﻿THROUGH 
  THE 
  HEART 
  OF 
  ENGLAND 
  IN 
  A 
  CANOE 
  

  

  493 
  

  

  appreciating 
  the 
  stored 
  riches 
  of 
  the 
  ages. 
  

   In 
  this 
  bustling 
  20th 
  century 
  it 
  is 
  a 
  relief 
  

   to 
  come 
  to 
  the 
  gray 
  old 
  city 
  and 
  rest 
  

   awhile 
  among 
  its 
  dreaming 
  spires. 
  

  

  where 
  Oxford's 
  bumping 
  races 
  are 
  

  

  HELD 
  

  

  From 
  Oxford 
  the 
  river 
  runs 
  to 
  Iffley, 
  a 
  

   little 
  village 
  two 
  miles 
  below. 
  This 
  stretch 
  

   is 
  the 
  scene 
  of 
  the 
  College 
  bumping 
  

   races 
  — 
  the 
  Torpids 
  in 
  the 
  Lent 
  term 
  and 
  

   the 
  Eights 
  in 
  the 
  summer 
  term. 
  Both 
  are 
  

   eight-oared 
  races, 
  extending 
  over 
  a 
  week, 
  

   the 
  boats 
  starting 
  in 
  a 
  line-ahead 
  forma- 
  

   tion, 
  150 
  feet 
  apart. 
  

  

  In 
  both 
  sets 
  of 
  races 
  the 
  principle 
  is 
  

   that 
  each 
  boat 
  endeavors 
  to 
  overtake 
  and 
  

   touch 
  the 
  one 
  in 
  front, 
  and 
  if 
  successful 
  

   takes 
  its 
  place 
  on 
  the 
  succeeding 
  day. 
  

   Few 
  sights 
  are 
  more 
  beautiful 
  than 
  this 
  — 
  

   the 
  crowd 
  of 
  undergraduates 
  running 
  on 
  

   the 
  tow-path, 
  the 
  long 
  string 
  of 
  racing 
  

   boats, 
  and 
  the 
  line 
  of 
  boats 
  and 
  barges 
  

   crowded 
  with 
  bright 
  blazers 
  and 
  pretty 
  

   dresses. 
  

  

  Iffley 
  Mill 
  is 
  probably 
  the 
  most 
  photo- 
  

   graphed 
  place 
  on 
  the 
  Thames; 
  and, 
  with 
  

   its 
  mellow 
  red 
  roof 
  guarded 
  by 
  the 
  tall 
  

   poplars, 
  it 
  is 
  worth 
  picturing. 
  

  

  Two 
  miles 
  below 
  is 
  Sandford, 
  where 
  

   from 
  time 
  immemorial 
  the 
  King's 
  Arms 
  

   has 
  been 
  the 
  goal 
  of 
  undergraduate 
  boat- 
  

   ing 
  parties. 
  Getting 
  through 
  Sandford 
  

   lock, 
  we 
  paddled 
  on 
  to 
  Abingdon 
  past 
  the 
  

   Nuneham 
  woods, 
  which 
  in 
  places 
  here 
  

   come 
  down 
  to 
  the 
  water's 
  edge. 
  Unfortu- 
  

   nately, 
  for 
  most 
  of 
  the 
  distance 
  the 
  banks 
  

   are 
  too 
  high 
  for 
  a 
  small 
  boat 
  to 
  command 
  

   an 
  extensive 
  view. 
  

  

  Abingdon 
  has 
  fallen 
  from 
  its 
  high 
  es- 
  

   tate. 
  In 
  bygone 
  days 
  the 
  abbots 
  of 
  

   Abingdon 
  dominated 
  the 
  whole 
  district; 
  

   but 
  their 
  monastery 
  vanished 
  at 
  the 
  

   Reformation, 
  and 
  not 
  even 
  the 
  site 
  of 
  it 
  

   is 
  now 
  known. 
  

  

  We 
  found 
  little 
  in 
  the 
  town 
  to 
  detain 
  

   us, 
  and, 
  paddling 
  down 
  a 
  fine 
  sailing 
  

   reach, 
  turned 
  down 
  a 
  backwater 
  to 
  the 
  

   little 
  village 
  of 
  Sutton 
  Courtenay, 
  con- 
  

   sisting 
  of 
  a 
  long 
  row 
  of 
  old 
  English 
  cot- 
  

   tages, 
  a 
  village 
  green, 
  and 
  a 
  fine 
  avenue 
  

   of 
  trees 
  — 
  a 
  perfect 
  specimen 
  of 
  the 
  small 
  

   hamlets 
  which 
  sleep 
  by 
  the 
  banks 
  of 
  

   Father 
  Thames. 
  

