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| Bideford Bay, Devon |
The cobbled
streets of Clovelly tumble into England’s Bristol Channel near Bideford Bay.
Whitewashed cottages, piled one above the other, cling to the sheer Devon cliff
face, forming a picture-postcard village so cloyingly perfect, you suspect
you’re in an olde worlde re-creation purporting to show the life and times of a
bygone era.
If you
hanker after ragged ranges and sweeping veldt, then Clovelly’s chocolate-box
charm may not be your cup of tea. But there’s no denying, it is quaint, cute
and oh so sweet.
Listed in
the Doomsday Book, circa 1100AD, this fishing village stands on the site of an
ancient Saxon settlement. Now preserved and protected for future generations by
the Clovelly Trust, the settlement is a living relic of a time when life was
measured by the ebb and flow of tides, by sunrise and sunset.
When I
arrive, late on a summer afternoon, Clovelly exudes an air of tranquility. The
stepped streets, staggering steeply down to the harbour, are virtually empty of
the usual pedestrian hordes. A few red-faced and out-of-puff stragglers
struggle up the main street, which climbs 150m in half a kilometer. My descent
into the village, an official car-free zone, promises to be crush-free as the
throngs of tourists have already retreated for the day.
I mince gingerly
down, taking dainty steps suitable for this cute little toy town. The
cobblestones, hauled from the beach to pave the main thoroughfare, called
Up-along or Down-along, depending on which direction you’re walking, can be
precariously slippery. I’m terrified the
leather soles of my sandals will skid, sending me helter-skelter down
Down-along. And it’s not even raining. In fact, it’s a scorching 26 degrees.
Being
Britain, summer rain is always on the cards. A smattering of drizzle or even a
fine sea mist must turn the cobbles into skidpans for the unwary. Goodness
knows how the daily busloads of pensioners escape uninjured. Rubber soles are a
must but not rubber slip-slops, which make exploring side alleys arduous, as
will tottering along in high-heels. A young Britney clone looks decidedly
uncool crawling on all fours, mini skirt barely covering her rear, after a
humiliating cobblestone tumble.
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| Clovelley's main street |
Taking it
slowly, I reach the 17th century New Inn, its William Morris style decor
sumptuously elegant for what was once a humble seafarer’s watering hole. I
daren’t have one for the road. It’s too steep. The extreme incline renders
Clovelly inaccessible to cart or carriage, so guests’ luggage is delivered to
the Inn by sledge. Traditionally, all heavy deliveries - mail, groceries,
furniture, beer - were slid down the cobbles. Donkeys bore the loads back up as
recently as the 1990s, when animal welfare issues ended the practice. Today,
donkeys are restricted to giving rides to children and posing for photographs,
or left to roam freely in the top meadow.
I continue
down Down-along. Flower-decked cottages, some half-timbered or decorated with
stones from the beach, line the road. Some residents show off chintzy interiors
bursting with ornaments and book lined shelves, others hide behind filmy lace
curtains.
Although
you could call the entire village a museum, two cottages are open to the public
as museum exhibits depicting the past life of the village. The Fisherman’s
Cottage recreates 1930s scenes from a typical fisherman’s family home. Next
door, the Charles Kingsley exhibition shows the style in which the famous
Victorian author and social reformer lived. The museum’s voice-over recites
Kingsley’s 1851 poem, The Three Fishers, about three fishermen’s wives
waiting through the night for their husbands to return.
‘Three corpses lay out on the
shining sand,
In the morning gleam as the tide
went down,
And the women are weeping and
ringing their hands
For those who will never come home
to the town.’
As
a child, Kingsley lived in Clovelly where his father was rector from 1830 to
1836. Charles Kingsley’s experiences there inspired his children’s classic, The
Water Babies.
Kingsley
later returned to Clovelly where he wrote his historical novel, Westward Ho!
The town of that name, complete with exclamation mark, lies just along the
coast.
