Lynton and Lynmouth: A Pageant of Cliff & Moorland

In Short

This book serves as a literary travelogue of Lynton, Lynmouth, and the surrounding Exmoor region. It is a portrait of a corner of England defined by dramatic cliffs, desolate moors, and deep, wooded valleys. Rather than providing simple directions, the narrative weaves together local history, folklore, and personal reflection to ground the reader in the character of the land. It has endured as a charming example of topographical writing, appreciated for its evocative prose and its ability to capture the spirit of a place that remains haunted by both its natural beauty and its long, sometimes violent, human history.

The Story

The narrative begins with an exploration of Devon’s ancient origins, drawing a line from the prehistoric people who erected stone menhirs to the present-day inhabitants of the coast. This sense of continuity—of a landscape that remembers its long, layered history—serves as the foundation for the entire book. We are introduced to the region through the lens of those who have recorded it before, particularly Thomas Westcote, whose seventeenth-century accounts of the county provide a framework for viewing the local industries and customs.

As the journey progresses, the focus moves from the settled, orderly town of Barnstaple toward the wilder, more imposing geography of the coast and the moorland. The text moves with a deliberate, unhurried pace, tracing the rugged road to Lynton and the deep, sheltered beauty of the West Lyn Gorge. The author does not shy away from the physical demands of the landscape; the steepness of the climb to Porlock or the bitterness of the wind at the Valley of Rocks are felt acutely. These descriptions are punctuated by stories of the people who shaped the region, from the legendary de Wichehalses to the notorious local figures who occupied Lundy Island.

The arc of the book is one of gradual immersion. Starting from the broad historical context of the area, the narrative narrows its focus, delving into the intimate, specific details of tiny, wind-swept villages like Brendon and Oare. It concludes by considering the persistence of tradition, examining local customs—such as the "beating of the bounds"—that seem to echo ancient, forgotten rites. By the time the reader reaches the final chapters on Lundy and the dark legends of coastal wreckers, the region has been fully mapped, not just as a series of geographical points, but as a space where the modern world sits precariously atop a foundation of folklore and prehistoric mystery. The ending leaves the reader with a sense of the land’s enduring power, suggesting that while empires and individuals pass, the moors, the streams, and the cliffs remain as the true witnesses to the passage of time.

How It Unfolds

The ancient foundation The book opens by establishing the deep antiquity of Devon, linking the current landscape to the vanished Celtic tribes who left stone circles and earthworks on the moors. This establishes a tone of reverence for a land that holds the "immemorial past" just beneath its surface.

Historical context The narrative transitions to the Norman Conquest and the establishment of property in Lynton, providing a grounded view of how the area developed under the influence of local gentry and the cloth-making industry.

The literary observer The author introduces the writings of Thomas Westcote, using his seventeenth-century voice to illustrate the scholarly and affectionate tradition of documenting the county’s natural commodities and human character.

The journey to the coast The path winds from the orderly streets of Barnstaple toward the dramatic, cliff-lined coast, detailing the physical experience of traveling through the "magnificent" scenery of the North Devon shoreline.

The heart of the moor Moving inland, the focus shifts to the harsh, wind-swept beauty of Exmoor, where the author explores the tension between the "blossoming fertility" of sheltered valleys and the barren, exposed heights.

The islands and legends The book concludes with a study of Lundy Island and the darker, more visceral folklore of coastal wreckers, effectively bridging the gap between the recorded history of the region and the ghost stories that linger in the local memory.

The People

The book is less a story of individuals than a survey of the human forces that have carved their way into the landscape. We meet the de Wichehalses, a family of prominence whose rise and fall mirror the changing fortunes of the wool trade and the impact of the plague in Barnstaple. Their presence is a reminder of the shifting social fabric of the region.

Then there is Thomas Westcote, the seventeenth-century observer whose writings act as a companion for the author. Westcote represents the quintessential local historian, blending careful fact-gathering with a "gentle and unobtrusive humour." He stands in for the ideal reader, someone who appreciates the "quaint turns of phrase" and the scholarly weight of the classics.

In contrast to these figures are the nameless, often darker characters of local legend: the wreckers who lured ships to their doom, and the infamous Benson, a man of status who turned his wealth and local influence toward the exploitation of convicts on Lundy Island. These figures represent the greed and cruelty that have occasionally stained the region's history, standing as foils to the more peaceful, orderly image of the Devon countryside. Finally, the narrative populates the landscape with the modern tourist and the local shepherd, whose differing interactions with the land—one seeking aesthetic pleasure, the other a livelihood—provide a final, subtle layer of human complexity to the geography.

In Its Own Voice

The author reflects on the fleeting nature of human endeavor when compared to the vast, geological scale of the landscape:

"And there the most unreflective among us feels a sudden awe and wonder at the momentary vision of the profound antiquity of this land in which we live, and for a few moments all desires and aims seem futile in face of this immemorial past."

The author captures the persistent, harsh beauty of the coastal environment:

"I noticed a tuft of dog-violets, growing out of a fissure in the grey rock, and shaken and pounded by the bitter wind."

The author contemplates the way local folklore preserves a sense of the primitive:

"They cast him out of their city, as the Jews did their scapegoat, to wander in desert places, and as the Greeks did in a city festival which was older than the Homeric gods among them."

What It's Really About

At its core, this book is an meditation on the relationship between human habitation and the "immemorial" power of the land. It asks how we make sense of a place that is simultaneously domestic and wild—a space where we can sit in a tidy library in the morning and stand amidst the "raven-haunted cliffs" of a brutal coast by the afternoon. It is an argument for the importance of local memory, suggesting that the true history of a region is not found in textbooks alone, but in the names of the rocks, the layout of the old churchyards, and the persistent, irrational customs that keep the past alive. It grapples with the transition from the ancient, sacred landscape to the modern world of tourism and industry.

Why Read It Today

Readers who find comfort in the slow, observant pace of traditional travel writing will find much to admire here. If you enjoy books that feel like a long, reflective walk on a blustery day—where the scenery is punctuated by stories of local eccentrics and historical oddities—this volume will feel like a welcome companion. It is a book for those who like to look closely at things: the way the light hits a market building, the specific shade of a moorland stream, or the way a name on a map reveals an ancient language.

However, the modern reader should be prepared for the author's distinct early-twentieth-century perspective. The text carries the hallmarks of its time, including a clear sense of British insularity and a romanticized, sometimes detached, view of the "primitive" cultures it discusses. The prose is dense with allusions to classical authors and Victorian literary figures, which may require a bit of patience. Yet, the reward for this patience is a deep, textured sense of place that is increasingly rare. It leaves you not just with a list of sights to visit, but with a lingering, melancholic appreciation for the "intimate personality" of a landscape that continues to turn, regardless of the passing generations.