The way parallel with the shore to Culbone lies at the back of the “Ship” inn at Porlock Weir, steeply up the wooded hillside that looks along down to the sea. The recluse situation of Culbone is shadowed forth, in company with those of two other lonely parishes of this neighbourhood, by the old local rhyme, often quoted:

The reason for this old-time clerical distaste is found partly in these circumstances of solitude in which the opportunities for doing good must needs be small; but chiefly, perhaps, in the fact that the pay was not sufficient. The living of Culbone is stated by Crockford to be £41 net per annum; that of Oare, £93; Stoke Pero, £75. Culbone and Oare are, nowadays, held in conjunction by one parson, who thus enjoys an income of £134—if a person may correctly be said to “enjoy” these less than clerk’s wages.

The population of Culbone is thirty-four, and the spiritual care of them thus costs £1 4s. 1d. and an infinitesimal fraction of a farthing, per annum per head; but the spiritual shepherding of Stoke Pero, whose population is thirty-eight, comes to nearly £2 per head.

The only way to Culbone lies past the entrance-lodge of the beautiful estate of Ashley Combe, the property of the Earl of Lovelace, but formerly that of Lord Chancellor King. The clock-tower of the house, in the likeness of an Italian campanile, is seen peering up from amid the massed woodlands. Ashley Combe is a place beautifully situated and finely appointed, and is splendidly situated for stag-hunting with the Devon and Somerset hounds. Until recently, and for a number of years past, it was rented, chiefly for hunting purposes, by the Baroness de Tainteignes.

A narrow wooden gateway in an arch of the entrance-lodge to Ashley Combe leads into the footpath through the woods that forms the sole means of reaching Culbone church. Here is nothing to vulgarise the way, and only an occasional felled tree is evidence of some human being having recently been in these wilds.

A silence that is not that of emptiness and desolation, but rather of restfulness and content, fills the lovely underwoods that clothe the hillsides of Culbone. “Sur-r-r-r,” sighs the summer breeze in the grey-green alders, the dwarf oaks, and slim ashes. It is like the peace of God.

Deep down on the right—so deep that you do but occasionally hear the wash of the waves—is the dun-coloured Severn Sea, glimpsed more or less indistinctly through the massed stems. The path winds for a mile through these solitudes, mounting and descending steeply, and clothed in a few places with slippery pine-needles that render walking uphill almost impossible, and the corresponding descents something in the likeness of glissades.

Culbone church is suddenly disclosed in an opening of the woods, standing on a little plateau amid the hills, with but two houses in sight, and those the cottages of what the country folk call “kippurs”: that is to say, keepers. St. Francis preached to the birds, and the casual visitor to Culbone is apt to think the vicar of Culbone’s only congregation must be the birds and beasts of this wild spot. But a visit paid on some summer Sunday would prove that, however few the parishioners, the visitors from Porlock, drawn by curiosity to take part in the service in what is supposed to be the “smallest church in England,” are many. The attendance is then, in fact, often more than the little building can accommodate, and service is frequently held in the churchyard.

It is a singular little building thus suddenly disclosed to the stranger’s gaze: a white-walled structure of few architectural pretensions, but exhibiting examples of rude Early English and Perpendicular work. A shingled “extinguisher” spirelet rises direct from the west end of the roof: own brother (but a very infant brother) to the bulgeous, truncated spire of Porlock. The length of Culbone church is but thirty-three feet, and the breadth twelve feet, but it is quite complete within these limits. The nave roof, internally, is of the usual West of England “cradle” type, of Perpendicular date. It is, of course, an aisleless nave; but here will be found a tiny chancel and a chancel-screen, with a font to serve those rare occasions when a baptism takes place, and a family-pew for the Lovelace family on those rare occasions when the Earl is not earning an honest addition to his income by letting Ashley Combe.

A few tombstones, with the usual false rhymes “wept,” “bereft,” are disposed about. On one of them you read the strange Christian name of “Ilott,” for a woman. By the south porch stands the base of a fourteenth- or fifteenth-century cross, stained with lichens.

Culbone is found in Domesday Book under the name of “Chetenore,” and appears in old records as “Kitenore,” “Kytenore,” and “Kitnore”: “ore” standing in the Anglo-Saxon for “seashore.” The present name derives from the dedication of the church to “St. Culbone,” a corruption of “Columban.”

St. Columban, or Columbanus, was an Irish saint, born A.D. 543, in Leinster. The author of the “Lives of the Saints” says he “seems to have been of a respectable family”; which was an advantage not commonly enjoyed by saints, as the histories of these holy men show us. The greater therefore, the credit due them for qualifying for saintship.

Columban, as a student, came very near disaster. He was a good-looking young Irishman, and, as such, very attractive to the dark-eyed colleens of his native land, who interrupted his studies in grammar, rhetoric, and divinity so seriously with their winning ways that he fled at last, on the advice of a mystic old woman, to Lough Erne. Thence he repaired to Bangor, in Carrickfergus, and placed himself under the rule of Abbot Congall. At length, leaving this seclusion, he set out upon a life of itinerant preaching on the Continent, chiefly in Burgundy, whence he was expelled for his too plain speech, criticising the conduct of the Court. His last years were spent in meditation; and in peace and quiet he died at length, on November 21st, A.D. 615, aged seventy-two.