  

  A 
  mile 
  below 
  we 
  reached 
  Clifton 
  

   Hampden 
  and 
  pitched 
  our 
  camp 
  in 
  the 
  

   gardens 
  of 
  the 
  "Barley 
  Mow," 
  an 
  old 
  

  

  thatched 
  inn 
  and 
  one 
  of 
  the 
  quaintest 
  

   on 
  the 
  river. 
  Its 
  low-pitched 
  roof, 
  beamed 
  

   walls, 
  and 
  latticed 
  windows 
  give 
  it 
  a 
  really 
  

   story-book 
  appearance, 
  and 
  inside 
  the 
  im- 
  

   pression 
  of 
  unreality 
  is 
  intensified. 
  

  

  Leaving 
  Clifton 
  Hampden 
  after 
  a 
  good 
  

   night's 
  rest, 
  we 
  soon 
  reached 
  Day's 
  Lock, 
  

   sheltered 
  by 
  the 
  twin 
  hills 
  of 
  Sinodun, 
  

   each 
  with 
  a 
  group 
  of 
  trees 
  at 
  the 
  top, 
  

   known 
  locally 
  as 
  Wittenham 
  Clumps, 
  one 
  

   of 
  the 
  best-known 
  landmarks 
  for 
  miles 
  

   around. 
  

  

  A 
  mile 
  away 
  on 
  the 
  left 
  is 
  Dorchester, 
  

   another 
  instance 
  of 
  fallen 
  greatness. 
  In 
  

   the 
  seventh 
  century 
  it 
  was 
  the 
  scene 
  of 
  

   the 
  baptism 
  of 
  Cynegil, 
  the 
  first 
  West 
  

   Saxon 
  king 
  to 
  become 
  a 
  Christian, 
  and 
  in 
  

   the 
  tenth 
  century 
  it 
  was 
  the 
  see 
  of 
  an 
  

   enormous 
  diocese 
  which 
  stretched 
  to 
  the 
  

   Humber. 
  In 
  later 
  years 
  the 
  Austin 
  

   friars 
  built 
  a 
  great 
  priory 
  here, 
  of 
  which 
  

   the 
  abbey 
  church 
  remains 
  as 
  one 
  of 
  the 
  

   chief 
  glories 
  of 
  the 
  river. 
  Dorchester 
  

   has 
  vanished 
  from 
  history 
  for 
  800 
  years, 
  

   but 
  it 
  remains 
  a 
  village 
  of 
  singular 
  peace 
  

   and 
  charm. 
  

  

  The 
  next 
  few 
  miles 
  are 
  somewhat 
  

   lacking 
  in 
  interest. 
  We 
  paddled 
  quietly 
  

   on 
  through 
  Shillingf 
  ord 
  ; 
  Wallingford, 
  a 
  

   great 
  strategic 
  point 
  in 
  the 
  Middle 
  Ages. 
  

   but 
  now 
  a 
  sleepy 
  and 
  uninteresting 
  town 
  ; 
  

   under 
  the 
  Great 
  Western 
  Railway 
  bridge 
  

   at 
  Moulsford, 
  and 
  then 
  down 
  a 
  straight 
  

   two-mile 
  reach 
  on 
  which 
  the 
  Oxford 
  

   University 
  trials 
  are 
  rowed 
  before 
  the 
  

   Eight 
  to 
  row 
  against 
  Cambridge 
  are 
  se- 
  

   lected. 
  

  

  Half-way 
  down 
  the 
  reach 
  is 
  the 
  Beetle 
  

   and 
  Wedge 
  Inn, 
  an 
  old 
  hostelry 
  rebuilt 
  

   about 
  fifteen 
  years 
  ago 
  and 
  having 
  its 
  

   unusual 
  sign 
  prominently 
  displayed. 
  

  

  THE 
  MOST 
  BEAUTIEUL 
  SPOT 
  ON 
  THE 
  

   THAMES 
  AT 
  GORING 
  AND 
  STREATLEY 
  

  

  A 
  mile 
  below 
  are 
  the 
  twin 
  villages 
  of 
  

   Goring 
  and 
  Streatley. 
  They 
  occupy 
  what 
  

   was 
  the 
  most 
  beautiful 
  spot 
  on 
  the 
  

   Thames, 
  but 
  now, 
  alas, 
  are 
  crowded 
  with 
  

   the 
  houses 
  of 
  the 
  newly 
  rich 
  ; 
  and 
  what 
  

   was 
  a 
  paradise 
  is 
  now 
  an 
  inferno 
  of 
  

   money 
  and 
  motor-cars. 
  The 
  country 
  

   round 
  is 
  still 
  unspoilt 
  and 
  the 
  reaches 
  

   down 
  to 
  Pangbourne 
  full 
  of 
  beaut)-. 
  

  

  Pangbourne 
  is 
  suffering 
  the 
  same 
  fate 
  

   as 
  Goring 
  and 
  Streatley, 
  but 
  we 
  got 
  an 
  

   effective 
  photograph 
  at 
  the 
  lock 
  before 
  

   paddling 
  on 
  to 
  Reading, 
  four 
  miles 
  below. 
  

  

  