CHAPTER XIV.
MERE CLOUGH.
O ’tis a quiet spirit–healing nook
Which all, methinks, would love; but chiefly he
The humble man, who in his early years
Knew just so much of folly as had made
His riper manhood more securely wise.
COLERIDGE.
MERE Clough! Where is that? Such will probably be the reception of our present title, at least in thought, by not a few of those whom we hope to be the means of introducing to this romantic little glen. For it is positively surprising how much of the rural beauty of our neighbourhood is unknown, even to those who delight in country scenes and the fresh air of the fields; and how often the very existence of it is unsuspected till some fortunate accident brings home the welcome truth. Nowhere within the same very short distance of Manchester is so much woodland beauty to be found as in Mere Clough and its immediate neighbourhood; nor is any place within four miles of the Cathedral the avenue to so many pleasant auxiliary walks. In botanical riches Mere Clough is second nearly to Bowdon, over which place it has the advantage of its earliest plants being among the rare ones of the Manchester flora, while its latest are some of the most beautiful and attractive. The name of “clough,” though so familiar in Lancashire, is not known in the southern counties. Hence it may be useful to observe that “cloughs,” beyond the Mersey, are those fissures or “clefts” in the ground which give the first and simplest idea of a valley. Formed by the rise, in opposite directions, of two gentle acclivities, which run for a short distance in a more or less irregular and winding parallel, and at last widely diverge, or else undulate away into the plain, these “cloughs” have in every case a little stream along the bottom, while the slopes on either side are clothed with trees and natural shrubbery. Along the borders of the stream there is a slender rustic path, which often quits the water–side to mount high upon the slope, and thus give pretty little peeps of the shining current down below and of the distant leafy intricacies of the wood. Rarely is there so much water as to form a deep and steady brook; in summer–time we may be sure it will be shallow enough to “make music to the enamelled stones,” and beguile us onward with that beautiful magic which always accompanies the artless voices and tones of nature.[21] In the neighbourhood of Prestwich there are several such cloughs, the “Dells” below the church being the nearest and best known, and Mere Clough the longest and most romantic. The others are Hurst Clough, to the west of Stand, and Agecroft Clough, near the bridge of that name. All these cloughs bear more or less directly towards the Irwell, into which river their little streamlets convey themselves. The beauty of Prestwich Dells has long rendered the latter place a favourite resort. Easy, moreover, of access, and with the capital recommendation of a harbour of refuge close at hand, in the shape of the commodious and well provided Church Inn, no wonder that few except naturalists have cared to push on farther. It needs something more than invites people to a place like Prestwich Dells to take us to one still prettier, but where, as far as concerns supplies for the inner man, we are like sailors on the open sea—commanding only what we carry thither.
The conveyance to go by, should the walk be thought too long, is the Whitefield omnibus. About three–quarters of a mile beyond Prestwich, through which village the omnibus passes, there is an old–fashioned “magpie” upon the left. Leave the omnibus here, and, going through the farmyard, follow the path through the field, keeping to the right of the new asylum, and in a few minutes the entrance to the clough will come in view. At first, the path is near the summit of the slope; afterwards it crosses the stream, and continues the rest of the way at the bottom. If we please, when half–way through, we may re–ascend (this time to the top of the northern slope), by going through the field upon the right, to where the great arches support the roadway, and so find our way by the carriage–track which leads to “The Park,” the residence of Mr. R. N. Philips, and eventually through the private lodge–gate at the extremity, there emerging on to the public path by the reservoir, at nearly the same point that is reached by the lower one. The latter course has the advantage of preserving the feet dry, should the path by the stream be deceitful, as often happens after wet weather, and also of providing views of the surrounding country, but the lower path is considerably more romantic. The private grounds are exceedingly pretty and sylvan, and up to about half a century ago were used as pheasant–preserves. Like those at Norcliffe, they are not forbidden to legitimate and respectful request made a few days previously, with the understanding that there shall be no trowels carried.
