KINGSBRIDGE
Kingsbridge a misnomer--The estuary--The church--"Farewell
to Kingsbridge"--Numerous screens in the
neighbourhood--Portlemouth--S. Onolaus--Master John Schorn--Old
houses--The Fortescues--Defence of Salcombe Castle--Lea
Priory--Stokenham--Slapton--Bolt Head--The Avon--Oldaport on
the Erme--Modbury--The Champernownes--Bigbury--The Owl--S.
Anne's Well--Parson Lane--Aveton Gifford--Bishop Stapledon--His
murder--Fishing.
Kingsbridge is a curious town, having a name that is a misnomer,
for it possesses no bridge, there being no river. The estuary that
runs some five to six miles in, at the head of which Kingsbridge
stands, is a creek into which no river discharges, only brooks. It
has several lateral branches--to Gerston, Frogmore, and South Pool,
and at the mouth is Salcombe, a flourishing place, much in resort on
account of the mildness of the climate, surpassing Torquay in this
respect, and nearly as warm as Falmouth. The drawback to Salcombe is
its distance from a railway.
In Kingsbridge itself there is not much to be seen. The church is
interesting, with a central tower and spire, and is curious as
having been enlarged at various times, making the interior very
inconvenient for the hearing of the preacher.
Kingsbridge is actually in Churchstow. The town has drifted down
from the high ground where was the fortified "stoke" to the quay,
the "brig." The church in the town is a chapelry, and the erection
took place in 1310. It is dedicated to S. Edmund the king and
martyr, but why in the world they should have gone to the East
Saxons for a patron I am at a loss to know. Churchstow belonged to
the Abbey of Buckfast.
One half of Kingsbridge is in the parish of Dodbrooke, where there
is a good church with a fine old screen.
There is a local ballad preserved relative to the departure of some
troops for America quartered in the place in 1778-80, and there are
old men in Kingsbridge who can recall the time when a detachment of
military was there. The ballad runs:--
"On the ninth day of November, at the dawning in the sky,
Ere we sailed away to New York, we at anchor here did lie.
O'er the meadows fair of Kingsbridge, there the mist was lying grey;
We were bound against the rebels, in the North America.
"O so mournful was the parting of the soldiers and their wives,
For that none could say for certain, they'd return home with
their lives.
Then the women they were weeping, and they curs'd the cruel day
That we sailed against the rebels in the North America.
"O the little babes were stretching out their arms with saddest cries,
And the bitter tears were falling from their pretty, simple eyes,
That their scarlet-coated daddies must be hurrying away,
For to fight against the rebels in the North America.
"Now God preserve our Monarch, I will finish up my strain;
Be his subjects ever loyal, and his honour all maintain.
May the Lord our voyage prosper, and our arms across the sea,
And put down the wicked rebels in the North America."
There are a good many objects of interest in the neighbourhood.
Combe Royal is an old house much modernised, where lemons and
oranges are golden in the open air, and the blue hydrangeas lie in
masses under the trees.
Fallapit has been entirely rebuilt. It was the seat of the
Fortescues, and their monuments crowd the parish church of East
Allington. During the civil wars, the castle at Salcombe was held
for the king by Sir Edmund Fortescue. After having sustained two
sieges, probably of short duration, it was summoned by General
Fairfax on January 23rd, 1645, and after a long siege of nearly
four months, surrendered on honourable terms to Colonel Weldon, the
governor of Plymouth. Sir Edmund was allowed to march out with the
garrison, bearing their arms, to Fallapit, and take with him the key
of the castle he had so gallantly defended.
When Fallapit was sold, among other things put up by the auctioneer
was this very key, and it was knocked down for half a crown.
A charming excursion may be made to the cell of Lee Priory, an
almost perfect monastic building. The chapel has been destroyed, but
the gateway and refectory and the dormitories remain intact. It is
situated in a peaceful, umbrageous dell away from the world among
green lawns and pleasant woods, an idyllic spot.
