MINEHEAD, NEW AND OLD—SELWORTHY—THE HORNER
Scarce two miles distant from Dunster is Minehead, the hamlet of Alcombe
lying between the two. Minehead, a group of three so-called “towns,”
Quay Town, Lower Town, and Upper Town, occupies a position on the gently
curving flat shore sheltered on the West by the bold, abrupt headland of
North Hill, rising to a height of 843 feet. North Hill is so striking a
feature in all views of the town, that one comes unconsciously to regard
it as the only typical outstanding feature of the place. It is, so far
as pictures go, Minehead. A noble hill it is, with the old quayside
houses of the original fisher-village and ancient little port nestling
beneath it. Immemorially a swelling green hillside, seamed and lined
irregularly with hedgerows roughly into a chessboard pattern, it is
distressing nowadays to find it being studded with villas and scarred
with roads.
For to this complexion has Minehead come at last; development into a
seaside resort. But a few years since, and here you had a scattered,
unspoiled village. To-day, by favour of the Luttrells, who own the land,
and because the railway is handy, the terminus station being, in fact,
on the beach, the builder is walking, splay-footed, all over it, and
hotels have arisen on the front, and there is a bandstand, there are
seaside “entertainers,” and there are pickpockets among the crowds thus
being “entertained”; with the result that numerous visitors have to
remain in pawn at their lodgings until such time as they receive fresh
supplies. This it is to be up-to-date! Among other up-to-date doings is
the covering of the roads with asphalte, so that visitant motor-cars
shall not stir up the dust; the result being that the roads so treated
have an evilly dirty appearance and a worse stink. They look, and
probably are, dangerous to health.
The old scattered Quay Town, Lower Town, and Upper Town, with their
time-honoured cob-walled, whitewashed cottages, are being surely
enmeshed together in an upstart network of new roads and
uncharacteristic villas that might be in suburban London, rather than in
Somerset; and the queer old Custom House, built in like manner on the
Quay, and a little larger than a tool-shed, has been wantonly destroyed
to make an approach to a pleasure pier, built in an impossible
situation, so that visitors are pleased not to go upon it. So much—and
more than enough too—of modern Minehead.
[Illustration: MINEHEAD.]
History-books tell us of strange doings in the old town. Thus in 1265,
on a Sunday, the wild Welsh, under one William of Berkeley, came across
Channel very numerously and pillaged the surrounding country before a
force could be despatched to deal with them. The reckoning was perhaps
not a ready one, but it seems to have been complete; the Constable of
Dunster, one Adam of Gurdon, meeting and defeating them and driving them
and their captain into the sea, wherein those who had not perished by
the sword were drowned.
In olden times this was the seat of a not inconsiderable trade. Woollens
were exported hence, and a large business was done in herrings sent to
Mediterranean ports, which bought annually some 4,000 barrels. Hence the
ancient armorial bearings of Minehead; a sailing ship and a woolpack.
[Illustration: SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY MANTEL, “LUTTRELL ARMS” INN.]
A curious incident in the annals of Minehead in days of old is that of
the furious onslaught of the Church upon an unfortunate lad, a native of
the place, who, sailing in a ship afterwards captured by Turkish
pirates, was taken prisoner, and his life spared on condition that he
embraced the Mohammedan religion. The desirability of life, and the
practical certainty of this youthful sailor that one religion was as
good as another, when a choice was offered between death and the
acceptance of a new creed, may perhaps be readily understood. But the
youth’s refusal to add himself to the noble army of martyrs outraged the
susceptibilities of the flatulent divines of the period, who, when he at
last returned home and told his story, made so great an affair of it
that nothing would properly serve the occasion but a public recantation
of error. We may, therefore, vividly picture to ourselves that scene in
Minehead church on Sunday, March 16th, 1627, when the more or less
penitent, but certainly very frightened and astonished, lad was had in
front of the pulpit, before the whole congregation, and, standing there
in the Turkish breeches in which he had returned home, made to listen to
the windy discourse of the Reverend Mr. Edward Kellet, who preached the
sermon afterwards printed under the title of _A Return from Argier_. We
may presume “Algiers” to be meant; but early seventeenth-century folk
were more than a little uncertain in these matters. The central,
harrowing fact of this occasion was, however, the length of that homily,
which fills seventy-eight closely printed pages, and must therefore have
occupied considerably over an hour in delivery. This is the manner of
it, as set forth by the printer and published and sold in Paternoster
Row for the edification of the godly:
“A Return from Argier: A Sermon preached at Minhead, in the County of
Somerset, the 16th of March, 1627, the re-admission of a Relapsed
Christian into our Church. By Edward Kellet, Doctor of Divinity.”
