The River Severn may be the longest in England, and renowned for its seasonal bore, but it’s in no hurry to get to the sea. Sulking towards the estuary, it describes a loop the shape of a rhinoceros’ head. At the extremity of the loop sits the village of Arlingham, and its focal point is The Red Lion. There have never been lions in England, let alone red ones, but pub names are as much about myth as memory, and both are pretty hazy in this particular case.
A map on the pub’s wall points you in the direction of the river. The dead straight Passage Road is the most direct route, a strip of tarmac bounded on each side by grassy swathes. At intervals along the road, someone has gone to the trouble of displaying flimsy notices, ‘No parking. This is not common land.’ The road is deserted, no hint of infringement, but on bore days every vantage point is packed for watching the tidal surge.
Across the river, the village of Newnham on Severn perches on brick red cliffs. To the left, hints of its former status can be seen in the crumbling stone of the wharf. In 1171 Henry II sailed from here to invade Ireland, with a force of 400 ships and 5000 men, or so the story goes. Prosperity peaked in the eighteenth century, but trade declined with the coming of the railway, and the opening of the Gloucester to Sharpness canal spelt the end of its days as a port.
Turning south to walk along the embankment, the path follows the bend of the river. The Severn drifts its course past banks of pristine sand. The bluish water mirrors the changing mood of the sky, sun streaked cotton wool clouds succeeding duvets of blue grey. Skeletal pylons double their length in the shining water. At a sharp turn in the river, distinctive bands – variegated shades of blue – mark its changing depth.
Casual strollers and purposeful long distance walkers share the path, the Severn Way, a full 330 kilometres from Plynlimon in Wales to the sea. A pair of serious walkers approach, fleeced and hooded against the flurries of snow, prodding their way rhythmically with aluminium walking poles. ‘You’ll get wet,’ says a plump lady cheerfully with a glint in her eye. If there’s one thing that long distance walkers love it’s a bit of weather.
An abrupt turn from the river takes us back towards Arlingham. At West End Farm, shaggy coated cows stare ruminatively in our direction, oblivious of the farm’s dark past. In 1873 Amelia Phipps was conducting a flirtatious friendship with Charles Butt, a man known for his jealousy and violence. At a dance he had given her two black eyes for dancing with other men. When a local farmer, Henry Goddard, invited her to attend Gloucester Cheese Fair she accepted, refusing outright to go with Butt. This, for Butt, was the final straw. He shot Amelia in the head, and she died within a few minutes. Butt stole a boat, and fled across the Severn to the Forest of Dean, but was captured at Abergavenny and subsequently hanged at Gloucester gaol.
Today there are no signs of violence along the road to the village. We pass the church of St Mary the Virgin, looking little changed since it was built in the fourteenth century. A jumble of pettifogging announcements on the notice board, concerning electoral rolls and maintenance of graveyard monuments hints at the parishioners’ priorities. Thoughts of murder and graveyards cast a shadow over the end of our walk. I look forward to a sunny day when we can explore the Severn again.
