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At the back of Combe Sydenham are the remains of an old mill. The
wheel has disappeared, and the waterfall splashing in the streamlet
below, together with an ancient barn adjacent, form a delightful
picture.
To the west is Nettlecombe, a fine old gabled house, dating from the
latter part of Elizabeth's reign, containing ancestral portraits of the
Trevelyans and some curious relics, among which is a miniature of
Charles the martyr worked in his own hair. The estate belonged
originally to the Raleighs, whose name is retained in Raleigh Down
and Raleigh's Cross by Brendon Hill.
Elworthy church, to the south-east, commands a fine position, and
boasts a painted screen bearing the date 1632 and some carved
bench-ends. But the churchyard looked sadly neglected and weed-
grown. The great limb of a huge yew tree overhangs the stocks,
which we are grateful to observe have been restored, and not allowed
to decay as those at Crowcombe.
From here we went farther to the south-east in sea
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rch of a place locally called "Golden Farm," or properly Gaulden, where, depicted on a plaster ceiling of ancient date, are various
scenes from biblical history, from the temptation of Adam downwards.
Now, whether the good gentleman who rents the farm has been
besieged by classes for the young anxious to learn on the
Kindergarten system, or whether the arms of the Turberville family
that figure upon a mantelpiece has connected the house with a
certain well-known novel and brought about an American invasion,
the fact remains that his equanimity has evidently become disturbed.
His door was closed, and he was proud that he could boast that he
had turned people away who had come expressly across the Atlantic!
Sadly we turned away, but with inward congratulations that we had
not come quite so far, when, lo! the worthy farmer showed signs of
relenting. We might come in for half a guinea, he said
condescendingly. We thanked him kindly and declined, observing that
the fee at Windsor Castle was more than ten times less. 'Tis little
wonder that they call it "Golden Farm."
Equidistant from Monksilver to the north-west is Old Cleeve, a pretty
little village near the coast, whose ruined Cistercian abbey has nooks
and corners to delight the artist or antiquarian. The grey old
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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.