Photo by][Gibson & Sons.
Immediately north of Land's End is the truly charming little Sennen Cove, with its church-town nearly a mile inland. Formerly its beach was haunted by pixies and mermaids; now, in the summer, it becomes quite fashionable with the presence of those who are lucky enough to get lodgings. There is quite a competition to obtain rooms at this quaint little fishing hamlet; those who love it best prefer it when it is left more completely to the gulls and the fisher-folk. Most of the fishing here is still done by the seine-net, and there is still "huing" from the cliffs to announce the arrival of the pilchards. Sennen can boast a new breakwater, and every scrap of harbourage is often badly needed. The church is dedicated to a saint who seems more real than some that we meet with in Cornwall. Senan or Senanus was an Irishman who came here some time in the sixth century. It is related of him that one day his mother was changing houses, and the youthful saint declined to help her; she was angry and poured some water over him. Even a saint may dislike house-moving or spring-cleaning. However, in this case the domestic articles very considerately moved of themselves. Another thing told of him is, that when being carried to burial he sat up on his bier and gave orders that his feast-day should be March the 8th, not the 1st. This foolish tale must have been invented later by some priest who wanted to change the festival. The church has a good tower built of massive granite blocks, and there is a fine granite cross in the new churchyard. Within, there is a curious mutilated alabaster figure, apparently a Virgin and Child, and there is an old mural painting. At the rock known as the Table Mên there is a tradition of a great battle between Arthur and some Danish invaders, and there is a conjecture of Danes having settled in this district. The wizard Merlin is said to have foretold another landing of Norsemen here, to precede the end of the world; perhaps he meant the Germans. In the past Sennen had a bad name for smuggling and piracy. Curving northward is the beautiful and partially sheltered Whitesand Bay, which has memories of some historic landings—Athelstan, Stephen, John, Perkin Warbeck; but the coast is very dangerous, and is rendered more so by off-lying rocks such as the Brisons. It is singular that Cornwall should begin and end with a Whitesand Bay. Inland rises the height of Chapel Carn Brea, which must be distinguished from the Carn Brea of Redruth; it reaches about 660 feet, but Bartinney, or Bartine, is still higher. Both are crowded with prehistoric remains, but Carn Brea is the more interesting in this respect, for its cairn, whose lower layer held the bones of some Stone Age chieftain, was crowned at the summit by a Christian oratory. It is a great pity that this chapel, probably one of the oldest religious structures in the kingdom, was not preserved. Above the Stone Age burial was a dolmen of the Bronze Age; and above this were layers that told of Romano-British civilisation. But the antiquities of this district really need a book to themselves. When we reach Cape Cornwall we are in the immediate neighbourhood of mining again, and the fine headland itself is crowned with an old mine-stack. Its formation gives Cape Cornwall the appearance of reaching even farther westward than Land's End, and the view from its summit is grandly impressive. This is the parish of St. Just-in-Penwith (so called to distinguish it from St. Just-in-Roseland). Mr. Hind thinks St. Just the dreariest town in Cornwall, and its best friends do not call it lovely; but there is a rather interesting Perpendicular church, with some earlier relics, and there is also a plân-an-guare, like the Planguary of Redruth—an old-world amphitheatre, first used for sports and later for miracle-plays. The name means "place of play." It is now used for religious and other meetings. The moorland country here is barren and windswept, with disfigurations from mining; and the dismal summit of Cam Kenidzhek is haunted with queer traditions. This is the "carn of the howling wind" or the "hooting cairn," covered with traces of the immemorial past and feared in old days as a special domain of evil spirits. About a mile westward is the old Botallack mine, perhaps the most famous in all Cornwall, which reached to the sea and considerably beyond; it was long closed, and the decayed buildings had quite a romantic appearance on the wild, bare cliffs, but the revival of Cornish minings has brought a new activity. The old workings run for about a third of a mile below the sea, and it is said that the pitmen were often terrified by the roar of the waves above their heads, dashing the loose boulders of rock. But the great Levant mine, a little over a mile northward, runs for about a mile beneath the sea, being worked for tin, copper, and arsenic. Once, not many years since, the sea actually broke into its workings. This is mining, indeed, in all its grimmest reality, and the arsenic-working in particular has a bad effect on the miners. But it earns dividends. Pages might be written about the old miners' superstitions, but even underground these things have died out; even the perils are now lessened by modern science. Yet at Wheal Owles, in 1892, eighteen men lost their lives through the flooding of the workings.
