But the Churn has always been the Churn (indeed, the Romans named the neighbouring settlement from the stream—Churn-chester or Cirencester); and no one has ever thought of calling it the Thames. Whereas the stream beginning in Trewsbury Mead has from time immemorial been known as the Thames (Isis is only an alternative name, not greatly used in early days); and so the verdict of history seems to be on its side, whatever geography may have to say.
Nevertheless it matters little which can most successfully support its claim. What does matter is that Churn, and Isis, and Leach, and Ray, and Windrush, and the various other feeders, give of their waters in sufficient quantity to ensure a considerable river later on. From the point of view of their usefulness both the main stream and the tributaries are negligible till we come to Lechlade, for only there does navigation and consequently trade begin. But if the stream is not very useful, it is exceedingly pretty, with quaint rustic bridges spanning its narrow channel, and fine old-world mills and mansions and cottages and numbers of ancient churches on its banks.
Lechlade from the First Lock.
The first place of any size is the little town of Cricklade, which can even boast of two churches. Here the little brooks of infant Thames (or Isis) and Churn join forces, and yield quite a flowing stream. At Lechlade the rivulet is joined by the Colne, and its real life as a river commences. From now on to London there is a towing-path beside the river practically the whole of the way, for navigation by barges thus early becomes possible.
From Lechlade onwards to Old Windsor, a matter of about a hundred miles, the upper Thames has on its right bank the county of Berkshire, with its beautiful Vale of the White Horse, remembered, of course, by all readers of “Tom Brown’s Schooldays.” On the left bank is Oxfordshire as far as Henley, and Buckinghamshire afterwards.
In and out the “stripling Thames” winds its way, clear as crystal as it slips past green meadows and little copses. There is very little to note as we pass between Lechlade and Oxford, a matter of forty miles or so. Owing to the clay bed, not a town of any sort finds a place on or near the banks. Such villages as there are stand few and far between.
Just past Lechlade there is Kelmscott, where William Morris dwelt for some time in the Manor House; and the village will always be famous for that. There in the old-world place he wrote the fine poems and tales which later he printed in some of the most beautiful books ever made, and there he thought out his beautiful designs for wall-papers, carpets, curtains, etc. He was a wonderful man, was William Morris, a day-dreamer who was not content with his dreams until they had taken actual shape.
Kelmscott Manor.