oment Of Glory The Year Underdogs Ruled Gol

Available on alibris.com
( 4.8/5.0 ★ | 412 downloads )
-- Click the link to download --

https://click.linksynergy.com/link?id=*C/UgjGtUZ8&offerid=1494105.26
539780316025324&type=15&murl=https%3A%2F%2F2.zoppoz.workers.dev%3A443%2Fhttp%2Fwww.alibris.com%2Fsearch%2
Fbooks%2Fisbn%2F9780316025324
Moment Of Glory The Year Underdogs
Ruled Golf

ISBN: 9780316025324
Category: Media > Books
File Fomat: PDF, EPUB, DOC...
File Details: 18.1 MB
Language: English
Website: alibris.com
Short description: The item shows wear from consistent use, but it
remains in good condition and works perfectly. All pages and cover are
intact (including the dust cover, if applicable). Spine may show signs
of wear. Pages may include limited notes and highlighting. May NOT
include discs, access code or other supplemental materials.

DOWNLOAD: https://click.linksynergy.com/link?id=*C/UgjGtUZ8&
offerid=1494105.26539780316025324&type=15&murl=http%3A%2F%2F
www.alibris.com%2Fsearch%2Fbooks%2Fisbn%2F9780316025324
 Moment Of Glory The Year
Underdogs Ruled Golf

• Click the link: https://click.linksynergy.com/link?id=*C/UgjGtUZ8&offerid=1494105.2653978031602532

4&type=15&murl=https%3A%2F%2F2.zoppoz.workers.dev%3A443%2Fhttp%2Fwww.alibris.com%2Fsearch%2Fbooks%2Fisbn%2F9780316025324 to do
latest version of Moment Of Glory The Year Underdogs Ruled Golf in multiple formats such as PDF,
EPUB, and more.
• Don’t miss the chance to explore our extensive collection of high-quality resources, books, and guides on
our website. Visit us regularly to stay updated with new titles and gain access to even more valuable
materials.
.
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Motor Tours
in Wales & the Border Counties
 This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away
or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License
included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you
are not located in the United States, you will have to check the
laws of the country where you are located before using this
eBook.

Title: Motor Tours in Wales & the Border Counties

Author: Mrs. Rodolph Stawell

Photographer: R. De S. Stawell

Release date: September 27, 2016 [eBook #53152]

Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Credits: E-text prepared by Suzanne Shell, Paul Clark, and the

Online Distributed Proofreading Team
(http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously
made available by Internet Archive/American Libraries
(https://archive.org/details/americana); book cover
image digitized by the Google Books Library Project
(http://books.google.com) and generously made
available by HathiTrust Digital Library
(https://www.hathitrust.org/digital_library)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MOTOR TOURS

IN WALES & THE BORDER COUNTIES ***
The Project Gutenberg eBook, Motor Tours in Wales & the Border
Counties, by Mrs. Rodolph Stawell, Illustrated by R. De S. Stawell

Note: Images of the original pages are available through Internet

Archive/American Libraries. See
https://archive.org/details/motortoursinwale00staw

Motor Tours in Wales and the

Border Counties
VALLE CRUCIS ABBEY.
[Frontispiece
 MOTOR TOURS
IN
WALES & THE BORDER
COUNTIES
By
Mrs. Rodolph Stawell
 With Photographs by
R. De S. Stawell

BOSTON
L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
1909
 CONTENTS
I PAGE
SHROPSHIRE 1

