by ARTHUR J. PICKERING
Reprinted from the "Hinckley Times and Guardian" of 1929
Pen and Ink Sketches by Cicely Pickering
HTML version produced from Hinckley Library copy by Nick Moore in 2024. Email: nick@nickmoore.net
Wherever the young man’s fancy may turn with this welcome return to warmth and sunshine, the healthy and vigorous will surely turn to the open country. The wide and open spaces—windowless, doorless and roofless—where one can inflate the lungs and expand the vision. Many will take to the roads in cars; some on “shank’s pony”; a diminishing few will leave the roads altogether and take to the fields and by-lanes.
Local Authorities are undoubtedly doing good work in providing footpaths along the main roads to lessen the dangers of rapidly-increasing motor traffic, but the pleasure of walking along a main road, owing to its dust and noise, is gone for ever. Years ago, an occasional stage coach—picturesque and romantic—a jogging farmer’s cart or hay wagon, might have added to the delights of the highway. Modern traffic is a different thing. It is quite devoid of all charm and restfulness so necessary to the enjoyment of any walk. The fields, the meadows and the cornfield paths are still left to us. If we do not use them they may slip from our grasp. In the hope of reviving an interest in our local country walks, perchance also in the objects of historical interest that lie in their path, these short notes are written.
Hinckley,
March, 1930
To go to sleep during a cheerless winter and then suddenly to wake up with the warmth of spring sunshine, is a pleasure denied to all but hibernating animals. But the greatest joy of life must surely be the experience of the first few days of spring after enduring the trials of a more than usually trying winter.
On Sunday morning last the writer rose with the birds. A blue cloudless sky and scarcely a breeze to temper the sun's genial warmth. A brave good morning. None could be better to search out with the help of an ordnance map some of the disappearing footpaths that once linked up hamlet and town all over the country side.
There are several ways of reaching the little village of Sutton from Hinckley without using the main roads. The nearest would be to go by Middlefield Lane past Cold Comfort Farm to Rogues Lane, then take to the fields by a footpath that commences at the next hedgerow across the lane in the direction of Stoke Golding. On Sunday morning I chose to take a 'bus to the corner of Barwell Lane and take to the fields just before reaching Abraham's Bridge at the lowest part of the Stapleton Road. The stile is easily found on the left hand side some 20 yards before reaching the foot of the hill. The path is well worn, and even as I reached it one or two men with dogs got over the stile, crossed the road, and made their way in the direction of Barwell by a path on the other side. We have doubtless to thank this gentleman with a dog for so far preserving our footpaths for posterity. He is not always a poacher, more often he is a keen lover of nature with the wanderlust of his ancestors, enjoying the country ramble almost as much as he knows that his dog does. Two old stockingers whom I know are typical of their class. Although they are not primed with survey maps they probably know every footpath around Hinckley within a radius of five or six miles, and any fine day when work is slack you may meet them miles off the beaten track enjoying the delights of the fields and hedgerows. Here's luck to them at their journey's end. By the way, they suggested these little guides to me some years ago. They need little guiding, but they may interest them.
To commence our walk. The path lies across low lying meadow land—the grass is dry and colourless. "February fill-dike" this year has quite belied its name—little rain has fallen for weeks. After a spell of sunshine and dry easterly winds, hardly a blade of green grass is to be seen. Occasional patches of blackened soil mark where a fire has spread over the fields, converting the coarse tufts into a useful dressing, an unsightly scar soon to disappear in a fresh mantle of green. On the right and parallel with our path runs the River Tweed which takes its rise near Frog Island, Barwell. It is here quite a merry, swift running stream. Up to now it has kept to almost straight courses, but here it meanders in and out in a most inconsequential manner.
It is interesting to note how the features of a streamlet are an exact miniature of a mighty river. Here a series of horse-shoe bends are a tiny replica of the Wye at Symonds Yat. On the inside of the bend, the bank drops sheer down to the water's edge like a miniature cliff; and on the outside of the sweep, the bank slopes down in a gentle gradient or in shallow terraces with a beach of sand or gravel.
At the third field from the road we cross a little tributary by a railway sleeper bridge. A group of red and pollarded willows again attract one to the banks of the stream. A snipe gets up, and uttering a sharp note of alarm, makes off with its peculiar low scudding flight across the fields. Sticklebacks dart to and fro' in the stream. (Further on its course, in the direction of Shenton, the stream is well stocked with grayling.) Caddis worms in their pebble suit of armour crawl over the stream bed, and in the shallows, water plants are beginning to climb to the surface and the sun. Among the more vigorous is the water cress and one of a big family of veronicas, the little water blue eye with the big name of beccabunga.
In the sixth field from the road the path runs along the south side of a hedgerow. Although the snow-drifts have not entirely gone from the shade, the banks here are warming under the sunshine and all the big family of hedgerow plants are bursting into life again. Clusters of little annual seedlings are peeping through. Herbaceous plants are unfolding their radical leaves. Crepis and thistle dot the banks with bright green and variegated rosettes. We pass over a field of a semi-bogland nature. Before the fields were systematically drained, there was a great deal of similar land. Juncus and sedge betray the sodden condition of the subsoil.
On the higher land towards Stapleton is the supposed site of the encampment of Richard III on the eve of the battle of Bosworth Field. Through this valley, watered by the Tweed, his ill fated troops moved towards Redmore.
At the ninth field a clump of willows and alder mark the place where the Tweed is joined by a stream that takes its rise in Barwell Lane, Hinckley. Here we turn sharp right, cross two fields of turf land to Harper's Hill on the Tweed, ascend to Dadlington road. On reaching this bridle road a stile will be seen immediately opposite. The path here is very indistinct. Sheep tracks are more conspicuous, but follow the Electric Power Company's wires across four open fields to the bottom of the valley. As we descend the slope, to the left we survey the field of Bosworth. The Sutton fields to the left we survey the field of Bosworth. The Sutton fields to the left we survey the field of Bosworth which the battle surged away to the left we survey the field of Bosworth which the battle surged Ambien woods mark the spot around which the battle surged away to the left we survey the field of Bosworth which the battle surged Ambien woods mark the spot around which the stone pyramid over the well where King Dick is said to have drank "while hotly pressed for life and crown."
At the bottom of the valley we cross the Sence Brook. This joins the Tweed near the Ashby Canal. They in turn flow into the Anker, the Anker into the Tame, the Tame into the Trent, the Trent into the Humber and so to the sea. One wonders how long the waters of this little brook would take to reach the ocean.
In crossing the field before the brook is reached bear to the left. A single plank now does duty for a bridge. After crossing the brook the path cuts off the corner of a long narrow field stretching away from you. Jump a narrow brook on the left and proceed in a north westerly direction across a J-shaped meadow to a stile which will be seen to your left half-way up the field. It is necessary here to cross a ploughed field, but you won't mind this if you are equipped for the journey. Two more fields of grass land, keeping a plantation of spruce or fir on the right, brings you to a narrow lane leading into the village of Sutton Cheney. In the last field are hydrant posts indicating the line of the Snarestone water main to Hinckley.
