Following the stream down, I come at length to
Exford. Here the aspect of the country begins to change; it
is not all brown desolate heath; there are green flowery
meadows by the river, and some wood. A little further down
and the Exe will be a woodland stream; but of all the rest of
my long walk I shall only say that to see the real beauty of
this stream one must go to Somerset. From Exford to Dulverton
it runs, singing aloud, foam-flecked, between high hills
clothed to their summits in oak woods: after its union with
the Barle it enters Devonshire as a majestic stream, and flows
calmly through a rich green country; its wild romantic charm
has been left behind.
The uninformed traveller, whose principle it is never to look
at a guide-book, is surprised to find that the small village
of Exford contains no fewer than half a dozen inns. He asks
how they are kept going; and the natives, astonished at his
ignorance, proceed to enlighten him. Exford is the
headquarters of the stag-hunt: thither the hunters flock in
August, and spend so much money during thir brief season that
the innkeepers grow rich and fat, and for the rest of the year
can afford to doze peacefully behind their bars. Here are the
kennels, and when I visited them they contained forty or fifty
couples of stag-hounds. These are gigantic foxhounds,
selected for their great size from packs all over the country.
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