THE WONDERS OF BAMPTON
The country between Tiverton and Bampton reminds us how comparatively
new are many of our main roads. Beginning with the town, although
Bampton Street is one of the principal thoroughfares, this is not the
case with Higher Bampton Street; and of both it may be stated with
absolute assurance that they do not owe their names to accident or
caprice. They were christened thus because they were a direct
continuation of the old road from Bampton, the whole of the present
route through the picturesque Exe valley not having been constructed
until long after the days of John Ridd and the less mythical Bampfylde
Moore Carew. For this reason “Jan,” on his way home, would have
proceeded first to Red Hill, with the inn at its foot;[7] and hereafter
we shall cease to wonder that Carew and his companions fell in with the
convivial gipsies at the same “Brick House,” since it adjoined the
king’s highway. Hence, he climbed the steep ascent of Knightshayes, from
whose summit he might have cast a last lingering look at the town.
Afterwards he would, for some time, have seen nothing but the hedgerows
and a stretch of desolate road.
Even to Ridd, however, the glory of the Exe was not utterly forbidden,
inasmuch as from Bolham onwards there was some kind of road. Moreover,
on the opposite side of the river was an accommodating lane, from which
lesser lanes scamper off to the “weeches” of Washfield and Stoodleigh
Church, and which, steadily pursued in its northward trend, has coigns
of vantage imparting grateful visions of Rock, with its sweet old
cottages, and the romantic Fairby Gorge, and the woody amphitheatre of
Cove Cliff, together with such pretty accessories as a wayside spring,
trim dairies, rich orchards, a modern suspension bridge, an old-world
bridge, and beside it a quaint little lodge, with its porch and its
bonnets of thatch--a miracle of rustic beauty! But it really matters not
from which side the landscape is viewed, the prospects are equally
charming; and the only cause for regret, from an æsthetic standpoint, is
the railway, whose rigid track, bisecting the valley as far as the
Exeter Inn, brusquely intrudes on its soft contrasts of forest, stream,
and lea.
From the inn, one branch of the new road still follows the river through
a sylvan paradise, while another, nearly parallel with an older lane,
yclept Windwhistle, leads on to Bampton along the tributary Batherum, On
quitting that highway of loveliness, the Exe, one is conscious of a
difference--the outlook is more tame. However, as one approaches the
town, the scenery improves, and of the town itself it must be conceded
that it is beautifully situated among the hills.
For me, Bampton is a place with sacred memories; but I am well aware
that, to sound its depths of sentiment, an initiation is necessary. A
stranger strolling listlessly through the churchyard, or seated with
callous heart against a walled-up yew--to him it is all a void. What can
he know of all the unrecorded history which, for certain souls, has
transfigured the spot into a shrine? Moreover, although a fair resident
informed me recently that Bampton “stands still,” I have an
uncomfortable conviction, forced upon me in a brief visit, that this is
not quite the case, that it has exchanged some of its old Sabbatic calm
for an irreverent spirit of enterprise and strivings to be “up-to-date.”
Thanks to a disciple and friend of the late Mr Cecil Rhodes, the
quarries have been galvanised into stupendous energy, and, aided by the
contrivances of modern science, are now working at high pressure, and
all Bampton is cock-a-whoop over the same. Well, well, one must have
patience. Only suffer me to write of _my_ Bampton, which was also
Blackmore’s Bampton, not the Bampton that now is.
In those far-off days of 1891-3, the quarries were not wholly quiescent;
even then they were shedding their riches, but in a decent, leisurely
way, leaving many a grass-grown plot and fern-clad lovers’ walk, and
tokens of vanished industry in what we termed “the rubble-heaps.” The
distinctive feature of Bampton stone is that it contains a large
proportion of “chert” or flint, which makes it good for roads. The
principal structures in the neighbourhood--including the county and
other bridges--are built of it, and, judging from the age of the church
tower, these black limestone beds have been worked for at least six
hundred years.
The topography asks some explaining. A noter hies here, noting. Somebody
has told him of Bampton Castle, and forthwith the heady ass swoops on a
circular shed on the quarry plane as a relic. To be sure, at the
south-east entrance of the town there are plentiful suggestions of
military operations. The wind-swept knoll, whence you catch the first
glimpse of Bampton, would be a fine station for a park of French
artillery, to which the exposed railway station, with its less warlike
engines, could offer but a faint resistance. A few paces further on, and
you come to what is uncommonly like a bastion, crowned by the
pseudo-Bampton Castle. Of the real Bampton Castle, at the opposite end
of the town, nothing remains but the site and some rather doubtful
fortifications in what is now an orchard.
