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Dorchester
,
like
Wallingford
,
was
a
city
in
ancient
British
times
;
it
was
then
called
Caer
Doren
,
"
the
city
on
the
water
.
"
In
more
recent
times
the
Romans
formed
a
great
camp
here
,
the
fortifications
surrounding
which
now
seem
like
low
,
even
hills
.
In
Saxon
days
it
was
the
capital
of
Wessex
.
It
is
very
old
,
and
it
was
very
strong
and
great
once
.
Now
it
sits
aside
from
the
stirring
world
,
and
nods
and
dreams
.
Round
Clifton
Hampden
,
itself
a
wonderfully
pretty
village
,
old-fashioned
,
peaceful
,
and
dainty
with
flowers
,
the
river
scenery
is
rich
and
beautiful
.
If
you
stay
the
night
on
land
at
Clifton
,
you
can
not
do
better
than
put
up
at
the
"
Barley
Mow
.
"
It
is
,
without
exception
,
I
should
say
,
the
quaintest
,
most
old-world
inn
up
the
river
.
It
stands
on
the
right
of
the
bridge
,
quite
away
from
the
village
.
Its
low-pitched
gables
and
thatched
roof
and
latticed
windows
give
it
quite
a
story-book
appearance
,
while
inside
it
is
even
still
more
once-upon-a-timeyfied
.
It
would
not
be
a
good
place
for
the
heroine
of
a
modern
novel
to
stay
at
.
The
heroine
of
a
modern
novel
is
always
"
divinely
tall
,
"
and
she
is
ever
"
drawing
herself
up
to
her
full
height
.
"
At
the
"
Barley
Mow
"
she
would
bump
her
head
against
the
ceiling
each
time
she
did
this
.
It
would
also
be
a
bad
house
for
a
drunken
man
to
put
up
at
.
There
are
too
many
surprises
in
the
way
of
unexpected
steps
down
into
this
room
and
up
into
that
;
and
as
for
getting
upstairs
to
his
bedroom
,
or
ever
finding
his
bed
when
he
got
up
,
either
operation
would
be
an
utter
impossibility
to
him
.
We
were
up
early
the
next
morning
,
as
we
wanted
to
be
in
Oxford
by
the
afternoon
.
It
is
surprising
how
early
one
can
get
up
,
when
camping
out
.
One
does
not
yearn
for
"
just
another
five
minutes
"
nearly
so
much
,
lying
wrapped
up
in
a
rug
on
the
boards
of
a
boat
,
with
a
Gladstone
bag
for
a
pillow
,
as
one
does
in
a
featherbed
.
We
had
finished
breakfast
,
and
were
through
Clifton
Lock
by
half-past
eight
.
From
Clifton
to
Culham
the
river
banks
are
flat
,
monotonous
,
and
uninteresting
,
but
,
after
you
get
through
Culhalm
Lock
--
the
coldest
and
deepest
lock
on
the
river
--
the
landscape
improves
.
At
Abingdon
,
the
river
passes
by
the
streets
.
Abingdon
is
a
typical
country
town
of
the
smaller
order
--
quiet
,
eminently
respectable
,
clean
,
and
desperately
dull
.
It
prides
itself
on
being
old
,
but
whether
it
can
compare
in
this
respect
with
Wallingford
and
Dorchester
seems
doubtful
.
A
famous
abbey
stood
here
once
,
and
within
what
is
left
of
its
sanctified
walls
they
brew
bitter
ale
nowadays
.
In
St.
Nicholas
Church
,
at
Abingdon
,
there
is
a
monument
to
John
Blackwall
and
his
wife
Jane
,
who
both
,
after
leading
a
happy
married
life
,
died
on
the
very
same
day
,
August
21
,
1625
;
and
in
St.
Helen
's
Church
,
it
is
recorded
that
W.
Lee
,
who
died
in
1637
,
"
had
in
his
lifetime
issue
from
his
loins
two
hundred
lacking
but
three
.
"
If
you
work
this
out
you
will
find
that
Mr.
W.
Lee
's
family
numbered
one
hundred
and
ninety-seven
.
Mr.
W.
Lee
--
five
times
Mayor
of
Abingdon
--
was
,
no
doubt
,
a
benefactor
to
his
generation
,
but
I
hope
there
are
not
many
of
his
kind
about
in
this
overcrowded
nineteenth
century
.
From
Abingdon
to
Nuneham
Courteney
is
a
lovely
stretch
.
Nuneham
Park
is
well
worth
a
visit
.
It
can
be
viewed
on
Tuesdays
and
Thursdays
.
The
house
contains
a
fine
collection
of
pictures
and
curiosities
,
and
the
grounds
are
very
beautiful
.