At South Milton in the church is an interesting rood-screen, with
paintings of saints on the panels. Screens are, indeed, numerous in
this district, some very fine. Crass stupidity has occasioned the
destruction of those of Malborough and West Alvington. The clergy
should be the guardians, not the ravagers, of their churches, but
_quis custodiet custodes_?
A delightful row down the estuary will take to Salcombe, a modern
place. Opposite, up a tremendous scramble, is Portlemouth, a
settlement of S. Winwaloe, the great Brittany saint. He is locally
called Onolaus or Onslow. Winwaloe was the son of Gwen of the Three
Breasts, and her husband, Fragan or Brechan, cousin of Cado, Duke
of Cornwall. Although Gwen is represented on monuments in Brittany
as a woman with three breasts, yet in Celtic the epithet means no
more than that she was twice married, and had children by both
husbands. Winwaloe was educated by S. Budoc, and founded Landevenec
in Finisterre. At one time, fired with enthusiasm at what he had
heard of the achievements of S. Patrick in Ireland, he desired to go
there, but was advised to remain and devote himself to the education
of his own people. He accordingly gave up his life to ministering
to the spiritual necessities of the Britons who came to Armorica,
either as a place for expansion, finding Britain too strait for
them, or driven there by dynastic revolutions.
Whether Winwaloe ever came into Devon and Cornwall we are not told
in his Life, but it is not improbable, as he was closely related to
the reigning princes.
His biographer gives us a somewhat minute account of his personal
appearance and habits. He was of a moderate height, with a bright,
smiling countenance; he was very patient with the perverse, and
gentle in his dealings with all men. He was usually clothed in a
goat's skin. He never seated himself in church, but always stood or
knelt.
He died about 532. In Portlemouth Church, which has been barbarously
"restored," he is represented on the screen holding the church in
his hand. He is the third figure from the north. The first is partly
effaced; the second is probably his sister, Creirwy; the sixth
is Sir John Schorne, a Buckinghamshire rector, who died in 1308,
and was supposed to have conjured the devil into a boot. He was
venerated greatly as a patron against ague and the gout. There is a
jingle relative to him:--
"To Maister John Schorne, that blessed man born,
For the ague to him we apply,
Which judgeth with a bote; I beshrew his heart's rote
That will trust him, and it be I."
His shrine was at North Marston in Bucks, and was a great resort up
to the time of the Reformation. At one time the monks of Windsor
contrived to get his body removed to their church, but though they
advertised him well he did not "take on" in that quarter, and they
returned the body to North Marston. There are representations of
him on the screens of Wolborough and Alphington, and one or two in
Norfolk. The screen at Portlemouth is of a richer and better design
than is general in the county. In the "restoration" of the church
the level of the chancel has been raised to an excessive height,
so as to give a ludicrous appearance to those occupying the stalls.
But altogether the restoration has been a piece of wanton barbarity.
The carving of the screen is of a high quality. At South Huish was
another beautiful little screen. This has been saved from the hand
of desecration by being removed to the Chapel of Bowringslea, a
grand old Tudor mansion that has been carefully and conscientiously
restored by Mr. Ilbert, the proprietor.
At South Pool is a screen with arabesques on it, well restored; also
an Easter sepulchre.
Stokenham Church stands up boldly above a spring that gushes forth
and forms a pool below the churchyard wall. This, there can be
little doubt, must have at one time been regarded as a holy well.
The church within is stately, and contains a good screen with
paintings of saints on it, and a stone pulpit absurdly painted
with Freemason symbols. What stained glass there is, is mediocre.
Sherford, attached as a benefice to Stokenham, has another good
screen, with apostles painted on it. Slapton has a very fine screen,
but without paintings. The church was originally attached to a
college founded in 1350 by Sir Guy de Brian, standard-bearer to
Edward III.; the gate tower alone remains.
Some fine rocky headlands and pleasant coves are to be visited,
notably Bolt Head and Bolt Tail, and Prawle Point, with the sweet
nooks where the brooks descend to the sea, or the cliffs give
way to form a sunny, sleepy lap, lined with sand. At Bolt Tail
is a prehistoric cliff castle. At Portlemouth may be traced the
entrenchments cast up by the Parliamentarians in the siege of
Salcombe Castle.
