A WANDER IN OLDE EDGEWARE

Evening Post, Volume CX, Issue 112, 8 November 1930, Page 11

A WANDER IN OLDE EDGEWARE

MEMORIES OF HANDEL AND DICK TORPIN

(Written for " The Post" by Valerie C. Corliss.)

LONDON, 4th October.

London is a most surprising place. I was told that if I liked to walk right up the Edgeware road from Marble Arch—just on and on past all the glittering shops, cafes, and crowds, the flats of Maida Vale,, the tree-bordered canal which winds its way to Manchester, and the old Welsh' Harp at Hendon —I would eventually, without having to.'turn a eornor, step right into the arms, so to speak, of Handel and Dick Turpin. I did. That is to say, I took a metro, from Goldcr's Green and in fifteen minutes found myself wandering amidst yo olde streets, inns, and cobbled courtyards of tho village of Edgeware, where sure enough I brushed shoulders with strangely thrilling—if ill-assorted—ghosts, and peeped into odd corners haunted by romantic memories. ... It was difficult to believe that I was only eleven miles away from Marble Arch as I stood in the rural churchyard of old Whitchurch in Edgeware, gazing at the inscription on the actual tombstone of Handel's Harmonious Blacksmith:-"- ' In . memory, of William Powell, - Tlio Harmonious Blacksmith, Who was buried 27th I'ebruary, 1780, jiged 78 years. He was parish clerk durlue tho time ' The Immortal Handel Was orgauist ol" this church .. . Carved above tile inscription is the emblematic hammer and anvil, a laurel spray, and two notes of Jnusic. Overhead towered a lovely copper beech. The grave was sweet with wallflowers. Near by stood a glorious spreading chestnut tree—a gracious reminder of another Village Blacksmith whom the pe.n has immortalised. After a littlo conversation with the verger I found myself seated on Han- • dol's organ stool, in front of tho old yellow keyboard which had responded to his fingers over two hundred years ago. Some of the' old pipes are still existent in Uvo of the stops of the present enlarged organ, which is played from a keyboard in another part of the church. Above my head, a little brass tablet stated that from 1718-1721 Handel was organist of this church and composed the oratorio "Esther" on this organ. As I sat on tho old wooden stool indulging in a little hommago a Handel, there came a whisper in my car: "I'm" sorry, Miss, but I 'as a wedain' in two minutes." I fled into the churchyard, wandered past an old tombstone decorated With a skull and crossbones, pick and spade, and then suddenly caught sight of tho words "Now Zealand." How small is the world and how surprising the ways of Londonl For this is what I read: .In. memory of Giles.Coats of Canterbury,* New Zealand/ Who diod 11th day nf January, 18G8. A few days after his return to his native country. . . . Handel, the Harmonious Blacksmith, a spreading chestnut tree, and Giles Coats of Canterbury .... A stir at the gates—the vergor's wedding had arrived. . . • ; HANDEL'S SMITHY. - It was a hot, thundery morning. I ■wandered into Watling street, past the low doorways of ancient houses until I came to a pause before the door of p quaint littlo building standing quite alone in the middle of the broad walk. Two trees grow in twin, tubs on either side of the doorway. Latticed windows, oak beams, ancient wood, and the overhanging sign, would have lured the least romantically minded to lay_ a hand' upon its knocker. For the sign bore a golden hammer and anvil, the first and last four, notes of Handel's immortal tune, and. two simple .words: "Handel's Smithy." I walked in. Handel's Smithy, at the present stage of its career, harbours nothing more exciting than a coal merchant's office. But it is not so mundane as it seems. I found, upon interviewing the courteous clerk and his engaging office boy that the aim of the "house" is to keep alive tho historical atmosphero of the old smithy, offer it as a littlo haven of rest for tired wanderers, and a place of interest for seekers into the past. Out again and away up Watling street towards the gates of Canons Park, where, in the 16th century, the Duke of Buckingham and Chandos" lived iv "royal pomp," with Handel as master of his music. Many enchanting things came to my mind as I walked along —the Rornau military road, rich in relics, buried 20ft or so immediately beneath me—the garden nearby belonging ion man wise in Homan ways and about ■io excavate, with other learned archaeologists, below his cabbages and his radishes "to soe if he could find auy--Ilting"j that old Abbot of St. Albans who refused to a,llow William, the Conqueror to march to London via this yery road; the old pilgrims plodding on their way along-here from Westminster to the Shrine of St. Albans, refreshed after their stop for food at a spot in Piper's Green Lane; the astute lord of the ancient manor of Edgeware who pi/ridcd a minstrel to play to his tenants during their work. . . . Canon's Park loomed vast and forbidding in the suddenly darkening air, so I walked on, thinking of the Pilgrims' refreshment and quite unexpectedly came upon a quaint little corner beside ■an old white gateway. There were trees, there was a profusion of ivy, a green table and chair, and a coycred stall filled with many cool Stone bottles of ginger-beer. A woman waited upon me—none other, I diseov-' ered, than the owner of the historic Dower House of Canon's Park. It lay beyond the old white gateposts. Three minutes, and I was in the drawingl'oom, where Handel used to play to liia court, over two hundred years ago. .Tt was so'easy to imagine warm, summer nights in 1720,' Handel's music floating, out into the scented garden ... or a wirgter evening, fires in the old drawing-room, the curtains drawn, Handel playing, blissfully unaware of a gentleman of the King's Highway Blattering up the road to the scene of liis nefarious deeds. And that remind-ed-me of a certain Mr. Stouebridgo who owjied a' house that was once an old .wayside tavern. .HAUNTS OF TURPIN. I stepped from. Watling street into an ancient room with a low ceiling and creamy walls—all heavily beamed— secretive .latticed windows, a narrow old staircase, and. a brick fireplace of cavernous proportions. Here one imagines blustery nights and Dick Turpin giving a "rap upon the shutters." First he. would visit his secret hidingplace in the wall behind the chimney cornerj and then he would take his case before the fire—this "tall, lean fellow with the' high, broad cheek bones. . . and a face heavily pitted with smallpox." Mr. Stonebridge is an undertaker. JA.' notice on tho ancient door presents with simple brevity the word "Funerals." But Mr. Stonebridge jvvas out. His daughter entertained me. The " Sawyers Inn" had jgiveii' them some pleasant surprises in its, time. Ten years ago, Mr. Stonebridge, realising that his place looked "nothing short of a wreck, and desiring to create an atmosphere in keeping 'with its traditions, decided to put up teqme beams and name the insult of his efforts, "Yo OJde pake House." And £^5» one day he had an inspiration:.

