“AT BIDEFORD IN DEVON”

Greymouth Evening Star, 15 September 1928, Page 9

“AT BIDEFORD IN DEVON”

Sleepy Little Port in North Devon that Cradled England’s Naval Traditions... Where Kingsley Lived & Wrote "Westward H 0!”../ .

N the southern side of Barfistable Bay, where the clear, cool waters of the Taw and the Torridge join the thundering rollers of the mighty Atlantic, lies the town of Bideford. To-day it is of small consequence. Its quay, built along the bank of the slow-flowing river, is just the unloading place for fishing smacks and sailing boats; and its inns and taverns are now only important as the haunts of numberless tourists. Such is the little town which in the spacious days of great Elizabeth was world famous for the wonder of her foreign trade and the glory of her sons. ' A. road wanders beside the quay, shaded by plane trees and separated

from the cobbles of the waterfront by iron railings. The motorist may leave his car on the river side of the railings for an hour or two if he wishes. If he does, small Devonshire boys with soft brown eyes and black curls appear as if by magic from all directions, each claiming the right to look after it and fighting, his neighbour playfully for possession. Such, attacks usually end in a great free tussle, while the car, the original 'cause of all the trouble, stands unguarded and forgotten. The quay road is on the town side bordered by shops and inns, some of the latter dating from the fifteenth century, though, just by looking at them, no one would know that, as they still show no signs of decay. The first of these historic taverns is the Rose of Torridge Inn, so named after that beautiful girl Rose Saltern, daughter Df the Mayor of Bideford, who eloped with a Spaniard and met her death at

the stake for her faith’s sake at the hands of the Inquisitors of the New World. Kingsley Has immortalised her in his novel, “Westward Ho.”

Next door to the Rose of Torridge is the Old Ship Tavern, where the gallant Brotherhood of the Rose was founded. All the young "dogs of Devon” 'who loved Rose Saltern met there one night and swore that for three years they would not see her, nor write to her, nor send her presents, but would give themselves lor that period to the service of their sovereign, her most glorious Majesty Queen Elizabeth. Small wonder the poor girl.eloped in the meantime with a Spaniard.' This same brotherhood met at the Old Ship Tavern later to swear that they would search the

world over until they found the Rose, and would then, if she were alive, return her to her father, and if she were dead, avenge her. The King’s Arms and the Three Tuns, which are also side by side, were favourite haunts of the mariners in days gone by, and many a time have Richard Grenville, Francis Drake and the Raleighs discussed the fate of nations over tankards of good Devon ale in their tap rooms.

Following the road along the river bank one comes to Bideford Gardens. These are very lovely. The grass of the lawns is short clipped and soft like velvet. Round the small bandstand children play, climbing about on ancient iron guns hard by and sitting on piles of great round cannon balls. When, in 1588, King Phillip sent the might of Spain against us in the Great Armada, the wind fought with us, and many Spanish ships were wrecked upon the English coast. Some

found their last resting place at the mouth of the Torridge, and from their decks came the guns that decorate Bideford Gardens, the rightful plunder of Devon men, who turned out in then hundreds to guard th«»r shores against the cruel invader.

Other deeds of the men of Devon are recorded in that garden. Guns of a later pattern are dotted here and there. These carrying brass plates bearing names that tell how they were captured from the Russians in the Crimean campaign.

Behind the narrow hilly streets of the town, on a headland overlooking the sea, is the old church of Northam. Its thick stone walls and square Norman tower have resisted for about nine centuries the attacks of the Atlantic gale. In its windswept vard the grass blows this way and that over the graves of dead heroes. On one of these the inscription shows as clearly to-day as it did when it was first graven. The tomb so marked is the one that holds the mould of those two firends, master and servant, Salvation Yeo and Amyas Leigh, whose life stories Charles Kingsley so wonderfully told in that favourite of historical romance of his. “Westward Ho” was written at an hotel on the other side of the river, in a room thickly carpeted and panelled in oak, with great

windows looking out on the vahey of the Torridge. Kingsley loved these views and described them so abiy that all who read must love them too. Across the Torridge runs the famous Bideford Bridge, which is the most richly endowed span in all England, though pedestrians and motorists can now scarcely boast that -they have crossed the self same way as the old sea dogs, for the bridge has lately been repaired and concreted and very little of its ancient self remains. Away to the north runs the road to Barnstaple, following the line of the bay. Beyond the sun-kissed waters of the little harbour, hanging like a cloud above the dark horizon line, is the island of Lundy. It stands like a' sentinel guarding the village of Bideford, sad because the greatness has departed from a port that once rivalled the commercial claims of either Bristol or London.

by

ELLIE MAGUIRE)