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THE NORTH DEVON COAST
WORKS BY CHARLES G. HARPER
=The Portsmouth Road=, and its Tributaries: To-day and in Days of
Old.
=The Dover Road=: Annals of an Ancient Turnpike.
=The Bath Road=: History, Fashion, and Frivolity on an Old Highway.
=The Exeter Road=: The Story of the West of England Highway.
=The Great North Road=: The Old Mail Road to Scotland. Two Vols.
=The Norwich Road=: An East Anglian Highway.
=The Holyhead Road=: The Mail-Coach Road to Dublin. Two Vols.
=The Cambridge, Ely, and King’s Lynn Road=: The Great Fenland
Highway.
=The Newmarket, Bury, Thetford, and Cromer Road=: Sport and History
on an East Anglian Turnpike.
=The Oxford, Gloucester, and Milford Haven Road=: The Ready Way to
South Wales. Two Vols.
=The Brighton Road=: Speed, Sport, and History on the Classic
Highway.
=The Hastings Road= and the “Happy Springs of Tunbridge.”
=Cycle Rides Round London.=
=A Practical Handbook of Drawing for Modern Methods of
Reproduction.=
=Stage-Coach and Mail in Days of Yore.= Two Vols.
=The Ingoldsby Country=: Literary Landmarks of “The Ingoldsby
Legends.”
=The Hardy Country=: Literary Landmarks of the Wessex Novels.
=The Dorset Coast.=
=The South Devon Coast.=
=The Old Inns of Old England.= Two Vols.
=Love in the Harbour=: a Longshore Comedy.
=Rural Nooks Round London= (Middlesex and Surrey).
=The Manchester and Glasgow Road=; This way to Gretna Green. Two
Vols.
=Haunted Houses=; Tales of the Supernatural.
=The Somerset Coast.= [_In the Press._
[Illustration:
_E. D. Percival_ [_Ilfracombe._
LYNMOUTH, FROM THE BEACH.]
THE NORTH DEVON
COAST
BY
CHARLES G. HARPER
_“Let us, in God’s name, adventure one voyage more, always with this
caution, that you be pleased to tolerate my vulgar phrase, and to
pardon me if, in keeping the plain highway, I use a plain low phrase;
and in rough, rugged and barren places, rude, rustic, and homely
terms._”--THOMAS WESTCOTE, 1620.
[Illustration]
LONDON: CHAPMAN & HALL, LTD.
1908
PRINTED AND BOUND BY
HAZELL, WATSON AND VINEY, LD.,
LONDON AND AYLESBURY.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
PAGE
INTRODUCTORY 1
CHAPTER II
LYNMOUTH 9
CHAPTER III
LYNTON--THE WICHEHALSE FAMILY, IN FICTION AND IN FACT 21
CHAPTER IV
THE COAST, TO COUNTISBURY AND GLENTHORNE 35
CHAPTER V
THE NORTH WALK--THE VALLEY OF ROCKS--LEE “ABBEY”--WOODA BAY--
HEDDON’S MOUTH--TRENTISHOE--THE HANGMAN HILLS 44
CHAPTER VI
COMBEMARTIN, AND ITS OLD SILVER MINES--THE CHURCH--WATERMOUTH
CASTLE--HELE 71
CHAPTER VII
“’COMBE” IN HISTORY--MODERN ’COMBE--THE OLD CHURCH 84
CHAPTER VIII
LUNDY--HISTORY OF THE ISLAND--WRECK OF THE “MONTAGU”--LUNDY
OFFERED AT AUCTION--DESCRIPTION 106
CHAPTER IX
CHAMBERCOMBE AND ITS “HAUNTED HOUSE”--BERRYNARBOR 123
CHAPTER X
LEE--MORTE POINT--MORTHOE AND THE TRACY LEGEND--WOOLACOMBE--
GEORGEHAM--CROYDE--SAUNTON SANDS--BRAUNTON, BRAUNTON BURROWS,
AND LIGHTHOUSE 131
CHAPTER XI
PILTON--BARNSTAPLE BRIDGE--OLD COUNTRY WAYS--BARUM--HISTORY AND
COMMERCIAL IMPORTANCE--OLD HOUSES--“SEVEN BRETHREN BANK”--
FREMINGTON--INSTOW AND THE LOVELY TORRIDGE 155
CHAPTER XII
KINGSLEY AND “WESTWARD HO!”--BIDEFORD BRIDGE--THE GRENVILLES--
SIR RICHARD GRENVILLE AND THE “REVENGE”--THE ARMADA GUNS--
BIDEFORD CHURCH--THE POSTMAN POET 177
CHAPTER XIII
THE KINGSLEY STATUE--NORTHAM--“BLOODY CORNER”--APPLEDORE--
WESTWARD HO! AND THE PEBBLE RIDGE 197
CHAPTER XIV
ABBOTSHAM--“WOOLSERY”--BUCK’S MILL 205
CHAPTER XV
CLOVELLY--“UP ALONG” AND “DOWN ALONG”--THE “NEW INN”--
APPRECIATIVE AMERICANS--THE QUAY POOL--THE HERRING FISHERY 208
