It is now time to quit Dulverton, and one has to face the somewhat complex question in which direction one’s steps should next be turned. There are three main routes—by the railway to Barnstaple; by the “turnpike” to Dunster and Minehead; and by one of several roads to Simonsbath, the heart of the moor. All these ways lead to interesting places—places much too interesting to be passed by; and it is at one’s choice which to seek out first. That is assuming that one intends to establish Dulverton as one’s base, making longer or shorter excursions to the spots hereafter to be named. To recommend such a course, however, would be obviously impolite to other towns equally avid of patronage. They must all be visited in turn—so much is certain.

As a start must be made, and a selection may not be avoided, I will fall back on the line I always followed as a boy, and once more breast Mount Sydenham, with its chaplet of firs. When the panting and perspiring traveller reaches a turn of the road he may hap to espy a hollow in a field on the left. That is Granny’s Pit, where an old woman with dishevelled tresses has been viewed, bewailing her daughter. A few more paces bring us to the grove of firs, whence the sinuous Barle may be surveyed far below in all his sylvan glory. This may be Blackmore’s “corner of trees,” if Ridd followed this route, and not Hollam Lane, which runs parallel with it. Stepping back into the lane, one soon finds oneself on Court Down, which, though not of any great extent, is a genuine bit of moorland “debated” by green fern, and purple heather, and golden gorse, embosomed in which there may stand at gaze fleecy, white-faced sheep of the horned variety peculiar to Exmoor.

Nature’s “much-admired confusion,” however, is exhibited on a much grander scale in the undulating sweep of Winsford Hill, which, from Mountsey Hill Gate to Comer’s Gate, boasts four miles of continuous brake. This free and joyous expanse is the native heath of Sir Thomas Acland’s wild Exmoor ponies, which, in their shaggy deshabille may at times be seen grazing on the rough sward, or scampering playfully over moss and ling. They suffer none to approach.

At Spire Cross is a confluence of roads, that to the left being one way to Torr Steps, an old Keltic bridge formed of large, loose slabs laid athwart low piers, which bears a family likeness to Post Bridge on Dartmoor, but the latter is grooved for chariots. It is well to point out that this charming vestige of prehistoric civilisation—a gem in a lovely setting—is by no means isolated. The remains of several British castles are to be found in the neighbourhood, Mountsey Castle being quite near; and up on the hill, not far from Spire Cross, but in the opposite direction, is a menhir. The stone carries an inscription, which, though extremely rude and partially obliterated, is yet distinctly legible; and the monument is supposed to mark the burial-place of a Romanised British chieftain—the “grandson of Caractacus,” which is the English rendering of “Carataci Nepos.” Dr Murray recently took a “squeeze” of the face of the stone, from which a cast was made, now at Oxford; and both he and Professor Rhys, who accompanied him, were convinced of the genuineness of the scrawl. The actual lettering appears to be: CVRAACI EPVC. Moreover, beside the road to Comer’s Gate are three immense cairns, known as the Wambarrows. This is the highest point of Winsford Hill—1405 feet above the level of the sea.

Around all these spots cluster superstitions weird or bizarre. The menhir is an index of buried treasure. The Wambarrows are the haunt of a mysterious black dog. Round Mountsey Castle a spectral chariot races at midnight, to disappear into a cairn in a field at the foot of the hill. As for Torr Steps, the legend is that they were placed there by the devil, who menaced with dire penalties the first mortal that should presume to use them. The sable monarch took his seat on one bank of the stream, while the other was occupied by a parson, eager to try conclusions with him. The holy man was astute, and, as a preliminary measure, dispatched a cat across the bridge. On touching the opposite side she was ruthlessly rent in pieces, whereupon, the charm having been shattered, the parson boldly strode over the causeway and engaged the devil in a conflict of words, each abusing the other in good set terms. In the end the enemy of mankind retired vanquished, resigning the bridge to all and sundry. Close above these steps was one of the two homes of Mother Melldrum (see Lorna Doone, chapter xvii., where Blackmore alludes to the legend of their origin).

It appears that the Oxford cognoscenti went down into the stream in a vain search for more inscribed stones. This reminds me of a curious story of the Barle, the willows on whose banks, by the way, overhang its amber bed so as to form almost an arch. On a hill to the right, looking downstream, stands Hawkridge Church, and what is termed, in contradistinction to the parish, Hawkridge town. Well, once upon a time a villager was asked to take the place of the bass-singer in the choir for one Sunday only, and consented. A day or two later he was discovered by the incumbent, a well-known hunting parson, wading up and down the little river apparently without aim or object. The cleric drew rein, and, much amazed, inquired the meaning of this extraordinary procedure. “Plaze your honour,” was the reply, “I be trying to get a bit of a hooze on me.”

