CHAPTER II.
The wave shall flow o'er this lilye lea,
And Penny Stone fearfu' flee:
The Red Bank scar scud away dismay'd,
When Englond's in jeopardie.
Penny Stone: a Tradition of the Fylde.
It was a bonny day on the 5th of March, 1860, when I visited Norbreck, just before those tides came on which had been announced as higher than any for a century previous. This announcement brought thousands of people from the interior into Blackpool and other places on that coast. Many came expecting the streets to be invaded by the tide, and a great part of the level Fylde laid under water; with boats plying above the deluged fields, to rescue its inhabitants from the towers of churches and the tops of farmhouses. Knowing as little of these things as inland people generally do, I had something of the same expectation; but when I came to the coast, and found the people going quietly about their usual business, I thought that, somehow, I must be wrong. It is true that one or two farmers had raised their stacks several feet, and another had sent his "deeds" to Preston, that they might be high and dry till the waters left his land again; and certain old ladies, who had been reading the newspapers, were a little troubled thereby; but, in the main, these seaside folk didn't seem afraid of the tide.
During the two days when the sea was to reach its height, Blackpool was as gay, and the weather almost as fine, as if it had been the month of June, instead of "March—mony weathers," as Fylde folk call it. The promenade was lively with curious inlanders, who had left their "looms" at this unusual season, to see the wonders of the great deep. But when it came to pass that, because there was no wind to help in the water, the tide rose but little higher than common, many people murmured thereat, and the town emptied as quickly as it had filled. Not finding a deluge, they hastened landward again, with a painful impression that the whole thing was a hoax. The sky was blue, the wind was still, and the sun was shining clearly; but this was not what they had come forth to see.
Though some were glad of any excuse for wandering again by the shores of the many-sounding ocean, and bathing soul and body in its renovating charms, the majority were sorely disappointed. Among these, I met one old gentleman, close on seventy, who declared, in a burst of impassioned vernacular, that he wouldn't come to Blackpool again "for th' next fifty year, sink or swim." He said, "Their great tide were nowt i'th world but an arran' sell, getten up by lodgin'-heawse keepers, an' railway chaps, an' newspapper folk, an sich like wastril devils, a-purpose to bring country folk to th' wayter-side, an' hook brass eawt o' their pockets. It were a lond tide at Blackpool folk were after;—an they wanted to get it up i' winter as weel as summer. He could see through it weel enough. But they'd done their do wi' him. He'd too mich white in his e'en to be humbugged twice o'er i'th' same gate, or else he'd worn his yed a greyt while to vast little end. But he'd come no moor a seein' their tides, nor nowt else,—nawe, not if the whole hole were borne't away,—folk an' o,' bigod! He did not blame th' say so mich,—not he. Th' say would behave itsel' reet enough, iv a rook o' thievin' devils would nobbut let it alone, an' not go an' belie it shamefully, just for th' sheer lucre o' ill-getten gain, an' nowt else.... He coom fro' Bowton, an' he're beawn back to Bowton by th' next train; an' iv onybody ever see'd him i' Blackpool again, they met tell him on't at th' time, an' he'd ston a bottle o' wine for 'em, as who they were. They had a little saup o' wayter aside o' whoam that onsert their bits o' jobs i' Bowton reet enough. It're nobbut a mak ov a bruck; but he'd be content wi' it for th' futur—tide or no tide. They met tak their say, an' sup it, for him,—trashy devils!" Of course, this was an extreme case, but there were many grumblers on the same ground; and some amusement arising out of their unreasoning disappointment.
