Woolbope Naturalists’ Field Club. 
May 25rH, 1882. 
THE true lover of Nature will woo her in every mood and phase, so it was a 
just instinct that selected for the first field meeting of the present season a wet 
Thursday in May—and, when, on the morning of the 25th the soft whisper of the 
falling rain and the measured drip from the eaves were punctually heard on turf, 
and tree, and balcony (what time the intending holiday-maker, losing heart and 
hope, turns off to sulky sleep), our naturalists, welcoming the music, sprang up as 
to the early bugle call. 
It was a joint meeting of the Woolhope and the Malvern Naturalists’ Field 
Clubs, in the Golden Valley, which, by its new railway, has but recently been 
made easy of access, and the following members and visitors left the Barr’s Court 
Station by the 9-40 train for Pontrilas, or else joined the party later in the day :— 
Mr. Thomas Blashill, president of the Woolbope Club; Mr. G. H. Piper, 
President of the Malvern Club; the Rev. J. D. la Touche, President of the 
Caradoc Club, with four friends; Revs. Sir G. Cornewall, A. W. Horton, 
C. Burrough, R. H. Warner, R. H. Williams, W. Jellicorse, A. Ley, F. S. Stooke- 
Vaughan, G. M. Metcalfe, W. Bowell, J. Barker, G. M. Custance and friend, A. G. 
Jones, D. Price and C. Bannister, Dr. Bull, and Messrs. J. Riley, J. Tom 
Burgess, H. Vevers, H. H. Wood, J. Carless, H. C. Moore, J. W. Lloyd, 
C. Fortey, — Hall, O. E. Creswell, A. Purchas, John Lambe, W. D. Robotham, 
H. Haywood (Moccas), J. S. Haywood, T. Salwey, Edwin Lees, J. J. Reynolds, 
Edward Goodwin, F. R. Kempson, Bernard Denadine, — Dawson, E. A. 
Taunton, Mr. Borton (of Christchurch, New Zealand), and Mr. Theo. Lane 
(Secretary). 
You enter the district of Pontrilas, and the train, first winding round a 
wooded hill, takes a pretty straight course for some ten miles, to its termination 
near the head of the valley at Dorstone. It is a district enclosed between two 
ranges of somewhat bold hills, broken up by lateral valleys. A good breadth 
of tillage land slopes down from the woods to the bottom of the Golden Valley, 
where flat meadows extend in breadth for half a mile or more. Here, the river 
Dore, alive with lusty trout, winds and rushes, and sometimes even falls in its 
haste to join the Monnow, below Pontrilas. Now we can gain some notion of the 
day’s business. Now Dore Abbey, mutilated indeed, but still massive, looms out 
in sombre gray, amidst the gladsome greenery of the drenched trees. Yonder is 
the ivy-mantled Tower of Bacton, where Blanche Parry, done in alabaster, stands 
