I first saw Ludlow as a stylised painted montage in a greetings card. “You’d really like it here,” enthused a friend who was staying there with her choir. I had to wait a decade and a half to find out if she was right.
I describe Shrewsbury in terms of comparisons; I felt them strongly here too. The first comparison is between this small southern Shropshire market town and its county town. Is this a Mini Me of its big sister? Actually, not quite: I felt the difference between Leiden and Amsterdam here: not just size, but….I can hardly call Shrewsbury sleazy yet there was something about Castle Gate (the first street one encounters after arriving at the railway station) and some of its main shopping streets…the feel of Dogpole at night… Yes the classy capital of Salop is grimy in places, in a way that I didn’t find in Ludlow. There’s no shopping mall, as you’d hope of a town of only about 10,000, although the library area is as un-photogenic as any other modern civic development (in negative contrast to the 15-17th C buildings which house Shrewsbury’s).
Ludlow shares the black and white – or rather brown and white – timbered look of the Marches, along with the red of stone and brick, but it has an extra ingredient: pastel coloured plaster. Its stone runs to grey as much as red – or a russet taupe.
I felt most strongly its adjacency to Wales, especially by the town walls and crossing either of its stone bridges away from urbanity, where I recalled Durham, which is also ringed by steep riverside woods with views.
I must caution a visitor here, for the visitor information does not, nor any signage on the path itself. What seems like a fairly flat grassy walk level with the bank of the Teme rises and involves stepped slabs, without any rails; I suspect these could be treacherous when wet. The peril only becomes obvious when one has embarked some way on the Bread Walk. Not recommended for pushchairs, wheelchairs and mobility scooters, and anyone who is wobbly or struggles with steps. And not for cyclists.
The path above is obviously precipitous and leads to the famous town views from Whitcliffe Common. It is clear from here that – if you didn’t see them on the way in – that Ludlow is surrounded by not hills in the Welsh sense, but intense bumps, called Cops. It is also situated on a bump. The streets slope up to the market on several sides, and this made me think of another now small town which also has administered its area: Lewes. With several lovely old buildings and a ruined castle, this could well be a Sussex cousin.
Lewes, like other towns I was reminded of, is known for its independent spirit.
I wonder if I also perceive a bit of naughty in Ludlow? I hope so.
Ludlow recalled bohemian Bridport in Dorset, also amidst humpy rounded hills and with a broad street coming off another in a T, with a market hall on legs at the junction. There are similarities in shops and cafes. I’ve noted a trio of clothes shops – Fat Face, White Stuff and Sea Salt – which appear in mostly smaller towns or modest cities of a certain ilk, assuming that persons of a certain ilk (mostly more middle aged women) shop here and garbs themselves with funky, find your own fashion. These are all here (also formerly a Mistral, the fourth member of the trinity), but Ludlow generally eschews chain shops. Apart from supermarkets by the station, symbolically at the bottom of the hill, I’m not sure that I saw any other than local shop Spar and a branch of Boots the chemist.
I saw only one restaurant chain: pizza based Wildwood – which had closed. Foodwise, it’s pubs, or cafes which only open by night at the end of the week; they may not open at all the early part. I tried a Greek restaurant in a former school, now the Mascal centre, filled with bossy carpark signs. If I’d driven, I would have left immediately. But the restaurant didn’t put out a menu and didn’t open when it said it would in the advert in the free town guide. And it was raining, so we found one of those interesting old pubs…with a village-like sense of knowing others and speaking to other punters without sitting on the same table. Some pubs give their kitchens a night off on Mondays.
I asked traders when shops generally shut: when the owners felt like it, they replied. Perhaps there is a core of 11-3…ish. Other than those few chains and the library, it was going to be harder to find somewhere warm and dry at the end of the afternoon (not forgetting it’s the wet West).
