It was one of those fine, fresh, breezy days that make it a delight simply to be out of doors; the atmosphere was life-giving. The sky above was compounded of about equal parts of deep, pure blue and of great white rounded clouds, that as they sailed along caused a ceaseless play of sunshine and shadow over all the spreading landscape. “Well,” exclaimed my wife, “and this is Lincolnshire; I don’t wish for a pleasanter country to travel in!” “Nor I,” was my response.
A DECAYED MARKET-TOWN
The first place we came to was Wragby, some nine miles from Horncastle—nine miles of beauty, if uneventful ones. It was a restful, refreshing stage, without anything special to do or to inspect on the way. We had seen so much of late that we rejoiced for a change in a day-dreamy progress with nothing to disturb our quiet enjoyment of the greenful gladness of the smiling country-side. Wragby is a little decayed market-town, clean and wind-swept; a slumberous spot that seems simply to exist because it has existed. The only moving thing in it when we arrived, as far as we could see, were the great sails of one tall windmill that stood just where the houses ceased and the fields began, and even these sails revolved in a lazy, leisurely fashion, as though hurry were a thing unknown in the place. We did not catch a glimpse of the miller, perhaps because he was asleep whilst the wind worked for him! We did not see a soul in the streets or deserted market-square, but possibly it was the local dinner-hour. So still all things seemed; the clatter and rumbling of our dogcart sounded so loudly in the quiet street, that we felt as though we ought almost to apologise to the inhabitants for disturbing their ancient tranquillity. One can hardly realise what perfect quietude means till one has experienced it in some somnolent rural town at dinner-hour. Such places possess a stillness greater than that of the country where the birds sing, the leaves of the trees rustle in the wind, and the stream gurgles on its way—all in the minor key truly, still noticeable—to which may be added the sounds that proceed, and carry far, from the many farmsteads, the lowing of cattle, the bleating of sheep, the bark of dog, the call of shepherd, the rattle of the mowing or reaping machine. No, for perfect quietness (or deadly dulness, if you will) commend me to some old, dreamy, decayed market-town at mid-day!
Wragby is not a picturesque place, not by any stretch of the imagination; nor, in the usual acceptance of the term, is it in any possible way interesting. Yet it interested us, in a mild manner, on account of its homely naturalness, its mellow look, and the indescribable old-world air that brooded over all. It seemed to belong to another day, as though in driving into it we had driven into a past century as well. There was a sense of remoteness about the spot, both of time and space, that appealed strongly to our feelings. A mere matter of sentiment all this, a purely poetic illusion that we gladly gave way to for the time; it is a good thing to be able to romance, now and then, in this most unromantic age!
We drove under the archway of the drowsy and weather-beaten old inn that faced us here, a plain structure enough, but it appealed to us as a relic of the old coaching days. The stable-yard was deserted, erstwhile so busy; for Wragby was an important posting place in the pre-railway age, being the half-way house between Lincoln and Louth, as well as between Lincoln and Horncastle; for at this spot those two highways meet.
Having aroused some one and stabled our horses, we entered the ancient hostelry, and were shown into a front sitting-room, where, doubtless, in the days gone by, our forefathers feasted and made merry. The saddest feature of this later age is the decay of joyousness in life; we travel luxuriously certainly, but seriously, as we seem to do all else. Our sitting-room had a look as though it had seen better times, the carpet, curtains, and paper were worn and sun-faded, but the room was clean and sweet, and the sunshine streaming in made it more cheerful, to me at any rate, than certain sumptuously furnished drawing-rooms I know well, where the inspiriting sunshine is carefully excluded by blinds, lest it should fade the too expensive upholstering. Yet there is nothing so decorative or so truly beautiful in a room; it is only the poor, if expensive, modern material that fades shabbily. Good old stuff, a Turkey or Persian carpet, old Oriental hangings, tone and improve rather by light, their colours are simply softened down.
HUNGRY TRAVELLERS
“What can we have to eat?” we inquired. “Have you any cold meat?” No, but they could perhaps get us a chop, or we could have some ham and eggs, or bread and cheese. We were hungry, very hungry in fact, for driving across country on a breezy, bracing day is a wonderful appetiser; so, neglecting the counter attractions of bacon and eggs—the standard dish of a homely country inn when other things fail—we elected to have the certain bread and cheese rather than wait for the doubtful chop; besides, sometimes chops are tough, and oftentimes they are fried, and not grilled as they should be. Presently a coarse but spotless cloth was laid upon the table, napkins were provided, and some wild flowers in an ugly vase made a welcome decoration—the flowers, not the vase! Even the vase had its lowly use, it enhanced the delicate beauty of the flowers by contrast. After all we had no cause to regret our frugal fare, for we enjoyed some delicious home-baked bread with a sweet flavour and a deliciously crisp crust, quite a different article from the insipid production of the London baker, and far more to be desired, an excellent cheese, not made abroad, and some home-brewed ale, nut-brown and foaming, which we quaffed with much satisfaction out of a two-handled tankard. It was truly a simple repast, but then everything of its kind was as good as it could be, and our bill came to only two shillings—one shilling each!
Leaving Wragby we entered upon another very pleasant but uneventful stretch of country; it was a reposeful afternoon, the wind had dropped, and all nature was in a tranquil mood; in sympathy with her so were we. In fact during the whole of the afternoon’s drive we neither sketched nor photographed, nor descended once from the dogcart to see this or that; we were content to behold the country from our comfortable seat in a lazy sort of way; and there is a virtue in laziness sometimes. The quiet, pastoral landscape had a drowsy aspect that was most peace-bestowing. We drove leisurely on,
A LAZY LAND