LYDFORD
An out-of-the-world spot--The church dilapidated--The
clerk--Situation of Lydford--An early fortress--The church of S.
Petrock--British foundations--Monument of the watch-maker--The
castle--A prison--Mr. Radford--Will Huggins--Primitive
gate-hinges--The gorge--The waterfall--The Gubbins crew--Black
Down--Entries in the registers of Mary Tavy--Mary and Peter Tavy
churches--Bridestowe church--Bronescombe's Loaf and Cheese--Tavy
Cleave--Peat-works--Cross on Sourton Down.
Fifty years ago Lydford was one of the most out-of-the-world and wild
spots in England. I had almost written God-forsaken, but checked my
pen, for God forsakes no place, though He may tarry to bless. There
were no resident gentry--there never had been, as a glance at the
registers reveals. There was no resident rector--there had not been
within the memory of the oldest inhabitant. The rector was a wealthy
pluralist, rector of Southill and Callington, in Cornwall, who hardly
ever showed his face in Lydford, the largest parish in England,
and maintained a poor curate there on a hundred pounds a year in a
miserable cottage.
The people were a law to themselves, and had the credit of being
inveterate poachers.
[Illustration: ON THE LYD]
The houses, thatched, built of moor-stones, not set in mortar, were
in a ruinous condition. The aspect of the place was that of an Irish
village. It was dominated by a ruined castle, and possessed a church
fast lapsing to ruin, and was girt in by walls long ago reduced
to heaps. One Christmas Day the curate went to the church for the
celebration of the Holy Communion, and found the altar covered with
snow that had blown in through the battered east window and under the
cracked slates of the roof.
"I'll sweep it off," said the clerk.
"On no account. God has spread His table," said the curate; and he
celebrated on the white sheet of snow.
In the cottage that served as parsonage it was not much better.
The curate had two rooms downstairs and one above. One room was
slate-paved. Upstairs there was no ceiling, and he had occasionally to
spread his umbrella over his head and pillow when he went to bed.
Now all is changed, or changing.
The church has been restored, and is a model of what a church should
be. The old parsonage has been pulled down, and stables built on
the site, and the late Mr. Street, the architect, erected an absurd
Scottish castle with angle turrets and extinguisher caps to serve
as rectory. The ruinous houses are being replaced by trim, if ugly,
habitations. Only the gaunt castle remains gutted.
About fifty years ago the clerk was addicted to lifting his elbow too
freely, and came to church occasionally in a hilarious condition. The
climax was reached at a funeral, when he tumbled into the grave before
the coffin, and apostrophised the dead man as he scrambled out: "Beg
parding, Ted; I bain't minded to change places wi' you just yet."
The curate was compelled to discharge him and appoint another, Peter X.
The old clerk refused to accept his dismissal, and gathered his
adherents, and on the ensuing Sunday marched at their head to the house
of God. Peter, advised of this, summoned his supporters, and, having
the keys, ensconced himself early within the sacred building, in the
clerk's pew, surrounded by his upholders. The rival party entered, and
a battle ensued between the factions. The curate absolutely refused
to perform the service to the clerking of the dismissed official, and
finally the latter and his gang were ejected from the church, loudly
professing that they would all turn Dissenters.
This Peter remained clerk for fifty years. He obtained a subsidiary
revenue by carrying children afflicted with "the thrush" up the tower,
and holding them over the battlements at each pinnacle, whilst he
recited the Lord's Prayer. For this he received a small gratuity.
He was a most worthy man, and, as he is now dead, I do not scruple to
mention that the story I have told in _Furze Bloom_, under the title of
"Peter Lempole," pertained to him. He never married, the reason being
that he had a childish old brother entirely dependent on him. Peter was
engaged to a bright, pretty girl; but one day she said to him, "When
us is married, then, mind y', Peter, I'm not going to have that silly
brother of yourn in the house with me." "Indeed!" was Peter's retort;
"then into my house _you_ shall never come."
