Retracing our steps through deep and shady lanes, anon across
meadows sweet-scented with clover, where the invisible corncrake
reiterates its rasping cry, we shape our course through the little hamlet
of Munsley, near to the weed-grown channel of the now disused
Hereford and Gloucester canal; and diverge from our course down a rough
and barely distinguishable bye-lane, which brings us to Fern Farm, a remote
and picturesque old homestead lying on the road to nowhere; whose deep-browed
roofs, ancient weather-stained timbers, ivy-clad gables and pigeon-cot improvised
from a disused barrel, form a ‘bit’ to make glad
the heart of the sketcher.
Approaching Bosbury, we pass at Upleadon the site of one of the
four Preceptories of Knights Templars in this county, the others being
at Dinmore, Harewood and Garway. The now secluded village of
Bosbury is a place of great antiquity, for ‘ Bosbury was a town before
Hereford was a city,’ says the local tradition, which has probably a
foundation of truth in it. We fmd the place mentioned in records as
early as the ninth century, and it appears to have been a favourite
residence of the Bishops of Hereford from the earliest times, an ancient
MS. recording that they ‘held their state here, and dwelt in a fayre
palace in the time of King Offa.’ That learned antiquary Rev. John
Webb thus writes of Bosbury: ‘Seated in a deep but fertile country,
this manor seems, from the use that was made of it, to have had its
attractions and peculiar advantages, and to have been much resorted
to by the occupants of the see. Everything upon the establishment
was well cared for and provided at Bosbury.’
Slight remnants of the once ‘fayre palace’ may be traced in two
sharply-pointed stone arches and inner wooden arch of the Gate-house,
and the oak roof of the refectory now in the adjoining farmhouse.
There stood till recently an ancient dovecot, probably at least as old
as the thirteenth century, which was unhappily destroyed a few years
ago, thus leaving another gap in the record of these curious, fast-
disappearing relics of mediaeval times. The fine old church has a
massive detached tower, standing a considerable distance from the
edifice, a large half-timbered porch having the Norman pillar inside
curiously cutaway to make room for the holy-water stoup; and the
ancient churchyard cross, spared by the Covenanters upon the rector
undertaking to place upon it the words, ‘Honor not the >|<, but
honor God for Christ,’ which may still, though not without difficulty,
be deciphered. Inside the church we are attracted by several notable
features; the pretty chapel erected by Sir Rowland Moreton to the
memory of his wife, with quaint rebus, M on a tun, carved on the
bosses; the graceful rood-screen with fan-tracery; recumbent effigies
of the Harford family in the chancel; and, lastly, a very ancient font,
probably of the eighth or ninth century, which was found beneath the
pavement during some alterations.
The long village street, though retaining no features suggestive
of its former dignity, makes a pretty picture with the homely gables
of these ‘abodes of ancient peace’ looking out upon the tree-begirt
churchyard over the way, where the sturdy tower is reputed to have
been used as a place of refuge in the troublous days of old. Quite at
the far end, scarce visible in our sketch, stands the wayside inn, con-
taining, in a fine old wainscoted hall known as the Crown Room,
some traces of the ancient mansion of the Harford family, whose
monuments we have already discovered in the church. This fine
apartment is of considerable size, with wide stone-mullioned window.
The fireplace is surrounded with old blue Dutch tiles, and over it, in
handsomely-carved panels, appear the arms of the families of Wrottes-
ley, Scrope and Fox, and the date 1571. A frieze of delicate carving
runs around, and at the crossing of the massive beams in the ceiling
three bosses show respectively the bearings of Bishop Skipp, the arms
of Scrope, and of Powlett first Marquis of Westminster, having the
garter and coronet.
A southerly course adown the vale of the diminutive Leadon River
takes us through a country familiar in childhood to Elizabeth Barrett
Browning .....