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.