Thomas D. Murphy - British Highways And Byways From A Motor Car

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Across the river from Rochester lies Chatham, a city of forty thousand
people and a famous naval and military station. The two cities are
continuous and practically one. From here, without further stop, we
followed the fine highway to Canterbury and entered the town by the west
gate of Chaucer's Tales. This alone remains of the six gateways of the
city wall in the poet's day, and the strong wall itself, with its
twenty-one towers, has almost entirely disappeared. We followed a
winding street bordered with quaint old buildings until we reached our
hotel--in this case a modern and splendidly kept hostelry. The hotel was
just completing an extensive garage, but it was not ready for occupancy
and I was directed to a well equipped private establishment with every
facility for the care and repair of motors. The excellence of the
service at this hotel attracted our attention and the head waiter told
us that the owners had their own farm and supplied their own
table--accounting in this way for the excellence and freshness of the
milk, meat and vegetables.

The long English summer evening still afforded time to look about the
town after dinner. Passing down the main street after leaving the hotel,
we found that the river and a canal wound their way in several places
between the old buildings closely bordering on each side. The whole
effect was delightful and so soft with sunset colors as to be suggestive
of Venice. We noted that although Canterbury is exceedingly ancient, it
is also a city of nearly thirty thousand population and the center of
rich farming country, and, as at Chester, we found many evidences of
prosperity and modern enterprise freely interspersed with the quaint and
time-worn landmarks. One thing which we noticed not only here but
elsewhere in England was the consummate architectural taste with which
the modern business buildings were fitted in with the antique
surroundings, harmonizing in style and color, and avoiding the
discordant note that would come from a rectangular business block such
as an American would have erected. Towns which have become known to fame
and to the dollar-distributing tourists are now very slow to destroy or
impair the old monuments and buildings that form their chief
attractiveness, and the indifference that prevailed generally fifty or a
hundred years ago has entirely vanished. We in America think we can
afford to be iconoclastic, for our history is so recent and we have so
little that commands reverence by age and association; yet five hundred
years hence our successors will no doubt bitterly regret this spirit of
their ancestors, just as many ancient towns in Britain lament the folly
of their forbears who converted the historic abbeys and castles into
hovels and stone fences.

Fortunately, the cathedral at Canterbury escaped such a fate, and as we
viewed it in the fading light we received an impression of its grandeur
and beauty that still keeps it pre-eminent after having visited every
cathedral in the island. It is indeed worthy of its proud position in
the English church and its unbroken line of traditions, lost in the mist
of antiquity. It is rightly the delight of the architect and the artist,
but an adequate description of its magnificence has no place in this
hurried record. Time has dealt gently with it and careful repair and
restoration have arrested its decay. It stands today, though subdued and
stained by time, as proudly as it did when a monarch, bare-footed,
walked through the roughly paved streets to do penance at the tomb of
its martyred archbishop. It escaped lightly during the Reformation and
civil war, though Becket's shrine was despoiled as savoring of idolatry
and Cromwell's men desecrated its sanctity by stabling their horses in
the great church.

The next day being Sunday, we were privileged to attend services at the
cathedral, an opportunity we were always glad to have at any of the
cathedrals despite the monotony of the Church of England service, for
the music of the superb organs, the mellowed light from the stained
windows, and the associations of the place were far more to us than
litany or sermon. The archbishop was present at the service in state
that fitted his exalted place as Primate of all England and his rank,
which, as actual head of the church, is next to the king, nominally head
of the church as well as of the state. He did not preach the sermon but
officiated in the ordination of several priests, a service full of
solemn and picturesque interest. The archbishop was attired in his
crimson robe of state, the long train of which was carried by young boys
in white robes, and he proceeded to his throne with all the pomp and
ceremony that so delights the soul of the Englishman. He was preceded by
several black-robed officials bearing the insignia of their offices, and
when he took his throne, he became apparently closely absorbed in the
sermon, which was preached by a Cambridge professor.