Some hundred yards or more on the east side of the lane we have now entered, is a small square field known as Dicken's Nook. It was here that King Richard was said to have harangued his troops on the eve of the battle. A much more likely spot for such a purpose is the field nearer the village which Mr. Thompson, of Sutton Hall, tells me is described as Dicken's Close. In this field is a deep hollow intersected by a spring, and on the westerly slopes very extensive earthworks. But it is not at all likely that these earthworks were thrown up by King Richard's army.
The mounds are approached by two vallums or hollow ways quite distinct from a moat. The presence of a spring and numerous pot boilers strewn round the site, suggest an early occupation site, and its close proximity to a Bronze Age Tumulus or burial place gives us a probable date. The tumulus can be seen on the Bosworth side of the village just past the church. It was partially excavated by Sir John Evans when residing at Bosworth.
Dickens is another name for devil, and I should infer that Dickens' Nook was believed to be haunted by his satanic majesty long before the battle of Bosworth.
Sutton Cheney derives the latter part of its name from a rich farmer named Chainell who, Nicholls tells us, held lands here as tenant of the Abbey of Croyland. The church is not an inspiring edifice although not without interest. Within is an alabaster tomb of a knight in armour. The inscription reads:
"Heere lyeth interred the body of Sir William Roberts, knight, who in his life time being devoted to hospitality and charity among other remarkable works erected out of a pious mind an hospitale for sixe poor men adjoyneing to this Church-yard, and endowed it with 20 pound land yearly for their maintenance for ever."
Thomas Simpson, the prodigy of Market Bosworth, lies buried in the churchyard "after rending asunder the fetters of indigence" he became an eminent mathematician and a Fellow of the Royal Society. In his young days he took to fortune telling and frightened a poor Nuneaton widow out of her wits.
Before leaving the village a glance at the old Hall would be worth while. It is a fine old bit of Jacobean work built of red brick with stone mullions and facings. A stone panel with date and initials on the front informs us that it was built by William Roberts and his wife in 1613.
From Sutton Cheney the energetic can walk into Bosworth along the fringe of the park, returning by 'bus or train.
An alternative would be to return over the fields to Stapleton by a footpath that follows the route of an old bridle road, a continuation in almost a straight line of the lane by which we came into the village of Sutton. This brings us out at the Manor Farm, Stapleton.
By this path we pass away on the right an old farm house called Hangman's Hall. The origin of the name I have been unable to trace.
The late Mr. Thomas Harrold, whose memories of Hinckley and District went back to the first half of the last century, could not suggest an explanation, but he stated that it was supposed to be haunted.
A number of men went over from Hinckley one night to lay the ghost. A wag wrote some doggerel verses in the vernacular describing their adventures, one stanza ran:
"A sudden crash made us all start
And struck our earholes to the heart,"
Not a choice literary effort, but typical of a good deal written in those days.
One of the most pleasant walks in the district at whatever time of the year, must surely be that from Stapleton to Kirkby Mallory. In a month's time when the trees are putting on their new spring coats and the fields and hedgerows bedecking themselves with jewels, you will find no more delightful country walk in the Midlands.
Take a luncheon ration and start off early some bright sunny morning. The walk, of course, can be reversed, but if the outward journey is made by Stapleton the prospect will be enhanced by having the sun behind you. A 'bus to the Barwell House corner will be of help and it is possible that a lift may be had to the village of Stapleton where our ramble commences.
A glance around the village is worth while. The Church has a miniature tower and steeple of stone. Throsby writing in 1790 states, "The Chapel has one aisle with a low spire. The Chancel is a dirty place indeed; it would rather excite indignation than worship." This may have reached the ears of the bishop, for in 1808 the Church was entirely renovated.
In my early days the Tower was clad in a thick mantle of ivy. A school chum and I used to find some excellent sport there by working a sparrow net from the battlements. One night we caught a white sparrow—a pure albino. In the 18th century a Dr. Dawes, as he was called, lived in the village of Stapleton. He was said to be a farmer of good property but coveted to be a philosopher. Instead of ploughing, sowing, reaping and mowing, he spent most of his time in sinking wells to find treasure, blowing charcoal and seeking the philosopher's stone, and so his estate dwindled away piece-meal. He died in debt almost in a state of beggary. "At his death the cornstacks on his farm were fired to destroy the amazing stock of vermin they contained which fed sweetly on his neglected stores." The only contribution Dawes made to posterity was to prove the virtue of that old Latin saw "Let the cobbler stick to his last."
After passing through the village, we take to the fields by a stile easily to be found on the right hand side where the recently widened road swings round in the direction of Cadeby. To avoid mistakes it is always advisable to consult a native. Once found, the path is quite distinct for almost the whole of the distance to Kirkby.
Crossing the first field we bear left and then swing sharp left passing a small pond and following a well defined path along the hedgerow until we come to the Bridle road from Stapleton to Earl Shilton. We leave Barwell fields farm just across the parish boundary on our right. It probably takes its name from the common fields, cultivated by the tenants of Barwell Manor under a system that prevailed from Feudal times until the end of the eighteenth century. Before the Enclosure Acts about 1780, all farm-houses were situated in the town or village. The ploughlands were cultivated in strips. Over the pasture lands the tenants had grazing rights in common, and when the communal Swindeherd blew his horn in the village on an autumn morn every copyholder let out his pig to feed on the beech mast and acorns of the woodlands.
The sun is shining and the birds are now in full song. Crows are mating in the ploughed fields and rooks are busy gathering nest-building material for their colonies in the trees. A flock of finches dart in and out of the hedgerows and a lonely warbler pipes away on the topmost branch of an ash sapling. It's good to be alive. By the way, the gay little chaffinch seems to be getting as numerous in the country as the sparrow is in the towns. During the walk several brace of partridges got up quite close to us and skimmed over the fields with a whirr. It is difficult to recognise the hedgerow trees without their foliage, but the holly is much in evidence. The quantity of holly to be seen around Stapleton and Cadeby must be due to favourable conditions in the soil.
But we have arrived at the Bridle road. With the exception of one point where a stile has been substituted for a gate, one could still drive a vehicle along this road through lanes and fields to Earl Shilton. Crossing the lane, a stile will be seen almost immediately opposite. A glacial boulder does duty as a stepping stone. The path crosses the field diagonally, leaving a small farm house on the left hand side. Across the next field of old springing turfland, we make for the right hand bottom corner. As we descend the slope we have a delightful view across the valley. Away to the right, the grey tower of Kirkby Church and the white facade of Kirkby Hall stand out on the sky line, girt with the contrasting foliage of coniferous trees. Immediately in front, the Kirkby woods stretch out in a mass of grey and purply shadows which define themselves as we approach into the boles and nude branches of ash and oak tree. At the foot of the valley we cross a swiftly flowing stream by a footbridge. This is a little tributary of the Soar. It rises near Newbold Verdon, flows by Brascote House and is crossed by the Leicester main road at the foot of Shilton Hill.
