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THE NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC MAGAZINE 



steep, stony street, that Clovelly lives. It 

 seems a resort, a most charming, most 

 lovely resort, a place of day excursions 

 rather than of serious business. It has 

 had, like every other British port, its 

 share of very serious business in the 

 earlier days of history, when men-of-war 

 were small ; it may still, on other than 

 summer days, go vigorously about fish- 

 ing; but in pleasant weather its largest 

 profits are derived from the Bristol boats 

 and the Bideford coaches, which deposit 

 a constant stream of visitors at the top 

 and bottom of the comb. 



THE LAND OF "EORNA DOONE" 



Very different from Clovelly is Lyn- 

 mouth, farther eastward on the Bristol 

 Channel ; for although Lynmouth states 

 frankly that it is a resort— advertises it- 

 self as such — it seems to be sufficiently 

 occupied with other things not to thrust 

 it insistently on the visitor. Lynmouth 

 lies in a valley down which a river, or 

 rather a combination of two tiny rivers, 

 comes to the sea ; and, as in all of these 

 warm, moist valleys, vegetation thrives 

 amazingly, Lynmouth, too, is wreathed 

 and draped in bloom (see page 32). 



On the cliff above her head is her twin 

 sister, Lynton — breezier, bolder. It is a 

 difficult tourist who cannot be satisfied at 

 one or the other place. But of sea tales 

 one hears less here, perhaps because it is 

 the land of "Lorna Doone," and all paths 

 lead back inland to the spots that Black- 

 more made famous (see page 30). 



Yet in another generation this and 

 many another little port upon this coast 

 may have tales enough to tell ; many a 

 load of shipwrecked men may put in with 

 reports of submarines. For such as these 

 the tiny ports will be a welcome haven. 

 If they can send no ships to the war, they 

 can help to save men. Ilfracombe, Lyn- 

 mouth's neighbor, has already given serv- 

 ice, castaways from the Dumfries, tor- 

 pedoed off Hartland Point, landing there. 

 Appledore, just beyond, would also be a 

 good port (see pages 33-35)- 



At Clovelly one must read Charles 

 Kingsley, if never before ; his father was 

 rector there, and no reader of Westward 

 Ho ! can hear again with indifference the 

 name of Appledore. But we may not 



tarry now ; we must get back to the south 

 coast, but let us do it by way of Bos- 

 castle and St. Ives. 



We are in Cornwall once more, soon 

 after leaving Clovelly; we will shun 

 Hartland Point, and Bude will not long 

 detain us, although it has some preten- 

 tions to popularity. It has a sizable har- 

 bor, but a dangerous one. This coast, 

 exposed to the whole direct force and 

 fury of the Atlantic, is known as the 

 "Ships' Graveyard," which tells the tale. 

 Boscastle, south of Bude, is charming. 

 In the clear waters of its tortuous but 

 lovely harbor baby seals play, their 

 smooth, round heads and shining eyes 

 sometimes startling the swimmer out for 

 his morning dip (see pages 38-39). 



"meat and 'taties" 



Seals recall one of Mr. Hawker's 

 stories. Long ago he and a friend came 

 hungry into Boscastle and Jean Tre- 

 worgy fed them on "meat and 'taties." 

 "Some call 'em ' purtaties' ," she said, with 

 the same sniff that a Devonshire farmer 

 gave when his son spelt " 'teddies" with 

 a "p." 



The meat was good, juicy, tender, 

 savory, but neither the parson nor his 

 friend could guess what it could be. 

 They asked Jean. "Meat and 'taties" 

 was all her answer. Beef it was not, 

 veal, nor sheep, nor pig. Could it — could 

 it be "Boscastle baby"? Hawker rushed 

 to the kitchen. "Meat and 'taties," re- 

 peated Jean. 



In an ancient book it is written : "The 

 sillie people of Bouscastle do catch in 

 the summer seas clivers young soyles 

 (seals) which, doubtful if they be fish 

 or flesh, conynge housewives will never- 

 theless roast and do make thereof very 

 savory meat." So they called them 

 "meat," or "Boscastle babies ;" but the 

 tourist and the seal are both safe today — 

 one eats them no more. 



king Arthur's castle (page 4°) 



At Tintagel more than at any place, 

 perhaps, what we bring measures what 

 we take away. Come full of the Arthu- 

 rian legend; come with Tennyson, with 

 Hawker, with Mallory, and, in spite of 