Down at Norbreck, about four miles north of Blackpool, though there was a little talk, here and there, about the curious throng at the neighbouring watering-place, all else was still as usual. "Owd England," the quaint farmer and fisherman of the hamlet, knew these things well. He had lived nearly seventy-four years on that part of the coast, and he still loved the great waters with the fervour of a sea-smitten lad. From childhood he had been acquainted with the moods and tenses of the ocean; and it was a rare day that didn't see him hobble to "low water" for some purpose or other. He explained to me that a tide of much lower register in the tables, if brought in by a strong wind, would be higher in fact than this one with an opposite wind; and he laughed at the fears of such as didn't know much about the matter. "Thoose that are fleyed," said he, "had better go to bed i' boats, an' then they'll ston a chance o' wakenin' aboon watter i'th' mornin'.... Th' idea of a whol teawn o' folk comin' to't seea for this. Pshaw! I've no patience wi' 'em!... Tide! There'll be no tide worth speykin' on,—silly divuls,—what I knaw. I've sin a fifteen-fuut tide come far higher nor this twenty-one foot eleven can come wi' th' wind again it,—sewer aw hev. So fittin it should, too.... But some folk knawn nowt o'th' natur o' things." Lame old Billy Singleton, a weather-worn fisherman, better known by the name of "Peg Leg," sat knitting under the window, with his dim eyes bent over a broken net. "Owd England" turned to him and said, "It wur a fifteen-fuut tide, Billy, at did o' that damage at Cleveless, where th' bevel-men are at wark." Old "Peg Leg" lifted his head, and replied, "Sewer it wor, Thomas; an', by the hectum, that wor a tide! If we'd hed a strang sou'-west wind, this wad ha' played rickin' too. I've heeard as there wor once a village, ca'd Singleton Thorpe, between Cleveless and Rossall, weshed away by a heigh tide, abaat three hundred year sin'. By the hectum, if that had happen't i' these days, Thomas, here wod ha' bin some cheeop trips an' things stirrin' ower it." He then went on mending his net.
Old bed-ridden Alice, who had spent most of the daylight of seven years stretched upon a couch under the window, said, "But it never could touch us at Norbreck,—nowt o't sooart. It's nearly th' heighest point i't country; isn't it, uncle?" "Sartiny," said "Owd England;" "but," continued he, "iv ye want to see summat worth rememberin', ye mun go to low watter. It'll be a rare seet. Th' seea 'll ebb far nor ever wor knawn i'th' memory o' mon; an' here'll be skeers an' rocks eawt at hesn't bin sin of a hundred year. Iv ye'd like to set fuut o' greawnd at nobody livin' mun walk on again, go daan with us at five o'clock o' Friday afternoon." I felt that this would indeed be an interesting sight, and I agreed to accompany the old fisherman to low water.
It was a cloudless, summer-like evening, when our little company of four set out from Norbreck, As we descended the cliffs, the track of the declining sun's beams upon the sea was too glorious for eyes to endure; and every little pool and rill upon the sands gleamed like liquid gold. A general hush pervaded the scene, and we could hear nothing but our own voices, and a subdued murmur of the distant waves, which made the prevailing silence more evident to the senses. "Owd England" led the way, with his favourite stick in hand, and a basket on his arm for the collection of a kind of salt water snail, called "whilks," which, he said, were "the finest heytin' of ony sort o' fish i'th world for folk i' consumptions." "Ye happen wouldn't think it," said he, "bod I wor i' danger o' consumption when I were a young mon." As we went on, now over a firm swelling sand-bank, now stepping from stone to stone through a ragged "skeer," and slipping into pools and channels left by the tide; or wading the water in reckless glee,—the fine old man kept steadily ahead, muttering his wayward fancies as he made towards the silver fringe that played upon the skirts of the sea. Now and then he stopped to point out the rocks, and tell their names. "That's th' Carlin' an' Cowt,—a common seet enough. Ye see, it's not far eawt.... Yon's 'Th' Mussel Rock,' deawn to so'thard. Ther's folk musselin' on it neaw, I believe. But we'll go that way on.... Tak raand bith sond-bank theer. Yaar noan shod for wadin'; an' this skeer's a varra rough un.... That's 'Penny Stone,' reight afore you, toward th' seea. Ye'll hev heeard o' 'Th' Penny Stone Rock,' mony a time, aw warnd. There wor once a public-heawse where it stons, i'th owd time; an' they sowd ale there at a penny a pot. Bod then one connot tell whether it wor dear or cheeop till they knaw what size th' pot wor—an' that I dunnot knaw. Mr. Thornber, o' Blackpool, hes written a book abaat this 'Penny Stone;' an' I believe at Mr. Wood, o' Bispham Schoo', hes one. He'll land it yo in a minute, aw warnd. Ye mun send little Tom wi' a bit ov a note. I never see 'Penny Stone' eawt so as to get raand it afore.... Neaw, yon far'ast, near low watter, is 'Th' Owd Woman's Heyd.' I've oft heeard on it, an' sometimes sin a bit o't tip aboon watter, bod I never see it dry i' my life afore,—an' I never mun again,—never." He then paddled on, filling his basket, and muttering to himself about this extraordinary ebb, and about the shortness of human life. The sun began to "steep his glowing axle in the western wave," and the scene was melting every moment into a new tone of grandeur. As we neared the water, the skeers were more rugged and wet, and, in a few minutes, we picked up a basketful of "whilks," and a beautiful variety of the sea anemone. After the sun had dipped, his lingering glory still crowded the western heavens, and seemed to deepen in splendour as it died upon the scene; while the golden ripples of the sea sang daylight down to rest. I never saw mild evening close over the world with such dreamy magnificence. We wandered by the water, till
Golden Hesperus
Was mounted high in top of heaven sheen.
