Part 10

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.

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.

FOOTNOTES:

[24] See _Some Beauties of the Seventeenth Century_.

[25] See _Flight of the King_ and _After Worcester Fight_.

IN DEVON AND DORSET

Those who have never been to Clovelly can have no idea of its quaintness, no matter what descriptions they have read or pictures they may have seen. One goes there expecting to find the little place exactly as he imagines it to be, and is agreeably surprised to find it is quite different. It is so unlike any other place, that one looks back at it more as a dream than a real recollection. We do not hint that the everlasting climb up and down may be likened to a nightmare. Not a bit of it. Though we gasp and sink with fatigue, we have still breath enough left in our body to sing in praise. Were the steps more steep and less rambling, perhaps we should not be so satisfied. What excellent exercise for muscular-leg development. But how about the older part of the inhabitants?

We had the honour to converse with the oldest Clovellian, a hale and hearty fisherman, who, by no means tardy in introducing himself, promptly proceeded to business. For twopence we might take his photograph. We thanked him kindly, and having disbursed that sum reserved our plates for inanimate curiosities.

It is gratifying to learn that there is no room for "improvement" at Clovelly, and there are fewer houses than there used to be. Consequently there is nothing new and out of harmony. The cottages are really old and quaint, not as we expected to find them, imitations, like half the houses in Chester.

Even the "New Inn" is delightfully old, with queer little rooms and corners, and little weather-cock figures above the sign, of the time of Nelson. It is a novel experience to arrive there in the dusk and walk (?) down the High Street to the sea. The most temperate will stumble and roll about as if he had sampled the cellar through, and ten to one but he doesn't finally take an unexpected header into the sea.

But granted he reaches the end of the little pier (which projects after the fashion of the "Cobb" at Lyme Regis), he will find a hundred lights from the cottages as if lanterns were hung on the hillside, their long reflections rippling in the water.

The place is as much a surprise as ever in broad daylight. One might be in Spain or Italy. Donkeys travel up and down the weed-grown cobble steps carrying projecting loads balanced on their backs. Indeed, one is quite surprised to hear the people speaking English, or rather Devonshire, the prettiest dialect. In the daylight the little balconied-houses overhanging the sea look more like pigeon-cots nailed to the steep rock, and one almost wonders how the inhabitants can get in. Long may Clovelly remain as it is now, the quaintest little place in England!

The town of Barnstaple is an excellent centre for exploration, and the antiquity of the "Golden Lion" is a guarantee of comfort. It was a mansion of the Earls of Bath, and upon a richly moulded ceiling, with enormous pendants of the date of James the First, are depicted biblical subjects, including the whole contents of the Ark, or a good proportion of it. The spire of the church of SS. Peter and Paul looks quite as out of the perpendicular as the spire at Chesterfield. There are some good Jacobean tombs, but nothing else in particular.

The aged inmates of the almshouses point out the bullet-marks in their oaken door, made when the Royalists fortified the town in 1645. Lord Clarendon, who was governor of the town, tells us that here it was Prince Charles first received the fatal news of the battle of Naseby. The prince had been sent to Barnstaple for security. The house he lodged at in the High Street was formerly pointed out, but has disappeared.

The poet Gay was a native of the town, and early in the nineteenth century some of his manuscripts were discovered in the secret drawer of an old oak chair that had passed from a kinsman on to a dealer in antiques who lived in the High Street.

Close to the town is Pilton, whose church is full of interest. The carved oak hood of the prior's chair, which dates from Henry VII.'s reign, serves the purpose now to support the cover of the font. At the side may be seen an iron staple to which in former years the Bible was chained. From the fine Gothic stone pulpit projects a painted metal arm and hand which holds a Jacobean hour-glass. The screen and parclose screen are also good, and the communion rails and table in the vestry are of Elizabethan date. The church pewter is also worth notice, as well as an old pitch pipe for starting the choir. The porch bears evidence that the tower was roughly handled when Fairfax captured Barnstaple in 1646. The existing tower was built fifty years later.