II
NORTH WALES 65

III
THE HEART OF WALES 135

IV
SOUTH WALES 163

V
WYE VALLEY 223
 ILLUSTRATIONS
VALLE CRUCIS ABBEY Frontispiece

FACING PAGE
LUDLOW CASTLE 4

THE FEATHERS HOTEL, LUDLOW 5

TUDOR DOORWAY, LUDLOW CASTLE 6

THE ROUND CHAPEL, LUDLOW CASTLE 7

ENTRANCE TO HALL IN WHICH “COMUS” WAS FIRST

PERFORMED 10

STOKESAY CASTLE 11

OLD STREET IN SHREWSBURY 22

RICHARD BAXTER’S HOUSE, EATON CONSTANTINE 23

BUILDWAS ABBEY 28

MADELEY COURT 29

HAUGHMOND ABBEY 38

WENLOCK PRIORY, ST. JOHN’S CHAPEL 39

WENLOCK PRIORY, CHAPTER HOUSE 42

BISHOP PERCY’S BIRTHPLACE, BRIDGNORTH 43

WHITTINGTON CASTLE 64

THE LLEDR VALLEY, FROM THE HOLYHEAD ROAD 65

THE OLD CHAPEL, BETTWS-Y-COED 82

THE LLUGWY AT BETTWS-Y-COED 83

CONWAY CASTLE 90

THE PASS OF NANT FFRANCON 91

THE MENAI BRIDGE, FROM ANGLESEY 102

CARNARVON CASTLE 103

DOLBADARN CASTLE 106

SNOWDON, FROM CAPEL CURIG 107

NEAR BEDD GELERT 120

GATEWAY OF HARLECH CASTLE 121

THE MAWDDACH, FROM TYN-Y-GROES HOTEL 134

LLANIDLOES 135

ARCHWAY AT STRATA FLORIDA 148

NEAR GLANDOVEY 149

THE MAYOR’S HOUSE, MACHYNLLETH 156

THE RIVER DULAS 157

THE PASS OF CORRIS, NEAR TAL-Y-LLYN 158

BALA LAKE 159

CAERPHILLY CASTLE 172

BEAUPRÉ CASTLE 173

EWENNY PRIORY 180

NEATH ABBEY 181

BRECON 186

GATEWAY, KIDWELLY CASTLE 187

GOSCAR ROCK, TENBY 196

MANORBIER CASTLE, NEAR TENBY 197

ENTRANCE TOWER, PEMBROKE CASTLE 202

PEMBROKE COAST 203

CAREW CASTLE 208

ST. DAVID’S CATHEDRAL AND RUINS OF THE BISHOP’S

PALACE 209

ST. MARY’S COLLEGE, ST. DAVID’S 212

ST. DAVID’S CATHEDRAL: INTERIOR 213

KILGERRAN CASTLE, NEAR CARDIGAN 222

THE WYE NEAR ITS SOURCE 223

CONFLUENCE OF THE WYE AND THE MARTEG NEAR

RHAYADER 234

HEREFORD 235

THE PREACHING CROSS, HEREFORD 238

ROSS FROM WILTON 239

MONNOW BRIDGE, MONMOUTH 250

RAGLAN CASTLE, ENTRANCE TOWER 251

THE MOAT, RAGLAN CASTLE 254

LLANTHONY PRIORY 255

INTERIOR OF LLANTHONY PRIORY, SHOWING THE

EAST END 258

TINTERN ABBEY 259

TINTERN ABBEY 266

CHEPSTOW CASTLE 267

Much of the material of this book has appeared in the Car

Illustrated, and is here reproduced by the kind consent of Lord
Montagu.
 SHORT RUNS IN SHROPSHIRE
There was once a tramp who said—“Och, now, it’s true what I’m
tellin’ ye; I never got a bit o’ good out o’ me life till I took to the
road!”
He was quite serious about it. He was a nice tramp, with a fine
sense of romance and a large trust in the future, and on this first
day of the tour his words ring in my head above the rush of the wind
and the throbbing of the engine. For though all the days will be
good, this first day is surely the best. To be on the road again; to
have one’s luggage behind one and all the world in front; to watch
the villages slipping by and mark their changing character; to
saunter through strange towns and swing across great, desolate
moorlands; to pause at some attractive inn, or eat sandwiches and
sunshine by the wayside—this is the first day. History and the
camera must wait; the first day must be given up to the sheer joy of
the road.
So, as we shall not be able to hurry in Shropshire, seeing that there
history cannot be ignored, we shall do well to cross its border in the
evening, and spend the night in Ludlow. We will drop gently down
the hill by Ludford House, and cross the Teme when the light is
growing dim, and we can only tell by the deepening of the shadows
in the trees on the left that the castle stands among them. Then we
will climb a short, steep hill into the town through the only one of
the old gates that is still standing, turn to the right through the Bull
Ring, and draw up before the famous carved front of the “Feathers.”
LUDLOW CASTLE.
 THE FEATHERS HOTEL, LUDLOW.
Here in this little town, in its historic inn, in its church and its great
castle, we may find the concentrated essence, as it were, of the
glamour of Shropshire—that borderland where the local stories have
helped to make the history of England, and the quiet towns have
seen wild deeds of courage and horror, and the fields have been red
with blood; where every tiny village has its own tale of love or
battle, of fair lady or fugitive king. This very house, the “Feathers,”
has a world of romance in its timbered walls and panelled rooms, for
it is far older than the beautiful Jacobean chimney-piece before
which we shall presently dine. These moulded ceilings and elaborate
