Edward Thomas (1878-1917) Poet who walked the Track in 1911 Published ‘The Icknield Way‘ Here is Thomas, the Orienteer, leaving specific instructions & directions to any who choose to follow in his weary Footsteps. Edward Thomas might have been exhausted when he wrote the book, but he was evidently still a morning person. – In sharp contrast, it is often the morning passages when poetry is fresh on Thomas’ tongue:
Risboro’ to Wallingford
“Just before the 2nd Milestone from Princes Risborough, in obedience to my Map, I turned to the left & took the right-hand Road at a Fork. For a quarter mile this was a narrow Chalky Lane, having at its entrance a Sycamore & a Thatched Cottage & Traveller’s Joy (Clematis vitalba) all over its Low Hedge; but crossing a Road from Great Missenden it became more Important, hard & white, with a Green Border. I climbed up past the “Red Lion” at Whiteleaf, under Whiteleaf Hill, Crossed the Wycombe Road & went down a Hedged & Rutty Lane, leaving the Spire of Princes Risborough half a mile below on the right.
I entered Oxfordshire. I left the Road to see Chinnor Church, 0.5-mile South, which looks Southward on the Juniper-dotted Hills skirted by the Upper Way. The most notable thing in the Church was an Oval Tablet near the Screen. I saw a Skeleton cramped behind the Tablet protesting to the living that there, inside the Wall, denuded of Flesh & of all Organs, Nerves & Desires, a Wicked Man ceased from troubling & a Weary one could be at rest; the Teeth of the Skeleton shook in their dry sockets as it, now a 110-yrs old, uttered those sweet words: “Here the Wicked Cease from Troubling & the Weary are at Rest.” Some of the Dead outside bore formidable monosyllabic names, such as Wall, Crook, Saw & Cocks. At the “Royal Oak” I listened for half an hour to information & complaints about the Heat, which was at the time about 90-deg F in the shade, & then went out to make the most of the Heat itself, which I could well do, having myself, as a Good Critic has pronounced, an unvarying Temperature of about 45-deg F.
I left the “Bird in Hand” & a Squat, White Windmill on the left & entered a fine Green Road going straight South-west. One of the Hedges was high enough for shade, in the other some young Chestnut Trees were growing up. After some distance the left half of the Road was rough & had a Ditch along it; then a tiny Stream flowed across & the Way lost its left Hedge & went slightly raised between wheat & oats, poppy & tall pale Scabious. After that I had clover & bird’s-foot trefoil, bedstraw & rest-harrow underfoot – corn on the left as far as Elms in masses & behind these the Chilterns – corn on the right & Ridges of Elms beyond. Then another Rillet traversed the Road & cooled the feet. In places the Grass was very long. Crossing the Road to Kingston Blount the way was more used & rougher; as before it had Corn on both hands – Barley & Oats speckled like a Partridge. Then a 3rd Rillet & then wheat, barley, oats & beans in turn; on the other side of the way Wych-elms. There were always Elms & here and there a Farm under them, beyond the corn on the left.
Aston Rowant lay near on my left, with a Towered Church, a Big House & men upon a Rick, at the edge of the Elms. To cross the Aston Road my way made a slight Crook to the left & then skirted the Hay of Aston Rowant Park, with Elms & Sweet Limes amidst the Hay: it was a good Grass & Clover Track, not deeply rutted. Presently in the Mowed & cleared Fields on both sides cattle were walking out from Milking. With another slight Crook to the left the way crossed the High Wycombe, Stokenchurch & Oxford Road, where Yellow-hammers were singing in the Beeches alongside the Telegraph-posts. My way was now a Hard Road bordered by Beeches & Firs, through which I could see the Tower of Lewknor Church across a Hayfield. A Willow-wren, with a voice like the sweet voice of someone a 1,000-yrs away, was singing among the tops of the trees. Below, Briers & Thorns were interwoven & silver-weed grew at the edge of the dust. Some Country people say that silver-weed is good for the feet, a belief which might well have no better foundation than the fact that it grows commonly close to the Road which is Cruel to the feet. On the right I passed a little deserted Lodge with pointed windows & doorway gaping blank, and on the left a Wood of Beech, Elm & Chestnut shadowing a Wall in which there was a Door barricaded almost to the Lintel by Nettles. This cool Wood was full of the chiding of Blackbirds & 1-Thrush’s singing. Near the end this piece of Road turns decidedly to the left; but over the Wall on the right are some signs of a Track which had not this Southward bend.
