NOOKS AND CORNERS FROM PORT ISAAC TO THE VALE OF LANHERNE
Port Isaac and the Fishing: Pentire: St. Enodoc and the Sand: Lovebond's Bridge: Wadebridge and Egloshayle: "Jan Tergeagle": Menhirs: Padstow and the Hobby Horse: Prehistoric Inhabitants: Harlyn Bay: Trevose Head: Constantine: A Fogou: Bedruthan: The Vale of Lanherne.
Port Isaac
So long and so steep is the hill between Port Gavernoe and Port Isaac that the Cornishman, though not noted for kindness to animals, does not often ask his horse to negotiate it, and indeed these Cornish hills are a sovereign specific for nerves. No one who has been up and down them, behind one of the surefooted country-bred ponies, can fear any ordinary descent.
From the hill the view of the little grey town is hardly inviting. It lies huddled together as if it had slipped down the sides of the cleft in which it rests. Very crooked are its narrow roads; all sideways, askew and anyhow the small houses; there are no gardens, hardly any backyards; and at certain seasons of the year young and stalwart men seem to be conspicuous by their absence. "They'm all away at work and they do belong to go, for there edn't no money here, only the fishin'," is the explanation.
Fishing is indeed the reason for Port Isaac's existence and for that of her smaller neighbours, Port Gaverne and Port Quin, each of which lies at the head of a similar sandy inlet. Port Isaac, it is true, has a harbour deep enough to admit steamers of 150 tons burden, and most of the Delabole slates are shipped from here, but fishing is the main interest. "Cousin Jack" is a strict Sabbatarian, but not so his rival from the east coast. It is bad enough to see the fish caught in waters he looks upon as his, but particularly so under the circumstances; and, as a consequence, he has sometimes taken the law into his own hands. "If à must fishey," says he, "leave en fishey fair," and one Monday morning when the strangers endeavoured to land eight boatloads that had been captured during Sunday night, his patience reached its limit. "All that day gulls swarmed in the little harbour, and thereafter the place reeked of decaying fish. So now the east countrymen deem it wiser to land their Sunday's catch elsewhere."
Is it possible that this nook of the coast also reeks somewhat of decaying fish? What of it? Many a fishing town lies ahead, and they were not called "Fishy-gissy" and "Polstink" for nothing. May be—as you are told when you get a whiff of the gasworks—it is a healthy smell; any way, healthy or no, like those same gasworks it is not to be denied.
Pentire
"From Padstow Point to Hartland Light,
Is a watery grave by day or night"
runs the country saying, voicing the fear that haunts every fisherman's cottage along the coast; and if the children, in their carelessness, lay a loaf cut-side down, so that it looks like a boat turned bottom upwards, the elders shiver and bid them right it at once. Pentire, which stands out at one side of the estuary above low-lying Padstow, has two points, the Eastern and the Western Horns; and a view up the entire coast of Cornwall and onward to blunt Trevose that should not be missed. On the eastern point of the bay is a well-defined cliff castle. It is evident that the triple mounds and ditches were for purposes of defence, but neither local history nor tradition has a word about those by whom they were built. This only is certain, that the folk must have been desperate who came to make their last stand on this wild and lonely spot.
On the headland is a cave in some way connected with "Cruel Coppinger," who, by his brutality for years, dominated the western coast (though he was perhaps less seen at Padstow than elsewhere). His smuggling lugger, the Black Prince, was known from Morwenstow to Newquay, and many are the wild deeds—he did not even stop short of murder—recorded of this desperado, from the day he was landed on these shores to that other day when, the measure of his iniquities being full, he set sail never to return. Not that all smuggling was undertaken in so lawless a fashion. It was rather an agreeable diversion spiced with adventure, and gentleman, parson, farmer, and peasant all lent a hand. "Cruel Coppinger's" is not the only cave along this coast that is said to have been haunted by "spirits"—as indeed they were, and by silks and lace as well! Nor were the hiding-places only those provided by Nature. The pulling down of old houses has revealed many a hollow in the thick walls and under the flagged floors; there is even a story that one great gentleman used to conceal a store of illicit goods—in his carriage!
Relics of an older civilisation have been dug up on these headlands. It is possible, before the sand swept in overwhelmingly, that the coast may have supported a larger population. Roman coins and beads, strange blue iridescent glass, and bits of red glaze, the glaze of Samian ware, have been found; and among these things articles of a yet earlier date, as for instance, a roughly made coral necklace thought to be British or earlier.