Ludlow feels quite different after the most days of the week open market closes. All stalls have the same green and white awnings. I was surprised to learn of the Victorian covered market and town hall which once stood on most of the open area. It left hardly any room for car parking – was it the age of motor car that destroyed it? Although there is a beautiful model of it in the Brewery, I’m not sure that I rue the lost of this behemoth, too large for the scale of Ludlow, and dominating it. It looked like something that a northern industrial city would sport with pride, but not somewhere that dubs itself as one of England’s loveliest ancient small towns. Its absence led the way for the return of open stalls – which I am used to, coming from the East of England where everyone retains that old feature in the town square. And it meant that entertainment returned to a building in need of restoration – the Assembly or Public Rooms. But I am shocked that this town hall was demolished – I can’t find out why, only that it was a year after refurbishment, in 1986.
The other two buildings which dominate, more than the 18th C Butter Market which is now the end of week only town museum, are the ancient pair: church and castle. The latter is quite ruined, but contains remains of a Tudor palace – this is where Catherine of Aragon started married life – and an unusual round Norman chapel. Normally open daily, it is the focus of at least three annual events – in Sept, Spring and Christmas – and there may be closures on either side to dismantle stages and stalls. The admission price as of 2022 is £8 for an adult.
The parish church of St Laurence is one of those which boringly call themselves cathedral-like but I can really only think of three nationally that truly earn that description – and this isn’t one. It is a large and imposing church, especially for this part of the country. I found it less beautiful than I expected – it seems to be heavily Victorianised, by the same little Emu hands that built that town hall and market. The inner walls seemed rough hewn, as did the nave ceiling, yet the decorations too intense. I did like the crossing and the colours of the chancel ceiling. As well as its Manchester-like 135ft tower, I was intrigued by the octagonal porch, which I’ve only seen at St Mary Redcliffe in Bristol – a church that really is cathedral-like. In it I was greeted by a talking television, which spoiled the quiet space I was looking forward to. Shop staff kept most items behind the till, especially their overpriced guide. I collect these and £5 is too much for one that size, especially when you know that they cost less than a pound to print.
Going into shops and pubs showed me things that were not in the guide books – not that there was an abundance of those. The town’s one bookshop was busy making comments about customers, which ensured that I wasn’t one. The views below are of a not untypical shop – with stairs as difficult as those of the Bread Walk – and the Rose and Crown pub’s back entrance.
In terms of buildings, there are many riches to discover here, but in both visits, I felt sated after a few hours, and wasn’t tempted to stay, in any sense. After castle and church, there’s little to visit – the Castle Lodge, with its meringue-like plastered ceilings and interesting butler is no longer open to the public. Although it has suburbs, I felt a little islandy here, almost as if I was in danger of being sucked in after curfew and the last of the 7 town gates would shut me in if I’d not escaped, or got myself cosy.
One more place that this reminded me of – Warwick, and probably its nearest relative, in terms of being a match. Less of a castle now here, but similar character: a small town by a river of Georgian and complicated black and white timbered houses; a market hall on legs; both places of importance in English history.
Lastly – the elephant – or should I choose a feathered equivalent? Yes I did take a photo and thought about going in, or even staying. I’m not sure that I see this as a finer frontage than all the others. I didn’t like the signage – yes to masks and no to cash – and something that just didn’t feel inviting, riding on reputation as if they could be choosy about you. When visiting the library, I saw the back of the Feathers – not all its rooms are Jacobean. These were much as at any modern chain.
I was about to champion somewhere else, but being given rude “forbidden” messages when trying to visit their site just made me feel like not bothering – is the site dead or are you just trying to data harvest, like the main ludlow.org.uk site, which still hasn’t mastered cookie law?
A lovely day out, absolutely… but the perfect town? England’s most perfect? Not for me. And, to counter your boasts, Ludlow was never a city – certainly since Norman times, this county has not had a cathedral, and that was the city definition until living memory. (And your big sister also claims to be the seat of Wales and the Marches government – can you both have been?)
So my choral card sending friend was right…ish…as I sensed three decades ago when I was recipient of that card.
Elspeth's Naughty guides 