At the end of the present Road, but a little way to the right along the Road to Wheatfield, which it enters, is Moor Court, a small old House of Bricks & Tiles, with Wings at each side, and a massive Stone Chimney at the Road end; & it has a Range of Thatched Farm Buildings & a Line of Lombardy Poplars all enclosed in a Wet Moat. A little farther up, a Farm Road, which might have continued the Track on the right of the Road just quitted, turns out to the left & with a short break leads to Pyrton, Cuxham & Brightwell Baldwin & so to Wallingford; or from Pyrton the Route might be to Watcombe Manor, Britwell & Ewelme. But the Lower Icknield Way is, to judge from the Map, supposed to give up its individuality at Moor Court & make straight away through Britwell & by Sheepcote Lane to join the Upper Road. There seems no good reason why this Connection between the 2, if it were such, should have been more than a convenience for a few Travellers, unless we suppose that the very Hilly & uneven portion of the Upper Road, between the beginning of the separation & Chinnor Hill, so frequently became impassable that it was abandoned for short or long periods or altogether. But as a Road close to Ewelme was known in the 17thC as the Lower Icknield Way, I was determined to go by Ewelme.
From Moor Court I went down to the pretty Group of a Smithy, a “Leather Bottle,” & Lewknor’s Towered Church at the Crossing, where I entered the High Road, making past Shirburn Castle to Watlington. At Watlington the Road bends sharp to the right & so comes into Line with the Lower Icknield Way, as it was near Moor Court in Weston Road.
This Road between the Chilterns and the Corn was followed by a single Line of Telegraph Wire. It had a slightly raised Green edge on the right, marked by Footpaths. It went within a few yards of the Moated Castle of Shirburn. Here, says the marvelling Countryside, the Drawbridge is Nightly drawn up, presumably with the philanthropic motive of giving Work to somebody. I wished to see the Castle as the Home of a Library which has lately given to the World a Collection of Ballads from Manuscript Collection of the early-16thC – “The Shirburn Ballads.” A great length of 8-ft Wall alongside the Road shut off the View. It was a bad Wall too, and could not be liked or admired for its own sake. I succeeded only in seeing one new Battlemented Tower, which, I was told, supplied Water for the Castle Laundry. The best thing at Shirburn was almost opposite the Castle Entrance – a narrow Strip of Land raised above the Road, & protected from it by a row of goodly Elm Trees, so that I walked between a high Hedge & them in a private coolness & green gloom as of an Airy Church about a 100-yds long. On the Hedge side of this Strip there was a depression which might have been the old Road: or perhaps at one time the Elms stood in the Middle of the Road like those yonder on the Upper Icknield Way under Watlington Hill. Hereby they have set up the ‘reputed’ remains of one of Queen Eleanor’s Funeral Crosses (Watlington Hill Obelisk Cutting).