St. Enodoc and the Sand
From this point westward the coast has been afflicted with sandstorms, churches have been buried, towns obliterated by the drifting particles. Blowing steadily for three days at a time, the frightened people have left their houses to escape suffocation, and fled inland only on their return to find the face of the country changed beyond recognition. St. Enodoc Church, during one of these visitations, was covered with sand above the level of the roof, only the thirteenth-century broach spire remaining above the waste to indicate the whereabouts of the building. In order to perform service, the parson, after some digging, managed to enter by the roof; and it may be wondered why on that lonely waste a service should be required. It was not, however, a matter of saving souls, but of obtaining tithes. About forty years ago the church was excavated, and it now lies in a deep trench. The path is lined with a curious collection of stone mortars or measures, which however are not ecclesiastical. Near by rises the desolate Bray Hill, under which, early last century, storms having shifted the sands, the ruins of what is thought to be an oratory came to light.
The churches of St. Minver and St. Kew are both interesting. The former contains three octagonal slate piers supporting pointed arches, the remains of a fine oak rood screen, and—an article which seems nowadays somewhat out of place, but no doubt is stored there against destruction or oblivion—the stocks. St. Kew lies in a lovely wooded valley, and is one of the finest churches in Cornwall, but is not often visited. Fine woodwork is to be seen in the cradle roof, while the chancel screen was carefully modelled on one of earlier date. The communion cup is Elizabethan, but more interesting is a glass egg-shaped bowl with silver mounts of 1598. When Bodmin Church was restored (1472) it seems to have sold its fine old windows to any church that would buy, and St. Kew was fortunate enough to secure one, that in the north chapel. Not far from here is Polrode, where, serving as part of the bridge, is a good, though mutilated, example of a roundheaded cross with beaded angles. At St. Endellion, a little north of Kew, is a stoup carved with the arms of Roscarrock, Chenduit, and Pentire—and heraldic stoups are rare.
Lovebond's Bridge
On the road to Wadebridge is an earthwork known as Castle Killibury or Kelly Rounds, which was known to have been in existence—and out of repair—as early as 1478. Commanding the road down to the ford it was evidently once a place of considerable strength. This ford was not bridged until the reign of Edward IV., when a fine bridge with a span of seventeen arches was built by a man named Lovebond. At first it was so narrow that only pack-horses could cross, and over every pier protecting angles were placed for the need of pedestrians. The bridge was 320 ft. long, and the finest of its kind in England. It has been widened, but its character carefully preserved. For a long time it was believed that on account of the shifting sands the piers rested on packs of wool. Examination, however, has proved the story an invention, for they are on a rock foundation.
It was over this bridge that the broken Royalists hurried in 1646, a long disorderly straggle of men and guns and baggage, with Cromwell, grimly patient, at their heels. Had there been union and discipline in the forces, they would have been no easy conquest; but there had long been dissension among the leaders, and the condition of the common soldiers was both wretched and demoralised. As Clarendon records, they were "feared by their friends, scorned by their enemies, terrible only in plunder and resolute in running away." With such troops as these nothing could be done. Sir Richard Grenville, tyrannical and quarrelsome, had been committed to Launceston gaol, Prince Charles himself had left the country, and only the loyal Hopton was left. Once across the Camel and the soldiers were penned into the western half of the peninsula; but a spark of that old spirit which had won so many victories for the king was shown in a skirmish at St. Columb Major. It was the last flicker of life. In March the commissioners met at Tresillian Bridge, terms were agreed on, and the Royalist army disbanded on honourable conditions.
Wadebridge and Egloshayle
Wadebridge is a little market town, so little that it has not even a resident dentist! It has, however, an air of life which is unusual in Cornwall; but that may be partly due to the cheery little streams that run through the open gutters of the main streets. Here you buy chickens by the pound and new-laid eggs—sometimes—for a halfpenny each; but the place is neither beautiful nor interesting. Very different is Egloshayle, the "church by the river," a name which it deserves, for the water washes against the fence of the haunted graveyard. Historians tell us that the Loveybound who was vicar here in 1462 and who built the south aisle and fine three-stage western tower must not be confounded with the Lovebond of about the same date who built the bridge, that indeed it is a case of "It wasn't Mr. William Shakespeare who wrote the plays, but another gentleman of the same name." The church is about a mile up the river from Wadebridge, and stands in a group of chestnuts. The sculptured stone pulpit is of the fifteenth century, and in the roof of the south aisle is some good oak of the same date. The hood-mouldings of the tower doorway are ornamented with angels bearing shields, on one of which is cut the name "I. Loveybound" and the device of three hearts banded together with a fillet.
