The railway station at Clapham, as well as others along the line, is built in the old timbered style, and harmonizes well with the landscape. A railway hotel stands close by, invitingly open to guests who dislike the walk of a mile to the village; and the landlord, as I was told, multiplies his profits by renting the Cave.
A short flight by the first train took me to breakfast at Skipton, all through the pretty country of Craven, of which the town is the capital. The houses are built of stone taken from the neighbouring hills. The bells were just beginning their chimes as I passed the church, and, seeing the door open, I went in and looked at the stained glass and old monuments, the shields and sculptures which commemorate the Cliffords—Lords of the Honour of Skipton—the Lady Ellinor, of the house of Brandon; the Earls of Cumberland, one of whom was Queen Elizabeth’s champion against the Spaniard, as well as in tilt and tournament.
The castle, which has played a conspicuous part in history, stands beside the church, and there, over the gateway, you may still see the shield bearing two griffins, and the motto Desormais. Within, you view the massive, low, round towers from a pleasant garden, where but few signs of antiquity are to be seen; for modern restorations have masked the old grim features. Here dwelt the Cliffords, a proud and mighty family, who made a noise in the world, in their day. Among them was Lord John, or Black Clifford, who did butcher-work at the battle of Wakefield, and was repaid the year after at Towton. In the first year of Edward IV. the estates were forfeited because of high treason, and Henry, the tenth Lord of the Honour of Skipton, to escape the ill consequence of his father’s disloyalty, was concealed for twenty-five years among the shepherds of Cumberland. Another of the line was that imperial-minded Countess, the Lady Anne Clifford, who, when she repaired her castle of Skipton, made it known by an inscription in the same terms as that set up on her castle at Brough, and with the same passage of Scripture. Now it is a private residence; and the ancient tapestries and pictures, and other curiosities which are still preserved, can only be seen after due pains taken by the inquiring visitor.
The life of the Shepherd Lord, as he was called, is a touching episode in the history of the Cliffords; heightened by the marked contrast between the father and son—the one warlike and revengeful, the other gentle and forgiving. We shall come again on the traces of the pastoral chief ere the day be over.
There is a long stretch of the old castle wall on the left as you go up the road towards Knaresborough. From the top of the hill, looking back about a mile and a half distant, you get a pleasing view of Skipton, lying in its cheerful green valley; and presently, in the other direction, you see the hills of Wharfedale. Everywhere the grass is waving, or, newly-mown, fills all the air with delightful odour. I walked slowly, for the day was hot—one of the hottest of that fervid July—and took till noon to accomplish the seven miles to Bolton Abbey. The number of vehicles drawn up at the Devonshire Arms—a good inn about two furlongs from the ruin—and the numerous visitors, betokened something unusually attractive.
Since Landseer painted his picture, Bolton Abbey has become a household word. It seems familiar to us beforehand. We picture it to our minds; and your imagination must be extravagant indeed if the picture be not realized. It is a charming scene that opens as you turn out of the road and descend the grassy slope: the abbey standing, proud and beautiful in decay, in a green meadow, where stately trees adorn the gentle undulations; the Wharfe rippling cheerfully past, coming forth from wooded hills above, going away between wooded hills below, alike
“With mazy error under pendent shades;”
the bold perpendicular cliff opposite, all purple and gray, crowned and flanked with hanging wood; the cascade rushing down in a narrow line of foam; the big mossy stones that line the bank, and the stony islets in the bed of the stream; and, looking up the dale, the great sweeps of wood in Bolton Park, terminated by the wild heights of Symon Seat and Barden Fell. All around you see encircling woods, and combinations of rock, and wood, and water, that inspire delightful emotions.
But you will turn again and again to the abbey to gaze on its tall arches, the great empty window, the crumbling walls, over which hang rich masses of ivy, and walking slowly round you will discover the points whence the ruins appear most picturesque. And within, where elder-trees grow, and the carved tombstones of the old abbots lie on the turf, you may still see where the monks sat in the sanctuary, and where they poured the holy water. And whether from within or without, you will survey with reverent admiration. A part of the nave is used as a church for the neighbourhood, and ere I left, the country folk came from all the paths around, summoned by the pealing bell. I looked in and saw richly stained windows and old tombs.
On the rise above the abbey stands a castellated lodge, embodying the ancient gate-house, an occasional resort of the late Duke of Devonshire, to whom the estate belonged. Of all his possessions this perhaps offered him most of beauty and tranquillity.