CHAPTER III
Clovelly
HERE being no other passengers, the
coachman smiled respectful approval at us, while he wound his horn
gaily, and off we started over Bideford bridge on our way to Clovelly.
Bideford town lies stretched along the estuary more asleep than awake.
The busy days of Sir Francis Drake have long departed. A few small
coasting-vessels ride by their cables on the great iron rings in the
side of the stone quay, in place of the many galleons just home from
the Spanish Main in these good old days. The quaint inns, where once
browned sailors drank and boasted of their deeds, are still hoary and
picturesque, unchanged outwardly since the departure of the former
rollicking guests. They now depend entirely on a few topers for their
existence.
Bideford is built on a steep incline, so
up we went, too, with vigorous horn-blowing by the guard, until the
last fringe of cheap, ugly villas was left behind, and we were out on
the broad highroad with ten miles of drive before us. Overhead arched a
lovely sky, and to the sea tumbled thick-wooded cliffs. The waters of
the bay were as full of shades and colours as an orchid leaf. The lazy
swells rolled off to the horizon, where Lundy's Island, the former home
of smugglers and outlaws, lay as innocent as a pink sea-shell, changing
its colour and shape to a violet cloud, where the road curves, and
offered us new views every moment.
The whole way to Clovelly is hallowed by
the remembrance of Charles Kingsley and the hero of his great novel,
"Westward Ho!" Indeed the home of Amyas Leigh lay in this direction
from Bideford, and as we drove, so did he stalk along on foot to visit
his friend Will Cary at Clovelly.
The roofs of many country residences
show among the trees. Here and there a bit of the point of a gable, or
a red roof just peeping above the green leaves, Sheep, so big and fat
that we think our eyes deceive us, are feeding in the rich green fields
beyond high, luxuriant hedges. The road dips again and again down
slight hills, and the tinted sea and deep-red cliffs are then shut off,
only to appear again in new colours.
Finally, at a spot among tall, thick
trees, we stop without warning, and the driver announces that our
journey is at an end. There is no house or village; a barn at the top
of the hill, a few seafaring men lounging about a mile-stone, and a
steep woodland path leading apparently nowhere, is all we can see. The
Invalid protests, but the rest of us, more obedient to the driver's
command, climb down from our perch. We are then so much absorbed by the
difficulties of the slipping and sliding descent that, before we have
time to make any comment, by a sudden turn the green balconies, the
funny little bay-windows, and jumble of toy houses buried among flowers
and foliage; announce to us that we are in one of the most noted
villages of England.
It hangs there at our feet, crowded in
between high banks of dark green, zigzagging down the narrow bed of a
former stream to the huge, liquid; opal sea. It has the prosaic name of
Hartland Bay, but "it certainly is like a jewel to-night," declares the
Matron. "The clouds above us are models for poster artists, with their
gay hues and dark, decided outlines."
If, in the picture before us, any
variety was wanting, it was supplied by the red sails of the
fishing-boats slowly rocking to and fro on the glassy water; or by the
sturdy little donkeys who were picking their way from side to side down
the broad cobble-paved steps of the street, bearing our bags and
bundles before us to the door of the New Inn.
When we told our names to the hostess,
the wisdom of sending a telegram several days before our advent was
made manifest. Instead of being packed away in the large and ugly
Annex, we had the original ancient miniature New Inn quite to ourselves.
"I feel as if I had got into my own
dollhouse," said Polly, as she mounted the low step into the
bay-window, and, seating herself there, proceeded to fill its space
entirely.
It is a doll's inn, but so perfectly
proportioned that we had decided that, were it possible to nibble some
of the wonderful Wonderland mushroom on the proper side, we should be
in a palatial dwelling. We have none of Alice's specific on hand, so we
remain big and clumsy, and look with anxiety at the wealth of breakable
objects with which our little sitting-room is encumbered. There are
tables laden down with shepherdesses and cupids, more or less maimed;
on the walls the china plates hang thick, and the mantel-shelf is
littered with vases, great, small, and of middling size, while in every
nook and corner, wherever there is a vacant spot, are flowered
candlesticks.
There are four bedrooms in the little
house, whose closed doors are defended from intruders by huge wooden
latches, quite out of proportion to the possible danger of thieves.
