Rory Walsh sets off on a meandering walk to trace the lost defence of Kenilworth Castle
What’s the grandest gesture that you’ve made for love? Robert Dudley takes some matching. Dudley, the Earl of Leicester, spent 12 years and a large fortune turning Kenilworth Castle into a grand palace to woo Queen Elizabeth I. His efforts culminated, in 1575, with 19 days of extravagant entertainment, including banquets, pageants and fireworks in the gardens. The castle grounds became a watery wonderland. A ‘Lady of the Lake’ welcomed revellers onto boats that floated among frolicking ‘nymphs’ around a purpose-built island.
Despite his attentions, Queen Elizabeth didn’t marry Dudley. Meanwhile, around 40 kilometres away in Stratford-upon-Avon, William Shakespeare was 11 years old. Some scholars suggest that Dudley’s magical realm inspired the fairy kingdom of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Beyond doubt is that Dudley’s show is but one scene in a dramatic history. For more than 800 years, Kenilworth Castle was a theatre of war, spectacle and solitude. Throughout, the surrounding landscape played a major role.
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Today, Kenilworth Castle is managed by English Heritage. On a bright Easter afternoon, it’s easy to see why it’s one of the most popular visitor attractions in the West Midlands. From the car park, a wide gravel causeway crosses the former moat. Ahead, the ruined castle stands on a picturesque knoll. Its orange walls glow between azure sky and verdant grass. While my family heads inside, towards an Easter trail and Lego activities, I stay outside in search of water.
After emerging from the empty moat twice, I realise: I’m lost. Help, luckily, is at hand. An English Heritage volunteer spots that I’ve begun from the wrong car park. ‘The Water Gate? It’s on the other side. Take the path beside the castle walls and you’ll find it.’
Stage reset, the trail resumes. Once on the footpath, the castle walls loom on the left, way above head height. They unfurl into the distance like a vast cliff. Opposite them, fields dotted with trees stretch towards the horizon.
The oldest parts of Kenilworth Castle date from the 1120s. Work began under Geoffrey de Clinton, Lord Chamberlain to King Henry I. From the outset, de Clinton took advantage of a natural location: a hill surrounded by low-lying meadows. The castle’s distinctive colour comes from the abundant local building material. New red sandstone is a strong but geologically ‘soft’ rock, making it ideal to cut into bricks. Geology and topography combined to create an ideal defensive site in the centre of England.
As the path bends to the left, the Water Gate appears in the wall. Bleached pale grey by the sun, it feels out of place. Castle water gates allow access to the sea or a nearby river. Yet Kenilworth is about as far from the coast as anywhere in the country. There’s no river in sight either. Peering at the meadows, though, reveals evidence of an earlier, wetter environment. The greenery includes subtle clumps of marsh, while a row of bushes marks the course of the Finham Brook. This small stream had huge effects.
To trace it, the footpath leads up a short flight of steps. I emerge onto the causeway near the ticket office and watch a steady stream of visitors arrive. The causeway is now the castle’s main entrance, yet it originally helped to keep people out instead of encouraging them in. Kenilworth’s strategic location meant that it became a royal stronghold. From 1210, King John ordered improvements to its defences. Besides spanning the Finham Brook, the causeway created a dam that flooded the meadows. The result was a vast lake, Kenilworth Mere.
Covering almost half a square kilometre, Kenilworth Mere was the largest defensive lake in the country. It made the castle easier to protect and very difficult to attack, as enemies had to approach by boat. The Water Gate provided direct access between the mere and the castle for people and supplies. The rest of the trail skirts the mere’s former outline. Before then, I go down the other side of the causeway. The Finham Brook meanders through long grass, almost unnoticed.
From the brook, the route continues through a gate into a wide field. The castle is now over my right shoulder. On my left is a dense hedgerow. Within minutes, it feels like I’m walking through another world. Kenilworth Castle is within an urban area, in the middle of a town between Coventry and Warwick. Yet the trail passes through a rural idyll. The hedgerow chatters with birdsong, while cotton-wool clouds drift over the fields. A passing man with a dog spots two kestrels hovering above.
Crossing the fields, the only signs of water on this sunny spring day are cattle troughs. However, the mere does still flood in wet weather, but only to a fraction of its former extent. Looking back at the distant castle, the mere’s sheer breadth becomes apparent. If I stepped back in time to the Middle Ages, I’d have wet feet. Instead of wildflowers and butterflies, I would be surrounded by fish and waterfowl. From here, it’s also possible to picture why Kenilworth Castle became the site of England’s longest siege.
King John’s son, Henry III, gave the castle to his brother-in-law, Simon de Montfort. A local nobleman, de Montfort went on to rebel against Henry. After de Montfort was killed at the Battle of Evesham, his supporters refused to surrender and returned to Kenilworth Castle. On 25 June 1266, Henry III laid siege to it. Despite an array of weapons, including barges dragged over land from Chester during the night, his forces couldn’t cross the mere. The siege lasted for 172 days, ending on 14 December.
While Kenilworth’s landscape hindered one King Henry, 150 years later it helped another. A diagonal track across the next field leads to a cattle grid. Beyond, the ground ripples with strange bumps and furrows. These earthworks are the remains of the Pleasaunce, a moated pleasure garden built in around 1414 for King Henry V. It was only accessible by boat across the mere and was literally tucked out of sight. A natural ridge hid the Pleasaunce from the castle, allowing Henry V to enjoy a royal retreat.
The castle reappears towards the end of the trail. The route enters a tree tunnel flanked by signs of farming: grazing horses, a giant barn stacked with hay bales. Eventually, the path opens onto an uphill road through the meadows. Shimmering in the sun, the castle towers emerge over the horizon like the funnels of a rusty battleship being raised from the deep. The mere disappeared in the aftermath of the English Civil War. It was a Royalist base, but the Parliamentarians captured the castle in 1642. They later dismantled the walls and breached the dam. Kenilworth Mere drained away.
Over the next two centuries, Kenilworth Castle became a romantic ruin, beloved by artists and writers. From the trail’s end at Castle Green, there are fleeting glimpses of statues and topiary in the grounds. Using a letter written in 1575, English Heritage has recreated how the gardens may have looked when Elizabeth I visited. Opinions about this are mixed – as were reactions to proposals in 2008 to restore the lake. The royal banquets ended, the ‘nymphs’ swam away. Yet Kenilworth’s dramatic appeal endures. Perhaps Robert Dudley’s efforts weren’t merely in vain.
