“The brown Barle River
Rarely has a river been so
intensely realised in words as in “Summer in Somerset ”,
written by Richard Jefferies during his fortnight stay on Exmoor
in 1882, but not published until after his death. It is no more than a fragment
and much of it is devoted to a rhapsodic evocation of Exmoor ’s
most scenic river. It illustrates perfectly Jefferies’s method of pushing his
nose flat against nature and itemising its detail, a technique which he
unknowingly gifted to Henry Williamson, author of “Tarka the Otter”.
We started where Jefferies
finished his walk; at Tarr Steps, up river from Dulverton. The ancient clapper
bridge is one of Exmoor ’s iconic landmarks,
and arguments will always rage about its true antiquity. The past winter
illustrated yet again how vulnerable the bridge is to the elements when in
December 2012 a substantial length of the bridge was washed away by floods.
West Somerset Council may be bankrupt but it found the money from somewhere to
repair the damage promptly, to the relief of all who live off the tourist
trade. Only Watersmeet near Lynmouth would challenge Tarr Steps as the most
visited beauty spot on the Moor.
We parked the car in the National
Trust car park above the steps for a reasonable fee of £2 for an all-day stay,
and walked down to the river past the Tarr Farm hotel, of which more later.
We crossed the Steps to the
western bank of the Barle and turned right into the bridleway which led steeply
uphill towards Parsonage Farm. On our left we caught a glimpse of the roof of
what used to be the Tarr Steps Hotel but is now a private house. Further up the
track we could look back towards Ashway. It was the first day of the
much-trailered heat wave and, as we walked through meadows thick with clover
and flowers, ready to be mown, the flies clustered on our hats like grapes.
At the gate which led down into
the yard of Parsonage Farm, we turned right and walked towards Westwater Farm
across the top of the down, from which we had a panoramic view of the western
moors. First came Withypool Hill.
Then the valley of the Barle
topped by the sugarloaf of the stand of trees above Warren Farm which are
visible from all points of the compass.
Finally, and much closer, stood Winsford
Hill.
The heat thickened as we walked
down the rough path towards Westwater. A suckler herd hid from the flies
amongst the trees, and at the bottom a herd of sheep dozed in the shade.
When we came into the lane below
the farm, the collies that habitually lie in the entrance, and sometimes in the
middle of the road itself, could hardly bother to rouse themselves to sniff us
as we passed by and up the hill towards Greystone Gate.
The cattle grid is at the foot of
the open common below Withypool Hill, but we kept on the road until it began to
descend towards Withypool village itself.
Just above the village hall we
turned right into the drive which leads to South Hill Farm. The bridleway used
to pass through the yard, but there is now a right of way through the fields
which brings one out between the house and the river. There is no bridge to
take you to the path on the northern bank but a magnificent line of stepping
stones.
For far too long the stones were
blocked by a fallen tree, but eventually the Exmoor Park Authority cleared it
away and the way is clear again as long as the river is not too high. Recently
the weather had been comparatively dry. Sometimes one or two of the stones can
be quite treacherous, and at others much of them are covered by the river.
We turned right towards Tarr
Steps. It is said that Louis Armstrong never played the Ira Gershwin-Vernon
Duke song “I can’t get started” after he heard Bunny Berigan’s awe-inspiring
version. Similarly I leave our walk back to Tarr Steps to the words of Richard
Jefferies and to my wife’s photographs.
“At the foot of the furrowed
decline the current rises over a rock in a broad white sheet--white because as
it is dashed to pieces the air mingles with it. After this furious haste the
stream does but just overtake those bubbles which have been carried along on
another division of the water flowing steadily but straight. Sometimes there
are two streams like this between the same banks, sometimes three or even more,
each running at a different rate, and each gliding above a floor differently
inclined. The surface of each of these streams slopes in a separate direction,
and though under the same light they reflect it at varying angles. The river is
animated and alive, rushing here, gliding there, foaming yonder; its separate
and yet component parallels striving together, and talking loudly in incomplete
sentences.”
