How the Heather Looks Read online

  Miss Parrott, who had excused herself to help some young readers, now came back to my worktable and settled down to a good talk. I tried to explain to her more fully what it was that I was looking for, and now that she could really grasp my aim she was not only interested and sympathetic, but full of the very information I had been seeking. My heart fairly leaped when she said: “Of course you’ll want to see Toad Hall. It’s generally accepted that that’s Mapledurham House near Pangbourne. Kenneth Grahame and his wife were living in a little house in Pangbourne when he died, you know. That’s where Mr. Shepard must have visited him.”

  At last, at last I had hold of a piece of string that led somewhere! I could have shouted for joy. I took out my map and carefully marked a circle around Pangbourne. It was just a few miles along the main road, above Reading. We could drive there very easily. I started to fold up my map again, when Miss Parrott stopped me, “Now, let’s see. Where is Blewbury?”

  “Blewbury?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Miss Parrott. “Bohams, Blewbury. That’s Mole’s house, you know – though the kitchen undoubtedly belongs to Badger. I’ve been there several times and even taken a party of school children in to see the kitchen. It’s quite a drive – way up on the Berkshire Downs. It used to be such a lovely unspoiled little village, but I have heard that it’s changing. And the house is in new hands again.”

  So now I had hold of another piece of string and could tie it to the first. I did not know it then, but in a few more months Peter Green was to supplant Patrick Chalmers’ account of Grahame’s life (written soon after his death) with a new definitive biography studded with facts – and Freud. It is an almost overwhelming job, but now, at last, I can see the meaning of all my little bits of information, now I can see that all my informants were right, if only partially so. But let Mr. Green explain:

  The core of reality, in this case, is that stretch of the Thames which runs, roughly, from Marlow to Pangbourne; and in particular the area around Cookham Dene….Grahame never drew straight from life, but borrowed piecemeal…. For this reason it is a task as pointless as it is fascinating to press any topographical identifications too closely. Toad Hall, for example, contains elements from Harleyford Manor, Mapledurham House and Cliveden – each supplied part of its mise en scène. Elements from a dozen river islands, weirs, and back-waters have been blended in “The Piper at the Gates;” elsewhere Cookham merges into Cornwall, and the Thames … flows seaward to Fowey.

  We are glad that we went exploring on our own, although there is no doubt that Mr. Green’s book would have made life much less haphazard for us. We are quite content to think of Mole’s and Ratty’s habitat in terms of the illustrations in which they were introduced to us. If we were led astray, so was Mr. Shepard and so, later, was Arthur Rackham when (after Kenneth Grahame’s death) Mrs. Grahame did the honors and showed him about at Pangbourne when he came to illustrate a new edition of The Wind in the Willows. But Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch, who lived at Fowey, was Kenneth Grahame’s closest personal friend, and Grahame often spent his summer holidays boating on the river there. Mrs. S. is vindicated. Some of the scenes can be traced to Cornwall.

  The trip to Windsor had been a great success and next morning, the skies having rained themselves out, we set forth in high spirits. We rolled through Reading and paid proper homage to Huntley & Palmer’s biscuit factory as we went by, feeling that it was an old friend. The road wound through miles of bleak brick, we were led away from the river, and the July sun was hot. We stopped and bought some iced lollies (popsicles) and noticed two soldiers standing guard by a huge arched gate almost across the way. The men looked hot and uncomfortable in their heavy uniforms, and we wondered idly what lay behind the high walls they were guarding. Somehow it did not look like an army post…. A prison? We had already started off in the car again when John and I were struck with the same idea at the same moment. Why, of course! Reading Gaol! This was the place where Oscar Wilde was made to pay his debt to society. Ian caught the note of excited self-congratulation in our voices and asked what we were talking about. Who was Oscar Wilde? What did he do? Why was he put in jail? John leaped into the breach. “Why, don’t you remember? That, my boy, is where poor Toad was thrown into the remotest dungeon of the best-guarded keep in all the length and breadth of Merry England!” He had not really answered Ian’s questions, but he had won his attention and respect. He had won my respect, too, but for quite different reasons.

