Devon, Its Moorlands, Streams and Coasts Part 24

[Ill.u.s.tration: MUSIC OF THE LYNS.]

As a place for visitors to admire, Lynton was discovered in the beginning of the nineteenth century. The French Revolution and Napoleonic wars obliged those who were in the habit of going abroad for change and amus.e.m.e.nt to look for it in comparatively unknown parts at home. In 1807 the first hotel--not counting a small and inconvenient village hostelry--was opened; and even at this date there were no wheeled vehicles in either village, ponies and donkeys carrying everything. Until this time Lynton and Lynmouth had been the quietest of little fishing-villages, without even the doings of a resident squire or rector to furnish a subject for a little gossip.

The ecclesiastical history of the little neighbouring parish of Countisbury is very much mixed up with that of Lynton. Mr Chanter prints some of the Countisbury churchwardens' accounts, which, as he observes, are chiefly remarkable for the prominent part that beer played in every event, from killing a fox to the visitation of 'ye Dean Ruler.'

s. d.

'Pd when one fox was killed for beer 2 0 Pd more for beare when one fox was killed 2 6 Pd for bear when two foxes were killed 7 6 Pd for ale for the fox hunters 2 0'

Other entries are for killing 'wild cats, greys [badgers], and hedge hogs ... salaries of dog-whipper ... fox-hunter, etc., and repairs to the base viol.'

Lynmouth and Lyn were noted for the fishery, and especially for their herrings and oysters. The fishery was developed in quite early days by the abbots of Ford Abbey, who claimed the whole coast-line of Lynton and of Countisbury. Cellars and curing-houses, called 'red-herring houses,'

were built close to the beach, and were apt to be swept away by any violent storm, for the little harbour has a double reason for dreading bad weather--not only do the breakers surge over their usual limits and wash away or damage all that is in their way, but at the same time the streams come down a roaring, foaming torrent, which rolls along great boulders and hurls itself against all obstacles. In 1607 a whole row of red-herring houses was swept away, and since that date the records of disputes as to repairs to the harbour and pet.i.tions from the fishermen tell how greatly they have suffered from this cause. The fishing has dwindled until it is now a very trifling matter indeed.

The small parish of Countisbury is high on the cliffs, on the eastern side of the river, and the road to it from Lynmouth rises at once to a height of eleven hundred feet. A little Perpendicular church with an embattled tower crowned by pinnacles stands at the mercy of every wind that blows.

Farther to the east, and almost on the boundary-line of Somerset, is Oldbarrow Camp, which differing archaeologists have claimed to be British, Roman, and Danish. From this hill the fall to the sea is precipitous, and the descent into Somerset is almost as steep; inland, the ground also sinks away, leaving a magnificent view and a grand sense of s.p.a.ce. Even when the light is fading there is a great charm, for looking down into the hollow, one sees a faint blue tinge lying like bloom upon the misty twilight that nils the valley--a sharp contrast to the clear darkness of the evening sky. Countisbury Camp is not far from Oldbarrow, and in Lynton there are two more ancient 'castles,' each consisting of a single fosse and rampart, and other monuments. Several stone circles, 'over forty feet in diameter,' have been wickedly removed from the Valley of Rocks 'for the purpose of selling them as gate-posts!...' Spindle-wheels, or pixie grinding-stones, as the natives call them, have been found in the neighbourhood, as well as arrow-heads and 'a skinning knife with a ground edge of black flint.'

The winding valley of the West Lyn is very beautiful, but not so wild as that of the East Lyn; it lies deep down beneath fir-woods, whose serried spires mount higher and higher on the steep hill-side. A little way from Lynton, along this lovely road, is Barbrook Mill, and close by a cottage covered with purple clematis, among trees loaded with rosy apples.

Following up the East Lyn from Lynton, the fitness of Dean Alford's words is realized:

LYN-CLEAVE.

This onward deepening gloom; this hanging path Over the Lyn that soundeth mightily, Foaming and tumbling on, as if in wrath That might should bar its pa.s.sage to the sea; These sundered walls of rock, tier upon tier, Built darkly up into the very sky, Hung with thick wood, the native haunt of deer And sheep that browse the dizzy slopes on high.

