Motor Tours in the West Country 4

Motor Tours in the West Country 4

Again the road is level, or nearly so; but, as is rare in level country,

the surface is bad. We pass under the railway-bridge of the new Great

Western line, and soon see Somerton on the crest of a hill. The road to

Ilchester climbs the hill at the outskirts of the town, without actually

passing through it; but it would be a pity to turn our backs on the

ancient capital of the Somersœtas without a glance at its picturesque

streets and old houses, whose mellow walls are so characteristic of

Somerset. In the silent square that was once dominated by the castle,

and is now made beautiful by an arcaded, stone-tiled market-cross, there

is nothing to show that Somerton is a town of varied experiences. It has

seen a vast amount of life, but prefers to say nothing about it.

 

Here where the “White Hart” stands, without a sign of age, once stood

the palace of King Ina and his pious wife. Ina, King of the West Saxons,

was “a rare example of fortitude,” we are told; “a mirror of prudence,

unequalled in piety”--though he ascended the throne, as the same

chronicler delicately expresses it, “more from the innate activity of his

spirit than any legitimate right of succession.” Active he certainly was:

a conqueror of the British, a builder of monasteries and churches and

castles. We meet the records of his activities at Wells and Glastonbury,

at Taunton, and here in Somerton; and even when his determined Ethelburga

had persuaded him to abdicate, with some reluctance, he continued to

build in Rome. It was on this hill he chiefly lived and made his laws,

I believe, but his castle was burnt by the destroying Danish princes,

Hinguar and Hubba. On its foundations rose the later castle that served

as a prison for King John of France; but even this has left no remnant

but some thick masonry in the modest walls of the “White Hart.” In this

scene of long past revelry and war there is hardly a sign of life.

Somerton is inhabited, apparently, by one man, two children, and a cat.

 

[Illustration: MARKET PLACE, SOMERTON.]

 

Through cornfields and orchards and over Kingsdon Hill, on a surface that

is gradually improving, we go on our way to a town that is older still

than Somerton, but by no means so attractive. Indeed, Ilchester has a

very dull air, though it stands on the Fosse Way and has a few relics of

its Roman origin. A little more than two hundred years ago, however, its

sombre streets were lively enough on a certain August day, when gay young

Monmouth rode through them on a carpet of flowers and scented herbs, and

the crowd swept after him along the narrow ways. What schemes for the

future were in his mind we cannot guess, but at this time--during his

father’s life--there was nothing on his lips more treasonable than the

smiles that made the people love him. He had come “into the country to

divert himself,” and for a week or two all these lanes round Ilchester

and Ilminster, Chard and Yeovil, were ringing with cheers. “God bless

King Charles and the protestant Duke,” the people shouted, as he rode

smiling between these hedges. For he, like ourselves, left Ilchester by

the Roman road, which was probably even more badly kept in those days

than in these. It has, of course, the charm--in a motorist’s eyes--of

straightness, but the irregular fringe of grass at the sides gives it

an unkempt air that is unworthy of its origin, and it is only in patches

that the surface is good. The abrupt hill on the left with the tower on

its summit is the “sharp mount” that gave its name to Montacute.

 

We turn away from the Roman road by a lane that climbs a long hill

between high hedges, and quickly runs down again. Below us, in a fold of

the low hills, lies Crewkerne.

 

Joshua Sprigge, in his enchanting history, “compiled for the Publique

good, and to be sold at the Parot in Paul’s Churchyard,” describes how

the army of the Parliament came to _Crookhorn_ by “ill and narrow” ways

in a very hot season, “the foot weary with their long and tedious march,

the carriage-horses tyred out;” and how, only an hour later, they left it

again with all their weariness forgotten. “They leapt for joy that they

were like to be engaged.” As they were following the enemy to Petherton

it was probably by this very road that they marched away, probably on

this very road that Fairfax and Cromwell came riding side by side.

 

We need not stay in Crewkerne even so long as they, for there is nothing

to be seen except the church. There is hardly a church in Somerset that

is not worth seeing, either for its beauty or its interest; but the

church here is more than ordinarily stately. Like all the rest it is

built of the stone whose grey and yellow tints make even the simplest

cottage in Somerset a lovely thing, and add greatly to the beauty of this

elaborate church, with its crockets and statues and niches, its embattled

turrets and parapet, and all its intricate gargoyles. In an angle of the

south transept is a curious recess such as I have never seen elsewhere,

with a canopy and a stone seat. It is said to have been a hermit’s cell;

but a hermit who frequented the outer wall of a large church must have

been very fond of society.