Low, long lattice casements, and a staircase that a tall man could go
down with one step, we have also in our tiny inn. The Invalid's bedroom
looks seaward, and into her window two bold roses peep; they climb up
over the roof of the next house, and nod and bow against the pane, for
in Clovelly the windows of the second story of the house, the next
highest up on the street, get a clean view over the lower chimneys.
While looking at these clustering roses,
we found the new moon gazing at us. The sky, the sea, the cliffs, and
all the beauties of Clovelly were doing their best to enchant our
senses.
looking down Clovelly Street – Looking up Clovelly
Street
The perpendicular towns so common on
many parts of the Continent, have no more picturesque qualities than
this little hamlet. There are here the same unawaited flights of steps,
unexpected back courts, blind alleys, and mysterious passages under
arches and through houses; but there are here none of the malodorous
horrors and dirt of the Continental villages. Clovelly may have had in
Charles Kingsley's day an ancient and fishlike odour, for he mentions
the smells in one of his letters to his wife, but to-day Clovelly is
swept and garnished in every nook and corner, and the back gardens
blossom and overflow with every kind of flower, painted gaudier by the
soft sea air. The falling, twisting street is a riot of bloom from top
to bottom. Tall fuchsias and great purple clematis fight with the roses
for mastery to the very chimney-tops. The window-ledge boxes fling over
trailing vines, and are gay with geranium and petunia, while pots of
flowering plants adorn each one of the queer little porches, and the
brilliant nasturtiums crowd each other to stare over the walls of the
tiny gardens. Every house is small in Clovelly but the Annex to the New
Inn, and that would not be called large in any other town. Although it
has been lately built, the vines are doing their best to hide whatever
there is ugly about it. All the other cottages well suit the little
white wedge made by the village in the dark hillside. Down by the
water's edge is a small pier, winding itself like a curved arm about
the gaily painted fishing-boats which come to be, sheltered there at
night. There is a diminutive lighthouse at the point of this pier, and
the sea-wall, raised along one side of it, is draped with the rich
brown seaweed, an ornament furnished by nature that blends with the
dark red nets of the fishermen.
The pier follows a natural formation of
rock, which is probably the reason for the existence of a village in
this strange precipitous glen. It is the very best place for lounging
away the long, pleasant twilight; for gazing out around the tall
neighbouring headlands on to the waters of Bristol Channel, and
watching the lights come out slowly in the village hanging above.
Along the pebbly beach are a few houses
looking like escaped Italian villas, their green balconies hanging over
the water's edge.
There is down here a stout ruin of an
early Roman tower, and the Red Lion Inn.
A part of this sober old hostelry was
the birthplace of the sailor, Salvation Yeo, given immortal fame in the
novel of "Westward Ho!" and always the home of his mother, whom
Kingsley makes describe her wandering seaman of a son as:
"A tall man, and black, and sweareth
awful in his talk, the Lord forgive him!"
Here along the side of the Red Lion the
sturdy Clovelly sailormen lounge after their work is done, and it is
probably on one of these benches that Charles Kingsley spent so many
hours of his early youth, listening to yarns and learning sea-lore.
Never was a better spot on earth devised in which to rear a poet and
novelist! All the pleasure he enjoyed here during the long and lovely
Clovelly twilights, Charles Kingsley has given back to the world in his
writings.
There is another lookout above the
beach, reached by crooked stairs from the harbour. Here more of the
sailors gossip the hours away, and here the Invalid and the Matron, the
first evening of our arrival, secured the confidences of the most
friendly among them. The acquaintance began with an ancient mariner,
who persisted in speaking of himself as a foreigner, although he had
lived fifty years in Clovelly and was married to a Clovelly woman. He
was Irish by birth, and it amused our American fancy very much to have
him so persistent in claiming to be foreign. The Matron returned from
this first evening's chat with a stirring tale about the first, last,
and only horses ever seen on Clovelly Street. They appeared in the
ancient Irish mariner's young days. An ignorant and reckless post-boy
attempted to drive a bridal couple to the door of the New Inn, with
such disastrous results that the whole male population of the village
was called upon to save the horses from destruction and to keep the
chaise from rolling down into the sea. This they did by clinging to the
wheels, and turning the horses sidewise on the broad steps of the
street, at the peril of their lives. Fortunately the incident happened
late in the afternoon, when the men had come back from the boats. Our
Irishman was among the rescuing crew.
