FERNY COMBES. 
55 
hill in front, agreeing so well in sombre colouring 
with the granite-strewn hill on which it stands; 
the Cad rushing down its unrivalled valley; the 
vale of Meavy buried in woods, and the grey moor 
rising above all,—form such a picture as one rarely 
sees, combining as it does so many contrasts. 
Bickleigh! Here we had determined to stay 
the night. It was six o’clock when we reached 
the village, and we had no wish to travel through a 
strange country in the dark. But we reckoned 
without our host, or hostess rather, who came to 
the door and informed us that there was a plough- 
ing-match on the morrow, and that in consequence 
her house was full. “ She was very sorry; she 
would have obliged us gladly, but she really could 
not accommodate us.” 
“Where can we go then?” we inquired, having 
fully made up our minds not to go to Plymouth, 
only a few miles distant. “ Oh, at Jump, three 
miles off, you will be certain to find room,” was the 
reply. We went to Jump; we entered the inn, 
were taken for two tramps by the landlady, who 
had not seen us arrive, beat a hasty retreat, and, in 
spite of our horse’s weariness and our own hunger, 
started for Tavistock, eight miles off, where, after 
a pleasant drive by moonlight, and many a laugh 
at our reception by the landlady of the “ Jump 
