Through East Anglia in a Motor Car

Blickling, it should be added, is near Aylsham. It was owned once by Harold, then by the Bishops of Norwich, and then by Sir Thomas Boleyn, father of Anne Boleyn. "A sheet of water about a mile long, in the middle of a beautiful and well-wooded park, is a fitting adjunct to the noble red house, built in the reign of James I, with its fine ceiled galleries and carvings, and its grand staircase." So Mr. Rye, and then he passes off to heraldry. Gunton is, or was, in the same neighbourhood. "Murray" says that the house "of white brick, enlarged by Wyatt 1785,"—neither statement sounds alluring—"is without interest." Mr. Rye says elsewhere "the hall was burnt out not long ago" (he writes in 1885) "and is not yet rebuilt, and very picturesque it looks with its great gaunt shell pierced by rows of empty windows. It would make a capital ruin, and might just as well be left as it is, and a smaller house, more suitable to the fortunes of the Harbords, built elsewhere in the park."

Shooting and motoring are the great out-door occupations of Sandringham. If the King be at home the chances of seeing a royal car on these roads are many, and in late November you may often hear the guns popping like a feu de joie. Nay, on the road, which turns sharply to the left for Dersingham by the gate, proceeding through fine trees on both sides, and on the level for a while, and then down a steep hill, I have had the good fortune to see the Prince of Wales and the German Emperor bringing pheasants down in a manner more than workmanlike. So to Dersingham, a sunny village lying in a cup of the modest little hills. Here again you will be struck by the all-pervading use of the local carr stone, very neatly dressed in minute blocks, apparently impervious to weather and incapable of taking any tone from rain and wind and sun. Picturesque to the eye of a stranger it certainly is not; but the walls and houses built of it are trim to a Dutch point of neatness, and, to accustomed eyes, it no doubt seems to be part of the established order of things. It is no harm suggesting again that in relation to the appearance of things, the product of man's hand, of the operations of nature, or of the two combined, first impressions are not to be trusted in all cases. Custom makes a world of difference. A Chinaman, or a Hottentot, has, for example, ideas completely opposite to ours concerning female beauty. Without yielding to either in the matter of opinion, even in these extreme instances, we may possibly concede that standards of beauty are not to be defined with scientific precision. "Carr" stone buildings to some of us may look a trifle grim and formal, although their ferruginous tone is not cold; at worst they represent the resolve to use local material, which is usually consonant with art and sense, and no doubt their appearance excites no feeling of distaste in the people of Norfolk who, after all, are the persons principally concerned. Of this same stone the church is built. Here the passers by will be struck by the stately proportions of the lofty tower, and, if he enters, he will notice the orderly condition of all things, as well as a piscina and a hagioscope. To the neat condition of things, which should be normal, attention is called in this case because, apparently, it is the complete opposite of the state of things prevailing in the early seventies, when everything capable of suffering from neglect had so suffered. Dersingham is a pleasantly tidy village, but not "model" in the artificial sense. It boasts a hotel, "The Feathers," where I stayed for a week a good many years ago. It was then one of the worst in England, but, in new hands, it is understood to be better. On the whole, however, Dersingham is not recommended for a sojourn, nor has it, in all probability, been encouraged to lay itself out to attract visitors.

From Dersingham to the Hunstantons is a pleasant drive of some six miles, calling for no particular comment at any point save Snettisham, where the position of the church, embowered in trees, fascinates the eye. "The Hunstantons" has been written because there are two communities, the old and the new, whereof the latter, according to Mr. Rye, peremptorily refuses to be dubbed St. Edmund's, in spite of the tradition that a ruined chapel near the lighthouse on the cliff commemorates the landing-place of St. Edmund. It is rather an even question whether the Hunstantons owe most to the cliff, which is their chief glory, or to the Le Stranges, who have done all that was possible for their prosperity. How long they have been in the land, being no genealogist, I do not profess to say. They are not included in Mr. Rye's list of grantees from William the Conqueror, but the monument of Henry Le Strange and his wife, dated 1485, to be found in the church, is ancient enough to be at least respectable, and his epitaph is worth quoting at once, although we shall soon refer to earlier members of the race.

