Some of the prettiest nooks of old-world "Zoomerzet" are to be found
under the lovely heather-clad Quantock Hills. The beauty of the scenery
has inspired Coleridge, Wordsworth, and many famous men, not the least
of whom was poor Richard Jeffreys, who has written sympathetically of
the delightful vale to the west of the range.
To the north and north-west of Taunton the churches of Kingston and
Bishop's Lydeard are both remarkable for their graceful early-Tudor
towers. Of the two, the former is the finer specimen of Perpendicular
work, the soft salmon-yellow colour of the Ham stone being particularly
pleasing to the eye. The situation of the church is fine, commanding
grand views; and at the intersection of the roads to Asholt and
Bridgwater one gets a glorious prospect of Taunton and the blue
Blackdown Hills beyond on one side, and on the other the sea and the
distant Welsh mountains.
Both churches have good bench-ends full four hundred years old, the
designs upon them being as clearly cut as if they had been executed only
a few years ago. One of them at Bishop's Lydeard represents a windmill,
from which we gather that those useful structures were much the same as
those with which we are familiar to-day.
At Cothelstone to the north, approached by a romantic winding road
embosomed in lofty beech trees which dip suddenly down into a
picturesque dell, the church and manor-house nestle cosily together,
surrounded by hills and hanging woods. It is a typical Jacobean
manor-house of stone, with ball-surmounted gables and heavy mullioned
windows, approached from the road through an imposing archway, with a
gatehouse beyond containing curious little niches and windows. In the
gardens an old banqueting-room and ruined summer-house complete the
picturesque group of buildings. The church has some fine tombs. One of
the lords of the earlier manor-house reclines full length in Edwardian
armour, his gauntleted hands bearing a remarkable resemblance to a pair
of boxing-gloves. A descendant, Sir John Stawel, who fought valiantly
for Charles in the Civil War, lies also in the church. For his loyalty
his house was ruined and his estate sold by the Parliament, but his son
was made a peer by the Merry Monarch in acknowledgment of his father's
services. "The Lodge," an old landmark at Cothelstone, can boast a view
of no less than fourteen counties, and from a gap in the Blackdown
Hills, Halsdown by Exeter may be seen, while close at hand Will's Neck
looms dark against the sky.
[Illustration: CROWCOMBE.]
[Illustration: OLD HOUSE, CROWCOMBE.]
Beneath the rolling Quantocks the road runs seawards, and at Crowcombe,
embowered in woods, brings us to another picturesque group: the church
on one side and a dilapidated Tudor building on the other. It is called
the "Church House," and, alas! by its ruinous condition one may judge
its days are numbered, although its solid timber Gothic roof, now open
to the sky, looks still good for a couple of centuries more. A crazy
flight of stone steps leads to the upper storey, or rather what remains
of it, the floor boards having long since disappeared. In the basement,
nature has asserted itself, and weeds and brambles are growing in
profusion. This lower part of the building was once used as almshouses,
the Tudor-headed doors leading into the several apartments. The upper
storey was the schoolroom, and had a distinct landlord from the
basement. Difficulties consequently arose; for when the owner of the
schoolroom suggested restorations to the roof, the proprietor of the
almshouses declined to participate in the expense, declaring that it was
his intention to pull his portion of the building down! A more
striking example of a house divided against itself could not be found,
hence the forlorn condition of the joint establishment of youth and age.
[Illustration: CROWCOMBE CHURCH.]
There are fine carved bench-ends in the church, one bearing the date
1534 in Roman figures. Upon another is represented two men in desperate
combat with a double-headed dragon. In the churchyard there is a cross,
and facing the village street another, the cross complete, which is
exceptional.
Crowcombe Court, a stately red-brick house of the latter part of the
seventeenth century, has replaced the older seat of the Carews. Among
the fine collection of Vandycks is a full-length of Charles I. and his
queen, given by the second Charles to the family in acknowledgment of
their loyalty. Queen Henrietta looks prettier here than in many of her
portraits. There is also a fine Vandyck of James Stuart, Duke of
Richmond, and of Lady Herbert, and some of Lely's beauties, including
Nell Gwynn and the Countess of Falmouth, whose buxom face recalls some
of de Gramont's liveliest pages.