Lydford occupies a tongue of land between two ravines, one cleft
perpendicularly to a depth of seventy feet, the other steep, but not
sheer through rock. The old line of fortifications, much degraded by
the plough, may be traced distinctly, nevertheless, across the only
portion of the headland by which attack was possible. It is the sort
of fortress which goes by the name of cliff castle on the Cornish and
Welsh coasts.
That it was a site chosen by the prehistoric population is undoubted.
Such a natural fortress could not have been overlooked, and it was
held since remote times till the Normans came. Yet, notwithstanding
the position being almost impregnable, it was taken, and the town of
Lydford was burnt by the Danes in 997 after they had destroyed the
Abbey of Tavistock. From Domesday it would appear that at the Conquest
Lydford was a walled town. It sent burgesses to Parliament twice in the
reign of Edward I.
The church is dedicated to S. Petrock, and at its restoration some
remains of the old British church were discovered three feet below the
pavement of the present edifice. The slabs that had lain on the floor
of the original oratory were taken up and placed within the doorway
of the present church; so that the worshippers may stand on the very
stones on which their ancestors stood in the sixth century. That
into the walls of the reconstructed church most of the stones of the
original edifice were incorporated, is more than probable.
There are several Petrock churches round the moor--Harford, South
Brent, Clannaborough; and probably the original founder and patron of
Buckfast Abbey was this saint.
The great distinction between British foundations and those that were
Roman was this: a British church was called after its founder, whereas
a Roman church received its name from some scraps of dead bones of a
saint laid under the altar, or placed in it. Unhappily, we have no
record of S. Petrock's labours in Devon, but there can exist little
hesitation in holding that he was an apostle of the district about
Dartmoor and of a tract north of it as well, as also that he laboured
and died in Cornwall.
Here is what Bede tells us of the manner of consecration among the
Celts. It must be premised that the historian is speaking of Cedd,
Bishop of the East Saxons from 653 to 664, to whom Oidilvald, King of
the Deisa, had given a piece of land. Cedd had received his training
from Celtic monks at Iona.
"This man of God, wishing by prayer and fasting to purge the place
of its former pollution of wickedness, and so to lay the foundation
of the monastery, entreated the king that he would grant him the
means and permission to dwell there for that purpose, during the
whole time of Lent, which was then at hand. In all the days of this
time, except on Sundays, he fasted till the evening, according to
custom, and then took no other sustenance than a little bread, one
hen's egg, and a little milk mixed with water. This, he said, was
the custom of those of whom he had learned the rule of regular
discipline; first to consecrate to our Lord, by prayer and fasting,
the places which they had newly received for building a monastery
or a church.
"When there were ten days of Lent still remaining there came a
messenger to call him to the king, and he, that the religious
work might not be intermitted, on account of the king's affairs,
entreated his priest, Cynebil, who was also his brother, to
complete the work that had been so piously begun. Cynebil readily
complied, and when the time of fasting and prayer was over he there
built the monastery, which is now called Lastingham."[15]
The name Petrock is really Peterkin, the Celtic diminutive of Peter,
and it is probable that Peter Tavy is another of his foundations, as
well as certain other churches now regarded as dedicated to the great
apostle.
The Saxons, who were saturated with Latin ideas, when they obtained
supremacy, rededicated the churches to saints of the Roman calendar,
if they were able to obtain from Italy some scraps of bone that it was
pretended had belonged to one of the saints of the Latin calendar. But
there is no evidence that the British Christians did other than call
their churches after the names of the founders.
Lydford church is of fifteenth-century Perpendicular, but in the
chancel is an earlier piscina, and the font is possibly pre-Norman. The
chancel screen is gone, but the rood staircase remains.
In the churchyard is the often-quoted epitaph of George Routleigh:--
"Here lies in horizontal position
the outside case of
George Routleigh, watch-maker,
whose abilities in that line were an honour
to his profession.
Integrity was the main-spring
and Prudence the regulator
of all the actions of his life.
Humane, generous and liberal
his Hand never stopped
till he had relieved distress.
So nicely regulated were all his motions
that he never went wrong,
except when set agoing
by people who did not know his key.
Even then he was easily set right again.
He had the art of disposing his time so well
that his hours glided away
in one continual round
of pleasure and delight.