In heaven at home, O blessed change,
Who, while I was on earth, was Strange.

Never were a country-side and a great family connected more consistently to the benefit of the first and to the honour of the second.

Hard by the church is the ancient "twthill," according to one of the authorities, "the place of assembly." Since the survival of this expression is by no means frequent, it may perhaps be permissible to remark that, if the eye will travel across the map of England, due west from Hunstanton and as far as it can go, it will come to another "twthill" at Carnarvon. The spelling looks British, and the ancient British borrowed a good many words direct from the Latin, ffenstr for example, from fenestra, for window, doubtless a new idea to them. So, being expert neither in philology nor Anglo-Saxon, but well aware that the Saxons never penetrated to Carnarvon, and that both "twthills" are remarkably good places of observation, I hazard the suggestion that "twt" is a British equivalent of tuitus, from tueor, of which the proper meaning is "to gaze"; that they were, in fact, "look-outs." A coincidence in the history of the church of St. Mary, probably unique, is that it was built by Sir Hamon Le Strange and his son early in the fourteenth century, and restored in good taste by a Le Strange of the twentieth century. Whether the places owe most to the family or the family to the places is not easy to decide, but certainly no family ever did its duty more consistently by any country-side. On the other hand, but for the curious cliff, itself remarkably attractive for its outlines and colouring, the Hunstantons could not have existed to be cherished by the Le Stranges, for there is still abundant evidence of a submerged forest between Old Hunstanton and Brancaster. The cliff it was to the sea, "thus far shalt thou go and no further." The cliff it is that allows the Le Stranges to live in the ancient hall, fifteenth-century and moated, and to play the part of a human providence in this most remote corner of Norfolk. Of the part they played for Charles I mention has been made before.

Eight miles along the coast take us to Brancaster and to history, lately made far less obscure than it used to be. Here it is clearly the best course to quote Mr. Haverfield's description, because it is far and away the best, having first summarized a little of the information leading up to it. Mention has been made of the Peddar's or Pedlar's Way, traceable, not very distinctly for the first six miles, but quite plainly afterwards, from Holme, midway between Brancaster and old Hunstanton, through Fring, Castle Acre, Swaffham and other places to the boundary of Suffolk and beyond. The difficulty that it did not lead to Brancaster, further complicated by the fact that there was no obvious reason why it should not, was the origin of a theory that it might have led to a ferry from Holme to Skegness; but the passage would involve some twenty miles of nasty navigation. "Even an antiquary, when it came to the test of trial, would shrink from such a trajectus." There must have been a road to Brancaster, there is no trace of any other. It was certainly Roman, it was probably military: that is Mr. Haverfield's conclusion; and as a slayer of mere fancies he is so just and relentless that, when at all positive, he is the more convincing. Garrisons in Roman times were on the north and west, beyond the Severn and Humber, where they were needed; but by about 300 A.D. "Saxon" pirates began to harry the eastern and southern coasts, as they continued to do almost up to the Norman Conquest. So a series of nine forts, of which Branodunum (Brancaster) was one, was constructed to defend the threatened coast from this point to Pevensey, in far Sussex. At Brancaster lay the Dalmatian cavalry, keeping an eye on the Wash and the little harbours and creeks to the westward.

"The site of Branodunum is at the 'Wreck' or 'Rack' Hill, a short distance to the east of Brancaster village, between the high road and the creek which forms the Western Arm of Brancaster harbour. It is still distinguishable by the fragments of brick and pottery which lie about it, and by the slight but perceptible elevation of its area; but its walls and buildings have long ago vanished, and little of them seems to have been visible even in Camden's days. In size and outline the fort is stated to have been a square of 570 feet, that is 7-1/2 acres, with gateways on the eastern and western sides; but no precise measurements have ever been secured, and I am inclined to consider these figures as somewhat too small. Excavations made in 1846 showed that the north-east angle of the fort was rounded, and had within it a small rectangular guard-chamber or turret, and presumably the three other angles were similar. At the same time it was found that the walls were 11 feet thick, constructed of concrete, and built with facing and bonding-courses of a local white sandstone. At the eastern gate, which apparently had flanking bastions, a road 33 feet wide was found to enter the fort and run 360 feet across it westwards. Some slight indications of structures within the fort were also noted, but much yet remains to be explored."