The spot where we cross is marked by a small spinney of willows and alder with an undergrowth of blackthorn and sallow. The male catkins of the hazel have already appeared—its little female flowerets of a bright red hue will soon follow. The sallow is also showing signs of bursting into the golden oval panicles so familiar to the youngsters as palm.
We cross a low lying meadow and as we approach the wood, the harsh raucous cry of a jay bird is heard above the song of the birds. The cry of the green woodpecker is not much more musical, but he is not such a mischievous fellow as this gaily plumaged marauder.
The south side of the woods is bounded by an artificial bank and vallum, apparently to contain a brook that once found its way to the valley by a sluice or waterfall at the point where we reach the wood. Other earthworks in the neighbourhood are more difficult to account for. After passing through a wicket gate and across a small meadow on the fringe of the woods, we cross another rivulet as we reach Kirkby Park. Here must be the haunt of the kingfisher. A quiet rest would surely reward the wayfarer with a glimpse of this gorgeously coloured bird. Throsby quotes:
"Hither the peaceful Halcyon flies
From social meads and open skies,
Pleased by this rill her course to steer,
And hide her sapphire plumage here."
A long climb upwards through the park brings us to the village by a gate midway between the Hall and Church. In his "Leicestershire Excursions," Throsby describes the view from this point in very enthusiastic terms. Looking back towards Stapleton, we get a delightful view of old park land stretching across the valley and up the distant hill, dotted here and there with giant oaks—survivors of the primeval forest—and a herd of black cattle that have replaced the red deer to be seen in Throsby's time. Little else is changed.
The Hall, once the residence of Viscount Wentworth, is of plain Georgian character quite devoid of decoration, but spacious and inviting in large open grounds. Both the Hall and the Church are full of associations with the families of Noel and Lovelace. An association that extended to Earl Shilton and beyond and left a considerable influence for good on the whole neighbourhood. Kirkby is now probably more famous on account of its connection with the poet Byron.
Anne Isabella Millbank, the grand-daughter of Sir Edward Noel, Baron Wentworth, married the poet in 1815 and in early life was a frequent visitor to Kirkby Hall. I have heard an old aunt of mine relate how she once met Lady Byron when visiting there. This aunt lived to a great age. She was a granddaughter of the estate carpenter named Bonsir. When a little girl, Lady Byron came to the cottage after an absence of nearly 20 years and asked to see her grandfather, telling her mother not to say who it was. Her grandfather came in wearing the felt top hat usual in those days. Doffing his hat and bowing, he said "Good afternoon, your Ladyship," and her Ladyship was very delighted that Bonsir had recognised her.
A good deal of controversy has raged over the character of Lady Byron. Earl Lovelace, her son-in-law, described her as cold and severe. My aunt supported the opinion of Mr. Child, who has taken a prominent part in Byron controversy, that she was both pretty and vivacious.
Kirkby Church is the mother church of Earl Shilton. Many will remember the Hon. the Rev. Augustus Byron, who was Rector there for many years. He kept a large stable and regularly hunted with hounds. The village has not been the same since he died, say the old inhabitants. But its the same story one can hear all over the countryside. The days of the old ancestral squire, however maligned he was, many a cottage and farm tenant would like to see again.
The origin of the name of Kirkby is fairly obvious; the suffix "by" is common to many Danish place names and implies a small hamlet. The latter part of the name is derived from the family of Malory's, who were resident here in Norman times. One, Ankitell, was the Governor of the town and castle of Leicester, a later member of the family was Sir Thomas Malory, the author of "Morte d'Arthur."
Where stood their Norman Castle or dwelling? Was it within the large double-moated rectangular enclosure now known as Kirkby Motts? If not, what could these earthworks, entailing such a tremendous amount of labour in their construction, have been? At present they are a riddle which the wisest cannot answer with certainty. If you have the time to spare and the necessary permission, the Motts are well worth exploring. They will be found on the right hand side of the road leading to Newbold Verdon. An old grey fox got up when I was last there.
There is a little cottage near the Rectory, where one can get a refreshing cup of tea. After which we can either return home by Brockey Lane to Barwell, or the ramble can be continued to Earl Shilton. I chose the latter. It is almost as near to the Leicester 'bus route. The sign post to Barwell will be seen in the village. Follow this road to the bottom of the hill. After passing over the brook a small house will be seen on the left hand side. The Bridle road from Stapleton to Earl Shilton crosses here, so we take the gate to the left and follow it almost to the foot of Shilton Hill. At the commencement the road is water-logged, but this can be avoided so long as a straight direction is kept. In the third field is a small moated enclosure, partially surrounded by water, charted on the ordnance survey map but not described. The hummocky nature of the field adjoining suggests an early occupation site; but excavations could alone reveal its nature and age. In a field on the Barwell side of this moat the meadow saffron (Colchicum autumnale) was growing up to quite recently and possibly a search would find it there still. The flower is like a pale reddish-purple crocus and has become so rare that its locale is of great interest to botanists throughout the County. As its name implies, it flowers in the autumn. Its seeds and bulbs are a remedy for the gout. Its rareness has been attributed to the fact that it is poisonous to cattle, but I have seen it growing in profusion and quite unrestrained on the pasture lands of the Swiss Alps.
Last week my companion and I chose a walk through the country that lies in the Upper Soar valley, east of Smockington to Sharnford.
Summerlike weather, the brightening colour of the pasture lands and the song of the birds made up for the comparative bareness of the trees and hedgerows. Unfolding leaf buds are just beginning to transform the fretted outlines of the trees into rounded masses of delicate tracery, and the hawthorn hedges are daily becoming more green. With the same hue, the winter-sown corn is toning the warm browns and ochres of the ploughed lands. As we walk the changing landscape holds plenty of charm in colour and form to delight the eye. Within a mile of the main road, within sight of familiar church towers and spires, the field paths give us glimpses of contours and skylines, woodlands and grassy slopes as fresh and unfamiliar as a walk in a distant county.
We took to the fields at Burbage, starting at a Bridle road nearly opposite the Hollies on the Lutterworth Road, and turning by the first gate on the right, proceeded in the direction of Hogue Hall by a path through an allotment. A cheery and industrious gardener beguiled the first stage of our journey. He stoically contemplated a big patch of bare soil which the long spell of frost had denuded of a promising crop from a pound’s worth of onion seed and enthused over the prospects of a vigorous looking plot of spring cabbage. Who wouldn’t own a bit of Britain’s fair and pleasant isle? 2½d. per sq. yard, the price of a small cauliflower, is the present market value of a few acres of rich and fertile soil close to town and main road.
