There is a spit of land that runs across the estuary of the Exe, and as the centuries pass, the sea plays pranks with it. A few hundred years ago the tideway opened to the West, not far from the red cliffs that tower there, and then Exmouth and the Warren were one; but now it is at Exmouth that the long sands are separated from the shore and, past that little port, the ships go up the river, while the eastern end of the Warren joins the mainland. So it has stood within man's memory; but now, as though tired of this arrangement, wind and sea are modifying the place again, for the one has found a new path in the midst, and the other has blown at the sand dunes until their heads are reduced by many feet from their old altitude.
These sands are many-coloured, for over the yellow staple prevails a delicate and changing harmony of various tones, now rose, now blue, as though a million minute shining particles were reflecting the light of the sky and bringing it to earth on their tiny surfaces. But in truth these tender shades show where the sand is weathered, for if we walk upon it and break the thin crust created by the last rain, the dream tints depart, and a brighter corn colour breaks through. Coarse mat-grass binds the dunes and helps to hold them together against the forces of wind and water; but their tendency is to decrease. Perhaps observation would prove that their masses shift and vanish more quickly than we guess, for the sand is the sea's toy, and she makes and unmakes her castles at will.
As a lad, I very well remember the silvery hills towering to little mountains above my head; and again I can hear the gentle tinkle of the sand for ever rustling about me where I basked like a lizard in some sun-baked nook. I remember the horrent couch grass that waved its ragged tresses above me, and how I told myself that the range of the sand dunes were great lions with bristling manes marching along to Exmouth. Presently they would swim across to the shore and eat up everybody, as soon as they had landed and shaken themselves. And the mud-flats I loved well also, where the sea-lavender spread its purple on sound land above the network of mud. I flushed summer snipe there and often lay motionless to watch sea-birds fishing. Many wild flowers flourished and the glass-wort made the flats as red as blood in autumn. It was a dreamland of wonders for me, and now I was seeking mermaids' purses in the tide-fringe and sorrowing to find them empty; now I was after treasure-trove flung overboard from pirate ships, now hunting for the secret hiding-places of buccaneers in the dunes.
The ships go by still; but not the ships I knew; the flowers still sparkle in the hollows and brakes; but their wonder has waned a little. No more shall I weave the soldanella and sea-rocket and grey-green wheat grass into crowns for the sea-nymphs to find when they come up from the waves in the moonlight.
It is a place of sweet air and wonderful sunshine. On a sunny day, with the sand ablaze against the blue sky, one might think oneself in some desert region of the East; but then green spaces, scarlet flags and a warning "fore!" tell a different story. For golfers have found the Warren now. Where once I roamed with only the gulls above and rabbits below for company, and for music the sigh of the wind in the bents and the song of the sea, half a hundred little houses have sprung up, and bungalows, red and white and green, throng the Warren. At hand is a railway-station, whence hundreds descend to take their pleasure, while easterly this once peaceful region is most populous and the Exmouth boats cross the estuary and land their passengers.
One does not grudge the joy of the place to townsfolk or golfers; one only remembers the old haunt of peace, now peaceful no more, the old beauties that have vanished under the little dwellings and little flagstaffs, the former fine distinction that has departed.
Dawlish Warren now gives pleasure to hundreds, where once only the dreamer or sportsman wandered through its mazes; and that is well; but we of the old brigade, who remember its far-flung loneliness, its rare wild flowers, its unique contours, its isolation and peculiar charm, may be forgiven if we forget the twentieth century for a season and conjure back the old time before us.
Topsham, in the estuary, wakens thoughts of the Danes and their sword and fire, when Hungar and Hubba brought their Viking ships up the river, destroyed the busy little port, and, pushing on, defeated St. Edmond, King of the East Angles. The pagans scourged this Christian monarch with whips, then bound him to a tree and slew him.
Tho' no place was left for wounds,
Yet arrows did not fail.
These furious wretches still let fly
Thicker than winter's hail.