This is Mr. Haverfield's constant plea in relation to East Anglian remains, and there is much to be said in favour of it. There is neither sense nor reason in standing outside earth mounds, or in trying to guess their contents, when the spade would reveal them if they existed, and a nation which expends so much as ours does in digging up ruins abroad, might very well do much more work of the same kind at home. The spade, for example, might resolve the question whether Caister-by-Yarmouth and Reedham were forts or not, but at present their character is quite uncertain, and the nearest fort to Brancaster we know is Burgh Castle by Yarmouth. So much, at least, we know definitely of Brancaster, and it can hardly fail to grasp the imagination. Here, at this extreme north-east point of Norfolk, the Dalmatian cavalry, men of the same blood as Constantine the Great, watched the sea against the enemies of Rome. Taking the comparative conditions of travel into account, it was almost as it would be if we placed a regiment of Sikhs in New Zealand to guard it against possible raids from the islands of the Pacific.

Beyond Brancaster we follow the coast as far as Burnham Deepdale—the brook in these parts is responsible for many a place-name and for one of undying fame—and then leave the coast willingly enough, for the sandy waste of the "meols" soon ceases, if indeed it ever begins, to attract. Then the aspect of the country soon loses its bleak and wind-swept character; we are in a peaceful land of little hills and many woods, of brooks and verdure. At Burnham Thorpe in particular we are in the village to one of whose sons England and the world owe at least as much as they do to any other hero of history. Here Nelson was born. Those four words imply volumes, but they are volumes which positively must not be so much as begun, because they would never end, and they would be familiar from the first page to the last. Here, son of a father who was but a country clergyman, and of a mother of the pure and ancient blood of Norfolk, lived the boy who grew into the man whose every virtue and every failing are known of all men. He did not live here long. He was at school at North Walsham and at Downham, and he joined the Raisonnable at Chatham when he was but twelve and a half years of age. But he never forgot his birthplace, and it was named conjointly with the Nile when he was most justly raised to the peerage. One of the most tranquil spots in the world, and very lovely, is Burnham Thorpe—and it is holy ground. Not long since, on a pleasure voyage round the extreme north of Scotland, a perfervid Scot was heard to proclaim the glorious deeds done for the Empire by Scotland's sons. A west-countryman retorted, "But for Devon you would all have been Spaniards." An East Anglian might have chimed in with Burnham Thorpe; an Irishman with the birthplace of the Duke of Wellington; and it would all go simply to show how futile it is to institute comparisons.

Possibly at Brancaster, possibly at Burnham Thorpe, the suggestion of a return to Lynn for the night may have been taken. In that case it is advised that the return journey of the morning be made to Fakenham only, taking Rainham Park by the way. Here, in print, we merely drive to Fakenham through pleasantly undulating and well-wooded country, on the west side of Walsingham and Houghton which we know. Of Fakenham, too, something has been said before; but a remark, worth making in passing because it happens to be true, is that "Fakenham, Norfolk," was an address often used by me as a boy desirous of acquiring ferrets or spaniels of miraculous quality, according to the advertisement. The explanation is plain on the face of the land to him who travels this country. It is very largely and successfully devoted to game; but whether the vendors of these animals, all paragons in their kind, were entitled to use the ground on and under which they had trained them may be an open question.

My recollections of Rainham Hall are so ancient, the circumstances in which they were acquired were so peculiar, and my ignorance is so complete upon the questions whether the famous pictures are still there and whether the Hall is ever open to visitors, that I am not in a position to say whether it is worth while to go 3-1/4 miles out of the way to it. It may be taken that it is, if it be possible only to see the park and the outside of the house; for the latter is by Inigo Jones, and vastly fine; and the park, containing a magnificent sheet of water famous for its pike, is delightful. Of the modern representatives of this ancient and once distinguished family it were unkind to speak. Some of the earlier stock were distinguished. One took a prominent part for the King in the Rebellion and in the Restoration. To another the famous Belisarius was given by Frederick the Great. A third introduced the turnip into Norfolk and was jested at by Pope; but Pope is not so quotable as a more enthusiastic and less known verse-maker of Norfolk:—

Thus Townshend gave the Master-Key
T' unlock the store of Husbandry;
Who, like Triptolemus of old,
From clods made rustics gather gold.
Friend patriarchal to our county!
Still, as we taste, we own thy bounty.

