The way out of Ilfracombe to Lee, for the pedestrian, is through the Tors Walks, and so by clearly defined cliff paths for two miles. The carriage road leads past Ilfracombe parish church, and, turning to the right, goes up hill to Slade. Finally, having climbed to an extravagant2 height, it plunges4 alarmingly down, and still down, steep and winding5, through a luxuriant valley, where you encounter the hot steamy air, like entering a conservatory6. Fuchsias in full-bloom take the place in the hedgerows generally occupied by privet, thorn, or blackberry-bramble, for this is the locally famed “Valley of Fuchsias,” where frost comes rarely and the keenest winds are robbed of their sting. At the foot of this descent, the village of Lee is gradually disclosed; a graceful8 little Early English Church, built in 1836, the old Post Office, where visitors do most resort for tea, a few clusters of cottages, and then the sea, furiously rushing into a little rocky bay, or calmly lapping among the rocks, or retired9 at low tide,132 leaving exposed a thick bed of seaweed that sends up a strong bracing10 scent7; all according to the mood and circumstances of the moment. A strikingly handsome hotel—the “Manor11 Hotel,” standing12 amid lawns and gardens, for it was once the manor-house—occupies the middle of the tiny bay, and is the resort of those who like to be within easy reach of Ilfracombe, and yet out of its exuberant14 life; and that is all there is of Lee. The coastguard path clambers round to Bull Point lighthouse, and there is a steep and rocky, but hopeful-looking, lane on the left which promises a short cut for the stray cyclist to Morthoe. Appearances are deceptive15, and, quite a long way up hill, the lane ends and the aggrieved16 stranger finds himself in an almost trackless succession of fields of oats. Negotiating these with what patience he may, and floundering through the fearsome mud of the two farmyards (Heaven send it be not wet weather!) of Warcombe and Damage Bartons, he comes at length to a road, which, to his dismay, he finds is a private road to Bull Point lighthouse. From it there is no exit towards Morthoe save through a formidable padlocked gate eight feet high, but a notice (on the outer side of the gate only, and therefore likely to be overlooked by the raging cyclist within) directs those who want to drive or ride to the lighthouse to call for the keys at a neighbouring cottage. As for the lighthouse, it is own brother to dozens of other modern structures of the kind, and was built in 1874. It was built especially to guard against the133 dangers of Morte Point, and in addition to its occulting light has a lower fixed18 red beacon19 on the west, to mark the position of Morte Stone. A reef-strewn indentation, known as Rockham Bay, separates this spot from Morte Point.
Morte Point does not impress me, and although I have every wish to “write it up” to its grim name—as every journalist who properly understood what is expected of him would most assuredly do—I cannot see the grimness of it; only a projecting tongue of land that runs down to the sea and ends in low, insignificant21 cliffs, with a chaotic22 scatter23 of formless rocks projecting from the waves, and the “Morte Stone,” rather larger than the others, seaward. And there are, you know, squalid little gardens of the allotment type in the fields, and Morthoe village itself is so commonplace that the tragical24 names, “Death Point,” “The Hill of Death,” seem absurdly misapplied. But Morte Point is a great deal more deadly than it looks, and although the landsman who sees with his own vision, rather than at second hand, may slight the name, seafaring men dread25 it more than the really magnificent spectacular bulk of Hartland Point. It is not the size, but the awkward situation, of Morte Point, together with the currents which set about it, that make it dangerous to shipping26. The removal of Morte Point is, naturally enough, beyond the powers of man, but it should at any rate, in these days of high explosives and engineering skill, not be impossible to abolish the isolated27 rock of Morte134 Stone, in spite of the ancient sardonic28 jest that the only person to remove it will be the man who can rule his wife.