We were later astonished to learn that the archbishop's salary amounts
to $75,000 per year, or half as much more than that of the President of
the United States, and we were still more surprised to hear that the
heavy demands made on him in maintaining his state and keeping up his
splendid episcopal palaces are such that his income will not meet them.
We were told that the same situation prevails everywhere with these high
church dignitaries, and that only recently the Bishop of London had
published figures to show that he was $25,000 poorer in the three years
of his incumbency on an annual salary of $40,000 per year. It is not
strange, therefore, that among these churchmen there exists a demand for
a simpler life. The Bishop of Norwich frankly acknowledged recently that
he had never been able to live on his income of $22,500 per year. He
expressed his conviction that the wide-spread poverty of the bishops is
caused by their being required to maintain "venerable but costly
palaces." He says that he and many of his fellow-churchmen would prefer
to lead plain and unostentatious lives, but they are not allowed to do
so; that they would much prefer to devote a portion of their income to
charity and other worthy purposes rather than to be compelled to spend
it in useless pomp and ceremony.

Aside from its cathedral, Canterbury teems with unique relics of the
past, some antedating the Roman invasion of England. The place of the
town in history is an important one, and Dean Stanley in his "Memorials
of Canterbury," claims that three great landings were made in Kent
adjacent to the city, "that of Hengist and Horsa, which gave us our
English forefathers and character; that of Julius Caesar, which revealed
to us the civilized world, and that of St. Augustine, which gave us our
Latin Christianity." The tower of the cathedral dominates the whole city
and the great church often overshadows everything else in interest to
the visitor. But one could spend days in the old-world streets,
continually coming across fine half-timbered houses, with weather-beaten
gables in subdued colors and rich antique oak carvings. There are few
more pleasing bits of masonry in Britain than the great cathedral
gateway at the foot of Mercery Lane, with its rich carving, weather-worn
to a soft blur of gray and brown tones. Near Mercery Lane, too, are
slight remains of the inn of Chaucer's Tales, "The Chequers of Hope,"
and in Monastery Street stands the fine gateway of the once rich and
powerful St. Augustine's Abbey. Then there is the quaint little church
of St. Martins, undoubtedly one of the oldest in England, and generally
reputed to be the oldest. Here, in the year 600, St. Augustine preached
before the cathedral was built. Neither should St. John's hospital,
with its fine, half-timbered gateway be forgotten; nor the old grammar
school, founded in the Seventh Century.

[Illustration: CATHEDRAL, CANTERBURY.]

Our stay in the old town was all too short, but business reasons
demanded our presence in London on Monday, so we left for that city
about two o'clock. We varied matters somewhat by taking a different
return route, and we fully agreed that the road leading from Canterbury
to London by way of Maidstone is one of the most delightful which we
traversed in England. It led through fields fresh with June verdure,
losing itself at times in great forests, where the branches of the trees
formed an archway overhead. Near Maidstone we caught a glimpse of Leeds
Castle, one of the finest country seats in Kent, the main portions of
the building dating from the Thirteenth Century. We had a splendid view
from the highway through an opening in the trees of the many-towered old
house surrounded by a shimmering lake, and gazing on such a scene under
the spell of an English June day, one might easily forget the present
and fancy himself back in the time when knighthood was in flower, though
the swirl of a motor rushing past us would have dispelled any such
reverie had we been disposed to entertain it. We reached London early,
and our party was agreed that our pilgrimage to Canterbury could not
very well have been omitted from our itinerary.

IV

A RUN THROUGH THE MIDLANDS

I had provided myself with letters of introduction from the American
Automobile Association and Motor League, addressed to the secretary of
the Motor Union of Great Britain and Ireland, and shortly after my
arrival in London, I called upon that official at the club headquarters.
After learning my plans, he referred me to Mr. Maroney, the touring
secretary, whom I found a courteous gentleman, posted on almost every
foot of road in Britain and well prepared to advise one how to get the
most out of a tour. Ascertaining the time I proposed to spend and the
general objects I had in view, he brought out road-maps of England and
Scotland and with a blue pencil rapidly traced a route covering about
three thousand miles, which he suggested as affording the best
opportunity of seeing, in the time and distance proposed, many of the
most historic and picturesque parts of Britain.