carvings, it is said, were once the property of a member of that
Council of the Welsh Marches that Edward IV. established to bring
order into the affairs of this stormy neighbourhood, where the
“Lords Marchers” had hitherto taken what they chose, and kept it if
they could. It is said that the English King once asked by what
warrant the Lords Marchers held their lands. “By this warrant,” said
one of them grimly, drawing his sword—and the inquiry went no
further.
The President of this Council lived in the great castle that still stands
so imposingly above the Teme, with its outer and inner baileys, its
Norman keep and curious round chapel, and all its long, long
memories.
TUDOR DOORWAY, LUDLOW CASTLE.
 THE ROUND CHAPEL, LUDLOW CASTLE.
Within these grey walls we may dream of many things, both pitiful
and gay: of all the children who have played and the poets who
have written here; of young Prince Arthur, who died here; of his
bride, Katherine of Arragon; of poor Princess Mary—“my ladie
Prince’s grace,” as they called her quaintly—the Queen of blood and
tears. Edward IV. and his brother Edmund, dressed in green gowns,
played in these courts as boys, and wrote a letter to their “right
noble lord and father,” begging him daily to give them his hearty
blessing, and to send them some fine bonnets by the next sure
messenger; and here on the right is the roofless tower whose
crumbling walls are haunted by the most touching memories in all
Ludlow. For these weed-grown stones have echoed to the voices of
Edward IV.’s little sons, who lived and laughed here with no thought
of that grimmer Tower that is connected for ever with their names.
There is still existing a wonderful letter written by the King to “his
Castle of Lodelowe,” in which he gives the most minute instructions
as to the education and general deportment of the Prince of Wales—
not forgetting the baby’s bedtime. His Majesty, indeed, was definite
on all points.
“We will that our said son have his breakfast immediately after his
mass; and between that and his meat to be occupied in such
virtuous learning as his age shall suffer to receive.”
His age at this time was three years. Not only was the virtuous
learning to occupy him from breakfast till dinner, but during the
latter meal “such noble stories as behoveth to a prince to
understand and know” were to be read aloud to him; and “after his
meat, in eschewing of idleness,” he was to be “occupied about his
learning” again. It is a relief to read that after his supper he was to
have “all such honest disports as may be conveniently devised for
his recreation.” At eight o’clock his attendants were “to enforce
themselves to make him merry and joyous towards his bed”; and,
indeed, after so hard a day of virtuous learning and noble stories
and honest disports, the poor child must have been glad to get
there!
Later on, when Sir Henry Sidney was President of the Council, this
ground where we are standing was trodden by his son Philip, the
pattern of chivalry, who “fearde no foe, nor ever fought a friend”;
and it was through that doorway at the top of the inclined plane—
then a flight of marble steps—that little Lady Alice Egerton, not
knowing that she was on her way to immortality, passed on the
evening that she took part in the first performance of Comus, which
Milton had written for her.
It is curious that in this venerable town so many of our thoughts
should be claimed by the very young. Ludlow Castle, as one sits here
thinking of the past, seems to be peopled with the ghosts of
children. And even in the church whose great tower gives Ludlow so
distinguished an air, the church where the solemn Councillors of the
Marches have their pompous tombs, we find the grave of Philip
Sidney’s little sister. “Heare lyethe the bodye of Ambrozia Sydney,
iiijth doughter of the Right Honourable Syr Henrye Sydney ... and
the Ladye Mary his wyef.” It is sometimes said, too, that Prince
Arthur, Henry VII.’s young son, is buried here, but this is not the
case. There is a cenotaph that was, perhaps raised in his memory,
but his body was taken to Worcester Cathedral.
These are the gentler memories of Ludlow. Of the fiercer kind there
is no lack, from the old fighting days of the de Lacy who built the
keep, and the de Dinan who built the round chapel, down through
