Where No Priest Will Go

Posted on August 17, 2025 by johnshortlandwriter

“Culbone, Oare and Stoke Pero – places where no priest will go-o” says the old Exmoor rhyme about three of the moor’s remotest churches. That’s not totally surprising for they must be some of the most isolated in England and all involve considerable effort to reach even with today’s modern transport. Or, perhaps, it was because of their association with witches, bandits and lepers that made them reluctant to go. In his book, Exmoor Memories, A(rthur) G(ranville) Bradley writing of his time spent on Exmoor in the 1860s, tells of how the parson of Simonsbath church wouldn’t stay on the moor during the winter, leaving his parishioners to spiritually fend for themselves. With no roads at that time crossing the moor, one can hardly blame him.

*even today, Exmoor is a wild and rugged place*

I recently visited Culbone church which can still only be reached on foot. Whichever of the two routes you take, a very steep climb is involved but the effort is well worthwhile when you finally get there. The deep wooded combe opens up just enough to allow room for the church and two houses. It is a very tranquil spot and, resting there in an attempt to recover breath, it did feel very spiritual too – perhaps because records show that it has been a place of worship and meditation for over sixteen hundred years. The present church was mentioned in the Domesday Book so is just a mere one thousand years old!

*Culbone has been a place of worship & silent contemplation for over sixteen hundred years*

*the private box pews where only the gentry would sit*

Claiming to be the smallest parish church in England – it is only 35 foot x 11 foot in size – it can seat about thirty on its hard, wooden pews. It also has a small box pew where the family of Ashley Combe House once sat. Like many of the buildings that must have once populated the area, Ashley Combe House has long since disappeared. Entering the church through its thirteenth-century porch two things are immediately noticeable: first that it is still lit by gas and secondly, the ancient, stone font, now also well over a thousand years old.

*the one thousand year old font – how many baptisms has it seen?*

Despite the hardship in reaching the church and its very few houses, it is still very much a living church with services held there fortnightly. However, the priest, perhaps mindful of the old rhyme or the lepers that once roamed the woods lives elsewhere. To visit Culbone it is possible to park the car by the sea at Porlock Weir and climb 400 feet to reach it or, as we did, park at the top and walk down. If that sounds the easy option, remember there is still the steep climb back! Either way you’ll be rewarded with breathtaking sea views and the chance to glimpse a way of life (and worship) now almost totally past.

*the church is hidden in a deep, wooded combe*

Oare church, these days is by far the easiest of the three churches to reach for it is just a short drive down a narrow lane from the A38 Porlock-Lynmouth coastal road. Famed for its association with Lorna Doone, the novel by R D Blackmore, Lorna was shot at the altar on her wedding day by the wicked outlaw Carver Doone. A pretty, riverside walk through the stronghold of the Doones, the Doone Valley, is possible from nearby Malmsmead where there is camping as well as an art gallery and coffee shop named the Buttery. Overlooking the picturesque bridge and ford, it also serves great food and is well worth a visit.

*Oare church is easily approached by a narrow lane*

Compared with the church at Culbone, Oare is a relative newcomer having been built in the 1400s and then partially rebuilt four hundred years later. Inside, it is light and airy with memorials to Blackmore and also to the Snow family who feature in the novel. Blackmore tended to use local family names and traditions in his writing and mixing fact with fiction. Ridd is another local name; its variation Red is recorded on many of the gravestones at Culbone. For those not too familiar with the tale of Lorna Doone, or to see photos of the Doone Valley take a look at my earlier blogs, The Story of Lorna Doone – just a myth? and A Walk in the Doone Valley.

*the interior of Oare church is very light and airy*

*the window through which Carver Doone shot Lorna on her wedding day* *as she stood at the altar*

There are wonderful, albeit rather long, walks to Stoke Pero church from Horner Woods (car park at Webber’s Post or in the village of Horner), taking in the ‘four corners of Horner’ and distant views of Dunkery Beacon, the highest point of Exmoor. It is well worth the effort for apart from the views there is a good chance, providing you walk quietly, of spotting red deer, the largest of our wild deer and for which Exmoor is now one of its few remaining strongholds. There is plentiful wildlife to be seen along the river too – Dippers and Kingfishers and with Buzzards soaring overhead. You may even be lucky enough to see Red Kites or even White-tailed Sea Eagles which are becoming ever-more frequent visitors to the area.

