A Month in Yorkshire

by Walter White

What a contrast! Wackford Squeers and the Thracian cohort. Bowes, under the name of Lavatræ, was once a station on the great Roman road from Lincoln to Carlisle. Ere long it will be a station on the railway that is to connect Stockton with Liverpool.

Now, returning to the bridge, we plunge into the woods, and follow the river’s course by devious paths. Gladsome voices and merry laughter resound, for a numerous detachment of the excursionists from Newcastle are on their way to view the grounds of Rokeby. Delightful are the snatches of river scenery that we get here and there, where the jutting rock affords an outlook, and the more so as we enjoy them under a cool green shade. Leaving the Northumbrians at the lodge to accomplish their wishes, I kept on to Greta Bridge, and lost myself in the romantic glen through which the river flows. It will surprise you by its manifold combinations of rock, wood, and water, fascinating the eye at every step amid a solitude profound. This was the route taken by Bertram and Wilfrid when the ruthless soldier went to take possession of Mortham. You cannot fail to recognize how truly Scott describes the scenery; the “beetling brow” is there, and the “ivied banners” still hang from the crags as when the minstrel saw them. We can follow the two to that

“——grassy slope which sees
The Greta flow to meet the Tees:”

and farther, where

“South of the gate, an arrow flight,
Two mighty elms their limbs unite,
As if a canopy to spread
O’er the lone dwelling of the dead;
For their huge boughs in arches bent
Above a massive monument,
Carved o’er in ancient Gothic wise,
With many a scutcheon and device.”

You will long to lengthen your hours into days for wanderings in this lovely neighbourhood. You will be unwilling to turn from the view at Mortham Tower—one of the old border peels, or fortresses on a small scale—or that which charms you from the Dairy Bridge. Then if the risk of losing your way does not deter, you may ramble to “Brignall Banks” and Scargill, having the river for companion most part of the way. And should you be minded to pursue the road through Richmondshire to Richmond, the village and ruins of Ravensworth will remind you of

“The Baron of Ravensworth prances in pride,
And he views his domains upon Arkindale side.
The mere for his net and the land for his game,
The chase for the wild, and the park for the tame;
Yet the fish of the lake, and the door of the vale,
Are less free to Lord Dacre than Allen-a-Dale!”

Or, if inspired by a deeper sentiment, you prefer a pilgrimage to a spot of hallowed memory to every Englishman, choose the river-side path to Wycliffe, and see how ever new beauties enchant the way, and say on arrival if ever you saw a prettier village church or a more charming environment. Shut in by woods and hills here, as some writers show, is the birthplace of John Wycliffe, to whom freedom of conscience is perhaps more indebted than to Luther. One may believe that Nature herself desires to preserve from desecration the cradle of him who opened men’s hearts and eyes to see and understand the truth in its purity; cleansed from the adulterations of priestcraft; stripped of all the blinding cheats of papistry; who died faithful to the truth for which he had dared to live; who bequeathed that truth to us, and with God’s blessing we will keep it alive and unblemished, using it manfully as a testimony against all lies and shams whatsoever and wheresoever they may be found.

The church was restored, as one may judge, in a loving spirit in 1850. It contains a few interesting antiquities, and is fraught with memories of the Wycliffes. One of the brasses records the death of the last of the family. Sir Antonio a-More’s portrait of the great Reformer still hangs in the rectory, where it has been treasured for many generations.

You may return from this pilgrimage by the way you went, or walk on through Ovington to Winston, and there take the train to Barnard Castle. I preferred the banks of Tees, for their attractions are not soon exhausted. One of the houses at Greta, which was a famous hostelry in the days of stage-coaches, is now a not happy-looking farm-house. It has seen sore changes. Once noise and activity, and unscrupulous profits, when the compact vehicles with the four panting horses rattled up to the door at all hours of the day or night, conveying passengers from London to Edinburgh. Now, a silence seldom disturbed save by the river’s voice, and time for reflection, and leisure to look across to its neighbour, wherein the wayfarer or angler may still find rest and entertainment. From Greta Bridge to Boroughbridge was considered the best bit of road in all the county. Now it is encroached on by grass, and the inns which are not shut up look altogether dejected, especially that one where the dining-room has been converted into a stable.