Reaching the Look-Out, a stone-walled plateau on the cliff’s edge where
villagers watched for returning fishing boats, I’m reminded that
Clovelly is not just a pretty face. It’s a place of
underlying grief.
At Temple Bar, the street passes under
an archway containing a resident’s kitchen and dining room. I find a place to
perch and gaze across the estuary. From here I can rest while admiring the
scenery, but for Clovelly’s fisher families, it was another place to gather to
scan the sea for homecoming boats.
The
life of the ancient mariner envelopes Clovelly and wherever you scratch the
surface, hidden undercurrents are revealed. The village’s delightful veneer hides the
tragedy that often befell a community waiting in vain for the boats to come
home. Such tragedies drew the villagers together and, today, that strong spirit
continues. As a working fishing village, the danger of sea, storms and squalls
are ever present. Yet these elements also unite a community where tenants must
apply for residence and agree to contribute to village life. The result is tenants
working towards common goals, keeping the village shipshape and themselves
happy.
Since 1738,
the Hamlyn family has owned Clovelly and they are responsible for renovation
and restoration. If you balk at paying the entrance fee, bear in mind,
maintaining a unique living and breathing village is a costly duty. Traditional
craftsmanship and materials such as oak and slate aren’t cheap.
Clovelly is
steeped in brine and the smell of the sea saturates the air, pickling every
stone and wooden beam. This is especially true of Clovelly’s
oldest cottage, called Crazy Kate’s after a fisherman’s widow, who watched her
husband drown as he fished in the bay. The sea literally laps at Kate’s
doorstep, and one day in 1736, Kate Lyall, clothed in her wedding dress, walked
out her door and into the sea to join her husband.
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| Clovelly harbour and Red Lion Inn |
The
harbour, with its 14th century quay, is a rewarding conclusion to a precarious
walk. I’ve glimpsed the coastline, notorious for shipwrecks, smuggling and
piracy, throughout my descent, but when the harbour appears in all its glory, it’s
a revelation. Small, compact, akin to a movie set waiting for a piratical
Johnny Depp to swing into shot, the harbour is picture perfect. Actually,
pictures don’t do it justice.
Clovelly
harbour is testament to the substantial fishing fleet, which once thrived on
huge shoals of herring in winter and mackerel in summer. Today, dark patches of
fish dart and dive in the deep green transparent sea. On this day, only one
brave child, belly sucked in with trepidation, treads one-step-at-a-time into
the icy water. A shrill squeal signals the plunge into deeper water. Sea birds
wheeling overhead, though momentarily silenced by the intrusion, soon resume
their eternal cries.
The Red
Lion Hotel, built on the quay during the 17th century as a beer house for fishermen
and villagers, today provides respite for tourists in need of fortification to
face the arduous climb back up UpAlong. A recent renovation, although
architecturally sympathetic, inevitably means some of the inn’s original charm
has been lost with the twelve new ensuite rooms. In the Snug bar, still with remnants of the
original building, the barman, a local, recounts tales of storms and killer
waves breaking over the quay, and the need for lifeboats, in service in
Clovelly since 1870. Seduced by his West Country burr, I drink a pint of heady
local cider.
To my
relief, I discover there is also an easy way back to the cliff top in the
form of a summer Land Rover service. All too quickly, I’m whisked around
the village outskirts. Along a narrow back lane, beneath dark canopies of oak
and ash, we roar in first and second gears. I’m deposited near Clovelly Court,
the estate manor house and gardens. The manor supplies locals with flowers,
fruit and vegetables which flourish in the maritime microclimate caused by the
warm Gulf Stream.
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| Wildflower meadow, Clovelley |
I clear my
head in the salty air with a coastal walk through woodlands draping the cliff
tops. Birds sing and butterflies flutter amongst the summer wild flowers. I
take time to savour the impossibly pretty views of the bay, thankful I’m not
scanning the horizon for a late returning boat.