Leaving Burbage Fields farm on our left, the path leads us across three fields of pasture land down a gentle slope to the Soar brook. The point where the Soar actually rises is somewhat in doubt, but the writer has always understood it started at a spring not far from Stretton House and near "Blue Bell Island" on the Wolvey Road. Another spring that flows through Foster's Pond and across the Watling Street joins this above the point we have now reached. As we descend the slope, High Cross, one of three reputed centres of England, can be seen on the sky line.
After crossing the brook and a marshy field, the path runs alongside the right of the next hedgerow and makes for a stile near the farm buildings of Hogue Hall, leaving Hogue Hall spinney two fields away to the left. There's a magpie's nest, with its domed roof, in the hedgerow—an unusually low position. Owing to the magpie's partiality for eggs and young partridges, some farmers put a charge of shot through the nest when the brood appears. The Hall, overshadowed by tall, deciduous trees and a giant Wellingtonia will be noticed in passing. It commands a fine view of rolling pasture lands and used to be a favourite rendezvous for the Atherstone Point-to-Point races.
Just beyond we pick up Sapcote spire to the left, with Burbage Church still in sight in the rear. After crossing a grass field, a gate at the right hand corner leads us along the edge of a field of growing corn to a swiftly flowing stream that joins the Soar brook a quarter of a mile eastwards. Here is a pretty water feature. It is the nearest approach we have to a natural waterfall in the neighbourhood of Hinckley. That it has once been a mill dam need not disillusion you. All trace of the mill has gone. After a period of drought, the amount of water rushing down is surprising. The shining golden celandine bespangles the banks. It is a welcome splash of colour, for with the exception of the drab panicles of dog's mercury, the field daisy and the coltsfoot, it is the only flower yet out. Soon the spot will be aglow with campion, willow herb and stitchwort, and the air laden with the scent of trefoil and meadow sweet. Nearby we found a few artificially-chipped flints in the ploughed fields and a quantity of burnt hearth stones and pot boilers in the banks. They may indicate a camping ground of early inhabitants.
We cross the stream by a footbridge just below the cascade. A stile will be seen to the left in the next hedgerow where we cross another tributary of the Soar and climb diagonally across the next long field of pasture land to the Sharnford and Smockington Road. A few yards down the lane opposite brings us to the little hamlet of Wigston Parva.
Little Wigston, or Wyggeston, as it was once spelt, consists of a small group of houses around a village green. There is an old world look about the place. A brick structure on the green resembling a village well minus its windlass, we were informed, was originally used as a reservoir to feed the cheese presses in the adjoining Manor House. The church is said to be one of the smallest and oldest in the country.
It has been much restored of late, but several early English characteristics have been preserved. The circular arched north doorway with a moulded label or dripstone is possibly transitional Norman.
To reach Sharnford by the fields, we have to retrace our steps to the cascade. The path commences by crossing a field of growing corn and almost until we reach the village of Sharnford, it is difficult to trace. In one place the hedge has been layered across the stile, but if you follow the course of the Soar by keeping it one field away to the left you cannot be far out. It is easy going across pasture land. Where the stiles are missing there are openings in the hedge and there is no necessity to climb fences.
Two fields away from our re-starting point we cross the stream by a well made footbridge with a hand rail. Overhanging trees indicate how little this path is now used. We are now in a small natural valley with a considerable watershed all round. The black peaty nature of the soil thrown up by moles suggests that the river hereabouts once widened out into a sheet of water bordered by rush swamp and bog lands. A search later on in the year should reward the botanist with an interesting flora, for although drainage has produced an ecological change, survivors of a bog land association will doubtless remain. Adder's tongue, several of the orchids and grass of parnassus are found in similar localities.
We reach the main road again at the south west corner of the village of Sharnford. Time does not permit of an exploration. The village takes its name from the ford over the Soar and possibly "Scharn," a Teutonic prefix for dirty. Throsby preserves an old tradition of a boy being skinned alive here. The story goes that a lad tending sheep in a field called the "thorn hills," on the Glebe Farm, overheard a plot by some thieves to rob the house. He told his master and they were thus prevented from carrying out their impious designs. Somehow they fixed on the lad as having given the timely warning and determined to be revenged. They waylaid him one morning, deliberately skinned him alive and wrapped him in a sheepskin.
When last I passed through the village, workmen were demolishing an interesting old half timbered house with herring bone masonry and a date in the early seventeenth century.
The last section of our ramble to Aston Flamville and back to Burbage commences at a stile on the left hand side after passing the last house in the village on the Hinckley road. The path is paved with cobble stones across the first field and crosses the Soar by a brick arch.
The path during this stage is well defined. Mickle Hill soon comes into sight and we keep this two fields away on our left until we come to Aston. Mickle Hill—meaning, of course, little hill—reminds us of that most characteristic Scotch proverb, "many a mickle makes a muckle." We reach Aston by a bridle road leading from Mickle Hill farm and can either return to Burbage by Lychgate Lane, or better still, by a footpath commencing near the Manor House opposite an ancient dovecote or columbary as it was once called. This path comes out on Burbage green near the Hall.
Half way along the Lychgate Lane to Burbage, on the left hand side, there is a disused clay pit and the remains of a brick kiln. Some years ago were found here pieces of broken Roman Mortaria (a vegetable dish) of fine turned earthenware and crude hand-moulded fragments of an early British jar. In this assemblage of culinary utensils one can read how these ancient combatants "buried their hatchets" and eventually dwelt in friendship during the Pax Romana. These relics are still preserved.
"Rare are the buttons of a Roman's breeches,
In antiquarian eyes surpassing riches;
Rare is each crack'd black rotten earthen dish,
That held of ancient Rome the flesh and fish."
Peter Pindar.
We must ramble again to Aston Flamville some other time when we can find time to explore it. It has many historical associations and is more than usually picturesque.
A well worn path from the Hollycroft to Higham-on-the-Hill proves that this walk is still appreciated by many. Before the public baths were built it was used as a short cut to the canal, and many a pleasant pilgrimage has the writer made along this path after school hours.
A little spinney of poplars once grew at the commencement of Sandy Walk where our ramble commences. A formidable fence of six strands of barbed wire, reminiscent of a prisoner's compound, now encloses what was then an open field path. But the unpleasant reminder only continues the length of one field, and soon we are in the clear, open country. On the left the sandy ploughlands dip down to the valley where rises the Battling Brook. In the days of our primitive ancestors a small lake fringed with rush and boglands filled the valley.