On the other side of Wadebridge lies St. Breock, where "John Tregeagle of Trevorder, Esqr., 1679," is buried. 'Tis said that at his death, owing to some inaccuracy in his accounts—he was steward of the Robartes' estates—a poor man was sued for money that he had already paid. By the agency of the parson, who seems to have been some sort of a wizard, Tregeagle was induced to return to earth and give evidence for the defence, which evidence proved conclusive. Cornwall is full of legends about Tregeagle, who seems to have been a hard man and an oppressive steward; but no doubt, as often happens, the legends are of earlier date than the individual to whom they are momentarily attached. The wraith who gave them birth has faded out of living memory, is indeed dead; but like disturbed but sleepy birds, they have quickly settled again on some character still bulking largely in the public eye.
Menhirs
Beyond the little church the ground rises to St. Breock Downs, which are 700 ft. above sea level and strewn with prehistoric remains. Nine big stones in a straight line are followed by a menhir, a disposition often seen on Dartmoor; and at Pawton is a dolmen called the Giant's Quoit, an exceptionally fine example. The menhir is known as the Old Man, probably from houl mæn, a sun stone. The word "man" or "men" or "maiden" when met with in the west invariably means a stone, but those responsible for our latter-day legends were often unaware of this.
By way of the broad sunshiny estuary, which is as beautiful when the tide is out and the distant gulls stand like a string of pearls on the edge of the yellow sand, as when the whole expanse is one stretch of dimpling blue water, we come to Padstow. At Little Petherick, which is halfway, there is a copy of the 1684 edition of Foxe's "Book of Martyrs," and the south doorway of the church is believed to have been stolen from the ruined edifice on Constantine Bay—at any rate there is no mention in the churchwardens' accounts of any payment made.
Padstow and the Hobby Horse
A short distance from the mouth of the estuary and looking up the blue reaches to the open sea lies the little port of Padstow. In early days it was so near the Atlantic that wandering Danes (901) came and plundered its monastery of St. Petrock, and later the sand blocked up the wide mouth of the harbour forming the Doom Bar, and leaving only a narrow channel on the west. But the little place with its narrow streets all running uphill, its unprotected sharp-cornered quay, and its dominant manor-house, still contrives to exist. It is at its best perhaps when stress of weather has driven in the fishing fleet, and there is a forest of masts clustered by the wharves. On such occasions milk and bread are hard to come by, for there will be five hundred extra mouths to feed.
A quaint survival of the ancient May Day celebrations exists in the Hobby Horse, a wooden circle with a dress of blackened sail-cloth, a horse's head, and a prominent tail. This is carried through the town, the bearers meanwhile chanting a song which, in spite of an old tune and refrain, is full of topical allusions.
Halfway up one of the steep roads that lead out into the country is the beautifully situated Prideaux Place. The family, though of respectable antiquity, has not taken any leading part in the history of the county, but in the house are some interesting pictures, a Vandyke, and some early Opies. When the old home of the Grenvilles was finally dismantled, the great staircase was brought from Stowe and set up here to be a link with the immemorial past.
Round Padstow the land is fertile, very fine wheat being grown; and it is believed that a certain farmer pays his rent with the produce of a single field of asparagus. It is astonishing that more of the succulent edible is not grown, or that the sandhills of the coast are not utilised as they were round Southampton for growing strawberries. A fortune may lurk in the sand, the devastating sand, or, if that is too much to ask, at least it may give back more than it has taken. But the farmers are disinclined for change, and if you ask why there are so few milch kine and why vegetables and other amenities of life are so difficult to get, you are told: "Spoase they'm warm men, got a long stocking. They don't trouble."
