CLEEVE ABBEY—OLD CLEEVE—BLUE ANCHOR
TWO miles inland from Watchet lies the Cistercian Abbey of St. Mary de
Cleeve, or Clive; that is to say, St. Mary of the Cliff—the most notable
ruin in these districts of Somerset. The church, the Abbey itself, has
quite vanished, and its materials centuries ago passed into such
commendably useful purposes as building-stones for neighbouring
farmsteads, cow-bartons and linhays, while the many excellent roads of
the neighbourhood doubtless owe their foundations to the same source.
The very interesting and extensive remains of the establishment are
those of the domestic buildings, which have scarce their equal elsewhere
in England.
This once proud and beautiful Abbey was founded in 1188 by one William
de Romare, of whom we know little else than that he was of the family of
the Earls of Lincoln of that period. It stands, after the manner of all
Cistercian monasteries, in a pleasant fertile vale, watered by a
never-failing stream; for the White Monks were, next to their religious
association, most remarkable for their agricultural and stock-breeding
pursuits. They were not greatly distinguished for their learning, as
were, for example, the Benedictines; but as farmers they were
pre-eminent, growing corn and breeding sheep and horses more
scientifically than any secular agriculturists of their age.
The Cistercians, who derived from Citeaux, in France, were alternatively
styled “Bernadines.” They first established themselves in England in
1128: their first Abbey that of Waverley, near Guildford. They stood,
originally, for simplicity, in life and worship. “They spent their
life,” says Peter of Blois, “on slender food, in rough vesture, in
vigils, confession, discipline, and psalms; in humility, hospitality,
obedience, and charity.” We have also the testimony of St. Bernard’s
words, that “in praying and fast, in study of Holy Writ, and hard manual
labour” they occupied their time.
They were not so dour and solemn as some others of the monastic orders,
and typified the spiritual joy that filled their hearts by the white
habits they adopted; largely, however, as a protest against the
penitential Benedictines. For harmony never did exist between the monks
of different rules, who were jealous of some and despiteful to others,
according to circumstances. Most orders, however, united in despising
and ridiculing the Cistercians, who were in this, as in the simplicity
of their rule, and in the severe, unornamental character of their
original Abbeys, the Plymouth Brethren and the Presbyterians of their
age. The first type of Cistercian house was almost as simple as a
Dissenting Chapel of our own times. In the churches of other orders the
Rood was made as ornate, and of as costly materials, as possible: often
glowing with gold and silver and precious stones. The Cistercian monks,
however, remembering that Our Lord died upon a cross of wood, placed a
crucifix of plain wood in their churches, and throughout the whole of
the establishment conducted themselves as the sanctified farmers they
really were: not even scrupling to absent themselves from Mass at
harvest-time. If it be true—and it is a noble belief—that “to labour is
to pray,” then the early Cistercians prayed well; for with all their
might they brought lands under cultivation, and tended and improved
stock, and helped the world along toward the distant ideal.
But as time went on, and the order grew rich by dint of its own farming
and wool-growing successes, and by a never-failing stream of
benefactions, the Abbots and monks by degrees became arrogant and lazy.
They no longer worked in their fields; leaving the practical farming to
the lay-brothers and the horde of dependents they had accumulated. As
landowners they were even more grasping than secular landlords, and, in
common with other orders, were extremely tenacious of their rights of
market and other monopolies; thus earning for themselves a hatred which
was in course of time to sweep them out of existence. The Cistercians
were not alone—nor perhaps even as prominent as others—in these worldly
ways; but they shared in the growing arrogance and luxury of these
bodies originally vowed to poverty and practising their vows because
they did not own the wherewithal to do otherwise. Their churches and
domestic buildings were rebuilt elaborately and their Abbots travelled
_en grand seigneur_ through the country; persons claiming great
consideration.
[Illustration: ENTRANCE TO CLEEVE ABBEY.]
Cleeve Abbey derives its name from the swelling hills in the recesses of
this valley of the stream, called the Roadwater, _i.e._ the “Roodwater.”
“Cleeve” indicates, in its old meaning, not only a cliff or cleft, but
any bold hill. The word is found in the place-names of Clevedon, near
by, and at Clieveden, on the Thames. There are no cliffs in this gentle
vale nearer than the not remarkably large cliffs at Watchet. The valley
is, indeed, more noted for its quiet pastoral beauty than for
ruggedness, and was in olden times known as _Vallis Florida_, the “Vale
of Flowers.”
Although only the ground plan of the monastic church remains, showing it
to have been a building 161 feet in length, and of the transitional
period between the Norman and the Early English styles, the domestic
buildings are in very fair preservation, considering their use by so
many generations of farmers as hay, corn, and straw lofts. The
cloister-garth, now a lawn-like expanse, was, until Mr. Luttrell cleared
it out about 1865, a typical farm-yard, rich in muck. At the same
period, the pigsties and various farming outbuildings that had been
added in the course of over three hundred years, were cleared away, and
the place made more accessible to those interested in these relics of
the past. The Luttrells, however, do not allow the place to be seen for
nothing, and have indeed at least an adequate idea of its worth as a
show; a notice confronting the pilgrim to the effect that Cleeve Abbey
is shown on weekdays at one shilling a head: sixpence each for two or
more: “special arrangements for Parties.”