In other words, he was attempting to catch a cold, so that he might become hoarse, this being, as he thought, the best means of qualifying himself for the successful discharge of his duty.

This acrostic, in praise of a charming village, is the composition of the Rev. Prebendary W. P. Anderson, vicar of Winsford, who has resided there ever since 1857, and the lines show that his experience of the place has been like the place itself—happy. Far otherwise was it with one of his predecessors. In the church porch may be seen a list of the parish clergymen, not so dry as such lists are wont to be, from which it appears that early in the fourteenth century Winsford had a blind vicar—one Willelmus. Being unable to perform all the duties of his office, he was allowed two coadjutors, of whom it is recorded, to their eternal infamy, that they were deprived “for starving the Blind Vicar.” This conduct, inhuman at the best, was the more scandalous in that the Priory of Barlynch, to which the advowson belonged, had, in 1280, endowed the vicarage with the whole tithe of wool, lambs, chicken, calves, pigs, sucklings, cheese, butter, flax, honey, and all other small tithes and oblations and dues pertaining to the altar offerings. And yet he starved—the Blind Vicar!

Barlynch Priory, a community of Austin Friars stood, where its remains yet stand, some two or three miles down the Exe. Shaded by what the old charter calls “the mountain of the high wood of Berlic,” its situation was in the highest degree romantic; and if the prior had a lust for venery, his taste might easily be gratified, for in the adjacent woods or “copes,” the deer would have found abundant shelter, and thither they doubtless resorted to pass the long summer day under the dense foliage.

Returning to Winsford, Mr Anderson’s lines omit one trait which to many will seem the chief glory of the village—namely, the old inn. The “Royal Oak” is a hostelry such as one does not see every day. Its thatched roofs, and low ceilings, and projecting windows, and general crinkle-crankle are eloquent of the olden time, and the sign, as was the case with all ancient signs, hangs from its own post—a reminder of Boscobel. Hence, by a beautiful rustic lane the traveller wends his way to Exford, and on the outskirts of the village encounters the church.

On a pedestal in the churchyard stands the mutilated shaft of a venerable preaching cross, and hard by the gate one observes an “upping-stock,” or “upstock,” for the convenience of women in mounting their horses after divine service.

Before Exmoor was disafforested and, yet later, made a parish of itself, it is probable that Exford was the ecclesiastical capital of the district—at any rate, of the southern portion of the moor. The parish stands on the very verge of the old forest, and during the reign of King John was actually brought within its limits. Lanes in the neighbourhood were, in more scrupulous times, the forest-bounds, and along these tracks, still passable, were certain marks mentioned in the Perambulations, almost all of which can be identified. One such track, partly diverted from its old course—which, however, may be easily traced—led from what is now a cottage, but was once a small farmhouse, straight to the church. This cottage bears the name of Prescott, and still contains a round-headed stone doorway, and a little square window let into the side of the big fireplace. The late vicar, the Rev. E. G. Peirson, suggests that this may have been the original priest’s cot or parsonage house. “I like to think,” he says, “that my predecessors, before they came into permanent residence here, used to stop at that house when they came over the moor, and clean themselves before going into the church.” He adds, however, that in that case the cottage or its name must date a long way back, as there would seem to have been clergy resident at Exford early in the twelfth century.

Mr Peirson’s theory is pretty, but a simpler explanation is that the cottage belonged to the glebe. It is curious that just at the point where the old lane used to strike the churchyard, a few projecting stones still form a rough stile over the wall.

Probably it will affect most people with a feeling of surprise that there should be any connection between a place so far inland as Exford and smuggling, yet the same is true. In an orchard above West Mill was formerly an old malt-house, where malt was made and whisky distilled. But the most interesting spot to excise men lay rather to the north, at Pitsworthy Cottage. Here was an old stone building used as a turf-house; but the room where the turf was stowed had a party-wall concealing another chamber, to which access could be obtained only by a secret entrance under the office of the thatch. Ordinarily this was blocked by a large stone fitted with a swivel. Long after, pieces of hoops and decayed staves were discovered in this hiding-place. Wooden hoops are seen even now round brandy casks, but these were smaller and adapted to the kegs which the smugglers, landing under Culbone, transported to Hawkcombe Head, and Black Mire, and White Cross, and right down to Pitsworthy. There was no road across the moors in those days—I am thinking of the “forties”—and a man called Hookway is remembered as travelling from Culbone with pack-horses.