Prehistoric
Along the estuary to the north is a way which, in windy weather, is dangerous, but at other times gives a succession of lovely views and which brings the walker past Rockferry (mentioned as early as 1337) to Stepper Point, with its white day-mark. The cliffs for a little are high and not too safe, but Tregudda Gorge with its amethyst and topaz crystals, its flints and worked slates, is a lonely and a beautiful spot. The Cornish tell strange stories of these places, stories of the "little people" whom they believe to be fairies,[1] but who are probably the neolithic dwarf race which is said to have inhabited parts of the country. They are also firm believers in psychic faculty, though they call it by other older names. A man interested in such matters met a London friend at the Padstow terminus. Aware that his friend was supposed to be clairvoyant, he without comment put a fragment of bone that he had found on an old kitchen midden in the other's hand and asked him what he saw. "Now, this is interesting," said the other, "for I see walking away before me a little brown man dressed in skins. On his feet are brogues of hide with the hair inside."
The friends were walking by the estuary and the tide was in. "He has got into a queer sort of basket boat covered with hides and is paddling about among a lot of other little brown people in similar boats. Ah, there is a forest over there." The antiquarian looked across the discoloured line of the Doom Bar to the sandhills opposite, but not a tree was to be seen. He remembered afterwards, however, that many centuries ago a forest, now submerged, had occupied the eastern side of the Camel estuary.
So sparsely inhabited is this coast that the worked flints and arrow-heads of that bygone people still lie on the undisturbed surface of the rocky land. The flints are so sharp, so clean, that it seems their owners can have only just laid them down. And we must remember that this is not a flint country. Every sharp atom was brought from far away in the days when the rivers had to be forded and there were only paths over the waste. Yet, onward from Tregudda Gorge, there are any number to be found. Moreover after Trevone—an uninteresting place where some bathing fatalities have occurred—we come, in broad and beautiful Harlyn Bay, to the necropolis of this vanished race.
Harlyn Bay
In 1900, when digging for the foundations of a house, an oblong slate kist, lying north and south, and containing a "crouched" burial, was found. The drift sand lay some 8 to 10 ft. above the grave, within which the skeleton lay on his side, his hands over his eyes, his knees bent under him in what seems to us an attitude of devotion; as he lay the first ray of the rising sun would strike athwart his face. Further investigation showed that the discovered kist was only one of a group of interments, and that the graves covered some 90 ft., giving signs of a long continued series of burials, rather than of a great number within a short period. The date of interment is considered to be that of the later iron age, no great antiquity it is true, but some few thousand years ago. The kind and courteous owner, Colonel Bellers, allows access to this prehistoric graveyard—locally known as the Boneries—and near by is a small museum for the preservation of interesting finds. Some of the kists have been left in situ and, to preserve them from wind and weather, have been covered with a sort of cucumber frame, and the stranger looks down through the glass on to the brown bones in their enduring coffins of slate. Here lies a chieftain, for over his kist were heaped rough lumps of quartz crystal; here a mother and child, little bones and bigger; and here, in a heterogeneous mixture of all sorts and sizes, is a hint of tragedy. Were they the result of a battle—of a cannibal feast—or of justice done!
A tooth from this strange and lonely graveyard was enclosed in a little box and sent to a friend in London with instructions to place it unopened in the hands of a clairvoyant. No information was vouchsafed with the tooth, and the mystified go-between was only asked to take down what was said, and this he did. At first the clairvoyant seemed rather puzzled. "I can see a wide, sandy bay with rocks and cliffs, a rough tumbling sea, and at the head of the bay a dense wood; but the people are not like any I've ever seen before. They seem to be skin-clad savages with black hair. There are quite a lot of them. One is running across the sands and others are rushing after him; they have weapons in their hands and he is fleeing in deadly terror. Ah, he has run into the wood—now they've all disappeared!"
Was the last scene in that prehistoric man's life being re-enacted before the clairvoyant's gaze? Had he contravened his fellows' unknown laws and so been hunted to his death?
After a little the seer continued: "I see the bay again, but it's a little different, more sand and fewer trees. Some men in present-day dress are standing by a hole in the ground. They——" and a description was given of the people who had been present at the opening of the kist. "I think the hole is a grave, though it seems too short to be that" (the kist being a "crouched" burial was, of course, much shorter than an ordinary grave), "at any rate there are bones in it."
Of the gold ornaments found in Cornwall the most remarkable are the two torques found near Harlyn; bronze fibulæ have also been found here, but a good many of these finds are now in the Truro Museum. Harlyn, in spite of the grisly nature of its chief attraction, is an incomparable bay of wide firm sand, rock pools, and low safe cliffs. As it is sheltered by Trevose Head, the bathing is safe. A little way along the cliffs is a disused fish-cellar, over the door of which is the motto: "Lucri dulcis odor"—sweet is the smell of gold! But the fish have left these shores and the big black boats—boats that are oddly reminiscent of the Viking's ships at Christiania—lie rotting in the sun.
