288 CROSSING THE OUSE CH. IX old custom house, easily distinguished by its quaint turret, and St. Margaret's church with its two towers, are the only buildings I can recognise in the waning light. It is only from the west bank of the river, however, that one can get a satisfactory view of Lynn, and in daylight the view is not without its elements of the picturesque. The ferryman has finished his pipe, and cast off the boat's moorings, and I am afloat on the dusk-darkened waters. But only for a minute or so; for after rowing a course which if it were traceable would be like the curve of a gigantic draw-net, the rower brings me to shore again. Then I find my way back to the neighbourhood of Greyfriars Tower, and receive the greetings of the landlord of a Lynn inn. -sul: A Fen Ferry. CHAPTER X ACROSS THE FENS THE historical interest of the country between Lynn and Ely chiefly attaches to the days when the Normans, after subduing Southern England, found themselves for a long time baffled in their efforts to make the Fenland Saxons acknowledge the Conqueror as their king. Our knowledge of events which occurred in the district in earlier times is mainly based upon monkish legends and less credible traditions; while even the jewels of historical fact of the Norman time are with difficulty detached from fabulous settings. The atmosphere of the fens favoured the preserving of old traditions. Through the mists which mantled the vast morasses the figures of the old fen heroes loomed large and awe-inspiring. Men who at night saw the marshfires flickering over the dismal swamps and heard the weird cries of the unseen birds of marsh and mere, found little incredible in the stories of mist wraiths and "Crulande devils." What the monks, to serve their own ends, taught them, they never doubted to be absolute truth. strange tales told of St. Guthlac. They readily accepted the U old custom house, easily distinguished by its quaint turret, and St. Margaret's church with its two towers, are the only buildings I can recognise in the waning light. It is only from the west bank of the river, however, that one can get a satisfactory view of Lynn, and in daylight the view is not without its elements of the picturesque. The ferryman has finished his pipe, and cast off the boat's moorings, and I am afloat on the dusk-darkened waters. But only for a minute or so; for after rowing a course which if it were traceable would be like the curve of a gigantic draw-net, the rower brings me to shore again. Then I find my way back to the neighbourhood of Greyfriars Tower, and receive the greetings of the landlord of a Lynn inn. 290 CROWLAND ABBEY CHAP. to have happened amongst the lonesome fens. That the monks themselves—or, at least, some of them—believed in those stories, no one can doubt: they themselves were nurtured on a mental diet calculated to increase their natural credulity. Too often they were blind leaders of the blind. They impregnated the Fenland air with mystery; and so long as the district retained its original aspect-so long as much of it was inaccessible except to those whom long acquaintance had made familiar with its lonesome lagoons and treacherous morasses- —so long that air of mystery pervaded it. Even when the Normans had won their way to the Camp of Refuge and laid hands upon the treasure in the Fenland shrines, it was not wholly dispelled. Even now, in spite of-perhaps, in a measure, because of - what we are told in Liber Eliensis, De Gestis Herwardi Saxonis, and other monkish chronicles which deal with the last stand of the English on the Isle of Ely, it is impossible to say how much truth is in the stories of the fights with the Normans and the daring deeds of Hereward, the Lord of Bourn. If I had not already seen something of Fenland, and were not destined to see much more of it before I reach Ely, I might be tempted to cross that part of the Cambridgeshire fens which lies beyond Wisbech and visit the famous shrine at Crowland. For Crowland Abbey played a prominent part in the making of Fenland history, and its founder, St. Guthlac, was the most notable and revered saint of the fens. But it is a "far cry " from Lynn to Crowland, and by the time I reached the end of my journey I should probably have had more than enough of the fat, flat fens; so I take the direct route to Ely, assuring myself that when I set foot upon the site of the Camp of Refuge I shall forget to regret having left unvisited St. Guthlac's ruined shrine. Yet I cannot rest content with the mere mention of St. Guthlac's name; for he was a daring man to have ventured, in those long-gone days, into the midst of a vast watery wilderness, and his experiences there were too |