It is a deep seclusion, with mountains and
crags on all sides.
About a mile beyond the castle we stopped at a little wayside inn, the
King's Head, and put up for the night. This, I believe, is the only inn
which I have found in England--the only one where I have eaten and slept
--that does not call itself a hotel. It is very primitive in its
arrangements,--a long, low, whitewashed, unadorned, and ugly cottage of
two stories. At one extremity is a barn and cow-house, and next to these
the part devoted to the better class of guests, where we had our parlor
and chambers, contiguous to which is the kitchen and common room, paved
with flagstones,--and, lastly, another barn and stable; all which
departments are not under separate roofs, but under the same long
contiguity, and forming the same building. Our parlor opens immediately
upon the roadside, without any vestibule. The house appears to be of
some antiquity, with beams across the low ceilings; but the people made
us pretty comfortable at bed and board, and fed us with ham and eggs,
veal-steaks, honey, oatcakes, gooseberry-tarts, and such cates and
dainties,--making a moderate charge for all. The parlor was adorned with
rude engravings. I remember only a plate of the Duke of Wellington, at
three stages of his life; and there were minerals, delved, doubtless, out
of the hearts of the mountains, upon the mantel-piece. The chairs were
of an antiquated fashion, and had very capacious seats.
Pages:
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269