The landlord of Clovelly is Mr. Hamlin,
who lives in Clovelly Court, close to the top of the village. The
estate has descended to him through the marriage of one of his
ancestors with the Cary family, which included among its members the
Will Cary of Kingsley's novel. Of Sir John Cary, founder of the family
and a judge in the time of Henry VI., a gossipy chronicle says: "He was
placed in a high and spacious orb, where he scattered about the rays of
justice with great splendour."
This extraordinary power, however, did
not prevent the good judge from being exiled during those troublous
times. His confiscated estates were later returned to a son. At
Clovelly Court lived Will Cary. Here within the park gates still stands
the church where Charles Kingsley's father was vicar. In Clovelly park
rises a wonderful high cliff, mounting three hundred feet above the
pebbly beach and bearing the attractive name of Gallantry Bower. From
among the park's trees we looked out upon the roofs of the village,
that seemingly push one another down-hill like naughty children; then
out beyond the jutting Hartland point we saw a dim line which they told
us was the coast of Wales, and across the tops of the village houses
there came into view the deep green wood that rises high on the
opposite hillside. Along this way runs the Hobby drive, a fine, winding
road built by the Hamlins, and for which every visitor to Clovelly owes
them hearty thanks. In the whole world there is no road affording more
truly lovely views of land or sea.
The Matron says that she strongly
suspects the artistic sails of Devon boats (they are of the same red
colour as the Devon soil of the cliffs) originated in the times when
many little casks of good French brandy rolled ashore under the shelter
of Gallantry Bower, and found there proper gallants to receive the
cargo. The sentimental Invalid is very unwilling to believe that this
charming spot was ever used for other than romantic purposes, but
unfortunately, both history and tradition whisper that all the riches
of this coast were not caught with the herring.
The glory of the New Inn Annex is the
dining-room; here the guest not only feasts upon fresh herring, sweet
and tender, but his eyes are edified with much blue china and more
hammered brass. I disdain to repeat Polly's insulting remarks about
their artistic merits or her doubts of their antiquity. Our delighted
eyes behold overhead the entwined flags of England and America frescoed
on the ceiling with striking truth to nature, while under their
gorgeous folds sit the Lion and the Eagle, smiling broadly down on the
guests. For those diners who choose to crane their necks between the
courses, there is a poem painted on the ceiling with as many stanzas as
the old-time ballad; I venture to quote only the beginning and the end
of this inspired lay:
I.
"Let parents be
parental,
Think of children
night and day,
And the children be
respectful,
To their parents far
away.
IX.
Our foes we need not
fear them,
If hand in hand we go,
We want no wars with
any man
As onward we do so.
X.
But do our foes assail
us,
We will do our best to
gain,
With our children
standing by us
Britannia rules the
main."
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Mine host of the New Inn, who beguiles
his winter hours by dallying with the Muses, is responsible for this
poetry.
In addition to its richly hung, walls
and decorated ceiling, the dining-room has still another attraction in
the person of the chief waitress, a young woman very efficient in her
calling, blessed with a sweet voice, attentive, willing, and amiable.
Her fame has spread far and near as the
Beauty of Clovelly. A mass of very blond hair, in strong contrast with
her black eyebrows and eyelashes, appears to be the chief reason for
which this title has been bestowed. Her features are by no means
beautiful, nor is her complexion faultless. Polly says that at least
her peculiar charms are useful as promoting conversation, for, after
she has been seen, every visitor spends the leisure hours discussing
how much of her hair is real, and whether its colour is artificial. One
of the numerous old village gossips, whom the Matron has interviewed,
says that the girl always had the same mass of wonderful hair even when
she was a small child. Peroxide cannot be a convenient beautifier here
in Clovelly, where the entire village supply of drugs would not fill a
market-basket. The Beauty is a niece of the landlady, and does not seem
at all disturbed, or even spoilt, by her peculiar celebrity, which is
so wide that the summer trippers gather in crowds about the inn to
stare at her.
