“’combe” in history—modern ’combe—the old church

ilfracombe occupies one of the strangest sites on this strangely contorted coast. down upon it, on either hand, look the great rocky hills of hillsborough and the razor-backed, spiny ledges of the runnacleaves, and the tors; while amidst the winding roads of the town itself run smaller hills and vales, and down by the sea, where other seaside resorts usually have a conventional flat parade running by the shore, there are the lantern hill, overlooking the harbour, and the capstone hill, placed just where the usual sea-front would be, if the site of ilfracombe were other than it is. fortunately it is not. between the two is compass hill. the capstone hill—it was formerly, and should still be, “capstan”—runs up towards the sea from the town, and presents, as it were, a lawn, inclined at an angle of something like forty-five degrees. when people most furiously do make holiday, in august, this expanse is covered over, day by day, with hundreds of figures, looking quite tiny in the scale of things. sometimes, when sunday schools, or other institutions, come to85 ilfracombe for their annual day out, they display their massed forces in living devices or letters of the alphabet, on the hillside, in view of the whole town.

e. d. percival][ilfracombe.

capstone hill and the concert parties.

there is not, it has already been shown, any conventional front; and indeed at one time it was only possible to approach the shore at ilfracombe at infrequent and isolated spots, such as wildersmouth, or chain beach. that was in the times before seaside holidays were invented, and when ilfracombe was only a small port. when the modern town began to rise, it was felt that a little more of the sea would be thought desirable, and consequently the present “capstone parade” was constructed in 1843, in the more or less perpendicular face that capstone hill presents to the waves. it is a semicircular roadway carved out of the rock, with rocky cliff above and more beneath, and beneath that, the sea, dashing in violently. the capstone “parade” has after all, you see, the conventional name; but, happily, it is not the conventional thing.

since we cannot treat of ilfracombe without touching upon its ancient history, it had better be done at once, and an end made of it forthwith. to begin with, it is not certain how the name derived. in saxon times it was “alfreincombe,” and from that has been hazarded the theory of its having once belonged to alfred the great. then stepped in that eternal factor of the letter h, and it became “halfrincombe.” i wonder if any contemporary, uncertain in his aspirates, ever86 called the great monarch, “halfred”? it is a fearful thought.

then the place, having been crowned with an h, of course those who should have kept the letter, vulgarly elided it, and the name became “ilfardcombe,” or “ilfridecombe,” and so remained until, with the introduction of printing, the style became irrevocably fixed at what it is now.

the town was then nothing more than a few waterside houses down by the harbour, that curious, almost pool-like inlet intended by nature for the purpose, but the place speedily prospered, chiefly by reason of this natural haven, and in 1346 the port was sufficiently wealthy and populous to be able to assist edward the third with a contingent of six ships and ninety-six seamen, to help in the french war and the reduction of calais. that appears to have been the high-water mark of ilfracombe’s old-time prosperity, for thenceforward barnstaple and bideford took up the position of rivals, and wrested away much of its trade.

little is heard of the town until the beginning of the civil war. the sentiment of the townsfolk was strongly anti-royalist, and it occurred, therefore, to sir francis doddington, a royalist commander who had helped his cause well at appledore, that it would be the properest thing to teach them a lesson while the success of his party there was still fresh, to serve as a moral lesson here. what happened we may read from a contemporary account, in the kingdom’s weekly intelligencer, september 3rd, 1644. it is couched something in87 the sarcastic vein: “at a town called ilford-combe in devonshire, that saint-like cavalier, sir francis doddington, set that town on fire, burnt 27 houses in the town, but was beaten out by the townsmen and sailors, and lost many of his men.”

so the teacher was taught, but the roundhead success was not lasting, for, before the end of the month, doddington had captured the town, together with twenty pieces of ordnance, twenty barrels of powder, and two hundred stand of arms. the royalists then held ilfracombe until april 1646.

the port continued to decline, and is described by blackmore, speaking of the eighteenth century, in the “maid of sker,” as “a little place lying in a hole, and with great rocks all around it, fair enough to look at, but more easy to fall down than to get up them”—the laws of gravity being no more suspended here than elsewhere.

