Some people may tell you that there never was such a person as the valiant Guy, Earl of Warwick, who slew the terrible Dun Cow that terrorized middle England in the old days, and, single handed, defeated the giant Colbrond, and cut off his head. But if you go to Warwick’s beautiful castle you may see, to-day, the brave Guy’s armour, and some bones of the ferocious cow. And there is the old tale of Guy, handed down for centuries, to prove that this mighty warrior really did live.
This is the old tale. After Guy had slain the Dun Cow, and had been to the Holy Land on a pilgrimage, he returned in disguise, and unrecognised, feeling that he wished to withdraw from the world and live a secluded life as a hermit. But before he did so he undertook the slaying of the giant Colbrond. Having killed this monster and cut off his head, he slipped away quietly and wandered slowly to his home at Warwick.
There his wife, the good Lady Phyllis, awaited his return from Palestine. She had no idea that he was home again, nor did she recognise him in his rough pilgrim’s dress when he, together with other wayfarers, presented himself in the Great Hall and received from her own hands the alms that she gave daily to the poor.
And Guy did not announce his identity. Instead, he passed on and sought out a hermit who lived in a cave near by, seeking spiritual comfort from the holy man.
After Guy had been with the hermit a very short time, that pious man died; and Guy decided to take his place. And so, for two years, this once mighty warrior lived the hard, austere life of a recluse in a bare cell, only a mile or two from his own proud castle.
But death was creeping upon him. And, when he realized that he had but a few hours more to live, he sent, by a trusty messenger, his wedding ring to the Lady Phyllis, begging her to come and take charge of his burial. She came at once, all filled with fear and distress, bringing with her the bishop and high clergy of the diocese. But there they found the great Guy, dead, on the steps of the altar of his little chapel. And there they buried him, and, only a few weeks later, the Lady Phyllis by his side, for she too died swiftly, of a broken heart.
And the old story is still told about the country-side to show how one who had fame, great wealth, high position, and love, sacrificed it all for the lowly yet holy calling of a simple heremite.
All this happened so long ago that nobody knows exactly when it was, but you may still see at Guy’s Cliff, that beautiful old place a short walk from Warwick, the cave in the rock where the hermit and Guy lived. And in the little chapel of St. Mary Magdalene there, you will see carved in the living rock a mighty figure, eight feet high, of the fearless Guy; though time has wrought much damage to this strange effigy.
Warwick and Leamington are both close at hand; Warwick, one of the most picturesque towns in the whole country with Shakespeare’s Avon flowing gently by it, and the grim and wonderful Warwick Castle with its grounds stretching to the river’s edge. And Leamington, that bright clean-streeted spa, with its healing waters, and its quiet atmosphere of other days, when our great-grandfathers posted to it from all parts of the country to drink the waters and to indulge in the gaiety of the latest and most fashionable of inland watering-places.
All round about is the rich leafy England that Shakespeare knew so well. Stratford-on-Avon is but eight miles away. Shottery—the village of Shakespeare’s wife, where Anne Hathaway’s charming little cottage still stands—Henley-in-Arden, Charlecote, and Hampton Lucy; pretty historic names we know so well, are all in the neighbourhood.
This country has a sixteenth century atmosphere even now. It is one that the foreign visitor seldom misses; yet the British tourist knows all too little of it and its peculiar rural beauty and charm.
