When at Gawsworth it is a pity to let slip the opportunity of visiting Marton, for the sake alike of its fine old hall, ancient church, and renowned oak. The hall, like so many others in this part of the country, is a black and white of the time of Elizabeth, supplying, in the material, yet another illustration of the ancient plenty in Cheshire of magnificent trees; Lancashire, though it contains many old halls and manor–houses of the same character, presenting a far more considerable proportion of stone ones. In the old “magpies,” very generally, so vast is the quantity of wood that one is disposed to exclaim—Surely when this house was raised a forest must have been felled. Inside there are many very interesting relics, as one would expect in a primitive seat of the old owners of Bramhall. The church, built in 1343, is in the style of Peover and the oldest portion of Warburton, the aisles being separated from the nave by oaken pillars. As for the “Marton oak,” it needs only to say that in dimensions it is an acknowledged rival of the Cowthorpe, the circumference at a yard from the ground being fifty feet, and at the height of a man more than forty feet. It can hardly be called a “trunk,” if by that word we are to understand a solid mass of timber, the inner portion having long since decayed, leaving only a shell, though the branches above are still vigorous and clothed every season with unabating foliage.
Three or four miles beyond North Rode ancient Congleton comes in view, opening the way, if we care to enter Staffordshire, to Biddulph Grange, renowned for its gardens. Mow Cop, just on the frontiers, awaits those who love mountain air. Trentham Park, fifteen miles further, or about forty–three from Manchester, is the seat, as well–known, of the Duke of Sutherland; and not far, again, from this is the Earl of Shrewsbury’s—Alton Towers. To reach the latter, we diverge from North Rode along the Churnet Valley line, the same which leads, in the first instance, to the beautiful neighbourhood of Rushton, famed for its ancient church, the untouched beams of the same date as Beeston Castle; then past Rudyard Lake and the delicious woods appertaining to Cliffe Hall. The view from Rushton churchyard is one for painters. The valley, receding southwards, encloses the smooth expanse of Rudyard, which, though no more than a reservoir, has all the winning ways of a Coniston or a Windermere, seeking to elude one’s view by reliance on friendly trees. In the north and east the hills rise terrace–wise, range beyond range, each remoter one of different hue, Shutlings Low, that beautiful mamelon, towering above all, and more effectively than as contemplated from any other point we know of. After this comes the lovely walk through the woods themselves, the water visible, intermittently, all the way, with at last pause for rest, in Rudyard village. It is not a little singular that Rudyard, like the reservoir at Lymm, should have for its parent a river Dane, though here the stream does not vanish, the Rudyard Dane being the boundary of the two counties, Cheshire and Staffordshire.
Alton Towers, a trifle further, illustrate in the finest manner what can be achieved by the skill of the landscape gardener. At the time of Waterloo the grounds were simple rabbit–warren, and the site of the present mansion was occupied by only a cottage. Worthily is it inscribed, just within the garden gate, “He made the desert smile,” the he being Charles, the sixteenth earl, under whose directions the work was executed. The framework consists of two deep and winding valleys, which lose themselves in a third of similar character. Over their slopes have been diffused terraces, arbours, ivied grottoes, trees and shrubs innumerable, green cypresses that rise like spires among the round sycamores, and rhododendrons that in May, looked at across the chasm, seem changed to purple sea–foam. Wherever practicable, there have been added waterfalls and aspiring fountains, and threading in every direction there are moss–grown and apparently interminable sylvan paths. From many points of view, the scene is one no doubt that would have captivated Claude or Salvator Rosa. Still, it must be confessed that the impression, after survey, which lingers longest in the mind is of something not simply lavish, but inordinate. Very beautiful, without question, as an essay in constructive art, therefore invaluable educationally, one falls back, nevertheless, when departing, on the thought of tranquil Norcliffe, that never tires. The earl, it may be interesting to add, to whom the Alton grounds owe their existence, represented by lineal descent the famous Talbot of the Maid of Orleans’ story. When we part with him, we may run on, if we please, to Rocester Junction, and thence to Ashbourne, the threshold of Dovedale, there to chat with immortal Izaak Walton.
Shutlings Low, the old familiar and far–seen mamelon above–mentioned, the only one we know of in Cheshire, is considered also to be the highest ground in the county, the summit reaching an elevation of over seventeen hundred feet. The view which rewards the rather stiff climb is like that from the crest of Mow Cop, not only vast in compass, but very agreeably new, from commanding as much as the eye can embrace of Staffordshire. The ascent is best made from Wild Boar Clough, itself the most picturesque of the many wild ravines which betoken the near neighbourhood of Derbyshire. For pedestrians the walk from Macclesfield to Buxton is also a glorious one, Axe Edge intervening, with at about a hundred feet below its topmost point the celebrated hostelry, reputed to exceed in elevation even the “Travellers’ Rest” in Kirkstone Pass, and which in name commemorates faithful Caton, Caton fidèle.