One of the great main roads of Norfolk starts from Cromer and runs through Sheringham and several other places to Elmham and East Dereham. Whether you start from Fakenham or Rainham you join it by a cross-road just north of Twyford, and a Norfolk main road is always worth joining, because it is so good to travel upon. To Elmham it is positively necessary to go. It was, in all probability, the seat of East Anglian bishops before they deserted it for Thetford, and then for Norwich; certainly they had their palace there, and the earthworks are the more rather than the less interesting in that they are, according to the authority more than once quoted, probably post-Roman. It is worth while to enter the church too, not merely to see the carved bench-heads, which are quite common in Norfolk, but because one of them, of a Roman in a helmet, is said to represent Pontius Pilate.

A short five miles takes us to East Dereham, and it has been described by a master's hand.

"I have already said that it was a beautiful little town—at least it was at the time of which I am speaking—what it is at present I know not, for thirty years and more have elapsed since I last trod its streets." (Of a truth it seems to have changed very little.) "It will scarcely have improved, for how would it be better than it then was? I love to think on thee, pretty quiet D–, thou pattern of an English country town, with thy clean but narrow streets branching out from thy modest market-place, with thine old-fashioned houses, with here and there a roof of venerable thatch, with thy one half-aristocratic mansion, where resided Lady Bountiful—she, the generous and kind, who loved to visit the sick, leaning on her gold-headed cane, whilst the sleek old footman walked at a respectful distance behind. Pretty quiet D–, with thy venerable church in which moulder the remains of England's sweetest and most pious bard."

The bard of course was Cowper, who lived at East Dereham in his affliction, died and was buried there. To be perfectly candid, it is in the nature of a relief to one who has found the works of Cowper, always excepting John Gilpin, sweet and pious, but also a trifle tiresome, to convert to his own use—the usual word for taking a loan is clearly barred—some panegyric of Cowper from George Borrow, who was unlike to Cowper as one man can be to another, and not from some more modern writer making a business of admiration. Borrow indeed proceeds in a tone of heartfelt sympathy which none of the professional eulogists can touch. "It was within thee that the long-oppressed bosom heaved its last sigh, and the crushed and gentle spirit escaped from a world in which it had known nought but sorrow. Sorrow! do I say? How faint a word to express the misery of that bruised reed; misery so dark that a blind worm like myself is occasionally tempted to exclaim, Better had the world never been created than that one so kind, so harmless, and so mild, should have undergone such intolerable woe! But it is over now, for, as there is an end of joy, so has affliction its termination. Doubtless the All-wise did not afflict him without a cause! Who knows but within that unhappy frame lurked vicious seeds which the sunbeams of joy and prosperity might have called into life and vigour? Perhaps the withering blasts of misery nipped that which otherwise might have terminated in fruit noxious and lamentable. But peace to the unhappy one, he is gone to his rest; the death-like face is no longer occasionally seen timidly and mournfully looking for a moment through the window-pane upon thy market-place, quiet and pretty D–; the hind in thy neighbourhood no longer at evening-fall views, and starts as he views, the dark lathy figure moving beneath the hazels and the elders of shadowy lanes, or by the side of murmuring trout-streams, and no longer at early dawn does the sexton of the old church reverently doff his hat, as, supported by some kind friend, the death-stricken creature totters along the church-path to that mouldering edifice with the low roof, enclosing a spring of sanatory waters, built and devoted to some saint, if the legend over the door be true, by the daughter of an East Anglian king."

