Crowland is a thoroughly old-world village; I know no other that so well deserves the epithet: its gray-toned cottages, grouped round the decayed and time-rent fane, save the ruins from utter desolation. Crowland impressed us as a spot that exists simply because it has existed: like the abbey, it looks so old that one can hardly imagine it was ever new. It is—
A world-forgotten village,
Like a soul that steps aside
Into some quiet haven
From the full rush of tide.
A place where poets still may dream,
Where the wheels of Life swing slow;
And over all there hangs the peace
Of centuries ago.
Crowland village, apart from its ruined abbey, is quaint rather than beautiful; it appeals to the lover of the past perhaps more than to the lover of the picturesque. We found there a primitive and clean little inn where we stabled our horses and procured for ourselves a simple, but sufficient, repast that was served in a tiny parlour. Whilst waiting for our meal to be prepared, having no guide-book, we consulted our Paterson’s Roads to see if it gave any particulars of the place, and this is what we discovered: “Crowland, a place of very remote antiquity, particularly interesting to the antiquary on account of the ruins of its once extensive and splendid abbey, and its singular triangular-shaped bridge, is now reduced to the size of a large village that possesses little more than the ruins of its former
THE ISLE OF CROWLAND
splendour. The chief existing remains of the abbey are the skeleton of the nave of the conventual church, with parts of the south and north aisles; the latter of which is covered over, pewed, and fitted up as a parish church. The triangular bridge in the middle of the town may be looked upon as one of the greatest curiosities in Britain, if not in Europe; it is of stone, and consists of three pointed arches springing from as many abutments that unite their groins in the centre.... Crowland being so surrounded by fens is inaccessible, except from the north and east, in which directions the road is formed by artificial banks of earth, and from this singular situation it has been, not inaptly, compared to Venice.” I have again quoted from this old and famous road-book, which was as familiar to our forefathers as “Bradshaw” is to us, because it shows the sort of combination of road-book and guide that the pre-railway traveller was provided with, all England and Wales being included in one thick volume. Paterson’s accounts of famous spots and places of interest are not perhaps so learned or long as those of the modern hand-book, but they are possibly sufficient, and brevity is an advantage to the tourist who desires to arrive quickly at his information.
In olden days it would seem that the spot whereon Crowland now stands was one of the many Fen islands, consisting of comparatively dry and firm soil that rose above the general level of the moist lowlands, or, to be more exact, a wilderness of shallow waters—a district described by Smiles as “an inland sea in winter, and a noxious swamp in summer”; but so slight is the rise of the land that to the superficial observer it scarcely seems to rise at all. Here—on this “Isle of Crowland”—as it was formerly called in company with other similar islands, such as the better-known “Isle of Ely”—the old monks built their abbey, remote and fengirt from the outer world, only to be approached at first by boats, and, in long years after also, by a solitary raised causeway frequently under water and nearly always unsafe and untravellable in winter. The problem to me is how ever all the stone required for the building was secured. Presumably most of it was brought down the Welland from Stamford; but what a long and laborious task the carrying of it must have been. Still, the problem sinks into insignificance like that of Stonehenge, for all authorities on this mysterious monument of antiquity agree that the nearest spot to Salisbury Plain from which the igneous rocks that compose the inner circle could come, would be either Cornwall or North Wales! An effective word-picture of the early monastery is given in Kingsley’s Hereward the Wake which I take the liberty to quote, though he describes the building as being chiefly of timber, but the first historic record declares that it was “firmly built of stone.” Thus, then, Kingsley writes: “And they rowed away for Crowland ... and they glided on until they came to the sacred isle, the most holy sanctuary of St. Guthlac and his monks.... At last they came to Crowland minster, a vast range of high-peaked buildings founded on piles of oak and alder driven into the fen, itself built almost entirely of timber from the Bruneswold; barns, granaries, stables, workshops, strangers’ hall, fit for the boundless hospitality of Crowland; infirmary, refectory, dormitory, library, abbot’s lodgings, cloisters; with the great minster towering up, a steep pile, half wood, half stone, with narrow round-headed windows, and leaden roofs; and above all the great wooden tower, from which on high-days chimed out the melody of the seven famous bells, which had not their like in English land.” So minute is the detailed description of that which was such a long time off that one is almost tempted to wonder how Kingsley knew all this.
A TRIANGULAR BRIDGE
Leaving our little inn we first inspected the exceedingly quaint triangular bridge that stands in the main thoroughfare—a thoroughfare without any traffic it appeared to us, nor did we see where any future traffic was to come from. This structure is stated to be positively unique. Apart from its uncommon form, it certainly has a curious appearance to-day, as the roadway below is dry, and the “three-way bridge,” as it is locally called, has much the meaningless look that a ship would have stranded far inland. This quaint structure consists of three high-pitched half arches, at equal distances from each other, that meet at the top. The way over the bridge is both narrow and steep, so that manifestly it could only have been intended for pedestrians.
Much good ink has been spilt by antiquaries and archæologists anent the peculiar form of the bridge, and different theories have been put forward to solve this enigma in building: some authorities having declared their belief that it was a mere freak of the monks indulged in from pure eccentricity; others reason that it was intended to support a high cross, but surely a bridge would hardly have been built as a foundation for this? And it is so manifestly a bridge complete in itself, though novel in design, nor does there appear to me to be room for the base of an important cross on the apex of the arches where alone it could come. It is verily an archæological pons asinorum. Personally I find a difficulty in subscribing to either the freak or the cross theory; indeed, a more reasonable solution of the puzzle presents itself to me as one who does not look for out-of-the-way causes. It seems possible, rather should I say highly probable, that when the bridge was built, in the days before the drainage of the Fens, a stream may have flowed past here, and it may have been joined by another Y fashion. To cross these streams where they both met to the three points of dry ground would entail a triangular bridge, and the monks were equal to the occasion! The only fault I can find with this theory is that it is so simple! Shortly after writing this, in looking over an old portfolio of pictures, I chanced upon a rather crude, but fairly faithful, engraving of this very bridge. The work was not dated, but I judged it to be of the late seventeenth or of the early eighteenth century, a pure guess on my part. However, it is interesting to note that this ancient engraving showed two streams flowing under the bridge precisely as suggested. I merely mention the fact, though it proves really nothing, for the engraver or artist may easily have added the water, imagining that it ought to be there. Here again the advantage of photography is apparent, for the lens has no bias, and if it seldom lends itself to the picturesque, at least it does not invent accessories.
A STATUE ASTRAY