File:From Gretna Green to Land's End - a literary journey in England (1908) (14595212867).jpg

Identifier: fromgretnagreent00bate (find matches)
Title: From Gretna Green to Land's End : a literary journey in England
Year: 1908 (1900s)
Authors: Bates, Katharine Lee, 1859-1929
Subjects: England -- Description and travel
Publisher: London : Grant Richards
Contributing Library: University of California Libraries
Digitizing Sponsor: MSN

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o Heaven,An drum them up the Channel as we drummed themlong ago. It is hard to put by those visions of theArmada days even to think of Sir WalterRaleighs tragic return to Plymouth and theblock, his high heart foiled at last in its longquest for the golden city of Manoa; and Ihardly dare confess that we quite forgot tohunt out the special nook whence the May-flower, with her incredible load of furnitureand ancestors, set sail to found anotherPlymouth on a bleaker shore. The northern coast of Devonshire, with itsmore bracing air, is no less enchanting thanthe southern. Charles Kingsley, born underthe brow of Dartmoor, has lavished on NorthDevon raptures of filial praise, but the scenesof Westward Ho! fully bear out his glowingparagraphs. It is years ago that I passedan August in Clovelly, but the joy of it lingersyet. Nothing that I have ever seen on thisour starry lodging-place, with its infinitesurprises of beauty, resembles that whitevillage climbinc: the cleft of a wooded cliff, 340
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SOMERSET AND DEVONSHIRE its narrow street only a curving slope, a steeppassage here and there smoothed into steps,where donkeys and pedestrians rub amiableshoulders. At a turn in this cobbled stair-way, your gaze, which has been held betweentwo lines of the quaintest little houses, alldiversified with peaks and gables, porchesand balconies, window displays of china andpots of flowering vines, suddenly falls to a tinyharbour, a pier built out from the naturalrock and hung with fishing-nets, a tangle ofred-sailed boats, and a pebbly beach fromwhich we used to watch the sunset flushingsea and cliffs. The five hundred dwellersin this hanging hamlet must all be of a kin,for Clovelly lads, we were told by our land-lady, never do well if they marry outsidethe combe. Kindest of gossips! She tuckedus away as best she could in such bits ofrooms that, like Alice in Wonderland, wehad to thrust one foot up chimney and onearm out of the window among the fuchsiasand geraniums that make nothing, in C

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