The path cannot be mistaken; it follows a comparatively straight course almost to Higham. As we walk, the water tower at Bedworth and the chimneys of Exhall and Keresley collieries can be seen on the skyline to our left. On a clear day anyone with a keen eyesight can make out the spires of Coventry. As we o'ertop the rise, the horizon is still further extended to the Hartshill Range with Tuttle Hill windmill, Ansley Hall colliery and the woods of Hartshill Hays and Oldbury standing out clear. We keep to the hedgerow through a field of growing corn, leaving Wykin Hall, surrounded by a clump of trees, to our right. Wykin once had a little church served by the monks from Hinckley. The Hall, a picturesque gabled house dating probably from the Fifteenth Century, was moated. Canning, the statesman, expressed a wish to live there on his retirement. It was the home of the Wightman family. One of this family was a benefactor to the town.
Another who was burned at the stake at Lichfield during the religious persecutions of the early Seventeenth Century, was said to be the last martyr.
In the cornfields hereabouts wild flowers are plentiful. The corn poppy, speedwell, fumitory, and stork's bill are already in evidence, but only the little "blue eye" is in flower. We found a hedgehog coiled up near the next hedgerow—he was so closely tucked up that we could not tell if he were alive or dead. Hedgehogs have a bad reputation for sucking the milk from reclining cows, but I have never heard of one being caught in the act. We pass the Tithe Farm on our left and keep straight on through a field below Wykin Hall full of mounds and hollows. In the hollows, with patches of juncus, the "Lady Smock" is in full bloom.
After passing across the bridle road that runs from Wykin to the Harrow Farm we go through a wicket gate—one of the very few left in the district. The next fence marks the Hinckley Urban District boundary. Just before we reach this, we pass a spring in the hedge side. Even after the prolonged drought, we could see it bubbling up from the soil. This water has been gathered in the gravel beds forming the Wykin ridge, and on reaching the clays of the valley, comes to the surface. Like the Calybeate springs, once resorted to in Hinckley for their medicinal properties, the water is ironstained. Close by we came across the scene of a tragedy. A dead lamb that had apparently crossed a bit of bog land to reach the water and had died in its struggles to get free.
Why do we turn over our money when we see the first lamb? I don't know, but it is possible that this little superstition came down from the ancients, who may have taken a coin from one pocket or sachet and placed it in another, with a vow to offer it to the shrine of Demeter or Ceres, or whichever goddess presided over the destinies of little lambs.
In the next field we reach the canal bridge; the 20th from the Marston Junction. Those who wish to shorten the walk can return along the towing path either to the Higham Road or to the Coventry Road Wharf. In the warm sunny weather the canal banks are pleasant places. One cannot imagine a more sleepy restful place. The scarce moving water, the slowly moving barges, the drone of a bumble bee that nests in the bank, the patient fisherman leisurely throwing his line; and sometimes, but rarely, the low drooping flight of a heron all contribute to the tranquility of the scene. The splash of a fish, the skim of a may fly, the sudden dart of the dragon fly, or a scurrying water rat fail to counteract its drowsiness. We shall probably be home sooner if we keep to the fields.
A field beyond the canal we cross the "old railway" line. It was once a pleasant walk from Stoke Golding, but it is now so overgrown with gorse bush and bramble that it would make very hard going. What a happy hunting ground it was in my younger days. We used to capture grass snakes there up to four feet long, and exhibit them proudly to the youngsters at home. Near the railway bridge there are features of pond and woodland—haunts of the moor hen and wood pigeon. There is quite a lot of bird life in this secluded spot.
Over the line we cross diagonally a large park-like field and make for a gate high up the field on the right in the direction of Higham Grange Lodge, leaving the woodland known as Higham Thorns to our left. Looking back as we reach the gate a good view is obtained of Hinckley town rising about 100 ft. above the level of where we are now standing. In this field I picked up a block of Shap granite with rocks of Hartshill quartzite indicating the course of a north westerly glacier which swept down from the Lake District and was diverted by the Hartshill range in the direction of the Fen Lanes. It there met the Scandinavian glacier and discharged into what has been hypothetically named Lake Bosworth.
From here the path follows the hedgerows until we come to the road leading into the village of Higham, near the Hall. The change that has come over so many stately homes of England has transformed the Grange into a convalescent home for miners, and the Hall into a school for boys. In the last field but two a pair of plovers wheeled and turned over the stubble trying to lure the intruder from their young. Just off the path I picked up the empty shell of a plover’s egg. Two little brown bits of fluff would be lurking in a hollow not far away.
There is a short ridge road on the left running down to Higham Grange. The view from here must have inspired the poet who wrote:
"From Higham looking down we view,
Stoke in the dale below;
Wykin claims the milking pail,
As plenteous dairies show;
Hinckley distils the malted grain
Whence health and vigour flow."
Arrived at the village of Higham one must pay a visit to the church. It has a fine Norman tower with an arcade of semi-circular arches recessed in the second story. Unfortunately the other portions of the church were pulled down and entirely rebuilt in 1790. There was once an alabaster monument in the chancel to a remarkable family named Burton who lived at Lindley Hall. For some unaccountable reason this has disappeared. Ralfe Burton, who died in 1619, had two sons—one William, who wrote the earliest history of Leicestershire, and the other, Robert, was the author of a noted work entitled "The Anatomy of Melancholy."
In the churchyard, leaning against the north wall of the church, is a tombstone to the memory of Edward and Margaret Biddle, who died aged 80, two bachelor sons, John aged 80, and Henry aged 81, one married son, Robert, aged 83, and Sarah, his wife, aged 80. A fine record of longevity.
There is a delightful view from the Churchyard which, unlike so many others, is well tended and kept.
We decided to return to Hinckley by the Watling Street and finish the journey by 'bus from the Long Shoot. This gives us an opportunity of following a footpath running over Harper's Hill, and affords a good view of the Warwickshire country.
The path commences opposite the Church and immediately descends the hill through the middle of a long, narrow field, leaving a line of electric-power poles well to the right. On this side of Higham a small mound is marked on my ordnance map as a "Tumulus (wooden cross and pottery found A.D. 1899)." I am afraid some over-zealous antiquarian badly blundered here. The late Mr. Thos. Marson, of Higham Hall, informed me that his father could remember a windmill standing on the spot. The wooden cross was doubtless the base of an old post mill covered heavily with ballast resembling a mound. My friend, Mr. T. C. Cantrill, of the Geological Survey, has revised the ordnance maps accordingly, but the error is perpetuated in the transactions of the Leicester Archæological Society.
I am informed by an old inhabitant that there was another windmill on the other side of the road.