 

Here we strike the London and Exeter road, and therefore the surface,

which has hitherto been indifferent at best and at worst very bad,

becomes almost perfect. As we climb the long hill of St. Rayne to the

height that is ominously known as Windwhistle, the scenery grows very

lovely: the breezy road passes along a ridge, a wide park skirts the

wayside, and to right and left the landscape sweeps away into the

distance. Indeed, I have heard that at one point near Windwhistle inn--at

the fourth milestone from Chard--it is possible on a clear day to catch

a glimpse of the two seas, to north and south. A run of two miles on an

easy downward gradient takes us to the “prepared” road that leads into

the long, wide, sloping street of Chard; then a steep climb lifts us to

the hilltops again; and a few minutes later we glide down into the soft

green woods of Devon.

 

 

 

 

THE HEART OF DEVON

 

 

SUMMARY OF RUN ACROSS MID-DEVON

 

DISTANCES.

 

Devon Border

Sidmouth 22 miles

Exeter 18 ”

Moretonhampstead 13½ ”

Two Bridges 12¼ ”

Tavistock 8¼ ”

--------

Total 74 miles

 

Exeter to Plymouth _viâ_ Ashburton 44 miles

Exeter to Launceston _viâ_ Okehampton 42 ”

 

ROADS.

 

Hills steep and frequent.

 

Surface: rather rough on the Moor; between Exeter and Launceston,

variable; between Exeter and Plymouth, good.

 

 

II

 

THE HEART OF DEVON

 

To hurry in Devonshire is absurd. In the first place, it is contrary to

the spirit of the country: no one does it. In the second place, it is

impossible.

 

I cannot conscientiously recommend Devon as a motoring field for those

who find great speed essential to their happiness, for to them the

alternate use of the gear lever and the brake is apt to be exasperating.

But to many of us the reduction of our average mileage is a small matter

in comparison with certain important things; such as scarlet poppies in

the corn, and high banks fringed with ferns, and cottages smothered in

flowers, and wide purple moors, and the rippling of emerald seas, and the

complete serenity that fills the heart in Devon.

 

Here, on the very border, there is a long rise and an extremely sharp

turn, on the hill where Yarcombe stands. After this winding climb we run

down easily through lovely wooded country into the straight, wide street

of Honiton. This is a name that rouses deep emotion in every female

heart, and to the female ear I will confide the fact that Honiton lace,

as made to-day in Honiton, is perhaps more really beautiful than it has

ever been; and there is a certain little upper room, not hard to find,

where the enthusiast may watch swift fingers and flying bobbins. Except

these filmy bramble-leaves and roses there is nothing of interest in

Honiton. Sir William Pole summed it up three centuries ago, and his words

describe it accurately to this day. “This towne is a very prety towne

indifferently well bwilded, and hath his market on the Saterday.”

 

By the direct road Exeter is only fifteen miles away, but by making

quite a short _détour_ we may see the birthplaces of Coleridge and

Sir Walter Raleigh, and catch a glimpse of the sea. A mile or two of

splendid Roman road, and a shady lane, take us to Ottery St. Mary and

its famous church; the church, says Pole, that John Grandison, Bishop of

Exeter, “bwilded in imitatinge of ye church of St. Peter’s in Exon, with

ye cannons’ howses round about, standinge in a sweete wholsom advanced

ground.” He did not actually “bwild” it, however, but rather enlarged

it and made it collegiate, and left upon it the marks of that taste for

splendour in which he indulged more fully at Exeter. Not only a great

part of the fabric itself is his, but the painted reredos and the stone

screen and the choir-stalls were his gifts. The pulpit is of a much more

modern date; but it is the very same from which Coleridge’s father was

in the habit of addressing his congregation in Hebrew, “the authentic

language of the Holy Ghost.” The grammar-school in which the poet spent

his childhood with his twelve brethren no longer exists; but we may still

see the narrow lanes where little Samuel, a visionary already, curvetted

on an imaginary horse and slew the enemies of Christendom as represented

by the wayside nettle. And here, close at hand, is the little Otter, and

the “marge with willows grey” by which he loved to dream.

 

Long before Coleridge played his warlike games there were horsemen of a

sterner sort riding hither and thither through these lanes. Fairfax spent

a busy fortnight here, resting his army, “who never stood in more need of

it,” but by no means resting himself: visiting the works at Broad Clyst,

caring for his dying soldiers, and doing his best to make peace between

King and Parliament. “To be general raised him onely to _do_ more, not to

_be_ more than others,” said a man who was with him here. Where he lodged

I do not know, nor the spot where he was presented with a “fair jewel”

in the name of both Houses, in gratitude for the services “he performed

for this kingdome at Naseby Battel.” It is certain, however, that a

deputation brought it to Ottery, and “tyed it in a blue Ribband and put

it about his neck.”