centuries of siege and battle to the time of the Civil War, when the
King’s flag flew here longer than on any other castle of Shropshire.
Ludlow might well be chosen as a centre for motor drives in
Herefordshire, Shropshire, and Worcestershire. But for the moment
we are concerned with Shropshire only, and the centre of that
county, in every sense, is Shrewsbury; and so, sad though it is to
leave Ludlow so soon, we must glide away down the steep pitch
beyond the door of the “Feathers,” past the railway station, past the
racecourse, and over the twenty-nine miles of excellent and level
road that lie between Ludlow and Shrewsbury.
 ENTRANCE TO HALL IN WHICH “COMUS” WAS FIRST
PERFORMED.
The first village on this road, Bromfield, is very typical of the villages
of Shropshire at their best. The black-and-white cottages seem to
have been set in their places with an eye to pictorial effect; the
stream and bridge are exactly in the right spot; and to complete the
picture, a beautiful old gatehouse stands a little way back from the
road. It is built half of stone, half of timber and plaster, and was
once the gateway of a Benedictine Priory which is mentioned in
Domesday Book as being of some importance. It leads now to the
church, and is one of those unexpected touches of beauty and
interest that may meet one’s eye at any turn of a Shropshire road.
Photo by] [W. D. Haydon.
STOKESAY CASTLE.
At Onibury we cross the line and the river Onny, and about a mile
and a half further on we should begin to look for Stokesay Castle on
the left. As it is a little way from the main road, and partly hidden by
trees, it is easy to miss it when travelling at a good pace; but it is
perhaps the most attractive ruin in Shropshire from an artist’s point
of view, and should on no account be neglected. It is really a
fortified house rather than a castle, and the mingling of the warlike
with the domestic gives it a peculiar charm. The northern end, with
its irregular roof and overhanging upper storey, the “Solar Room,”
with its magnificent carved chimney-piece, and even the timbered
gateway, are all merely suggestive of a dwelling-house; and it is only
when we turn to the curious polygonal tower that we remember how
in the old days an Englishman’s house was either very literally his
castle or was likely to become some other Englishman’s house at an
early date. As far as I know, however, the only time that Stokesay
had to make any use of its defences was when it was garrisoned for
the King during the Civil War, and on that occasion it seems to have
yielded without much ado.
It is by very pleasant ways that this road is leading us—between
wooded hills and over quiet streams. The valley narrows and is at its
prettiest near Marshbrook and Little Stretton; then the pointed hill of
Caradoc became conspicuous, and beyond it the famous Wrekin
appears—famous not for its beauty, but because, being in the centre
of the county, it can be seen by nearly every one in Shropshire, and
so has gathered round it the sentiment of all Salopian hearts. “To
friends all round the Wrekin!” is the famous Shropshire toast, and
there, far away to the right, is the isolated rounded hill that means
so much to those born within sight of it. At Stretton we leave the
hills and wooded valleys behind us, and pass through a few miles of
rather dull country. It is at the village of Bayston Hill that we first
see, dimly blue against a background of hills, the slender spires—
almost unrivalled in beauty—of that fair town which long ago the
Welsh named Y Mwythig, the Delight.
The history of Shrewsbury is stirring, and very, very long. When
England was still in the making she stood there on her hill, looking
down at the encircling river that has defended her for so many
centuries. Nearly every street is connected in some way with history;
every second house is haunted by some great name. Many large and
solemn books have been written about Shrewsbury, and not one of
them is dull. Even in these few hundred yards between the river and
our hotel how many memories there are! As we turn on to the
English Bridge to cross the Severn we should glance backwards to
the right at the red tower and great west window of the Abbey
founded by the Conqueror’s kinsman, Roger de Montgomery, a man
of mark; and then, having crossed the steep rise and fall of the