Morthoe (locally “Morte”) village is a wan17, desolate29-looking collection of a few houses on the cliff-top, overlooking the wide expanse of blue sea and yellow sands of Woolacombe Bay. It can never have worn anything but a stern, stark30, weather-beaten appearance, but that is giving way in these times to something even less attractive; commonplace plaster-fronted houses, that would not pass muster31 in even one of the less desirable London suburbs, having sprung up around the ancient weatherworn church, while a grocer’s shop, styling itself “stores,” looks on to the churchyard. At a place named so tragically32 “Morthoe,” you do most ardently33 demand that the scene be set somewhat in accordance with the ominous34 name. The stranger does not insist upon a mortuary full of shipwrecked sailors, as (so to say) a guarantee of good faith, but he does resent, most emphatically, the sheer commonplace that dashes his anticipations37 remorselessly to extinction38.
The ancient family of Tracy, associated closely with Barnstaple, and with many another locality in North and Mid13 Devon, are mentioned in histories of the neighbourhood as early as the beginning of the twelfth century. Ever after the murder of Thomas à Becket in 1170, in which William de Tracy bore a part, the Tracys were said, in the wild legends of old, to have always “the wind in their faces.” The belief provided135 a rough rhyme, and satisfied a queer idea of retributive justice by which root and branch alike of that unfortunate family suffered for the acts of one who it appears was not himself, after all, of that race: having been a de Sudeley by birth, and only assuming the name of Tracy after his marriage with Grace, daughter of Sir William de Tracy. The legends that have gathered like the incrustation on old port-wine bottles, round the assassination39 of Becket and the after-history of the four knights40 who murdered him, tell how Tracy fled to Morthoe and passed the rest of his life in prayers and penitence41, but it seems to be fully42 established that he fled the country and died three years later, in Calabria; after having, according to a yet further variant43, thrice unsuccessfully attempted to make pious44 pilgrimage to the Holy Land, and being beaten back on every occasion by adverse45 winds.
MORTHOE.
The legend associating the assassin with136 Morthoe would appear to have been invented to account for the ancient altar-tomb, covered with an inscribed46 slab47 of black marble, bearing the name of one William de Tracy, that still stands in the south chapel48 of the old church. There was not, in the days when this tale originated, the disposition49 to criticise50 any story that imaginative persons might choose to tell. Research, for the purpose of recovering facts obscured by lapse51 of time, was unthinkable in the days when travel to the repositories of learning could be undertaken only at great risks and incredible cost; and so, what with both the will and the power wanting to arrive at mere53 facts, many an incredible tale has been started on its career. It seems, in this instance, never to have occurred to the people of Morthoe, who long accepted this story, that among the numerous Tracys with whom they were in old times surrounded, there must have been more than one William. William, indeed, appears to have been a favourite name among them. In short, the man whose tomb remains54 here was a Tracy who from 1257 to 1322 was rector of Morthoe. He thus died close upon a hundred and fifty years later than Becket’s assailant.
Remains of the incised figure of a priest are yet traceable on the tomb, together with an inscription55 which has been deciphered, “Syre Guillaume de Tracy, gist56 ici. Dieu de son alme eyt merci.” The interior of the tomb was rifled long ago. In the quaint57 description by old Westcote, who wrote in 1620, “He rested in ease until some ill-affected137 persons, seeking for treasure, but disappointed thereof, stole the leaden sheets he lay in, leaving him in danger to take cold.”
This Early English church with aisleless nave59 and two chapels60, has few other memorials, none of them ancient; but many of the old carved bench-ends remain, the balance of them being imitations, carved locally, when the church was restored in 1857. In recent years the east windows of chancel and north and south chapels have been filled with beautiful stained glass, designed by Henry Holiday, and the space above the chancel-arch decorated in gold and coloured mosaic61, with four stiffly decorative62 angels in the Burne-Jones convention, by Selwyn Image. The dangers of Morthoe, not only to seafaring folk, but also to bathers, appear in the memorial window to Thomas Lee, architect, of Barnstaple, who was drowned off Barricane Beach in 1834. The memorial of a more recent tragedy is seen in the churchyard, where a tombstone records the drowning of “Winifred, youngest daughter of Sir Walter Forster, M.P., who was swept away by the treacherous64 ground-swell, while bathing in Coombes Gate, Morthoe, Aug. 14, 1898, aged63 21.” Near by is a rhymed epitaph upon one “Albion Bale Harris, aged 13,” who was killed in 1886 by falling off a cliff at Ilfracombe.