one of the many inlets here deserves particular note. this is rapparee cove, opening out just beyond the harbour.

rapparee cove is known to have borne that name certainly as far back as 1598, when it appears to have originated in some obscure connection with the earl of tyrone’s rebellion in ireland, where the bulk of the rebels were armed with a species of small pike, called “raparys.” north devon seems to have been in general a refuge for the fugitives from ireland, and ilfracombe, as a recognised port for the south of ireland, to have been particularly favoured by them. neighbouring88 combemartin retained until 1837 an odd reminiscence of that time, suggested, no doubt, by the refugees. this was an annual pageant, or merry-making, the hunting of the earl of “rone”; in which hobby-horses, much rough music, and a considerable deal of drunkenness figured.

rapparee cove was in 1782 the scene of the disastrous wreck of a large vessel, variously stated to have been a prize captured from the spanish by rodney, or a bristol slave-ship. for long afterwards, following storms, the beach was a happy hunting-ground for gold and silver coins, and for the less desirable relics of the many drowned, in the shape of skulls and bones.

the entrance to ilfracombe harbour has been lighted from the earliest times by a beacon on the hill overlooking it, called, from that friendly gleam for the incoming mariner, “lantern hill.” whose care it was, thus to befriend the sailor, we are not told; but, from the old-time readiness of the church to perform such-like good deeds, and from the undoubted fact that the building on the hilltop was once a chapel dedicated to st. nicholas, it would seem that those who tended the light were no mere secular lighthouse men.

whatever may have been the character of the old chapel in past ages, the interior is no longer of any interest, disclosing only a plain whitewashed room. the time-worn exterior, partly overgrown with ivy, and the lantern, crowned with a fish for weather-vane, afford more satisfaction. a light89 is still shown at nights, from the end of september until the beginning of may.

the harbour, long, like ilfracombe in general, the manorial property of the bourchiers, earls of bath, in succession to the champernownes, bonvilles, nevilles, and others, and then of the bourchier wreys, now belongs, together with lantern hill, to the corporation.

in the harbour, ilfracombe.

now let us turn to a consideration of ilfracombe to-day. people with a passion for comparisons and parallels—dear, good people who would trace a family likeness between an elephant and a dromedary—seek in conversation to find points of resemblance between ilfracombe and (say) torquay, hastings, brighton; half-a-dozen other seaside resorts. they are mostly amateurs at the art of discovering likenesses where they do not exist, and may be excused. but there have been90 those who in cold print have instituted resemblances. for these there is no excuse, acceptance, or encouragement. ilfracombe is—just ilfracombe, and not only does ilfracombe insist upon its own individuality and declares “i am i,” but every other among the half-dozen naturally demands the like justice.

the nearest parallel is, of course, to be found in this same county of devon; but that is sufficiently remote, geographically, and in most other ways. a superficial likeness, in its hilly site, (and in its lack of sands) may be discovered to torquay, but that is all. torquay is in greater part residential and quietly aristocratic, with a tendency to pious works and clerical tea-fights: ilfracombe is a “popular resort,” and becomes ever more so; with what it would be a mere inadequacy to term a “tendency” to open-air concerts and amusements for the crowd. we who stay, communing with nature, elegantly housed in the more refined hotels of lynmouth, or the even yet primitive clovelly, shudder at the august crowds at ilfracombe, and recount across the dinner-tables, what time the tender evening closes in upon the quiet harbour, how we adventured there for half a day and watched the trippers at their strenuous tripping. indeed, those who people ilfracombe so numerously in the height of the season go there determined to have a “good time,” and expend a considerable amount of energy during the day in securing that desirable consummation; but when evening is come they unanimously91 clamour to be amused: hence the entertainments in the conservatory-like structure, known officially as the “victoria pavilion,” and unofficially and shamefully as the “cucumber frame”; and hence also the open-air concerts on the “montebello lawn,” and elsewhere: “montebello” being a name, the most unprejudiced must agree, as little characteristic of devon as are the “pierrots,” who make alleged fun for the aimless crowd. the days are indeed past when we were “insular.” we have, instead, become more than a thought too cosmopolitan. “ods bodikins!” as sir richard grenville might have said, “beshrew me, but these things like me not.”

