A Holiday Resort - Whaley Bridge and Taxal


 The following article is transcribed from The Manchester Times of 3rd June 1892. Accompanying llustrations were by the house artist.

 Whoever has read Mrs Linnaeus Banks's entertaining story, "The Manchester Man", will remember her pleasant description of Whaley Bridge and the country around it; of Mr. Ashton's "watermill on the picturesque banks of the River Goyt"; of Carr Cottage, with its widespread flower garden; the little inn by the bridge - The White Hart - where the Buxton coaches stopped; and last, but not least, "the fine old farmhouse which crowned the elevated ridge of Yeardsley-cum-Whaley, lang-syne the Gothic stone Hall of the warlike Yeardsleys". Whaley, with the adjoining hamlet of Taxal, is a centre of scenic beauty, and well illustrates the rich and varied character of the scenery of the Cheshire and Derbyshire uplands. For a summer ramble it is easy of access, and may be reached by rail in something less than three-quarters of an hour.


  Thither on one of the closing days of the "merry month" we bent our way. There had been a fall of rain overnight that had drenched the ground, but the gentle breeze which followed had partially dried up the pavement and given an invigorating freshness to the atmosphere; the morning was dull and cloudy, but as the day wore on the sun shone out in occasional gleams, dappling the greensward with fitful and ever-changing patches of light, and imparting new beauty to the woods and plantations that have now well-nigh attained the fullness of their leafy honours.

  Taking the train from London Road we are quickly carried across the mazy labyrinth of housetops and mill roofs, and speeding through the more open country; a brief stoppage at Stockport, and again we are rolling along; Hazel Grove, which our less fastidious grand-fathers were content to call Bullock Smithy, is passed, then the moorlands around Glossop come into view; Marple Church shows upon the high ground upon the left, and behind it we see the blue outline of Kinder Scout and the hills of the Peak country; the bit of woodland that rises above the brook on the right marks the north-eastern limit of Poynton Park; at Middlewood we pass under the Bollington and Marple line and a minute or two later reach Disley, where a number of people get out apparently bent on a pleasure excursion to Lyme Park and the old ancestral home of the Leghs. Disley Church crowns the hill on the right; opposite New Mills the line runs parallel with the canal and the Goyt. Beard Hall, an ancient dwelling place, now occupied as a farmhouse stands on the slope of Brown Hill, across the valley, and presently we steam into the Furness Vale Station.

  For our purpose Furness Vale is a more convenient point of departure than Whaley Bridge, which is a little more than a mile further on. Yeardsley first demands our attention, and to reach the "Gothic stone Hall of the warlike Yeardsleys" we cross the highway and follow a rough and rutty by-road that leads up towards the lofty ridge of Whaley Moor, pausing now and then to note the wild flowers that are coming into bloom along the hedge bank; a few red-campions are out, and the stitchwort shows its starlike blossoms, while here and there the wild hyacinth tinges the bank with blue. But the hawthorn has not yet put forth its fragrant blossoms. Turning through a gate on the right we come to the hall. It is an ancient stone building of considerable strength and solidity, apparently of the late Carolinian period, and doubtless occupies the site of a much earlier mansion. A large portion of the hall was pulled down a century ago, but sufficient remains to show the general architectural features, though in the internal arrangement there have been many and successive alterations. The windows are for the most part square, with stone mullions; the roofs are gabled and covered with massive stone slabs, technically known as "grey-slates" and the massive chimneys that rise above are set lozenge ways. Some of the old ornamental down-spouts remain, one of which bears the date 1704, and another the initials E.J.E.' apparently those of Edmund Jodrell, who died in 1713, and his wife Elizabeth, daughter of Sir Francis Burdett, of Foremark, Derbyshire, who died in 1707. Our request to see the inside of the Hall was courteously responded to by Mrs. Lomas, who showed us whatever there is of interest.  The old heavy oaken door remains, and the interior is still some ancient timber work, while the old-fashioned ingle-nook of capacious width with an elaborately carved mantle, though fitted with a modern stove, is well worth of inspection. In the passage in rear some corbelling is seen, apparently intended to carry the chimney, which is somewhat curious. In the garden, formerly covered by a portion of the mansion, a small stone coffin, we were told, was turned up some time ago, in which were found human remains, though, there was no inscription or anything by which they could be identified; but we were confidently assured that the ghost of the owner had not visited or in any way disturbed the peace of the present occupants of the hall as a consequence.
Though Yeardsley may not improbably in the remote past have given name to a family, there is certainly no evidence of any "warlike Yeardsleys" ever residing here. Be that as it may, the place has since the days of Edward III, been the property of the Jodrells, who branched off from a family of that name located in the Glossop Valley, in Derbyshire, of whom was William Jodrell, who served with the Black prince in the wars in France, and was present in the victory of Poitiers; he had a son, roger Jodrell, of Yeardsley-cum-Whaley, who inherited the warlike spirit of his father, was esquire to the body of Richard II, served in the several expeditions against the Scotch, the Welsh, and the Irish, and fought at Agincourt. In hid direct descendants the property remained until the death of Francis Jodrell without male issue in 1756 when the elder of his two daughters and co-heirs, Frances, carried it to her husband John Bower of Manchester, who assumed the name of Jodrell, and it is now the property of Captain Cotton-Jodrell, M.P. for the Wirral division of Cheshire.