The long, steep road that descends65 from Morthoe to the flat shore of Woolacombe Bay, is becoming plagued with a growth of tasteless lodging-houses, whose neutral-tinted stucco is put to shame by the splendour of sea, sky, and sands.138 When last I came this way, two Italian piano organists, with a cage of canaries, were grinding out their mechanical music-mongery in an exceptionally lone66 spot, away from those new houses; wasting, like the flowers in the wilderness67, their sweetness on the desert air. None but the rocks heard them, for not another living soul was near. They were not drunk, neither did they appear to be mad. I have not yet discovered the true inwardness of it; is it possible that here at last were two artists, for Art’s sake, piano-organing for the very love of it? Dark doubts cloud the idyllic68 picture!
Below the road, before you come to Woolacombe Bay, is the little inlet of Barricane Beach, shut in between two projecting reefs. Charles Kingsley, many years ago, writing of Woolacombe Sands, referred to them as really composed of shells, but it would seem that Barricane Beach alone can claim his remarks:
“Every gully and creek69 there among the rocks is yellow, but not with sand. Those are shells; the sweepings70 of the ocean bed for miles around, piled there, millions upon millions, yards deep, in every stage of destruction. There they lie, grinding to dust, and every gale71 brings in fresh myriads72 from the inexhaustible sea-world. The brain grows dizzy and tired, as one’s feet crunch73 over the endless variety of their forms—and then one recollects74 that every one of them has been a living thing—a whole history of birth, and growth, and propagation, and death.”
139 The little inlet, so shut in, has an exclusive air, in contrast with the open semicircular three-miles sweep of Woolacombe Sands; but refreshment75 caterers have descended76 upon the place with tents. They have done the like at Woolacombe Bay itself, for in these days Woolacombe Bay is a name denoting more than an expanse of water with a sandy fringe. The safe bathing in the sea, and the extensive golfing on the sand hills or in the flat fields have converted what was, literally77, a “howling waste”—for the winds occasionally blow great guns here—into the semblance78 of a seaside resort. There were, but a few years ago, only some three houses here, including the old manor mill, whose water-wheel formed a picturesque79 object beside the little stream that empties itself into the bay; but now there is a great red brick hotel with the usual “special terms to golfers,” and a little red town has sprung up around it, with a fringe of rather blear-eyed shops facing the sea, and some better, turned at right angles to it. There is so impossible a look about the whole thing, that “here we have no abiding80 place” is a quotation81 that rises promptly82 to the mind of the observer. It looks, with its refreshment booths and array of chairs on the shore in summer, like some camp-meeting in a desolate part of America. But it is intended to last; a permanent water-supply has been installed and a kind of modern missionary83 tin church, dedicated84 to St. Sabinus, who voyaged across from Ireland a thousand years ago, to convert the140 heathen of this neighbourhood—and was wrecked36 on this shore—has been erected85. Woolacombe Bay, however, is a melancholy86 place. It has had no past, and it is difficult to imagine it with a future. Only a fanatical golfer to whom the world beyond his putting-greens and his bunkers is merely incidental, could long find occupation here.
That is a terrible road—preposterously steep, deep in loose sand, and strewn with large stones—which leads up from this resort in the making to the high table-land down on whose other side lies the village of Georgeham, whose inhabitants, quite exceptionally, insist upon it being styled, not “Georg’m,” but emphatically “Georgham.” That is their pronunciation, and they bid you use none other. In the fine, but rebuilt church, is the cross-legged effigy87 of an ancient St. Aubyn—one Sir Mauger of that ilk, who died in 1293—and an ugly and greatly-decayed monument of the Chichesters, with medallion-portraits of many seventeenth-century bearers of that name. In the churchyard, where the humbler sleep just as comfortably, is the epitaph of Simon Gould and his wife Julian, who died in 1817, after seventy-five years of married life, each aged 107, and near by may still be found a stone to one William Kidman, who, with all his mates, was drowned in the wreck35 of H.M.S. Weazel, guardship stationed off Appledore, at Baggy88 Point, in February 1799. An epitaph upon Sergeant89 Job Hill, of the 40th Foot, completes this list of interesting relics90, on a martial92 note:
141
Nor cannon’s roar nor rifle shot
Can wake him in this peaceful spot.
