The most expeditious mode of returning from the precipices and cascades of Lynton is by means of the light railway to Barnstaple. The conscientious pilgrim, however, will not quit the neighbourhood without visiting Parracombe, which ought to be, in a peculiar sense, his Mecca. In the prologue, reasons have been advanced, which need not be repeated, why this is the case, and although our course has been a devious one, it will now be recognised that there was method in the madness. The spot which must have been to Blackmore the most sacred of all—except, perhaps, Teddington Churchyard, where his wife slept her last sleep—was surely Parracombe—the home of his race; and here I propose to take leave of the reader. The local traffic being small, trains do not stop at Parracombe all the year round, but at any time this courtesy will be extended to passengers desiring it.

The manor of Parracombe was formerly in the hands of the St Albans (or Albyns) family, joined by Blackmore (Maid of Sker, chapter lxvi.) with the Tracys and Bassets, as among the most distinguished in North Devon. About a century and a half ago their lands were sold, principally to yeomen who farmed the soil; and, as we have seen, the Blackmores belonged to this category. A representative of the clan still owns Court Place and Church Town farms; and Mr H. R. Blackmore, proprietor of the “Fox and Goose,” can claim to be second cousin of the novelist.

Situated on the south-west of the river Heddon is Halwell Farm, the property of Sir Thomas Acland, where is a circular British encampment, standing, as such encampments usually do, on a height. The trenches are about fifteen feet deep. There are two or three similar remains within a short radius, but they are less conspicuous and important. It is said that cannon balls have been dug up at Halwell Castle.

Mr Page does not speak too flatteringly of the scenery, but Parracombe Common, with its scent-laden breezes, is by no means destitute of charm, for the purple eminence of Chapman Barrows, the highest point in North Devon, and the lovely valley of Trentishoe below, compose a landscape fair enough for the most exacting eye. Beyond is Heddon’s Mouth, where Old Davy landed on a memorable occasion (Maid of Sker, chapter liii.), and on the road is that well-known and most quaint and attractive hostel, the Hunter’s Inn.

This, however, is to wander away from Parracombe, which is itself a quaint old village, while Parracombe Mill, Heal, and Rowley are picturesque hamlets. The old twelfth-century church has been abandoned, since 1878, for ordinary uses, but it still stands—about half a mile from the village—and the tower has been recently in part restored. And now, with a final reminder of East Bodley and Barton and Kinwelton (in Martinhoe parish), our pilgrimage has reached its goal. In a few moments we shall be tumbling downhill along the surprising curves of the Lynton railway, to re-enter the world of commonplace.