which hardly anything is known of Simonsbath. At that period there are said to have been only five men and a woman and a girl on Exmoor. The girl drew beer at the Simonsbath public-house, and the customers were a decidedly rough lot. Doones indeed there were none—their day was past—but the illicit love of mutton was universal in the West country, as was also a partiality for cheap cognac. Smugglers slung their kegs across their “scrambling Jacks” at night, and hid their treasure in the rocks, or left it at a certain gate till the next mystic hand in the living chain gave it a lift on the road to Exeter. When they did not care to do this, there were always friendly cellars under the old house at Simonsbath. The ale was decent, the landlady wisely deaf, and who can doubt that the old ingle, where the date 1654 still lingers on a beam shorn or built into half its length, heard many an exciting tale of contraband prime brandy and extra parochial liberties which would have extorted blushes from an honest beadle and groans from a conscientious exciseman?
Simonsbath having been formerly so insignificant, it is not to be wondered at that Blackmore only refers to it as the abode of a “wise woman,” by which he means a witch (Lorna Doone, chapter xviii.).
CHAPTER X
BAGWORTHY AND BRENDON
Simonsbath is the centre of several converging roads, all of them waiting to help the traveller out of Exmoor before he is well in it. A drive from Lynton or some other fairly populous or fashionable resort, followed by a lunch at the Simonsbath Hotel, is many people’s conception of the proper method of “doing” Exmoor; but, while pleasant enough as an excursion, such a mode of exploration permits of only scanty guesses and imperfect glimpses of the inner fastnesses, which seem for the most part far away.
If the excitement of the chase be not too distracting, possibly the best way of acquainting oneself with the country is by following the staghounds; but should that be impracticable, the most useful advice the writer can offer is to follow the watercourses. Any one of these, if patiently traced, will usher the pilgrim into Nature’s mysterious solitudes, which, if he be at all of a contemplative turn of mind, will awaken in him many a pleasant or pensive reverie. In any case, one must get away from the roads, the very excellence of which is evil, as tempting to sloth.
I cannot, however, send forth an innocent person into the wilds without referring to the bogs. Personally, I have a considerable respect for Exmoor bogs, as I have for “they Hexëmoor vogs,” which are equally treacherous, and make one wet through as sure and as fast as any rain; nor is it so many years ago that Sheardon Hutch and similar names were sounds of terror in my ears. Familiarity breeds contempt, and therefore those at home in the district—some of them, at all events—are apt to disparage these man-traps, which are not by any means confined to the low lands, but are found on the summits of hills, especially the notorious Chains. In many places black decayed vegetable matter has been accumulating for ages to a depth of several feet, and as the rocks beneath are of the transition class, impervious to water, the rain is retained and saturates the bog-mould. After much wet weather, there are spots that will not bear the weight of a man, let alone a horse, and in riding over the moor, they constitute so real and serious a danger that great care should be exercised to avoid getting into them. Otherwise it may prove an impossible task to extricate the devoted “mount.” There is one consolation—heather will not grow on those deep bogs, and wherever its purple bells show, the ground is safe.
The Exmoor hills are variously configured. Sometimes they take the form of a bold foreland, sometimes of a continuous ridge, sometimes of an isolated cone or orb. A very intelligent moorman reminded me, somewhat superfluously, when I looked in upon him on a September evening, that all the hills have names, and queer names some of them are—e.g., “Tom’s Hill,” “Swap Hill,” “Scob Hill,” etc., etc. The meaning of not a few is anything but plain, but one “termination,” if the phrase be permitted, speaks for itself. I allude to the expression “ball,” which is frequent on Exmoor, and much more likely to be derived from visual impression than any long-descended traditions of Baal, to which a late friend of mine, out of regard for the Phœnicians and their hill-altars, was anxious to assign it. Thus we have Cloutsham Ball (famous as the scene of the opening-meet of the Devon and Somerset Staghounds), Ware Ball, Ricksy Ball, Ferny Ball, and, as a gloss, Round Hill. The intersecting valleys have somewhat the character of huge corridors leading in and out of each other, and the smaller “combes,” running up into the hills, may be likened to stairways of providential appointment, for the Exmoor “sides” are not quite perpendicular. The hill-tops and slopes are dotted with sure-footed Exmoor horned sheep and Cheviots, beautiful long-tailed ponies, and a few red cattle. The grass is of two sorts—a short, close variety found in the drier parts, and tall sedge grass on wet ground, where it grows rankly. Sheep are fond of the former when it comes up green and fresh after the annual “swalings,” which take place in February or March. Exmoor sheep have faces like those of the native deer, being free from wool, while the sharp-pointed nose resembles that of a fox.
Simonsbath village is in a sheltered position on the left bank of the Barle, and, thanks to the care of the late Sir Frederick Knight and his father, it is further protected against the keen winterly gales by ample plantations of fir and other trees. Hence we again mount the hills, this time in the direction of Brendon Two Gates, where the “forest” ends. After a time we gain a point from which a good view is obtained of the Prayway (or Prayaway) Meads. There are no hedges here, and, with the inconsistency of human nature, one misses them. It seems so odd to stand and gaze over a grassy expanse that has never been enclosed, and yet has much the look of ordinary meadow. Through the midst flows the Exe, here quite a baby-stream; we are, indeed, not far from its source. To those who are familiar with its lower reaches, and call to mind the river as it appears (say) at Cowley Bridge, the sight is inexpressibly absurd. The absence of trees and shrubs makes Prayway seem bare and forsaken. The high sloping banks are like deserted ramparts or—but the name may have some influence—the nave of a vast natural cathedral haunted by the ghosts of dead Britons. Continuing our route, we arrive at a gate, inside which is a sort of quarry known as Black Pits. The gate opens into a common, at the other end of which is Brendon Two Gates. The origin of this term has been explained; it may be well to add that at present it is a misnomer.
We now for the first time catch sight of Bagworthy, lying over on the right, and Bagworthy, as the reader may happen to remember, was, or has been imputed to be, the stronghold of the savage Doones. This is, in a sense, the parting of the ways. The traveller may either quit the beaten track for the carpet of sward in quest of a shepherd’s cot, whence he may easily proceed to the traditional site of Doone Castle and down the Doone valley, along the Bagworthy Water, to Malmsmead, where the Bagworthy water unites with the East Lyn, and so by Cosgate or Brendon to Lynton; or he may stick to the road, which will take him by a shorter cut to the same destination, by Farley and Cheriton and the aforesaid Scob Hill. It may be that, like the mythical churchmen of old, when asked to state which see he preferred—Bath or Wells—the latter-day pilgrim may elect for “both.” I will assume, however, that his immediate objective is the famous valley, and that, once there, he will pursue without faltering the longest way round.
Technically we are no longer on Exmoor. Bagworthy, Badgworthy, or Badgery—all are permissible forms—is in the parish of Brendon and the county of Devon. In ancient times the wood is said to have covered a much greater area, and a century ago some of the older shepherds could point out its former limits. Within their recollection and since their time, its dimensions steadily contracted, until the disappointment with the valley, to which visitors so often and freely own, became explicable.