[after w. daniell, r.a.

lantern hill, ilfracombe.

the study of seaside “holiday amusements,” from the time when the sea and the countryside themselves palled, and the holiday-maker ceased to be able to amuse himself, might form an interesting theme for the social philosopher. here we can but glance at the subject, and slightly trace the first footsteps of the nigger-minstrel and the barrel-organist, down to the german bands who extract unwilling tribute from a long-suffering public, and the piano-organ men, the immediate precursors of the “pierrots” aforesaid. it should not be difficult to become a “pierrot.” you procure a silly suit of white linen clothes, of no particular fit, that might have been made for a person four times your own size, whiten your silly face, place on your idiotic head a foolish sugar-loaf white felt hat, and, with a garnish of red or black balls, according to fancy, there you are, plus a little native impudence,92 fully equipped. i do not love the old burnt-cork nigger minstrel more, i only dislike him less than this ostensibly french importation that is already so hackneyed; but i declare i could welcome the return of even his extravagant figure, beery breath, and untutored banjo, by way of relief.

but these are, doubtless, the views of an unreasonable recluse. they are not shared by the holiday crowds, nor by the ruling powers that control the destinies of ilfracombe. entertainers fill a “felt want,” felt very acutely by the class of people who most resort to the town in these days, and the governing body of the town develops it along these lines of least resistance. only, as i stand, when darkness has fallen over the summer evening, a little aloof, and look down from some convenient height upon the garish lights and the blatant merriment, the black hills seem, to this observer, to frown reproachfully upon the scene, and the twinkling stars seem like so many bright tear-drops for the folly of it all. in short, the romantic natural setting of ilfracombe is utterly unsuited to this sort of thing. one may deplore, yet not resent, it at yarmouth or at blackpool, where nature is at her tamest, but found amid the bold rocks and frowning cliffs of north devon, one does both. nor is there any easy escape anywhere within the town. the brilliantly-lighted pavilion glitters across the lawns, under the capstone hill, and across the intervening space you dimly see, maybe, a jigging figure within, executing a clog-dance. you may even93 hear the clatter of his clogs, drowned at last in a very hurricane of applause.

if you remain, you must, perforce, listen to the celebration of mysterious sprees, in this wise:

(confidentially)

“i went out on the tiddly-hi.

oh, fie!

on the sly!

i came home with a head;

i put me boots in the bed

an’ slep’ on the mat instead;

yus (proudly) i’d bin out on the tiddly-iddly,

twiddly, fiddly, hi, hi, hi. (crescendo).

“when you’ve bin out on the tiddly-hi.

oh, my!

(you try!)

you feel confoundedly cheap, and dry.

‘you’ve bin on the bend,’ the guv’nor said,

‘you’ve bin painting it red.’

i’d bin wanting a rise,

but ’e giv me a nasty surprise;—

for (dolefully, dimuendo) i got the push instead;

an’ that’s the result of goin’ out-on-the-blooming—

tiddly, iddly (but, with returning confidence,

fortissimo) hi, ti-hi.”

but, wearying for local colour, rather than for more of this sort of thing, which, after all, is done very much better in the london music-halls, you resort to the harbour. there indeed—if anywhere—you look for something characteristically devonian. but even there the streets are brilliant till late at night with dining-rooms and the like—merciful94 powers, how every one must eat and drink at ilfracombe—and the fishermen, if the samples heard by the present auditor are representative, are pre-eminently the foulest-mouthed to be found on many a varied coast-line.

i know not what the quiet holiday-maker may find to do at night at ilfracombe. he may, at any rate, go to bed, but even there he is pursued by sounds of revelry. he undresses to the refrain of tiddly-iddly, diddy-dum-dey, or something equally intellectual, and his first dreams mingle with the distant, but distinctly audible,

“i ’eard the pitter-patter of ’er feet,

oh, so neat!

pitter-patter on the pyvement of the street.

on ’er fyce i tried to look,

an’—good grycious, ’twas the cook!”—

and thus, in the cockney celebration of mean intrigue, the melody merges into the mesh of visions.

