CHAPTER XI.
BY THE MIDLAND LINE.
But the dell,
Bathed in the mist, is fresh and delicate
As vernal corn–field, or the unripe flax,
When through its half–transparent stalks at eve
The level sunshine glimmers with green light.
S. T. COLERIDGE.
THE opening of the Midland line through Marple, like that of the L. & N. W. through Disley, was hailed with immense delight by all lovers of country rambles. Access thereto previously was possible only on foot, or by canal, and in either case the journey was rather long. Chadkirk, soon reached, is a celebrated old village thought by some to preserve the name of the once greatly–honoured patron–saint commemorated also in Chadderton, Chaddock, Chatburn, and Chat Moss; by others, to refer to one “Earl Cedda.” Be that as it may, the tradition of the old missionary’s once abiding here still clings to Chadkirk, and a clear spring by the roadside, upon the left, going up the hill near the church, and now lined with mosses, is to this day “St. Chad’s well.” The earliest ecclesiastical notice of the place does not occur till temp. Henry VIII. The hill itself, Werneth Low, is one of the highest in Cheshire, and the first of several such in that odd piece of the county which runs away to the north–east, stretched forth, as an old topographer says, “like the wing of an eagle.” Like all the other eminences hereabouts, it commands very noble and extensive views. So complete, in truth, is the look–out in all directions from the summit, that to walk from end to end, is like pacing a watch–tower. The plains of Cheshire and South Lancashire lie to the west; Lyme, Marple, and Disley are seen to the south; and eastwards there are inviting bits of Derbyshire, here separated from Cheshire by the Etherowe, the opposite side charmingly clothed by the Ernocroft woods, while in the distance rise the vast moorlands of Charlesworth and Glossop. If bound for Werneth Low it is best, perhaps, after all, to quit the train at Woodley, or to make our way to that place from Parkwood. In any case, until Werneth Low has been ascended, knowledge of our local scenery is decidedly immature.
The long and beautifully wooded glen extending from Romiley to Marple is Chadkirk Vale, and the stream, not as some suppose, the Mersey, but the above–named Goyt. That it is marked as the Mersey in Speed, and again in the Ordnance map, no doubt is true. White also calls it the Mersey,—all who do this considering that the Mersey begins with the confluence of the Etherowe with the Goyt, about half–a–mile below Compstall bridge. But the real point of commencing is where the Goyt is joined by the Tame, that is to say, a little below Portwood bridge, in the north–western suburb of Stockport. The ramble up the vale is in every portion delightful, closing in a deep ravine or clough called Marple Dell, the upper extremity spanned by the three great arches of “Marple Aqueduct.” The height of this celebrated work from the bed of the river is nearly a hundred feet; yet, to–day it is overtopped by the Midland viaduct, from which, as we glide past, the dell is seen half as much again below. Aqueducts are common enough, and so are viaducts, but it is seldom that we have the opportunity of contemplating at the same moment a twofold series of arches of equal grandeur, the viaduct consisting of no fewer than thirteen. Everywhere right and left of the Goyt, hereabouts, there are unforbidden and usually quiet and shady paths, some of them possibly entered more readily by the ancient foot–roads from near Bredbury and Hazel–grove, but all converging towards Marple village. Three or four of the most interesting little cloughs or dells within the same distance of Manchester are here associated, the prettiest, perhaps, being those called Dan–bank wood and Marple wood. Lovely strolls are at command also by aiming for Otterspool Bridge, these chiefly through meadows and by the rapid river, which, when not perplexed by shifting islands and peninsulas, decked with willow–herb and butter–bur, glides with a stilly smoothness quite remarkable for one so shallow. At Otterspool the rush of water is sometimes very strong. In the olden times it was similar at Stockport, though now subdued by the constant casting in of dirt, if there be truth, that is, in the record that in 1745, when the Stockport bridge was blown up in order to check the retreat of the Pretender, it ran beneath the arches “with great fury.” Upon the western banks of the Goyt, not very far from Chadkirk, perched upon a romantic natural terrace, there is another very interesting and celebrated Elizabethan mansion, Marple Old Hall, the more pleasing since, though subjected in 1659 to rather considerable alterations, it appears to retain all the best of the original characteristics. It is now draped also, in part, with luxuriant ivy. The historical incidents connected with Marple Hall are well known,—those, at least, which gather round the name of Cromwell. To our own mind there is something better yet,—the spectacle in the earliest months of spring of the innumerable snowdrops, these dressing the woods and slopes with their immaculate purity, almost to the water’s edge.
Proceeding direct to Marple by the Midland, the choicest of the many walks now at command begins with descent of the hill upon the left, then, as soon as the river is reached,—keeping as near it as may be practicable,—through the lanes and meadows as far as “Arkwright’s Mill.” No Ancoats mill is this one. Originally called “Bottoms Mill,” it was erected in 1790 by the celebrated Mr. Samuel Oldknow, of whom so many memorials exist in the neighbourhood, including a lettered tablet in Marple church, and who would seem to have been associated with Arkwright in many of his most important undertakings. The mill in question was built, as Mr. Joel Wainwright correctly states,[18] upon the lines of the famous one at Cromford. Embosomed in a romantic valley, and surrounded by fine trees, among which are walnuts—for in tree–planting, as in other things, Mr. Oldknow displayed exceptional good taste—it gives the idea less of a cotton–mill than of some great institute or retreat, and proves that in the country, at least, scenes of manufacturing need not by any means be, as usual, depôts of ugliness. Soon after passing the mill, the path continues by the river–side, through pleasant meads and under the shadow of the trees to the point where the stream is crossed by Windybottom Bridge, where the hill has now to be ascended, either leftwards for Marple Ridge and Disley, or turning to the right for Marple village. Either way, the walk is delightful, and always at an end too soon. Another charming way from Arkwright’s mill to the bridge is along the slope on the Derbyshire side of the water, called Strawberry Hill, but this is only for the privileged. Down in this sequestered valley, if we love the sight of wild–flowers, there is always great store; in May the fragrant wild–anise, and in autumn the campanula.
A third excellent Marple walk is to go up the hill from the station, turn instantly to the right just above the line, and alongside of it, and at the distance of a hundred yards or so find our way to the bank of the canal, crossing this and entering the fields through a stile. The path then goes past Lea Hey farm, and after awhile past Nab Top farm, beautiful prospects all the way. On the right, far below, we now soon have the river, eventually treading the meadows called Marple Dale, through which it meanders, and at the end of which the path mounts through the wood and enters Marple Park, the way back to the village now self–declared.