mouth mill and black church rock—the coast to hartland—hartland point—hartland abbey—hartland quay

wild scrambling is the portion of him who would explore the coast-line between clovelly and hartland, and those who undertake the task, or the pleasure—and it is both—are few. the way lies by the church and clovelly court, adjoining: that church where kingsley’s father was rector, and whence the novelist of “westward ho!” himself drew so much inspiration. quaint epitaphs are found, notably:

“think not that youth will keep you free,

for death at twenty-seven months called off me.”

to visit the cliff-top of gallantry bower, in clovelly park, a fee is demanded, as also to see mouth mill; the receipts, in common with those paid for entrance to the hobby drive, being devoted, it is announced, “to local charities.” now clovelly is a small place, and prosperous, the receipts large, and the demands for charity necessarily small: it seems to an unprejudiced observer that the statement needs to be amplified. moreover,225 it is not altogether fair that visitors should be taxed by the owners of clovelly court, who receive an excellent rent-roll from clovelly village, and should thus relieve themselves of a natural obligation to return in charity a percentage of the tribute they are paid.

clovelly, from the sea.

but now for mouth mill. disregarding all notices with such flapdoodle as “private,” and “trespassers will be prosecuted,” generally known among lawyers as “wooden liars,” you turn from clovelly churchyard into a farmyard, then left and then right, along some park-like paths; soon finding yourself on a rough upland in company with a rude signpost pointing a wizened finger “to hartland.” on the right is a gate marked “private,” leading into a woodland drive. taking no notice of that impudent attempt to warn the inoffensive stranger off a remarkably pretty coast scene, you descend through the woods by a226 well-defined road, and come at last to mouth mill; one of the typical gullies of this coast, with a stream losing itself on a beach composed of giant pebbles and strange, contorted rocks. a lonely cottage, the usual limekiln, and a landing-place, obviously where the clovelly court coals are landed, are the items completing the scene. a pyramidal rock of almost coal-black hue discloses itself as you scramble down to the sea. this is black church rock: a huge mass with a hole in the middle of it, and all its strata on end.

clovelly church.

the unimpeded cliff-path scrambler can find a way from this beach up windbury head. arrived there, in absolute solitude, down dives the path again, and up to the gigantic mass of exmansworthy cliff. here the going is extremely difficult, but the scenery is sufficient reward, even for these exertions. fatacott cliff, the loftiest of all these227 ramparted outlooks, midway between clovelly and hartland, is the scene of many a shipwreck. few winters pass without some unfortunate vessel ending here.

black church rock.

a long succession of cliffs leads at last to eldern point and thence into the wild inlet of shipload bay, whose shore, like most of these nooks, is paved with dark ribs of rock. finally, west titchberry cliffs and barley bay, lead to hartland point itself; noblest in outline of all; with its coastguard station on the windy ridge, and the lighthouse, built so recently as 1874, on a rocky platform, two-thirds of the way down to the sea.

here and onwards to upright cliff and hartland quay, the furious wash of the atlantic is supremely noticeable, and has carved out the face of the land in fantastic manner. pillared rocks, styled by some imaginative geographer the “cow and228 calf,” astonish by their bold aspect, and still more by their want of resemblance to calf or cow.

follows then the hollow of smoothlands, with damehole point; on the very verge, as it would seem, of becoming an island, through the violence of the sea eating away the softer parts of the rock. beyond this, the hollow of black mouth, well named from its inky rock ledges, opens, with an enchanting view inland, up a wooded valley, where a noble mansion may be seen in the distance.

that is “hartland abbey,” the country residence so-called. here, in the beautiful valley that, with its broad, level bottom, is more than a “combe,” gytha, wife of earl godwin and mother of the unfortunate king harold, who lost life and kingdom at the battle of hastings, founded a college of secular canons, as a thank-offering to god and st. nectan for the preservation of her husband from shipwreck. in the reign of henry the second, this establishment was re-founded by geoffry de dynham as a monastery under augustine rule; and through the centuries it prospered in this remote valley progressively enriched by the pious and the wicked alike: by the pious out of their piety, and by the wicked by way of compounding for their sins. and at last it ended in the usual confiscating way which makes the story of the monasteries in the time of henry the eighth seem to some so unmerited a tragedy, and to others a tardy, but well-earned retribution. from the abbot who surrendered hartland abbey and its lands to henry the eighth, the property went by231 royal gift to one whose own name was, curiously enough, abbott. from him it descended in turn to the luttrells, the orchards, and the bucks, who in 1858 changed their name to stucley. it was an orchard who in 1779 built the existing mansion, that is seated so comfortably in the sheltered green strath, away from the winds rioting on those exposed uplands from which we have just now descended. he built in that allusive architectural style for which one may coin the word “ecclesiesque”; a midway halting between church architecture and domestic. strange to say, he retained the early english cloisters of the old abbey, and here they are to this day.