  From Yeardsley a short path across the field brings us to the gritstone quarries, and on to the Buxton Road, along which we journey for a brief distance, the road, the river, the rail and the canal here keeping in close companionship. This road is not without its tale of horror, for, as the villagers tell, at a spot called Longside, in a hollow in the way between Disley and Whaley Bridge, and now marked by a stone, one William Wood, a silk weaver of Eyam in Derbyshire, returning from Manchester, where he had disposed of the products of his looms, was waylaid in July, 1823 and barbarously murdered. The story is that, while resting at the Ram's Head at Disley, he had imprudently spoke of his success and mentioned that he had a considerable sum of money in his possession, and that, after leaving, he was followed, and in this lonely spot was robbed and murdered, his body being found the next morning. On the opposite side of the Goyt is Bottoms, or Bothoms Hall, that at one time belonged to the family of Downes, but in the later years of Elizabeth’s reign was carried in marriage to John Legh, a grandson of Piers Legh, of Lyme; near to, and also on the Derbyshire side of the river, is Bugsworth, with Cracken Edge and Chinley Churn, the latter towering to a height of 1,493 feet, and overlooking the smoking limekilns.

   Whaley Bridge which is distant about a mile and a half from Yeardsley, has become quite a busy little village with a goodly number of shops and several inns. A stone bridge carries the Manchester and Buxton road across the Goyt, but the old bridge from which the name of the village is actually derived is a little lower down the stream. Before the opening of the London and North-Western Company’s line to Buxton, Whaley was the terminus of the railway, the journey hence having to be made by coach, and the open space in front of the Jodrell Arms, where in those days the coaches waited the arrival of the trains, was oftentimes a scene of bustling activity.
Turning sharp to he right between the Jodrell Arms and the Railway Inn, we pass under the line and continue along an ascending path until we reach the Reservoir, an artificial lake a mile or so in length, formed by damming up the narrow opening at the end of the valley, where a little stream that comes down from the moors about Kettleshulme and Jenkin Chapel finds its way into the Goyt, and so forms one of the chief features of the Peak Forest Canal. It was Brindley, the famous engineer of the Bridgewater Canal, if we remember rightly, who when asked for what purpose rivers were made, laconically answered, "to feed canals", and that idea was evidently in the minds of those who constructed this artificial sheet of water. But utilitarian as their purpose might have been, their work has added immensely to the beauty of the locality, for the reservoir has all the appearance of a natural lake or mere, the water, except at the dam, being allowed to shape its own coastline, which has all the picturesque inlets and bays and inequalities of a natural shore. The hills surrounding it are clothed with plantations to their very summits. Mr. Bower-Jodrell, who acquired the property by his marriage with the heiress of the Jodrells, and who built Taxal Lodge, having spent large sums of money in planting the ground contiguous to his house and several of the neighbouring moors. This sweet cup in the hills is comparatively little known to Manchester people, who usually follow the beaten track of sightseers, but it offers great attractions to those in search of health and pleasure. The reservoir is well stocked with fish, and here not unfrequently-
  The skilful angler opes his store
    (paste, worms, or flies his hook sustains),
  And quickly spreads the grassy shore
   With shining spoils that crown his pains,