At the end of the long field the path bears left in the direction of Harper's Hill—a grassy knoll crowned with a clump of trees. We cut off the corners of the two next fields, go through two gates, then by the hedge side to the Hill field. At the second gate we see the incident of a brooklet's source repeated. Like Wykin, Higham is situated on a ridge of gravel underlain on this side by clays and impervious marls. Quite a good stream rises here. At the stile leading to the hill side I met with an unusual experience. On reaching the stile I heard someone, seemingly quite close by, whistling a popular tune. I expected to meet some youths coming along the path over the rise. The whistling continued while I walked some yards, and then stopped, but no one put in an appearance, and although I searched the hedgerows there was no one to be seen. Harper's Hill is a good quarter of a mile from the main road, and I came to the conclusion that there was something in the contour of the country that carried the sound so distinctly from a distance. It left me wondering if the hill had derived its name from this curious phenomenon. I should like to hear if others have had a similar experience. Anyway I'm not going to enlarge on the incident. The "Tumulus" at Higham is enough to inspire caution in any attempt to unravel the mysteries of the past. It is quite possible that a man named John Harper may have owned the hill.
From Harper's Hill one cannot mistake the hedgeside path to the Watling Street, and we reach the main road by a footbridge near to the Hollow Farm.
Two treasures have been found in this neighbourhood—one in 1607 under a large stone in the middle of the Watling Street where it crosses the Higham to Nuneaton road. The hoard comprised 250 silver coins of Henry III., gold rings, parts of a massive gold chain, and a precious stone with Arabic characters. Burton, the historian, went to see them the day after they were found, and suggested that some wandering Jew had hidden them to escape robbery. Did he meet with a worse fate?
The other find was near the old railway bridge on the Harrow Farm. When this line was being constructed in 1871, one of the navvies put his pick through an earthenware jar, and some hundreds of Roman silver coins rolled out into the trench—many of these were sold for a few pence each in the public houses of the town. Eight of them in mint condition are now in my collection. They are of various dates including Trajan, Vespasian, Hadrian, Antoninus, and Faustina Augusta.
A short walk along the main road takes us by the entrance lodge of Higham Grange, and we soon arrive at the site of an old toll gate, at the end of the Long Shoot, where we can board a 'bus.
Those who sought the fields and country lanes this week-end in the first days of June, will have been charmed with the billowy clouds of "May Blossom" lining the hedgerows and dotting the park lands where patches of ancient hawthorn have been allowed to grow free. The "May Blossom" is late. Joseph Dare, our unhonoured Hinckley poet, wrote:
When clustered primroses look gay,
And twinkling wind-flowers star the woods—
Oh! then begins the gentle May.
When far o'er hill and sunny sea,
The swallow on swift wing comes back,
And from the green wood suddenly
The cuckoo shouts upon your track,
Oh! then it is the merry May.
When wood and field and everywhere,
Grows sweet to sense and fair to sight,
When hawthorn buds are silvering through
Bending with starry bloom each spray
And speedwell opes its eyes of blue—
Oh! then it is the full blown May.
On a fine sunny day the country around Paul's Ford, where the Sketchley brook joins the River Anker, will be found a pleasant spot at any time of the year. I wonder how many Hinckley people other than our "friends with the dog," have heard of it?
To the Ford and by Attleborough Gorse to Burton Hastings, returning by Sketchley Lane, is little more than six miles. It is good going and the path can be easily traced. Take the Red 'Bus to the Wharf Inn, follow Dr. Nutt's Lane to the Watling Street and immediately opposite will be seen a stile where our walk commences. After crossing one field by a hedgeside path we come to Hydes Lane. We then turn right and follow the lane (passing a farm house on the right) until we come to a gate and a bridle road. This bridle road passes over Paul's Ford and comes out by the golf course on the Attleborough Road near the White Stone.
Part of Hinckley parish known as The Hyde is in Warwickshire. Hydes Lane forms the parish boundary until we come to the second field of the bridle road. It then picks up the Sketchley brook one field away and returns across the Watling Street along the winding course of the Harrow brook. Like Wykin, the Hydes once had its little church or chapel served by the Monks of Hinckley.
We follow the bridle road until Nuneaton comes into view on our right. The footpath and road then divide for a time, but either route can be taken. Towards the river valley where the fields dip steeply, the scene becomes a very picturesque one. Some tall elm trees and in the mid distance a fine witch-elm, rise above a smaller coppice of birch and hazel. Some ancient hawthorns mark the direction of the disused horse-road and a number of hoary-looking crab trees probably gave name to the small farm buildings, known as Crab House, on our left. On our right is a large semi-circular excavation resembling an amphitheatre.
At the bottom of the slope we come to Paul's Ford where the bridle road crosses the little River Anker. One can profitably spend an hour or two in this pretty spot and enjoy a rest by the river side. If we have brought a few sandwiches and a flask, so much the better. There is nothing like a walk for inducing good digestion to wait on appetite.
If we follow the stream down course for a few yards we come to a miniature water's meet where the Anker is joined by the Sketchley Brook. In the other direction is an interesting bit of bog land. Growing between the tussocks of rush are a host of wildflowers, and along the water-courses the pretty marsh valerian is now in full bloom. The little sketch that accompanies this article was taken from the footbridge close by the Ford.
We chose to cross by the stepping stones and followed the bridle path to the middle of the next field where it is crossed by a footpath emerging from a gate on our right. At this point no less than six pathways meet.
To keep straight on would bring us out at Attleborough, so we turn sharp left for Burton Hastings, and make for the Hill Farm immediately in front of us. After passing through the farm yard and one field beyond we come to a wide woody lane, fringed with slow bush, briar and bramble. Leaving the lane we cross the middle of the next field, keeping a small pond on our left and reach the corner of Attleborough Gorse by a stile.
Attleborough Gorse is well known as a fox covert with the Atherstone Hunt, otherwise few people would have heard of it. Its name is misleading. There are a few gorse bushes there truly, but it is really a partly cleared wood with velvety turf and clumps of undergrowth, brakes of fern and foxgloves, and at one end a small plantation of silver birch. From the chorus of song, it might be a bird sanctuary.
A lane runs along the north side of Attleborough Gorse, and we return to this to follow our trail. As we leave the lane we cross a brick arch spanning one branch of the River Anker, and turn sharp right through a field to reach Burton village by the old mill. This is one of the few remaining flour mills in the district worked by water wheel. Although the present buildings are much later, it is more than likely that this has been a flour mill from before the Norman Conquest. Amateur photographers might obtain permission to take a view of the mill from across the mill dam. It is a very picturesque spot reminiscent of the Constable country. After passing over the canal bridge we reach the village of Burton Hastings by a winding lane near the Glebe Farm.
Dugdale suggests that Burton derives its name "from the old English word burh or burgh, signifying with the Saxons not only a place fortified with some warlike rampier or wall, but that which had a kind of fence or closure about it."
On the north side of the church is a field surrounded by a mound and vallum. This trench or moat very probably encircled the church and churchyard, and has every appearance of an enclosure suggested by Dugdale. The church being dedicated to St. Botolph one would surmise there was a church here in Saxon times.