Just beyond Levant is Pendeen Village, with a new lighthouse on the coast. At Pendeen manor-house, now a farm, was born the eminent Cornish antiquary, Dr. Borlase, in 1695. For his age he was a tolerably enlightened archæologist, and his works on local antiquities have supplied the basis of much subsequent writing; but of course they present pitfalls for the unwary. He was Vicar of Ludgvan for fifty years. The curious fogou of Pendeen Vau was actually in the garden of his birthplace, so that he had an early stimulus to research. Pendeen has now its own church, which is of remarkable interest although quite recent. In plan and exterior it is modelled on Iona Cathedral, and was built by the Cornish missioner, Robert Aitken, who influenced his people so powerfully that the granite was both given and wrought free of cost. A castellated wall with a fine arched gateway surrounds the building, which proves that under the right impulse the people may still become church-builders—and will still attend church. Eastward of Pendeen is the church town of Morvah. This tract of coast from Land's End to St. Ives has perhaps been neglected by visitors and writers, only one spot, and that not the finest, Gurnard's Head, being really familiar. The stony barrenness of the inland country is compensated by a real grandeur of coast-line, invisible from the road and therefore often left unexplored. Morvah has traditions of mermaids, with some idea that its name may be a corruption of the Breton morverch; but we must probably seek some other derivation. Tonkin says the name simply means locus maritimus. Stories of mermaids are common enough, or rather were so, along this north shore, doubtless explained by the seals that were once frequent, and would be still if not shot off by the usual insensate "man with a gun." The small church is Perpendicular, with a pinnacled tower. In this parish is the magnificent Chûn or Chywoon castle, on a hill about 700 feet high. This western extremity of Cornwall was guarded by a line of hill forts, of which this Chûn, if not the most powerful, remains in best preservation. We cannot speak with decision as to the date of their earliest use, but this stronghold of Chûn was almost certainly utilised as late as the fifth or sixth centuries, and may have seen fighting during the days when Irish invaders, even if they came as travelling saints, were not always welcomed. The first and second vallum can be traced with their ditches, and there was doubtless an inner wall. The masonry is of different character from that cyclopean piling of boulders which was all the earlier men had known of building. Of such cyclopean style, though it is a small specimen, is the Chûn cromlech, standing near. In the near neighbourhood are the Mên Scryfa (the inscribed stone), the Mên-an-tol (the holed stone), the Nine Maidens, the Lanyon Quoit,[A] the huts of Bosporthennis, the Mulfra Quoit—all being monoliths, or other survivals of wonderful interest, with the strange fascination of their mystery. Cairns, barrows, sepulchral monuments, we can understand, for death and burial are ever with us; but what was the meaning of these circles and standing-stones—who built them, and for what purpose? They are interpreted astronomically now—the latest, perhaps the correct, theory. The earliest peoples who brought any culture to these shores came from the East, and we cannot tell what profundities of astrologic science they carried with them. It is generally acknowledged that when the rough Teutons came they encountered and checked a mental culture higher than their own. But we can only conjecture dimly, and leave the controversialists to wrangle.
[A] See illustration, page [181].
On the moorland beyond Morvah rises the tor of Carn Galva, standing stern and solitary like a little patch of Dartmoor. On the coast is the grand sheer cliff of Bosigran, the western protection of Porthmeor Cove, with traces of prehistoric fortification; it is a noble bluff of granite, with a drop of 400 feet. Puffins nest in the crevices below. A little westward are the pinnacled rocks of Rosemergy, covered with lichens and in parts clad in ivy; the neighbouring turfy slopes are fragrant with heather and gorse. Little streams filter their way from the moorland to the coves, reaching the sea through hollows rich with ferns—there are still rare ferns to be found in the more inaccessible shelters. Just beyond is another Treryn Dinas, like that of the Logan near St. Levan; but this Treen is better known as the Gurnard's Head. It is a favourite show-place, winning perhaps more attention than it deserves in comparison with other places near it; but the rocky and turf-clad headland, with its traces of a far-distant past, is really very beautiful, reaching like a couchant beast into the waves that are sometimes of the purest blue, sometimes white with seething foam. There was an old chapel on the neck of the promontory, and near are remains of some rude granite huts. The popularity of the place has brought a modern hotel.
Photo by][Gibson & Sons.