 While, if fortunate enough to obtain permission to use one of the pleasure boats on the water, an enjoyable afternoon may be spent by those who care to-
  Dip the smooth oar, and bid the light boat glide.
The woods mantling the slopes of Whaley Moor are now in the fullness of their summer verdure, and display a thousand tints of green and yellow, and the tall spines of the larches show with distinct vividness against the sombre coloured yews and fir trees intermingled with them; the breeze that lately frolicked through the trees has died away, and now a soft aerial haze spreads itself over the landscape and softens into beauty every object. In the wood at the bottom we can hear the cuckoo's dreamy and mysterious call, reminding us of Wordsworth's lines-
  O cuckoo! shall I call thee bird,
  Or but a wandering voice?-
  Still longed for, never seen.

  How calm and still the water spreads out before us; there is scarcely a ripple to disturb the glassy surface; every object is reflected with distinctness upon its ample bosom - the mazy outline of the trees, the fringe of hazel bushes, the grassy knolls, the deep blue above, flecked with a few fleecy clouds, and-
  The shadow of a lark
  Hung in the shadow of a heaven.

  At the further end of the lake a stream of water comes down from the higher ground, making innumerable falls on its way, and looking in the distance like a line of liquid silver. The walk may be continued along the Northern bank to the grit-stone quarries, and then round by Gap House, but the shorter way to Taxal, and the one from which the best views of the lake are obtained, is to cross the little footbridge by the cottage at the embankment and turn off on the left at Reddish Farm, a picturesque old-fashioned gabled house with heavy mullioned windows; then continue along a field path, and through a stile, which brings you on to the highway tat comes down from Kettleshulme; crossing this and passing through a stile directly opposite, a footpath leads along the edge of a plantation, trough the openings in which we get some lovely views of the valley through which the Goyt courses its way from Axe Edge,  and of the ridge of hills that separates us from Combs Moss and the Buxton Moors. The leafy shade is a pleasant change from the warm sunshine without, for here we seem to be-
 Immantled in ambrosial dark,
 To drink the cooler air, and mark
 The landscape winking through the heat.

   As we saunter through the verdant gloom the sunlight now and then steals through the trembling canopy of foliage, and streaks the pathway with golden touches. Presently we come to the road again and a minute or two later enter Taxal.
 What a delightfully secluded spot - an ideal hamlet among the hills that is alone worth a pilgrimage. It lies in a deep sequestered vale, peaceful and serene, and completely shut off from the noise and worry of the busy outer world. The Royal Oak, by the way, lays itself out for the entertainment of visitors, and every accommodation is provided. An unpretentious little church with an old tower and a nave of much later date stands on the green shelving slope below, itself overshadowed on the south side by a fine old spreading yew tree of many centuries' growth, near which is an old sun dial, with the date and initials 1703, A.B.E.L. Down in the bottom the Goyt, here but a mere rivulet, sings its never-ending song of gladness as it courses its way through the wooded shade, whilst to the east and north the ground rises into a range of rocky hills covered in the more sheltered parts with plantations of larch and fir and oak and ash. The ash trees are still bare of leaf, but the oaks are putting on their bright green garniture, reminding us that the 29th is at hand, so that if there is any truth in the old adage, as the knowing ones assure us there is, we may look forward to a dry season, for-
  If oak be green before the ash,
  We shall only have a splash;
  But if the ash precede the oak,
  We shall surely have a soak.

  By the way, why will people persist in telling us that Charles hid in the oak on the 29th May? Surely the school board should have exploded that "popular error" ere this.  It was while fleeing from the fatal field at Worcester; the battle was fought on the 3rd September, 1651, and it was shortly after that that the fugitive concealed himself in the thick leafage of the giant oak at Boscobel, that-
  Wherein the younger Charles abode
  Till all the paths were dim,
   And far below the Roundhead rode,
  Ad humm'd a surly hymn.