Watlington is a big Square Village of no great beauty or extraordinary Antiquity, all of a piece & Rustic, but Urban in its compression of House against House. A Castle stood at the North edge near the present Church. The Oxford Road bounds the Town on its Garden side, where Farm-houses begin & Cottages with Gardens of Monkshood & Roses. Near this Road there was a “Pleasure Fair,” where the Roundabouts & Swings of some Travelling Company were putting in time on their way to a bigger Town & a Regular Engagement. There must be great wisdom in the Men of Watlington, to be able to harmonise their Grave, Rustic Streets with the Town-bred Music as of a Steam-engine in pain. It was a Feat I could not accomplish. The most I could do was to go into a Taproom, where the Music did not penetrate & the Weary were at rest. It was a most beautiful evening & the Swifts were shrieking low down along the deserted Streets at 9-pm. I should like to see them crowded with sheep from Ilsley & the Old Drover wearing a Thistle in his Cap, or with Welsh Ponies going to Stokenchurch Pleasure & Horse Fair over the Chilterns. There was no Market at Watlington & nothing but a “Pleasure” Fair; a cheap week-end Railway Ticket to London pleases the Country people by making them feel near London, whether they go or not; & it may encourage New Residents. This was what my Host wanted; his Taproom was much too peaceful for living men, though he liked well enough to smoke his last Pipe there, sitting in his shirt sleeves until the silent Room was quite dark & his children came home from the Roundabouts. A man came heavily down the Street Wheeling a Barrow, stopped outside & called for a Pint; while he waited he Ruminated, looking down the Street to the 1st Stars & whistling “Beside the Seaside, Beside the Sea,” then he tipped up his Tankard, emptied it & went off in a determined manner.
When I went up to Bed I was astonished to find a Bedroom that was not at all new to me, though I had never before, to my knowledge, stopped at this Inn. If it was an illusion, the Pictures created it. I had certainly seen them before, in Wales, in Cornwall, in Wiltshire & in Kent. I had last seen these 2-Pictures at Tregaron & I sighed with a serene & pleasant recollection of the place, the Season & the Company. For Supper, Bed & Picture Gallery my Host at Watlington charged me 2/- & called me at 5-am into the bargain, as I wished to Breakfast at Wallingford. I took the turning to Ewelme out of the Oxford Road & was soon high up among large, low-Hedged Fields of undulating Arable, with here & there a Mass or a Troop of Elms at a Corner, above a Farm, or down a Hedge. Farther away on the left I had the Chilterns, Wooded on their Crests & in their Hollows, not very high, but shapely. The Sky was misted at the Horizon, but overhead milky blue, with thin-spun, dim white cloud; the Sun a burning disc; half-way up the sky hung heavier white clouds, which might develop later. The Road was clover-edged, winding & undulating, and by no means an improbable connection of the Icknield Way.
Britwell Salome Church lay on my right, across a Willowy Field & having no Tower or Spire, it was like one of the Farm Buildings surrounding it. Then my Road mounted between Nettly & Elmy Banks & had a bit of Waste on the right where Chalk had been Dug – a pretty tumbled piece, all nettles, gix & white bryony under Ash Trees. There was not much Hedge between the Road & the corn before I got to the “Plough” at Britwell Salome & next the “Sun.”
The Village was scattered among Trees, not interrupting the smell of Hay. The Road skirted it & was soon out again amongst the wheat & passing Britwell Park, where the cattle were crossing in a straight line between groups of Elms. In the Hedge there was bracken along with the yellow bedstraw & white bryony. For a time there were gorse & bracken together on the green strip above the Road. Then, instead of going straight on to Benson, I turned to the left for Firebrass Hill, Ewelme & Wallingford. Beyond this turn all the Country Ground was high, bare Cornland undulating to the Darker Hills. The Road had Nettles for a Hedge, or sometimes brier, scabious, knap-weed, rest-harrow, & once some more purple meadow crane’s-bill; it had steep Banks, but no Green Border. This was not the Icknield Way, which would never have dipped down to the Lower part of Ewelme & up again at once. The 1st Houses of the Village were decent, small ones, standing high & looking down at the Farm-house Thatch, the Cottages, Gardens of Fruit Trees & Elms of the Main Village. The Churchyard covered the Slope down from the Upper to the Lower Village & in the midst stood the Church, a venerable one with a particularly neat growth of Ivy across the Tower. I could not get into the Church, but could hear the Clock ticking in the emptiness.