*wild red deer hind with its calf half-hidden in the deep woodland*

It is possible to drive to Stoke Pero although the lanes are long, winding and narrow. The road even passes through a working farmyard which confuses many, especially visitors from overseas who find our narrow lanes scary enough at the best of times! If you choose to reach the church this way you will fully understand why a priest might not want to be bothered to travel there. Below is an Ordnance Survey map showing the three churches; I would strongly advise to carry a paper, rather than digital, version of the map for phone signals can be a bit erratic in such remote countryside.

*the three churches – a good map and equally good boots are essential if travelling by foot*

We’ve had lepers and bandits with our previous two churches which only leaves witches as a possible reason (other than the journey) why Stoke Pero might have been clergy-less. Look closely at the old oak door and scratched into its surface are a series of lines: witches marks. ‘Apotropaic’ marks to give them their correct name are symbols carved into buildings to ward off witches and protect people from evil spirits. They are usually found wherever there is a point of entry such as doors, windows or chimneys and usually date back many centuries when belief of the supernatural was commonplace. It is not known when the marks at Stoke Pero were made or what they mean but they may well have literally put the fear of God into any visiting priest.

*witches marks – apotropaic marks – on the church door at Stoke Pero*

The church at Stoke Pero lays claim to being the highest on Exmoor for it stands, isolated at over 1000 feet above sea level. Although much of the building is only a couple of hundred years old, the church tower dates from the 1200s, as does a list of the rectors which rather belies the story of lack of clergy. Like Culbone, an earlier church here is mentioned in the Domesday Book and, also like Culbone, services are held here lit by candles or gas lamps.

*old sign staking its claim as highest church!*

I blogged about Stoke Pero over fifteen years ago (link here) and mentioned how simple its interior is with its whitewashed walls, the only colour being the splash of red from the altar cloth. Revisiting recently, unsurprisingly the place hasn’t changed, and the barrel roof is as spectacular as ever. However, this time I noticed other things too such as the delicate ferns growing inside the window of the ancient bell tower and the contrast between the rough-hewn stone windows and the smooth white plasterwork.

*the magnificent barrel roof of Stoke Pero church*

*ferns grow in the cool shade found inside the ancient bell tower*

If you have the opportunity to visit Exmoor, now protected by its National Park status, there is much to see – but only if your pleasure comes from the joy of being in wild, open places for it remains remarkably uncommercialised. It has much to offer apart from the moorland (spectacular at this time of years smothered in purple heather) for it has the sea, rugged cliffs, fast-running boulder-strewn rivers and the unspoilt little towns of Porlock, Lynton and Lynmouth. It is a walker and nature lovers paradise.

*the heather moorland tumbles away to the sea*

Regular readers of my blog will know of my love of Exmoor which I discovered now nearly sixty years ago. They may even recall how through a chance meeting it changed the direction of my life, giving me an outdoor career as well as many Exmoor friends. More remarkably, I have found numerous family references to the moor, unknown at the time, for A G Bradley was my grandmother’s cousin and other family members lived and are buried at Luccombe, a village not too far from Stoke Pero. An uncle was involved with the rebuilding of Lynmouth after the devastating floods and loss of life in 1952 and a few years prior to that my parents honeymooned on the moor. A small world indeed and one in a small way I have been privileged to be part of.

*my first night spent on Exmoor – many, many years ago!*

*old postcard of the cottage in Luccombe where my ancestors lived in the early 1900s*

Mentors – part 1

Posted on June 4, 2025 by johnshortlandwriter

Mentor. There are dozens of words to choose from when looking for an alternative description of someone who takes on this role: life coach, guide, adviser, confidante, counsellor, influencer to name just a few. One thing that is certain is that the four people who played such an important role in shaping my life would not recognise any of these terms, not even the word mentor. And to be honest, it is only with the benefit of hindsight that I recognise them as being mentors at all.

*Mentors: Lorna French, Dick French, Cyril Heber Percy, Pamela Heber Percy*

If I had to choose just one word, I think it would be guide for that seems to describe what they were during their lifetimes. It is only since they’ve been gone – for sadly, they have all been dead for more than twenty years – that I actually think of them even as that for their influence was subtle. They would almost certainly find the description laughable for there was never any conscious effort to take on that role. It was one that had come about by chance meetings leading to friendship, respect and love.