A few miles to the east of Crowcombe, on the other side of the range of
hills, is the moated castle of Enmore, whose ponderous drawbridge can
still be raised and lowered like that at Helmingham. It is a formidable
barrack-like building of red stone, not of any great antiquity. In the
earlier structure lived Elizabeth Malet, the handsome young heiress with
whom the madcap Earl of Rochester ran away. Pepys on May 28, 1665,
relates "a story of my Lord Rochester's running away on Friday night
last with Mrs. Mallett, the great beauty of fortune and the north, who
had supped at Whitehall with Mrs. Stewart, and was going home to her
lodgings with her grandfather my Lord Haly [Hawley] by coach; and was at
Charing Cross seized on by both horse and foot men, and forcibly taken
from him and put into a coach with six horses, and two women provided to
receive her, and carried away. Upon immediate pursuit, my Lord of
Rochester (for whom the king had spoken to the lady often, but with no
success) was taken at Uxbridge; but the lady is not yet heard of, and
the king mighty angry, and the lord sent to the Tower." As may be
supposed, with so flighty a husband the pair did not live happily ever
after.[24]
The Enmore estate passed to Anne, the eldest of their three daughters,
who married a Baynton of Spye Park near Melksham, where memories of the
profligate earl linger, as they do at Adderbury.
The famous "Abode" at Spaxton, as impenetrable as Enmore although it has
no drawbridge, is close at hand. An adjacent hill, locally said to be a
short cut to heaven, commands a superb view of the surrounding country.
The original founder of the sect could scarcely have found a prettier
nook in England.
A few miles to the north-west of Crowcombe is the picturesque village of
Monksilver, the church of which is rich in oak carvings of the fifteenth
century. The pulpit and bench-ends are particularly fine, but the screen
has been much mutilated. There are some grotesque gargoyles, one
representing a large-mouthed gentleman having his teeth extracted.
[Illustration: COMBE SYDENHAM.]
[Illustration: COMBE SYDENHAM.]
Near Monksilver is the old seat of the Sydenhams, Combe Sydenham, a fine
old mansion, whose lofty square tower is un-English in appearance. The
house was built by Sir George Sydenham in 1580, who is locally said
still to have an unpleasant way of galloping down the glen at midnight.
Perhaps he is uneasy in his mind about the huge cannon-ball in the hall,
which he is said to have fired as a sign to his lady-love that he was
going to follow after and claim her as his bride. There are portraits of
some bewigged Sydenhams of the following century, the famous doctor,
perchance, and his soldier brother, Colonel William the Parliamentarian.
Some rusty old swords hang on the walls, and there is a curious painted
screen of Charles II.'s time which is sadly in need of repairs. The
servants' hall, with its open fireplace and tall-backed settle, remains
much as it has been for two hundred years or more. All these things
point to the fact that the same family has been in possession for
generations: at least it was owned by a Sydenham not so many years ago.
An effigy of Sir George with his two wives (perhaps this is the cause of
his uneasiness) may be seen in Stogumber church, about a mile away.
At the back of Combe Sydenham are the remains of an old mill. The wheel
has disappeared, and the waterfall splashing in the streamlet below,
together with an ancient barn adjacent, form a delightful picture.
To the west is Nettlecombe, a fine old gabled house, dating from the
latter part of Elizabeth's reign, containing ancestral portraits of the
Trevelyans and some curious relics, among which is a miniature of
Charles the martyr worked in his own hair. The estate belonged
originally to the Raleighs, whose name is retained in Raleigh Down and
Raleigh's Cross by Brendon Hill.
Elworthy church, to the south-east, commands a fine position, and boasts
a painted screen bearing the date 1632 and some carved bench-ends. But
the churchyard looked sadly neglected and weed-grown. The great limb of
a huge yew tree overhangs the stocks, which we are grateful to observe
have been restored, and not allowed to decay as those at Crowcombe.