The river Avon, that runs down from Dartmoor, is followed by the
branch line of the Great Western Railway to Kingsbridge. A station
is at Gara Bridge (_Garw_, Celtic for rough). The river passes under
Loddiswell (Lady's Well), and then, unable to reach the Kingsbridge
estuary on account of an intervening hill 370 feet high, turns
sulkily to the right and enters Bigbury Bay far away to the west.
Clearly Kingsbridge Harbour was made to receive it, but the river,
like the life of many a man, has taken a twist and gone astray. But
where the river went not, there goes the train by a tunnel.
The Avon enters the sea under Thirlstone, a parish that takes its
name from a rock that has been "thirled" or drilled by the waves, on
the beach. The church contains a few fragments of the screen worked
up to form an altar.
An interesting expedition may be made from Kingsbridge to the
mouth of the Erme. Above where the river debouches into the sea is
Oldaport, the remains, supposed to be Roman, of a harbour commanded
by two towers. One of the latter has of late years been destroyed.
The ancient port occupying two creeks remains silted up. There is
absolutely no record of its having been used in mediæval times, and
this leads to the supposition that it is considerably earlier. It is
a very interesting relic; but the two towers have been destroyed,
and all that remains is a wall that cut off the spit of land, and a
deep moat.
Modbury, a little market town, was a great seat of the Champernowne
family. It has always been a musical centre. In the reign of Henry
VIII. Sir Philip Champernowne, of Modbury, went up to Windsor,
taking with him his company of musicians on rote and tabor and
psaltery and dulcimer, and all kinds of music, and they performed
before King Henry, to that huge monarch's huge content. So pleased
was he with their "consort of fine musicke," that he bade Sir Philip
remain with his company at Windsor, to play to him whenever the evil
spirit was on him; but forgot to say that this was to be at royal
charges. The entertaining of his band of musicians at court by Sir
Philip during many months proved so great an expense that when he
returned to Modbury he was a wiser and a much poorer man, and had to
sell a manor or two to meet his liabilities.
In 1558 good Queen Bess mounted her father's throne; and one day
bethought her of the Modbury orchestra. So with her royal hand she
wrote down to Henry Champernowne, grandson of Sir Philip, to bid
him bring up to court his "consort of fine musicke," for that she
desired greatly to hear it.
Henry was tactless, and he replied that the visit to Windsor
previously had cost his grandfather two of his best manors, and that
he really could not afford it. Queen Bess was highly incensed, and
found occasion against Henry Champernowne to mulct him of four or
five fine manors, as a lesson to him not to return such an answer
to a royal mistress again. This marked the beginning of the decline
of the Champernowne family at Modbury. The manor passed from them
in 1700. But although the Champernownes are gone, the band is still
there. It has never ceased to renew itself, and Modbury prides
itself as of old on its "consort of fine musicke."
Bigbury takes its name from some great camp or bury that has
disappeared under the plough. In the church is a very fine carved
oak pulpit, like that of Holne, given by Bishop Oldham to Ashburton
Church in or about 1510. At the same time he presented an owl as
lectern to Ashburton Church, the owl being his badge. In 1777 the
wiseacres of Ashburton sold pulpit and owl to Bigbury for eleven
guineas. When the Bigbury folk saw that they had got an owl instead
of an eagle, they were disgusted, sawed off the head and sent it to
Plymouth, with an order for an eagle's head of the same dimensions.
Accordingly, now the lessons are read in the church from a lectern
that has an owl's body with an eagle's head. But really--as in the
puzzle pictures--one is disposed to ask, "Where is the owl?" and
to look for it first among the Ashburton folk who sold their bird,
and secondly among the Bigbury folk who objected because he was an
owl. There are some brasses in the church to the Burton family, into
which married the De Bigburys.
At S. Anne's there are an old chapel and a holy well. S. Anne did
not come into fashion as a saint till the fifteenth century, and
there are no early representations of her, or dedications to her.
