Devon, Its Moorlands, Streams and Coasts Part 20

I'll sing you of a s.h.i.+pwreck That was here the other day, At a place that's called Widemouth, Near Bude, and in that bay.

_Chorus._

'So my British tars be steady, And maintain your glorious name; Till you're drowned, killed, or wounded, You must put to sea again.

'The twenty-third of November, That was the very time, A fine and lofty schooner brig, The _Happy Return_, of Lyme, The bold and n.o.ble Captain Escaped from the deep, And died with cold that very night Near to a flock of sheep.

_Chorus._

'So my British tars, etc.

'The mate, as fine a seaman As could stand on a deck, Had with his n.o.ble Captain Escaped from the wreck; No refuge could be found on sh.o.r.e.

No good could there be done; He returned on board the deck and died: The poor man lost his son.

_Chorus._

'So my British tars, etc.

'This poor man's son was not drown'd, But found dead the next day; Three only of this manly crew Escaped death and sea.

Have pity on poor seamen, Kind gentlemen, I beg; The one of them is wounded, The poor man broke his leg.

_Chorus._

'So my British tars, etc.

'I've twice myself been s.h.i.+pwreck'd, Twenty-two years at sea, But never saw a gang of thieves Before that very day; Had it not been for Captain Thomas, And his loyal Preventive crew, They'd have stolen the cargo and the deck, The mast and rigging too.

_Chorus._

'So my British tars, etc.

'This schooner came from Dublin, To London she was bound; I could not believe such daring thieves Stood on the British ground.

The Farmers of the country,[8]

That distress ought to relieve, Some of them were stealing b.u.t.ter, While others stole the beef.

_Chorus._

'So my British tars, etc.

'Seamen call this place West Barbary.

To me it does appear, More of the cargo would have sav'd, Were they wrecked on Algier: The people might as well come in, Rob the market or the fair; But to rob distressed seamen, No one had business there.

_Chorus._

'So my British tars, etc.

'Now to complete this s.h.i.+pwreck, And for to end this song, I've told you nothing but the truth, No mortal I have wrong'd.

Great praise is due to Pethick.[9]

His wife and family brave, That did their best that very time Poor seamen's lives to save.

_Chorus._

'So my British tars, etc.'

[Footnote 8: St. Ginnes.]

[Footnote 9: The cottager by the seaside.]

Kingsley remarks that 'an agricultural people is generally as cruel to wrecked seamen as a fis.h.i.+ng one is merciful,' and speaks of the many stories he has heard of 'baysmen' on this coast 'risking themselves like very heroes to save strangers' lives, and at the same time beating off the labouring folk who swarmed down for plunder from the inland hills.'

Retracing the way to Northam Burrows, pa.s.sing through them to their most northerly point, and crossing the Taw, one arrives at a strip of sh.o.r.e--Braunton Burrows--which corresponds to the strip on the southern bank of the river.

'A great chaos of wind-strewn sand-hills,' inhabited by armies of rabbits, and haunted by peewits and gulls, the Burrows are brightened by ma.s.ses of wild-flowers, from the great mullein--once known as hedge-taper, because of its pale torch of blossoms--to the tiny delicate rose-pink bells of the bog-pimpernel. 'To the left were rich, alluvial marshes, covered with red cattle sleeping in the sun, and laced with creeks and flowing d.y.k.es.... Beyond again [looking back to the south]

two broad tide-rivers, spotted with white and red-brown sails, gleamed like avenues of silver ... till they vanished among the wooded hills. On the eastern horizon the dark range of Exmoor sank gradually into lower and more broken ridges, which rolled away, woodland beyond woodland, till all outlines were lost in a purple haze; while far beyond the granite peaks of Dartmoor hung like a delicate blue cloud, and enticed the eye away into infinity.'

In the midst of the sand-dunes are the remains of a little, very old chapel, St Anne's Chapel, which is said to have been built by St Brannock. North of the Burrows the land rises into cliffs, on which grew (I hope, _grows_) the great sea-stock; and Baggy Point, at the southern end of Morte Bay, runs out into the sea. Beyond the Point, the broad yellow line of Woolacombe Sands stretches along the bay towards Morte Point.

Not far off was the manor of the Tracys, Woolacombe Tracy. A curse was brought on this family by William de Tracy, 'first and forwardest of the knights who murdered Thomas a Becket.' For, 'the Pope banning, cursing, and excommunicating,' a '_Miraculous Penance_' was imposed on the Tracys, 'that whether they go by _Land_ or _Water_, the _Wind is ever in their faces_.' Fuller, who gives this information, concludes dryly: 'If this was so, it was a _Favour_ in a hot _Summer_ to the _Females_ of that _Family_, and would spare them the _use_ of a _Fan_.' On William de Tracy himself fell the special curse, that ever after his death he should be compelled to wander at night--some say over Woolacombe Sands, others among Braunton Burrows--till he could make a rope of sand. But, whenever the rope is nearly woven, there comes a black dog, with a ball of fire in his mouth, and breaks it; so the penance is never at an end.

Shrieks and wails have been heard by people in cottages near the sh.o.r.e.