These 'walls of rock' are now and again cleft by the narrow openings of steep and wild ravines. It is intensely solitary; there is scarcely any sound or movement, but perhaps a buzzard high in the air may hang over the valley for a few moments. About two miles from the harbour is Watersmeet, where the Farley Water rushes into the Lyn. When the leaves are on the trees the stream can hardly be seen from the road, for it lies below a high, steep bank. By the water's edge in the shaded light there is a suggestion of mystery, and the bed of the stream is so shut in that but for the stirring of the leaves, the shifting gleams of sunlight in the waters, and the freshness of the air, one could almost imagine oneself underground. The glossy leaves of festoons of ivy and wild-flowers cover the red rocks. The Farley Water falls over a succession of little waterfalls, swirling and foaming in the pools between, and then slips over little rocky ridges and slopes covered with duck-weed so wide that the 'stream covers it like no more than a thin film of glancing emerald.' Below, the valley opens enough to allow s.p.a.ce for a tiny lawn, overhung with oak-trees; and here it is joined by the Lyn, which has raced along the farther side of a steep tongue of land.

The road pa.s.ses a fir-wood, bright with golden-rod and ragwort and soft blue scabious, and by-and-by turns eastward, and reaches the scattered village of Brendon. Brendon 'church-town' is made up of church, school, parsonage, and a few farms, and can scarcely be called a village. The church stands high on the hill above the river; it is very small, and has been rebuilt comparatively lately; its dedication is the most interesting thing about it. All who ever rejoiced in 'The Water Babies'

should remember this Irish saint. 'Did you never hear of the blessed St Brandan, how he preached to the wild Irish, on the wild, wild Kerry coast; he, and five other hermits, till they were weary and longed to rest?... So St Brandan went out to the point of Old Dunmore, and looked over the tide-way roaring round the Blasquets, at the end of all the world, and away into the ocean, and sighed, "Ah that I had wings as a dove!" And far away, before the setting sun, he saw a blue fairy sea, and golden fairy islands, and he said, "Those are the islands of the blest!" Then he and his friends got into a hooker and sailed away and away to the westward, and were never heard of more.'

A little higher up the little river (here known as Brendon Water) is a very old bridge, now unused, and a wide modern bridge, which crosses the two branches of the divided stream just below a little green island.

Bushes crowd and overlap each other on the banks, and it is very likely a grey water-wagtail will dart from among the leaves and flit jauntily upstream.

The road all this way follows the water--for some distance the boundary between the counties--and here it is sunk between the barriers of the County Wall separating Devonshire and Somersetshire. A great bare cliff, covered only with short gra.s.s, and scanty tufts of heather and furze growing thinly upon it, towers above the road; the other side of the valley is lower, gentler, and wooded. Malmsmead Bridge crosses over the Badgeworthy Water, as the stream--which seems to change its name nearly every half-mile in the most perplexing manner--is here called, a little higher than the point at which it is joined by its tributary, Oare Water. Above the bridge the road becomes a rough track that leads up into the very wild and beautiful valley of Badgeworthy Water, well known by name to all lovers of 'Lorna Doone.' Some of the natives are apt to mislead strangers by wrongly calling this glen the Doone Valley. Further upstream the valley becomes narrower, and the sides steeper, winding in long beautiful curves. The shallow stream is brown, but very bright and clear and pebbled; boggy patches lie here and there by the side, and in one patch the sweet-ferns grow so large and thick that their characteristic 'sharp sweet' scent is strong enough to betray them before one catches sight of the finely-cut fronds. On the east side of Badgeworthy Water is Deer Park, where many deer lie and the fir-woods come down to the water's edge. On the opposite side is Badgeworthy Wood, chiefly of oaks, most of which are not very large, but many of them are gnarled. The number of oak-apples that I have seen in this wood was amazing; on one tree they seemed like cherries on a cherry-tree. Nearly all were scarlet, and they glowed in the sunshine.

'Lorna Doone' has brought so many visitors to the scene that it is no news to say that the account of the water-slide is fict.i.tious. This word is deliberately chosen instead of 'exaggerated,' which is often applied to Mr Blackmore's picture of the fall; for he was not describing scenery--he was setting a scene in his novel, and there was no reason why he should be bound to inches, or even feet! And this argument applies to what he has said of the Doone Valley. At the same time, in his 'Exploration of Exmoor,' Mr Page observes that a true description of the valley of Badgeworthy Water would very nearly represent Mr Blackmore's Glen Doone; and it still seems absolutely apart from the ordinary race and fret of life.