*Despite the angelic appearance I wasn’t an easy child!*

I was not an easy child – I know that statement is hard to believe now (laughs). A streak of rebellion has run through our family for generations and although I wasn’t outwardly rebellious, I sometimes made life difficult for those around me. From the age of fourteen I found school a waste of my time for I had wanted to study sciences and school insisted I did languages instead. I’m sure they were probably right for studying French and English had come easily to me whereas I’d struggled with even General Science. To me that was irrelevant for I had desperately wanted to learn botany and biology. Instead, I now found myself sitting in German classes seething inwardly and resenting every moment of having to learn the difference between der, das and dem or liebe and Lieber. I began playing truant and found that if I left school after the lunchtime register had been taken nobody seemed to notice and I could walk the three hours back home through the woods and fields where I could practice my botanising. I finally stormed out of school halfway through my ‘O-level’ exams before sitting the dreaded German but not before I’d sat French and English. I passed both with flying colours but my parents were furious.

More out of desperation, my parents agreed that I could take my bicycle and tent on the train to Exeter and cycle and camp across Dartmoor for two weeks. It would be my first solo holiday and, I imagine, they agreed in the hope that it would make me appreciate just how fortunate I was to have been given the chance of a good and expensive private education. I arrived in Exeter in blazing sunshine and armed with maps and far too much self-confidence started my journey westwards. In those days, with no mobile phones or credit cards to monitor my progress, my parents provided me with stamps and cash so that I could send them a postcard at the end of each day. I reached Okehampton, a small market town on the fringe of the Dartmoor National Park in a sweat and seeing from my map that I wasn’t that far from the sea instead decided to cycle northwards to Westward Ho, a beach resort on the North Devon coast.

Refreshed from an early morning swim in the sea (I’d arrived there at 2.00 in the morning) I looked again at the map and now decided to travel eastwards to a different national park, Exmoor. I’d read the novel Lorna Doone at school and had loved it and the thought of exploring the rugged and isolated places where she had met and married John Ridd, only then to be shot at the altar of Oare church, filled my imagination. Little did I know then that soon I would be meeting a real-life Lorna Ridd who with her farmer husband would welcome me into their lives.

*Oare Church – where Lorna Doone was shot at the altar on her wedding day*

Three days later, having cycled over some tough and exhausting hilly roads I ended up at Brendon Barton, a remote farm perched high on the edge of the open moorland. It was coming towards the end of my fortnight away and so I knew that I could only stay there for one or two days before the long bike ride back south to Exeter and home. Venturing into the farmyard I could hear sounds coming from inside the barn where Dick French, the farmer, was working with sheep. I asked if I could camp in one of his fields but he didn’t look up and instead replied, “be a good lad and bring those last two sheep in here.” I had never been near a sheep before and so spent the next half an hour running around the yard in circles before finally managing to herd them inside. I was out of breath, sweating and covered in sheep shit but I found a contentment in my success that I’d not experienced before. Years later, Dick and I would laugh about that first encounter. I used to say that I should have just got back on my bike and cycled away to which he would respond with, “when I saw you wouldn’t give up, I knew that you’d do!”

*I cycled over Exmoor’s remote*, hilly roads

*Preparing for a good night’s sleep, Brendon Barton 1968*

By my second day on the farm I had helped bring in the cows and Dick had taught me how to hand milk them. Hearing I could ride, he suggested that I took Star, one of their horses up onto the moor to have a look around The heather was in flower and its deep purple carpet continued to the sea. Beyond, the coastline of Wales could be seen in the hazy far-distance. I ventured into a deep combe before crossing a stream and climbing up a ridge. There I spotted a deserted farm cottage* half-hidden by beech trees. I stood entranced by the beauty of my surroundings and its all-encompassing silence. I felt I had found my true home and with no consideration for my parent’s concern, I decided never to leave. I sent them a postcard saying that I’d missed my train home. I remained purposely vague as to my whereabouts, just saying that I’d kept back enough money to buy a new railway ticket.

*The heather clad hills of Exmoor reach to the sea*

*Half-hidden amongst the trees stood a deserted farm cottage*

A week later I was having my meals in the farmhouse enjoying the banter amongst the farm lads and hearing the discussions about the tasks that needed to be done around the farm. By the time harvest came round, my tent had been ditched and I was sleeping in the house in a comfortable bed, receiving a small wage and spending evenings in the village pub with new-found friends. Dick had said that it would be his wife Lorna (Ridd had been her maiden name) who would decide whether I could stay or not. She was such a hard-working woman and one more person to care for might be one too many. Her approach had been that one more would make no difference and so she looked after me while I spent long days working at Dick’s side, listening to his tales and learning about their way of life. Asked about my parents, they seemed content enough with my explanation that I was spending extended time away having just left school (the term gap year hadn’t been invented then!).