Well, the daughter of the East Anglian king was Withburga, and the name of her father, who reigned in the seventh century, appears to have been Anna [sic]. She was a sister of St. Ethelreda too. But the pilgrimage to East Dereham is better worth taking for the love of George Borrow than for the sake of any saint, female or male, seventh or seventeenth century. George Borrow was assuredly no saint; but a wanderer, an adventurer, a wayward genius, a very human and fallible man, with "a true English heart," to quote Mr. Augustine Birrell. At East Dereham he was born, from East Dereham he drew Philo the clerk to the life, on the East Anglian heaths he met and studied the gipsies whom he knew as no other Englishman amongst us has ever known them. He belongs to East Dereham, he is its veritable vates sacer.

East Dereham is the intersecting point of two great roads, the one we came by, which goes on to Thetford and Bury, and the road crossing the county from Norwich to Lynn. That will give us a straight run home, for Lynn is home for the nonce, by way of Swaffham, where we must make a detour for Castle Acre. Swaffham itself is of little apparent interest, although its church is worth more than a passing glance, since it is a good type of Norfolk church, and can boast a double hammer-beam roof. But Swaffham interests me, and is likely to interest a good many other persons, in a connection with matters more mundane. So early as the first chapter, when we were passing near to another Swaffham—multiplicity of identical place-names exceeds the limits of convenience in East Anglia—a casual observation was made to another Swaffham, the one at which we now are, where George, Earl of Orford, founded the first coursing club ever started in England, and I thought as I wrote of an ancient MS. commonplace book in which a young Welsh parson, breeder of greyhounds and runner of them, commemorated the mighty achievements of greyhounds in East Anglia. Since then we have encountered George, Earl of Orford, have felt, perhaps, a little more sympathy with him than the world which knows him only as a seller of priceless pictures. Since then, too, I have laid my hand on the book, and in it is a long note headed, "October 1792. Swaffham Coursing Society. A cup value 25 guineas subscribed for in honour to the memory of the founder George, Earl of Orford, to be run for in November annually upon the following terms and conditions." To give these in full might try patience too hard, but the foundation of the cup in itself shows that the eccentric peer was not ill-liked in his county, and some of the rules are so quaint that the whole may be condensed. If entries are more than sixteen, or less than sixteen in number, they are to be reduced to sixteen or eight as the case may be, by lot. If "any of the matched dogs should be so disabled as to pay forfeit to his antagonist, that antagonist shall be deemed the winner of the heat in question, but the person paying forfeit shall produce another dog to run a course against him, which substituted dog shall have no chance for the cup even if he wins his heat. It is provided also that no owner may enter more than one dog, that entries shall be a guinea, and that each owner shall back his dog for a guinea in each heat." Venues are then laid down, Westacre for the first dog, Smeefield for the second, Narborough for the third, and Westacre for the final. The club, a later note informs us, was limited to the number of letters in the alphabet, applicants for vacancies as they occurred to be balloted for. It is interesting to think of the scenes on Westacre and the other manors, some certainly retaining their ancient names still, in 1792, when coursing, now fallen on evil days, was fashionable. To recall the names of those who were present is not possible, for 1792 was the date of the birth of the writer of the commonplace book, and his copy of the rules was apparently made in a mood of research into the antiquities of his favourite sport. But I find a list of "Coursers at Swaffham 1825," clearly showing by the letters appended to the names that the old limitation to the letters of the alphabet survived, and the names themselves may stir East Anglian memories. They are, "Mr. Keppel, K, Mr. Tysser (?) F, Mr. H. Hammond, Q, Mr. Gurney, A, Mr. Denn, D, Mr. Redhead, L, Mr. Ayton, P, Mr. Carter, G, Lord Dunwich, M, Lord Stradbroke, E, Mr. Buckworth, B, Mr. Young, V, Mr. Gurdon, S." Members of the Yorkshire, Wiltshire and Berkshire Coursing Clubs were also at liberty to enter for the Orford Cup.

