ing wildly against the rocks. We left the mill behind, and walked up the road leading to Braunton. We passed several farmhouses, and at last, catching a glimpse of the peak of Hartland in the distance, made directly towards it; but it is a longer walk than you expect, five miles or more. When we came near to it we left the road, and turned across some fields which brought us to the coast. The point itself is very singular in shape, a narrow ridge projecting three or four hundred feet beyond the other cliffs into the sea. It seems at first sight almost impossible to get upon it, where it touches the mainland the rock is so rough and craggy, but there are some steps cut, and it is easy enough to get up with a clear head, and look down on a sheer precipice of three hundred feet or more on both sides; in a minute we were on a grassy slope of thirty feet in width, and at the end we had a view along the coast which is worth seeing. This is the boundary of the old Severn sea, the Channel here opens its jaws to receive the broad waves of the Atlantic. When we had returned to a more comfortable seat on the mainland, another party came down with a guide, and we found that we had accomplished what was considered rather a feat; the old shepherd told us that years ago he had been to the end of the point, but he did not mean to go again, the rock was falling away every year. After rambling about the rocks and cliffs, as evening came on we walked to Hartland Town, and finding the inn quite full, took up our abode at a comfortable lodging, where some old books and an antique edition of the Pilgrim’s Progress with grotesque woodcuts, amused us till bed-time. Our landlady was as good and quaint as we conjectured she might be from her belongings.
The next morning we started early, as we had a long day’s march before us. We walked down the valley, which is prettily wooded, passed the Abbey, and came to the interesting Abbey Church, which well deserves a visit. The old monument, bearing the date 1055, the four chapels, and the Norman arch, claim special attention. The church stands on high ground and is quite a landmark on this part of the coast; we had noticed it the day before, on our way to and from Hartland Point. Half-a-mile farther on we came to Hartland Quay, and here we began to have some notion of the dreariness and wildness of the coast. On every side are black cliffs with the strata twisted and twirled about in the most remarkable contortions, and the sea that morning came roaring in, dashing and foaming in the little harbour, and falling in a jet of spray over the pier. There are only a few miserable houses here, but we believe there is often a good deal of business going on, in landing coals and sand. A path winds by the coast from Hartland Quay, and if you delight in the sea, you will not want to take the shorter course inland. We soon came to rather a fine waterfall, of perhaps fifty feet, which, dashing over the rocks, tumbled down into the little bay beneath. Up the hills and down the valleys we walked on for several hours, expecting soon to come in sight of Moorwinstow, which is about halfway to Bude.[1] Once we saw a road before us which we thought must lead to a place of some importance, and making our way down to it, found it was a little cove for landing sand. The only person about was an old man, who seemed much surprised and amused to see us. He directed us to go over the next hill, and some three miles away we should find Moorwinstow. Up the hill we went, puffing away, for it was very steep, but the thought of its shortness, and the down hill in prospect, encouraged us to go on. When we came to the top, to our dismay we found a wilderness of furze and bramble, from which there was no escape; torn and bleeding we came down into the valley, where we were glad to rest and refresh ourselves beside a pretty watermill. As Moorwinstow was to be our half-way house, and it was long past noon, we had not much time to linger here; we started again, and soon coming in sight of the high road, about two miles brought us to Moorwinstow. It is a poor place, indeed, but has a splendid old church and vicarage, and many perhaps may know its name from the poetry which has been written there. We were half afraid that we should not reach Bude that night, and inquired if there was a conveyance of any sort to be had in the village. Yes, there was one man who had a cart, with springs too, but he was gone to Bude fair. There was no help for it, our legs must carry us there. Seven miles they called it, but it was a long time before we got any nearer, according to the answers we received from the different travellers on the road. We passed Kilhampton to the left, a mile or two away; here Hervey wrote his “Meditations,” which he commences with, “Travelling lately in Cornwall, I happened to alight at a considerable village in that county.” We went down into Combe Valley, a picturesque place, where the old family of Greville once had a mansion, though nothing now is left but a moat to mark the site. After this we begin to meet the farmers coming home from the fair, jogging along three or four together, then the sheep and oxen, and we seemed really to be getting near the end of our journey. Bude soon came in sight, a line of white houses- ↑ See vol. viii., p. 161.