bridge, we climb into the heart of the town by the hill called the
Wyle Cop. It was up this steep hill that, not so very long ago, the
London coach used to dash, turning into the yard of the Lion Hotel
at a pace that is still spoken of with awe and admiration. If we were
to do the like we should probably have to pay five pounds and costs,
so we will ascend the Cop in a way more conducive to dreaming of
the past: of Harry Tudor on his way to “trye hys right” at Bosworth,
with the welcoming citizens strewing flowers before him; of the
more stately procession that wound up the hill when he came back
as Henry VII. with his Queen and young Prince Arthur; of Robert
Dudley, Earl of Leicester, and his stepson Essex, after their reception
by bailiffs and aldermen, “and other to the number of xxiiij scarlet
gowns, with the scollars of the freescoole,” listening wearily “at the
upper end of the Wylde Coppe,” to three orations! Henry Tudor,
when he reached the Wyle Cop, was glad to take shelter for the
night in that picturesque little black-and-white house with the
overhanging top storey and the tiled roof—it is on the left, rather
more than half-way up the hill—for he had not won his way into the
town without difficulty. “The gates weare shutt against him and the
portculleys lett downe,” and a bailiff of the town—“a stout, wise
gentleman,” we are told—vowed that Henry should only enter over
his prostrate body. So, when Henry had made it clear that he did not
mean to hurt the town, “nor none therein,” the only way for the
stout, wise gentleman to keep his word was by lying down on the
ground and allowing his future king to step over him. Thus did Henry
of Richmond come in triumph to the little house on the Wyle.
If we are going to the “Raven,” or the “Crown,” as is probable, we
turn to the right near the top of the hill, and pass the beautiful old
timbered house—which stands on the right hand, a little back from
the street—where Princess Mary stayed on her way to Ludlow after
she had been created Prince of Wales; and a little further up, on the
left, is the many-gabled house where Prince Rupert lived for a time
when he was here with Charles I. On each side of us rises one of the
slender spires that are the pride of Shrewsbury. St. Alkmund’s
Church, on the left, was founded by Alfred’s daughter Ethelfleda,
known as the Lady of the Mercians; a lady, it would seem, of some
force. “A woman of an enlarged soul,” William of Malmesbury calls
her; and adds: “This spirited heroine assisted her brother greatly
with her advice, and was of equal service in building cities.” It is
gravely recorded in a serious chronicle that in 1533 “the dyvyll
apearyd in Saint Alkmond’s Churche there when the preest was at
highe masse with greate tempest and darknes, so that as he passyd
through the churche he mountyd up the steeple in the sayde
churche, teringe the wyer of the sayde clocke, and put the prynt of
hys clawes uppon the iiijth bell.” This steeple on our left was the
very scene of this feat; but the body of the church was rebuilt in the
eighteenth century. Another old Shrewsbury church, St. Chad’s, had
fallen down, and the congregation of Saint Alkmund’s feared a
repetition of the disaster. In the case of St. Alkmund’s, however, it
was the rebuilding that was the disaster.
The story of St. Mary’s lovely spire, on our right, is full of incident. In
1572 it was “blown aside by wind”; in 1594 “there fell such a
monstrous dry wind, and so extreme fierce ... that the like was never
seen of those that be living ... the force whereof removed the upper
part of St. Mary’s steeple out of his place towards the south about
five inches”; in 1662 the steeple was “taken down six yards from the
top”; in 1690 it was damaged by an earthquake; in 1754 it was
“shattered by a high wind”; in 1756 the newly-built part was again
“blown aside”; in 1818 the upper part “became loose”; and during a
terrific storm in 1894 fifty feet of its masonry fell through the roof of
the nave shortly after the evening service. Most wonderfully this last
disaster did no damage to the stained glass, which is St. Mary’s
great glory and has itself had an eventful existence; for some of it
was in old St. Chad’s when it fell, and much of it, long ago, filled the
windows of religious houses in Germany.