CHAPTER XVI
MOUTH MILL AND BLACK CHURCH ROCK--THE COAST TO HARTLAND--
HARTLAND POINT--HARTLAND ABBEY--HARTLAND QUAY 224
INDEX 245
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Lynmouth, from the Beach _Frontispiece_
PAGE
Map of North Devon Coast 1
Headpiece 1
Watersmeet 6
Lynmouth and the Tors, from the Beach 12
Lyndale Bridge 17
Lynmouth, from the Tors Hotel 18
Lynton 24
The “Blue Ball” 37
Glenthorne 42
The Valley of Rocks 47
Lee “Abbey” 53
Wooda Bay 59
Heddon’s Mouth 62
“Hunter’s Inn” 64
Trentishoe Church 66
The “Pack of Cards,” Combemartin 73
Combemartin Church 77
Great Hangman Hill, and Entrance to Combemartin Harbour 80
Widemouth Bay 81
Capstone Hill and the Concert Parties 84
In the Harbour, Ilfracombe 89
Lantern Hill, Ilfracombe 90
Ilfracombe 100
Ilfracombe Church-tower 103
Lundy 107
The Landing-place, Lundy 111
The _Montagu_, on the Shutter Rock 117
The last of the _Montagu_, August, 1907 118
Chambercombe 125
The “Haunted House” of Chambercombe 127
Morthoe 135
Braunton Church 147
Sir John Schorne and his Devil 148
Braunton Burrows 150
Braunton Lighthouse 153
The Jester’s Head 156
Pulpit and Hour-glass, Pilton 157
An Old Door, Barnstaple 165
Old Room in the “Trevelyan Arms” 167
“Queen Anne’s Walk” 168
Barnstaple Church and Grammar School 170
The “Kingsley Room,” Royal Hotel, Bideford 178
Seal of Bideford 182
Bideford Bridge 183
Bideford Quay 191
“Bloody Corner” 199
Clovelly, from Buck’s Mill 206
Clovelly, from the Hobby Drive 209
“Up-along,” Clovelly 213
Sign of the “New Inn,” Clovelly 216
A Clovelly Donkey 218
“Temple Bar” 219
The Quay, Clovelly 220
Back of the “Red Lion,” Clovelly 221
Clovelly, from the Sea 225
Clovelly Church 226
Black Church Rock 227
Hartland Point 229
Hartland Quay 237
Speke’s Mouth 238
At Marsland Mouth 243
[Illustration: _The_ NORTH DEVON COAST]
[Illustration]
THE
North Devon
Coast
CHAPTER I
INTRODUCTORY
No one can, with advantage, explore the rugged coast of North Devon by
progressing direct from the point where it begins and so continuing,
without once harking back. The scenery is exceptionally bold and fine,
and the tracing of the actual coast-line by consequence a matter of no
little difficulty. Only the pedestrian can see this coast as a whole,
and even he needs to be blessed with powers of endurance beyond the
ordinary, if he would miss none of those rugged steeps, those rocky
coves and “mouths” and leafy combes that for the most part make up
the tale of the North Devon littoral. It is true that there are sands
in places, but they are principally sands like those yielding wastes
of Braunton Burrows, whereon you even wish yourself back again upon
the hazardous, stone-strewn hillsides sloping down to the sea that
make such painful walking in the region of Heddon’s Mouth; and there
you wish yourself on the sands again. It is so difficult as to be
almost impossible, to have at once the boldest scenery and the easiest
means of progression. At any rate, the two are found to be utterly
incompatible on the North Devon coast, and it consequently behoves
those who would thoroughly see this line of country to take their
exploration in small doses. As for the cyclist, he can do no more
upon his wheel than (so to speak) bore try-holes into the scenery,
and merely sample it at those rare points where practicable roads and
tracks approach the shore. The ideal method is a combined cycling and
walking expedition; establishing headquarters at convenient centres,
becoming acquainted with the districts within easy reach of them, and
then moving on to new.