Till an unlucky minute put a period to
his existence.
He departed this life Nov. 14, 1802,
aged 57,
wound up
in hopes of being taken in hand
by his Maker
and of being thoroughly cleaned, repaired
and set agoing
in the World to Come."
In the churchyard may be noticed some altar tombs of the type not
infrequent round the moor.
Due west of the church, across the graveyard hedge, is a small camp,
possibly British.
The castle is planted on a tump, a natural elevation artificially
shaped, and is not particularly interesting. It is square, and was
built after the Conquest. By a charter of Edward I. it was constituted
a Stannary prison. Richard Strode, of Newnham Park, one of the
principal gentry of the county, moved in Parliament to restrain the
miners from discharging their refuse into the rivers with the result of
choking up the harbours. The miners were so incensed against him that
they captured him in 1512, had him summarily tried by their Stannary
Laws, on Crockern Tor, and threw him into Lydford gaol, where he
languished for some time, and it was with considerable difficulty that
his release was obtained.
What with Forest Laws and Stannary Laws, Lydford Castle rarely lacked
tenants. Even in 1399 Lydford law was held in bad repute, for Wright,
in his collection of political poems, prints some verses of that date
which speak of it as such; and William Browne, in 1644, wrote on it:--
"I oft have heard of Lydford law,
How in the morn they hang and draw,
And sit in judgment after:
At first I wondered at it much,
But soon I found the matter such
As it deserves no laughter.
"They have a castle on a hill;
I took it for some old wind-mill,
The vanes blown off by weather.
Than lie therein one night 'tis guessed
'Twere better to be stoned or pressed
Or hanged, ere you come thither."
And so on for sixteen verses.
Below the castle is the water-gate where is the only spring from which
Lydford town was supplied till Mr. Radford brought drinking water into
the place.
With Lydford the name of Daniel Radford will be indissolubly
connected--one of the noblest and kindest of men, and one of the most
modest. He cut the way up the ravine by which the gorge was made
accessible. When I was a boy the only method by which it could be
explored was by swimming and scrambling in summer, when the water was
low. Mr. Radford built Bridge House and restored the church. It was due
to him that I undertook, in 1888, to collect the folk-music in Devon
and Cornwall; and it is in Lydford churchyard that he lies, awaiting
the resurrection of the just. Not without deep feeling can I pen these
lines to commemorate one of the best men whom it has been my happiness
to know.
As I have mentioned the folk-music of Devon, I may here add that
one of my assistants was old Will Huggins, of Lydford, a mason, who
entered enthusiastically into the work. I had an attack of influenza
in the winter of 1889-90, and had to leave England for Italy. Before
my departure Will promised me to go about among his old cronies and
collect ancient ballads. Alas! he caught a chill; it fell on his chest,
and when I returned in the spring, it was to learn that he was gone.
"I'm going, I reckon, full mellow
To lay in the churchyard my head;
So say, God be wi' you, old fellow,
The last of the singers is dead."
In the village street may be noticed, built into the hedge or wall, a
piece of granite with a round hole like a rock basin depressed in it.
Actually it is one of the stones of a gate-hinge.
[Illustration: A PRIMITIVE HINGE.]
Formerly the gates around Dartmoor had no iron hinges, but turned in
sockets cut in granite blocks. Few of these now remain in use, but the
stones may be noticed lying about in many places, and it is really
marvellous that the antiquaries of the past did not suppose they were
basins for sacrificial lustration.
In 1880 the late Mr. Lukis was in Devon, planning the rude stone
monuments on Dartmoor for the Royal Society of Antiquaries. He came on
some of these cuplike holes in stones, and carefully measured and drew
them. Happily, I was able to show a gate swinging between two of these
blocks, and so explain to him their purpose.
The Lydford ravine is the finest of its kind in England. A bridge
crosses it, and it is worth while looking over the parapet into the
gulf below, through which the river writhes and leaps. The gardens of
Bridge House are thrown open on Mondays, when a visitor may descend
and thread the gorge. But decidedly the best way for him to see the
beauties of the Lyd valley, where most restricted and romantic, is for
him to descend at the waterfall, a pretty but not grand slide of a
lateral brook, and ascend the ravine of the Lyd from thence; he will
pass through the gorge where finest, under the bridge, and pursue his
course till he comes out at a mill below the south gate of Lydford.