But there _was_ a castle, for in 1336 Richard Cogan had a licence from
the Crown to castellate his mansion-house at Bampton, and to enclose his
wood at Uffculme, and three hundred acres for a park. The exact site of
the castle is believed to have been on a lower level, but closely
adjacent to the existing Mote. The origin and purpose of this great
mound, which is artificial, is not perhaps free from obscurity, but a
former resident favours the following elucidation: The name of
[Illustration: COMBE, DULVERTON (page 91).]
the place is derived from the Saxon word _mot_ or _gemot_ (a “meeting”),
and it was probably the seat of the Hundred-mote, or court of
judicature, Bampton being the head manor of the hundred.[8] It was also
a burgh, or fortified place, and by the laws of King Edgar the
Burghmote, or Court of the Borough, was held thrice a year. The parish,
it may be observed, is still divided into Borough, East, West, and
Petton quarters, and the ancient office of portreeve is yet retained.
Some time before Domesday and the Geldroll, the king gave Bampton to
Walter de Douay. From Walter’s son, Robert de Baunton, the lordship
passed through the Paynells to the Cogans, and from the Cogans to the
Bourchiers, Earls of Bath, who, so far as is known, were the last owners
of the barony to reside at the castle. The Bourchier knot is to be seen
in the church--on the screen and the roof-bosses.
Apart from such rather dry particulars, it is not much that I can tell
you of the public annals of Bampton, but one morsel relating to the
Bourchier reign you must swallow, if only for its rarity. In May 1607,
Walter Yonge, of Colyton, thus wrote in his diary: “There were
earthquakes felt in divers parts of this realm, and, namely, at
Barnstaple, Tiverton, and Devonshire; also I heard it by one of Bampton
credibly reported that there it was felt also. And at Bampton, being
four”--Tush, Squire Yonge, it is full seven--“miles from Tiverton, there
was a little lake which ran by the space of certain hours, the water
whereof was as blue as azure, yet notwithstanding as clear as possible
might be. It was seen and testified by many who were eye-witnesses, and
reported to me by Mr Twistred, who dwelleth in the same parish, and felt
the earthquake.”
Can it be that this “little lake”--good Devonshire for running
water--was the shut-up and buried, but by no means dared or dead,
Shuttern stream? Perchance it was. Flowing under broad Brook Street, in
times of flood he emerges and revenges himself for his confinement,
spreading across the roadway, and swamping the sunken cottages, and
waxing a lake indeed, in the Biblical acceptation of the term. But the
Shuttern was not shut up or buried for many a year after the miracle. He
flowed muddily along in open channel, though straitly enclosed by banks
and spanned at intervals by bridges--a poor copy of a Venetian canal and
a rare playground for the oppidan ducks. Now they have to waddle their
way, and a long way it is for some of them, to the Batherum, a few, it
may be, tumbling down the hill from Briton Street. And let not Master
Printer, in his wisdom, correct to “Britain Street,” as he hath
aforetime been moved to do. For “Briton” is the recognised and official
spelling, and who is he that he should alter and amend what has been
approved by lawful authority?
The Conscript Fathers of the town are greatly exercised at such odious
disguisings of the true and proper form, which they rightly decline to
sanction or accept. I am with them, heart and soul. Here in Beamdune, in
this very street, the ancient Britons--’twas in 614--fought a great
fight for freedom against the West Saxons, and there were slain of them
forty and two thousand. The present inhabitants are descended from the
vanquished, the Britons. You doubt it? Then little you know of their
intermarriages. An outsider has no chance. Why even the pedlars and
pedlaresses complain of Bampton’s closeness. “They’re no use,” they
exclaim, “they deal only with their own people.” You still doubt? Then I
renounce you as a heathen man and a publican.[9]
Bampton’s chief boast is its fair, which is held on the last Thursday in
October, and attracts thousands of visitors, many of them coming from
considerable distances. It is not easy to say precisely why, since there
are other places nearer the moor, but for a long succession of years the
town has served as the principal mart for the wild Exmoor ponies,
deprived of which the fair would no doubt rapidly dwindle. These shaggy
little horses--a good number of them mere “suckers”--are sold by
auction, and the incidents connected with their coming and going, and
their manners in the sale-ring, constitute the “fun of the fair.”
On the last occasion when I travelled to Bampton Fair, my compartment
was entered by a gipsy belle with abundance of raven hair in traces, the
dark complexion of her race, the regulation earrings and trinkets, and
much conversational fluency. She had come up from Exeter on the chance
of meeting with some of her people whom she had not seen for several
years. That brought to my recollection a prevalent belief that the
Romany folk have a septennial reunion, no doubt intended to be cordial
and friendly in the extreme. Nevertheless, I can answer for it that the
intention is not always fulfilled, for on one fair day two rival tribes
fought a pitched battle with blackthorns, etc., in the orchard of the
Tiverton Hotel. And the women will fight like the men, and with the men.
They are artful beggars. A gipsy matron guided round a youngster of
three or four years, with his small legs already encased in trousers, to
claim a penny, because on one hand he had little excrescent thumbs. The
boy could hold a penny between these thumbs, and, on being given a coin,
was told to say “Thank you,” his mother expressing her gratitude with
the wish, “May you enjoy the lady you loves!”
