Where Thames Smooth Waters Glide -
Oxford Cruisers,
Pinkhill Lock,
Farmoor
Map: Pinkhill Lock and Skinners Weir
I know what white, what purple fritillaries
The grassy harvest of the River fields
Above by Eynsham, down by Sandford, yields;
And what sedged brooks are Thames's tributaries.
TWO miles of winding water lie between Swinford Bridge and Pinkhill lock. Pinkhill it is, officially; but Pinkle to all the workaday world. This little lock mound is the happy isle of the River country; a haven of dreams; the inner gate of a far off land whose elusive charm quickens the memory more frequently and tenderly than all the more popular and obvious beauties of the middle River. The great Wytham and Beacon hills exclude for ever the whole outer world. Beyond them lies-Oxford? even London, perhaps; all unlovely hustling and the crowds. But the loud and brawling voices never surmount those sheltering heights; and on their hitherward side the deep meadows, emerald green beneath the purple woods, are broken only by the willowed banks of the immemorial Stream. This scene of the sweet cunning earth is one to be cherished in the memory beyond the very gates of death.
And above all, the quintessential charm of Pinkhill is its arches of rainbows. Once for me a sudden shower trailed its filmy veil along these grassy levels, blowing up from the wet southwest. And the perfect bow was formed, so that the very blades of grass were transformed with the sevenfold glory; and above the bow shone its reflection hardly less refulgent. For others also there has been the vision; they too have watched from this River island the sudden epiphany of celestial colour. And therefore for them and for me it lives for ever arched in rainbows.
No wet salt wind from off the sea,
Foam laden, loud with life, blows here
No surges sound upon this lee,
No sea bird's cry wails on the ear.
But softly murmuring glides and gleams
The stately River strong and clear,
Deep loved beyond all other streams,
Beyond all other scenes how dear
The reeds that rustle in the breeze
Still whisper of the god's pursuit,
Slim Syrinx startled turns and flees,
Great Pan has shrilled his oaten flute
She flees too late, the god has seen
All hope is vain, save in the prayer
She breathes to heaven; and, lo! the Queen
Turns to a reed the flying fair.
Where lonely meadows fringe the shore,
Or where dim woods the bank ascend,
Will old sweet things shew one sight more
Are Pan and Syrinx at an end?
The listening ear at noontide heat
May it not hear his cleft hoof stamp
No laughter catch of Naiads sweet
In river grottoes cool and damp?
Between the dripping mossy walls
Of this old lock such thoughts arise
The trickling water gently falls,
The gates are closed, there meets the eyes
Of aught beyond no cheering gleam,
The River's course unseen, like Fate's;
To mimic grudging Time they seem,
These heavy, slowly parting gates.
In the cool of the evening I have watched the small boys and girl of the lock-keeper swim like eager little frogs across the lock. I once lent a hand with the pole which the careful father desired held above the youngest swimmer's head in case of need. The kiddie gradually leaned down upon the water from the steps; then worried along his nervous course like a pale batrachian-over to me and back again to the steps and sure footing. And at this very lock the Chemist, the Anatomist and I slew a score and a half of wasps in one short tea time. The Anatomist's slow approach and sudden unerring pounce caused more laughter than the thing was worth; but my memories of Pinkhill are incomplete without him.
In the same old Report of 1793 one Robert Mylne complains bitterly of the bad state of the River for navigation "He could not find that any Thing had been done, except at Pinkill Weir, next above Enfham Bridge, where a Pound Lock has been conftructed, but is of no kind of Ufe in itfelf to the Navigation, on Account of the old Weir of Timber in the bed of the River being totally rotten and tumbled into the River, and feemingly deferted. "
About a mile above is the site of the former Skinner's weir, now marked only by a footbridge on land and a deep pool and strong stream on the water. "The old weir," says Mr. Taunt,"was one of those picturesque places that artists love. It had been in possession of the Skinners from father to son for a long number of years. It was a little inn, and the last landlord, Joe Skinner, was one of the best hearted, quaintest fellows that ever lived. He was original in the highest degree, and it was a rich treat to spend an evening with him and listen to his curious remarks on some one who had been there, and, not understanding him, had rubbed old Joe the wrong way of the wool, getting perhaps a rough setting down. " The inn, and old Joe, and the weir have now all disappeared. There are many similar spots where unnecessary weirs have been abolished in quite recent years. Much picturesqueness and a not unwelcome spice of danger have thus been swept away; but nevertheless much gratitude is due to the Conservancy for their many good works on this remote part of the River. New locks have been built and channels cleared; and above all strict and welcome rules have been made and enforced against the destruction of wild birds and waterside flowers, as the late Mr. Cornish mentions so appreciatively in his Naturalist on the Thames. The results are apparent to even the dullest observer; the birds are nesting again in their ancient haunts, and behaving, indeed, not merely with less fear of man but even with a certain twinkle of impudence in their demeanour. I assert it gravely I encountered such a robin by Basildon and a Buscot whitethroat-very lively! "The fool with the gun" is getting repressed; and the very eggs in the nests and flowers on the banks are protected by the paternal Conservators.
Where Thames Smooth Waters Glide -
Oxford Cruisers,
Pinkhill Lock,
Farmoor
Map: Pinkhill Lock and Skinners Weir