Trevose Head
Trevose Head (lighthouse), blunt and rounded, with an ear on each side of its broad head, is a somewhat eerie place. On its western slope is a large and sinister blow-hole, and much of the land seems to have slipped a little and to be slipping more. It is here, by the rabbit burrows, that so many worked flint arrow-heads and fish spears have been found; while on its eastern side are caves inaccessible to the ordinary person, but if report says truly once of great use to the smuggler. The cliffs are of catacleuse, a dark and durable stone, of which on the cave side there are quarries.
Beyond Trevose Head, with its view from Cape Cornwall to Lundy Isle, the land curves inward past the rocky ridges and big rolling sand-dunes of Constantine. A shepherd's family is said to have held for many generations a cottage on Constantine under the lord of Harlyn Manor by the annual payment of a Cornish pie made of limpets, raisins, and sweet herbs. Food is cheap in Cornwall, but wages are correspondingly low. A farm pays its labourers—it calls them the cowman, the bullockman, and the horseman—from 13s. 6d. to 18s. a week, and with that, though conditions differ a little on different farms, they generally give a cottage, 100 ft. of potato ground, the run of a pig on the land, 100 battens of tamarisk wood—almost the only wood on this part of the coast—and, most prized of all, the right to let lodgings. On this the labourers sometimes manage to save. In one absolutely authentic instance, a couple, labourer and farm-servant, who married at twenty-one and eighteen, contrived to rear a healthy family of three and before they were forty to save enough to buy a piece of land, build a lodging-house, and go into business on their own account. "Never refused a day's work in my life," said the woman, "but we lived on what he brought home, and saved what I made." And what he brought home had been from thirteen to fifteen shillings a week. "Nor I never bought any tinned stuff," she said. "There's a deal of money goes that way, if the young women nowadays 'ud only believe it. Why, a tin of pears, where's the nourishment in that, and think of the price. Nearly a shilling gone."
And that woman baked her own bread, did, not only her own "bit of washin'," but that of the one or two houses in the neighbourhood, went out charing and cleaning, and took lodgers! They were thrifty folk, never dreamed of buying a newspaper, and as a consequence had to save every scrap of letter-paper, grocery bags, and oddments in order to have the wherewithal to light the fire in the slab range. The pig was their great stand-by. His meat, frugally cut, distributed in pasties with a careful hand, lasted them the greater part of the year, and then there were the lodgers. The tourist is not over-welcome to the farmer on account of his carelessness with regard to gates. He lets the young stock in among the corn and passes on oblivious of the damage he has caused, but he is a godsend to the labourer's capable wife.
Constantine
Constantine is another lovely and lonely bay. The jagged ridges of stone run out at either end of the wide arc, a deep blue in sunlight, black in cloudy weather, and between them lies a rainbow beach of shells. The owners of the property have set their faces against hotels, and on the stretch of sand-dunes are only the ruins of a one-time wrecker's cottage, and a small black hut. The man who gave his name to the place was supposed to be a descendant of King Lear (here spelt Llyr), who was converted in his old age by the Padstow saint, Petrock. The sand which destroyed his oratory is also said to have destroyed a populous village, but seeing the desolation on every hand, this is a little difficult to believe. At any rate the neighbouring churches seem to have benefited by the saint's misfortune, for St. Merryn as well as Little Petherick gathered up any trifles she thought might come in useful, and the beautiful font at the former church is said to have been taken from her. One thing only was left to
"that ruined church
Whose threshold is the sacrificial stone
Of a forgotten people!"
Under the archway of the western door, a heavy-rounded lump, lies the old stone. It was probably a source of pride to Constantine ap Llyr. He had taken from the heathen their greatest treasure, their sacrificial stone, which had been brought from a distance, for there is no stone of that nature in the neighbourhood, and he had set it in his threshold where it should be trodden underfoot of men. And now the old church and the yet older stone lie alike forgotten, and there is peace.