It is a safe assumption that no one visits a place of the size of
Bampton--at all events, at ordinary times--without having a look at the
church. Ten years ago you would have been rewarded with the spectacle of
high pews, over the backs of which I can remember feminine eyes taking
stock of the congregation. Nose and mouth were not visible, and
consequently the fair damsels had somewhat the appearance of hooded
Turkish ladies. Now that Bampton Church has been swept and garnished and
the arcade straightened--it fell over quite two feet and crushed the
timbers in the aisle--the building hardly seems the same, but the most
valuable features, to an antiquary, remain untouched.
Entering the chancel from the churchyard, you will find against the
north wall fragments of bold and graceful sculpture, with tabernacle
work, tracery, shields, the symbol I.H.S., and the Bourchier knot and
water bouget, or budget, as it is sometimes written. Perhaps “bucket”
may be permissible as a variant, since the bearing, which is in the form
of a yoke with two pouches of leather appended to it, was originally
intended to represent bags slung on a pole which was carried across the
shoulders--an arrangement adopted by the Crusaders for conveying water
over the desert. To return to the fragments, they were part of two
ancient monuments which, according to the Rev. Bartholomew Davy,
formerly stood in the chancel; on their removal, about a hundred years
ago, the sides were used to line the wall.
That the monuments covered the remains of Sir John Bourchier, knight,
Lord Fitzwarner, created Earl of Bath July 9, 1536, and those of his
father, is certain. The will of the former, bearing date October 20,
1535, and proved June 11, 1541, expressly directs that his body shall be
buried in the parish church of Bampton, Devon, in the place there where
his father lies buried, and that a tomb or stone of marble be made and
set over the grave where his body shall be buried, with his picture,
arms, and recognisances, and the day and the year engraven and fixed on
the same tomb within a year after his decease. During the restoration
the workmen discovered under the place where the organ now stands, a
vault containing several ridged coffins, believed to be those of members
of the Bourchier family, but, as the dates were not taken, this is
merely a matter of speculation.
Behind the organ is a triptych of black marble, one compartment of which
perpetuates the memory of a lady. The two others contain the following
inscriptions:--
“Vnder lyeth the body of Arthur the sone of John Bowbeare of this Town,
Yeoman, who departed this life the 17 day of December Anno Dom 1675.”
“Here vnder lyeth ye body of John the sone of John Bowbeare of this
Town, Yeoman, who departed this life the 12 day of May Anno Domi 1676.”
According to local tradition, Arthur and John Bowbeare were giants, like
John Ridd; and it will be noted as a further coincidence that they were
of the yeoman class. The name is still preserved in Bowbear Hill, to the
south-east of the town, and in Higher and Lower Bowbear Farms. Another
interesting point is that John Ridd may have entered the town of his
fellow-giants, who were still alive, though soon to die, not by the old
Tiverton road, but by an ancient track which ran down Bowbear Hill. This
track, now disused, was an old Roman road, and, having been paved, is
still known as Stony Lane.
Giants are said to be usually short-lived--a charge which cannot be laid
against the Vicars of Bampton. On consulting the list I find that from
1645 to 1711 the living was held by the Rev. James Style, from 1730 to
1785 by the Rev. Thomas Wood, and from 1785 to 1845 by the Rev.
Bartholomew Davy. In the case of the last-mentioned divine--familiarly
known as “old Bart Davy”--the patience of some member of his flock was
evidently exhausted, for one fine morning there was found, nailed to the
church door, the following lamentation:--
“The Parson is a-wored out,
The Clerk is most ado;
The Saxton’s gude vor nort--
’Tis time to have all new.”
According to the son of the last parish clerk of Bampton, there was a
servant of Mr Trickey, of the Swan Inn, named Joe Ridd, or Rudd, who
amused the townspeople of a generation or two ago with stories of the
“girt Jan Ridd,” of Exmoor, ostensibly an ancestor. One of these stories
was that the huge yeoman, “out over,” broke off the branch of a tree and
used it as a weapon. This circumstance gives special point to the
statement in chapter liii. of _Lorna Doone_, that “much had been said at
Bampton about some great freebooters, to whom all Exmoor owed suit and
service, and paid them very punctually.” Moreover, in Mr Snow’s grounds
at Oare is a mighty ash, whose limbs incline downwards, they (it is
said) having been bent out of their natural set by the constraining
power of the matchless Ridd.
Blackmore not only conducts his hero and heroine through Bampton as a
place on their line of route, but alludes to it respectfully (see
chapter xiii.) as one of the important towns on the southern side of the
moor, though he dare not for conscience’ sake compare it with
metropolitan Taunton.
[Illustration: A BIT OF OLD DULVERTON.]