  After Reading the road gave way quite suddenly to countryside, and we swung back toward the river, then away again to higher ground. Now we could look down and see the meanderings of the old stream, the low green fields on either hand, and the parklike woods. Surely the Thames is charmingly unique among streams, its landscape almost absurdly appropriate. In Nan Fairbrother’s Men and Gardens there is a story of an eighteenth-century landscape architect (his standards set by Versailles) who was shown a panoramic view of the Thames. Gazing at this ultimate in “serpentines” he could only exclaim, in simple admiration, “Clever! Clever!” And it was with difficulty that someone finally persuaded him that the entire landscape had not been arranged by Capability Brown, or some other professional “improver.” It is not that the landscape looks artificial, it is only that one so rarely sees man and nature in perfect scale and harmony.

  We drove under the railroad bridge and into Pangbourne. We took a vote: should we look for Church Cottage (where Kenneth Grahame had lived), or drive up to the Downs, or try for the river bank? On such a lovely day the vote was unanimous for “messing about in boats.” We turned to the right by some little shops, parked our car, and made our way on foot to the end of the street. The street became a lane, and then a dusty footpath, and we came out beside a boathouse. An old man (for all the world like the busy Mole in Shepard’s illustration) had upturned a boat on two saw-horses and was carefully varnishing the hull. We waited respectfully for him to finish drawing his gleaming brush a full stroke and while he made a step back, brush in air, to squint at his handiwork. Only then did he notice us.

  Would we like to hire a boat? He had several kinds for hire, but it all depended on where we wanted to go, what we wanted to do, and how skillful we were. He cast a doubting glance at Lucy and said that he did not approve of small children in boats. For a few moments it looked as if he would refuse to let us have a boat at all, but we finally settled for a motor launch, despite Ian’s loud cries of dissent. He thought it sacrilege to explore Ratty’s domain in a petrol-eating putt-putt, but he was somewhat appeased when we explained that we could go so much farther than if we were rowing. The old boatman backed our argument when we asked him the direction to Mapledurham House. He said that it was quite a way downstream and that it would be an effort to get back against the current unless we had a motor to help us. “It’s dangerous here,” he cautioned us, “and folks as is not used to boats can get into trouble. It’s all right to go as far as Mapledurham, but be careful of the weir. It’s swift thereabouts and folks has been drowned who got caught in the current.” He turned to Ian. “You there! Sit down in a boat!” Then he turned to me. “And you,” he admonished sternly. “Keep hold of that little girl. Don’t let go of her an instant.” We complied meekly while he showed John how to start and stop, to turn left or right and to go into reverse. It was obvious he held a low opinion of our boatmanship.

  Directly across from Pangbourne landing a little backwater was almost lost in shadows between the dark bank and an island a few yards offshore. Stunted tree trunks dangled their gnarled roots in the water. We were tempted to explore but No Trespassing signs warned us off. We had turned the boat upstream in order to get a better look at the backwater, so now we continued toward Whitchurch Lock, upstream from the landing. We could see the foaming waters pour over the weir and at the same time watch a boat being taken through the lock beside it. The sight sobered us. The pretty Thames was swift and deep and powerful beneath its surface. What if one should miss the lock and be swept over the weir?
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  John made a fairly expert U-turn and we headed downriver again, past the boatyard. Just beyond where the old man was working we saw that a narrow iron bridge spanned the stream. We had brought along our copy of The Wind in the Willows and the long strip map. Now I could orient book and map to the actual landscape. “That’s the New Iron Bridge,” I said, and tried to show Ian how faithfully Shepard had represented it in his end-paper map for the book. Ian almost crowded his sister and me off the thwart in his eagerness to look.