The only possible or thinkable place where to begin this exploration
of these seventy-eight miles is Lynmouth, situated six miles from
Glenthorne, where the coast-line of Somerset is left behind. The one
reasonable criticism of this plan is that, arrived at Lynmouth, you
have the culmination of all the beauties of this beautiful district,
and that every other place (except Clovelly) is apt to suffer by
comparison.
Hardy explorers from the neighbourhood of London (of whom I count
myself one) will find their appreciation of this coast greatly
enhanced by traversing the whole distance to it by cycle. You come by
this means through a varied country; from the level lands of Middlesex
and Berkshire, through the chalk districts of Wilts; and so, gradually
entering the delightful West, to the steep hills and rugged rustic
speech of Somerset. It is a better way than being conveyed by train,
and being deposited at last--you do not quite know how--at Lynton
station.
Of course, the ideal way to arrive at Lynmouth is by motor-car, and
there, as you come down the salmon-coloured road from Minehead and
Porlock, the garage of the Tors Hotel faces you, the very first outpost
of the place, expectantly with open doors. But, good roads, or indeed
_any_ kind of roads, only rarely approaching the coast of North Devon,
it is merely at the coast-towns and villages, and not in a continual
panorama, that the motorist will here come in touch with the sea.
To give a detailed exposition of the route by which I came, per cycle,
to Lynmouth might be of interest, but it would no doubt be a little
beside the mark in these pages. Only let the approach across Exmoor be
described.
I come to Lynmouth in the proper spirit for such scenery: not
hurriedly, but determined to take things luxuriously, for to see
Lynmouth in a fleeting, dusty manner is to do oneself and the place
alike an injustice. But the best of intentions are apt to be set
at nought by circumstances, and circumstances make sport with all
explorers. Thus leaving Dulverton at noon of a blazing July day,
and making for Exmoor, there is at once a long, long ascent above
the valley of the infant Exe to be walked, at a time when but a few
steps involve even the most lathy of tourists in perspiration. And
then, at a fork of the roads in a lonely situation, where guidance
is more than usually necessary, a hoary signpost, lichened with the
weather of generations and totally illegible, mocks the stranger.
It is, of course, inevitable in such a situation as this that, of
the two roads, the one which looks the likeliest should be the wrong
one; and the likely road in this instance leads presently into a
farmyard--and nowhere else. This is where you perspire most copiously,
and think things unutterable. Then come the treeless, furze-covered
and bracken-grown expanses of Winsford common and surrounding
wide-spreading heaths, where the Exmoor breed of ponies roam at
large; and you think you are on Exmoor. To all intents, you are, but,
technically, Exmoor is yet a long way ahead.
It is blazing hot in these parts in summer, and yet, if you be an
explorer worthy the name, you must needs turn aside, left and right;
first to see Torr Steps, a long, primitive bridge of Celtic origin,
crossing the river Barle, generally spoken of by the country-folk as
“Tarr” steps, just as they would call a hornet a “harnet,” as evidenced
in the old rustic song beginning,
“A harnet zet in a holler tree,
A proper spiteful twoad was he”;
for it must be recollected that, although on the way to the North Devon
coast, and near it, we are yet in Zummerzet. Secondly, an invincible
curiosity to see what the village of Exford is like takes you off to
the right. Cycling, you descend that long steep hill in a flash, but on
the way back, in the close heat, arrive at the conclusion that Exford
was not worth the mile and a half walk uphill again.
