The weary traveller has a great treat in store, for the view from the top of Porlock Hill is remarkable. But it is well worth the climb, and by the old road it is indeed a climb! When we were there it was a misty day in June, and we never remember so remarkable a prospect as from the summit. The brilliant gorse stood out against the varying shades of green and purple of the moorland, and below all that could be seen was one solid mass of snow-white cloud, the outline of which was sharply defined against a distant glimpse of the soft blue sea and the deep blue Glamorganshire hills, looking wonderfully like a glacier-field. Next morning came the news that in the mist the warship Montagu had run on the rocks by Lundy.
The romantic scenery of Lynmouth and Lynton is too well known to call for any particular description here. Little wonder that one sees so many honeymoon couples wandering everywhere about the lovely lanes. Lovers of old oak, too, will find all that they desire at Lynmouth, for here is the most tempting antique repository, calculated to make tourist collectors of Chippendale and oak wish they had economised more in their hotel bills. Motor cars sail easily down into the valley from Porlock, but a sudden twist in the steep ascent to Lynton causes many a snort and groan accompanied by an extra scent of petrol.
But we have overstepped the county line and are in Devon.
[IN DEVON AND DORSET]
Those who have never been to Clovelly can have no idea of its quaintness, no matter what descriptions they have read or pictures they may have seen. One goes there expecting to find the little place exactly as he imagines it to be, and is agreeably surprised to find it is quite different. It is so unlike any other place, that one looks back at it more as a dream than a real recollection. We do not hint that the everlasting climb up and down may be likened to a nightmare. Not a bit of it. Though we gasp and sink with fatigue, we have still breath enough left in our body to sing in praise. Were the steps more steep and less rambling, perhaps we should not be so satisfied. What excellent exercise for muscular-leg development. But how about the older part of the inhabitants?
We had the honour to converse with the oldest Clovellian, a hale and hearty fisherman, who, by no means tardy in introducing himself, promptly proceeded to business. For twopence we might take his photograph. We thanked him kindly, and having disbursed that sum reserved our plates for inanimate curiosities.
It is gratifying to learn that there is no room for "improvement" at Clovelly, and there are fewer houses than there used to be. Consequently there is nothing new and out of harmony. The cottages are really old and quaint, not as we expected to find them, imitations, like half the houses in Chester.
Even the "New Inn" is delightfully old, with queer little rooms and corners, and little weather-cock figures above the sign, of the time of Nelson. It is a novel experience to arrive there in the dusk and walk (?) down the High Street to the sea. The most temperate will stumble and roll about as if he had sampled the cellar through, and ten to one but he doesn't finally take an unexpected header into the sea.