For the benefit of purchasers in London and elsewhere, who were not
acquainted with the circumstances, the following explanation was made to
preface the sermon:—
“A Countryman of ours goinge from the _Port_ of Mynhead in
Somersetshire, bound for the streights, was taken by Turkish Pyrats, and
made a slave at Argier, and liuing there in slauerie, by frailty and
weaknesse, forsooke the Christian Religion, and turned Turke, and liued
so some yeares; and in that time seruing in a Turkish ship, which was
taken by an Englishman of warre, was brought backe againe to Mynhead,
where being made to vnderstand the grieuousnesse of his Apostacy, was
very penitent for the same, and desired to be reconciled to the Church,
into which he was admitted by the authority of the Lord Bishop of that
Dioces, with aduise of some great and learned Prelates of this Kingdome
and was enioyned pennance for his Apostacy: and at his admission, and
performance thereof, these two Sermons were Preached the third Sunday in
Lent, Anno 1627, one the Forenoone, the other in the afternoone.”
Jeremy 3. 22. “Return, ye backsliding Children, and I will heal your
backslidings. Behold, we come unto thee, for thou art the Lord our God.”
The amount of pedantic verbiage in the Reverend Mr. Kellet’s hour-long
discourse is really appalling. That his congregation comprehended even
the half of it is not to be supposed, and that the “penitent” himself
but dimly understood what all the trouble was about may easily be
imagined. But there can, at any rate, be no manner of doubt that the
Doctor of Divinity enjoyed himself very much on this occasion:
thundering forth denunciations barbed with quotations from musty
theological works and fortified by apposite texts, which he must most
laboriously have raked together; for those were the days before Cruden’s
and other Concordances to the Scriptures had come into being. I will be
more merciful to my readers than was Kellet to his congregation, and
pretermit the most part of his sententious phrases and his excerpts from
the patriarchs. But let the following stand as a taste of his quality.
“You,” said he, pointing a scornful finger at the baggy-breeched
penitent standing there, “you whom God suffered to fall, and yet of His
infinite mercy vouchsafed graciously to bring home, not only to your
country and kindred, but to the profession of your first faith and to
the Church of Sacraments again; let me say to you (but in a better hour)
as sometime Joshua to Achan: ‘Give glory to God, sing praises to Him who
hath delivered your soul from the nethermost hell.’ When I think upon
your Turkish attire, that embleme of apostacy and witness of your wofull
fall, I do remember Adam and his figge-leave breeches; they could
neither conceal his shame, nor cover his nakedness. I do think vpon
David clad in Saul’s armour and his helmet of brasse. ‘I cannot goe with
these,’ saith David. How could you hope in this unsanctified habit to
attain Heaven? How could you clad in this vnchristian weede; how could
you, but with horror and astonishment thinke on the white robe of the
innocent Martyrs which you had lost? How could you goe in these rewards
of iniquity and guerdons of apostacie? and with what face could you
behold your selfe and others? I know you were young. So was Daniel and
the three Children: so were Dioscurus the Confessor, and Ponticus, the
Martyr: adde (if you please) English Mekins, who all at fifteen yeares
of age enured manfully whatsoever the furie of the persecutors pleased
to inflict vpon them.”
The preacher then proceeded to remark:
“We are bound without failing to resist unto the death. You who
go down to the sea in ships, and occupy your business in great
waters, are reckoned by Pittacus as neither amongst the dead nor
the living. The grave is always open before your face, and only
the thickness of an inch exists between you and eternity.”
Altogether, the lot of the seafaring community was revealed to this
Minehead congregation in an entirely new light. They had never heard of
Pittacus before, and had really, you know, fancied themselves alive, and
not in the dreadful _tertium quid_ pictured by that classical
philosopher.
Time was also when Minehead possessed a ghost, but that was long ago. It
is now going on for nearly three hundred years since this malignant
spectre was finally discredited, and the up-to-date circumstances of the
place scarce admit the possibility of a successor. Sir Walter Scott, in
his notes to “Rokeby,” tells us about this apparition, which was (or was
reputed to be) that of a Mrs. Leakey, an amiable old widow lady of the
little seaport, who died in 1634. She had an only son, a shipowner and
seafaring man of the place, who drove a considerable trade with
Waterford and other ports of the South of Ireland. She was in life of
such a cheery and friendly disposition, and so acceptable a companion to
her friends that they were accustomed to say to her and to each other
what a pity it was so amiable and good-natured a woman must, in the
usual course nature, be at last lost to an admiring circle in
particular, and in general to a world in which her like was seldom met.
To these flattering remarks she used to reply that, whatever pleasure
they might now find in her company, they would not greatly like to see
her, and to converse with her, after death.