In a general way, this route followed the coast from London to Land's
End, through Wales north to Oban and Inverness, thence to Aberdeen and
back to London along the eastern coast. He chose the best roads with
unerring knowledge and generally avoided the larger cities. On the
entire route which he outlined, we found only one really dangerous
grade--in Wales--and, by keeping away from cities, much time and nervous
energy were saved. While we very frequently diverged from this route, it
was none the less of inestimable value to us, and other information,
maps, road-books, etc., which were supplied us by Mr. Maroney, were
equally indispensable. I learned that the touring department of the
Union not only affords this service for Great Britain, but has equal
facilities for planning tours in any part of Europe. In fact, it is able
to take in hand the full details, such as providing for transportation
of the car to some port across the Channel, arranging for necessary
licenses and supplying maps and road information covering the different
countries of Europe which the tourist may wish to visit. This makes it
very easy for a member of the Union--or anyone to whom it may extend its
courtesies--to go direct from Britain for a continental trip, leaving
the tourist almost nothing to provide for except the difficulties he
would naturally meet in the languages of the different countries.

When I showed a well posted English friend the route that had been
planned, he pronounced very favorably upon it, but declared that by no
means should we miss a run through the Midlands. He suggested that I
join him in Manchester on business which we had in hand, allowing for an
easy run of two days to that city by way of Coventry. On our return
trip, we planned to visit many places not included in our main tour,
among them the Welsh border towns, Shrewsbury and Ludlow, and to run
again through Warwickshire, taking in Stratford and Warwick, on our
return to London. This plan was adopted and we left London about noon,
with Coventry, nearly one hundred miles away, as our objective point.

A motor car is a queer and capricious creature. Before we were entirely
out of the crush of the city, the engine began to limp and shortly came
to a stop. I spent an hour hunting the trouble, to the entertainment and
edification of the crowd of loafers who always congregate around a
refractory car. I hardly know to this minute what ailed the thing, but
it suddenly started off blithely, and this was the only exhibition of
sulkiness it gave, for it scarcely missed a stroke in our Midland trip
of eight hundred miles--mostly in the rain. Nevertheless, the little
circumstance, just at the outset of our tour, was depressing.

We stopped for lunch at the Red Lion in the old town of St. Albans,
twenty miles to the north of London. It is a place of much historic
interest, being a direct descendant of the ancient Roman city of
Verulamium; and Saint Albans, or Albanus, who gave his name to the town
and cathedral and who was beheaded near this spot, was the first British
martyr to Christianity of whom there is any record. The cathedral
occupies the highest site of any in England, and the square Norman
tower, which owes its red coloring to the Roman brick used in its
construction, is a conspicuous object from the surrounding country. The
nave is of remarkable length, being exceeded only by Winchester. Every
style of architecture is represented, from early Norman to late
Perpendicular, and there are even a few traces of Saxon work. The
destruction of this cathedral was ordered by the pious Henry VIII at the
time of his Reformation, but he considerately rescinded the order when
the citizens of St. Albans raised money by public subscription to
purchase the church. Only an hour was given to St. Albans, much less
than we had planned, but our late start made it imperative that we move
onward.

Our route for the day was over the old coach road leading from London to
Holyhead, one of the most perfect in the Kingdom, having been in
existence from the time of the Romans. In fact, no stretch of road of
equal distance in our entire tour was superior to the one we followed
from St. Albans to Coventry. It was nearly level, free from sharp turns,
with perfect surface, and cared for with neatness such as we would find
only in a millionaire's private grounds in the United States.
Everywhere men were at work repairing any slight depression, trimming
the lawnlike grasses on each side to an exact line with the edges of the
stone surface, and even sweeping the road in many places to rid it of
dust and dirt. Here and there it ran for a considerable distance through
beautiful avenues of fine elms and yews; the hawthorne hedges which
bordered it almost everywhere were trimmed with careful exactness; and
yet amid all this precision there bloomed in many places the sweet
English wild flowers--forget-me-nots, violets, wild hyacinths and
bluebells. The country itself was rather flat and the villages generally
uninteresting. The road was literally bordered with wayside inns, or,
more properly, ale houses, for they apparently did little but sell
liquor, and their names were odd and fantastic in a high degree. We
noted a few of them. The "Stump and Pie," the "Hare and Hounds," the
"Plume of Feathers," the "Blue Ball Inn," the "Horse and Wagon," the
"Horse and Jockey," the "Dog and Parson," the "Dusty Miller," the "Angel
Hotel" the "Dun Cow Inn," the "Green Man," the "Adam and Eve," and the
"Coach and Horses," are a few actual examples of the fearful and
wonderful nomenclature of the roadside houses. Hardly less numerous than
these inns were the motor-supply depots along this road. There is
probably no other road in England over which there is greater motor
travel, and supplies of all kinds are to be had every mile or two. The
careless motorist would not have far to walk should he neglect to keep
up his supply of petrol--or motor spirit, as they call it everywhere in
Britain.

