In Swymbridge Church there is a monument of a youthful Chichester, 'whose portrait is given, and whom the bird of Jove is represented as carrying off to serve Ganymede in heaven. Turning back towards the coast, the thought of Sir Robert Chichester, son of Lord Chichester's eldest brother, is suggested. For tradition says that he is forced to haunt the shore near Martinhoe, weaving traces out of sand (_the_ occupation of aristocratic ghosts in North Devon!), and, having fixed them to his carriage, he must drive up the face of the crag and through a narrow cleft at the top, known as Sir Robert's Road. 'The natives believe that they hear his voice of rage as he labours at his nightly task; and at other times they fancy that they see him scouring over Challacombe Downs, followed by a pack of hounds, whose fiery tails gleam in the gathering darkness.' The descent into Parracombe is almost alarming, as the village is at the bottom of a valley with precipitous sides. Driving down-hill, the ground falls away so sharply that just beyond the horses' heads one sees only space. The old and interesting church of St Helen is Early English; it is now used only on rare occasions, and a new church has been built close by. St Helen's keeps its old chancel screen, but it is in a mutilated condition, for the rood-beam was taken away to be cut up into bench-ends! Over all this valley hovers the charm of an overflowing abundance, which particularly shows itself in the pleasant gardens of fruit and flowers, and the overgrown hedges with their rich decoration of berries, crimson leaves, and purple and golden flowers. Directly north is the bit of coast that Kingsley so vividly described: 'What a sea-wall they are, those Exmoor hills! Sheer upward from the sea a thousand feet rise the mountains; and as we slide and stagger lazily along before the dying breeze, through the deep water which never leaves the cliff, the eye ranges, almost dizzy, up some five hundred feet of rock, dappled with every hue, from the intense dark of the tide-line; through the warm green and brown rock-shadows, out of which the horizontal cracks of the strata loom black, and the breeding gulls show like lingering snowflakes; up to the middle cliff, where delicate grey fades into pink, pink into red, red into glowing purple; up to where the purple is streaked with glossy ivy wreaths, and black-green yews; up to where all the choir of colours vanishes abruptly on the mid-hill, to give place to one yellowish-grey sheet of upward down, sweeping aloft smooth and unbroken, except by a lonely stone, or knot of clambering sheep, and stopped by one great rounded waving line, sharp-cut against the brilliant blue. The sheep hang like white daisies upon the steep; and a solitary falcon rides, a speck in air, yet far below the crest of that tall hill. Now he sinks to the cliff edge, and hangs quivering, supported, like a kite, by the pressure of his breast and long curved wings, against the breeze.'