winterborne abbas, one of the twenty-five winterbornes that plentifully dot the map of wilts and dorset, lies on the level at the bottom of this treacherous descent: a small village of thatched cottages with a church too large for it, overhung by fir trees, and a remodelled old coaching inn, apparently also too large, with its sign swinging picturesquely from a tree-trunk on the opposite side of the road which, like the majority of dorsetshire roads, is rich in loose flints.
half a mile beyond the village, a railed enclosure on the strip of grass on the left-hand side of the road attracts the wayfarer’s notice. this serves to protect from the attentions of the stone-breaker a group of eight prehistoric stones called the ‘broad stone.’{281}
the russells
image unavailable: winterborne abbas.
winterborne abbas.
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the largest is 10 feet long by 5 feet, and 2 feet thick, lying down. a notice informs all who care to know that this group is constituted by the owner, according to the act of parliament, an ‘ancient monument.’ the cynically-minded might well say that the hundreds of similar ‘ancient monuments’ with which the neighbouring downs are peppered might also be railed off, to give a welcome fillip to the trade in iron fencing, and certainly this caretaking of every misshapen stone without a story is the new idolatry.
just beyond this point is the castellated lodge of the park of bridehead, embowered amid trees. the place obtains its name from the little river bride or bredy which rises in the grounds and flows away to enter the sea at burton (= ‘bride-town’) bradstock, eight miles away; passing in its course the two other places named from it, little bredy and long bredy.
now the road rises again, and ascends wild unenclosed downs which gradually assume a stern, and even mountainous, character. amid this panorama, in the deep hollows below these stone-strewn heights, are gracious wooded dells, doubly beautiful by contrast. in the still and sheltered nooks of these sequestered spots the primrose blooms early, and frosts come seldom, while the uplands are covered with snow or swept with bleak winds that freeze the traveller’s very marrow. one of these gardens in the wilderness is kingston russell, the spot whence the russells, now dukes of bedford, sprang from obscurity into wealth and power. deep down in their retirement, the world (or such small proportion of it as travelled in those days) passed unobserved, though{284} not far removed. for generations the russells had inhabited their old manor-house here, and might have done so, in undistinguished fashion, for many years more, had it not been for the chance which brought john russell into prominence and preferment in 1502. he was the founder of the house and died an earl, with vast estates, the spoil of the church, showered upon him. he was the first of all the russells to exhibit that gift of ‘getting on’ which his descendants have almost uniformly inherited. unlike him, however, they have rarely commanded affection, and the dukes of bedford, with much reason, figure in the public eye as paragons of meanness and parsimony.
image unavailable: kingston russell.
kingston russell.
at the cross roads, where on the left the bye-path leads steeply down the sides of these immemorial hills to long bredy, and on the right in the direction of maiden newton, used to stand long bredy gate and the ‘hut inn.’ here the high-road is continued{285}
image unavailable: chilcombe church.
chilcombe church.
chilcombe
along the very backbone of the ridge, exposed to all the rigours of the elements. to add to the weird aspect of the scene, barrows and tumuli are scattered about in profusion. we now come to a turning on the left hand called ‘cuckold’s corner,’ why, no legend survives to tell us. steeply this lane leads to the downs that roll away boldly to the sea, coming in little over a mile to ‘chilly chilcombe,’ a tiny hamlet with a correspondingly tiny church tucked away among the great rounded shoulders of the hills, but not so securely sheltered but that the eager winds find their way to it and render both name and epithet eminently descriptive. the population of chilcombe, according to the latest census, is twenty-four, and the houses six; and it is, accordingly, quite in order that the church should be regarded as the smallest{286} in england. there are many of these ‘smallest churches,’ and the question as to which really deserves the title is not likely to be determined until an expedition is fitted out to visit all these rival claimants, and to accurately measure them. of course the remaining portions of a church are not eligible for inclusion in this category. chilcombe, however, is a complete example. the hamlet was never, in all probability, more populous than it is now, and the church certainly was never larger. originally norman, it underwent some alterations in the late perpendicular period. the measurements are: nave 22 feet in length, chancel 13 feet. it is a picturesque though unassuming little building, without a tower, but provided instead with a quaint old stone bell-cote on the west gable. this gives the old church the appearance of some ancient ecclesiastical pigeon-house. the bell within is dated 1656. the very fine and unusual altar-piece of dark walnut wood, with scenes from the life of christ, is credibly reported to have been brought here from one of the ships of the ‘invincible armada,’ known to have been wrecked on the beach at burton bradstock, some three miles away.
returning to the highway at ‘cuckold’s corner,’ we come to ‘traveller’s rest,’ now a wayside inn on the left hand, situated on the tremendous descent which commences a mile beyond long bredy turnpike, and goes practically down into bridport’s long street; a distance of five miles, with a fall from 702 feet above the sea, to 253 feet at ‘traveller’s rest,’ two miles farther on, and eventually to sea-level at{287}
hills round bridport
image unavailable: ‘traveller’s rest.’
‘traveller’s rest.’
{288}
{289}
bridport, with several curves in the road and an intermediate ascent or two between this point and the town. the cyclist who cares to take his courage in both hands, and has no desire to linger over perhaps one of the most magnificent scenic panoramas in england, can coast down this long stretch with the speed of the wind, and chance the result. but it is better to loiter here, for none of the great high-roads has anything like this scenery to show. from away up the road the eye ranges over a vast stretch of country westwards. south-west lies the channel, dazzling like a burnished mirror if you come here at the psychological moment for this view—that is to say, the late afternoon of a summer’s day; with the strangely contorted shapes of the hills round about suggesting volcanic origin, and casting cool shadows far down into the sheltered coombes that have been baking in the sun all day long. near at hand is shipton beacon, rising almost immediately beyond ‘traveller’s rest,’ and looking oddly from some points of view like some gigantic ship’s hull lying keel uppermost. beyond are puncknoll and hammerdon, and away in the distance, with the channel sparkling behind it, and the sun making a halo for its head, overlooking the sea at a height of 615 feet, the grand crest of golden cap, which some hold to be so named from this circumstance, while others have it that the picturesque title derives from the yellow gorse that grows on its summit. to the right hand rises the natural rampart of eggardon, additionally fortified by art, a thousand years ago, whether by briton, dane, or saxon, let those determine{290} who will, with the village of askerswell lying deep down, immediately under this ridge on which the road goes, the roof of its village church tower apparently so near that you could drop a stone neatly on to its leads. but ‘one trial will suffice,’ as the advertisements of much-puffed articles say, for the stone goes no nearer than about a quarter of a mile.
very charming, this panorama, on a summer’s day; but how about the winters’ nights, in the times when the ‘traveller’s rest’ was better named than now; when the coaches halted here, and coachmen, guards, and passengers alike, half-frozen and breathless from the blusterous heights of long bredy, tumbled out for something warming? for this hillside was reputed to be the coldest part of the journey between london and exeter, and it may be readily enough supposed by all who have seen the spot, that this was indeed the fact.