In the Churchyard I noticed the Grave of Alice Heath, who died in 1776. Scattered over the Turf close to the Church would be an indistinct Crowd of Tombstones. Nearer & clearer would present a New & costly Stone, probably in the form of a Cross, standing at the top of 3 or 4-Steps. Many wreaths of rare & costly flowers would lie unfaded at the foot of the Steps. On the lowest step 2-Figures of exceptional beauty & dignity would be kneeling without sign of impatience or any other emotion. They would be in the customary costume of these Pictures & the Onlooker would marvel what they were doing; & if he knew that they were watching the Dust below, he would still conjecture as to what they were to watch against & how they proposed to resist the attempts of any robbing Man, Beast, Dragon, or other Monster. But it is unlikely that any such picture was in the mind of the Ewelme Epitaph-Writer. He or she had perhaps no distinct image; choosing words that would fit the Metre & not be in any way surprising to the Religious, he thought of “Angels” & of “Dust,” & the need of Epithets pretty soon suggested “kind” & “sleeping.” Nevertheless, when I read it I came so near to forming an Image, that it is possible the Writer had an Image or Vision of some sort & handed it on to me in that early-July morning before anyone was on the Roads or in the Churchyard. There was a much better Stone & delicately writ Inscription near the East window. The Stone, a very thin, shouldered one, had slipped down into the Earth & was less than 2-ft in height & in breadth. Here the smallness & prettiness of the Thin Stone, its being half swallowed up in Earth & Grass, the fineness of the written, not printed, lettering, the name a Poem in itself & half Welsh, the youth of the girl, her death in April more than 200-yrs ago, all together produced an effect like that of Beauty, nay! which was Beauty. Not far off was a ponderous Square Chest with as much Reading on it as a page of Newspaper, dated 1869. The Sparrows were chittering in the Elms.
My Road dipped down through the Village & to the left by the “Greyhound” & up between Steep Banks under Larch Trees. On the right a few yards up that Road a Footpath used to go for 2-miles towards Wallingford, but it was covered by Corn for the 1st part & I kept to the Road. I was soon going past the Ewelme Cow Common again, but along the opposite side; & there were cows among its thorns. For a few yards, after crossing the Benson & Dorchester Road at Gypsies’ Corner, I was in the Upper Icknield Way again, but turned to the right, due west, leaving Clack’s Farm on the South instead of the West. I was then going down towards the Green-striped Cornland, the clustered Trees of the Thames Valley & the pale Spire & Tower of Wallingford rising out of it. The low, long curves of Land meeting or intersecting a little above the River Thames were like those of a Brier with nothing to Climb. In the Hedges there were wild Roses & masses of Traveller’s Joy (Clematis vitalba), with all its grey-green Buds very large. Instead of following the Road round its bend to the South-west, I turned just past the bend into a Green Lane to the right, which made straight for Wallingford Spire; & into this Lane presently came the Footpath from Ewelme & a Parallel old Lane.
However, I had to turn sharp to the left to reach Crowmarsh Gifford & Wallingford. Crowmarsh is a wide Street of Old Cottages leading to Wallingford Bridge. Wallingford climbs the right Bank up from the Bridge, & out of its crowded Brick Rise the Tower & the Spire of 2-Churches & the Ivied Tower of a Castle, of the kind that looks as if it had been ready-made Ruinous & Ivied, with a Flagstaff on top. I crossed the Bridge to the Town & went up the narrow, old Street, past an Inn called “The Shakespeare,” (High St) to the small Square of Small Shops, where Red & Blue implements of Farming stood by the Pillared Town Hall & the Sun poured on them. I went into the “Private Bar” of an Inn, but hearing only a Blue-bottle & seeing little but a Polished Table & smelling nothing else, I went out & round the corner to the Taproom of the same Inn. Here there were Men, Politics, Crops, Beer & Shag Tobacco.
Aston Rowant & Chilterns Spring Line Villages 