Striking inland from St. Keverne for Coverack Cove, something of the stony character of the Meneage and Lizard districts is seen, together with a good deal of the widespread lack of signposts common to all Cornwall, but particularly distressing here. Wherever it is possible for a stranger to lose his way—and that is very often here—be very sure that the County Council has forgotten to place a sign-post; and furthermore, be equally certain that, at those points where no one is likely to go wrong, there will be very informative ones: exercises in the obvious. But there is a deeper depth than this. A fork of roads may be duly sign-posted, but it often leads to another, and a much more puzzling and quite lonely fork, a long way ahead, where not the least indication is vouchsafed. You are lucky if you do not at last find yourself in the yard of some "farm-place," and have to return a mile or more. Sorrow's crown of sorrow is, however, attained when a signpost is seen in the distance. You hurry up; it points the way to, let us say, the "Hotel Parvenu," one of the several up-to-date barrack hotels that have of late risen upon desirable view-points. I want to know why these things should be; not the hotels—we know the reason of them—but why they should be allowed to play these dirty tricks on travellers. We cannot all be guests; nor, perhaps, would very many who could. Why, then, should the County Council permit the existence of these purely commercial notices?
Coverack village, down upon the Cove, was the scene of the Dispatch transport wreck in January 1809. A monument in St. Keverne church narrates how over sixty were lost on that occasion, including Major-General Cavendish. They were fresh from the blood-soaked fields of Spain and the retreat upon Coruña.
Those who originally named Black Head, beyond Coverack, could scarce have had any choice in the matter, for it is a lowering, sullen-looking point. But the rock is rather a dark green in its original tone, when closely examined. It is, in fact, the famed "serpentine" rock that extends all the way from this place, past the Lizard, to Mullion.
The way round by the cliffs to the next headland, Pedn Boar, and beyond it to Caraclowse Point, where there is a "cliff castle," is wearying in its ups and downs with a stream to cross in one rugged valley, without being exceptionally fine; but the paths or ragged grasslands on the way to Kennack Sands give easier going. Kennack Sands form the only available sandy foreshore for many miles along this rugged coast, where the savage cliffs descend as a rule sheer to the water, and the jealous sea generally leaves but a narrow sandy selvedge at the ebb. Small wonder, then, that bungalows for summer bathers have appeared here.
But the trivial urbanities of Kennack soon fail him who fares by the cliffs on to Caerleon Cove and Poltesco. Brambles clutch at his clothes and bid him stay; stones, loose and knobbly, and tripsome, lie along the path the coastguards seem to patrol all too seldom, and presently the small cove of Caerleon appears, with a stream running down to it and the derelict works of an abandoned serpentine factory on the shore. Up inland, past a cottage, with a notice declaring that trespassers will be prosecuted (which of course the wise pedestrian treats with contempt), and then past a tree-surrounded farmhouse, displaying the more hospitable intimation of new milk being sold, the watery valley of Poltesco is reached, where a great mill-wheel, amid a paradise of ferns, is worked by the spattering stream. I should think Poltesco might be a very tedious place on a wet November day, and not good for rheumatism; but, as an American girl tourist remarked, in summer it is "just heavenly."
Abandoning the coast at this point, and content with seeing Ynys Head in the distance, I walked the half-mile uphill to Ruan Minor, a pretty little village with a very small but very perfect little Perpendicular church, whose pinnacled tower, although well-proportioned, is not higher than the roofs of the village houses.
CADGWITH COVE.
The half-mile hence to Cadgwith Cove is a zigzagging and steep descent. Deep down lies the village, with a street clinging to the sides of the descent and thatched cottages at the bottom, facing the sea; one or two in front of their fellows standing on a rocky projection called "The Rodden." The sea comes hissing in upon a pebbly beach, alongside tall, sheer cliffs.
It is even steeper up out of Cadgwith on the coastguard path to the Lizard than on the other side; an obscure path leading up to scrubby fields and a modern villa called "White Heather," facing the sea in what seems a not altogether permanently safe position, considering that the "Devil's Frying Pan" is in front of it. This is a chasm formed in the cliffs by the falling in of the roof of a cave, leaving a huge pit-like opening in the cliff-top, with a neck of land forming a natural arch on the edge of the cliffs. Down below, the sea comes foaming and hissing at high tide among the scattered boulders in a way that suggested to some imaginative person the idea of a frying-pan. A not very safe path leads round the landward edge of this place; but the best and most impressive view is from the sea. It is a very short boating trip from Cadgwith to the Devil's Frying Pan.