With faith in Christ and trust in God,
The sergeant sleeps beneath this clod.
Leafy lanes and rugged93 lead to the hamlet of Putsborough, very much removed from the snares94 and pitfalls95 of the world of affairs, and on the road to nowhere at all, unless it be the rocks of Baggy Point, which forms the southern horn of Morte Bay. Putsborough takes its name from some Saxon earl, just as Croyde derives96 its own from Crida; and doubtless it was to convert the people of Putta and Crida, or their descendants, from the fierce heathen rites97 of the Saxons, that St. Sabinus, St. Brannock, and many another Irish missionary landed in the long ago on these shores.
Putsborough lies embedded98 in leafy seclusion99. A farmstead or two, and their attendant cottages, together with a most delightful100 thatched manor-house, overhung with tall trees, comprise the whole place. The manor-house and its lawn and garden stand whimsically islanded by surrounding roads, and a little stream trickles101 by, in a water splash. It is a most primitive102 place and some of the lanes leading on to Croyde are fit fellows with it, being cut deeply into the rock and overhung, ten feet high, with brambly growths.
Croyde is not so entirely103 removed from social intercourse104. It is still a pretty, scattered105 rustic106 village lining107 a road running down a valley to the sea, with a brawling108 stream beside the road; but on the shore of Croyde Bay, where there are142 yellow sands, some recent seaside houses have been built. It is a pretty and cheerful little bay; not large enough to look melancholy and desolate, like that of Woolacombe, and the road on to Saunton is excellent; having really been remade across Saunton Down, as part of a “development” scheme. Excellent, that is to say, from the point of view of a motorist, for it is broad and straight, and the surface is beyond reproach. But it is, it must be added, more than a trifle bald and uninteresting to those who do not regard roads as the nearer perfection the more closely they resemble a race-track.
Whether Saunton be “sand-town” or whether it was originally named “Sainct tun,”—as, in some sort, a holy district—is still a vexed109 question; and likely to remain undecided, for these shores are remarkable110 both for saints and sands. We have already told briefly111 how St. Sabine—or Suibine, as he was known in Ireland—landed in disorder112 on Woolacombe sands in the dim past. Here were chapels of Saint Sylvester, Saint Michael, and Saint Helen; and here St. Brannock came ashore113 in A.D. 300, to convert the heathen, and incidentally to found the church called after him at what is now Braunton, in “Brannock’s-town.” More of him anon. But legends tell how he built his early church of timber cut in forests by the seashore, and dragged inland by harnessed stags. Where, it has been asked, did these forests stand? No one knows where legend begins and fact ends; but it is certain that underneath114 these143 miles of blown sand, on to Braunton Burrows, and again at Northam Burrows and on to Westward115 Ho, there lie the remains of a prehistoric116 forest, overwhelmed by sea and sand, or in some ancient subsidence, many centuries ago.
There is no town at Saunton, and the mere fringe of houses beside the road is very new; this coast having been of old too dreary117 and inhospitable to afford a home for honest folk. Smugglers, wreckers, and such shy cattle, were among its scanty118 frequenters, and sometimes (the place being so lonely and secretive) refugees landed amid these wastes. Among them was the Duke of Ripperda, who landed one dark night in the beginning of October 1728, out of an Irish barque. He “had no one with him but the lady who had procured119 his deliverance, the corporal of the guard, and one servant.” This fugitive120 had escaped from the castle of Segovia. He was entertained the night by one “Mr. Harris of Pickwell,” and then went to Exeter. Thus the Duke of Ripperda, who is no national concern of ours, flits mysteriously across country to disappear again in foreign parts. It would puzzle a biographer to give him a domicile. Born a Dutchman, he seems to have been sent on a diplomatic mission to Madrid, and there to have renounced121 Holland and the Protestant religion and to have become a Spaniard and a Catholic. Philip the Fifth rewarded him with a dukedom. Eventually he is found in Morocco, as a Moorish122 subject of the deepest dye. At one period, we144 are told, he became a Jew, but that is scarcely credible52. At last, having been everything it was possible to be, he died in 1737.