*Brendon Barton 1968* – *I soon moved into the farmhouse and a comfortable bed*

*Harvest was still carried out the old-fashioned way*

Months passed and the harder I worked the more I knew an Exmoor outdoor life was for me. However, it came to an abrupt end when one day I walked into the kitchen to find my parents sitting there telling me it was time to return home. I was devastated and asked Dick why he hadn’t told me they were coming. “I knew you’d hide up on the moor,” he’d replied – and he was right! Although I was pleased to see my parents I pleaded with them to let me stay. Dick, in the first of his subtle acts of persuasion that I can recall, asked me to help him look at a horse in the barn. There was no horse, instead we sat and talked about our time together before he reminded me that my home was with my parents and, in time, running our family business. Don’t forget, he’d said, there’s a room here always available so why not come down for lambing next spring. To ensure that I did he added, “You’d be doing me a great favour, I could do with your help.”

*The barn in 1968 where I had my first taste of farming*

Lorna, too, had her subtle ways of persuasion. “Your parents have said that you can come here for Christmas if you’d like to. We’ll be on our own and some young company would be good. It’ll be just the three of us.” She’d also boxed up the bantam chicks that I’d been caring for so that “you can carry on farming at home.” After that first Christmas I visited them both for many years, helping on the farm whenever I could, and exchanging letters and phone calls. They were always my first port of call when I was having difficulties, feeling down or just wanting to celebrate with them. Life hill-farming is hard, the weather often unmerciful and the hours long but there are also the pleasures of being part of a small tight-knit community that will help one another whatever the reason. Leading by example, they instilled in me a love of farming and hard work, a sense of duty, generosity of spirit and kindness. I will leave it to others to decide whether they succeeded or not! From them, I also acquired an even deeper love for being outdoors regardless of the weather and especially in remote, wild landscapes. Little did I know then that these skills would be put to the test when, aged forty, I began my career change to follow my outdoor dream, or that Exmoor would still play such an important part of my life today.

*The bantam chicks that Lorna sent back home with me, 1968*

Dick and Lorna French died just before the Millenium and the farm was sold to another local farming family, some of whom I’ve now known for almost sixty years. Because of that, I still on occasion visit Brendon Barton and sit in the kitchen drinking tea to discuss farming and, of course, putting the world to rights. A bonus is that Maria, the new ‘Lorna’ has been creating an extensive garden around the farmhouse, so we have gardening in common too, as well as a lifetime of shared memories. It would be another fifteen years and then as a man, before I would meet my other mentor couple. Cyril Heber Percy and his wife Pamela’s lives were worlds apart from Dick and Lorna’s but there were some similarities too. Part 2 tells their story.

Have you had a mentor or mentored someone? What does it take for someone to become a mentor? Our parents have probably the greatest influence on our lives so why does a mentor s role take on such importance? Let’s hear your story either in the comments below or, if you prefer, by using the Get in Touch tab at the top of this page. Thanks to Diane Highton for posing the question that triggered this blog!

* The deserted cottage still stands in splendid isolation hidden away behind the trees, albeit now as a ruin. It has a fascinating history and has been the subject of much research in recent years. Take a look at the website devoted to the story of Hoar Oak Cottage

A Hidden Exmoor Walk

Posted on March 20, 2016 by johnshortlandwriter

I have misgivings about sharing this walk for it is a favourite of mine: in the 48 years that I have known it I have rarely met anyone other than those that work the land here. Do I want to encourage others to discover its beauty? I’m not sure.

This circular walk begins with the open expanses of Brendon Common but follows more sheltered winding lanes before descending through beech woodland to Rockford and the East Lyn River. A steep climb past Brendon church returns you to the moor. How long does it take? There’s no easy answer to this – allow two hours although experience tells me there are so many distractions along the way, including the Rockford Inn, that it can take much, much longer. Whether you want a quick sprint or a leisurely amble good supportive footwear is essential as is the ability to climb hefty hills.