But Anne was the mother of the gods among the Celts, and the name
was given to several notable women, as the mother of S. Samson, and
the daughter of Vortimer, king of the Britons, mother of S. Wenn,
who married Solomon, king of the Dumnonii; and a suppressed cult of
the old goddess went on under the plea of being directed to these
historic women, till the great explosion of devotion to Anne, mother
of the Blessed Virgin--known to us only through the apocryphal
gospels.
Ane or Anne was the mythical mother of the Tuatha de Danan, the race
found in our peninsula, in Scotland from the Clyde to the Firth
of Forth, and throughout Ireland, called by the classic writers
Dumnonii. They were subdued in Ireland by the Gaels or Scots.
Undoubtedly throughout Devon and Cornwall there must have been a
cult of the great ancestress. She has given her name to the Paps
of Ane in Kerry and to S. Anne's (Agnes') Head in Cornwall, and
as surely the holy wells now attributed to S. Anne were formerly
regarded as sacred fountains of the great mother of the race, whose
first fathers were gods.
There is a rock at sea, reached at low tide, called Borough Island,
on which is a little inn. It was formerly, judging by the name, a
cliff fortress.
Ringmore, the adjoining parish to Bigbury, has a church and village
nestling into a pleasant, wooded combe. The church has a small
spire, and the basement serves as a porch. Anent this tower is a
tale.
During the civil wars, a Mr. Lane was rector, as also incumbent of
the adjoining parish of Aveton Gifford. He mustered the able-bodied
men of his parish, drilled them, obtained some cannon, and formed
a battery manned by his fellows, to command the bridge below
Loddiswell, by which Parliamentary troops were marching to the siege
of Salcombe Castle, and caused them such annoyance that during the
siege of Plymouth by the Parliamentary forces, several boats full
of armed men were despatched from Plymouth to capture and shoot the
sturdy rector. Forewarned, Mr. Lane took refuge in a small chamber,
provided with a fireplace, in the tower of the church, and there
he remained in concealment for three months, secretly nourished by
his parishioners. His most painful experience at the time was on
the Sundays, when the minister intruded by the Parliament harangued
from the pulpit in terms audible in his secret chamber. Then Mr.
Lane could hardly contain himself from bursting forth to refute his
heresies and denounce his disloyalty.
The soldiers are said to have landed at Ayrmer Cove and proceeded
to the rectory, which they thoroughly ransacked, but although they
searched the neighbourhood, they were unable to find the man they
were sent to capture.
The old historic parsonage has been demolished, and its site is
marked by a walled garden, but the secret chamber in the tower
remains.
At Aveton Gifford is a fine screen, carefully restored. Walter de
Stapledon was rector of this parish, and was raised thence to be
Bishop of Exeter in 1307, and in 1314 he was the founder of Exeter
College, Oxford. He was for several years High Treasurer to Edward
II. His story is really worth giving in short. On the vacancy of the
see, the king sent down _congé d'élire_ on October 6th, 1307. The
chapter sat. Of twenty-three canons fifteen chose Stapledon, three
selected the Dean, three the Archdeacon of Totnes, and two voted for
the Dean of Wells. When the result of the counting was announced,
then another voting was proceeded with, and Stapledon was elected
unanimously.
The result was announced to the king and he gave his assent on
December 6th. But meanwhile a troublesome fellow, Richard Plymstoke,
Rector of Exminster, had sent an appeal to the Pope against nine of
the canons, whom he pronounced to be disqualified for election, and
one of these was Stapledon. Here was an unpleasant intervention,
only too sure to be eagerly seized on by the Roman _curia_ for
the sake of extorting money. To make matters worse, the Pope had
suspended the Archbishop of Canterbury, and he had gone to France,
to Poitiers, to meet the Pope and solicit, and buy, his relief. On
January 18th the Archbishop, who had been restored and empowered to
investigate the complaint of Plymstoke, issued his commission; and
on March 10th poor Stapledon wrote a bitter letter to the Cardinal,
Thomas Joce, to complain of the condition of poverty into which he
had been reduced. "It is hard on me; at the present moment I am
destitute even to nakedness."