SIR JOHN SCHORNE AND HIS DEVIL.
Old rotting ribs123 of wrecked ships, protruding124 like fangs125 from the wet margin126 of the sands, tell their own tale of unexpected and disastrous127 landfalls on the lonely shore.
On the left hand of the road is still to be seen “Saunton Court,” an old farmhouse128 mentioned with glowing description in Blackmore’s “Maid of Sker,” but the interest of the house in the novel is not reflected in the present circumstances of the place.
The road leads directly into Braunton; a large, sprawling129 village of cob-walled, whitewashed130 cottages; a place that has, so far, not been affected58 in the slightest degree by modern change. What Braunton was a hundred years ago, it remains to-day. Risdon, in “Survey of Devon,” 1630, says: “Brannockston, so named of St. Brannock, the king’s son of Calabria, that lived in this vale, and 300 years after Christ began to preach His holy name in this desolate place, then overspread with brakes and woods; out of which desert, now named the Boroughs131 (to tell you some of the marvels132 of this man), he took harts, which meekly133 obeyed the yoke134, and made them a plow135 to draw timber thence, to build a church. I forbear to speak of his cow, his staff, his oak, his well, and his servant Abel, all of which are lively represented in that church, than which you shall see few fairer.” Brannock’s cow is145 really well worth speaking of; for, after it had been killed and carved into joints136, the pieces reunited at the word of the saint, and the animal, restored to life, began to quietly graze in the meadows, as though nothing had happened. That, at any rate, is the legend. A legend that demands faith of a character not quite so robust137 is that of the vision which led Brannock to build his church here. In a dream he was shown a sow and her litter, and directed to select the spot where next day he should find the sow. A carved boss in the roof of the church represents the pig and her family, and St. Brannock himself, with his cow, is carved boldly on one of the old bench-ends.
It is a remarkable church, inside and out; with tower and lead-sheathed spire138 out of the perpendicular139. Most of the old carved oak bench-ends, dated about 1500, remain, decorated with a large number of devices; among them, not only St. Brannock and his cow, but a bishop140 with his crozier; the head of St. John Baptist held up by the hair; Judas’s thirty pieces of silver, and Master John Schorne, the charlatan141 rector of North Marston, Buckinghamshire, late in the thirteenth century, who imposed upon the credulous142 folk of that age by pretending to have conjured143 the devil into a boot. To convince the most sceptical by ocular demonstration144, he contrived145 a mechanical impish-looking figure, fastened on a spring at the bottom of a long boot, of the kind worn by hunting-men. When the spring was released, the imp20 would fly up to the edge of the146 boot, in what was in those times, you know, a really terrifying manner. The good Master Schorne, however, had him well under control, and, as so powerful a devil-compeller, was naturally feared and respected. He was further revered146 as a certain exorciser of the ague. Schorne and his devil in a boot are the originators of the children’s toy, “Jack-in-the-Box”; for to that complexion147 did his supernatural terrors come at last, when the springs that actuated the jumping imp were laid bare.
But Schorne was in his day, and for long after, something very nearly like a saint, in popular estimation, and is indeed sometimes represented fully furnished with the saintly nimbus. Pictures, or carved effigies148, of him are extremely rare, for there are probably not more than six or seven in England. Here, no doubt, through some confused version of the legend, the carver has shown him holding what appears to be a cup, instead of a boot.
BRAUNTON CHURCH.
Braunton church is full of old pieces of carved woodwork, notably149 the Jacobean gallery in the north chapel, and the churchwardens’ pew, dated 1632. In the south chapel stands a richly decorated Spanish chest with undecipherable inscription;149 and another relic91 of the wreck of H.M.S. Weazel in 1799, a tablet to the memory of William Gray, surgeon of the ship, one of the one hundred and six who lost their lives on that occasion.
A prominent church-like tower, standing on the crest150 of a tall hill east of the church, and by the site of a hilltop chapel of St. Michael, is less ecclesiastical than it looks, being in fact a political monument commemorating151 the passing of the Reform Bill in 1832.