Hence a half-mile will take him to Kitt's Steps, another fall, a leap
of the Lyd into a basin half choked with the rubbish from a mine.
The mine happily failed, but it has left its heaps in the glen as a
permanent disfigurement.
Considerable caution must be exercised in ascending the gorge, as the
path is narrow, and in places slippery. A schoolmistress was killed
here a few years ago. She turned to look at the sun glancing through
the leaves at the entrance of the chasm, became giddy, and fell over.
She was dead when her body was recovered.
Inhabiting the valley and lateral combes of the Lyd, in the time
of Charles I. and the Commonwealth, was a race of men called the
Gubbinses. They were wild and lawless, and maintained themselves by
stealing sheep and cattle, and carrying them into the labyrinth of
glens where they could not be traced.
Fuller, in his account of the wonders of the county of Devon, includes
the Gubbinses. He heard of them during his stay in Exeter, 1644-7.
"I have read of an England beyond Wales, but the Gubbings land
is a Scythia within England, and they be pure heathens therein.
It lyeth near Brenttor, in the edge of Dartmore.... They are a
peculiar of their own making, exempt from Bishop, Archdeacon,
and all Authority, either ecclesiastical or civil. They live in
cotts (rather holes than houses) like swine, having all in common,
multiplied, without marriage, into many hundreds. Their language
is the drosse of the dregs of the vulgar Devonian; and the more
learned a man is, the worse he can understand them. Their wealth
consists in other men's goods, and they live by stealing the sheep
on the More, and vain it is for any to search their Houses, being
a Work beneath the pains of a Sheriff, and above the powers of any
constable. Such their fleetness, they will out-run many horses:
vivaciousnesse, they outlive most men, living in the ignorance of
luxury, the Extinguisher of Life, they hold together like Burrs,
offend One, and All will revenge his quarrel."
William Browne speaks of them as near Lydford:--
"And near thereto's the Gubbins' cave,
A people that no knowledge have
Of law, of God, or men;
Whom Cæsar never yet subdued;
Who've lawless liv'd; of manners rude;
All savage in their den.
"By whom, if any pass that way,
He dares not the least time to stay,
But presently they howl;
Upon which signal they do muster
Their naked forces in a cluster,
Led forth by Roger Rowle."
It cannot be said that the race is altogether extinct. The magistrates
have had much trouble with certain persons living in hovels on the
outskirts of the moor, who subsist in the same manner. They carry
off lambs and young horses before they are marked, and when it is
difficult, not to say impossible, for the owners to identify them.
Their own ewes always have doubles.
In the West Okement valley, in a solitary spot, are the foundations of
a cottage in which for many years a man lived, preying upon the flocks
and cattle on the moor, and carrying on his depredations with such
cunning that he was never caught. It was shrewdly suspected that he was
in league with a number of small farmers, and that he was by this means
able to pass on his captures and ensure their concealment.
Black Down is an extensive ridge of moorland traversed by the high road
from Okehampton to Tavistock. The highest point is called Gibbet Hill,
but tradition is silent as to who hung there.
In the Mary Tavy register occurs this entry:--
"1691, March 12, William Warden, a currier, was whipped by the
Parson and Churchwardens of Whitchurch, and ordered to be passed
on as a wandering rogue from parish to parish, by the officers
therein, in 26 days to his native place, Cheshunt in Hertfordshire,
and as the Churchwardens were conveying him on horseback over Black
Down, he died on the back of the horse, and was buried the same
night."
The parson of Whitchurch was a Mr. Polwhele, who was also justice of
peace.
Here is another curious entry in the same book of registers:--
"1756, Sept. 12, Robert Elford, was baptized, the child of Susanna
Elford by her sister's husband, to whom she was married with the
consent of her sister, the wife, who was at the wedding."
Here the union is not with a _deceased_ wife's sister, but the living
wife's sister. There is no entry relative to this marriage, so that
the pair must have got their unhallowed union blessed in some remote
parish, where the relationship was not known.