hartland point.

it really is strange that he should—or that his architect, for him, should—have kept the cloisters, for the spirit of the age—it was the age of horace walpole, you know—was remarkably addicted to a kind of wry-necked appreciation of gothic architecture, and given to destroy genuine antiquities, only to erect on the site of them imitative gothic with eighteenth-century frills and embellishments. the “men of taste” who flourished towards the close of the eighteenth century were quite convinced that they could have taught the men who built in earlier ages something new in the way of gothic: and they were, in a way, right. but what a way it was!

there were some queer characters in these districts of old, and none more striking than an ancient scion of the stucley family—thomas232 stucley, who was born in, or about, 1525 and died fighting the moors, at the battle of alcazar, ex parte the king of portugal, in 1578. there can be little doubt that, when he ended thus, queen elizabeth and her ministers of state, like dogberry, thanked god they were rid of a knave; for thomas stucley was adventurer, pirate, renegade, and traitor to his country, and the cause of innumerable alarms and embarrassments. one of the five sons of sir hugh stucley, of affeton, near ilfracombe, he formed something of a mystery: vague rumours that he was really an illegitimate son of henry the eighth following all his escapades. these were strengthened by the lenient treatment with which his most serious and inexcusable doings were visited by queen elizabeth. always of an adventurous and reckless nature, and perhaps not a little tainted with madness, he proposed, when scarce more than a youth, to colonise florida, and in 1563 set out with six ships and three hundred men, for the purpose. there must have been something unusual in the relations between himself and queen elizabeth, for him to have interviewed her, before he set out, in the terms ascribed to him. “he blushed not,” we read, “to tell elizabeth to her face that he preferred rather to be sovereign of a molehill than the highest subject to the greatest king in christendom, and that he was assured he should be a prince before his death.”

humouring this extravagant language, elizabeth replied, “i hope i shall hear from you when you are settled in your principality.”

233 “i will write unto you,” quoth stucley.

“in what language?” asked the queen.

“in the style of princes,” returned he; “to our dear sister.”

fine language, this, to employ to one of those imperious tudors, whose idea of the most effective repartee was the capital one of the headsman’s axe!

stucley, however, appears to have been allowed the most extraordinary licence. instead of colonising florida and entering the family circle of princes, he roved the seas for two years, occupying his formidable fleet in piracy. not even in the age of elizabeth, when the armada incident was so fresh, could the nation afford to allow piratical attacks upon foreigners to be conducted on this scale. the english ambassador to the court of madrid “hung his head for shame” when the doings of stucley were brought to his notice, and that irresponsible person was disavowed. a squadron was even fitted out to arrest him, and did so at cork in 1565; but he was merely, in effect, told not to do it again, and released. afterwards he was employed by the government in ireland; but, with the passion for intrigue and an absolute inability to act in a straightforward manner that possessed him, he became a roman catholic, and, resorting to spain, endeavoured to bring about a spanish invasion of ireland. in anticipation of the success of this project, the king of spain created him duke of ireland, but the plan failed. at length,234 busy in all quarters in seeking trouble, he aided the portuguese in morocco, and was slain in the fighting there.

the exploits of this restless person were made much of in a book of his adventures published not long after his death, and in it he appears something of a hero; but a detailed and intimate account of his career shows him to have been as mean and sordid a scoundrel in domestic affairs as he was bold and grasping in adventure.

a spot up the valley, whence a beautiful near view of hartland abbey is obtained, is known as bow bridge, and from it a road climbs steeply, bringing up at the village of stoke, dwarfed by the great body and tall massive tower of its church, generally called hartland church, although that town is situated out of sight, a mile further inland. the church is dedicated to saint nectan, who was a very popular saint in the west, as those travelling into cornwall will find, to this day. a gigantic effigy of nectan still remains on the eastern wall of the tower, and the high-church bias of the neighbourhood may be readily assumed from the restored churchyard cross, with its calvary, its sculptured scenes from the life of nectan and of gytha, and its inscription, “nos salva rex cruce xte tua.”

this great church of st. nectan has often been styled “the cathedral of north devon.” rebuilt in the fourteenth century, it is, of course, wholly in the perpendicular style, and equally of course, presents a thoroughly well-balanced and235 symmetrical mass, without any of those additions from time to time, or those changes of plan, that render churches built by degrees throughout the centuries so picturesque. st. nectan’s exhibits regularity and preciseness to the last degree. the tall tower, over a hundred and forty feet high, was doubtless built especially as a landmark for sailors.