And so to Simonsbath, a tiny village in the middle of the moor and
in a deep hollow where the river Barle prattles by. Unlike the moor
above and all around, Simonsbath is deeply wooded. Simon himself is
a half-mythical personage, one Simund, or Sigismund, of Anglo-Saxon
times, according to some accounts a species of Robin Hood outlaw,
and to others the owner of the manor in those days. “Bath” does not
necessarily indicate bathing, and in this case it merely means a pool.
The traveller coming to Simonsbath in July finds himself in an
atmosphere of “Baa,” and presently discovers hundreds of Earl
Fortescue’s sheep being sheared. Then rising out of Simonsbath by a
weariful, sun-scorched road, come the rounded treeless hills and the
heathery hollows, where Exe Head lies on the left hand, with Chapman
Barrows and the source of the river Lyn near by, in a wilderness, where
the purple hills look solemnly down upon bogs, prehistoric tumuli, and
hut-circles. Here, in the words of Westcote, writing in 1620, “we will,
with an easy pace, ascend the mount of Hore-oke-ridge, not far from
whence we shall find the spring of the rivulet Lynne.” Hoar Oak Stone,
on this ridge, is a prominent landmark.
Presently, at Brendon Two Gates (where there is but one gate), we pass
out of Exmoor and Somerset and into Devon, at something under six miles
from Lynmouth. Alongside the unfenced road across the wild common, as
far as Brendon Rectory, the sheep lie in hundreds. Then suddenly the
road drops down into the deep gorge of Farley Water, and comes, with
many a twist, to Bridge Ball, a picturesque hamlet with a water-mill.
One more little rise, and then the road descends all the way to
Lynmouth, through the splendidly romantic scenery of the Lyn valley and
Watersmeet, where the streams of East and West Lyn unite.
Circumstances have by this time made the traveller, who promised
himself a luxurious and leisurely journey, a hot, dusty and wearied
pilgrim. To such, the sudden change from miles of sun-burnt heights is
irresistibly inviting. To sit beneath the shade of those overhanging
alders, those graceful hazels, oaks, and silver birches, reclining on
some mossy shelf of rock, and watch the Lyn awhile, foaming here in
white cataracts over the boulders in its path, or smoothly gliding over
the deep pools, whose tint is touched to a brown-sherry hue by the
peat held in solution, is a delight. It is a delightful spot, to which
the tall foxgloves, standing pink in the half-light under the mossy
stems of the trees, lend a suggestion of fairyland.
[Illustration: WATERSMEET.]
The road winds away down the valley, its every turn revealing
increasingly grand hillsides, clothed with dwarf woods, and here and
there a grey crag: very like the Cheddar Gorge, with an unaccustomed
mantle of greenery. Descending this fairest of introductions to
the North Devon coast, past the confluence at Watersmeet, where
slender trees incline their trunks together by the waterfall, like
horses amiably nuzzling, one comes by degrees within the “region
of influence”--as they phrase it in the world of international
politics--of the holiday-maker at Lynmouth, who is commonly so lapped
in luxury there, and rendered so indolent by the soft airs of Devon,
that Watersmeet forms the utmost bounds to which he will penetrate in
this direction, when on foot. And when those who undertake so much do
at length arrive here, they want refreshment, which they appear to
obtain down below the road, beside the stream, at a rustic cottage
styling itself “Myrtleberry,” claiming, according to a modest notice on
the rustic stone wall bordering the road, to have supplied in one year
8,000 teas and 1,700 luncheons. There thus appears to be an opening for
a philosophic discussion of “Scenery as an Influence upon Appetite.”
The place is so far below the road that, the observer is amused to see,
tradesmen’s supplies are carried to it in a box conveyed by aerial
wires.
And so at length into Lynmouth, seated at the point where the rushing
Lyn tumbles, slips, and slides at last into the sea. One misses
something in approaching the place, nor does one ever find it there.
It is something that can readily be spared, being indeed nothing less
than the usual squalid fringe that seems so inevitable an introduction
to towns and villages, no matter how large or small. There are no
introductory gasworks in the approaches to Lynmouth; no dustbins,
advertisement-hoardings, or flagrant, dirty domestic details that
usually herald civilisation. The customary accumulated refuse is
astonishingly absent: mysteriously etherialised and abolished; but how
is it done? In what manner do the local authorities magic it away? Do
they pronounce some incantation, and then, with a mystic pass or two,
abolish it?