Two long, smooth slopes of rock one below another form the chief part of the water-slide, and the thin stream slipping over them makes one wish to see how the fall would look when the water comes down, a roaring torrent, swollen by heavy rains and melting snow. On one side of the water-slide the ground rises very sharply, but up the other side a tiny path twists through the wood, and opens quite suddenly on a very still valley with steep sides and a broad, open s.p.a.ce between. A mountain-ash bearing vividly scarlet bunches of berries hangs over the stream close to the opening; but beyond, only a few stunted thorns grow spa.r.s.ely amongst an abundance of heather, furze, bracken, and whortleberries.

Lorna's bower seems to have been seen to some extent through the author's imagination. In a shallow combe at a little distance are the ruins of what appear to have been the walls of enclosures, but they are very indefinite. These are all that remain of the Doones' houses, but recent research denies that the Doones ever existed!

From the top of the hill above the water-slide there is a very beautiful view of the winding glens opening out of each other, and at this point one is able to follow their curves for a long way before the hills shut them out of sight. With the sun shining through the haziest clouds, and the radiant glow of a diffused light calling out delicate tints on the distant slopes, the whole scene seems most fitly described by the old words of praise, 'a fair country.'

Retracing the path to Malmsmead, one is irresistibly tempted to go a few steps into Somerset to look at the tiny church of Oare, where, Mr Blackmore says, Lorna Doone and Jan Ridd were married. The church is very narrow, and it stands among trees on the slope above the stream. On the south side of the nave, close to where the old east wall stood (the chancel is new), is an early piscina of a curious shape; it is supported by a large carved human head, with a hand to each cheek, and there is a thick, solid cap on the top.

Challacombe is a small village on the western border of Exmoor, seven or eight miles south of Lynton, and the church looks far over the moors.

Westcote derives the name from 'Choldicombe, or rather Coldecombe, from its cold situation, next neighbour to Exmoor;' and he speaks of 'divers hillocks of earth and stones ... termed burrows and distinguished by sundry names,' in the parish, and hints at their uncanny nature by telling how 'fiery dragons have been seen flying and lighting on them.'

Such tales he dismisses scornfully, but he tells of 'a strange accident'

that happened 'within these seven years, verified by oath of the party, who otherwise might have had credit for his honesty.' A labouring man, having saved enough money to buy a few acres of waste land, began to build himself a house on it, and from a burrow near by he fetched stones and earth. He had cut deep into the hillock, when 'he found therein a little place, as it had been a large oven, fairly, strongly, and closely walled up; which comforted him much, hoping that some great good would befall him, and that there might be some treasure there hidden to maintain him more liberally and with less labour in his old years: wherewith encouraged he plies his work earnestly until he had broken a hole through this wall, in the cavity whereof he espied an earthen pot, which caused him to multiply his strokes until he might make the orifice thereof large enough to take out the pot, which his earnest desire made not long a-doing; but as he thrust in his arm and fastened his hand thereon he suddenly heard, or seemed to hear, the noise of the trampling or treading of horses coming, as he thought, towards him, which caused him to forbear and arise from the place, fearing the comers would take his purchase from him (for he a.s.sured himself it was treasure); but looking about every way to see what company this was, he saw neither horse nor man in view. To the pot again he goes, and had the like success a second time; and yet, looking all about, could ken nothing. At the third time he brings it away, and therein only a few ashes and bones, as if they had been of children, or the like. But the man, whether by the fear, which yet he denied, or other cause, which I cannot comprehend, in very short time after lost senses both of sight and hearing, and in less than three months consuming died.'

This tale is followed by another, of a 'mystical sciencer,' and Westcote finishes with the comment that the stories are 'not unfit tales for winter nights when you roast crabs by the fire, whereof this parish yields none, the climate is too cold, only the fine dainty fruits of wortles and blackberries.'

A little to the north of Challacombe is the great hill of Chapman Burrows, where stands a 'tall, lean slab of slate, the Longstone.' It is nine feet high, and in the broadest part about two feet eight inches wide. The history of the Longstone is unknown, but the suggestion has been made that it may be an ancient relic, a menhir, and this view is supported by the fact that about a dozen large tumuli lie on the slopes around. One of these is between ten and twelve feet high and three hundred feet round at the base. Burrows are found all over Exmoor. 'The eye of reflection sees stand uninterrupted a number of simple sepulchres of departed souls.... A morsel of earth now damps in silence the eclat of noisy warriors, and the green turf serves as a sufficient shroud for kings.'