From here we went farther to the south-east in search of a place locally
called "Golden Farm," or properly Gaulden, where, depicted on a plaster
ceiling of ancient date, are various scenes from biblical history, from
the temptation of Adam downwards. Now, whether the good gentleman who
rents the farm has been besieged by classes for the young anxious to
learn on the Kindergarten system, or whether the arms of the Turberville
family that figure upon a mantelpiece has connected the house with a
certain well-known novel and brought about an American invasion, the
fact remains that his equanimity has evidently become disturbed. His
door was closed, and he was proud that he could boast that he had turned
people away who had come expressly across the Atlantic! Sadly we turned
away, but with inward congratulations that we had not come quite so far,
when, lo! the worthy farmer showed signs of relenting. We might come in
for half a guinea, he said condescendingly. We thanked him kindly and
declined, observing that the fee at Windsor Castle was more than ten
times less. 'Tis little wonder that they call it "Golden Farm."
Equidistant from Monksilver to the north-west is Old Cleeve, a pretty
little village near the coast, whose ruined Cistercian abbey has nooks
and corners to delight the artist or antiquarian. The grey old
gatehouse, with a little stream close by, make a delightful picture,
indeed from every point of view the ancient walls and arches, with their
farmyard surroundings, form picturesque groups. In one of the walls is a
huge circular window: the rose window of the sacristy that has lost its
tracery. Viewed from the interior, the round picture of blue sky and
meadows gay with buttercups makes a striking contrast with the deep
shadow within the cold grey walls. A flight of stone steps leads to the
refectory, whose rounded carved oak roof and projecting figure ornaments
and bosses are in excellent preservation. There is a great open
fireplace and the tracery in the windows is intact. A painting in
distemper on the farther wall represents the Crucifixion, and as far as
artistic merit is concerned better by far than the colossal figure
conspicuous in the Roman Catholic cathedral at Westminster.
[Illustration: DUNSTER.]
The road from here to Dunster is delightful, and as you approach the
quaint old town--for it is a town, difficult as it is to believe it--the
castle stands high up on the left embosomed in trees, a real fairy-tale
sort of fortress it appears, with a watch-tower perched up on another
wooded hill to balance it. The Luttrells have lived here for centuries,
and during the Civil War it was for long a Royalist stronghold, held by
Colonel Wyndham, the governor. The gallant colonel's spirited answer to
the threat of the Parliamentarians to place his aged mother in their
front ranks to receive the fury of his cannon should he refuse to
deliver up the castle, is a fine example of loyalty. "If ye doe what you
threaten," he said, "you doe the most barbarous and villanous act was
ever done. My mother I honour, but the cause I fight for and the masters
I serve, are God and the King. Mother, doe you forgive me and give me
your blessing, and tell the rebells answer for spilling that blood of
yours which I would save with the loss of mine own, if I had enough for
both my master and your selfe." But fortunately matters did not come to
a climax, for Lord Wentworth appeared upon the scene with a strong force
and relieved the beleaguered garrison. The loyalty of old Lady Wyndham
and her son was further put to the test a few years afterwards when
young King Charles lay concealed in their house at Trent near
Sherborne.[25]
Within the castle there is a curious hiding-place which carries us back
to those troublous times. Local tradition has connected it in error with
the visit of the second Charles, whose room is still pointed out; but
the king was then not a fugitive, otherwise doubtless this secret
chamber would have proved as useful to him as that at Trent House in
1651.
The main street of Dunster, with its irregular outline of houses
climbing up a hill, and the quaintest old market-house at the top backed
by a dense maze of foliage beyond, is exceedingly picturesque. Judging
from the hole made by a cannon-ball from the castle in one of the oaken
beams of this remarkable "yarn market," poor Lady Wyndham had a lucky
escape. The marvel is the old structure has remained until now in so
delightful an unrestored condition. It has the colour which age alone
can impart, a red purple-grey which, contrasted with the background as
we saw it of laburnum and may, formed a picture long to be remembered.