  The river broadened out below the bridge and a towpath wound along the Berkshire bank. Stunted willows and low bushes grew in profusion, and here and there “Ducks were a-dabbling, up tails all!” There was no doubt in our minds that we were very close to Rat’s house. We could see small doors and windows dug into the bank by the river folk, but the sun was too high and there were too many humans abroad to allow the real residents of the river to show themselves. And then, under a willow tree that leaned out over the water and trailed its drooping leaves like a curtain, we caught a glimpse of something that caused Ian to give a small leap. He caught himself in time, the boat revealing the smallest tremor of his excitement. “I think I see Rat’s boat,” he whispered. John throttled the motor, then put it in reverse. We were able to hold our own against the current for a few minutes while we peered in under the trailing leaves. “There!” said Ian, pointing triumphantly.

  A wind had sprung up, ruffling the river, and for a moment the branches parted. We caught a glimpse of a small boat, smaller than the other river craft. It was tied to a willow root. It was not only tiny but delicate, and obviously there was not room for even one extra person in it unless that someone were very small. We would not have seen the boat at all if Ian had not been keeping such a sharp lookout. There was a little dark space in underneath the roots. Perhaps some eyes, set in a brown, furry face, were even now watching us. It was not so much what we could see as what we could feel. The prickle at the back of our necks confirmed a presence. We started downstream again, hardly daring to breathe.

  As the current carried us downstream we saw fishermen and campers all along the river bank. Once we passed a camping punt, the same kind as in Three Men in a Boat. The canvas hung in sodden swags and from the comfort of our motor launch I tried to ignore the sight of a harried member of my own sex grimly bailing out yesterday’s rain with an enameled saucepan. John was the soul of tact and forbore any remark as we putted past. We came to Hardwick House, a great mansion with grounds running down to the river. We could see the terrace, near the house, where Charles I had used to like to play a game of bowls. Almost opposite, in midstream, was a small island supporting a jungle of twisted, stunted willows. Ian begged to be allowed to explore it, so with some trepidation we came alongside while he leaped off into the mud and hauled himself ashore by hanging onto roots and branches. We circled the island several times, wondering if it were close enough to the weir to qualify as the place where the Rat and Mole had come upon “The Piper at the Gates of Dawn.” The current was running more swiftly, it seemed to us, and John decided he did not want to go much farther downstream. Getting Ian aboard proved more difficult than we had bargained for, but we finally managed it, ruining his shoes and socks in the process. He reported no lost baby otters and no goaty footprints in the mud.

  Now our boat was going faster than ever downstream, and we all peered anxiously at the Oxford shore in order to obtain a glimpse of Mapledurham House. It was harder to see than Hardwick House had been, set back as it was among the trees, but at last we glimpsed its multifarious chimneys, Tudor gables, and mullioned windows sparkling in the sun. Surely this must be Toad Hall! Grahame describes it as “a handsome, dignified old house of mellowed red brick, with well-kept lawns reaching down to the water’s edge….” We easily found the page where Shepard had supplied us with a picture of Rat and Mole gazing at the house from the river, even as we were doing. We decided that, although Mapledurham was undoubtedly the model, the artist had borrowed a few details from Hardwick House, too. On their first outing together, Rat told the Mole: “Toad is rather rich, you know, and this is really one of the nicest houses in these parts, though we never admit as much to Toad.”

  It seems to be generally agreed that Mapledurham is the show-place of this part of the Thames. In the Forsyte Saga, John Galsworthy records that Fleur Forsyte once rented a country house at Mapledurham as part of her scheme for climbing higher on the social ladder. (If she ever met Toad, I am sure she wrapped that innocent, expansive animal around her little finger.) Only Alexander Pope, who carried on a curious literary affair with the daughters of the Blount family, has disparaging remarks to make about Mapledurham. According to an account in The Thames Illustrated, by John Leyland, Pope quarreled outright with Teresa Blount and was rather miffed when Martha, her sister, withdrew from London society after the coronation of George I and let it be known that she preferred her ancestral Mapledurham House on the banks of the Thames. Leyland quotes the vinegarish lines that Pope wrote as comment on the desertion:

  She went to plain-work and to purling brooks,

  Old fashion’d halls, dull aunts, and croaking rooks,

  She went from Op’ra, park, assembly, play,

  To morning walks, and pray’rs three hours a day;

  To pass her time ’twixt reading and Bohea,

  To muse, and spill her solitary Tea.

