SHIPTON HALL

H

AVING heard of Shipton Hall as a house from which was lately sold a famous collection of ancestral furniture, armour, books, manuscripts,

silver, pewter, and other heirlooms, we went on pilgrimage one fine hot day, cycling from Shrewsbury, to find it. It is in Corvedale, on the road from Much Wenlock to Craven Arms and Ludlow. We went by Pitchford, Acton Burnell, and Easthope, for we had come that way from Easthope two years before, when we had found and photographed the ruined parliament house and castle at Acton Burnell. On that day we had travelled about twenty miles, unable to get our afternoon tea, and this day we seemed likely to fare as badly. By Kenley, Hughley, Easthope, and Brockton, we went over two edges that were edges indeed, and sharp edge up. It was impossible to ride up, and dangerous to ride down. Along the top of Wenlock Edge there is one of the most beautiful roads in the kingdom for scenery for many miles. Right and left are grand views over a country wild and fertile-primitive enough, yet teeming with tradition, history, and ancient halls. This journey we merely climbed up one side and down the other, hot and thirsty, longing to rest and enjoy ourselves, but not knowing where we should be before the long summer's day was done. At Brockton we found an inn, The Feathers, and plunged in. "Missus, how soon could you get us some tea?" "Yo' mun wait. Dunner yo'

see I'm gettin' th' men their baggin'," was the tart reply. The pay of these men would be about three halfpence

to twopence an hour, and a clodhopper was waiting with a mouth that could swallow potatoes whole. He reminded me of a long cadaverous yokel who would drink buttermilk and then swallow new potatoes, letting us hear them go splash into the buttermilk. That being one of the attractions of the once famous Wakes of Didsbury. At the sound of that woman's voice X bolted, going the wrong road in his hurry, while I had to whistle for him and wait.

We struggled on along the lonely road, for the afternoon was wearing, and the day was hot. Nearing Shipton, we met an old man and his daughter, with whom I stopped to have some talk.

"Is this Shipton Hall we are coming to, please?" "Yes,"

"Is it inhabited now?"

"Yes."

"We have come a long way to see and photograph it.'

"Oh!"

"Do you think we can get permission?"

"Um."

"Who has it now?

"Me."

"Oh! that's lucky.

photograph."

"What's your name?

Well, I hope you will let us

I told him, and for confirmation showed it painted on the Beeston Humber.

"What's his name?

I told him that also, and called to X, who had gone on, but who now returned to find an old customer, which is more profitable than a dead ancestor. As time was precious, I asked for the nearest inn, that tea might be ordered while X was photographing, and our retreat made good to a railway, but our new friend shortly said, "We'll find tea."

We were welcomed to a most charming old home. The hall stands back from the road, beyond several forecourts or small gardens, each one raised above the other up wide stone steps and balustrades; terraces filled with

fine old-fashioned flowers, mostly roses and lilies, with grey lichened stone walls and vases in between. The house is picturesquely built, with tower and broad projecting windows. Fir trees straggle up the hill behind, where the garden leads to a little time-worn church.

To the right are stables and coachhouses of stone