Though the calendar said August 13th, the temperature talked it down, and insisted on November, so an invitation into a clean, warm kitchen was acceptable. The nice man poked up the dying fire, put on wood and coals, and soon got a kettle of water to boiling. We should have some good hot coffee, he cheerily promised, before we could say "Jack Robinson." But when it leaked out that we had had no dinner except a sandwich at Tintagel, and nothing since, his warm Devonshire heart yearned over us; and to the hot coffee he added eggs and bacon.
While the dear things fizzled and bubbled, we were allowed to sit by the stove and toast our feet; and if anything could have smelled more heavenly than the salt rain and sweet honeysuckle out of doors, it would have been the eggs and bacon in the New Inn kitchen.
We begged to eat in the kitchen, too, and even that was permitted us, at a table spread with a clean cloth which must have been put away in a lavender cupboard. By the time the coffee, with foaming hot milk, and the sizzling eggs and bacon were ready, the early daylight was blue on the window panes. The rain had stopped with the first hint of sunrise, and in Clovelly at least (Clovelly means "shut in valley," a name not worthy of its elfin charm) the wind had gone to sleep.
I don't know how much Sir Lionel suggested paying for that breakfast, but it must have been something out of the way, for our Devonshire benefactor protested that it was far too much. He would accept the regular price, and no more. Why, we had only got him up an hour before his usual time. That was nothing. It would do him good; and he would have no extra pay.
Warm, comfortable, and refreshed, Sir Lionel and I bade our host good-bye, meaning to continue our journey to Bideford; but what we saw outside was too beautiful to turn our backs upon in that unappreciative, summary fashion. It was not sunrise yet, but was just going to be sunrise, and the world seemed to be waiting for it, hushed and expectant.
The white village glimmered in the pearly light, like a waterfall arrested in its rush down a cleft in a hill. Not having seen Clovelly, you may think that a far-fetched simile; but really it isn't. If a young cataract could be turned into a village, that would be Clovelly. The marvellous little place is absolutely unique; yet if one could liken it to anything else on earth, it might be to a corner of Mont St. Michel, or a bit of old Bellagio, going down to the sea; and certainly it is more Italian than English in atmosphere and colouring, only it is perfectly clean, as clean as a toy, or a Dutch village; so that part of the "atmosphere" isn't entirely Italian! I even saw waste-paper pots; and if that isn't like Broek in Waterland, what is? Down in the harbour, the fishing boats lay like a flock of resting birds; and as we descended the cobbled steps of the street, to go to the shore, the early morning donkeys began to come up, laden with heavy bags and panniers, just as you and I saw them in Italy, and driven by just such boys and old men as I remember there, dark-eyed, picturesque, one or two with red caps. The doors of the little low-browed houses huddled on either side opened here and there, up and down the path, giving glimpses of pretty, neat interiors; bits of old furniture, the glint of a copper kettle, a brass jug, or a bit of mended blue china. A gossipy Devonshire cat came out and begged for caresses, mewing the news of the night—such a chatty creature!—and down on the beach, we made friends with the oldest man of the village, born in 1816. He was a handsome old fellow, with pathetic, faded eyes in a tanned, ruddy face; and the queer little harbour (everything is little at Clovelly, except the inhabitants) with its rustic sort of pier, and red-sailed fishing boats, looked as if it had been designed entirely as a background for him. However, it's much more antique even than he—six hundred years old, instead of something short of a hundred, and made by the famous Carey family. We stopped there talking to the ancient sailor-man, hearing how the Clovelly fishermen go out with black nets by day in good weather, and at night with white ones, to "attract the fish." "That is trew, Miss," said he, when I laughed, thinking it a joke. I love the Devonshire way of saying "true," and other words that rhyme. Their soft voices are as gentle, as kindly, as the murmur of their own blue sea.
As we mounted the ladder-like path to the top of Clovelly, to go back to Apollo again, the sun came up out of the sea, where the blue line of water marked the edge of the world, and spilt floods of gold over it, like a tilted christening cup. We turned and stood still to watch the day born of dawn; and I feel sure that if we had come to Clovelly to spend several weeks, I could never have learned to know the place as I had divined it, in this adventure. You seem to learn more about a flower by inhaling its perfume after rain, don't you think, than by dissecting it, petal by petal? I fancy there is something like that in getting the feeling and impression of places at their best, by sudden revelations. Of course, I want to go back to Clovelly, but not with any of the Mrs. Nortons of the world. I couldn't bear to do that, after being alone there with Sir Lionel. While one's heart is thrilled by exquisite sights, and the ineffable thoughts born of them, one knows poor Emily is wondering whether the servants are looking after things properly at home; and that very knowledge is apt to slam down an iron shutter in one's soul.
It must have been about five o'clock when we took our places in the car again. We had only eleven miles' run to Bideford, and I wished them twice eleven, for surely they are among the most beautiful miles in England. No wonder people believe in fairies in this part of the world! It would be ungrateful if they didn't. As the sun climbed, the brown wood roads were inlaid with gold in wavy patterns. From our heights, now and again we caught glimpses of Clovelly, down its deep ravines. The Hobby Drive, which belongs to Clovelly Court, is almost more exquisite than Buckland Chase, on the way to Dartmoor; if you had been there with me, you would know I couldn't give it higher praise. And how I wish you had been! How I wish you could see these English woods! They have such an air of dainty gaiety, very different from Austrian or German or French forests; and though their elms and oaks and beeches are often giants, they seem dedicated to the spirit of youth. Their shadows are never black, but only a darker green, or translucent gray; and part of their charm is a nymph-like frivolousness which comes, I think, from their ruffly green dessous. Other woods have no dessous. Their ankles are mournfully bare, and their stockings dark.
In the woods of the Hobby Drive, the bracken was like elfin plumes; each stone, wrapped in moss, was a lump of silver coated with verdigris; distant cliffs seen between the trees were cut out of gray-green jade, against a sea of changing opal; and in the high minstrel-galleries of the latticed beeches a concert of birds was fluting.
Isn't Gallantry Bower a fine name? At first thought it would appear an inappropriate one, for it's a sheer cliff overlooking the sea on one side and a vast sweep of woodland on the other; but I can make it seem appropriate, by picturing some wild brave sailor making love to his sweetheart there, and telling her about the sea, her only rival in his love. No doubt it's a corruption of some old Cornish name, and I refuse to accept it as a Lover's Leap, though such a legend has grown up around it. I'm tired of Lover's Leaps.