Sometimes the uneasy spirit haunts the northern landing-place of the ferry from Braunton Burrows to Appledore, and a wild, long-drawn cry of 'Boat ahoy!' comes ringing in the darkness over the waters. No one answers that cry now after dusk, for once, many years ago, the ferryman, who is well remembered among the Appledore people, went over, and no man was there, but the black dog jumped into the boat. The ferryman, not much liking this, put back again as fast as he could, but when Appledore was nearly reached the dog swamped the boat, made his way to sh.o.r.e, and was lost in the shadows of Northam Burrows. 'And the boatman's nerve was so much shaken that soon afterwards he gave up the ferry.

A monument to William de Tracy was wrongly supposed to lie in the church of Morthoe, or Morte, as it is more commonly called, on the north of the bay. The memorial is of another William de Tracy, rector here till his death in 1322. It is an elaborately sculptured altar-tomb, and bears the incised effigy of a priest; on the sides are figures of St Catherine and St Mary Magdalene, to whom jointly the rector founded a chapel in his church. The church is mainly Perpendicular, but it has an Early English chancel.

The northern curve of the bay ends in Morte Point, and here is a cromlech in ruins, for the ma.s.sive slab of rock which formed the cover-stone has fallen from the upright stones on which it used to lie.

Beyond the point, at the end of the reef, is a huge rock called the Morte Stone, very dangerous on that exposed coast. The Normans are supposed to have given its sinister name, and many since their time have found it a true rock of death. No fewer than five vessels have been lost there in one winter. Rather more than a mile to the north, Bull Point, jutting out into the sea, abruptly ends the coast-line on the north; the cliffs fall back slightly, and stretch away eastward, above 'black fields of shark's-tooth tide-rocks, champing and churning the great green rollers into snow.'

Returning to the Taw, inland, upon the eastern side of the Burrows, one pa.s.ses Braunton, two or three miles short of the estuary. The most interesting point about this village is its a.s.sociation with its name-saint, St Brannock--for the ancient name was Brannockstown. Old writers rather wildly a.s.sert that the saint was the son of a 'King of Calabria,' but Mr Baring-Gould, in a rapid sketch, says that he was the Irish confessor of a King of South Wales, who, not finding happiness in the life he was leading, migrated to North Devon. The legends that sprang up about his name are steeped in a golden haze. When St Brannock arrived, the whole place was 'overspread with brakes and woods. Out of which desert, now named the Borroughs (to tell you some of the marvels of this man), he took harts, which meekly obeyed the yoke,' and made them 'plow to draw timber thence to build a church, which may gain credit if it be true.' The caution of this commendation is delightful.

More, alas! we do not learn, for the writer forbears 'to speak of his cow (which being killed, chopped in pieces, and boiling in the kettle, came out whole and sound at his call), his staff, his oak, and his man Abel, which would seem wonders. Yet all these you may see at large, lively represented to you in a fair gla.s.s window.' It is very disappointing that the window filled with the further wonders, the very names of which have a charm, should have perished.

St Brannock Church is large, and, like Morte Church, is partly Perpendicular and partly Early English. It has an unusually wide panelled roof, and on one of the panels is carved a sow and some little pigs--an ill.u.s.tration of a legend connecting the saint with the church, for the tradition ran that he had been told in a dream to build his church 'wherever he should first meet a sow and her family.' A similar group is to be seen in the porch of the church at Newton St Cyres. Some of the bench-ends in St Brannock's Church are very beautifully carved.

The road to Barnstaple, bending to the south-east, follows the estuary of the Taw for nearly six miles.

The town is very prettily placed, but it is dominated by modern buildings, and has not the air of antiquity with which its history might have invested it. The river sweeps round a bend of a green and pleasant valley just above the town, and along the strand is a walk shaded with trees, looking over the river to a pastoral country beyond. Nearer the bridge is Queen Anne's Walk, 'an open portico near the river, called the Quay Walk, being an exchange of the merchants, etc.,' renamed when it was rebuilt in Queen Anne's reign. From the bridge westward the scene has an air of peaceful contentedness. Sea-gulls flutter among the sand-banks, from which 'the sea retires itself' at low-tide, leaving only a small, s.h.i.+ning stream, which seems 'to creep between shelves and sands.' Beyond are green marshes, and gentle rounded hills behind them lead on one from another. The country is much the same all along the river to the sea.

Bideford is proud of its bridge, which is very high, and has sixteen arches. Several people have been given the credit of building it, and its date is supposed to be some time during the thirteenth century.

The church, dedicated to St Peter and St Paul, is cross-shaped, and the lead steeple looks well against the sky, especially when it is surrounded by a shoal of swallows swooping and darting about it in all directions. The church has been much restored, and altered from the original building; evidently there were once three altars in it; and a piscina still remains in the south aisle, close to the west wall of the transept. A curious monument was erected in 1634 by Martin Blake, the Vicar, to his son and four children who died very young. A heavy and elaborate framework surrounds a severe likeness of a melancholy-looking man, who is resting his head on his hand. On the monument are short detached sentences, numbered:

'1. He was cut off in the flower of his life.

'10. His heart on fire for the love of G.o.d.

'11. Martin Blake, the Father, was taken from the Pulpit, and sent to Exeter jail for four years.