CHAPTER XXI
A cross-country road—A famous hill—Another medieval inn—“The Drunken Sermon”—Bottesford—Staunton Hall—Old family deeds—A chained library—Woolsthorpe manor-house—A great inventor!—Melton Mowbray—Oakham—A quaint old manorial custom—Rockingham Castle—Kirby.
From “Beckingham-behind-the-Times” we drove on to the old historic town of Grantham, a town that still retains much of its ancient picturesqueness though it is certainly not slothful, but rather pleasantly progressive. Our road led us through a very pretty country, but the way was rather hard to find as the turnings were many, the guide-posts few, and some of the few illegible. As we drove on, the distance showed clearly defined and darkly blue, we could plainly see the spire of Claypole church on the horizon, rising sharply into the air over wood and field; now there is a local saying at Beckingham that “when you cannot see Claypole church spire, it is sure to be fine,” if the converse of this meant rain we ought to have had it, for besides the barometer was low and falling, and the sky cloudy, so the road being good, though narrow, we sped along with what haste we could.
At Fenton, the first hamlet we came to, we pulled up a few minutes in spite of the threatening weather, to inspect a picturesque and interesting old manor-house, a little off the wayside, a house somewhat modernised, and apparently turned into a farmstead. Just above one of the windows of this was a stone inscribed “1507—R. L.,” and in front of it separated by a little garden, which erst doubtless formed a courtyard, stood a gray old Jacobean gateway, with a coat-of-arms boldly engraved on the top. Just beyond this time-toned manor-house was the ancient church, worn and gray; the hoary church and old-time home with its quaint gateway made a very effective picture; a genuine bit of old England. Manifestly the country about here is not one given to change, it all bears a mellow, peaceful look that comes of contented abiding, and is so soothing to the eye, wearied with the ugliness of modern towns, and the architectural eyesores of the modern builder.
Then proceeding in due course, we passed through Stubton, a little hamlet in no special way noteworthy, with its churchyard by the roadside, a goodly portion of the latter being taken up with a yew-enclosed tomb. We needs must carry our dignity down to the grave—but how of the humble dead who lie beneath their grass-grown graves un-monumented?
Forget not Earth, thy disappointed Dead!
Forget not Earth, thy disinherited!
Forget not the forgotten! keep a strain
Of divine sorrow in sweet undertone
For all the dead who lived and died in vain!
Imperial Future when in countless train
The generations lead thee to thy throne,
Forget not the forgotten and unknown!
LINCOLNSHIRE HILLS
In another mile or two we reached the charming village of Brandon situated in a wooded valley, backed by a long line of church-dotted hills; a line of hills stretching far away to the right and left that form the backbone of Lincolnshire, and are known locally by the curious title of “the Cliff.” From this pleasant rural spot an excellent going road brought us to another pretty village with a grand and very interesting-looking church, in the quiet God’s acre of which was a quaint sun-dial raised on the top of a tall stone pillar; the church doors were carefully locked, so we did not see inside. As at Fenton, so here, close by the church, stands an old manor-hall, a pleasant bit of past-century building.
Soon after this we struck upon the old Great North Road and began to mount the long and stiff Gonerby Hill, famous in the old coaching days as the worst “pitch” on the road between London and Edinburgh. It is a striking fact that the worst hill on the old main high-road, close upon four hundred miles in length, should be in Lincolnshire, a county supposed to be so flat! It may be remembered that Scott, who frequently travelled this road, makes mention of this hill in The Heart of Midlothian. Jeanie Deans, on leaving the Saracen’s Head at Newark, bound for Grantham, was assured, “It was all plain road, except a high mountain called Gunnerby Hill about three miles from Grantham, which was her stage for the night. ‘I’m glad to hear there’s a hill,’ said Jeanie, ‘for baith my sight and my very feet are weary o’ sic tracts o’ level ground—it looks a’ the way between this and York as if a’ the land had been trenched and levelled, whilk is very wearisome to my Scotch een....’ ‘As for the matter of that, young woman,’ said mine host, ‘an you be so fond o’ hill, I carena an thou couldst carry Gunnerby away with thee in thy lap, for it’s a murder to post-horses.’”
From the top of Gonerby Hill or Gunnerby (according to the old maps) we had a long run down into Grantham, where we sought “shelter and a night’s lodging” beneath the sign of the “Angel,” one of the few medieval hostelries left to us; at the moment I can only call to memory six others in England, but there may be more.