  I am sad that we did not discover The Thames Illustrated until after our return to America. It would have been such a help to us. A huge, portfolio-sized volume, it was published in 1887 – two years before the Three Men in a Boat made their journey, twenty-one years before The Wind in the Willows was published. Despite its size and publication date, I would still recommend it as a guide to the river and the countryside along its banks. What my large-scale twelve-foot map strives to do by cartography, Leyland set out to do with a camera. His equipment must have been primitive by present standards, but he was able to record an almost yard-by-yard portrait of the Thames. The photography is beautiful. At Mapledurham he not only took pictures from the river, but went ashore in order to view his subject from several approaches. His pictures are accompanied by a delightfully meandering but always careful account of the historical and literary backgrounds for his photographs. Besides the anecdote about Alexander Pope and the Misses Blount, he gives other facts about Mapledurham. The house was built in 1581 and fell into Parliamentary hands during the English Civil War. By Leyland’s day, the house had become an almost legendary place, known to hold secret rooms and passages, a great staircase, paneled rooms, and walls hung with family portraits. Nowadays, I am told, the house no longer belongs to the Blount family, but has been divided up into sumptuous apartments. At any rate, it is still kept in what appears to be perfect condition. Both the Blounts and Toad should be consoled.

  We did not want to drift too far downstream because of the weir, and a cloud had been creeping over the sun. In the sudden way of English skies, the blueness disappeared suddenly and at almost the same instant the gray river was spattered by a slanting rain. John swept the boat around, tracing a great arc in our wake, and we headed back toward Pangbourne. Over hot tea at The Swan we reassessed our adventures. We had found Rat’s house and Toad Hall, but what we really longed to see was the picnic place. Ian and I were both certain that we had been within yards of it and we got our copy of The Wind in the Willows for the hundredth time that day to read aloud the description:

  Leaving the main stream, they now passed into what seemed at first sight a little land-locked lake. Green turf sloped down to either edge, brown snakey tree-roots gleamed below the surface of the quiet water, while ahead of them the silver shoulder and foamy tumble of weir, arm-in-arm with a restless dripping mill-wheel, that held up in its turn a grey-gabled mill-house, filled the air with a soothing murmur of sound, dull and smothery, yet with little clear voices speaking cheerfully out of it at intervals. It was so very beautiful that the Mole could only hold up both forepaws and gasp, “O my
! O my! O my!”

  The description was so concrete that we were certain that the place really did exist, and that we could find it if only given another chance. Much revived by a good tea, John promised faithfully that we would return another day to continue our search. He was true to his word, but we never did find what we were seeking, although we spent several more halcyon days on the river and came to know the old boatman and be known by him, although he never reversed his original low opinion of our boating abilities. I think now that we should have gone on foot along the Oxford shore, or hired a boat at Purley, below Mapledurham, and gone upstream through the lock so as not to come upon the weir unexpectedly. I do know, now, that Grahame was describing an actual place, but I did not discover it by punting on the Thames, as I had hoped. Instead, I found it while exploring the pages of Leyland’s book. He describes what I am almost certain is the place we were seeking:

  The mill at Mapledurham has been a subject for many artists, and is, perhaps, the most picturesque on the whole river – so picturesque, indeed, with its old brick walls, little windows, timber gables, and tiled roof, and its quaint bridge and surroundings, that some have thought its picturesqueness artificial. However that may be, it is certainly remarkably pretty. There is a small island above the weir – and a very noble weir it is – and then the river opens out wide and beautiful.