As stated in our second chapter, Mere Clough is fertile in curious plants. In every part there is abundance in particular of that beautiful reminder of pre–adamite vegetation, the sylvan horsetail, in scientific language Equisetum sylvaticum, in form resembling a tiny larch tree, the leaves, which are no longer or stouter than a violet stalk, curving outwards and downwards in the most graceful way imaginable, and forming a succession of little cupolas up the stem which they encircle. Varying from a few inches to nearly two feet in height when mature, and of a singularly delicate green, sometimes it tapers off to a point, sometimes is crowned with a kind of miniature fir–cone, which serves at once for flower and seed–pod, and will well repay minute examination. When ripe, an impalpable green powder dusts out of this little cone–like body, every particle a distinct and living seed, and originating a new plant, if not destroyed before it can germinate. Under the microscope, these particles perform most amusing evolutions. It is merely necessary that some one breathe upon them while we observe, to make every little atom twist and entangle its long arms as if it were an animated creature. A magnifying power of sixty is quite sufficient to show these curious movements, and the seeds, if preserved in a pill–box, will keep good for many years. All the neighbouring dells and groves likewise contain this charming plant, and growing, as it often does, in large patches, we seem to have woods within woods. Hurst Clough, best reached from Molyneux Brow, noted also for the Rosa villosa, is one of the richest. Not that it is confined to them, being more or less diffused in most directions out of Manchester, but it is here that it grows most plentifully and luxuriantly. Contemporaneous with the sylvan horsetail, there comes a second kind of golden saxifrage. The common sort was mentioned when describing Ashley meadows. This one, scientifically called the alternifolium, is larger and handsomer, as well as rare, and is to be gathered on the left hand borders of the stream, just after passing the white cottage in the middle of the clough. Another plant of special interest, and blooming at the same time, is the mountain–currant, Ribes alpinum, which grows on the bank of the half–lane, half–watercourse, running from the lower side of the reservoir towards the river. It is a large, green, leafy bush, with glossy foliage, and appears to be the only one in the Prestwich neighbourhood. How it got there is a botanical problem, yet only one out of many of the same kind. Nature is for ever putting some droll spectacle before our eyes, and playing pantomimes for our amusement and curiosity, if we would but care for them as they deserve. As Pott Shrigley is the place above all others for bluebells, so is Mere Clough the place above all others for its colleague the wood–anemone. Tens of thousands of this lovely flower, the fairest companion of the opening buds, grow in the open spaces among the trees at the lower part, sheeting them with the purest white, tinged here and there with a faint blush, like sunbeams falling on snow. On a fine day at the end of April or beginning of May, there is not a more charming picture to be found. In the moister parts of the clough, especially near the reservoir, may also now be seen in perfection the deep yellow marsh–marigold. Like the anemone, it is a common plant, but none the less to be admired. The same as to that dainty little flower, the wood–sorrel, which begins to open freely about the time that the anemones depart. Easily discovered by means of its curious leaves, which are formed of three triangular pieces, placed on the summit of a little stalk, and rise about three inches above the ground, no one can fail to be charmed with its fairy form and the delicacy of the lilac pencillings on the inner surface of the petals, which are white as those of the anemone itself. Anemone, translated, signifies “wind–flower,” a name intended to denote fugacity of the petals, or fall at the first touch. But such is not the fate of the anemone–petals of to–day. The original application of the name would appear to have been to the cistus. It was into this last that the frail goddess transformed her love, her tears represented in the disappearance in a moment.
Emerging from the clough, the difficulty is not which way to get home again, but which pleasant way to give the preference to. We may go past the dyeworks, and through the park to Agecroft Bridge; or turn up the lane that curls back towards Prestwich; or, best of all, make our way under the magnificent viaduct of the East Lancashire Railway, and then across the river to Clifton Aqueduct. Arrived here, there is another ample choice; either to ride home from the adjacent station (Clifton Junction); to descend to the Irwell bank, and walk through the meadows bordering the river to Agecroft Bridge; or to take the fields and canal bank, the latter in some parts very pretty, and so to Pendleton, where Mr. Greenwood will be glad to see us, and the feeling probably be reciprocal. To invigorate ourselves, if purposing to walk, it is prudent, and not difficult, to procure tea at one of the cottages near the station. At one in particular, standing back a little from the road, upon the left, with—at the bottom of the garden—a nice, cool, face–refreshing well, that we have seen give challenge on fair cheeks to the morning dew upon the rose, there is a free, plentiful, whole–hearted hospitality, that adds quite a charm to the associations already so pleasant, of summer afternoon in the sweet stillness of Mere Clough. The hostess is as large as her welcome; the bread and butter is incomparable.[22] Every one who has gone by train to Bolton or Bury, will remember this beautiful valley, sometimes called the Agecroft, sometimes after its river, the Irwell. On the left, as soon as Pendleton is passed, the high grounds of Pendlebury come into view, their brows covered with trees. On the right, first we have broad, sweet lawns of meadow and pasture, and in autumn yellow corn–fields; and, beyond these, rising in terraced slopes, with deep bays and rounded promontories, according as the hill recedes or swells, the woods overlooking Agecroft Park, presently succeeded by those of Prestwich. For fully two miles the eye rests upon rich masses of leaf, interrupted only by mounds of tender green, the crests of the Rainsall and Agecroft hills, and towards the close, the picturesque tower of Prestwich Church. The course of the river may be traced by the winding line of continuous foliage, but the water is too low down to be discerned until we catch sight of the white cottage at the foot of Mere Clough, immediately after passing which, if upon the Bury line, we continue along the viaduct and therefrom get a full view, as well as of banks lined to the water’s edge with vegetation. Here the scenery changes entirely, though retained for a short distance on the Bolton line, and we quit the Agecroft valley. Not one of the other railway approaches to our town—ten minutes completing the journey—bears any comparison with this for beauty; indeed, it is quite a surprise to people entering Manchester for the first time by way of Bolton or Bury, to find so picturesque a country at the very edge.