And warned his other brethren joyeous
To light their blessed lamps in Jove's eternall house.
The tide was returning, and the air getting cold; so we went homewards, with wandering steps, in the wake of our old fisherman, by way of "Penny Stone Rock." There is a tradition all over the Fyltle that this rock, now only visible "on the utmost verge of the retired wave," marks the locality of a once famous-hostelry. Doubtless the tradition has some foundation in fact, as the encroachments of the sea upon this coast have been great, and sometimes disastrous, as in the destruction of the village of Singleton Thorpe, about a mile and a half to northward, in 1555. In the Rev. W. Thornber's interesting little volume, called "Penny Stone; or a Tradition of the Spanish Armada," he says of the old hostelry associated with this now submerged rock, "It was situated in a vale, protected from the sea by a barrier of sand-hills, at a short distance from a village called Singleton Thorpe, in the foreland of the Fylde, Lancashire. The site of the homestead was romantic, for it was in the very centre of a Druidical circle, described in a former tradition of the country, one of the huge stones of which reared its misshapen block near the porch. Into this stone a ring had been inserted by the thrifty Jock, its host, to which he was wont to attach the horses of his customers whilst they regaled themselves with a penny pot of his far-famed ale. Hither the whole country resorted on holidays, to spend them in athletic games, and to quaff the beloved beverage; nay, so renowned was the hostel, that 'merrie days of hie away to Penny Stone' was common even to a proverb. Here lay the secret enchantment of its popularity. The old distich tell us that
Hops, reformation, bays, and beer,
Came into England all in a year.
Ale was a beverage which had been well known in England, but in the reign of Henry VIII, it assumed a new name from the infusion of hops. Now, Jock's father, a cunning lout, was the first to commence in the Fylde this new, and at that time mysterious system of brewing, which so pleased the palate of his customers, that, while others sold their insipid malt liquor at twopence per gallon, he vended his ale at a penny per pot. Hence his hostel became known by the name of Penny Stone."
Such is the embodiment Mr. Thornber has given to the common tradition of "Penny Stone," which we were now approaching on our homeward way. As we drew near it, we saw five persons come over the shining sands towards the same spot; and we heard merry voices ringing in the air. I first made out my friend Hallstone, in his strong shooting-dress of light-coloured tweed, and attended by two favourite terriers, "Wasp" and "Snap." We met at the rock, and I found my friend accompanied by three "brethren of the mystic tie," one of whom was Mr. Thornber, the veritable chronicler of "Penny Stone." The latter had wandered thus far, with his companions, mainly to avail himself of this rare chance of climbing his pet legendary crag. His hands were full of botanical specimens from the sea, and, in his fervid way, he descanted upon them, and upon the geology of the coast, in a manner which, I am sorry to say, was almost lost to my uninitiated mind. I took the opportunity of inquiring where he found the materials for his tradition. He answered, that there was no doubt of its fundamental truth; "but, as to the details wrought into the story," said he, pointing to his forehead, with a laugh, "I found them in a cellar, deep down in the rock there."
The gloomy mass was surrounded by a little moat of salt water, nearly knee-deep, through which we passed; and then, clinging to its Triton locks of sea-weeds, we climbed to the slippery peaks of "Penny Stone." The stout lad in attendance drew a bottle from his basket; and then each in his way celebrated this unexpected meeting in that singular spot, where we should never meet together again.
I shall never forget the sombre splendour of the scene, nor the striking appearance of the group upon that lonely rock, when the rearward hues of day were yielding their room to "sad succeeding night." We lingered there awhile; but the air was cold, and the sea began to claim its own again. Four then returned by the cliffs to Blackpool, and the rest crossed the sands hastily to Norbreck, where, after an hour's chat by the old fisherman's great kitchen fire, I crept to bed, with the sound of the sea in my ears.