Its name also indicates that the demesne was once in the hands of the powerful family of Hastings, whose many possessions included the castles of Ashby-de-la-Zouch, Fillongley and Kirby Muxloe. They bore for arms a peculiar device in the shape of a long sleeve called a manchlet, still to be seen in the windows of many village churches in the neighbourhood, including Barwell. The device is engraved in stone on the south wall of Smisby Church.
Half of the "town" of Burton at one time belonged to the Abbess of Nuneaton Priory. This doubtless included the Grange Farm. Sir Ralph Hastings owned the other portion. Sir Ralph was a very turbulent knight and was attainted for treason in the reign of Henry IV. for conspiring with Scroop, Archbishop of York, and others, against the king. This unfortunate intrigue with his Grace cost him his head, to say nothing of his estate in Burton. The connection of the family with this village, however, ends up more happily, for we are told that Richard, Ralph's surviving younger brother, owing to his better affections to the Crown, had restitution of his lands, and was made Sheriff of the counties of Leicestershire and Warwickshire.
He was retained by indenture to serve King Hal and his wars overseas with ten men at arms and 30 archers. His wages were fixed at 2s. per day. His men at arms 1s. per day and 6d. for every archer. Considering that the currency in those days had many times its present value, this was a very substantial army pay.
We must pay a visit to the church before continuing our journey. It was restored a few years ago when the old box pews were taken down and used very judiciously for wainscot in the chancel. So much old oak has been taken out of churches during the past fifty years and destroyed or sold to "old-furniture" makers. A priest's doorway to rood loft, a fourteenth century font, and two oaken parish chests in the tower are objects of interest. A low window in the south wall of the chancel used to be thought a leper's window. On the assumption that lepers who were forbidden the church would thus be enabled to witness the celebration of Mass at the High Altar.
There is one remarkable thing about Burton-Hastings that not every visitor will discover. There is no public house there, nor one within two miles. One instinctively looks for it near the church, for did not Defoe write in "The Trueborn Englishman":
"Wherever God erects a house of prayer,
The devil always builds his chapel there;
And 'twill be found upon examination
The latter always has the largest congregation."
Some might think the disappearance of the devil's chapel to be a good sign of the times, but the prosperity of "Little Burton" has gone with it. In spite of the temporary depression that permeates all agricultural communities, to me a village inn under a good host is still a cheery, homely place.
Not many years ago the village was associated with the name of a rather eccentric vicar. The Rev. Digby Turpin died at the age of 75 and lies buried in the churchyard. For many years he lodged in Hinckley and walked many miles weekly to and from his parish on Sundays. The old sexton used to start ringing the bell as soon as he saw his reverence coming along the canal side. But in his declining years there were many occasions when not a single soul responded, and the parson and sexton went through the service alone. When the Rev. Turpin eventually built a vicarage, he placed it as far from the church as possible, on the farthermost boundary of his parish. He lived a bachelor, but shortly before his death married his housekeeper.
The lonely little hamlet of Shelford is in the ecclesiastical parish of Burton Hastings. It was from Shelford Hall that Lady Smythe was taken to Wolvey Heath to be burned at the stake for the murder of her husband. It is recorded that a reprieve was granted, but the messenger who rode in hot haste from London foundered in a bog at Cloudesley bush, two miles only from his goal.
To return to Hinckley we take to the fields by a gate opposite the old Manor Farm, the last house in the village on the Hinckley road. This is a real short cut and must have been a boon to the farmers’ wives who may have missed the carrier’s cart, when bringing their produce weekly to Hinckley butter markets. It is 1½ miles farther round by the main road.
The path is well defined. It crosses the canal bridge at the bottom of the first long field and again by another bridge near Poplar Lodge. It then crosses five fields in the middle of the ancient ecclesiastical parish of Stretton Baskerville. We pass the site of the long lost church with its dried-up fish ponds and grass-grown mounds covering the foundations of a vanished village, a field away on the right.
At the Watling Street the path is picked up by a stile immediately opposite. This crosses one field to the Sketchley Lane. We can then return home either by a footpath directly in front of us or by Sketchley Hall and the railway station. If we choose the latter we shall pass by the famous well, now marked by a prosaic pump, near the Hall where
“The dolt when drinking finds his wits grow clearer,
And genius gains its inspiration there.”
The walk can be shortened by going on to Nuneaton from Paul’s Ford and returning by ’bus or by a footpath near the Hydes Lane through Beasley’s Farm and Stretton Fields.
There are many variations to a walk through the Burbage Woods. These are among the more attractive rambles in our immediate neighbourhood. They are usually taken for a leisurely Sunday afternoon's stroll, but they can be extended by less frequented and little known footpaths to Sapcote, Stoney Stanton, Elmesthorpe and Croft. All of these well repay an exploration.
Any walks in this direction should include the Burbage Common. This is best approached from Butt Lane and Beacon Hill.
If we could only forget the coming winter, a walk during the bright days of autumn is as full of pleasure and charm as any season of the year. After the first cold snaps and before the leaves begin to fall, we have days of ever-mellowing colour. The trees and hedgerows seem to expire in a glowing fire of reds and yellows—a gamut of tone from the dark russets of the beech to the bright ochres of the maple. One of the most entrancing sights to be seen in this neighbourhood during this year was the undergrowth of bracken during October and November in the oak woods of Bentley and Merevale. There is little bracken around Hinckley, but the trees and hedgerows are full of colour. The wealth of May-blossom and dog rose of the spring and summer has produced patches of flaming haws and hips.
From Beacon Hill a view of a good portion of South Leicestershire can be obtained. Nichols states that 50 churches can be counted. Croft Hill appears like a mole-hill on the plain, and beyond, the similar conical-shaped mass of Billesdon Coplow breaks the sky-line. To the right, the horizon is bounded by the hills of Northamptonshire around North Kilworth and Naseby.
In the first field beyond Forest View botanists will be able to find an interesting little spring flower. In the hedge bottom to the left of the footpath grows the moschatel, easily distinguished by its small bright green delicate leaves and head of greeny-white flowers.
On reaching the stile at the Common, a mound will be seen extending on either side, following the brook and hedgerow. The hedge on the left is the parish boundary between Hinckley and Burbage.
The late Mr. Thos. Harrold suggested that this mound was a "Deer's Leap" surrounding the ancient park of the Barons of Hinckley. A deer's leap was so constructed that a deer could leap into the enclosure but could not leap back again.
A field away to the left is the site of "Cogg's Well," an iron-impregnated spring that probably still retains valuable medicinal properties.