Against these same trippers the ire of
the village gossips is fierce and fiery. From the coast towns they come
by the boat-load to see the wedge-like village, and try to see it so
thoroughly that not only do these strangers tramp into the back gardens
and peer into the windows while the good cottagers are eating, but one
old lady told the Invalid that she had once caught two busybodies just
as they were about to look into her cooking-pots on the kitchen stove.
We were not in Clovelly at the time of any of these invasions, but the
numerous tea-room signs on many small houses bear testimony to how much
refreshment must be sold here on such occasions.
Single blessedness is not the fashion in
Clovelly. On the lookout bench at evening the village bachelor becomes
the butt of all his comrades' chaff. At the time of our visit there was
but one of these despised single creatures in Clovelly. This we
inferred from the jokes thrown headlong at one man, who held his own
boldly for a time, until at last, overcome by twitting sarcasms about
his wealth and beauty, he fled ignominiously to his solitary fireside.
We were inclined to agree with the ancient mariner, who confidentially
whispered to the Matron:
"That man'll be married inside month."
Children are the only human beings who
dare to run down Clovelly streets. They clatter along with so much
noise against the cobble that the Matron insists that their English
shoes are wooden: They begin to troop up and down before six o'clock,
and rattle up and down until the school-bell calls the flock to
lessons. The Matron is very fussy about being disturbed early in the
morning. That others have shared her views, we find from the visitors'
book, where a poetic genius has complained:
"Although in Devon
'tis almost heaven,
Down Clovelly streets
is the sound of feet
Not of angels, and not
bare."
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We had wandered up and down the steep
streets in and out through every conceivable quaint passage, talked to
all the friendly villagers, and admired the adorable flowers, when at
last we gathered on the second evening in our sitting-room, among the
broken-nosed shepherdesses and the cupids with cracked hearts, to
decide on our future plans. We had explored the neighbouring country to
discover the old Roman road, gazed upon the ancient British earthworks,
and revelled in the walk along the Hobby drive. Nothing was left undone
which a proper tourist should do in this unique spot, except, perhaps,
a sail to Lundy's Island. That is a perilous voyage for seasick women,
and we willingly persuaded ourselves that Lundy's Island looked better
from a distance. Had there been a drag going between Clovelly and
Ilfracombe, the charm of the enchanting scenery would have decided us
at once to take that route, but, as it sometimes happens, we were not
fortunate enough to find a party going, and the expense of hiring such
a conveyance was too great for our purses.
A Heart of Oak – Clovelly Foliage
The way to Derbyshire is a longer
journey than we cared to take without a break, therefore, after much
discussion, Evesham was decided as a resting-place. That town lies in
the land where the peaceful river Avon waters useful market-gardens,
and orchards of plum-trees thrive under the lee of that pastoral range
called the Cotswold Hills. A welcome telegram had announced the
recovery of jumbo, and the bag's safe arrival in the cloak-room at
Bideford station. We promptly hurried off another wire (Polly feels so
English when she says "wire") to Evesham to announce our coming to the
landlady of a sunny old farmhouse that looks down over a rose-garden
upon the Avon valley and the town below.
We had decided not to try a real inn
this time, but make an inn for ourselves. The Crown, the chief hotel in
Evesham, is huddled down in the centre of the town, while at Clerk's
Hill House pet garden thrushes would be bursting their little throats
with song to give us a concert at dinner-time. As we bowled along on
our return to Bideford, the accomplished coachman played for us merry
and appropriate tunes. He drove his four horses easily with one hand,
while with the horn he held in the other he wound out a continual
strain of melody. The sea and cliffs along the road had lost the soft
pastel shades we found there on the first late afternoon drive. They
were now bold blue, red, and vivid green in the sharp morning light.
During the half-hour wait for the train,
while the Matron clasped jumbo to her side, and we had each taken a
peep to see if all our valuables were still safe in his embrace, we
looked into the room at the Royal Hotel where Charles Kingsley wrote
the greater portion of "Westward Ho!" The hotel is beside the station,
and was the house described by Kingsley as that of Rose Saltern's
father. In the drawing-room, where the author wrote part, if not all,
of his noted novel, remains a fine Elizabethan stucco ceiling. It is
decorated with garlands, birds, fruits, and flowers, coloured by
artists who were brought from Italy by the merchant prince who lived in
this house during the time of Sir Francis Drake.
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