On Constantine Island—again only so-called—a little, very ancient house was discovered some years ago. The walls were of slabs of stone and the greatest height of the interior was 7 ft. From the discovery of two hearth-stones, one inside and one on the outside of the building, it was thought that the place was only used as a dwelling in bad or cold weather, and that otherwise its prehistoric owner kept it as a storehouse. Unfortunately the little ruin has been removed piecemeal by the hungry visitor.
A Fogou
Not only are there many caverns along this coast, but several fogous or artificial caves have been discovered. These fogous may have been used for smuggling or as hiding-places in time of war, but the fact that some are obviously connected with old cliff castles and strongholds, points to a greater antiquity; in fact, they may have been prehistoric storehouses. In a secluded valley, near Porthcothan, a little further along this coast, is an interesting example. The cavern is 36 ft. long and about 6 ft. high, the breadth being about 5 ft. The sides are lined with rough stones, simply piled up, and the roof consists of stone slabs. From this chamber a passage leads to another similarly constructed. It is said to have been much longer, in fact over 1000 yards, one gallery leading to Trevethan, whence another opened on to the beach at Porthmear.
Bedruthan
To the south of Park Head, a fine cliff on which are several tumuli, is the Church of St. Eval, the tower of which was so useful a landmark that when it grew ruinous in 1727, some Bristol merchant subscribed towards the rebuilding. It is near Bedruthan Steps, where a fine shore is strewn with detached rocks and islands. One of the former is named "Queen Bess," from a fancied resemblance, ruff, farthingale and all, to the royal spinster; another "The Good Samaritan," because a vessel of that name was wrecked there. This vessel had been an East Indiaman laden with the silks and spices of a warmer clime, and a good deal of the cargo was saved, so much indeed that nowadays when a lass finds her finery growing the worse for wear, she says, "It is time for a Good Samaritan to come."
On the cliff above Redruthan Sands is an ancient earthwork known as Red Cliff Castle, which is supposed to have been British. It would be interesting to learn whether it is in any way connected with the numerous great caves which honeycomb its rock foundation. So far, however, no fogou has been discovered here.
Vale of Lanherne
From Mawgan Porth, the far-famed Vale of Lanherne lies inland some two miles or so, a contrast to the rough wild coast and its splintered rocks. Beyond the church and nunnery, in their peaceful setting of small-leaved Cornish elms, among the branches of which the rooks build above the little rippling stream, are the lovely woods of Carnanton. It used to be said that amid all the religious communities represented in Cornwall long ago, there was never a nunnery, but this is no longer the case. In the reign of Henry VII. an Arundell of Lanherne purchased Wardour Castle, in Wiltshire, and when his younger son Thomas, married a sister of Queen Catherine Howard, the old man settled on him the Wardour house and estate. In course of time the elder branch came to be represented by a daughter only, and she marrying her cousin of Wardour the estates were re-united. In 1794 Henry, eighth Lord Arundell of Wardour, gave the old home of his race—it had been in the family since 1231—to some English Theresian nuns, who had fled from Paris in fear of what was to come. The present house is not very old, though a part of it dates from 1580, which part contains a secret chamber, wherein a priest once lay concealed for some sixteen months. It is said that the silver sanctuary lamp in the convent chapel has burnt continuously and that the Roman Catholic services have been held without intermission since pre-Reformation days. A picture supposed to be by Rubens, "The Scourging of our Blessed Lord at the Pillar," is shown, also other reputed old masters. Adjoining the house is a little garden, used as a cemetery, in which three priests and several nuns have been buried, and which contains a tenth-century four-holed cross of Pentewan stone, the shaft of which is covered with interlaced work.
Mawgan Church, which is close to the nunnery, is remarkably rich in brasses, many of which are now attached to the old screen through the shameful ignorance of a late rector. There were here formerly some interesting palimpsest brasses of foreign workmanship, but large portions of these have been removed by the Arundells—whom they concerned—to Wardour Castle. On the south side of the churchyard is one of those pathetic memorials only too common along this coast. The white painted stern of a boat lies close to the convent wall, and on it is inscribed: "Here lie the bodies of ... who were drifted on shore in a boat, frozen to death, at Beacon Cove, in this parish, on Sunday, the 13th day of December, MDCCCXLVI." A beautiful Gothic cross of fifteenth-century work stands at the west end of the church. It is the most elaborate example of a lanthorn cross in Cornwall and contrasts well with the restored granite cross, dating from the earliest period of such monuments, which is to be seen in the additional churchyard.