Cleeve Abbey is not shown on Sundays and that traveller who from force
of circumstances comes to it on the Sabbath must be content with a view
of its entrance-gateway only. If he cannot contain his artistic or
antiquarian enthusiasm, but must needs peer and quest about on the edge
of the precincts, then the fury of the people who occupy the farm, and
are at the same time caretakers of and guides to the Abbey ruins, and
without whose unwelcome company you may not see the place at all, at any
time, is let loose over him. Whether this be a respect for the Sabbath,
or for the merely secular rules imposed by the Luttrells, or whether it
is not more likely to be the rage aroused by the prospect of a stranger
seeing for nothing that for which a fee is charged, I will not pretend
to declare. You may come at any time over the ancient two-arched Gothic
bridge from the road, and so through the gatehouse, and through that
into the outer court, which is now a meadow, without being challenged:
arriving at the further end at the farmhouse, beside which is a
wicket-gate admitting into the cloister-garth. “Ring the Bell,” curtly
says a notice-board, with a small “Please” added, in hesitating manner,
for politeness’ sake; probably by some satirical visitor, wishful of
imparting a lesson in manners.
The present explorer was one of those whom circumstances conspire to
bring hither on Sunday, without the prospect of a return in the near
future. He left a bicycle in the gatehouse and came across the meadow,
where the base of the old Abbot’s market-cross stands with a sycamore
growing in the empty socket of its shaft, to the wicket-gate. It being
Sunday, he did not ring, but entered and sat down there in an ancient
archway, in would-be peaceful and holy contemplation. What more
Christian and Sabbath-like spirit than this would you have? Better, I
take it, than the occupation of most of the villagers at that same
moment, reading the Sunday newspapers, filled (after the manner of the
Sunday newspaper) with the raked-together garbage of the last seven
days.
But this holy calm was not to continue. It was entirely owing to that
bicycle. A strategist would have concealed it. Its presence under the
archway of the gatehouse brought the peaceful interlude to an abrupt
conclusion, as shall presently appear.
Within the space of an all too short minute or two there appeared two
little girls through the wicket-gate, coming home to the farmhouse from
a walk, or from Sunday school, evidently excited by the sight of that
machine, and by the very obvious deduction that the owner of it must be
somewhere near. “And very pretty it was,” as Pepys might have put it, to
see them questing about everywhere except in the right place, and not
finding him, sitting there in the grateful shade quite close to them,
and really easily to be seen, you know. And after all, it was the
intruder himself who revealed his own presence, with the remark, “I
suppose you are looking for the owner of that bicycle?” Whereupon they
ran away and there presently entered upon the scene an angry woman, with
inflamed visage and furious words; with offensive epithets about
“trippers,” and the like. Outrageous!
Now, to beat a leisurely and dignified retreat under such circumstances
is difficult. You owe it to yourself not to be ignominiously routed in
disorder, but to draw off your forces from the stricken field calmly and
collectedly, inflicting losses upon the enemy, if possible. And then,
you know, to be styled a “tripper,” and by a fat farmer-woman! Does that
not demand retribution?
Therefore, “Do you presume, woman, to call me a tripper?” seemed the
best retort: effective and injurious, and at the same time restrained
and dignified.
“Woman!” What a deadly offence, what a god-addressing-a-blackbeetle
effect this has! It produces rage of the foaming, abusive, incoherent
order, in midst of which, with a cold-drawn, blighting smile, you
retire, with the consciousness that the thing will rankle for days. But
the incident renders a comparison of old times with new in Somerset
unfavourable to the present age. In the olden days, before every
historic spot or architectural rarity had become a show-place, resorted
to by a constant stream of visitors, the farmer whose farm happened to
be on the site of some ruined abbey would, as a rule, make the visitor
courteously welcome at all times, in his homely fashion, and would
indeed be pleased to see the rare strangers who came his way; but in
these times, now that excursionists are everywhere, and in great
numbers, ruins have acquired a certain commercial value, and must be
hedged about with restrictions.
[Illustration: THE REFECTORY, CLEEVE ABBEY.]
But here we are in the twentieth century, and it were hopeless and
foolish to wish ourselves back in the early years of the nineteenth; for
not the most perfect examples of that old-time courtesy could recompense
for other incidental discomforts.
