Motor Tours in the West Country 6

Motor Tours in the West Country 6

The “grave, wise, politic” Grandison, though much addicted to pomp, was

personally simpler than the murdered bishop, who possessed no fewer than

ninety-one rings. Grandison’s splendour was shown in hospitalities and

lavish gifts to his cathedral. It owes much to him: among other things, I

believe, the minstrels’ gallery that we see above us on our right as we

walk down the nave--the gallery that was built, they say, in order that

the Black Prince might be fittingly welcomed with music when he visited

his duchy. The west front is Grandison’s, too. He once defended it and

the dignity of his office with a body of armed men, on an occasion when

the Archbishop of Canterbury came on a visitation. Here at the west door

the angry prelates faced each other. Grandison won the day, and the

archbishop, says Fuller, died of a broken heart.

 

It was possibly owing to the presence of Fairfax, who reverenced all that

was ancient and beautiful, that the soldiers of the Parliament did so

little harm to the cathedral, beyond destroying the cloisters. How much

else they destroyed in the close I do not know: it is certain that much

has vanished, for in Leland’s day it had four gates, and was “environid

with many fair housis.” There are still several fair houses in Cathedral

Yard that have survived the Civil War, but not all of them have been

admired by Leland. He did not see, for instance, the curious outline and

picturesque bow-windows of “Mol’s Coffee House,” nor the panelled room

that is emblazoned with the shields of heroes and statesmen, of Talbot

and Somerset, of Cecil and Throgmorton, of Drake and Raleigh and Gilbert.

Tradition says that the bearers of these sounding names were wont to

discuss the affairs of the nation in this room.

 

Before leaving Exeter we have a weighty matter to settle: our choice of

a road. There are four ways of reaching Cornwall. Of these the shortest

is by Okehampton to Launceston, and this has the advantage of passing

through the bewitching village of Sticklepath: the best as regards

surface is by Ashburton and Ivybridge to Plymouth: the most beautiful

is the road that leads across the Moor by Moretonhampstead and Two

Bridges to Tavistock: the most interesting and varied is the long way

round by the coast, by Torquay and Dartmouth, Kingsbridge and Modbury.

In the matter of hills the second of these roads is the least severe,

and therefore on the whole I advise those who desire to reach Cornwall

quickly to skirt the Moor upon the south; passing through Buckfastleigh,

which has a new abbey on an old site, and Dean Prior, where Herrick lived

so reluctantly, and Plympton, where old Bishop Warelwast died. There is

no really steep gradient on this road, and though near Exeter there is

a long climb followed by a long descent, there are several surprising

miles, near Plymouth, that are almost level. The surface is usually very

good. The scenery is not so strikingly beautiful as on the other roads,

but in places it is very lovely, and everywhere there are the special

charms of Devonshire: the shadowing trees, the high banks and trailing

ivy, the stone walls green with myriads of tiny ferns, the gardens full

of sunshine and flowers. Dean Prior, where Herrick lived for many quiet

years, singing in sweet measures “how roses first came red and lilies

white,” and dreaming wistfully of “golden Cheapside” and his Julia--and

others--seems at first sight an unlikely place to be hated. Indeed, I

think his hatred of it and its inhabitants was merely a mood. The same

kind of mood that made him hurl the manuscript of his sermon at his

congregation made him describe his neighbours as

 

“A people currish, churlish as the seas,

And rude almost as rudest savages,”

 

while all the time he was well aware that Robert Herrick was ruder than

either. There were other days when he wrote very affectionately of

his little house and his placid life in this village where he has so

long been lying at rest. There is an ugly modern monument to him in his

church, but his grave and that of his housekeeper Prue are unmarked by

any stone. The beautiful epitaph he wrote himself will serve them well:

 

“Here’s the sunset of a tedious day:

These two asleep are; I’ll but be undressed,

And so to bed; pray, wish us all good rest.”

 

The Plympton through which this road passes is not the birthplace of Sir

Joshua Reynolds, but has an interest of its own in being the site of a

monastery that was founded by Warelwast, the bishop who built the towers

of Exeter Cathedral. When he was very old he came hither to die. But

Plympton Earle is not a mile away; and most of us will find time to drive

into the little town and pause for a moment by the old house with the

colonnade, wherein a little boy used long ago to sit studying perspective

“with avidity and pleasure,” or copying his sister’s sketches. Sir Joshua

loved this place where he first held a pencil, and in after years

painted his own portrait for the town. The town sold it.

 

This road, then, is not without its attractions. Infinitely greater,

however, are the charms of the two other alternative ways from Exeter to

Cornwall--the one that bisects Dartmoor and the one that skirts the coast

more or less closely. Those whose object is a short tour in South Devon

I would advise to combine these two routes by driving from Exeter across

the Moor to Tavistock, thence turning south to Plymouth on a splendid

road through beautiful scenery, and returning to Exeter leisurely by way

of Dartmouth and Torquay.

 

The traveller who chooses to leave Exeter by the Moretonhampstead road is

likely to feel that he has chosen well.

