The road from Stratford to Banbury is winding and steep in places, and Sun-Rising Hill is known over the Kingdom as the most formidable in the Midland Country; the road climbs it in sweeping curves and the increasing grade brings the motor to “low” ere we reach the top. But the prospect which greets one from its summit makes the climb worth while, a panorama of green and gold fading into the purple haze of distance. The Red Lion at Banbury appeals to us and we rest awhile in the courtyard after luncheon. Along the walls directly in front of us, a blaze of purple bloom, stretches the “largest wisteria in England,” one hundred and eighty feet in length, its stem like a good-sized tree. It has been thus with so many of the old-time inns; each has had some peculiar charm. But surely no architect ever planned the Red Lion Inn; it is a rambling building that seems to have grown up with the years. No straight line curbs its walls; none of its floors maintain the same level; it is a maze of strangely assorted apartments, narrow, winding hallways and odd nooks and corners.
The road we follow to Daventry is a retired one, very narrow and almost lost in places between high hedges and over-arching trees. It leads through quaint villages, snug and cozy among the hills, seemingly little disturbed by the workaday world beyond. What a change it is to come into the Holyhead road at Daventry, the splendid highway that charms one more and more every time he passes over it; and did ever anyone see it more golden and glorious than we as we hasten toward Coventry in the face of the setting sun? The giant elms and yews and pines that border the road stand sharply against the wide bar of lucent gold that sweeps around the horizon, flecked here and there with purple and silver clouds. Soon the three slender spires of the old city loom out of the purple mists that hover over it and stand in clear outline against the sunset sky, a scene of calm and inspiring beauty. As we come nearer the shadows resolve themselves into the houses of the charming old town, in the heart of which we come to our pleasant inn.
There is little more to be told; our second long pilgrimage through the sunlit fields and rain-swept wolds of Britain and Ireland draws near its close. We take our final leave of Coventry with keen regret and soon come into the Northamptonshire Hills. We see the Bringtons again, far more delightful under cloudless skies than in the gray summer shower that wrapped the little hamlets during our former visit.
Beyond Northampton, a memory of Ben Franklin brings us to Ecton, apparently the sleepiest of Midland villages. We follow the straggling line of thatched cottages to the church, where gray stones with almost illegible inscriptions mark the graves of Eleanor and Thomas Franklin, uncle and aunt of one who, in some respects, was our greatest American. The Franklin manor house is gone and Benjamin himself had little to do with Ecton save as a visitor to his ancestral home. He relates that in searching the parish records he learned that he was the youngest son of the youngest son for no less than five generations—verily, genius has little respect for the law of primo-geniture so sacred in England. His grandfather, also a Benjamin, left Ecton for London, where he engaged in the dyer’s trade and varied the drudgery of his calling by writing much poetry of doubtful merit. His youngest son, Josias, emigrated to America in 1682, and the rest is American history, too well known to need recording here. Ecton, somnolent and remote, seems little conscious today of the achievements of the mighty son of her Franklin squires of a few centuries ago.
At Bedford, the brightest and most progressive-looking of English towns, we enter the old home of Howard, who civilized the prisons of the world and whose memory is kept green by the excellent work of the Howard societies of our own and other countries. Near at hand is the Bunyan memorial chapel, with many relics of the author of “Pilgrim’s Progress.” And one is mildly astonished to see the collection of the works of this famous preacher and to note how “Pilgrim’s Progress” outshone and survived a flood of mediocre, if not stupid, theological writings which he poured forth. We hasten onward through Cambridge, and night finds us at the Angel in Bury St. Edmunds. Of our last day’s wanderings I have already told in my chapter on East Anglia.
Travel-stained but unwearied, the tried and trusty companion of our pilgrimage stands before our London hotel. It is hard to think of her—is the pronoun right?—as a thing of iron and steel; she has won a personality to us; but, metaphor aside, what a splendid means to a splendid end the motor has become! In two summers we have seen more of Britain than one might find it practicable to see in years under old conditions, and we have seen the most delightful, though unfamiliar, side. I trust that some small measure of our appreciation has been reflected in these pages, though I well recognize that neither the words nor the power to use them are mine by which there might be conveyed a truly adequate idea of such a pilgrimage.
[XXI]
LUDLOW TOWN
I am going to write a chapter, though it be a short one, on Ludlow Town, which, among the hundreds of places rich in historic association and redolent of romance that we visited in our wanderings, still continues pre-eminent in our memories. We took occasion to pause here four or five times for the night, and each succeeding sojourn only served to heighten our appreciation of the delightful old town and its traditions. One will not tire of the Feathers Inn—surely one of the most charming of the very old hostelries and noted as one of the best preserved brick-and-timber houses in the Kingdom. True, copious applications of black and white paint gives it a somewhat glaring appearance, but the beauty of the sixteenth century facade with its jutting gables, carved beams and antique windows, will appeal to the most casual beholder. The interior is old-fashioned, but comfortable withal, and an air of quiet pervades the place. It is not without a touch of modernity, for between our first and last visit gas lights superseded candles. On one occasion, when the Feathers was full, we went to the Angel and will not soon forget the portly Boniface who welcomed us: a mighty man indeed, who might well be the prince of inn-keepers and who would tip the scale at not less than twenty-five stone—for thus they reckon ones weight in England.