ST. PETER’S CHURCH AND WALLINGFORD BRIDGE.
Wallingford possesses interesting memories, although its visible antiquities are not numerous. The town was of consequence in Roman times, and a line of splendidly-preserved earthworks, thrown up by Latin-tongued warriors, is to be seen in a field near the railway station. The Castle of Wallingford underwent sieges innumerable, since its comparative nearness to London rendered its possession of importance to each side in the dynastic wars of the Middle Ages. It was held for the Empress Maud; it resisted stoutly in the behalf of that clever scoundrel, John Lackland; it was garrisoned for Charles I., but was compelled to surrender, and the Parliament made short work of its keeps and battlements. The fortress was not entirely destroyed, and the mutilated remains are carefully preserved in the gardens of the present Wallingford Castle. In the museum at the Castle there is an interesting collection of antiquities relating to the town and the fortress. The importance or the piety of the town must have been far greater previous to the Cromwellian civil wars than either is now, since there were then fourteen churches, whereas there are now but three. Beyond one or two tablets to local benefactors, there is nothing interesting in St. Mary’s Church on the Market Place. St. Peter’s is the burial-place of Sir William Blackstone, “one of the judges of His Majesty’s Superior Courts at Westminster,” and Recorder of Wallingford, who built the flint tower, with its uncomfortable spire—both conspicuous monuments of the architectural decadence—and died in 1780. In the Council Chamber of the Town Hall there is a modern portrait of the judge in robes and bag-wig. It is charitable to suppose that his lordship’s legal acumen was superior to his architectural taste. The most interesting tomb in the churchyard is that of Edward Stennett, the friend of Bunyan, who may have died any time between 1705 and 1795, since the third figure of the date has become obliterated. Among the portraits in the Town Hall is one of Archbishop Laud ascribed to Holbein. The date of 1635 upon the painting indicates that the author of the ascription was daring even beyond the usual audacity of such persons. The presence of Laud’s portrait is explained by the double fact of his being a Berkshire man and a benefactor to the town. In common with most of the towns in the Thames Valley, Wallingford contains many good red-brick houses, chiefly of Georgian date.
MOULSFORD FERRY.
The river, after leaving Wallingford, widens a little, and there is a continuation of the park-like meadows. A short distance down stream is Wallingford Lock, which is a lock only in name. Here the towing-path deserts the Oxford for the Berkshire shore, and the long and lovely reach which ends at Moulsford Bridge begins. This spot marks the commencement of the stretch of meadow, hills, and woodland, which makes the delight of Goring and Pangbourne. The Oxfordshire bank is not merely studded, but is thickly overhung, with trees and undergrowth, beneath whose shade many a boat is moored for those aquatic flirtations which are among the most enchanting of summer diversions. Directly one gets clear of Wallingford the wooded heights about Streatley come in view, with a glowing “scarf of sunshine athwart their breast.” On the Oxford bank, halfway to North Stoke, more or less, is Mongewell House, a delicate bit of white in a setting of green lawns and venerable trees. Once Mongewell was an episcopal retirement, to which the Bishops of Durham resorted for relief from the fatigues of administration. It was admirably suited to such a purpose, since it is a silent and contemplative spot—the more peaceful, perhaps, from the contiguity of the little Church of Newton Murren, a marvel of the miniature, with a tiny chancel, and a belfry no bigger than a dovecote. Any monotony there may be from this spot to the ferry at North Stoke is relieved by the Streatley Hills, looming ever larger as the boat swings down the reach, and by the fine clumps of timber which line the river bank on each side. Many a sweet rural picture is passed on the oarsman’s highway between Newton Murren and Moulsford Bridge, and in such a country all seasons of the year, and all times of the day, have their charm. The early-morning hours upon the riverside provide unending delight to the real lover of nature. Everything is fresh, crisp, and blithe, for the life of the fields and hedgerows is busy and bustling long before the earliest man’s breakfast-time. The ideal climate, cool but not cold, exhilarating, buoyant, redolent of the delight of life, would be a perpetual summer morning, such as it is from five until nine. Every sight gratifies the eye. Then the dew is still heavy upon the hedgerows and the tall aquatic grasses, and where there is a bit of furzy country, there is a tear in every golden flower of gorse. The atmosphere is clearer and more elastic than later in the day. The far-distant rush of trains, the only reminder that there is a world beyond the horizon, and that its daily fret has begun, which at noon is a mere rumble, in this crisp air is sharp and almost shrill. The ring of the scythe under the whetstone many fields away sounds but a few yards off, and the metallic clang of the stable clock at some country house, hidden behind the belts of woodland, half-an-hour’s walk as the crow flies, is distinct as the raspy cry of the corn-crake in the yellowing wheat near by. It is hard to say at what season of the day this stretch down to Moulsford Bridge is most charming. To my taste it is the early morning; but poets and lovers would probably prefer sunset, not to say moonlight.
ABINGDON TO STREATLEY.