A road passing through a wood and by a little rushing stream overhung by hazels, leads towards Lynton, and crosses the tiny railway, on whose bank masses of the slender stems of great moon-like evening primroses shine in the grey twilight with an almost weird effect.
The more interesting way to Lynton is along the coast-road, which is soon reached from the valley. Beneath the road the cliffs fall precipitously hundreds of feet to the sea, and a few little horned sheep and some white goats, scrambling on the face of them, seemed to have the same hold as flies on a window-pane. Ravens are often seen even now amongst these almost inaccessible rocks. The road runs through a fir-wood, and as it rises and falls one may catch delicious glimpses of the sea through the ruddy stems and the great dark fans and tasselled ends of the branches; and the scent of pine-needles and of the sea stirring amongst them makes the charm still greater. The road looks down into Wooda Bay, which is also surrounded by woods, and passes to the tinier but very lovely Lee Bay. A little combe leads down to the shore, sheltered by leaves which, luminous from the sunshine above them, shade the glen from the fierce rays, and it is filled with a subdued, mysterious light. Stem beyond stem is partly hidden by the fresh, vigorous green shoots springing round them, or hanging in garlands from branch to branch, and suggests the wonderful fairyland that Richard Doyle saw, and enabled many people to see.
A little stream, breaking into miniature waterfalls and reflecting the foliage in its pools, finally disappears into the shingle, to emerge close to the sea. A few yards away is a tiny dropping-well on the face of the cliff, almost hidden by a green veil of plants that grow at the foot of the rocks or swing from the clefts.
Close to the bay stands Lee Abbey, a comparatively modern house, on the site of the old house of the De Wichehalses—a family who, considering the not very remote date of their history, have been surrounded with a surprising number of fables: Mr Blackmore contributed a share.
The Wichehalses had not a Dutch origin; the daughter of the house called Janifred never existed, and consequently the whole tragic tale of her lover's faithlessness and her sad fate is entirely imaginary. 'The Wichehalses,' says Mr Chanter, who has studied their history with minute care, 'originally took their name from their dwelling-place, a hamlet called Wych, near Chudleigh. Nicholas, a younger son, but founder of the most eminent branch, settled in Barnstaple about 1530, and made a large fortune in the woollen trade, part of which he spent in buying property in North Devon—amongst others, the Manors of Lynton and Countisbury. Here his grandson Hugh Wichehalse removed in 1627, leaving Barnstaple with his wife and children for the double reason that political troubles were already brewing and rumours were afloat that the plague was drawing near.'
Hugh Wichehalse seems to have avoided all strife as far as possible, but his son John threw himself vehemently on to the side of the Parliament, and became notorious for persecuting the Royalist clergy in the country round, whose lot in any case was a sorry one. John sold some of his estates and left a portion to his younger son, so that his eldest son (another John) and his wife, both of whom were extravagant, soon found themselves in difficulties. John Wichehalse made himself justly unpopular by the part he played after Sedgemoor. A Major Wade, in the Duke of Monmouth's army, had escaped from the battle-field and, with two other men, was hidden by a farmer at Farley. A search was made for them, in which Wichehalse joined with one of his servants, whom he had armed. His conduct was particularly odious, because Wade was a great friend of some of his own relations, who had very generously, by gifts, loans, and good counsel, repeatedly helped him out of his difficulties. In course of time they arrived at the right farm, and while they were coming in by the front door, Wade and the others escaped by the back. Babb, Wichehalse's servant, and another of the party saw the men running, and fired, and Wade was shot through the body, so that he was disabled and taken prisoner. Wichehalse's servants also killed another of Monmouth's men, and his body was impaled on a gate near Ley.
'In the neighbourhood,' says Mr Chanter, 'the blame was put on his servant, John Babb, who was said to have incited his master to kill every rebel they could find; and local tradition has it that the Babbs, who had been the favourite retainers at Ley, never prospered after. When their master left Lynton they moved to West Leymouth, as the modern Lynmouth was called then, and employed themselves in the herring-curing industry, which the cottagers said failed because Babb was engaged in it; and years after his granddaughter, Ursula Babb, was pointed out as the last of the race with the curse on it, and, as she was reported to possess the evil eye, became a great object of fear to all around.'
John Wichehalse and his wife went to London, and wasted their goods until he died, when the mortgages were foreclosed, and no property in Lynton was left to the family. The melancholy fate of their daughter Mary may have suggested the more romantic story of Janifred. Mary Wichehalse married, but later returned to Lynton, where, under the care of a faithful servant, she spent her time wandering over the cliffs looking at the lost inheritance. Some say that she fell off the rocks, and others that she was washed away by the tide, but both accounts agree that she was drowned.
The Valley of Rocks is wild, grand, and rather dreary, 'all crags and pinnacles.' Southey was deeply impressed by it: 'Imagine a narrow vale between two ridges of hills somewhat steep; the southern hill turfed; the vale, which runs from east to west, covered with huge stones and fragments of stone among the fern that fills it; the northern ridge completely bare, excoriated of all turf and all soil, the very bones and skeletons of the earth; rock reclining upon rock, stone piled upon stone, a huge terrific mass—a palace of the preAdamite kings, a city of the Anakim, must have appeared so shapeless, and yet so like the ruins of what had been shaped after the waters of the flood had subsided. I ascended with some toil the highest point; two large stones inclining on each other formed a rude portal on the summit. Here I sat down. A little level platform, about two yards long, lay before me, and then the eye immediately fell upon the sea, far, very far below. I never felt the sublimity of solitude before.' Names have been given to the great rock-masses. The Castle Rock looks far over the sea, the Devil's Cheesewring is on the inner side of the valley, and there are many others. A narrow path cut in the deep descent of the cliffs leads from the valley, 'where screes and boulders, red and grey and orange, covered for the most part with lichen or tendrils of ground-ivy, lend splashes of vivid colouring to the hill-side;' and about a mile farther on is Lynton.
