In all South England you may
find no greater glory than this, nor one more entirely our very own, at
least our own as we were but yesterday. It may be that such a place as
Romsey Abbey means nothing to us and can never mean anything again. But
I'll not believe it. For to think so is to despair of England, to
realise that England of my heart has really passed away.
There are two ways by which a man may go from Romsey, in the valley of
the Test to Winchester, in the valley of the Itchen. The more
beautiful, for it gives you, if you will, not only Otterbourne,
Shawford and Compton to the west of the stream, but Twyford to the
east, the Queen of Hampshire villages, is that which makes for the
Roman road between Winchester and Southampton, and following up the
valley of the Itchen enters Winchester at last, by the South Gate,
after passing St Cross in the meads. The shorter road, though far less
lovely, is in some ways the more interesting; for it passes Merdon
Castle and Hursley, where the son of Oliver Cromwell lies, and for this
cause I preferred it.
Merdon Castle, of which some few scanty ruins remain, was built by the
Bishop Henry of Blois about 1138, and no doubt it served its purpose in
the anarchy of Stephen's time, but thereafter it seems to have become
rather a palace than a fortress.
Pages:
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385