To make matters worse, the queen, Isabella, wrote to him requiring
him to find a prebendal stall and a revenue for her chaplain--a
foreigner with an outlandish name--Jargono. He replied that he
could not give a canonry to this stranger, and as to finding him an
income, he said that he was overwhelmed with debt, on account of the
intolerable burden of costs incurred by the appeal to Rome, and in
preparing for his consecration.
And it was not till October 13th, 1308, nearly a year after his
election, that he was consecrated. His registers, carefully
preserved at Exeter, prove him to have been a hard-working,
high-principled, and altogether estimable prelate. He it was who
erected that masterpiece of woodwork, the bishop's throne, in Exeter
Cathedral.
Stapledon was one of the foremost statesmen of his day, and he was
the trusted friend and adviser of King Edward II. Hence his frequent
and prolonged sojourns in the Metropolis, and his occasional
absences from England on missions of importance.
In 1323 the troubles with the Despensers, the king's favourites,
began.
Charles IV., king of France, seized the Agenois and threatened
Guienne. Edward sent his queen, Isabella, to Paris to negotiate
with her brother. The treaty which she made was so humiliating for
England that the king's council refused to discuss it. Another
suggestion was then made from the French court, that if Edward would
bestow Guienne on his eldest son, the king himself would not be
required to do homage to the Crown of France. The Despensers urged
Edward to accept this. The queen now refused to return to England;
she had made a favourite and paramour of Lord Mortimer, and, out of
spite against the king, favoured the Lancastrian party. Charles IV.
was at last obliged to send her out of his dominions. She retired to
the court of Hainault, where, under the direction of Mortimer, she
prepared for the invasion of England. At the close of 1326 Isabella
landed at Orwell in Suffolk, with a small but well-appointed army
of Hainaulters and exiles. The Lancastrians immediately hastened to
her standard. It was generally supposed that her object was simply
the removal of the Despensers. After a vain attempt to rouse the
Londoners in his cause, Edward fled with the two Despensers to the
Welsh marches.
The king's flight and the successful advance of the queen's forces
towards London encouraged the citizens to break out into open
rebellion against the Government. Before leaving, Edward had made
Stapledon guardian of the city. Walsingham, in his _History_, says:--
"Continuing their rage, the citizens made a rush for the house
of the Bishop of Exeter, and, setting fire to the gates, quickly
forced an entrance. Not finding the bishop they carried off his
jewels, plate, and furniture. It happened, however, that in an
evil hour the bishop returned from the country, who, although he
had been forewarned, felt no manner of dread of the citizens. So
he rode on with all boldness, till he reached the north door of
St. Paul's, where he was forthwith seized by the raging people,
who struck at and wounded him, and finally, having dragged him
from his horse, hurried him away to the place of execution.
Now the bishop wore a kind of armour, which we commonly calle
_aketone_; and having stripped him of that, and of all his
other garments, they cut off his head. Two others, members of
his household, suffered the same fate. Having perpetrated this
sacrilegious deed, they fixed the bishop's head on a stake.
As to the corpse, they flung it into a small pit in a disused
cemetery."
Another chronicler says:--
"The naked body, with only a rag given by charity of a woman,
was laid on a spot called _le lawles chirche_, and, without any
grave, lay there, with those of his two esquires."
"Those," says Dr. Oliver, "who attend to the springs and
principles of actions must award the tribute of praise and
admiration to this high-minded bishop and minister; they will
appreciate his zeal and energy to sustain the declining fortunes
of his royal master, and venerate him for his disregard of
self, and for his incorruptible honour and loyalty under every
discouragement."
His body was finally brought to Exeter, where it lies in the
Cathedral under a beautiful canopied tomb in the north-east bay of
the choir, close to the high altar.
And now, one word to the angler.
What streams these are that flow through the South Hams! What pools
under deep banks, in which the trout lurk! To him who can obtain
permission to fish the Erme, the Avon, can be assured days to be
never forgotten, of excellent sport in lovely scenery.