In 1760 William Creedy, sojourner, and Susanna Elford had their banns
called, but there is no entry of a marriage.
Another entry in the same register book is suggestive of a scandal.
"1627, Aug. 5, Baptized, Nicolas filius Mri. Johan. Cake jam senio
confecti."
Mary Tavy church, picturesquely situated, not on the Tavy, but on a
little confluent, was barbarously renovated some years ago, but of late
much loving care has been bestowed upon the structure, and something
has been done to efface the mischief wrought by the architect who had
dealt with it previously. The new screen is remarkably good, and in
accordance with Devonshire work of the sixteenth century. The stained
glass is excellent.
Peter Tavy church was disfigured rather later than Mary Tavy. It
possessed an interesting Tudor square pew, richly carved, and with
posts at the corners supporting heraldic beasts. This was demolished
at the so-called restoration. Some scraps have been preserved and
worked up to form a screen across the tower arch. All the modern work
is of the vulgarest description, in yellow deal. A portion of the
screen with saints painted on it is preserved within the altar rails.
Peter Tavy Combe must on no account be neglected; it is a remarkably
picturesque valley.
Another church that may be visited from Lydford is Bridestowe,
dedicated to S. Bridget, who had a sanctuary of refuge here, now called
the Sentry. The original church stood in a different position, and
contained the Norman arch now erected at the entrance to the church
avenue. It was turned into a church-house, then became ruinous and was
pulled down. The reason for the removal of the parish church in the
fifteenth century was probably because the old church was near the road
at a turn, so that there was not space available to enlarge it.
This church has suffered from maltreatment by a late rector, who tore
down the old roodscreen, sawed it down the middle, and plastered the
tracery so treated against a deal dwarf screen, _inverted_, and against
a vestry door. To make matters worse, he boarded the entire interior
of the chancel with deal, varnished. It presented the appearance of a
cabin of a ship. This has now happily disappeared. It is greatly to be
desired that the screen should be restored.
Second to the Dart only in beauty is the West Okement that comes
foaming down from the bogs about Cranmere through a fine ravine
between Yes Tor and Amicombe Hill. If the river be followed up from
Meldon Viaduct, a point is reached where it rushes over a barrier of
rocks fallen from Black Tor, and divides about an islet. But perhaps
the best way to see this valley is to ascend a combe, crossed at the
foot by the Lake Viaduct, and follow a track that sweeps round Sourton
Tor, and ascend to Bronescombe's Loaf and Cheese, where is a fine
cairn. On the slope between Sourton Tor and Bronescombe's Loaf lies a
large slab of granite through which a dyke of elvan has been thrust. In
this elvan have been cut the moulds for two bronze axe-heads.
Walter Bronescombe was Bishop of Exeter between 1258 and 1280, and he
lies buried in the Cathedral under a fine canopied tomb. The effigy
is of his own date, and gives apparently a true portrait of a worthy
prelate.
One day he was visiting this portion of his diocese, and had ventured
to ride over the moor from Widdecombe. He and his retinue had laboured
through bogs, and almost despaired of reaching the confines of the
wilderness. Moreover, on attaining Amicombe Hill they knew not which
way to take, for the bogs there are nasty; and his attendants dispersed
to seek a way. The Bishop was overcome with fatigue, and was starving.
He turned to his chaplain and said, "Our Master in the wilderness was
offered by Satan bread made of stones. If he were now to make the
same offer to me, I doubt if I should have the Christian fortitude to
refuse."
"Ah!" sighed the chaplain, "and a hunch of cheese as well!"
"Bread and cheese I could not hold out against," said the Bishop.
Hardly had he spoken before a moorman rose up from a peat dyke and drew
nigh; he had a wallet on his back.
"Master!" called the chaplain, "dost thou chance to have a snack of
meat with thee?"
"Ay, verily," replied the moorman, and approached, hobbling, for he was
apparently lame. "I have with me bread and cheese, naught else."
"Give it us, my son," said the Bishop; "I will well repay thee."