 

Like all these roads that run towards the west it begins by crossing

the river Exe, the river that for three centuries was commercially

useless because two men quarrelled about a pot of fish. In the market of

Exeter--so runs the story--three pots of fish were waiting to be sold

one day, more than five hundred years ago. Upon this fish the retainer

of the Earl of Devon cast an appreciative eye at the very moment when

the servant of the Bishop of Exeter had determined to buy it. In the

fourteenth century there could be but one result of this coincidence.

The matter, after a lively quarrel, was laid before the mayor, and he,

with prudence that deserved to be more successful, apportioned one pot to

each customer and the third to the market: whereupon the Earl of Devon

revenged himself upon the corporation, against whom he already had a

grudge or two, “by stopping, filling, and quirting the river with great

trees, timber, and stones, in such sort that no vessel or vessels could

passe or repasse;” and Topsham became the port of Exeter. Now Topsham was

on the Earl of Devon’s land.

 

We go out of the town on a perfect surface, and although, of the twelve

miles between Exeter and Moretonhampstead, there is only one that is

level and eleven that are steep in varying degrees, the beauty that

surrounds us leaves us with no breath for complaint. Whether we are

climbing slowly to the summit of a ridge, with valleys dipping deeply on

each side and beyond the valleys fold on fold of wooded hills, or gliding

down past Culver into the shade, or running softly through a little green

glen, there is nothing but content in our hearts. Presently we cross the

Teign upon an old stone bridge. Beneath us the river makes slow, soft

music on its mossy stones; on each side the hills rise steeply; here and

there a great red rock pierces the green and purple of the slopes; and

as the road winds up the long hill through the woods we are shadowed

by hazels and larches and birches, and the scarlet tassels of the

mountain-ash hang heavily over our heads. When at last we finish the long

climb Moretonhampstead lies below us. From this height it appears to be

in a hollow, but after running down a steep hill for a mile and a half we

find ourselves unexpectedly looking up to it.

 

Moreton is the best centre, I think, from which to see the Moor. Chagford

is in a lovelier position, hemmed about with hills, and is larger and

more ambitious, with electricity to light its streets; but it is not

nearly so central as Moreton, which stands at the junction of four

good roads. Gray’s Hotel, though it makes no profession of smartness,

is comfortable and clean, and has a capital new garage. The importance

of staying in this neighbourhood for a day or two lies in the fact that

there are several lovely places within a radius of a few miles which

cannot easily be seen _en route_. Of course, those who prefer more

stately quarters can use Exeter as their centre very comfortably.

 

It is not to us who move at various speeds from place to place--by

motor-car, or bicycle, or train, or even on foot--that Dartmoor will

reveal itself. Do not let us deceive ourselves. We may have driven on

every road and every tortuous lane between the Teign and Tavistock, yet

we need not dream that we know the Moor. That knowledge comes only with

the slow years, only with the passionate love that begins in childhood

and lasts for life.

 

[Illustration: LUSTLEIGH.]

 

That is no reason why we should not see as much of the Moor as we can,

and love it dearly in our own poor fashion. There is much, very much of

its beauty which he who runs--and even he who motors--may read. And the

most beautiful part of it, I think, is this eastern side.

 

Quite a short run from Moreton is to Bovey Tracey, Hey Tor, and

Manaton. We drive out of the little town, as we drove into it, past the

seventeenth-century almshouses, whose thatched roofs are supported on

a row of granite pillars, and whose features are feebly reproduced on

the opposite side of the street--a case in which imitation is very far

from flattery. A narrow road follows the course of the Bovey through its

pretty valley. At a point where road, rail, and river nearly touch one

another a little by-way crosses a bridge to Lustleigh, which has a great

reputation for beauty, and deserves it; for with its church and modern

cross, its thatched cottages, its stream and little bridge, half hidden

in their setting of woods and orchards, it is a very lovable village. Its

spaces, however, are limited. Drivers of large cars must turn near the

church under the elms, and see Lustleigh on foot, for there is no turning

place further on, and the road beyond the village is impracticable. Its

beauty is very alluring, but its steepness is serious, and such is its

narrowness that even a car of moderate size brushes the hedge on each

side. It is far easier to return to the main road, or rather the main

lane to Bovey, which has a good surface, though it is narrow and winding.

 

The fine church that stands above the street of Bovey Tracey was founded,

it is said, by the Tracy who was one of Becket’s murderers, to atone

for the deed by the convenient method of the Middle Ages. But all its

splendour of carving and gilding, its painted screen and pulpit, its

porch with the groined roof and grotesque bosses, are of a later century

than the twelfth.

 

There is nothing here to see except this church and some restored stone

crosses. For no one knows, I believe, where the cavaliers were quartered

on that famous winter evening when Cromwell rode into Bovey with a band

of horse and foot, and brought dismay with him. “The Enemy in Bovey,”

says Joshua Sprigge, “were put to their shifts, yet through the darkness