the fine lofty nave is divided from the chancel by a magnificently carved fifteenth-century oaken rood-screen, which, if not actually finer than those of pilton, atherington, and swimbridge, all in north devon, is at any rate on the same level of craftsmanship. in the chancel remains a stone slab with epitaph of thomas docton:

“here lie i at the chancel door,

here lie i, because i’m poor.

the further in, the more you pay;

here lie i, as warm as they.”

word for word this is the same as the epitaph upon one “bone phillip,” at kingsbridge, south devon.

many curious details survive the restoration of 1850 and the fire of 1901 that destroyed the roof and narrowly missed wrecking the entire church. among them is the “guard chamber,” over the porch; the “pope’s chamber,” as it is here styled. in the stone stairs to it is a hollow space, perhaps made for the purpose of holding holy water, wherewith to exorcise demons. the parish stocks, retired from active service in the cause of law and order, are kept in this room, which, with its fireplace,236 is, or might easily be made, comfortable enough. remains of the old wooden pulpit, inscribed “god save kinge james fines,” have puzzled many. the wood-carver probably meant “finis”; but that does not help us much to understand his further meaning; and we must leave it at that.

the “account book of church expenses,” from 1597 to 1706, still surviving, affords many an interesting glimpse into old days at hartland; proving, among other things, how lonely was the situation and wild the life here. the church appears to have been fully armed against aggression, whether by sea or land; for we read how the churchwardens paid for “three bullett bagges for the churche musquettes”; and “paid for lace to fasten the lyninge of the morians belonging to the churche corselettes, and for priming irons for the churche musquettes, iid.” furthermore: “paid for a hilt and handle and a scabert for a sworde, and for mendinge a dagger of the churche, iis.”

roger syncocke is down for one penny, “for mending a churche pike.” altogether, this seems a cheap lot for these bloody-minded hartlanders; but a further entry of six pounds ten shillings, “for arms,” seems to indicate that they were really dangerous people, best left alone. and that appears to have been the general healthy impression; for we do not read anywhere of battle, murder, and sudden death in these purlieus. “if you would have peace prepare for war,” was237 doubtless the axiom acted upon here; and the truth of it was duly proven.

hartland quay.

hartland quay, half a mile down the road, is an example of the overweening confidence of man in his ability to battle successfully with the forces of nature. you see, as you come down the road over the down, a tumultuous ocean, no longer the bristol channel, sometimes dun-coloured with the outpourings of the severn, and not, except under extreme provocation, to be stirred to great waves, but the atlantic ocean itself, dark blue with great crested waves rolling inshore, whether it be calm weather or boisterous. only, in the last case, the always majestic sight becomes not a little terrifying here.

where the down curves to the sea and the road dips steeply, in a hairpin corner, a rugged point, all bristling with black, jagged rocks, runs out, and in between them is a little flat space—the quay. on one side is an isolated conical hill, capped with a flagstaff, and on the other a formidable reef, black as ink, with the rock-strata tipped perpendicularly in some convulsion that attended238 the world’s birth. between these extremes lies the opening for the entrance of small craft, and a sorry haven it must be for any distressed mariner in severe weather. the place is lonely, save for the “hartland quay hotel” and a few coastguard cottages; and the stone pier built out to sea, by which it was proposed to make hartland quay in some small way a harbour, has been battered utterly out of existence by the waves. watching the enormous walls of water, curving and advancing with an imperious unhasting grandeur, you do not wonder that anything less solid than the living rock should go down before them.

the breaking rollers fill the scene with briny particles that hang in air like frost and taste salt on the lips, and the wind blows strong and invigorating from its journey of thousands of miles across the open sea.

an easy path leads from this point around catherine tor and its waterfall, into a wide moor-like valley where a little stream, fussing noisily in its peaty bed among occasional boulders, hurries along to join the sea. the scene where this rivulet, arriving abruptly at the cliff’s edge, falls sheer over it, in a long spout of about a hundred feet, is the most dramatic thing on the coast of north devon. imagine the lonely valley, not in itself very remarkable, suddenly shorn off in a clean cut, disclosing a smooth face of rock as black as coal, ending in a little beach—and there you have speke’s mouth, as it is called.

speke’s mouth.

