J. P. BAILEY.
STOCKPORT, the uninviting, in whatever direction we look to escape from it, is a point of rare value for departure for scenes of interest—this mainly because of its standing on the threshold of the hills which a little further on become members of the English Apennine,—the grand range stretching from Derbyshire to the Cheviots. Soon after passing Edgley, while the original line pursues its course to Wilmslow and Alderley, great branches strike out upon the left, one primarily for Macclesfield, the other for Disley and Buxton. Each in its turn leads to scenes of delightful beauty, and that before the time of railways were scarcely known. Alighting at Bramhall, we secure the added pleasure of a visit to the very celebrated old hall of that name—the most admirable example in our district of the “magpie” style of architecture, and not more charming in its external features than rich in interest within. The oldest portions date from soon after the middle of the fourteenth century, and are thus as nearly as possible contemporaneous as to period of building with the choir of York Minster. These very aged portions are found chiefly in connection with the entrance to the chapel. Massive beams and supports, hard as iron, refusing the least dint of the knife, and presenting the peculiar surface characteristic of the work of their time, attest very plainly the profound significance of “heart of oak.” Everything, moreover, in this grand old place is so solidly laid together, so compactly and impregnably knit, that it seems as if it would serve pretty nearly for the base of another Eddystone or Cleopatra’s needle. In the most tempestuous of winter nights, Bramhall has never been known to flinch a hair’s breadth—so, at least, the late Colonel Davenport used to assure his friends, the writer of these lines included. No portions of the building appear to be of later date than the time of Elizabeth, the domestic architecture of whose reign is nowhere in England better interpreted. The situation of Bramhall is on a par with its artistic qualities. No dull soul was it who more than five hundred years ago selected for his abode the crest of that gentle declivity, trees far and near, a stream gliding below, and views from the upper windows that reach for many miles across the undulating and sweetly variegated greensward. The romantic bit at present is the ravine hard by, saturated in spring with tender wild–flowers, the wood–sorrel in myriads.
Prestbury, a few miles beyond, also has great attractions for the antiquary, the chancel and south aisle of the church being of about A.D. 1130, while the school–house in the graveyard is entered by a doorway with apparently Norman mouldings. The tower is about A.D. 1460. If in search more particularly of rural pastime, we take the contrary side of the line, and so through the lanes and fields to the delicious Kerridge hills. Remarkable for their very sudden rise out of the plain, these green and airy hills command views, like those obtained at Alderley, of truly charming extent and variety. Tegsnose, at the southern extremity, is thirteen hundred feet above the sea–level—the little building just above Bollington, called “White Nancy,” plainly visible from the line near Wilmslow when the sunlight falls on it, is nine hundred and thirty feet;—no wonder that from this last, since there is nothing to intercept, the prospect in favourable weather reaches to Liverpool, and even to the sweet wavy lavender upon the horizon that indicates North Wales.
Bollington is now reached also by a line (part of the Manchester, Sheffield, and Lincolnshire system,) which diverges for Macclesfield at Woodley Junction. This perhaps gives nearer approach to the Kerridge hills; in any case, it is the best to take for the extremely beautiful adjacent neighbourhood, which for its little metropolis has the village of Pott Shrigley. Before the opening of the line in question, the station for this part was Adlington, on the London and North–Western. Grand as the prospects have already been, above Pott Shrigley, excepting only the “castled crag” at Beeston, all are surpassed. No lover of the illimitable need go to Cumberland or Carnarvonshire for a sight more glorious. Alderley Edge, rising out of the plain below, seems only a mound. The plain itself stretches away far more remotely than the eye can cover, no eminence of magnitude occurring nearer than the Overton hills. The towers and spires of Bowdon and Dunham are plainly distinguishable; and close by, in comparison, is the fine western extremity of the Kerridge range, with “White Nancy,”—the hill itself on which we stand, or rather seat ourselves, remembering the picture in Milton,
See how the bee,
Sitting assiduous on the honeyed bloom,
Sucks liquid sweet,
just such a one as suggested that other immortal portrait,
Green, and of mild declivity, the last,
As ’twere the cape of a long ridge of such,
Save that there is no sea to lave its base,
But a most living landscape.
The time to go to this glad pinnacle is at the end of May or the beginning of June, mounting the hill in the first instance, by the immediate route from the station. When the time arrives to descend, dip westwards, curve round by the water, and through the fields which lead into the Disley road, thence into Pott Shrigley village. No description can convey a perfect idea of the loveliness of this part of the walk at the season indicated. The long–extended survey of hill and dale, the innumerable trees, clothing the slopes at agreeable distances with the most picturesque of little woodlands, bright and cheerful in their unsullied raiment of leaves that are only yet learning the sweetness of sunshine; the rise and fall of the ground; the incessant turns and sinuosities of the pathway, every separate item is a treat, and yet the ravishing spectacle of all, at the season referred to, has still to be named. This consists in the inexpressible, the infinite multitude of the bluebells, which far surpasses that of the old Reddish valley. They saturate every slope and recess that is in any degree shady, and diffuse themselves even upon the otherwise bare hill–sides, not in a thin and niggardly way, but with the semblance of an azure mist. In many parts, at the edges of the little groves, where the ground is steep, they seem to be flowing in streams into the meadows beneath, and where there are breaks among the nearer trees they actually illuminate the opening. When the spectacle of the bluebells comes to an end, the walk continues along a beautiful green arcade, straight, level, and uninterrupted into the village.
By whichever of the two routes we prefer to go to Macclesfield, that ancient and celebrated town becomes in itself a new and excellent starting point. If desiring to go beyond, the London and North–Western should be chosen. The massive heights on the way to Buxton, including the well–known and far–conspicuous mamelon called Shutlings Low, are accessible only by carriage or on foot. North Rode, on the other hand, is but a few minutes’ continued railway journey, and for this, if we come at all, the longest day is all too short. Just in front rises Cloud–end, the mighty promontory seen from the fields near Butts Clough [(p. 23)], covered with trees, the Vitis Idæa filling the open spaces, and plenty of nuts in the neighbouring hedgerows. Keeping the mountain to the left, descending the green lane, and passing, “on sufferance,” through North Rode Park, agreeable scenery on each side all the way, the end is that beau–ideal of a rural retreat, pretty Gawsworth. The ancient trees, the venerable church, the dignified old residences, all speak at once of a long–standing and undisturbed respectability such as few villages can now assert. In the graveyard stand patriarchal yews, one of them, reduced to a torso, encased in ivy, and protected on the weaker side by a little wall of steps, intended seemingly to make it useful as a tree–pulpit. Six great walnut–trees form part of the riches of the Hall, another pleasing old “magpie;” water also is near at hand, thronged with fishes that sport near the surface, and gliding through the sunbeams gleam like silver. To return to Macclesfield there is no need to retrace one’s steps to North Rode, the walk being short and pleasant, and rendered peculiarly interesting by its beech–trees, a long and noble avenue, if contemplated through an opera–glass never to be forgotten, for then the half–mile of leafy colonnade is brought close to the eye, a green and moving stereoscopic picture.