The old inn, the "Luttrell Arms," has many points of interest--some fine
fifteenth-century woodwork, in the courtyard, a carved ceiling, and a
rich Elizabethan fireplace; but doubtless from the fact that the
landlord gets too many inquiries about these things, he is tardy in
showing them. The church has one of the finest carved oak screens of
Henry VI.'s reign in England, which to our mind looks much better in its
unpainted state. One has but to go to Carhampton, close by, to make a
comparison. The paint may be in excellent taste, and like it was
originally; but when the original paint has gone, is it not best to
leave the woodwork plain? Under these conditions the screen at least
looks old, but the fine screen at Carhampton does not. A smaller
screen in the transept of Dunster church presents yet more bold and
beautiful design in the carving; and about this and the ancient tombs
and altar, the bright and intelligent old lady who shows one round has a
fund of information to impart. She is very proud, and naturally so, of
the interesting building under her charge. Up a side street is the
nunnery with its slate-hung front: a lofty, curious building some three
centuries old or more.
Minehead Church is equally interesting. It stands high up overlooking
the sea, and commands a magnificent prospect of the hanging-woods of
Dunster and the heights of Dunkery. The rood-screen is good, but has
been mutilated in parts. The ancient oak coffer is remarkable for the
bold relief of its carving, representing the arms of Fitz-James
quartered with Turberville as it occurs in Bere Regis church.
There is a fine recumbent effigy of a man in robes, said to be a famous
lawyer named Bracton, although he has much the appearance of a cleric.
Whether it was considered conclusive proof that the person interred was
a lawyer from the fact that on being opened the skull revealed a double
row of upper teeth, we do not know, but there are other evidences. A
victim of insomnia is said to resemble a lawyer, because he lies on one
side then turns round and lies on the other; and this is precisely what
this effigy did. We had the good fortune to fall in with the organist of
St. Michael, and he declared that he had taken a photograph of the
worthy in which the figure had _changed its position_, the head being
where the feet should be--everything else in the picture being precisely
in its right position!
In the church is one of those quaint little figures which in former
years was worked by the clock "Jack-smite-the-clock," of which there are
examples at Southwold, Blythborough, etc. The former rector held the
living for seventy years, and some trouble was caused because he had
willed that some of the ancient parish documents were to be interred
with him robed in his Geneva gown. It is said his wish was duly carried
out, but the papers were afterwards rescued.
Bossington, on the coast to the north-west of Porlock, is a delightful
little village, lying at the foot of the great heather-clad hills. The
rushing stream and the moss and lichen everywhere add much to its
picturesqueness, but we should imagine there is too much shade and damp
to be enjoyable in the winter. In the middle of the narrow road stands a
very ancient walnut tree with twisted limbs and roots, one of many
walnut trees in the village. There are cosy ancient thatched cottages
in Porlock, and the "Ship Inn," with its panelled walls, is the most
inviting of hostelries, but the popular novel _Lorna Doone_ has rather
spoiled the primitive aspect of the place by introducing some buildings
out of keeping with the rest.
The weary traveller has a great treat in store, for the view from the
top of Porlock Hill is remarkable. But it is well worth the climb, and
by the old road it is indeed a climb! When we were there it was a misty
day in June, and we never remember so remarkable a prospect as from the
summit. The brilliant gorse stood out against the varying shades of
green and purple of the moorland, and below all that could be seen was
one solid mass of snow-white cloud, the outline of which was sharply
defined against a distant glimpse of the soft blue sea and the deep blue
Glamorganshire hills, looking wonderfully like a glacier-field. Next
morning came the news that in the mist the warship _Montagu_ had run on
the rocks by Lundy.
The romantic scenery of Lynmouth and Lynton is too well known to call
for any particular description here. Little wonder that one sees so many
honeymoon couples wandering everywhere about the lovely lanes. Lovers of
old oak, too, will find all that they desire at Lynmouth, for here is
the most tempting antique repository, calculated to make tourist
collectors of Chippendale and oak wish they had economised more in their
hotel bills. Motor cars sail easily down into the valley from Porlock,
but a sudden twist in the steep ascent to Lynton causes many a snort and
groan accompanied by an extra scent of petrol.
But we have overstepped the county line and are in Devon.