Travel in Britain broadens the mind and cheers the heart
DANA HUNTLEY
DANA HUNTLEY
DANA HUNTLEY
I headed toward Mortimer’s Cross, scene of the 1457 battle that established King Edward IV upon the throne—where the young Yorkist scion saw a parhelion in the sky, took it as an omen of victory and went on to claim the crown from the hapless Lancastrian Henry VI.
Nearby, I climbed a half-mile, rugged and bramble-strewn path to the ruins of Wigmore Castle, ancient seat of the powerful Mortimers. Now, this is a proper, romantic castle ruin—desolate, deserted, overgrown and abandoned since it was slighted by its owners during the Civil War to prevent it falling into Royalist hands. Sorry. There’s no tea room or gift shop here, just unparalleled views over the valleys of Shropshire to the east and Wales to the west.
When I left Ludlow behind, it was to head to northeast Wales. I encamped at Ye Old Anchor Inn in Ruthin (not nearly as quaint and cute as it sounds). It was a perfectly functional base for a couple of days in what is one of the most overlooked corners of the island. The story on “Saving the Village Pub” that brought me here will wait until our next issue.
Shortly before I set out, I’d received an invitation to visit the Greenfield Valley Heritage Park and Museum. And, as I was in the neighborhood, the next morning seemed a perfect opportunity. This is a neat, smaller version of St. Fagans, well worthy of a visit if you’re passing along the North Wales coast.
That afternoon, I drove over to nearby Chester, which is always a pleasure. Chester is one of those richly historic, beautiful, provincial cathedral cities that doesn’t get anywhere near enough attention from American visitors. Of Roman provenance (as its name implies), it might be the famed Rows of Chester’s unique downtown architecture that are its most famous calling card. And York is the only other English city that can claim a span of medieval city walls that are not only extant, but open for walkers to enjoy as they were 600 years ago.
DANA HUNTLEY
I went to meet longtime British Heritage contributor Claire Hopley, who splits her time between Chester and Leveritt, Mass. We rendezvoused at a famous old pub called The Falcon after she finished speaking on her new book of English Christmas customs at the Chester Literary Festival. We’d an enjoyable couple of hours chatting before I had to head back to Ruthin.
The next day, I drove south to Birmingham, and through its interminable, convoluted network of city streets to get to Cadburyworld. When industrial Birmingham grew up to be England’s second-largest city there just weren’t any motorways. And, when I finally made it to Bournville, there was a two-hour queue at Cadburyworld. Uh, I continued on to the more placid surroundings of Warwick.
It was fun to have a real poke around the county town of Warwickshire. Warwick Castle has long been recognized as perhaps the best and most complete example of a medieval castle in England, and I’ve visited several times. Unfortunately, it is now owned by Madame Tussauds, who have turned it into a theme park. It is the exact antithesis of Wigmore Castle. Warwick’s lovely St. Mary’s Church has a medieval ducking stool in its crypt, the chapel of the Royal Warwickshire Regiment and the ornate 14th century tombs of Thomas Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, and his wife, Katherine Mortimer, who grew up at, yup, Wigmore Castle.
Sunday, I was back in Birmingham, this time queuing up in the drizzle more than two hours to see the Staffordshire Hoard. As one who has always assumed that if you have to stand in line more than 20 minutes whatever it is you want to see must be overrated, it was a hard call. They let about 100 people at a time into the gallery. The Anglo-Saxon treasure, as you may have already concluded from Dateline, was truly worth seeing. I wouldn’t have missed it.
With a few hours of daylight left, I headed to Stratford-upon-Avon. Admittedly, Stratford is as much a tourist town as anywhere in Britain. Shakespeare is big business, and the Royal Shakespeare Theatre is a justly famous draw. I wanted to collect some pictures. Unimpeded views were difficult to find in the old market town, though, as the town center was completely swallowed by the largest downtown fun fair I’ve ever seen. I’ve no idea how they managed to get some of those lorry-mounted rides into the streets. As darkness fell, the downtown was hopping, far more with locals from Stratford and the surrounding area than with tourists.
I repaired to the Dirty Duck for a quiet, well-earned pint. This is famously the actors’ pub for the RSC, just across the road from the Swan Theatre. On the side facing Holy Trinity Church, the pub sign reads The Black Swan, on the other The Dirty Duck. Among the signed photos on the wall are those of Richard Burton, Alan Bates, Lionel Jeffries and John Gielgud.
Miles-long tailbacks on the M40 the next day led me to shunpike south on the A34. I picked up the busy M4 west of Reading and turned to London, having driven just over 700 miles. As always, the diesel fumes and crowds of the city take some adjustment after our green and pleasant land. As always, those days were enriched by the places I saw and the interesting people I met. Do go yourself, and live the history, and in the meantime, enjoy sharing it in British Heritage.