"Let'p take all this rotten old plnstery stuff of£ first and see what's underneath." And lo!. there was revealed unto them a perfect specimen, of an oak-beamed, creamy-walled house They discovered, too, that all those ..beams must have hailed" originally from ancient ships, and that each one_ has a different number carved upon it. . . LITTLE CHANGE. A storm was brewing so I hurried down Watling street in search of fresh .adventures. Breathless, I reached the famous "Chandos Arms," where Dick Turpin's room still exists in its original state. The Chandos Arms is owned by a motor-eoaeli proprietor. The old cobbled courtyard which onco sheltered the stage coaches, has changed very little during the centuries. The rain was coming down in torrents. I must see that room—"not being shown to the public now," so I strode with the courage of Dick himself into the "tap-room." A woman came, to ask mo, quite smilingly, what I wanted. I told her. It is amazing how a human countenance can change. I wheedled, coaxed, pleaded, and in the end, after a protracted struggle, and with the water running off me on to the floor in little pools, I won the day. "I'll show you all over the inn," she decided suddonly. "A great place it must have been in- the days of those old stage-coaches, and the ostlers, and the highwaymen, and all o' them. It was all forest near here, you know, and Edgewaro was the first halt on the road north from London" . . . First, the old dart room and the very spot on the. floor wlvere tho darts used once'to fall. Then the dim old kitchen —everything that an historical inn's kitchen ought to be, from the huge cooking stove and the uneven floor to the crooked ceilings, crooked beams, crooked benches, crooked "windows, and crooked curtains. We groped our way to the stairs. My hostess's conversation was punctuated regularly with: "Mind your head," "Mind that step," "Mind the drips," for the house was surely built on bumps and the rain filtered through, holes in the roof. Lightning jagged through the mullioned windows, revealing with an uncanny flare dark old corners and unexpected steps leading to fartive doors. At the top of a dark flight of stairs my hostess scared me horribly by banging suddenly on the wa.ll with both fists. "There is an old secret room in there—goodness knows what it was used for . ... something gruesome, I expect. ■ No windows and black as pitch. Wo discovered it ourselves one day—in a thunderstorm, too, it* was—• while we wore showing some friends, who were taking shelter hero, over the house. My husband happened to stumble in the dark, thought the wall had a hollow sound, got an axe,-and found this. And the tenant before us had this place for thirty years and never guessed it was there." LITTLE EXCITEMENT. ,We were standing silent in a big room upstairs, And I was studying the faded Latin inscription and worn lion and unicorn of the Chandos Arms over the great fireplace, whon all of a sudden two dogs who were accompanying us began to growl, and then to snarl ferociously. We made for the door. I looked.round to see if a ghost was following me, and realised suddenly that both,, dogs were staring up at a dark corner near the ceiling. Tlic woman said:v??Of course, there's an old deer's head up there!'' We lit a match, and sure enough there it was—a huge shaggy, head, with soaring antlers. But we'd had our thrill ... and I am sure1 there was a ghost there, too, in that dark corner: "Now you'll have to stoop right down to get through this door." ... .1 gazed round, a small room above the gateway. - "This is what you wanted to see.",The light struggled through a tiny mullioned window, revealing eutlesses, pistols, and all manner of strange weapons upon tho walls. Another dwarf door: communicated with a room so low that it would be impossible for a tall man to stand fully upright in. it, I- went over to the casement window, leaned out, looked down upon the courtyard and stables, and whistled with what I hoped was a good imitation of Dick Turpin's signal for Black Bess. ... "Mind the .stairs" ... I groped my way down a secretive staircase from Dick's room, feeling the wall with my hand. "Many's the time he's crept down here and away on a dark night," said- my hostess in a stage whisper. When I left the Chaudos Arms the rain was coming down in sheets. Soaked to the knees, I was- beginning to contemplate a watery cud when I espied-the undertaker observing me speculativcly from tho doorway of To Olde Oako House, reeling that he was a fitting'person to meet, I gravitated, or, rather, navigated, towards him. "Are you the young lady from New Zealand who was in this morning? Come right in and my daughter will look after you." I was shown into an old back parlour, where a suspicious parrot and a round-eyed child kept me company. A freshly-brewed pot of tea and homemade cake was brought for comfort. And then, miraculously, with the rcappearanco of dry shoes and stockings, the. sun struggled through the clouds, the parrot made an unintelligible remark, the child took her finger from her mouth and blinked, and I, eventually, stepped clear of the buckets in tho passago (yes, here also) and took to the road once again.