what, indeed, shall the lonely visitor to ilfracombe do with himself in the evenings? he may wander around the walks of the capstone parade or the tors, and feel himself reduced to a singular loneliness amid the amorous couples who there most do congregate; or feel not less lonely in exploring the endless “gardens,” “terraces,” and “crescents,” where every house is a boarding-house; or, in the finer flavour of euphonious avoidance of the commonplace truth, “an establishment for the reception of visitors.” there, alas! he95 feels himself lonely indeed, as, passing the endless array of lighted rooms with open windows, he sees the holiday-making families assembled.

but morning in ilfracombe is more endurable for such an one. bustling, democratic ilfracombe has, then, none of that illuminated vulgarity and would-be, shop-soiled wickedness that characterise it overnight. nature gets her chance again in the light of day, and in the long, narrow high street you see the crowds in pursuit of natural enjoyments. some are shopping, some are making for the bathing-coves; others are going on one or other of the many coaching excursions to “places of interest in the adjacent country,” as the notices have it. it may be observed that not yet have motor waggonettes and the like replaced the coaches and other horsed vehicles at ilfracombe, and that drivers and guards still affect the traditional red-coats associated of old with coaching. more than ever are there popular joys attendant upon one of these coaching-trips to berrynarbor, to combemartin, or lynton; for in these fiercely enterprising times the local photographers take views, day by day, of the laden coaches as they prepare to set out; and so, at trifling cost, you have a permanent pictorial voucher as to the way in which you fleeted the sunny hours at ilfracombe. not, by any means, that all hours are sunny, this especial spot in north devon being notoriously rainy; but it is at worst but an april-like raininess, and even as the showers come down, the sun that is to dry96 them up smiles through the watery sky. thus, no one minds the “soft weather” of ilfracombe.

it is many, many years since charles kingsley wrote of ilfracombe in this manner: “be sure, if you are sea-sick or heart-sick, or pocket-sick either, there is no pleasanter place of cure than this same ilfracombe, with quiet nature and its quiet luxury, its rock fairyland and its sea walks, its downs and combes, its kind people, and, if possible, its still kinder climate, which combines the soft warmth of south devon with the bracing freshness of the welsh mountains.” the climate is the only thing that has not suffered change since that description was penned. the kind people are, doubtless, at bottom, as kind as of old—such of them as are devonshire folk—but they are now urban (which, despite the etymology of the word, does not now indicate what is in these times understood by “urbanity”)—and to be urban in these days is to be, colloquially, “on the make.” ilfracombe, in fact, like any other large seaside resort, has turned its scenery and its climate to commercial account, and, as the local urban district council frankly acknowledges, exists for, and on, the visitor. it is a town of hotels, lodging-houses, and boarding-houses, few of whose proprietors can be natives. all the natural features are exploited, and, lest the visitor be in doubt what there is to see and do, the council has taken in hand the task of placing notices in prominent places, indicating the things to be seen and to be done. thus, kindly shepherded,97 you lose all personal enterprise, and do, like an obedient fellow, what you are bidden. from these official productions you learn instantly the features of the place, as thus:

“capstone parade and hill. bands. free.

victoria pavilion. concerts. morning and evening. free.

cairn top. pleasure grounds. free.

hillsborough hill pleasure grounds. free.

hele bay and beach. free.

chamberscombe and score woods. ideal picnic spots. free.”

there are, however, in this list so many things that, obviously, could not be anything else but free, that the ordinary stranger stands struck with astonishment at the moderation which has not included on the “free” list such items as the bristol channel, the air, and the roads. but where so many things are trumpeted as “free,” the suspicious person looks for others that are not; and, sure enough, he discovers them, in—

“pier, and lantern hill. toll, 2d.

tors walks. toll, 2d.”

it is not, of course, the fault of the local authority that the tors walks are subject to toll, for the place is private property; but the fact is especially unfortunate in a place like ilfracombe, lacking sands or foreshore, except the one tiny beach of wildersmouth bay.

nor can you well bathe in the sea without paying for the “privilege.”

