, and to ferry across, though doubtless a more romantic proceeding, would have meant more discomfiture, so we were glad of the bridge, nor did we begrudge the sixpence toll demanded for the use thereof. Another mile or so of good road brought us to Woodhall Spa, where we arrived dripping and jolly, to find a warm welcome at our hotel. I know not how it is, but when one arrives by road one seems always ensured of a hearty welcome.

Woodhall Spa is about as unlike the usual run of fashionable watering-places as one can well imagine. It is a charming health resort, but it happily boasts of nothing to attract the purely pleasure-seeking crowd, and on account of the absence of these attractions it appealed to us. The country around also is equally unlike the popular conception of Lincolnshire as it well could be; it is not tame, and it is not flat, except to the west. Woodhall Spa is situated on a dry sandy soil where fir trees flourish, and stretching away to the east of it are wild moors, purple in season with heather, and aglow with golden gorse. It is a land of health, apart from the virtues of its waters, supposed or real. The air we found to be deliciously fragrant and bracing; I do not think that there is a purer or a more exhilarating air to be found in all England, or out of it for that matter. There are no large cities, manufacturing or otherwise, within many a long mile of the district over which the wind blows unimpeded, fresh, and invigorating from every quarter, though sheltered to a certain extent from the east winds by the Wolds beyond Horncastle. So unexpectedly pleased were we with the place; with our comfortable hotel where we felt quite at home away from home; so friendly and interesting did we find the company one and all chance-gathered there (included amongst which was a distinguished novelist; besides a poet not unknown to fame), that we elected to stay at Woodhall Spa for a week though we had only at first intended to stop there the night!

A LINCOLNSHIRE SPA

The spa, we learnt, was discovered by accident whilst boring for coal. The water is strong in iodine, and tastes uncommonly like sea-water, it is naturally, therefore, very disagreeable to drink; one or two invalids we met, however, “swore by it.” Gout and rheumatism appear to be the special diseases for which the waters are taken; though one party we met declared the waters “tasted so horrible” that he infinitely preferred the rheumatism! But perhaps he was only a slight sufferer. Nearly every other invalid we spoke to declared that the waters had done them much good; one gentleman who walked very well, and looked very well, informed us that when he came there he was almost a cripple and could hardly walk at all, “and now look at me,” exclaimed he, “I’m a walking testimony to the efficacy of the waters.” Nobody, however, appeared to give the wonderful vitalising air any credit for their cures or even aiding thereto, yet I am by no means sure that this may not have had a great deal to do with them; an air so dry and bracing, yet withal so soothing, laden as it is with the soft and healing scents of the pine-woods. Good too for over-wrought nerves, I should imagine. Simply to ramble in the pine-woods, and over the moors at and about Woodhall, and there to breathe the splendidly pure and light sweet air was a delight to me; it was like inhaling nectar! When I go to a health resort, I go to breathe the air, not to drink the waters!

Whilst lazing at Woodhall Spa—and there is a great virtue in doing nothing successfully at times—our good-natured Horncastle friend found us out, and kindly placed himself at our disposal for a whole day, which he suggested we should employ in exploring the country round about; so we arranged to drive with him where he would, and accordingly one morning fared forth in his company for a “regular antiquarian day” as he quaintly put it.

Leaving Woodhall we soon came to a bit of open moorland, with a tall ruined tower standing solitary on the highest point thereof, a prominent and picturesque feature in the prospect. This is a portion of a stately hunting-box erected by the Lord-Treasurer Cromwell towards the end of the fifteenth century, who also built the grand Tattershall Castle, which we shall see in due course. This ruined hunting-box is locally known as “the Tower on the Moor,” perhaps some day this may suggest a title to a novelist. The interesting country around is, I believe, virgin ground to the romancer, a ground that, it seems to me, would well repay exploiting,—possibly, however, from a hint a famous novelist gave me, it may by this time have been exploited!

Then by a pleasant lane we came to a lonely farmstead called High Rigge. Here we pulled up for a few minutes to inspect a very fine and quite perfect “celt” of smooth-polished greenstone that had lately been ploughed up on one of the farm fields, and was carefully preserved in the house, and I hope it will remain there and not be conveyed away to enrich a private collection, as so many other relics of the past have been, and thereby lost to the public. It would be a good thing if in each county capital there were a local museum established where such local finds could be preserved and inspected. I feel that each county has a right to the possession of its own antiquarian treasures; such museums too would add greatly to the pleasure and the interest of the tourist and traveller. County people would doubtless take a pride in and contribute to them, so that they would soon become centres of attraction.

A RUINED ORATORY