Here, then, facing the road, across the little Gothic bridge spanning
the Roodwater, stands the Gatehouse. Let us enter—it being
weekday—beneath the ample arch of that mingled Decorated and Late
Perpendicular building. The upper storey, the work of William Dovell,
the last Abbot, bears the hospitable Latin welcome:
Porta patens esto
Nulli claudaris honesto,
metrically rendered:
Gate, open be;
To honest men all free.
but more literally translated, “Gate, be open; and be closed to no
honest man.” It was a favourite threshold invitation with the
Cistercians; but the later corruption, avarice, and sloth that marked
them, in common with other orders, led to a double meaning being
fastened upon it, both in England and in France. The Latin construction
easily admits of a cynical interpretation, figured for us by the
still-surviving French punning proverb: “Faute d’un point Martin perdit
son âne; _i.e._ By the mistake of a full-stop, Martin lost his ass;” the
original Martin of this cryptic saw being the Abbot of Alne, who was so
unscholarly that in setting up the honoured motto, he placed a full-stop
after the word “nulli”; thus making the phrase read scandalously,
Gate opened be to none.
Closed to the honest man.
That unfortunate Abbot’s lack of learning caused the enraged people of
the district, headed by rival churchmen, to demolish his Abbey.
But to return to the sea, at Blue Anchor, by way of Old Cleeve.
Past Washford—_i.e._ “Watchet-ford”—railway station, and down a leafy
lane to the right hand, we come in a mile to the village of Old Cleeve;
its pleasant rustic, vine-grown cottages commanding views of the
beautiful bay between Blue Anchor and the bold promontory of North Hill,
Minehead, from their bedroom windows in the heavily thatched roofs.
There is not much of Old Cleeve, but what there is, bears the impress of
simplicity and innocence, not at all in unison with the scandalous
rhyme:
There was a young fellow of Cleeve
Who said, “It is pleasant to thieve!”
So he spent all his time
In commission of crime—
Now he’s out on a Ticket-of-Leave.
The church of Old Cleeve is of the usual fine Perpendicular character to
which we grow accustomed in these parts; with the curious individual
feature of a floor gradually, but most distinctly, ascending from the
west end of the nave to the chancel. Here is an alms-box, dated 1634,
and inscribed “Tob. 4. Pro. 19. Remember ye poore. Bee mercifvll after
thy power. He that hath pitie vpon ye poore lendeth vnto the Lord.”
In a recess contrived in the wall of the nave and surmounted by a boldly
moulded ogee arch, finished off with a finial in the shape of a human
face wearing a somewhat satanic expression of countenance, is a
recumbent effigy of a civilian of the fifteenth century. This, although
blunted and damaged by time and ill-usage, was evidently a fine work in
the days of its prime. The effigy has not been identified, and whether
it be that of a merchant-prince, or some great local landowner, cannot
be said; but the original was, at all events, if we may judge from the
care evidently taken by the sculptor with the effigy, a person of
importance. A peculiarly charming and dainty—almost a feminine—effect is
given by the decorated fillet that encircles the long hair, and by the
girdle around the waist; but what will most keenly arouse the interest
and the speculation of those who examine the figure is the very striking
little sculptured group, of a cat with one paw resting on a mouse, on
which the feet of the effigy rest. Although the head of the cat is
somewhat worn down, the group is still tolerably perfect, and the cat is
seen to be looking up at the figure, as though seeking her master’s
approval.
The question visitors will naturally ask, “Has this representation of
sculptured cat and mouse any particular meaning here?” at once arises;
but no facts, or legends even, are available. It is curious to note,
however, that Sir Richard Whittington—the famous “Dick Whittington,” the
hero of the “Dick Whittington and his Cat” story—was contemporary, or
very nearly contemporary, with the unknown man represented here. It is
not suggested that the fact is more than a coincidence: but it is a
curious one.
[Illustration: MYSTERIOUS EFFIGY AT OLD CLEEVE.]
In the porch is an ancient, greatly timeworn chest, with three locks and
a slit in the lid, for the reception of “Peter’s Pence” and other
contributions. As the chest is about six feet in length and
proportionably deep, it is evident that the expectations were not
modest. Let us trust the faithful took the hint and contributed
accordingly.
And so by delightful lanes to Blue Anchor, where the railway runs along
the shore and has a station of that name. Blue Anchor station must in
its time have misled many strangers, for where a railway station is,
there one expects a town, or village, also. But here is a void, an
emptiness, a vacuum. Only a solitary bay is disclosed before the
astounded stranger’s gaze. It is a noble bay, it is true, and commands
lovely views of the great North Hill at Minehead, with Dunster nestling
midway; and the sunsets are magnificent. But railway companies don’t
build railway stations merely for the convenience of those few people
who would take a journey especially for sake of a view or a sunset; and
it certainly seems as though the Great Western expected building
developments here, long ago, and was still awaiting them. In short, all
there is of Blue Anchor is an old inn of that name, not remotely
suggesting a past intimately connected with smuggling, together with a
cottage or two.
[Illustration: BLUE ANCHOR.]
Unfortunately for the lover of an unspoiled seashore, a formal sea-wall
has recently been built, to protect the marshes that here fringe the bay
from being drowned. The Somerset County Council built it, at a cost of
some £30,000. Let us hope the Luttrells are properly grateful for this
public work that so efficiently protects their lands.
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