  Taxal is a curious old-world place, with some curious old-world traditions attaching to it. In its primitive state it was wild and open moorland; afterwards it formed part of the great forest of Macclesfield, and in the time of Edward I was held by free forestry by the family of Downes, the chiefs of which were sub-foresters under the Davenports, whose duties and privileges we described in our account of Capesthorne a week ago, and it was in allusion to their office that they bore for arms a white hart upon their shield and a stag's head as a crest upon their helmet.
From the depositions of some old persons taken in 1720, it appears that they held the manor by the service of blowing a horn at midsummer day on the high rock near Taxal, called Windgather, which is marked on the Ordnance map and is situated a mile or so from the church; and there was a tradition that the lord of the manor was to hold the King's stirrup and rouse the stag when he should come to hunt in Macclefield Forest. There is abundant evidence that the forestership was appendant to the manor, but there is no authoritative record of the manor being held by the special services we have mentioned. The old residence of the Downes was Overton Hall, within a short distance of Windgather Rock, but this mansion was taken down about the beginning of the present century, when Mr Bower Jodrell erected a stately house called Taxal Lodge upon the site; but this was also taken down in 1835.

  Taxal at one time formed an integral part of the great parish of Prestbury, but in 1377 John Shallcross, then the incumbent, had conceded to him the right of burying the people of his own district, and to receive the mortuaries and obligations which had previously been paid to Prestbury, and thus the place became a separate parish. No part of the original church exists; the oldest portion of the present fabric is the tower, which apparently dates from the sixteenth century, but the nave and chancel, which are very plain, were built so recently as 1825. There is little or nothing of interest in the interior beyond a few monumental inscriptions to members of the Jodrell and other local families; outside under an arched canopy, is a monumental slab with an inscription to the memory of members of the family of Shallcross of Shallcross, an ancient mansion on the Derbyshire side of the Goyt.


  After a brief rest in this secluded nook, we go round by the western front of the church, and, turning sharp to the left, descend by a steep lane to the bottom of the dell; then crossing the Goyt by a little footbridge formed of two balks of timber with a protecting handrail on each side, follow a winding path through the fields that presently brings us on to the Buxton Road; then keeping the river on the left, and passing the bleachworks, we come in a few minutes to Carr Cottage, standing close by the Cromford and High Peak Railway - a picturesque dwelling place that our artist has here depicted, and which Mrs Banks has invested with a special interest as the supposed country retreat of Mr.Ashton who figures so prominently in her "Manchester Man". It is a "rough-cast" building as she describes it, with its flower garden in front and overshadowed by tall trees, but it can hardly be said to be "nestling under the shadow" of Yeardsley Hall, for that ancient home is a good two miles away. The house now belongs to Colonel Ralph Hall of Whaley Bridge and Manchester.

  Half a mile brings us to Whaley. The White Hart, where of yore the Buxton Coaches stopped, stands close by the bridge on the Derbyshire side. The hanging sign, which, by the way, is the arms of the Downs's of Taxal is a temptation; we have altogether had some eight or nine miles' walk and as the exercise and fresh air have sharpened our appetites we are nothing loth to accept the hospitalities Mr. Waterhouse offers. The house is an old-fashioned building that has evidently been "taken in in numbers" and stands partly in Derbyshire and partly in Cheshire. The river and the road, our host informs us, have at some time been turned, and from the windows in the rear we can see the old bridge over which the high road was formerly carried, with what is said to have been Mr. Ashton's water mill standing close by. Whaley itself is a pleasant rural village, although it is not altogether free from the pollutions caused by mills and mining. Near the entrance to the place is a tall chimney shaft; the buildings that environed it have been lately pulled down, but, we are told, extensive works are about to be erected on the site for the Radcliffe Printing Company, so that the "spirit of pelf", as a descriptive writer puts it, is being pitted against the picturesque, and ere long the prattling Goyt may find the purity of its young life fevered by the pollutions that emanate from the works upon its banks. It would be pleasant to linger here and ruralise, but our train is nearly due, so we hasten towards the station, and in a few minutes we are being whirled through the green country, with a succession of pictures photographed upon the mind that will call up many a pleasant memory in the days to come.

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