Braunton Burrows are best explored by setting forth152 from Braunton village as for Barnstaple; but, when some little distance out, turning to the right, over the Vellator railway crossing, and the little river, or creek, called the Caen. Thenceforward, the way is clear enough for those who are content to follow the creek to its junction153 with the estuary154 of the Taw, and so along the sands, past the ship that forms the port of Barnstaple hospital, to the lighthouse. But the true inwardness of the Burrows is only to be found by continuing straight on past the level crossing, and so into a lane that finally turns to the left and then loses itself in loose sand.
BRAUNTON BURROWS.
There is a world of desolation in Braunton Burrows, and he who would thus come, overland, to the queer lighthouse that is perched at the seaward end of the estuary of the river Taw, must needs quest doubtfully and with some physical discomfort155, before reaching that point where the waste of shifting sand slopes down to the waves.150 Just as no one becomes irreclaimably wicked in one plunge3, but descends irretrievably by a series of slight moral lapses156, so does the unwary traveller come by degrees into the baffling sand-wreaths of the Burrows. A good riverside road from Braunton village by degrees becomes an indifferent road; then, ceasing to be a road of any kind, becomes a more and more sandy lane, which, in its turn, insensibly degenerates157 to a track, and—there you are! You must not, however, imagine this sandy waste to be without its own peculiar158 beauties, or barren of vegetation. The winds have blown the immense accumulation of shifting sand into fantastic hummocks159 and weird160 hollows, where the dry surface is ribbed by their eddies161, just as the retreating tide ribs the wet sand of the shore; but here and there coarse grasses have taken root and achieved the seemingly impossible task of anchoring the elusive162 substance: crowning the ridges163 with a wan growth; and in some151 sheltered hollows, where the wind comes scouring164 with less insistence165, there are nurseries of pretty wild flowers which, although the unskilled explorer knows it not, are botanical treasures, some of them sought almost vainly elsewhere. Mats and patches of candytuft form exquisite166 carpetings, the wild pansy blooms abundantly, and in July, beautiful above all else, the intense blue of borage competes vigorously with the yellow-brown of the sand. It has been affirmed that eight hundred varieties of wild flowers are found here, including the rare Asperugo procumbens and Teucrium scordium; while near the quaint lighthouse the curious will discover the mud-rush (Isolepis holosch?nus), and a bad smell.
Near the lighthouse! There’s the rub. To reach that goal is a matter of considerable difficulty; for, amid the labyrinth167 of hillocks and dales of sand, it cannot be seen afar off, and to come to it in anything like a straight course is, therefore, impossible. I know not which, among the inevitably168 uncomfortable and arduous169 circumstances of this enterprise, is the most distressing170 time. To wander here in rain, or in the bitter blast, must certainly be terrible; but no less terrible, in its own particular way, is it to explore this wilderness on some blazing hot day of August. The hollows are stifling171, the sand everywhere soft and yielding, and in unexpected places lurk172 those “pockets,” or holes filled with yet more yielding sand, that, equally with the rabbit-runs, give the place the name of “Burrows.”152 Into these unsuspected places you may easily sink suddenly up to the knee of one leg, while the other remains on the surface. This sandy waste is, therefore, not without its dangers.
The lighthouse that guides mariners173 safely into the Taw—or “Barnstaple River,” as sailors prefer to call it—is an odd structure; not so ferociously174 ugly as every writer who has mentioned it would lead the stranger to believe. It has character. No one, for instance, would be in the least likely to confuse it with any other lighthouse; and that is a great point. Nowadays, when the Trinity House builds a new lighthouse, it is as exactly like the last in general appearance as that was like its predecessor175. Now Braunton lighthouse is a very old affair, that came into being when a considerable amount of individuality survived. It stands here, sturdily performing in its secular176 way what the neighbouring St. Ann’s Chapel did for sailors as a religious duty, long, long ago. Some few scanty remains of that little oratory177 and lighthouse combined were to be found, some years since, but they have now disappeared. The chapel measured fourteen feet six inches, by twelve feet. Neighbouring farmers requisitioned its stones so freely that what was left, even a century ago, was little more than a ground-plan.
