Photo by][Alex. Old.
Boscastle, taking its name from the old Norman family of Bottreaux (though there are many other place-names in Cornwall beginning with bos, which means abode or dwelling-place), is certainly the most romantic and picturesque haven in the Duchy, though there may be others that surpass it in actual beauty. The coast has a wild grandeur rather than loveliness, and in dismal or stormy weather there is a weird, solemn gloom. The little town lies sheltered at the head of a gorge in which two rivulets meet and form the haven. Old Leland in his graphic manner mentions one only of these brooks: "There cummith down a little broke from South-Est out of the Hilles thereby, and so renning by the West side of the Towne goith into Severn Se betwixt two hilles, and there maketh a pore Havenet, but of no certaine salvegarde." It is the river Valency of which he speaks, the more important of the streams that join just above the haven. This is a tiny land-locked harbour with stone piers, at which some coal, lime, and general merchandise are imported; the entrance is very difficult to make, and vessels that succeed in doing so have to be warped in by immense hawsers. Seeing this, and the small haven at Bude, one realises the wildness of this unsheltered coast, where such perilous places are called harbours. The village, though not large, is a long one, straggling down a hill and along the narrow ravine. Its activity is maintained by the daily arrival and departure of cars from Camelford, Bude, Otterham, and Tintagel, bringing many visitors in the summer season. Some come to stay, but most make only a fleeting call; Nature has placed grave obstacles in the way of Boscastle's ever becoming a fashionable watering-place. Its charm is unique and undeniable; but it appeals to the artist, the sturdy pedestrian and climber, the lover of solitude that at times is absolute desolation, rather than to the parent of a family. But the desolation, if that is not too stern a word to use, only applies to the coast; the Valency Valley is verdant and beautiful. It runs among furze and bracken by the riverside, and by this path we can reach the quiet, lovely vale in which Minster stands, so named from a former monastic establishment. Like the church at Tintagel, this of Minster is dedicated to St. Materiana, whom Mr. Baring-Gould identifies with the Welsh Madrun. The tower is of a single stage; there are good bench-ends and roof-carvings. A portion of the church having fallen in one Sunday, after morning service, it was rebuilt about forty years since. The priory was founded by William de Bottreaux in the reign of Richard I., but does not seem to have had a long existence. Minster is a large parish, but Forrabury is one of the smallest in Cornwall.
Pentargon, the bay and headland beyond the Boscastle golf-links, is sometimes interpreted as "Arthur's Head," but this is doubtful. The caves here, and those below Willapark, were once much haunted by seals; the coast being absolutely honeycombed by the constant fretting of the waves. At times, but rarely, the Cornish chough may be seen on the cliffs, recalling the old tradition that the spirit of Arthur lingers around his native rocks in this form—a tradition that was even familiar to Cervantes, though he knew the Welsh version of it, which makes Arthur a raven. Eastward past Beeny the cliffs gradually rise, till at High Cliff they reach the height of 700 feet; it needs some enthusiasm for a pedestrian to keep to the coast-line, though every mile has its grandeur. Beyond Cambeak lies the delightful Crackington Cove, which will some day become a watering-place; it stands at the mouth of a verdant valley with a stream like that of the Valency. It is in the parish of St. Genny's, whose church is dedicated to St. Genesius of Auvergne, of whom it is related that after being beheaded he walked about with his head under his arm. The saints of Cornwall are reported to have done some extraordinary things, but they do not usually descend to absurd actions of this nature; and there may be a shrewd suspicion that Genesius has no business here at all. William Braddon, a Parliamentary officer and member in the time of the Civil War, lived at Treworgye in this parish, and was buried in the church; some have supposed that he was vicar here. Pencannow Head, the north limit of Crackington Cove, rises sheer from the shore to the height of 400 feet. Dizzard Point is far less precipitous. A few miles further east the cliffs break to allow room for a fine stretch of sands at Widemouth Bay, and here we have another spot that is certain to develop into a pleasure-resort of the future. It cannot, of course, compare with the coast magnificence of the shore from Pentire to Boscastle, but it has what these wilder spots lack—a possibility of conventional settlement and expansion in the style of watering-place that the British public chiefly loves.
CHAPTER XVII
BUDE
We read in the memoir of Tennyson that in the year 1848 he felt a craving to make a lonely sojourn at Bude. "I hear," he said, "that there are larger waves there than on any other part of the British coast, and must go thither and be alone with God." So he came, with the subject of his Idylls simmering in his mind. He found the great rollers, the grand, open coast, the solitude; these are still there, to be found of all that seek. There may be some lessening of the solitude, but only in parts; Bude has not yet become widely popular; it is the haunt of those who love bracing air and quiet. It grows, but grows slowly; old friends may return to it without being tortured by too glaring a change.
The coast must indeed be destitute of harbours that can call Bude a haven; yet the name Bude Haven stands, as if in deadly irony. This whole north coast of Cornwall and Devon has little enough of refuge for seamen in distress; and if they endeavour to make Bude when seas are running high they are simply courting disaster; it were better to stay far out, if the cruel Atlantic will let them. Yet a rumour of history says that Agricola landed here. It is not impossible, though accredited history tells nothing of such a visit; seas are not always stormy, even on the shores of North Cornwall—there are days when the waters from St. Ives to Lundy are peaceful as a child asleep. But such slumbering is not their characteristic mood; there is generally a strong ocean swell, and when westerly winds chafe the tide its force and fury are tremendous. Hawker, who was familiar with every yard of the district, has a ballad to the purpose:—