More of smuggling anon. Meanwhile, I am disposed to record, for the first time, the nefarious doings of Jan Glass and Betty, his wife. Sheep-stealing was a fashionable pursuit on Exmoor; and at Brendon Forge (see Lorna Doone, chapter lxii.) the conversation was divided between the hay-crop and “a great sheep-stealer”—apparently not the same individual whose hanging set up strife between the manors of East Lyn, West Lyn, and Woolhanger on account of his small clothes, since he is described as “a man of no great eminence” (Lorna Doone, chapter lv.). Be that as it may, Jan was a daring sheep-stealer, and yet, in his way, a public benefactor. Often, during a hard winter, he would bring into Exford stolen mutton, which he retailed at twopence a pound, and at such times the inhabitants were fairly kept alive by him. His modus operandi was to go and gather the sheep—his own and others—on Kitnor Heath and Old Moor into Larcombe Pound at the entrance to his farm, where there was a convenient avenue or grove of beech-trees. Having brought them so far, he would kill the strange sheep, and turn out his own again over the allotments.

Jan played this trick so often that old Farmer Brewer determined to take him, if possible, in the act. With this object in view he “redded” his sheep, and as he could stand in his farm and observe the manoeuvres, saw Glass driving among the sheep some red ones. With all speed Brewer made his way across, but by the time he reached Larcombe, Glass had killed and skinned the sheep that were not his own.

In the meantime Betty had not been idle. She had dipped the skins in hot water, so that the wool had come off as easily as from a lamb’s tail, and had given the skins to the dogs.

What had become of the wool? Farmer Brewer, anxious to ascertain, glanced around and spied a large pot. Lifting the cover, he found the fleeces, and, turning to the disconcerted woman, exclaimed:

“Aw, fy, Betty! Here’s the wool!”

This led to Glass’s conviction, and he was sentenced to seven years’ transportation. He had certainly had a wonderful career. He did not confine his attention to sheep, but was quite as notorious for stealing colts. Not being able to keep her from her foal, he had been known to kill the mare and throw the carcass into the pond. His thefts of sheep from “Squire” Knight alone used to average fifty or sixty a year. He would gallop into a flock, pick up one of the sheep, as a hawk or a raven would pick up a small bird, and carry it home on the top of his saddle. It may seem strange that he was permitted to indulge in these malpractices so long, but he lived in a very out-of-the-way place. There were no police in those days, sheep were gathered only once or twice in the year, and the animal he appropriated might possibly be crippled or diseased. Anyhow, until Farmer Brewer interfered, nobody took any notice.

Glass lived to return after being transported, and eventually found himself on a bed of sickness, when he was visited by an old farmer, James Moore.

“Jan,” said he, “I yur thee art very bad, and thee hasn’t got nort to eat. I’ve killed a sheep and brought thee a piece of mutton.”

“Aw, maister,” answered the poor man, “I thort thee’d a bin the last man to come to zee me.”

“What vur, Jan?”

“Well, I don’t know, maister, how I can taste the mutton, for I’ve stole scores o’ sheep from thee at the time you lived to Thurn and the time you lived to Ashit.”

“Never mind, Jan, I freely forgive thee, and I aup that God’ll do the same.”

Glass never got over the illness, but soon after this touching interview gave up the ghost, and was buried in Exford churchyard.

Betty Glass was just as resolute a thief as old Jan, and, whilst at Larcombe, was very intimate with Sally Bristowe (or “Bursta,” as the name was pronounced), at Rocks, an adjoining farm. On one occasion, Betty paid a visit to Sally at harvest time, when young turkeys were about, and after she had been hospitably entertained, eating what she liked and drinking what she liked, she had the good taste to go out and steal a score of the aforesaid small turkeys. Shortly afterwards, Sally happened to open the door and found the heads of some of the birds lying in the yard, whereupon she set out in pursuit of old Betty, overtook her, and discovered the bodies of the turkeys in the old woman’s apron, blood still flowing from them.

“Now, Betty,” quoth the indignant woman, “however could’st thee steal my turkeys after I’d gi’d thee plenty to eat and drink.”

“Aw, for goodness sake,” was the reply, “keep dark. I’ll give thee a guinea. Say nort about it.”

Sally thereupon accepted the guinea, deeming it better to do so than institute proceedings. This was certainly a mistake, for a week or two later, when Betty was in company with Farmer Brewer, and three sheets in the wind, she remarked, “Hey, Jimmy, what’s think of Sal Bursta’s spot-faced yo? D’ye think I be going to give her a guinea for nort?”

From which it was evident that she stole the ewe to make good the loss of the money. Sal undoubtedly lost the sheep.

