The Jamaica Inn is in the midst of the Bodmin Moors. In the time of the mail-coaches from London by Exeter to Falmouth it was a house of great repute. But when the trains ran, and coaches were given up, it fell from its high estate, was converted into a temperance house, was far from clean, harboured innumerable fleas, and did little business. Of late it has entirely recovered its credit. It stands nine hundred feet above the sea. There are now there at Bolventor a church and a school. A bleak, wind-swept moor all about it. Dozmare Pool, haunted by Tregeagle, is near by—and in June the meadows around are a sheet of gold from the buttercups. But to return to John Burton's reminiscences.
"When the landlady came in and saw that we had finished the pie, she looked with amazement towards us.
"'Why, drat you boys, whativer have 'ee done with the pie?'
JOHN BURTON OF FALMOUTH
"'Why, ate'n, missus. Do'y think us called the horse in to help us, or what?'
"'No,' she smartly replied, 'I should 'a thawt you had the Bodmunt Murlicha (Militia) here to help 'ee out. I never seed such gluttons in my life.'
"When we asked what we had got to pay, she said, 'Sixpunce for the crist, threepunce for the suitt, ninepunce for the gibblets, and eightpunce for apples, onions, spice, currants and sugar, and fourpunce for baking 'un; two dishes of tay, tuppunce; that'll be two and eightpunce altogether, boys.'