File:From Gretna Green to Land's End - a literary journey in England (1908) (14758709066).jpg

Identifier: fromgretnagreent00bate (find matches)
Title: From Gretna Green to Land's End : a literary journey in England
Year: 1908 (1900s)
Authors: Bates, Katharine Lee, 1859-1929
Subjects: England -- Description and travel
Publisher: London : Grant Richards
Contributing Library: University of California Libraries
Digitizing Sponsor: MSN

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Dunsmore Heath. My own private re-spect for horned beasts kept me from flip-pantly undervaluing this exploit. After otherdoughty deeds, giants, monsters, and Saracensfalling like ninepins before him, Guy returnedin the odour of sanctity from the Holy Land,but instead of going home to Warwick, wherehis fair countess was pining, he sought outthis cliff rising from the Avon and, in a con-venient cavity, established himself as a hermit.Every day he begged bread at the gate of hisown castle, and his wife, not recognising herdread lord in this meek anchorite, suppliedhis needs. Just before his end he sent her aring, and she, thus discovering the identity ofthe beggar, sped to the cave, arriving just intime to see him die. Other hermits succeededto his den, and in the reign of Henry VI,Richard Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick,founded a chantry there. Henry VIII madeshort work of that, and the romantic rockspassed from one owner to another, the presentmansion having been built above them in the 160
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THE HEART OF ENGLAND eighteenth century. Guys Cliff was termedby Leland a place delightful to the muses,and we were pleased to find it still enjoyedtheir favour. One of those supernaturallydignified old servitors who hang about tocatch the pennies struck an attitude on thebridge and, informing us that he was a poetand had had verses in print, recited withtouching earnestness the following effusion: *Ere yer can sit and rest a while.And watch the wild ducks dive in play, Listen to the cooin doveAnd the noisy jay,Watch the moorhen as she builds her rushy nestSwayin hupon the himmortal Havons eavin breast. Warwick, a wide-streeted, stately old town,with two of its mediaeval gates still standing,was familiar to us both. I had spent a weekhere, some years ago, and taken occasion,after inspecting the lions, to view the horses,for the autumn races chanced to be on. Iremember sitting, surprised at myself, on thegrand stand, in an atmosphere of tobaccosmoke and betting. The bookmakers stoodbel

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