the present circumstances of ilfracombe are largely conditioned (to use for once a horribly98 illegitimate verb) by its nearness to the great manufacturing and seaport towns of bristol and south wales. cardiff, swansea, barry, are all within easy reach by steamboat, only twenty miles across channel, and the excursion to ilfracombe from all these places is a favourite one. at any time in the summer, from four to six very large steamers from these places, lying in the harbour, form a familiar sight, and the “white funnel” and the “red funnel” steamers are very fine, commodious and well-found boats. they bring an immense concourse of people into the town, some to stay, but the majority for only a few hours. compared, of course, with such places as margate or ramsgate, these numbers would not be remarkable, but then you have to remember the difference in the sizes of the respective places. margate has a reputation for vulgarity. all classes resort there, and so they do here. ilfracombe has hotels as expensive on the one hand, or as cheap on the other, as you could wish, and, i doubt not, there are cultured visitors to be discovered in them. “discovered” is, indeed, precisely the word, for they would require some seeking amid the mass. it is the commonest of errors to think vulgarity is the especial attribute of the poorer, or even of the middle classes. it is rather a condition of mind than of pocket, and resides in every social stratum. it is only the snob who thinks the poor are by reason of their poverty, vulgar, or the rich, by favour of their wealth, refined. there are vulgar99 millionaires and cultured crossing-sweepers, for all the world to see. but the intellectually vulgar seem to select ilfracombe, above all places on the north devon coast, as their habitat. originally a very delightful place, they are reducing it to their own level, aided and abetted by the local building fury, in which landowners are unwittingly, in destroying the natural beauties of the locality, engaged in the antique game of killing the goose that lays the golden eggs. to descend from the language of hyperbole, they are erecting tall terraces of houses on all the outskirts, with the result, already seen, of shutting out the views over sea and cliffs; and with other results, presently to accrue, that the town will be overbuilt and even the vulgarian miss the vanished rustic graces.

it is amusing to note how antipathetic are those who resort by choice to lynmouth and clovelly to those others who find in ilfracombe everything to satisfy them. to make excursion from ilfracombe to lynton or clovelly and back in half a day forms an easy and delightful trip, but to see those places and look upon them with an amused and indulgent eye is sufficient for your typical ilfracombe visitor. such an one would consider it impossible to stay there. i heard such a critic describe lynmouth as an ’ole (or was it “a nole”?). geographically, of course, she was correct, for lynmouth, by the seashore, is several hundred feet below the summit of holiday hill; but of course we all know that a ’ole (or even a100 hole) is more, in this conjunction, than a mere geographical expression. it was a term of contempt, in this instance, for a place without open-air concerts and minstrels, a place where you are reduced to amusing yourself; a horrible fate when you find yourself so empty of entertainment to yourself. per contra, those who stay by choice at clovelly and lynmouth, and adventure for half a day to sample ilfracombe, have been known to describe it, in their way, as “vulgah.” but, since they cannot stay to see ilfracombe at night, if they wish to return that day to the place of their choice, they cannot know how vulgar it can be.

this is not to say that ilfracombe has lacked due recognition. it has been patronised by the most distinguished, and it is in recognition of this fact that what was once the “britannia” hotel, down by the harbour, is now nothing less than the “royal britannia.”

e. d. percival][ilfracombe.

ilfracombe.

there are great numbers of amiable, but characterless, people, who have so little individuality or so much exaggerated loyalty for royal personages and reverent respect for the aristocracy, that the well-advertised fact of those bright and shining ones having visited this resort, that, and the other is sufficient to make the fortune of those places. many years ago, the then prince of wales made holiday at ilfracombe, and the local guide-books have never allowed visitors to forget the fact, even although it was when he was a boy. he went out riding a pony known afterwards to fame as “bobby.” alas! poor bobby. as the101 guide-books have cleverly discovered, even “the fact of having carried a royal personage did not render bobby immortal, and his death deprived ilfracombe of an attraction to its visitors, and a large income to its owner.” it was a sorry thing for bobby that ever he carried a prince of wales, for, ever afterwards, he was condemned to the drudgery of long, long days carrying the children of the lower middle (and super-loyal) classes. to seat little frankie or little cissie upon that sanctified pony was, in some vague way, to come into touch with the royal family; to give him a carrot was equivalent to (but less expensive than) presenting a purse to a princess at a charity meeting. bobby was transfigured, like the objects sung by the satirist:

“a clod—a piece of orange-peel—

an end of a cigar—

once trod on by a princely heel,

how beautiful they are!”

but the poor animal’s glory was hardly earned. loyalty, expressed in terms of an unending burden of children, at last wore him out, and he died.

for a loving list of the great who have visited the town, you must please to look in those guide-books for yourselves, but we learn that “no year passes without some distinguished personage treading the ground of beautiful ilfracombe, and giving another start to a new chapter of the town’s progress as a fashionable resort.” that remains true; i, myself, was there last year.