"Nay," replied the stranger, "I be no son of thine. And I ask no reward
save that thou descend from thy steed, doff thy cap, and salute me with
the title of master."
"I will do that," said the Bishop, and alighted.
Then the strange man produced a loaf and a large piece of cheese.
Now, the Bishop was about to take off his cap and address the moorman
in a tone of entreaty and by the title of master, when the chaplain
perceived that the man had one foot like that of a goat. He instantly
cried out to God, and signified what he saw to the prelate, who, in
holy horror, made the sign of the cross, and lo! the moorman vanished,
and the bread and cheese remained transformed to stone.
Do you doubt it? Go and see. Look on the Ordnance Survey map and you
will find Bread and Cheese marked there. Only Bronescombe's name has
been transformed to Brandescombe.
[Illustration: HARE TOR]
But the Bishop, to make atonement, and to ease his conscience for
having so nearly yielded to temptation, spent great sums on the
rebuilding of his cathedral.
From the Bread and Cheese, a walk along the brow of the hill by the
Slipper Stones--so called because there Bishop Bronescombe dropped one
of the coverings of his feet--shows the valley to perfection, with
Black Tor rising above it, and Yes Tor towering high aloft in the rear.
By the stream below is a stunted copse, a relic of the ancient arms of
forest that stole up the ravines far into the moor, but of which now
hardly any remain. At Stinga Tor, further up, is a fine logan rock. The
visitor may return by the peat-works and the noble pile of Lynx Tor to
the valley of the Lyd.
An interesting excursion may be made to Tavy Cleave. The course to be
adopted, so as to see it in perfection, is to go on to the moor from
the Dartmoor Inn. Here in its proper season, August to October, the
field gentian, with its dull purple flowers, may be gathered. A descent
to the Lyd by some old mine works opens a fine view of Lynx, Hare, and
Doe Tors, and the little farm named after the latter lies before one,
solitary in the midst of heather and swamp. Stepping-stones allow the
river to be crossed, and the farm is reached and passed, and Hare Tor
is aimed at. Old stream-works and prospecting pits abound. By leaving
the summit of Hare Tor on the left, a cluster of rocks rising above
the grass and heather must be struck at, and suddenly before the eye
opens the ravine of the Tavy, that foams far below over a bar of red
granite.
Between the rocks and Ger Tor is a cluster of hut circles in tolerable
preservation, and a very interesting collection is found on a spur of
Stannon, on the further side of the Tavy.
Lynx Tor may be ascended from Lydford. The summit is occupied by a fine
mass of rocks, and commands a superb view as far as the Atlantic in one
direction, and Plymouth Sound and the Channel in another.
Near Lynx Tor are the peat-works already mentioned. Various attempts
have been made to find for the peat a use that may prove commercially
successful, but hitherto these attempts have not been satisfactory to
investors. The bogs are hungry, and swallow up a good deal of money.
Hence a short diversion will take to the logan rock on Stinga Tor.
[Illustration: INSCRIPTION ON SOURTON CROSS.]
On Sourton Down stands an old granite cross that bears an inscription
only to be read when the sun is setting and casts its rays aslant over
the face. Apparently the monolith was shaped into a Latin cross at some
period later than the inscription, which belongs to the sixth century.
It is headed by the early Christian symbol of the ☧ but badly made. The
same symbol occurs on the inscribed stone at Southill. The granite is
of a very coarse texture, especially where the figure occurs and at the
beginning of the name.
As for every person, so for every place, a time comes if waited for.
It has come for Lydford, burnt by Danes, deserted in the Middle Ages,
abandoned by its rectors.
"At six o'clock I came along
And prayed for those that were to stay
Within a place so arrant;
Wide and ope the winds so roar,
By God's grace I'll come there no more
Till forc'd by a tin warrant."
So wrote Browne in the seventeenth century.
But the time has arrived for Lydford at last, and now in summer it is
hardly possible for a visitor to obtain lodgings, unless he has written
to secure them months before, so greatly does Lydford attract to it
those who have eyes to see beautiful scenery and hearts to appreciate
it.
FOOTNOTES:
[15] _Hist. Eccl._, iii. c. 23.