Solitary places were especially affected by St. Columban, who liked nothing better than the sole companionship of nature. There is thus a peculiar fitness in the church of so retired a place as this being dedicated to him.

But, quiet though it may now always be, Culbone was, in the eighteenth century, the scene of an annual fair that, for merriment and devil-me-care jollity, seems to have been fully abreast with other country romps and revels.

The Reverend Richard Warner, coming to Culbone in 1799, in his “Walk through the Western Counties,” says:

“Quiet and sequestered as this romantic spot at present is, it has heretofore borne an honourable name in the annals of rustic revelry. Its rocks have echoed to the shouts of multitudinous mirth, and its woods rung with the symphonious music of all the neighbouring bands: in plain English, a revel, or fair, was wont to be held here in times of yore.” In still plainer English, there used formerly to be a fair held in Culbone churchyard.

Entering upon the meditations of the Reverend Richard Warner, striving to write plain English, and failing in the attempt, came an old reminiscent, ruminating blacksmith, with an artless tale, recounted, apparently, by the Reverend Richard as a moral anecdote.

“About forty-five years agone, sir,” said the blacksmith, “I was at a noble revel in this spot; three hundred people at least were collected together, and rare fun, to be sure, was going forward. A little warmed with dancing, and somewhat flustered with ale (for certainly Dame Mathews did sell stinging good stuff!) I determined to have a touch at skittles, and sport away a sixpence or shilling, which I could do without much danger, as I had a golden half-guinea in my pocket. To play, therefore, I went; but, the liquor getting into my head, I could not throw the bowl straight, and quickly lost the game, and two shillings and ninepence to boot. Not liking to get rid of so much money in so foolish a manner, and not thinking the fault was in myself—for too much ale, you know, sir, is apt to make one over-wise—I resolved to win back the two and ninepence, and then leave off; and accordingly set to play a second time. The same ill-luck followed me, and in an hour and a half I had not only lost the remainder of my money but about sixteen shillings more out of a guinea I borrowed of a friend. This terrible stroke quite sobered me. I could not help thinking what a wicked scoundrel I must be, to go and run into ruin, and deprive my wife and child of food, merely to indulge myself in a game, which, instead of being an amusement had put me in a terrible passion, and made me curse and swear more than ever I did in my life. Desperately vexed at my folly, I went into the wood hard by, and sat down by the side of the waterfall to reflect on the situation. I could plainly hear the singing and laughing of the revel, but it was now gall and wormwood to me, and I had almost resolved to escape from my own reproaches and the distress of my wife by throwing myself down the cliff, upon the shore, when Providence was so good as to preserve me from this additional wickedness, and to put a thought into my head which saved me from the consequences of despair. Cool and sober, for I had washed myself in the stream and drank pretty largely of it, it struck me that if I went back to the skittle-ground and ventured the remaining five shillings, I should have a good chance of winning back my money from those who had beaten me before, as I was now fresh, and they all overcome with ale. Accordingly I returned to the churchyard and took up the bowl, though pretty much jeered at by the lads who had been winners. The case, however, was altered. I had now the advantage; could throw the bowl straight; took every time a good aim, and more than once knocked down all nine pins. To make short my story, sir, it was only night that put an end to my good luck; and when I left off play, I found I had got back my own half-guinea, the guinea I had borrowed, and fifteen shillings in good silver.” The blacksmith’s cleverness at getting back his own, and incidentally a proportion of other people’s money is amusing enough; and so is the attitude of the Reverend Richard Warner, amiably finding a moral in it. There is an obvious enough lesson here, but not an improving one, of the blameless copybook kind.

The neighbourhood of Porlock and Culbone, and, in fact, all the district on to Lynmouth, is noted for its whortleberries; “urts,” as the country people call them. Up the Horner valley, and on the wild widespread commons that stretch away—a glorious expanse of furze, bracken, and gorse—to Countisbury, the whortleberry bushes grow in profusion. But “Bushes” is a term that, without explanation, is apt to be misleading, for here the whortleberry plant grows only to a height of from six to nine inches. The whortleberry, in other parts of the country called bilberry, whinberry, and blueberry, is a familiar many-branched little plant with small ovate leaves that range in colour from a light yellow-green to that of burnished copper. Its fruit is perfectly round, about the size of a large pea, and of a dark-blue colour, with a slightly lighter bloom upon it, resembling the bloom on a plum. The berries ripen in July and August, and are sweet, with a sub-acid flavour. They form a very favourite dish in these parts, stewed, or made into tarts and puddings, and in such cases strongly resemble black-currants. Whortleberries generally command eightpence a quart in the shops; but they are also largely picked for the use of dyers, who use them for the production of a purple dye. It is understood that large quantities of them are thus sent to Liverpool. The whortleberry harvest being in full swing during the schools’ summer holidays, the boys and girls of Porlock and round about are generally to be found on the commons and the moors, busily engaged, with all the baskets they can manage to commandeer, in the picking. Four or five quarts can readily be gathered by one of these experts in the course of a day.

To this prime habitat of the whortleberry we come, by old road or new, passing one or other of the coaches that in summer ply a busy trade in carrying pleasure-seekers through a district innocent of railways. At the crest of the moorland, where a weatherworn, wizened signpost says simply “To Oare,” we enter upon a much-discussed district.