Nowhere have we seen so fine and perfect a collection of carved oak benches as at Braunton, a few miles to the north-west of Pilton. They are as firm and solid as when first set up in Henry VII.'s reign, and are rich in carvings, as is the graceful wide-spanned roof. One of the bosses represents a sow and her litter, who by tradition suggested the idea of the holy edifice being erected by Saint Branock. A window showing some of this good person's belongings, spoken of in the tenth commandment, is mentioned by Leland, but since then possibly some local antiquary may have disregarded what is forbidden in that ancient law. Presumably there have been attempts also to annex the ruins of the patron-saint's chapel, for the villagers pride themselves that all attempts to remove them have failed. What an object-lesson to the jerry builders of to-day!

Farther to the north-west and we get to Croyde Bay, which perhaps one day may have a future on account of its open sea and sands. At present it looks in the early transition state.

Tawstock, to the south of Barnstaple, is said to possess the best manor, the noblest mansion, the finest church, and the richest rectory in the county. Certainly the church could not easily be rivalled (the "Westminster of the West," as it is called) in its picturesque position, surrounded by hills and woods, with the old gateway of the manor-house, the sole remains of the original "Court," flanking the winding road which leads down to it: we almost feel justified in adding to these superlatives the "handsomest Jacobean tomb, and the most elaborate Elizabethan pew," but will not commit ourselves so far. The former, on the left-hand side of the altar, is that of the first Earl of Bath (Bourchier) and his wife. Above their recumbent effigies is a great display of armorial bearings, with sixty-four quarterings hung upon a vine, showing the intermarriages of the principal families of England. There are many other fine monuments, that of Rachael, the last Countess of Bath, who died in Charles II.'s reign, representing a lifelike and exceedingly graceful figure in white marble. She was the daughter of Francis, Earl of Westmoreland, and married secondly, Lionel, third Earl of Middlesex, who predeceased her. The Elizabethan pew of the Bourchier-Wrays, lords of the manor, has a canopy, and is richly carved; but it was originally of larger dimensions. Close by are some fine bench-ends, one of which displays the arms of Henry VII. High aloft is a curious Elizabethan oak gallery by which the ringers reach the tower, upon which are carvings of the vine pattern, a favourite design in Devon. An early effigy in wood must not be forgotten, the recumbent figure of a female, supposed to be a Hankford, who brought the Tawstock estates into the Bourchiers' possession.

From northern Devonshire let us turn our attention to some nooks in the easternmost corner and in the adjoining part of Dorset.

Of all the villages along the coast-line here, Branscombe is the most beautiful and old-fashioned. Many of the ancient thatched and whitewashed cottages have Tudor doors and windows. Some of the best, alas! were condemned as being unsafe some fifteen years ago, among them one which in the old smuggling days had many convenient hiding-places for that industry, for Branscombe was every bit as notorious as the little bay of Beer. The church is, or was not long since, delightfully unrestored, for fortunately the good rector is one who does not believe in up-to-date things, and the sweeping changes which are rampant in places more accessible. It is the sort of comfortable old country church that we associate with the early days of David Copperfield or with Little Nell. Truly the high box-pews are not loved by antiquarians, but is it not better to leave them than replace them with something modern and uncomfortable? If the original oak benches of the fifteenth or sixteenth centuries could be replaced, that is entirely another matter. But they cannot, therefore let those who love old associations not banish the Georgian pews without a thought that they also form a link with the past. The church is cruciform, and principally of the Early English and Early Decorated periods, the old grey tower in the centre standing picturesquely out in the beautifully wooded valley. The village of Beer is also very charming, and the fisher folk fine types of men. It is delightful to watch the little fleet set sail; but in the summer the air in the tiny bay is oppressive, and the effluvia of fish somewhat overpowering. The extensive caves here have done good service in the smuggling days.