Long before we reached Coventry, we saw the famous "three spires"
outlined against a rather threatening cloud, and just as we entered the
crooked streets of the old town, the rain began to fall heavily. The
King's Head Hotel was comfortable and up-to-date, and the large room
given us, with its fire burning brightly in the open grate, was
acceptable indeed after the drive in the face of a sharp wind, which had
chilled us through. And, by the way, there is little danger of being
supplied with too many clothes and wraps when motoring in Britain. There
were very few days during our entire summer's tour when one could
dispense with cloaks and overcoats.

Coventry, with its odd buildings and narrow, crowded streets, reminded
Nathaniel Hawthorne of Boston--not the old English Boston, but its big
namesake in America. Many parts of the city are indeed quaint and
ancient, the finest of the older buildings dating from about the year
1400; but these form only a nucleus for the more modern city which has
grown up around them. Coventry now has a population of about
seventy-five thousand, and still maintains its old-time reputation as
an important manufacturing center. Once it was famed for its silks,
ribbons and watches, but this trade was lost to the French and
Swiss--some say for lack of a protective tariff. Now cycles and motor
cars are the principal products; and we saw several of the famous
Daimler cars, made here, being tested on the streets.

Coventry has three fine old churches, whose tall needlelike spires form
a landmark from almost any point of view in Warwickshire, and give to
the town the appellation by which it is often known--"The City of the
Three Spires." Nor could we well have forgotten Coventry's unique
legend, for high up on one of the gables of our hotel was a wooden
figure said to represent Peeping Tom, who earned eternal ignominy by his
curiosity when Lady Godiva resorted to her remarkable expedient to
reduce the tax levy of Coventry. Our faith in the story, so beautifully
re-told by Tennyson, will not be shaken by the iconoclastic assertion
that the effigy is merely an old sign taken from an armourer's shop;
that the legend of Lady Godiva is common to half a dozen towns; and that
she certainly never had anything to do with Coventry, in any event.

Leaving Coventry the next day about noon in a steady rain, we sought the
most direct route to Manchester, thereby missing Nuneaton, the
birthplace and for many years the home of George Eliot and the center
of some of the most delightful country in Warwickshire. Had we been more
familiar with the roads of this country, we could have passed through
Nuneaton without loss of time. The distance was only a little greater
and over main roads, whereas we traveled for a good portion of the day
through narrow byways, and the difficulty of keeping the right road in
the continual rain considerably delayed our progress. We were agreeably
surprised to find that the car did not skid on the wet macadam road and
that despite the rain we could run very comfortably and quite as fast as
in fair weather. I had put up our cape top and curtains, but later we
learned that it was pleasanter, protected by water-proof wraps, to dash
through the rain in the open car. English spring showers are usually
light, and it was rather exhilarating to be able to bid defiance to
weather conditions that in most parts of the United States would have
put a speedy end to our tour.

A few miles farther brought us to Tamworth with its castle, lying on the
border between Warwickshire and Staffordshire, the "tower and town" of
Scott's "Marmion." The castle of the feudal baron chosen by Scott as the
hero of his poem still stands in ruins, and was recently acquired by
the town. It occupies a commanding position on a knoll and is
surrounded by a group of fine trees.

