THE ASHTON LAKES
The Ashton lakes, included in the area covered by the Right to Roam license, are two very beautiful but nonetheless artificial constructs. The lakes were part of the Victorian / Edwardian Utopia planned, it is thought, by William Huckvale (the fashionable Victorian architect and creator of the turn of the Century buildings at Ashton) In the heyday of the Estate, the gardens around the main house connected seamlessly with the picturesque lakes, via a manicured set of pathways.
Matters, and the absence of circa 40 gardeners and helpers, have evolved a little since this era! The lakes are now an area of natural, wild habitat replete with wildflowers, rare plants, and the remnants of an earlier order.
The artificial nature of the lakes – they have man-made water imperviant linings – has given rise to many problems. During World War II, it is said that the lakes were accidently bombed, during a training exercise. The result was that the upper lake, in particular, tended to drain away. This problem has only partially been remedied. Nonetheless, the lakes are a beautiful and romantic setting – especially in autumn and winter when the nearby woodland is less dense. The lakes in summer are shown in the picture gallery. Although on the lower lake there is a boathouse and a central island, as present there are no boating facilities. Additional restoration work is required to bring to life this amenity.
THE ASHTON WOLD CRICKET CLUB AND THE CRICKET GROUND
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a gentleman in possession of a good fortune is in need…………of a cricket ground!
Charles Rothschild was just such a gentleman, and indeed the family excelled at ball games. Victor, as a schoolboy, played for Northamptonshire – and scored a few runs (33?) off the bodyline bowling of Larwood. Victor’s prowess was in part due to the holiday “nets” organised by his elder sister Miriam, a talented skier, rider,squash, billiards, tennis, and cricket player. The Hon Miriam is said to have played in the England ladies side under the name of “Robinson”. The Hon Miriam took great pleasure in beating Oxford blues at squash, possibly her strongest sport.
The Ashton Cricket ground has born witness to village matches evocative of Julie Christie and Alan Bates in “the go between” – and traditional village cricket continues to this day …except it is the Oundle Cricket Club that now carries the flag. Anyone wishing to play (or watch) can contact the Ashton Wold Cricket Club via email : ctw18@email.com
Tenants of Ashton Cottages may also be permitted to organise their own matches, provided they address issues such as insurance, parking, stewards and health and safety!
For one Ashton match, Roddy Bloomfield, a fast bowler of blistering pace, made an appearance as a local rustic, causing the opposition to retire to the safety of an endless tea in the pavilion.
The Cricket pavilion is an exquisite example of Edwardian Craftsmanship. The pavilion has recently been re-thatched, rewired and is now in pretty good shape. (See picture gallery)
The Cricket Ground is included in the Right to Roam area, and tenants and their children are welcome to use the wicket, on the basis that it is not unduly roughed up. There are plans to make the pavilion itself more accessible to the Ashton tenants.
The Nightingale’s Nest
Up this green woodland-ride let’s softly rove,
And list the nightingale - she dwells just here.
Hush ! let the wood-gate softly clap, for fear
The noise might drive her from her home of love ;
For here I’ve heard her many a merry year -
At morn, at eve, nay, all the live-long day,
As though she lived on song. This very spot,
Just where that old-man’s-beard all wildly trails
Rude arbours o’er the road, and stops the way -
And where that child its blue-bell flowers hath got,
Laughing and creeping through the mossy rails -
There have I hunted like a very boy,
Creeping on hands and knees through matted thorn
To find her nest, and see her feed her young.
And vainly did I many hours employ :
All seemed as hidden as a thought unborn.
And where those crimping fern-leaves ramp among
The hazel’s under boughs, I’ve nestled down,
And watched her while she sung ; and her renown
Hath made me marvel that so famed a bird
Should have no better dress than russet brown.
Her wings would tremble in her ecstasy,
And feathers stand on end, as ’twere with joy,
And mouth wide open to release her heart
Of its out-sobbing songs. The happiest part
Of summer’s fame she shared, for so to me
Did happy fancies shapen her employ ;
But if I touched a bush, or scarcely stirred,
All in a moment stopt. I watched in vain :
The timid bird had left the hazel bush,
And at a distance hid to sing again.
Lost in a wilderness of listening leaves,
Rich Ecstasy would pour its luscious strain,
Till envy spurred the emulating thrush
To start less wild and scarce inferior songs ;
For while of half the year Care him bereaves,
To damp the ardour of his speckled breast ;
The nightingale to summer’s life belongs,
And naked trees, and winter’s nipping wrongs,
Are strangers to her music and her rest.