During a visit to Minehead, seeing nothing else on which she could conveniently lay hands, Betty appropriated two 7-lb. weights; but she had not gone more than a mile or two from the town when she found the weights too heavy to carry, and dropped them beside the hedge.

At that time the Crown Inn, Exford, was kept by Nicholas and Mary Harwood. One day when Betty was on the spree, Mrs Harwood entered the house and looked over the old woman’s wardrobe. To her surprise she found three of her own dresses and several petticoats, which she brought down into the kitchen, and, spreading them out before old Betty, inquired how she came by them.

“Needn’t make so much fuss about it,” was the easy response, “for, if I’d sold ’em, you’d a had the coin.”

As Betty was a good customer at the Crown, Mrs Harwood “kept dark” and condoned the offence.

On another occasion, Betty brought a bag into the “White Horse” and put it behind the settle. A man, called Mike Adams, was in the room, and mischievously turned the bag mouth downwards, so that when old Betty took it up, out fell the mutton—very likely a joint of Sal Bristowe’s spot-faced ewe. On hearing the thud, Mike ran round the settle, and was immediately “squared” by Betty, who observed, “Say nort, and I’ll sell it and spend the money.”

Before her marriage with Jan, Betty had an illegitimate son, Jack Reed. In due time this boy was apprenticed to the husband of Sal Bristowe, who kept a farm and proved a rough master. Things grew so bad that at last the lad declared that, if he stayed there, he should be either transported or hanged. Luckily he had a warm friend in young Sally Bristowe. They had grown up boy and girl together, and shared each other’s confidences. Privately, Sally made a collection for Jack, and amassed the large sum of sixteen shillings, which she placed in his hands.

The ’prentice had now to look out for a favourable opportunity of escape, and this offered when Farmer Bristowe went to Bratton Fleming Fair, since by running away at this time the boy was assured of a day’s start. On going to bed, Jack ostentatiously bolted the door, but unbolted it “with the same,” so that the old woman might not hear when he made his exit. The plan worked perfectly, and Jack ultimately settled down at Bristol.

The master of the Devon and Somerset staghounds (Mr R. A. Sanders) resides at Exford, and here are the kennels of the pack. The latter are substantial stone buildings with gable ends, and stand on the slope of a hill, close beside the road to Simonsbath. One enters first the “cooking-house,” the lobby of which is hung around with antlered heads, brow, bay, and tray. Some heads are preserved on account of their peculiarities or misshapen forms; and to each head is attached a plate setting forth the date and place of the capture of the animal. Advancing, one is conscious of a pungent odour, which is found to proceed from a chamber where a huge furnace is burning fiercely, and a seething mass of horse flesh is being boiled off the bones for the dogs. Some of this boiled flesh is in a large wooden trough, and, mixed with oatmeal, flour, or biscuit, is undergoing a process of solidification. In the adjoining room are two larger troughs, in one of which biscuit is soaking, whilst the other contains a quantity of oatmeal paste. Both sorts of food are intended for the younger dogs.

The kennels of these hounds, situated at a short distance, are provided with an extensive boarded-in grass plot, which forms their exercise-yard. When heavy rain does not permit of a parade, they will be found on the bench. A magnificent lot of dogs, containing the blood of the most celebrated hounds in the best packs, they are not much disturbed by the entrance of strangers. Some of them half step down from the bench, when you pat and stroke them; they do not attempt to bite, and are, in fact, exceedingly quiet, unless you are foolish enough to strike them. Then you will see. Although the hounds are so much alike, the huntsman has the name of each dog on the tip of his tongue, and when, he calls, the animal is back in his place in an instant—so absolute is his command.

As regards the older hounds, they are kennelled in the same fashion, reclining on a bench with a thick layer of clean straw. They have had a season or two’s “blooding,” and during that time some of them, by their doings in the pack, have made a name for themselves. A few years ago two of them had the honour of appearing on several public platforms in attendance on the huntsman, the late Anthony Huxtable, a merry dog himself, who, as he could troll a rattling hunting-song, was in great request at local concerts, and on such occasions brought the hounds with him as a bit of realism.

Another kennel houses the oldest hounds—dogs which have hunted for seven seasons or more, and are still fit.

It is a curious fact that nothing upsets hounds so much as thunder. A flash of lightning followed by a loud crash of thunder makes every dog spring to his feet and relieve his feelings by low whines and growls.

A Faggus incident (see below, chapter xiv.) is duly credited to Exford by Blackmore, who entrusts the telling of it to John Fry (Lorna Doone, chapter xxxix.). He appears, however, to have robbed the parish of a still more thrilling episode (see chapters xiv. and xvi.).