After her inevitable demise, she began to appear to various persons,
both by day and night: sometimes in her house and at others in the
fields and lanes. She even haunted the sea. The cause of this postmortem
restlessness appears to have been a small matter of a necklace which had
fallen into hands she had not intended; and her dissatisfaction with
this state of affairs entirely changed her once suave disposition. One
of her favourite ghostly fancies was to appear upon the quay and call
for a boat, much to the terror of the waterside folk. Her son, however,
was the principal mark of her vengeance, for her chief delight was to
whistle up a wind whenever the unfortunate son’s ships drew near to
port. He suffered, in consequence, so greatly from shipwreck that he
soon became a ruined man. So apparently credible a person as the curate
of Minehead saw the spook, and believed, as also did her
daughter-in-law, a servant, and numerous others. In fact, Minehead in
general placed entire confidence in the supernatural nature of “the
Whistling Ghost”; and it was not altogether reassured by the finding of
a commission that sat to enquire upon the matter, presided over by the
Bishop of Bath and Wells. The finding was “Wee are yet of opinion and
doe believe that there never was any such apparition at all, but that it
is an imposture, devise, and fraud for some particular ends, but what
they are wee know not.”
[Illustration: QUIRKE’S ALMSHOUSES.]
There are still some quaint objects, and odd nooks and corners in
Minehead. Among these an alabaster statue of Queen Anne (deceased some
time since) is prominent in the principal street: but the local experts
in the art of how not to do anything properly have just enshrined it in
a clumsy stone alcove affair that not only serves the intended office of
shielding the statue from the weather, but also most efficiently
obscures it. This figure was the work of Bird, author of the original
statue of Queen Anne in front of St. Paul’s Cathedral, and was presented
by Sir Jacob Banks to the town in 1719, as some sort of recognition of
the honour he had for sixteen years enjoyed of representing Minehead in
nine successive Parliaments, by favour of the powerful local Luttrell
interest, he having in 1696 married the widow of Colonel Francis
Luttrell. The statue was originally placed in the church, and the
churchwardens’ accounts tell us, in this wise, how it was received:
s. d.
Ringing when the Queen’s effigies was 7 6
brought to the Church
Paid for beer for the men that brought 2 6
in the Queen’s effigies into the
Church
The Quirke almshouses, in Market House Lane, form a pretty nook. Their
origin is sufficiently told on the little engraved brass plate that is
fixed over the central door:
Robert Qvirck, sonne of James Qvirck
bvilt this howse ano: 1630 and
doth give it to the vse of the poore
of this parish for ever and for better
maintenance I doe give my two
inner sellers at the Inner End of the key
and cvrssed bee that man that shall
convert it to any other vse then to
the vse of the poore 1630.
[Illustration: DOORWAY OF THE MANOR OFFICE.]
Then follow the representation of a three-masted, full-rigged ship of
the period, and the concluding lines:
God’s providence
Is my Inheritance
R Q
E
[Illustration: MINEHEAD CHURCH.]
The shaft of an ancient cross stands at one end of this row of cottages.
[Illustration: THE MANOR OFFICE, MINEHEAD.]
In midst of Minehead, now overshadowed by tall business premises,
painfully like those to be seen any day in London, stands a charming old
building, long past used as the Manor Office. The original use of the
building, which appears to be of the fifteenth century, is unknown, and
perhaps hardly even to be guessed at. The walls, of red sandstone, are
immensely thick and stoutly buttressed, with oak-framed windows of
semi-ecclesiastical design, still displaying traces of rich carving.
Old customs survive at Minehead, in a half-hearted way, and not perhaps
from any natural spontaneous joyousness, but because there is something
to be made out of them. This does not, however, apply to the burning of
the ashen faggot on the domestic hearth on Christmas Eve, and but
partially to the “worslers”—_i.e._ “wassailers”—who every January 17th
visit neighbouring orchards, and with song and dance invoke a good crop
of apples in the forthcoming season. But weddings at the old parish
church still form an excuse for levying tribute, and those who have
attended generally discover their return barred until they have rendered
the wherewithal for drinks round.
Chief among the town celebrations is that of the Hobby Horse, surviving
from a remote antiquity. It takes place annually, on the first three
days of May, and assumes the shape of a gaudily caparisoned What-is-It,
escorted by fishermen and fisher-lads, playing on drum and concertina,
with an obbligato of money-box rattling. We have styled the Hobby Horse
as above for the sufficient reason that it is not only utterly unlike
anything equine, but with an equal conclusiveness unlike anything else
on earth; being just a draped framework, hung with gaily coloured
ribbons, from the midst of which rises a something intended for a capped
head. The human mechanism that actuates this affair may be guessed at
from the great boots that ever and again are to be seen protruding from
it.
[Illustration: ROOD-LOFT TURRET, MINEHEAD.]
This is a survival of more simple times, and seems a little out of the
picture in the sophisticated streets of modern Minehead. Rural customs,
outside the radius of the town, wear a more natural appearance.