By far the greatest part of Exmoor lies in Somerset, so that here one must not wander far amongst great round hills, wide distances, and deep combes. One has heard of strangers who have been disappointed by the first sight of Exmoor, for its heights are not very evident. There are no peaks, no sharply-cut isolated hills, nor any with a very striking outline, except Dunkery; but the whole moor is a tableland, across which the coach road runs at a level from twelve hundred to fourteen hundred feet above the sea: 'A bare rolling waste of moorland stretching away into the eastern distance, like the ocean "heaving in long swells,"' and large s.p.a.ces of bracken, of bogs fringed with cotton-gra.s.s and rough gra.s.s and whortleberries, among which rise little glittering streams that splash their way down into the valleys beneath.

The sides of the glens leading from the borders of the moor are crowded with endless ma.s.ses of mountain-ashes, and whether the leaves make a background to the flat creamy cl.u.s.ters of sweet, heavily scented flowers or to great bunches of scarlet fruit, the long ranks give a very rich effect.

Mr R. J. King has observed that Exmoor, 'still lonely and uncultivated,'

was probably at one time during the English conquests a boundary or 'mark,' 'always regarded as sacred and placed under the protection of some deity or hero.' Amongst some very interesting remarks, he says that the intermingling in Devonshire of the Celtic and Teutonic races 'may be traced in folk-lore, not less distinctly than in dialect or in features.... Sigmund the Waelsing, who among our English ancestors represented Sigfried, the great hero of the Niebelungen-lied, has apparently left his name to the deep pool of Simonsbath ... again, side by side with traditions of King Arthur, to the parish of Simonsward in Cornwall.'

It is difficult to imagine any moorlands dest.i.tute of superst.i.tion, and plenty linger on Exmoor. Mr Page (writing in 1890) gave some instances that have occurred comparatively lately. He speaks of 'overlooking' and of witchcraft, and says that 'not many years since the villagers of Withycombe, by no means an Ultima Thule among hamlets, firmly believed that certain ancient dames had the power of turning themselves into white rabbits.'

'An astonishing instance of belief in witchcraft' within his own experience was one where an old woman--'as harmless a creature as can be found in the country'--was believed by her neighbours to have not only the evil eye, but also 'the power of turning herself into a black dog, in which form she was met a short time since, during the twilight hour, in a neighbouring lane. For these all-sufficient reasons the poor old soul was, for a while, unable to obtain the services of a nurse during an illness from which she is only now recovering.'

Another story shows the remarkable powers of a wise woman. Mr Page explains that he cannot give the real name of the couple, but calls them Giles. Giles deserted his wife. 'For a while Mrs Giles bore his absence with a fort.i.tude born, perhaps, of no very great love for her partner.

Then she suddenly took it into her head to have him home. She did not telegraph, she did not even write; but one day the errant husband was seen by the astonished villagers hurrying towards his deserted home.

_And his footsteps were marked with blood!_ The witch-wife had compelled his return in such haste that not only the soles of his boots, but those of his _feet_, were worn out.'

Mr Page mentions that 'the old mediaeval custom of touching a corpse still prevails. At an inquest lately held at or near South Molton, each of the coroner's jury, as he filed past the body, laid his fingers on the forehead. This act, it was believed, would free him from dreams of the deceased.

Omens and portents such as mysterious knockings, a particular sound of church-bells, or a bird flying into a room, are very grave warnings, and a story of this character comes from near Taunton. 'A farmer riding home from Taunton Market noticed a white rook among the sable flock settling over a field. When he reached home there were symptoms of uneasiness among his cattle, and that night the dogs barked so vociferously that he had to get up and quiet them. In the morning he was dead.'

Writing of other traditions, 'one of the most beautiful of Easter customs still survives. Young men have not yet ceased on the Resurrection morning to climb the nearest hill-top to see the sun flash over the dark ridge of Quantock, or the more distant line of Mendip.' To see the newly-arisen sun on Easter morning was an augury of good luck.