239 from here it is possible to follow the cliffs to welcombe mouth: a fatiguing journey. the quicker way, and also perhaps the more beautiful, is up the valley and into the road; coming down into the wooded vale of welcombe mouth by a zigzag route, amid a tangle of undergrowth. the village of welcombe, which takes its name from a holy well dedicated to st. nectan, is marked by its church-tower a mile inland; the valley itself being solitary, except for one very new and blatant farmstead. here, as in all these other vales dipping to the sea, a little stream goes swirling down through the tangled brakes of the combe, to end ineffectively on the beach.

welcombe mouth is associated with the exploits of “cruel coppinger,” supposed to have been a danish sea-captain, wrecked off hartland. thrown ashore in dramatic fashion, and narrowly escaping death at the hands of the half-savage welcombe people of over a century ago, who nursed odd prejudices against allowing wrecked sailors to survive, he settled awhile in the district, and himself became a wrecker and smuggler. he and his exploits are now part of local folk-lore, and the novelists have got hold of him too; but it would seem that, cast ashore with clothes all torn from him by the fury of the waves, he recovered consciousness only in time to prevent his being knocked on the head. jumping up, seizing a cutlass, and vaulting, naked as he was, on to the back of a horse, he galloped up the combe to the sheltering house of some people named hamlyn,240 parents of the dinah hamlyn whom he subsequently married.

the exploits of coppinger the cruel, as they survive in legend, verge upon the incredible. how he beheaded a gauger with his own cutlass on the gunwale of a boat, how he thrashed the parson at the dinner-table, and how he was wafted away by a mysterious ship, from off the romantic-looking gull rock, that looms darkly off the coast; are they not all enshrined in the folk-lore of the west, and particularly in the verses of which here is a sample?

“would you know of cruel coppinger?

he came from a foreign land;

he was brought to us by the salt water

and carried away by the wind.”

and now, over the steep hill dividing welcombe mouth from marsland mouth, we come to the conclusion of the coast of north devon. marsland mouth is a fit ending: the very culmination of loneliness. if the scenery of its seaward end is not so rugged as that of many of these “mouths,” the extraordinary exuberance of the close-grown thorn, oak, and hazel thickets that have entirely overgrown the valley is unparalleled anywhere else in all these miles. only a rugged footpath, closely beset with bushes, leads down to the shore. it must be admitted, however, that evidence of marsland mouth being within touch of modern life is not lacking—is only too evident, indeed—in two huge, outrageously ugly, plaster-faced houses,241 of the very worst type of ladbroke grove “architecture,” that look down from a ridge into the romantic cleft. the atrocity of their being placed here is beyond words.

i have styled marsland mouth “romantic,” and not without due warrant; for does it not appear, early in the pages of “westward ho!” as the scene of rose salterne’s adventure with the “white witch,” lucy passmore?

white witch or black, her beliefs were sufficiently dark, and the mystic rites she practised were as uncanny as any of those in common usage by the more inimical kind of witches—the kind who “overlooked” you, played the very deuce and all with your sheep and cattle, and generally harboured a “familiar” in the shape of a black tom cat.

and really, as you read of her in kingsley’s pages, she was a person to be feared, on more than supernatural grounds, being as brawny and muscular as a man: a good deal more so than her husband. it must be no sinecure, to be the husband of a witch, and a muscular one at that.

a stranger, tracing his hazardous way that night down the tangled glen, to the sea, would have had any stray beliefs he may have harboured as to the existence of mermaids presently confirmed; for we read that rose, wishing to see who would be her future husband, by direction of the witch, undressed on the midnight beach, in the cold light of the full moon, waded waist-deep, into the sea with her mirror, and performed the242 incantation. except that kingsley speaks of the “blaze” of the midnight moon, it is a magnificent scene. ordinary observers are at one with the poets—and at odds with kingsley—in thinking of moonlight as a cold flood, rather than as a “blaze.”

a ring of flame, from the phosphorescence she stirred as she waded into the water, encircled her waist, and, as she looked down into the waves, every shell that crawled on the white sand was visible under the moonbeams, while the seaweeds waved like banners. almost determined to turn and flee she, with an effort, dipped her head three times in the water, hurried out of the waves, and, looking through the strands of her wet hair into the mirror she carried, repeated the verse the white witch had taught her:

a maiden pure, lo! here i stand,

neither on sea, nor yet on land;

angels watch me on either hand.

if you be landsman, come down the strand;

if you be sailor, come up the sand;

if you be angel, come from the sky,

look in my glass, and pass me by.

look in my glass, and go from the shore;

leave me, but love me for evermore.

it was with a not unnatural superstitious fear, under these magical moonlit circumstances that, even as she was gazing into the mirror and repeating those lines, hurried footsteps were heard descending to the mouth. they were not, however, angelic or demoniac apparitions nor even earthly lovers: merely fugitive jesuits and traitors.

243 it is sad to find this scene overlooked by those hideous stuccoed houses on the ridge, but, at any rate, as i straddle the little summer-time trickle of the stream in the bottom, dividing devon and cornwall, i cannot but admire the fine note of picturesqueness and high romance on which this coast-line ends.

the end