The drive from Lynton to Porlock, and from Porlock to Minehead, over breezy commons or through entrancing sylvan scenery, is gloriously exhilarating, and might put heart into the most confirmed dyspeptic. Which reminds me that in the neighbourhood of Porlock and Minehead there used to be gathered from the rocks vast quantities of laver, which was pickled and exported to large centres, such as Bristol, Exeter, and London. This sea-liverwort was eaten at the tables of the rich as a great delicacy. The hills and heaths also minister to the palate, since they produce various sorts of wild fruit—the dwarf juniper, the cranberry, and the whortleberry. The last, a most delicious fruit, is often made into pies, and the writer, when staying in the neighbourhood, is always glad if he finds one before him, knowing that he can command instant popularity, especially with the fair, by suggesting a second helping. Other bipeds appreciate it no less, since it is the summer food of the black game, and the decrease in the number of the species on the Brendon and Quantock hills has been attributed to the great demand for this fruit in the large towns. The berries grow singly, like gooseberries, the little plants being from a foot to eighteen inches in height. The leaves are ovated, and of a pale green colour.
Porlock and Porlock Weir are both charming places. Perhaps the most memorable object at the former—if the epithet may be applied to an object rather than a speech or event—is the old Ship Inn at the foot of the hill. This quaint survival of an older day is closely associated with the poet Southey, who used to wander thus far from his home on the Quantocks; and in the parlour, on the right of the main entrance, is a nook still known as “Southey’s Corner,” where he is said to have indited his sonnets and other poetry on the landscapes he so warmly admired.
“Porlock, thy verdant vale so fair to sight
Thy lofty hills, which fern and furze embrown,
Thy waters that roll musically down,
Thy woody glens the traveller with delight
Recalls to memory,” etc.
Then there is the church with its spire, which, if not beautiful, is at least peculiar, being faced with wooden shales. Opinions differ as to whether or not it was once of superior altitude, but tradition alleges that in the year 1700, a great storm arose and the tower suffered. Porlock tradition possesses unusual claims to respect, the reason being that it has been proved, in one instance at least, to be remarkably accurate. In the preface of his excellent History of the Ancient Church of Porlock, the late Prebendary Hook, alluding to the great monument, observes: “There had always been a tradition handed down from sexton to sexton, that the effigies were those of Lord Harington and his wife, the Lady of Porlock. But neither Collinson, the historian of Somerset, nor Savage, in his History of the Hundred of Carhampton, knew anything of it, and the former speaks of it as the tomb of a Knight Templar, though he does not explain how a wife happened to be there! But investigation proved the truth of the tradition, as is shown in the beautifully illustrated volume entitled The Porlock Monuments, now, unfortunately, out of print.”
It may be worth recalling that one of Miss Ida Browne’s relics is an old flint-lock pistol, engraved midway between stock and barrel with the name “C. Doone,” whilst on the reverse side is the word “Porlok.” Miss Browne is in some doubt as to whether the weapon was purchased in the village, or a C. Doone resided there, but she inclines to the latter opinion.
Porlock served as market town for the Ridds; indeed, it was in returning from Porlock market that Ridd’s father was murdered (Lorna Doone, chapter iv.). There also dwelt Master Pooke, and there a lawyer made John Ridd’s will.
Just off the road to Minehead, in the parish of Selworthy, stands Holnicote (pronounced Hunnicot), the Exmoor seat of the Acland family—a comparatively modern mansion, its predecessors having been destroyed by fire. In the widest sense, this old West-country race is best known through Mr Arthur Acland, late Minister of Education, and his father, the late Sir Thomas Acland, who was contemporary with Mr Gladstone at Oxford, and, like him, the winner of a “double first,” and between whom and the distinguished statesman there was maintained to the very last a close and uninterrupted friendship. Locally, although the late baronet was always most highly esteemed, it is doubtful whether he was quite as popular as his sire, still referred to by the departing generation as “the old Sir Thomas.” One of my childish recollections is lying in bed one dark night at Tiverton and listening to a muffled peal on St Peter’s bells. It was the first muffled peal I ever heard, and I was much impressed when told that it was rung to mark the passing of a great county magnate, Sir Thomas Acland, tenth baronet, and for forty years a member of Parliament. This was in 1871.
When at Holnicote—the family has another seat, Killerton, near Exeter—the old Sir Thomas made it a rule to attend church twice on Sundays, and in the afternoon he usually brought with him two or three favourite dogs, which were shut up in Farmer Stenner’s barn during the service. The Acland pew was in the parvise over the south porch, while in the west gallery the village orchestra, comprising fiddle, violoncello, flute, hautboy, and bassoon, was yet in its glory. Animated by something of the feudal spirit, the choir, on the first Sunday after the baronet’s arrival, invariably indulged in an anthem. On one such occasion, back in the fifties, the Rev. Edward Cox, rector of the neighbouring parish of Luccombe, chanced to be officiating, and at the conclusion of an elaborate performance, graced by startling orchestral effects, was so unnerved that he forgot his place in the service, and began in a faltering tone the Apostles’ Creed! Naturally there was some confusion, which was ended by Sir Thomas himself coming to the rescue. Bending forward from his seat in the gallery, he not only seconded the clergyman with stentorian accents, but waving his hand peremptorily, signed to the congregation to repeat the creed over again. The command was obeyed, and with such fervour that soon every corner of the church was echoing with the confession of faith. After the service Sir Thomas waited for Mr Cox in the porch, and slapping him on the back, remarked cheerily, “Well done, well done! Whenever you are in doubt, fall back on the articles of your belief, and I’ll support you!”
The pew occupied by Sir Thomas was originally a priest’s chamber, and was transformed into a pew by the Hon. Mrs Fortescue, whose husband was a pluralist rector of the old school, and a rare lover of port wine. Her brother, the Rev. Robert Gould, born in the rectory house at Luccombe, was a remarkable fisherman and an equally remarkable shot. Once he is said to have caught such a quantity of fish in Bagworthy Water as to make his basket ridiculous, and he was forced to requisition a boy and horse to carry his spoil away. At another time he walked from Ilfracombe, where he resided, to Allerford, on a visit to his mother—most probably by way of Hangman Hill, Showlsborough Castle, Cheriton Ridge, and Bagworthy. However that may be, he was able to bring as a present to the old lady, forty snipe—a snipe for every mile, as he said. The same accomplished gentleman shot two bitterns in Porlock Marsh—a feat which, it is safe to assert, has never been repeated in that quarter or, perhaps, in England. The birds were stuffed, and passed into the keeping of his sister, Mrs Fortescue.