A dozen miles more over a splendid road brought in view the three spires
of Lichfield Cathedral, one of the smallest though most beautiful of
these great English churches. Built of red sandstone, rich with
sculptures and of graceful and harmonious architecture, there are few
cathedrals more pleasing. The town of Lichfield is a comparatively small
place, but it has many literary and historical associations, being the
birthplace of Dr. Samuel Johnson, whose house is still standing, and for
many years the home of Maria Edgeworth. Here, too, once lived Major
Andre, whose melancholy death in connection with the American Revolution
will be recalled. The cathedral was fortified during the civil war and
was sadly battered in sieges by Cromwell's Roundheads; but so completely
has it been rebuilt and restored that it presents rather a new
appearance as compared with many others. It occurred to us that the hour
for luncheon was well past, and we stopped at the rambling old Swan
Hotel, which was to all appearances deserted, for we wandered through
narrow halls and around the office without finding anyone. I finally
ascended two flights of stairs and found a chambermaid, who reluctantly
undertook to locate someone in authority, which she at last did. We were
shown into a clean, comfortable coffee room, where tea, served in
front of a glowing fire place, was grateful indeed after our long ride
through the cold rain.

[Illustration: THE THREE SPIRES OF LICHFIELD.

From Photograph.]

It became apparent that owing to our many delays, we could not easily
reach Manchester, and we stopped at Newcastle-under-Lyme for the night.
This town has about 20,000 people and lies on the outer edge of the
potteries district, where Josiah Wedgewood founded this great industry
over one hundred years ago. The whole region comprising Burslem, Hanley,
Newcastle, Stoke-on-Trent and many smaller places may be described as a
huge, scattered city of about 300,000 inhabitants, nearly all directly
or indirectly connected with the manufacture of various grades of china
and earthenware. The Castle Hotel, where we stopped, was a very old inn,
yet it proved unexpectedly homelike and comfortable. Our little party
was given a small private dining room with massive antique furniture,
and we were served with an excellent dinner by an obsequious waiter in
full-dress suit and with immaculate linen. He cleared the table and left
us for the evening with the apartment as a sitting room, and a mahogany
desk by the fireside, well supplied with stationery, afforded amends for
neglected letters. In the morning, our breakfast was served in the same
room, and the bill for entertainment seemed astonishingly low. Mine host
will no doubt be wiser in this particular as motorists more and more
invade the country.

An hour's drive brought us to Manchester. The road by which we entered
the city took us direct to the Midland Hotel, which is reputed to be the
finest in the Kingdom. Manchester is a city of nearly a million
inhabitants, but its streets seemed almost like those of a country town
as compared with the crowded thoroughfares of London. It is a great
center for motoring and I found many of the garages so full that they
could not take another car. I eventually came to one of the largest,
where by considerable shifting they managed to accommodate my car. But
with all this rush of business, it seemed to me that the owners were in
no danger of becoming plutocrats, for the charge for a day's garage,
cleaning the car, polishing the brass and making a slight repair, was
five shillings.

For half the way from Manchester to Leeds, the drive was about as trying
as anything I found in England. The road is winding, exceedingly steep
in places, and built up on both sides with houses--largely homes of
miners and mill operatives. The pavement is of rough cobble-stones, and
swarms of dogs and children crowded the way everywhere. Under such
conditions, the numerous steep hills, narrow places and sharp turns in
the road made progress slow indeed. It was evident that the British
motorists generally avoid this country, for we met no cars and our own
attracted attention that showed it was not a common spectacle. However,
the trip was none the less an interesting one as showing a bit of the
country and a phase of English life not usually seen by tourists.

There is little to detain one within the city of Leeds itself, but there
are many places of interest in its immediate vicinity. There are few
more picturesque spots in Yorkshire than Wharfdale, with its riotous
little river and ruins of Bolton Abbey and Barden Tower. This lies about
fifteen miles to the northwest, and while for special reasons we went to
Ilkley Station by train, the trip is a fine motor drive over good roads.
The park which contains the abbey and castle is the property of the Duke
of Devonshire, who keeps it at all times open to the public. The River
Wharfe, rippling over shingly rocks, leaping in waterfalls and
compressed into the remarkable rapids called the Strid, only five or six
feet wide but very deep and terribly swift, is the most striking feature
of the park. The forest-clad cliffs on either side rise almost
precipitously from the edges of the narrow dale, and from their summit,
if the climb does not deter one, a splendid view presents itself. The
dale gradually opens into a beautiful valley and here the old abbey is
charmingly situated on the banks of the river. The ruins are not
extensive, but the crumbling walls, bright with ivy and wall flowers,
and with the soft green lawn beneath, made a delightful picture in the
mottled sunshine and shadows of the English May day.

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