Father Thames

by Walter Higgins

On we go past New Bridge, which is one of the oldest, if not the very oldest, of the many bridges which cross the River. Close at hand the Windrush joins forces, and the River swells and grows wider as it sweeps off to the north. Away on the hill on the Berkshire side is a little village known as Cumnor, which is not of any importance in itself, but which is interesting because there once stood the famous Cumnor Hall, where the beautiful Amy Robsart met with her untimely death, as possibly some of you have read in Sir Walter Scott’s novel “Kenilworth.” Receiving the Evenlode, the River bends south again, and a little later we pass Godstow Lock, not far from which are the ruins of Godstow Nunnery, where Fair Rosamund lived and was afterwards buried. Between Godstow and Oxford is a huge, flat piece of meadowland, known as Port Meadow: this during the War formed one of our most important flying-grounds.

Henceforward the upper Thames is interrupted at fairly frequent intervals by those man-made contrivances known as locks—ingenious affairs which in recent years have taken the place of or rather supplemented the old-fashioned weirs. For any river which boasts of serious water traffic the chief difficulty, especially in summer-time, has always been that of holding back sufficient water to enable the boats to keep afloat. Naturally with a sloping bed the water runs rapidly seawards, and if the supply is not plentiful the river soon tends to become shallow or even dry. In very early days man noticed this, and, copying the beaver, he erected dams or weirs to hold back the water, and keep it at a reasonable depth. And down through the centuries until comparatively recent years these dams or weirs sufficed. As man progressed he fashioned his weirs with a number of “paddles” which lifted up and down to allow a boat to pass through. When the craft was moving downstream just one or two paddles were raised, and the boat shot through the narrow opening on the crest of the rapids thus formed; but when the boat was making its way upstream more paddles were raised so that the rush of water was not so great, and the boat was with difficulty hauled through the opening in face of the strong current. This very picturesque but primitive method lasted until comparatively recent years. Now the old paddle-locks have gone the way of all ancient and delightful things, and in their places we have the thoroughly effective “pound-locks”—affairs with double gates and a pool or dock in between—which in reality convert the river into a long series of water-terraces or steps, dropping lower and lower the nearer we approach the mouth.

CHAPTER TWO

Oxford

One hundred and twelve miles above London Bridge there is the second most celebrated city on the banks of the Thames—Oxford, the “city of spires,” as it has been called. By no means a big place, it is famous as the home of our oldest University.

Seen from a distance, Oxford is a place of great beauty, especially when the meadows round about are flooded. Then it seems to rise from the water like some English Venice. Nor does the beauty grow less as we approach closer, or when we view the city from some other point. Always we see the delicate spires of the Cathedral and the churches, the beautiful towers of the various colleges, the great dome of the Radcliffe Camera, all of them nestling among glorious gardens and fine old trees.

The question at once comes into our minds, Why is it that there is a famous city here? Why should such a place as this, right out in the country, away from what might be called the main arteries of the life of England, be one of the most important seats of learning?

To understand this we must go back a long way, and we must ask ourselves the question, Why was there ever anything—even a village—here at all? If we think a little we shall see that in the early days, when there were not very many good roads, and when there were still fewer bridges, the most important spots along a river were the places where people could cross: that is to say, the fords. To these spots came the merchants with their waggons and their trains of pack-horses, the generals with their armies, the drovers with their cattle, the pilgrims with their staves. All and sundry, journeying from place to place, made for the fords, while the long stretches of river bank between these places were never visited and seldom heard of.

Now, what made a ford? Shallow water, you say. Yes, that is true. But shallow water was not enough. It was necessary besides that the bed of the stream should be firm and hard, so that those who wished might find a safe crossing. And places where such a bottom could be found were few and far between along the course of the Thames. Practically everywhere it was soft clay in which the feet of the men and the animals and the wheels of the waggons sank deep if they tried to get from bank to bank.