102 the old parish church has of late been little altered. it stands high at the west end of the principal street, midway between the deeps of the harbour and the alpine heights on which the railway terminus is placed, and its approach is by a steep flight of stone stairs.

there is something of almost every architectural period in ilfracombe church, but the workmanship was ever of so homely a character that the styles all blend into one rude mass. the tower ascends in a singular diminishing fashion. in the large and crowded churchyard you notice most distinctly, as you are indeed intended to do, a stone recording no fewer than nine centenarians who lived and died at ilfracombe between 1784 and 1897. this by way of advertisement of the astonishing salubrity of the place; but an inhabitant of brighton chancing this way would be amused. at brighton there are generally to be found half a dozen hale and hearty centenarians.

odd names are not infrequent; for example, “humphrey rottenberry,” and ann of the same name, who died aged 94, and thus nearly became one of those witnesses to the supreme value of the ilfracombe air. herapaths, too, abound.

the interior of the church is something of an architectural puzzle, owing to the additions made in succeeding ages. the grotesque thirteenth-century stone corbels supporting the waggon-roof and its array of wooden angels, are particularly interesting. they form a strange assemblage of monsters, in which some see only a freakish103 imagination; but many of them are illustrations of legends once current in this romantic shire. prominent among them are the lean cow, chiche-vache, and the well-conditioned cow, bycorn: the first in so sorry a condition because her only food, according to the old story, was good women; the second so plump by reason of her diet being exclusively good and long-suffering husbands—and such, we all know, abound.

ilfracombe church-tower.

among the curious monuments of the parmynter family is a tablet with an epitaph little, if anything,104 less than blasphemous in modern thought, to katherine parmynter. of her we read:

“scarce ever was innocence and prudence so lovely: but had you known her conversation, you would have said she was the daughter of eve before she tasted the apple. a servant of christ jesus sought her to wife; but his master thought him unworthy, and soe tooke her unto himself.”

with much more to the same effect. this crown and glory of her sex died in 1660.

the monument of captain richard bowen, who fell at teneriffe, in the service of his country, has a lengthy inscription, which is, however, not unworthy of being copied here, as a very full-blown example of the florid patriotic style that once obtained:

sacred to the memory

of richard bowen, esq.,

captain of his majesty’s ship, the terpsichore

this monument was erected by his afflicted father.

of manners affable and liberal, in private life:

he was beloved by his family, and respected by his friends

he was generous, humane, and modest,

and they who knew him best esteemed him most

by the vigorous exertion of superior abilities

with which providence had blest him,

he overcame difficulties surmountable by no common powers:

and raised himself to eminence in a profession where eminence

is most difficult.

amongst distinguished characters he was himself distinguished

in the service of his king and country he was faithful, vigilant,

and zealous:

in the day of peril he gave proofs

of the most daring intrepidity corrected by the coolest judgment.

full of resources, spirit, and the most decisive activity, he at

once humbled the foe and saved the friend.

the post of danger, to which he was so often appointed,

105 unequivocally attests his superior courage, abilities, and

patriotism,

of a life thus spent, and spending, in the sacred cause of his

king and country

the career was stopt, in the unfortunate enterprize at teneriffe,

(under the command of rear-admiral sir horatio nelson, k.b.)

where he fell!

yet full in the path of his duty and of glory,

at the head of his own ship’s company;

on the 24th of july 1797; in the 37th year of his age.

of such a man and such a relation it were unjust to say less:

whilst his friends are soothed by the pleasing reflection

that as long as private worth or public virtue command respect

and veneration,

he will live in the remembrance of his family

and the regret of a grateful country.

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