Her joys are evergreen, her world is wide -
Hark! there she is as usual - let’s be hush -
For in this black-thorn clump, if rightly guest,
Her curious house is hidden. Part aside
These hazel branches in a gentle way,
And stoop right cautious ’neath the rustling boughs,
For we will have another search to day,
And hunt this fern-strewn thorn-clump round and round ;
And where this reeded wood-grass idly bows,
We’ll wade right through, it is a likely nook :
In such like spots, and often on the ground,
They’ll build, where rude boys never think to look -
Aye, as I live ! her secret nest is here,
Upon this white-thorn stump ! I’ve searched about
For hours in vain. There! put that bramble by -
Nay, trample on its branches and get near.
How subtle is the bird ! she started out,
And raised a plaintive note of danger nigh,
Ere we were past the brambles ; and now, near
Her nest, she sudden stops - as choking fear,
That might betray her home. So even now
We’ll leave it as we found it : safety’s guard
Of pathless solitudes shall keep it still.
See there! she’s sitting on the old oak bough,
Mute in her fears ; our presence doth retard
Her joys, and doubt turns every rapture chill.
Sing on, sweet bird! may no worse hap befall
Thy visions, than the fear that now deceives.
We will not plunder music of its dower,
Nor turn this spot of happiness to thrall ;
For melody seems hid in every flower,
That blossoms near thy home. These harebells all
Seem bowing with the beautiful in song ;
And gaping cuckoo-flower, with spotted leaves,
Seems blushing of the singing it has heard.
How curious is the nest ; no other bird
Uses such loose materials, or weaves
Its dwelling in such spots : dead oaken leaves
Are placed without, and velvet moss within,
And little scraps of grass, and, scant and spare,
What scarcely seem materials, down and hair ;
For from men’s haunts she nothing seems to win.
Yet Nature is the builder, and contrives
Homes for her children’s comfort, even here ;
Where Solitude’s disciples spend their lives
Unseen, save when a wanderer passes near
That loves such pleasant places. Deep adown,
The nest is made a hermit’s mossy cell.
Snug lie her curious eggs in number five,
Of deadened green, or rather olive brown ;
And the old prickly thorn-bush guards them well.
So here we’ll leave them, still unknown to wrong,
As the old woodland’s legacy of song.
John Clare
The Fallen Elm
Old elm that murmured in our chimney top
The sweetest anthem autumn ever made
And into mellow whispering calms would drop
When showers fell on thy many coloured shade
And when dark tempests mimic thunder made -
While darkness came as it would strangle light
With the black tempest of a winter night
That rocked thee like a cradle in thy root -
How did I love to hear the winds upbraid
Thy strength without - while all within was mute.
It seasoned comfort to our hearts’ desire,
We felt that kind protection like a friend
And edged our chairs up closer to the fire,
Enjoying comfort that was never penned.
Old favourite tree, thou’st seen time’s changes lower,
Though change till now did never injure thee;
For time beheld thee as her sacred dower
And nature claimed thee her domestic tree.
Storms came and shook thee many a weary hour,
Yet stedfast to thy home thy roots have been;
Summers of thirst parched round thy homely bower
Till earth grew iron - still thy leaves were green.
The children sought thee in thy summer shade
And made their playhouse rings of stick and stone;
The mavis sang and felt himself alone
While in thy leaves his early nest was made,
And I did feel his happiness mine own,
Nought heeding that our friendship was betrayed,
Friend not inanimate - though stocks and stones
There are, and many formed of flesh and bones.
Thou owned a language by which hearts are stirred
Deeper than by a feeling clothed in word,
And speakest now what’s known of every tongue,
Language of pity and the force of wrong.
What cant assumes, what hypocrites will dare,
Speaks home to truth and shows it what they are.
I see a picture which thy fate displays
And learn a lesson from thy destiny;
Self-interest saw thee stand in freedom’s ways -
So thy old shadow must a tyrant be.
Thou’st heard the knave, abusing those in power,
Bawl freedom loud and then oppress the free;
Thou’st sheltered hypocrites in many a shower,
That when in power would never shelter thee.
Thou’st heard the knave supply his canting powers
With wrong’s illusions when he wanted friends;
That bawled for shelter when he lived in showers
And when clouds vanished made thy shade amends -
With axe at root he felled thee to the ground
And barked of freedom - O I hate the sound
Time hears its visions speak, - and age sublime
Hath made thee a disciple unto time.
- It grows the cant term of enslaving tools
To wrong another by the name of right;
Thus came enclosure - ruin was its guide,
But freedom’s cottage soon was thrust aside
And workhouse prisons raised upon the site.
Een nature’s dwellings far away from men,
The common heath, became the spoiler’s prey;
The rabbit had not where to make his den
And labour’s only cow was drove away.
No matter - wrong was right and right was wrong,
And freedom’s bawl was sanction to the song.
- Such was thy ruin, music-making elm;
The right of freedom was to injure thine:
As thou wert served, so would they overwhelm
In freedom’s name the little that is mine.
And there are knaves that brawl for better laws
And cant of tyranny in stronger power
Who glut their vile unsatiated maws
And freedom’s birthright from the weak devour.
John Clare