“Here is a pool by the bank under
an ash--a deep green pool inclosed by massive rocks, which the stream has to
brim over. The water is green--or is it the ferns, and the moss, and the oaks,
and the pale ash reflected? This rock has a purple tint, dotted with moss spots
almost black; the green water laps at the purple stone, and there is one place
where a thin line of scarlet is visible, though I do not know what causes it.
Another stone the spray does not touch has been dried to a bright white by the
sun. Inclosed, the green water slowly swirls round till it finds crevices, and
slips through. A few paces farther up there is a red rapid--reddened stones,
and reddened growths beneath the water, a light that lets the red hues overcome
the others--a wild rush of crowded waters rotating as they go, shrill voices
calling. This next bend upwards dazzles the eyes, for every inclined surface
and striving parallel, every swirl, and bubble, and eddy, and rush around a
rock chances to reflect the sunlight. Not one long pathway of quiet sheen, such
as stretches across a rippled lake, each wavelet throwing back its ray in just
proportion, but a hundred separate mirrors vibrating, each inclined at a
different angle, each casting a tremulous flash into the face.”
“The sky, which was not noticed
before, now appears reaching in rich azure across the deep hollow, from the
oaks on one side to the oaks on the other. These woods, which cover the steep
and rocky walls of the gorge from river to summit, are filled with the June
colour of oak. It is not green, nor russet, nor yellow; I think it may be
called a glow of yellow under green. It is warmer than green; the glow is not
on the outer leaves, but comes up beneath from the depth of the branches. The
rush of the river soothes the mind, the broad descending surfaces of
yellow-green oak carry the glance downwards from the blue over to the stream in
the hollow. Rush! rush!--it is the river, like a mighty wind in the wood.”
“Every one has seen a row of stepping-stones
across a shallow brook; now pile other stones on each of these, forming
buttresses, and lay flat stones like unhewn planks from buttress to buttress,
and you have the plan of this primitive bridge. It has a megalithic appearance,
as if associated with the age of rude stone monuments. They say its origin is
doubtful; there can be no doubt of the loveliness of the spot. The Barle comes
with his natural rush and fierceness under the unhewn stone planking, then
deepens, and there overhanging a black pool--for the shadow was so deep as to
be black--grew a large bunch of marsh-marigolds in fullest flower, the broad
golden cups almost resting on the black water. The bridge is not intended for
wheels, and though it is as firm as the rock, foot passengers have to look at
their steps, as the great planks, flecked with lichen at the edges, are not all
level. The horned sheep and lambs go over it--where do they not go? Like goats
they wander everywhere.”
Just above Tarr Steps there is a
barrier strung across the river to prevent trees being carried down to the
bridge by flood waters which would smash the ancient stones apart. Sadly, a few
months ago, it proved completely inadequate.
“In a cottage some way up the
hill we ate clotted cream and whortleberry jam. Through the open door came the
ceaseless rush! rush! like a wind in the wood. The floor was of concrete, lime
and sand; on the open hearth--pronounced 'airth'--sods of turf cut from the
moor and oak branches were smouldering under the chimney crook. Turf smoke from
the piled-up fires of winter had darkened the beams of the ceiling, but from
that rude room there was a view of the river, and the hill, and the oaks in
full June colour, which the rich would envy.”
When we first came here over
thirty years ago, Tarr Farm had not changed much since Jefferies’s day. While
our back was turned, however, the old farmhouse morphed into a luxury hotel,
with a celebrated restaurant and a clientele in season of corporate tweedy shooters
from the City. You can still enjoy an excellent cream tea in the garden above
the river, from as early as eleven o’clock in the morning indeed. The price of
£5.50 is at the top end of the range, as one would expect in so popular a spot,
but look at the size of it.
Three scones lay on each plate
like golden hubcaps. Two of them went straight into the backpack for another
day, and then we enjoyed the others in the company of a couple of chaffinches,
a breed which seems particularly keen on scones. It wasn’t whortleberry jam
but, judging by a pot which we bought once made from Exmoor ’s
signature berry, we weren’t missing much.