From Swaffham we make a detour of 4-1/2 miles to Castleacre and to the mystery of earthworks. It is the last place we visit in East Anglia, and, having visited it, it will be just as well to return to the good high road for our return journey to Lynn. What one sees, after a drive across a gorse-clad common, is simple, what it means is another matter. One sees the ruins of the Priory, a great mound, and beyond it a village showing what has become of the ruins of the castle and the Priory. The story of the castle is easily traced with the help of Messrs. Timbs and Gunn. The site was granted by the Conqueror to William de Warrenne; he or his son built a castle, and it remained the property of the family until the fifteenth century. Edward I went there several times as a visitor, but early in the fourteenth century the castle was a ruin. Now we can see only two earthworks, one horseshoe-shaped, the other circular, a faint remnant of the great gateway, and bare traces of foundations of inner parts of the castle. "There is no doubt of the fortress having been erected by the Warrennes, but did they construct the enormous earthworks? Mr. Harrod considers they are not Norman, but Roman, the occupation of the site by the Romans being established, and Roman pottery and coins of Vespasian, Constantine, etc., having been found there. Evidence is then quoted to show that the walls and earthworks were the works of different people, and that the Normans availed themselves of these sites in consequence of their strength. 'And here,' says Mr. Harrod, 'we see the variety of interest afforded by the study of archæology. Here is a castle, of which all interesting architectural features have been destroyed. But probably from that very cause our attention is drawn to the remarkable character of the earthworks, and a view of this subject is presented to our notice, which may hereafter be of great use in the investigation of other remains of a similar kind.'"

"Murray," again, supports Mr. Harrod, adding on his own behalf "the position of Castle Acre, on the line of a very ancient road, known as the 'Peddar's Way,' must always have been one of very great importance." Of this argument we may dispose at once. It has been seen that, if the Peddar's Way was a military road, its importance was due only to the fact that it led to Brancaster, or towards Brancaster; Brancaster was a fortress and watch-tower, seawards against the Saxon pirates, and nothing more. Now let us apply the cold learning and scientific tests of Mr. Haverfield. "The imperfect rectangular earthwork between the church and the ruins of the Saxon and Norman castle has generally been taken to represent a Roman earthen camp of 10 or 12 or (according to others) 22 acres in size, and various finds of Roman objects have been adduced to support the idea. But the camp, so far as I can judge without excavation, is not definitely Roman in character, and hardly any of the objects seem to have been found in or near it." He then goes through the "finds" systematically, and concludes: "I cannot regard this meagre and scattered evidence as adequate to prove the camp Roman, still less to prove it Roman of the first century, as Mr. Fox suggests. It indicates at the utmost a cottage or two, standing perhaps by the Peddar's Way (which runs through Castleacre parish, and earthworks) somewhere about A.D. 300. This may very likely have been to the north of the parish and not in the vicinity of the 'camp.' In truth the best and best authenticated 'find,' an intaglio with an emperor's head, was made two miles north of the 'camp.'"

Where are we then? Merely in a state of knowing that, according to the best authority, there is no adequate evidence for believing the earthworks to be Roman. The problem presented by these earthworks and others is a legitimate subject for conjecture. Dr. Jessopp, in a paper on "The Saxon Burghs of Norfolk," appears to think that Castle Rising, Castleacre, Mileham, Elmham, and Norwich represent a line of Saxon fortresses, some of them occupying sites which were Roman before, erected to resist the Danes in the ninth century. The Roman hypothesis he would probably drop in the light of present knowledge, and, looking at the positions of these places on the map, it is not quite apparent, to say the least of it, why they should have been chosen for points of resistance to invaders from the sea. Were they, then, pre-Roman? That is possible; and it is quite consistent with the absence of Roman remains, for until the Saxon shore became a reality, the Romans had no occasion to fight in East Anglia after they had wiped the Iceni off the face of the earth, and so they had no need for fortresses in it. Or is it just conceivable that here, as has been suggested in the case of Castle Rising, the haughty Norman grandees compelled the subjugated country-folk, by scourge and every brutal method, to pile up these huge mounds?

We can never tell for certain unless the spade be set to work in earnest, perhaps not then even; but in the meanwhile, as we make the run of some twenty miles to Lynn, it is amusing, if somewhat unscientific, to speculate, nor is speculation any the less entertaining in that much of the basis upon which previous theories have rested has been proved to be unsound. Let us, then, think of these mysterious works as we roll home to Lynn; and, having reached it, we have also reached the end.