Brendon Common

There is plentiful parking at Scobhill Gate, the cattle grid on the B3223 that denotes the westernmost boundary of Brendon Common. From here walks radiate across the 2000 acres of heather moorland but our route takes us over the cattle grid into farmed country and turns right by the hairpin bends at Brendon Manor Stables.

Scobhill Gate

After a few hundred yards the road, which is flanked by hedges of hazel, ash, furze, bramble and bilberry (known locally as wurts), meets Gratton Lane. This is very much ‘home’ territory for me, for it is here at Brendon Barton that I arrived as a lad to work and play in 1968. Opposite the farm there are fine views of Brendon church and in the far distance Countisbury Common and the sea.

Brendon Barton 1968

Brendon Church 1968 (2) copyright.jpg

Walking along Gratton Lane is lovely at any time of the year but is at its best in spring when the beech hedges are bursting into leaf and primroses and bluebells nestle at their feet. These banks are an ancient method of providing shelter, as well as a barrier to livestock, from the fierce gales and snowstorms that sweep in from the Atlantic. The banks stand about five feet in height, lined with stone with the beech planted above.

Gratton Lane

Just as the lane starts to descend it enters woodland and it is here – just past the warning sign denoting the ford that crosses the road – that a footpath is taken to the left. The path follows a pretty stream as it tumbles over rocks down to join the East Lyn River. It is here that the unwary walker can also take a tumble as the path crosses outcrops of rock that become quite slippery when damp. This stream has everything a larger one would have – cascades, waterslides, ferns growing from niches – but all in miniature. Despite its diminutive size it once powered a sawmill. Waterfalls (2) copyright.jpg

The mill has long been a ruin and is now fenced for safety but the rusting ironwork is still visible. Just beyond the old building the path joins the road. Turn left and follow the lane to the hamlet of Rockford. You are now walking in the Brendon valley with its beechwoods clinging to the steep hills high above, home to a number of rare rowan trees (Sorbus) unique to the area. The East Lyn River is a major river; when water levels are low it is difficult to imagine its ferocity when in spate. In 1952 it destroyed bridges, houses and lives as it passed through the valley culminating in the flood disaster at Lynmouth where thirty-four people lost their lives and over one hundred houses were destroyed. The Rockford Inn is a good place to stop for a beer; they also serve cream teas. Just make sure that you put the cream on the scone before the jam in the Exmoor tradition! It is possible to extend the walk to Watersmeet (where there is a National Trust tearoom) by crossing the river.

The Old Mill nr Rockford

East Lyn River

Once past Rockford the road starts to climb until it reaches Brendon church. The hill is a killer – it’s not called Church Steep for nothing! The church which nestles into the hill and looks out across the combes looks as if it has been there for centuries. In reality, it was moved stone by stone from nearby Cheriton in 1738. It is simply decorated inside but has some attractive stained glass. Brendon Barton, passed earlier, can be seen from the steps of the church. Follow the lane back to the farm; from there retrace the original route back to Scobhill Gate.

Brendon Church (5) copyright.jpg

Brendon Barton, view from the church

Happy walking!

Exmoor is a National Park in the southwest of England and straddles the counties of Devon and Somerset. Apart from miles of wonderful moorland walks, it also has the highest sea cliffs in England, pretty villages and spectacular wildlife including the majestic Red Deer. Native Exmoor ponies roam the open moor. Now a rare breed they remain virtually unchanged from pre-history.

2014 in Review: July – December

Posted on January 3, 2015 by johnshortlandwriter

Christmas has been and gone, even the New Year is a few days old. A time of old traditions and also some new ones – one of which is the review of the year past. The first six months can be found by clicking here; now for the next six.

This is the time of feasting, of plenty but in days gone by the essential time of year was harvest. Without a successful gathering of the corn life during winter would be tough for country folk. Harvest, which starts here in July, is still one of the busiest times of the farming year and despite modern machinery replacing many of the labouring jobs in many ways the task remains unchanged. As a young man I helped on what must have been one of the last farms to harvest in the ‘old way’. Working from dawn to dusk, it was hard but we didn’t stop until we knew “all was safely gathered in”…

I tend to avoid Exmoor, England’s smallest National Park, in August for it can become quite busy with visitors (I’m selfish and don’t want to share it with others). This year was different and I arrived in glorious sunshine, the perfect time to see the heather moorland which is in full bloom this month, a purple haze. To keep it looking as perfect as in the image below, the moors are set alight, an ancient practice known as ‘swaling’. The resultant new growth provides food for the sheep, the wild ponies and the other wild birds and animals that roam the moor…