Burbage Common is a bit of ancient moorland that perhaps only golfers enjoy to the full. What it lacks as an ideal course is made up for by its breezy open space. It forms part of the Manor of Burbage over which only the copyholders have certain rights of joistage, but the public have for years enjoyed it as a natural park to wander where they please. Its moorland features have now almost disappeared—just a few stunted patches of ling (or heather as it is more popularly known) alone remain and a few bog plants that have survived the drainage. Years ago when the gorse was allowed to grow almost unrestrained, the Common in the springtime was a mass of blazing gold.
There are still many Grammar School Old Boys who will remember threading their way through its devious pathways o'er-topped by six foot bushes, either drilled by some "Canadian officer" or adorned with bloodthirsty weapons, feather head dress, scalps, mocassins and war paint, peering through the prickly undergrowth.
Among the small moorland plants remaining are the milk-wort, louse-wort (pedicularis)—its former use is indicated by its name—the sneeze-wort and heath bedstraw.
Crossing the Common by following the north side of Sheepy Wood, we pass under the railway bridge and reach Smithy Lane, leaving the Wood Cottage away to the right. This has always been a popular rendezvous. For many years it was tenanted by Mr. Charles Webb, woodman to Lady Lucas, before the estate was cut up and the woodlands divided.
Proceeding along Smithy Lane, we follow the Burbage Woods on our right until we come to a gate on the left leading through the Aston Firs. As a result of a gratuitous offer of 21 acres of the Burbage Woods, and through the good offices of the Hinckley Rotary Club, efforts are being made at the present time to preserve Burbage Woods from demolition. All those interested in the preservation of the country-side will wish their efforts well. The woods are particularly rich in flora. Many rare plants such as the Butterfly Orchis and Herb Paris are to be found there, and a colony of Rosa arvensis that a distinguished botanist has described as one of the finest in the country. The timber is chiefly ash and oakwood. The woods adjoining the Aston Firs have been partially cleared. Some well grown Scotch firs once bordered the pathway, a favourite nesting place of the wood pigeon. The native red squirrel was also once a pretty and common sight in these woods. It is now seldom, if ever, seen.
Two fields beyond the Aston Firs we reach a path running at right angles towards Barwell, but we cross a stile on our right and follow a hedgeside path leading to the Sapcote Freeholt Wood. This has also an interesting flora including Orchis mascula and the Guelder Rose. In the spring the easterly side is covered with the glorious blue haze of the wild hyacinth. In the summer, hidden beneath a bower of hazel and crab trees, the Boy Scouts and Toc H. here find a congenial camping ground.
The path through the Sapcote Wood is easily followed. After leaving the wood it crosses two fields diagonally and emerges on the Sapcote Road. The walk can then be extended towards Elmesthorpe by following the main road in the direction of Sapcote for a few yards until we come to the first gate on the left hand side. This is the Bridle Road to Elmesthorpe. We pass two small farms on our left, the second is known as Hobbs Hayes. The Sapcote Wood is perhaps better known by Hobbs Hayes, and it is very likely that this is its correct name. Hayes or Hays is an old English name for a belt of woodland. The Sapcote Parish boundary follows the wood along its western side.
In a field adjoining the bridle road near Hobbs Hayes farm, an attempt was made to reach the coal beds supposedly underlying the woods. It is astonishing how the idea that coal is to be found here still persists. One can only surmise that it arises from the knowledge that our coal fields are the remains of decayed forest lands. There can be no reason for thinking, however, that there is any connection between our woodlands and the primeval forests of Carboniferous times. England has been beneath the sea several times since then. Millions of years and in some cases thousands of feet of solid rock divide them. The Hobbs Hayes boring was commenced about 1860. The engineers had to bore through 470 feet of marl and sandstone before reaching the coal measures. All that they found was a thin seam of bat or clunch. They gave it up as a bad job after penetrating some 974 ft. of underlying Cambrian rocks under which no coal is ever found. Geologists of late are inclined to believe that no part of the carboniferous measures were found in the boring.
Just past Hobbs Hayes where the Bridle road (now only a footpath) to Elmesthorpe bears right, a stile will be seen on the left leading to a footpath in the direction of Woodhouse Farm—once known as Huddlestone's. We follow this past a pond and some farm buildings on to another Bridle road leading to Elmesthorpe Station.
Before leaving the farm it might be interesting to recall one of its former tenants—Richard Fowke, farmer and antiquarian, friend of Nichols and Throsby. Between his agricultural pursuits and the regaling with old-time hospitality of many callers, he found time to create a museum and write a diary.
Here are two extracts dated 1811:—
Feb. 21.—Shrove Tuesday or Pancake Day. Some people have been robbed near Hinckley lately. The gallows grows for them to season again Swingham Fair (i.e., the assizes).
April 8.—Riots by the stocking makers of Hinckley about the prices. On Saturday night breaking windows, plundering and burning and pulling down houses.
We are now on the Elmesthorpe Bridle road. Do not follow this but cross the road and make for the corner of the field opposite to you in the direction of the railway line, keeping a little house on your left. The footpath will then appear more clearly defined leading along the hedgerow to a "ladder stile" and level crossing over the railway. The path then brings you in a few yards to Billington Roughs. There have been many conjectures as to the origin of these fields, surrounded by a high bank and dotted with conical hummocks. On the ordnance maps they are marked "old fish ponds" and it is conjectured that they were part of the ornamental park laid out by Sir William Cockayne (later Lord Cullen) when resident at Elmesthorpe. I am inclined to think they are much older. There is a local legend—as far as I can ascertain without any foundation of truth—that Cromwell planted his cannon here to demolish Elmesthorpe Church. Throsby records another legend that Lord Cullen hid his treasures in a hollow on one of the islands during the Civil War.
A footpath leads across two fields to Elmesthorpe's partly ruined Church. Dating from the early 14th century it contains an ancient massive stone mortar found near Red Hall.
This has Roman characteristics, but Mr. Reginald Smith of the British Museum suggests it might be a mediæval kitchen utensil. He was amused to learn it was now doing duty as a baptismal font.
Aubrey de Vere, Earl of Oxford, at one time owned the Manor of Elmesthorpe. There are some who attribute the works of Shakespeare to this Elizabethan nobleman.
A huge stone coffin was found near the Church in the middle of last century. It is now in Leicester Museum. I have been told it was carted there by night. Half-way, a jolt threw it out of the cart and broke it in two. A Hinckley man who was assisting was so scared that he left his companion and fled.
To return from Billington Roughs we cross a field by following the brook upstream to a Bridle road from Elmesthorpe Church. We there turn left and follow the road and a footpath past a farm to Ingles' Bridge. Then by the Bridle road across the Common and home.
An alternative route can be taken by crossing the first Bridle road and following a path almost immediately opposite. Keeping the brook on the left we cross two small meadows and then diagonally across a larger field to a stile. The path then follows the hedgerow and brings us out on the Leicester Road near the Barwell turn. Two fields from the road we pass by the corner of a large rectangular earthwork, the origin of which is at present obscure.
