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Updated: June 9, 2025
Oh fair is Moreton in the marsh And Stow on the wide wold, Yet fairer far is Burford town With its stone roofs grey and old; And whether the sky be hot and high, Or rain fall thin and chill, The grey old town on the lonely down Is where I would be still.
I haven't heard those words for years!" Mrs. Conover's hospitable intentions were anticipated by the old butler, who advanced to meet them with the news that Sir Archibald's car had been brought round. As soon as he recognized Oliver he started back, mouth agape. "Yes, it's me all right, Burford," laughed Oliver. "How did I get here? I dropped from the moon."
"I have had the honour to tell you so," he said, and was gone. It was on the second day after that Susan Burford and Mr. Hadley rode in to the Lincoln's Inn Fields. They found Alison and Mrs. Weston together, and both sewing a fact which failed to interest Mr. Hadley, but surprised Susan, who knew Alison, without a taste for needlework.
He had bought a small two-seater car, and each Sunday he took Norah out for runs to the Hut at Wisley, to the Burford Bridge Hotel, where the genial Mr. Hunt one of the last remaining Bohemians of the days of the Junior Garrick Club welcomed them; to the Wooton Hatch, or up to those more pretentious and less comfortable hostelries on Hindhead. Motoring had roused a new interest in my friend.
The man or the hour had not yet come; but some day, I think, a boat shall put off from the Queen's Ferry, fraught with a dear cargo, and some frosty night a horseman, on a tragic errand, rattle with his whip upon the green shutters of the inn at Burford." In this way, the setting may, in many cases, exist as the initial element of the narrative, and suggest an action appropriate to itself.
The flight was, considering all things, an amazing success. The apparatus was brought in a cart from Dymchurch to Burford Bridge, ascended there to a height of nearly three hundred feet, swooped thence very nearly back to Dymchurch, came about in its sweep, rose again, circled, and finally sank uninjured in a field behind the Burford Bridge Inn. At its descent a curious thing happened.
The name Burford has nothing to do with the beautiful old town which we have already visited, but is a corruption of Borough-ford, the town ford at Abingdon. Two poets have sung their praises, one in atrocious Latin and the other in quaint, old-fashioned English.
It is observable of these sheep that they are exceeding fruitful, the ewes generally bringing two lambs, and they are for that reason bought by all the farmers through the east part of England, who come to Burford Fair in this country to buy them, and carry them into Kent and Surrey eastward, and into Buckinghamshire and Bedfordshire and Oxfordshire north; even our Banstead Downs in Surrey, so famed for good mutton, is supplied from this place.
Burford, being at home with the family, did all the talking, and Frank could not but feel in the presence of his master, and had not a word to say for himself, especially as George and Freda looked critical, and as if 'That stick' was in their minds, if not on their lips.
Would Great Britain come in, or for ever lose her honour? That warm beautiful Sunday afternoon they sat on the peaceful lawn under the shadow of the great cathedral. Burford brought out the tea-tray and Mrs. Conover poured out tea. Sir Archibald and Lady Bruce and their daughter Dorothy were there. Doggie, impeccable in dark purple. Nothing clouded the centuries-old serenity of the place.
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