BRAUNTON LIGHTHOUSE.
The existing lighthouse looks like the design of some one who set out to build an ordinary, four-square dwelling178, and then conceived the idea of placing a tower on its roof; and this tower,153 tapering179 towards the lantern and carefully hung with slates180, is strongly shored up with metal-sheathed timbers, lest the stormy winds that blow pretty constantly in winter overturn it. The lighthouse-man, who spends his summer days gasping181 for air on the shady side, holds the infrequent stranger in converse182 as long as possible, and does not appear altogether contented183 with his existence on a spot where, he says, you cannot bear to sit down on the sands in summer, for the heat, which is strong enough to almost scorch184 your breeks, to say nothing of your person, and in winter dare hardly put your nose out o’ doors, on account of the cold. He will illustrate185 for you the especial dangers of this point, against which the lighthouse is placed here to guard, and will explain that, on account of the shifting, sandy bar of the river, there are two lights provided: the fixed one on his tower, and another, low down, on a movable white- and black-striped box on rails. This is moved backwards186 and forwards, according154 to the movement of the bar, so that ships entering the river and keeping their course safely, shall get the two lights aligned187.
The way between Braunton and the approach to Barnstaple, at Pilton, is uninteresting. The road runs for the most part out of sight of the river and the sea. Only one thing attracts the wayfarer188’s attention; and that for its singularity, rather than for any intrinsic beauty. This object, beside the road, and so close to it that the wayfarer cannot fail to notice the queer, would-be Gothic battlements, is Heanton Court, now a farmhouse; the “Narnton Court” of Blackmore’s “Maid of Sker.”
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burrows
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| n.地洞( burrow的名词复数 )v.挖掘（洞穴），挖洞( burrow的第三人称单数 )；翻寻 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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plunges
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| n.跳进，投入vt.使投入，使插入，使陷入vi.投入，跳进，陷入v.颠簸( plunge的第三人称单数 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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mid
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| adj.中央的，中间的 | |
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exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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15
deceptive
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| adj.骗人的，造成假象的，靠不住的 | |
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16
aggrieved
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| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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17
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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18
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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19
beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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20
imp
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| n.顽童 | |
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21
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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22
chaotic
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| adj.混沌的，一片混乱的，一团糟的 | |
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23
scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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24
tragical
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| adj. 悲剧的, 悲剧性的 | |
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25
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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26
shipping
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| n.船运（发货，运输，乘船） | |
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27
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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28
sardonic
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| adj.嘲笑的，冷笑的，讥讽的 | |
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29
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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30
stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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31
muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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32
tragically
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| adv. 悲剧地，悲惨地 | |
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33
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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34
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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35
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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36
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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37
anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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38
extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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39
assassination
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| n.暗杀；暗杀事件 | |
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40
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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41
penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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42
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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43
variant
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| adj.不同的，变异的；n.变体，异体 | |
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44
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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45
adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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46
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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47
slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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48
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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49
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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50
criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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51
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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52
credible
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| adj.可信任的，可靠的 | |
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53
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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54
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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55
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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56
gist
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| n.要旨；梗概 | |
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57
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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58
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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59
nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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60
chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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61
mosaic
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| n./adj.镶嵌细工的，镶嵌工艺品的，嵌花式的 | |
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62
decorative
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| adj.装饰的，可作装饰的 | |
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63
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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64
treacherous
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|
| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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65
descends
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| v.下来( descend的第三人称单数 )；下去；下降；下斜 | |
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66
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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67
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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68
idyllic
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| adj.质朴宜人的，田园风光的 | |
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69
creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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70
sweepings
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| n.笼统的( sweeping的名词复数 )；（在投票等中的）大胜；影响广泛的；包罗万象的 | |
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71
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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72
myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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73
crunch
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| n.关键时刻；艰难局面；v.发出碎裂声 | |
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74
recollects
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的第三人称单数 ) | |
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75
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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76
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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77
literally
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|
| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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78
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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79
picturesque
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|
| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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80
abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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81
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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82
promptly
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|
| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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83
missionary
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|
| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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84
dedicated
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|
| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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85
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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86
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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87
effigy
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| n.肖像 | |
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88
baggy
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| adj.膨胀如袋的，宽松下垂的 | |
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89
sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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90
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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91
relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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92
martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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93
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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94
snares
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| n.陷阱( snare的名词复数 )；圈套；诱人遭受失败（丢脸、损失等）的东西；诱惑物v.用罗网捕捉，诱陷，陷害( snare的第三人称单数 ) | |
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95
pitfalls
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| （捕猎野兽用的）陷阱( pitfall的名词复数 )； 意想不到的困难，易犯的错误 | |
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96
derives
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| v.得到( derive的第三人称单数 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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97
rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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98
embedded
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| a.扎牢的 | |
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99
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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100
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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101
trickles
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| n.细流( trickle的名词复数 )；稀稀疏疏缓慢来往的东西v.滴( trickle的第三人称单数 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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102
primitive
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|
| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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103
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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104
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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105
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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106
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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107
lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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108
brawling
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| n.争吵，喧嚷 | |
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109
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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110
remarkable
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|
| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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111
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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112
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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113
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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114
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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115
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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116
prehistoric
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| adj.（有记载的）历史以前的，史前的，古老的 | |
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117
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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118
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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119
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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120
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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121
renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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122
moorish
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| adj.沼地的，荒野的，生[住]在沼地的 | |
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123
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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124
protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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125
fangs
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| n.（尤指狗和狼的）长而尖的牙( fang的名词复数 )；（蛇的）毒牙；罐座 | |
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126
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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127
disastrous
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|
| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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128
farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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129
sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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130
whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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131
boroughs
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| （尤指大伦敦的）行政区( borough的名词复数 )； 议会中有代表的市镇 | |
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132
marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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133
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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134
yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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135
plow
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| n.犁，耕地，犁过的地；v.犁，费力地前进[英]plough | |
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136
joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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137
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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138
spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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139
perpendicular
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| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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141
charlatan
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| n.骗子；江湖医生；假内行 | |
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142
credulous
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| adj.轻信的，易信的 | |
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143
conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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144
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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145
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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146
revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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147
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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148
effigies
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| n.（人的）雕像，模拟像，肖像( effigy的名词复数 ) | |
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149
notably
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| adv.值得注意地，显著地，尤其地，特别地 | |
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150
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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151
commemorating
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| v.纪念，庆祝( commemorate的现在分词 ) | |
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152
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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153
junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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154
estuary
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| n.河口，江口 | |
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155
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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156
lapses
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| n.失误，过失( lapse的名词复数 )；小毛病；行为失检；偏离正道v.退步( lapse的第三人称单数 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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157
degenerates
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| 衰退，堕落，退化( degenerate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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158
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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159
hummocks
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| n.小丘，岗( hummock的名词复数 ) | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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161
eddies
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| （水、烟等的）漩涡，涡流( eddy的名词复数 ) | |
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elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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164
scouring
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| 擦[洗]净，冲刷，洗涤 | |
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insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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166
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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167
labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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168
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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169
arduous
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| adj.艰苦的，费力的，陡峭的 | |
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170
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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171
stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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172
lurk
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| n.潜伏，潜行；v.潜藏，潜伏，埋伏 | |
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173
mariners
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| 海员，水手（mariner的复数形式） | |
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174
ferociously
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| 野蛮地，残忍地 | |
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175
predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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176
secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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177
oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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178
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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179
tapering
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| adj.尖端细的 | |
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180
slates
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| （旧时学生用以写字的）石板( slate的名词复数 )； 板岩； 石板瓦； 石板色 | |
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181
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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182
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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183
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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184
scorch
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| v.烧焦，烤焦；高速疾驶；n.烧焦处，焦痕 | |
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185
illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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186
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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187
aligned
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| adj.对齐的，均衡的 | |
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188
wayfarer
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| n.旅人 | |
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