The Bridport Arms.
The old inn forms part of some scattered groups of houses at West Hay, near Bridport. The place is chiefly a waste of sand.
CHAPTER VI
YATTON—CHEDDAR CHEESE AND CHEDDAR CLIFFS—WELLS—GLASTONBURY—THE ISLE OF ATHELNEY—DUNSTER
The little town of Yatton, below Bristol, situated on excellent roads and with a convenient station on the Great Western main line, is a very useful point whence to start upon a rambling exploration of Mid and North Somerset, called by Mr. Hardy “Outer Wessex.” Yatton is a junction station, its name-board familiar to travellers, with the alluring legend beneath: “For Cheddar and Wells.” Whether the place-name be really “Ea-ton” or “Yeo-ton,” from the little river Yeo, on which the town is situated, or “Gate-town,” from the road or “gate” under the hills on which it stands, will ever remain a problem to give antiquaries something to think about. The church, one of the finest in this shire of fine churches, has a remarkable outline because of its incomplete spire, whose upper part appears never to have been added. It thus wears a truncated appearance, and is crested with a kind of coronet. The effect is distinctly pleasing and gives Yatton a decided individuality. The general appearance of the church is that of a Late Decorated building. The tomb, with red-robed effigy of Chief Justice Newton, of the Common Pleas, 1449, is well worth seeing.
Through Congresbury and Churchill, whence the Churchill family emerged from obscurity to a dukedom and political fame in later generations, we come, through the little town of Axbridge, to Cheddar. There is no need, it may be presumed, to instruct the reader in the two things for which Cheddar is deservedly famous—its cheese and cliffs. Time was, and that until quite recent years, when the tourist who by some strange chance knew nothing of Cheddar cheese might proceed through the picturesque village without a glimpse of its staple product. So modest was Cheddar that no one would deduce or suspect a cheese in the entire district. But nowadays—these being days of strenuous publicity—shops that do nothing else but sell cheeses are a feature of the place. The results are extremely satisfactory, especially in view of the fact that inferior cheese from the United States, known as “American Cheddar,” was bulking largely in provision markets, and bidding fair to wholly overshadow the home produce. In these scientific times it is said to be quite possible to produce Cheddar by the cultivation of a bacillus, and that it is therefore the method alone that makes the cheese, which can be produced anywhere. But it would be a bad day for the Somerset dairy-farmer if that doctrine were accepted in its entirety, and it is comforting to believe that it is not likely to win to such acceptance.
Cheddar Cliffs are strikingly formed by huge precipitous rifts in the limestone escarpments of the Mendip Hills, and lead at right angles out of the main road. The most picturesque portion of the village is situated at the beginning of them, beside the fine winding road that ascends between their grey spires and impending fissures, looming in monstrous shapes, like the fabled turrets and bastions of some giant’s castle. The old geological theory as to how these huge rifted chasms were produced was of an earthquake that had thus torn the everlasting hills asunder. But a recent school of thought has the view that they were originally immense caverns, and that the gorge effect is caused by the roof having at some time fallen in. The famous caverns, discovered in 1837 and 1893, are cited as examples. These are the chief attractions at Cheddar for the sightseer, and are not in the least difficult to find, because, in fact, they open upon the road and are rented by rival proprietors who eagerly solicit the stranger’s patronage. Whether the cave that belongs to Cox or that which is exploited by Gough is the better, I will not pretend to say; only the mental impression left by perusing the handbills and advertisements of the competitors is that each is better than the other, “which,” as our old enemy Euclid would say, “is absurd.”
The Almshouses, Corsham.
Built by Lady Hungerford, 1672. One of the finest examples of the post-Reformation Almshouse.