The ancient church of Minehead, the parish church of St. Michael, stands
as do most churches dedicated to that saint, on a hilly site. It is in
Upper Town, half way up North Hill, and quite remote, thanks be, from
the recent developments down below. Here the ancient white-faced
cottages remain, and the steep steps that form the road, and here you
feel that you are come again into the Somerset of pre-railway times. The
church is chiefly of the Perpendicular period. On the tower, rather too
high for their details to be easily made out without the aid of glasses,
are sculptured panels representing St. Michael weighing souls, with the
Virgin Mary on one side and the Devil on the other contending for
possession, by pressing down the beam of the scales; and a group of God
the Father, holding a crucified Christ. A rich projecting bay filled
with windows forms an unusual feature of the south side of the church.
It is the staircase turret of the rood screen, and was designed in this
fashion and filled with windows, it is said, for the purpose of showing
a light at night-time for fishermen making the harbour. No beacon is
shown now, but it is stated that fishermen still speak of “picking up
the church lights” as they make their way home. At the same time, it is
only right to say that, from personal observation, it seems impossible
that the windows or the turret could ever have been visible from the
sea. They look out rather in a landward direction, if anything, towards
Dunster. But on the opposite side of the church there remains an
inscription in Old English characters, somewhat decayed, by which it is
evident that the well-being of the neighbourhood was near the hearts of
these church folk:
We . prey . to . John . and M(ary)
send . our . neyburs . safte.
[Illustration: THE CLOCK JACK, MINEHEAD CHURCH.]
The interior of the church is very fine, with the usual rich rood-screen
we come to expect in these parts. It is possible to ascend the
staircase-turret and walk along the site of the rood-loft, which was
indeed until 1886, when the church was restored, occupied during service
by school-children. Here is preserved a queer little clock-jack figure,
removed from the tower. The entrance to the chapel of St. Lawrence from
the chancel is by an archway curiously framed in wood, instead of stone.
Various relics, in the shape of old books and Bibles, a carved-oak late
fifteenth-century chest, and some brasses of the Quirke family (among
whom one notices the oddly named “Izott,” wife of John Quirke, mariner,
1724) reward the visitor.
This way, uphill, past the old church, is the pleasantest exit from
Minehead, on the way to Porlock, but it is by no means the usual or the
easiest one, as the stranger will perceive when he is reduced to
enquiring the proper choice among several roads that presently confront
him.
[Illustration: LYNCH CHAPEL.]
“Y’ant coom up yur to get to Parlock?” asked an old rustic cottage woman
of the present writer, with some astonishment. Being reassured that one
really knew this to be a very indirect route, she abandoned the sarcasm
she was prepared with, and was reduced to satire on visitors in general.
“_Some_ on ’em doan’ niver think of asking the way. They jest goos arn,
an’ then they goos wrong. I often larfs in me sleeve at ’em, I do.”
Saucy puss!
Yes. I suspect the simple countryfolk enjoy many a sly laugh at
visitors, quite unsuspected.
To Selworthy, over North Hill, is a rugged way, of narrow woodland
lanes. Selworthy, as its name sufficiently indicates, is a village amid
the woods; woods around it, above and below; the woodlands belonging to
the Aclands of Holnicote—_i.e._ “Hollen-cot,” or holly-cot,—that seat
lying down beside the main road to Porlock. Here are ancient oaks and
other trees, and more recent plantations that have now matured and
clothed the hillsides with fir and larch. These were planted by that Sir
Thomas Acland who died, aged 89, in 1898. A wild region is that of
Selworthy Beacon, rising to a height of 933 feet, above the village.
[Illustration: PACKHORSE BRIDGE, ALLERFORD.]
The village itself is a small and scattered one, with a large and
handsome church, neighboured by a monastic tithe-barn. A “Peter’s Pence”
chest, hinting, by its size and iron bands and triple locks, great
expectations, is one of the objects of interest here. But tourists from
Minehead and Porlock do not come chiefly to see the church, beautifully
restored with the aid of Acland gold though it be. It is rather the fame
of the pretty thatched cottages bordering a village green that attracts
them. These owe their origin to the late Sir Thomas Dyke Acland, who
built them as homes for servants grown old in his employ, and pensioned
off by him.
The road down from Selworthy to Porlock passes the little river Horner
and commands views on the left hand up to the purple hills of Exmoor, up
to Cloutsham, where the wild red deer couch, and the great heights of
Dunkery, Easter Hill, and Robinow. To the left lies the hamlet of
Horner, so-called from the river, “Hwrnr,” = “the Snorer,” snoring, as
the Anglo-Saxons are supposed to have fancifully likened the sound of
its hoarse purring, over the boulders and amid the gravel-stones that
strew its shallow woodland course. Here, amid the woods, you may find,
not far from a comparatively modern road-bridge, an ancient packhorse
bridge flung steeply across the stream. At Allerford is another
packhorse bridge.
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