'Early in the century Dunkery, probably because it is the highest land in Somerset, was favoured above all surrounding hills, and its sides,'

says Miss King, 'were covered with young men, who seemed to come from every quarter of the compa.s.s, and to be pressing up towards the Beacon.'

Exmoor stag-hunting is far-famed, for it is the only corner of England where wild red deer are still to be found. The fashion of coming here to hunt from a distant part of the country is comparatively modern, but Hugh Pollard, Ranger of the Forest, kept a pack of stag-hounds at Simonsbath more than three hundred years ago, and the Rangers who succeeded him continued to keep the hounds.

Even before the Conquest, the moor had been a royal hunting-ground.

Deeds show that in the reign of Edward the Confessor there were at least three Royal Foresters; and William I, says Mr Rawle, 'probably reserved to himself the forest rights, for the Conqueror, according to the Saxon Chronicle, "loved the tall deer as though he had been their father," and would scarcely be likely to forgo any privileges concerning the vert and venison.' Various tenures show that later Kings kept Exmoor as a preserve. Walter Aungevin held land in Auri and Hole (near South Molton) under Edward III, 'by sergeantry that whensoever our lord the King should hunt in the forest of Exmoor, he should find for him two barbed arrows.' And Morinus de la Barr, farther to the west, near Braunton, held his land on the same tenure with the addition of finding 'one salmon.'

Nearly thirty years later in the same reign, a very curious tenure is registered. 'Walter Barun held certain lands and tenements in the town of Holicote, of the King in capite, by the service of hanging upon a certain forked piece of wood the red deer that die of the murrain in the King's forest of Exmoor; and also of lodging and entertaining the poor strangers, weakened by infirmities, that came to him, at his own proper costs, for the souls of the ancestors of our Lord King Edward.'

The Forest of Exmoor was part of the jointure of several Queens of England. Henry VIII settled it on Catherine of Aragon, and it was afterwards held by Jane Seymour. James I gave it to his Queen, but Charles I had other views, and announced his intention of drawing 'the unnecessary Forests and Waste Lands' [Dartmoor and Exmoor] 'to improvement.' Needless to say, the scheme died in its early stages, and when Charles II came to the throne, he granted a lease of the forest to the Marquis of Ormonde.

Besides the wild-deer on Exmoor, there are, as everyone knows, creatures almost as wild--herds of Exmoor ponies. Very few now are pure 'Exmoors,'

except those belonging to Sir Thomas Acland. Among these ponies the true breed has been carefully preserved, and there has been no crossing. It seems a little odd to think of Exmoor ponies being mentioned in Domesday, but Mr Chanter quotes an entry referring to the stock in the parishes of Lynton and Countisbury, '72 brood mares, probably the Exmoor ponies running half wild on the moor; in Brendon, 104 wild mares (_equas indomitas_) are mentioned.'

'The average height is 12-1/2 hands, and bays and buffy bays with mealy noses prevail; in fact, are in the majority of three to one.' The older ponies live out all the year round, but stacks of hay and straw are built by the herdsmen against the time when the snow lies deep. 'Still, like honest, hard-working labourers, the ponies never a.s.semble at the wicket till they have exhausted every means of self-support by scratching with their fore-feet in the snow for the remnants of the summer tufts, and drag wearily behind them an ever-lengthening chain of s...o...b..a.l.l.s.'

The moor makes an excellent sheep-walk, but attempts to cultivate it have not prospered. As far as agriculturists are concerned, 'Exmoor is best left alone--the "peat and heather in hill and dale."'

There is an old ballad called 'The Farmer's Son of Devonshire,' in which the views of one character, 'Brother Jack,' show a distinct resemblance to those of the great John Fry in 'Lorna Doone.' Here are a few verses.

The sub-t.i.tle is a long one, beginning: 'Being the Valiant Coronel's Return from Flanders.' To the tune of 'Mary, live long.'

'WILL. Well met, Brother Jack, I've been in Flanders With valiant Commanders, and am return'd back to England again; Where a while I shall stay, and shall then march away; I'm an Officer now.

Go with me, dear Brother, go with me, dear Brother, And lay by the Plow.

I tell thee, old boy, the son of a farmer, In glittering armour, may kill and destroy A many proud French; As a Squire or Knight, having courage to fight, Then valiantly go, In arms like a Soldier, in arms like a Soldier, To face the proud foe.