Another charming village is Axmouth, situated on the river which gives its name. Old-fashioned cottages with gay little gardens straggle up the hill, down which the clearest of streams runs merrily, affording delight to a myriad of ducks who dip and paddle to their hearts' content. The church has Norman features, and the tower some quaint projecting gargoyles. From the other side of the river at high tide the old church and cluster of cottages around it, backed by the graceful slope of Hawksdown Hill behind, make a charming picture. High up in the hills, through typical Devonshire fern-clad lanes, is Bindon, an interesting Tudor house containing a chapel of the fifteenth century. The entrance from the road, with its circular stone gateway and gables with latticed mullioned-windows peeping over the moss-grown wall, is charming, as are also the old farm-buildings at the back, in which an enormous canopied well is conspicuous. But more gigantic still is the well at Bovey, another Tudor house, near Beer, which bears the reputation of being haunted. But with the exception of some gables at the back, Bovey is less picturesque than Bindon, owing, perhaps, to the fact that the roof has been re-slated.

More interesting are the remains of old Shute House, which lies inland some six or seven miles. This was a far more extensive mansion, as will be seen by the imposing embattled gateway and a remaining wing, which rather remind one of a bit of Haddon. Here during the Monmouth Rebellion the Royalist commander Christopher, second Duke of Albemarle, encamped on June 18, 1685, the same day that the other duke, the boon companion of his wilder days, entered Taunton. The house belonged then, as it does still, to the De la Poles.

Most of the old houses hereabouts are associated in some sort of way with the rebellion. Close upon the county border to the north-east stands Coaxden, a much modernised old farm, where stories are told of fugitives from Sedgemoor. How its occupant, Richard Cogan, being suspected as a Monmouth adherent, fled from his house to Axminster, where in the "Old Green Dragon Inn" the landlord's daughter secreted him between a feather-bed and the sacking of a bedstead. Kirke's "lambs" traced him to the house, but failed to hit upon his hiding-place. The story ends as all such stories should, the girl who preserved his life became his wife. The house is further interesting as the birthplace in 1602 of Sir Symonds D'Ewes the historian.

A couple of miles or so to the west is Wylde Court, another interesting old farmhouse, much less restored, dating from Elizabeth's reign, with numerous pinnacled gable ends and characteristic entrance porch and oak panelled rooms. This and Pilsdon, another Tudor house a few miles to the west, at the foot of Pilsdon Pen, belonged to the Royalist Wyndhams, and in the troublous times they were looked upon with suspicion, and searched on one or two occasions by the Parliamentary soldiers. "Hellyer's Close," near Wylde Court, is so named because a Royalist commander, Colonel Hellyer, was taken prisoner and executed here by Cromwell's soldiers. At the time that Charles II., in 1651, attempted to get away to France from the coast of Dorset, Pilsdon was visited by a party of Cromwellian soldiers, and Sir Hugh Wyndham and his family secured in the hall while the house was thoroughly searched, suspicion even falling upon one of the ladies that she was the king in disguise.[26] Sir Hugh's monument may be seen at Silton in the extreme north corner of the county.

Chideock is a charming old-world village in the valley between Charmouth and Bridport, snugly perched between the cone-shaped eminence Colmer's Hill and Golden Cap, the gorse-covered headland, said to be the highest point between Dover and the Land's End. The castle of the De Chideocks and Arundells, a famous stronghold built in Richard II.'s reign, long since has disappeared, but its moat can be traced. The fine old church exteriorly is one of the most picturesque in Dorsetshire, but the inside has been much restored and modernised. A handsome tomb of Sir John Arundell in armour is in the south aisle.

Longevity seems to be the order of the day round "Golden Cap." At Cold Harbour we chatted with a hearty old man enjoying his pipe by his cottage door. He was close on eighty; but there was still a generation over his head, for his father, evidently to show his son a good example, was hard at work digging potatoes in the back garden. We solicited the honour to photograph the pair, and asked the elder of the two if he would have a pipe. No, he didn't smoke, but he could drink, he said; and so, of course, we took the hint, and he with equal promptitude toddled up the lane, as digging potatoes at the age of ninety-nine is thirsty work.

There is a deep picturesque lane near Chideock called "Skenkzies" which at night-time is particularly dark, and held in awe, for there are stories of evil spirits lurking about; and little wonder, for close at hand is a farmhouse called "Hell!" Old customs and superstitions die hard in western Dorset. Forlorn and love-sick maidens as a special inducement for their lovers to appear, place their boots at right angles to one another in the form of a T upon retiring to roost. The charm is said to be irresistible; but there have been cases where it has failed, when the size has exceeded "men's eights."