Over Fen and Wold

by James John Hissey

There is a pleasure now and then, in giving
Full scope to Fancy and Imagination.

Then suddenly, so suddenly as to be almost startling, one of those scenic revelations and surprises that this singular land abounds in, took place. Low down

A TRANSFORMATION

there came a long rift in the cheerless, gray, vapoury canopy above, followed by a suspicion of warm light, after which slowly the round red sun peeped forth embroidering the edges of the clouds around him with fringes of fire, and sending forth throbbing trails of burning orange everywhere over the sky; then the landscape below became reflective and receptive, and was changed from grave to gay as though by magic, the dull, leaden-hued waters of the stagnant dykes and dreary pools became liquid gold all glowing with light and brightness, and the damp, dismal swamp grasses were transformed into waving masses of translucent yellow-green; the distance became a wonderfully pure transparent blue, and colour, tender, rich, or glowing, was rampant everywhere: yet five minutes had wrought this marvellous change from depressing gloominess to cheerful gaiety! The English climate has its faults as well as its virtues, but it cannot fairly be charged with monotony, nor does it ever fail to interest the quiet observer. As we live in a land of such fine and changeful sky-scapes, I wonder we do not study them a little more; they are often as worthy of note as the scenery. Where would be the beauty of most of Turner’s or Constable’s landscapes without their skies? A well-known artist told me that a good sky was the making of a picture, and that, as a matter of fact, he gave more time and study to it than to any other part of his work. “I never miss,” said he, “when out of doors making a sketch of a fine cloud effect, and I have found these studies of the utmost value; you cannot invent clouds successfully, whatever else you may do.” One day when I was looking at a half-finished picture of his, and wondering why it had remained so long in that condition, he exclaimed, in response to my inquiring glance, “Oh! I’m waiting for a suitable sky!”

The last four or five miles of our road into Bourn was a perfectly straight stretch, its parallel lines lessening as they receded till lost in a point on the horizon—a grand object lesson in perspective! A road level and direct enough to delight the heart of a railway engineer, with everything plainly revealed for miles ahead and no pleasant surprises therefore possible. I am afraid I am a little fastidious in the matter of roads; I like a winding one, and within reasonable limits the more it winds the better I like it, so that at every fresh bend before me, I am kept in a state of delightful expectancy as to what new and probably wholly unexpected beauty will be presented to my eyes: thus I am enticed on and on from early morning till the evening, never disappointed and never satiated.

On either side of our present road ran a wide dyke as usual by way of fence, crossed by frequent bridges giving access to fields, footpaths, and narrow by-roads. It appeared to us a very simple and easy matter for a careless whip on a dark night to drive right into this dyke, which, judging from the dark look of its water, was fairly deep; you need a sober coachman for these open Fenland roads! Even a cyclist would be wise to proceed with caution along them after sundown, or a sudden bath in dirty water might be the result. Indeed, as

AN AMUSING INCIDENT

we drove on we observed that a poor cow had somehow managed to slip down the steep bank into the dyke, and there she was swimming up and down it apparently on the outlook for an easy spot to climb out, but her struggles to gain a footing on the slippery earth were alas! in vain; three men followed the unfortunate animal up and down, and at every attempt she made to reach terra firma they commenced prodding her behind with long sticks and shouting violently, by way of encouragement, we presumed; but prods and shouts were unavailing, the final result always being that the cow slipped quietly down into the dyke again and recommenced her swimming. Had we not felt sorry for the poor bewildered creature we should have laughed outright, for there was something very ludicrous about the whole proceeding. The men told us that they had been “two mortal hours a-trying to get the daft beast out, but we bain’t no forrader than when we begun. We shall have to go back home and get a rope and tie it round her horns and haul her out.” Why they had not done this long before when they found their other method of help was unavailing I could not understand, nor could the men explain. How the amusing episode ended I cannot say, as we felt we could not afford to wait till the rope appeared.

At Bourn we found comfortable quarters at the Angel; this little market town—described by Kingsley as lying “between the forest and the Fen”—though clean and neat, is more interesting historically than picturesquely. Bourn claims to be the birthplace of that Saxon patriot Hereward the Wake, who may well be termed the hero of the Lowlands. How is it, I wonder, that the daring deeds of Highlanders of all nations appeal so much more to most poetic and prose writers, and to the multitude generally, than the equally valiant achievements of the Lowlanders? Was not the long struggle of the Dutch for freedom as heroic and as worthy of laudatory song as that of the Swiss mountaineers?

The landlord of our inn pointed out to us the site of the castle of the Wakes in a field not far from the market-place. “Some dungeons had been discovered there many years ago,” we were informed, “but now there are no remains of any masonry visible,” and we found it as the landlord said. All that we observed on the spot were some grass-grown mounds, manifestly artificial, and the traces of the moat. Close by is a large pool of water, supplied by a never-failing spring that bubbles up from below; this pool overflows into a wide stream “that goes right round the town.” Kingsley describes the site as being “not on one of the hills behind, but on the dead flat meadow, determined doubtless by the noble fountain, bourn, or brunne, which rises among the earthworks, and gives its name to the whole town. In the flat meadow bubbles up still the great pool of limestone water, crystal clear, suddenly and at once; and runs away, winter and summer, a stream large enough to turn many a mill, and spread perpetual verdure through the flat champaign lands.”