Horses play an important part in my life and in September the Burghley Horse Trials take place. The trials feature three elements of horsemanship: dressage, show jumping and cross-country. It takes a brave horse and rider to tackle the latter element for the course is very testing and some of the jumps huge. Accidents do occur, fortunately rarely seriously but when there is a problem with perhaps a fence needing repair, part of my job is to prevent other competitors from running into them. Stop That Horse! lets on what happens ‘behind the scenes’…

The story of Lorna Doone and John Ridd, the man who saved her is a well-known and much loved tale of romance and treachery, set on 17th century Exmoor. Many of the places and people – but not all – that feature in the book do or did exist. In October I explored what is fact and what is myth? Click here to find out…

There can be fewer more bizarre buildings in the world than The Pineapple in Scotland. In November I was lucky enough to stay there and to explore the other fascinating and ruined buildings associated with it. I also found time to travel further afield and take in the spectacular scenery around Loch Lomond…

Rummaging in a cupboard at home in December I came across some old photographs that had been inherited many years earlier. Noticing a signature and doing some research turned into something far more exciting than I ever could have imagined – it turned out to be ‘a great game’…

2015 looks to be a good year with a number of exciting projects and travel ahead giving plentiful topics for blogging. May it be a good one for you too. Thank you for your support and may the New Year bring you all health and happiness.

The Story of Lorna Doone – just a myth?

Posted on October 24, 2014 by johnshortlandwriter

Lorna Doone is the tale of a young boy, John Ridd, whose father is killed by Scottish outlaws – the Doones. Exiled to a remote part of Exmoor (which is in England’s West Country and now a National Park), they rob travellers and local farms. Living amongst them is the pretty Lorna Doone, kidnapped by them as an infant. John enters the forbidden Doone Valley by climbing a steep and difficult waterfall, the ‘waterslide’, and meets Lorna for the first time. Some years later he rescues her and as they marry Lorna is shot through the window of Oare church by the wicked Carver Doone. John pursues him and after a struggle Carver perishes in a bog. Lorna recovers from her wounds and so the story has a happy ending.

Oare Church

But is it true? The simple answer to the question is that the answer isn’t simple. When Richard Dodderidge Blackmore wrote his historic novel in the late 1800’s he mixed fact with fiction and local legend with the names of local people.

Blackmore placed the Doone stronghold beside Badgworthy (pronounced ‘Badgery’) Water. There is a deserted medieval village beside a tributary in Hoccombe Combe and it is very probable that this is the site for the ruins were still visible in Blackmore’s day. However the Waterslide is not found there but in another side valley, Lank Combe. Nowhere as sheer as described it is, however, an impressive sight with its three smooth slabs of rock especially when the river is in spate. I like to think that he also had in mind the waterslide at Watersmeet a few miles further downstream which would be much more of a challenging climb.

The waterslide at Watersmeet

Because the precise location of the Doone Valley is uncertain it is no longer described as such on maps, the Ordnance Survey now describing the area more accurately as Doone Country. A rewarding walk can be taken along the whole length of Badgworthy Water starting from Brendon Common by parking the car at Brendon Two Gates. Here there are wide views of both the open heather moorland and also the grass moor of the Royal Forest ‘improved’ in the nineteenth century. Badgworthy Water changes in character along its length from fast running rapids to smoother, deeper pools.

Badgworthy Water

The above walk is rugged and long but a more gentle approach is from Malmsmead with its much photographed packhorse bridge and ford that also denotes the county border between Devon and Somerset.

Malmsmead where Badgworthy Water crosses the road

Further along the lane nestles the village of Oare and the church where Lorna and John wed. Inside is a memorial to Blackmore, a smaller copy of the one in Exeter cathedral. A memorial can also be seen to the Snow family who lived at Oare manor and also feature in Lorna Doone. It is recorded that as Blackmore didn’t write kindly of the Snows he was afterwards much disliked by them. Other local characters also existed: Tom Faggus, the highwayman was – in real life – from nearby North Molton and Ridd is still a local surname.

Oare village and church nestle in a deep combe

Is Lorna Doone a story based on truth? That is for the reader to decide, perhaps after visiting Mother Meldrum’s cave in the Valley of Rocks, for both are mentioned in Blackmore’s book.