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 olde
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st 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
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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!
CEILING IN THE GOLDEN LION, BARNSTAPLE.
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, tell
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s 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
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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
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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
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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 beaut
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ifully 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.