The Cornish Coast (South), and the Isles of Scilly

by Charles G. Harper

That is to say, the first part of the repainting—the obliterating of the inscription—is done then: the re-lettering may, and does, wait. This is a joke so entirely after the heart of one of those inimical old sprites that I am convinced, though they be gone, their wicked souls go marching on in the persons of road-surveyors and people of that breed.

But the wickedness of the Kynance Cove signpost lies in the fact that, although it tells of Lizard Town, its arm points slightly away from it, along a rough cart-track. Now, as in an otherwise roadless and pathless moor such as this the inclination is always to follow any sort of a track, how much more likely then it is that the stranger should take this cart-track, especially when the signpost points to it! And, you know, it leads right away inland; and at last, after a long while, you see Lizard Town, miles away on the right, across the flatness of the heath. In tracking then across to it, in that hummocky wilderness of gorse and heather, you soon grow quite familiar with Erica vagans, the Cornish heather, which botanists say is peculiar to the soil of this district, and get an intimate acquaintance with the prickly qualities of gorse.

Resuming the way along the cliffs from Kynance, Rill Head projects boldly, with a pile of rocks on its summit known as the Apron-String. Here, according to the legend, the Devil dropped an apron full of stones he was carrying, to build a bridge across Channel for smugglers to come over. In despair, he then abandoned the task. I do not think this can be a genuinely old legend, for the Cornish, in company with all seashore peoples, were too prone toward smuggling, and thought it too natural a thing, for the suggestion of a devilish coadjutor to come from them. "The Horse" is the name of the next headland, with a dangerous saddle-backed ridge, infinitely tempting to adventurous climbers who do not mind bestriding it, with the knowledge that a false step will probably send them to Kingdom Come on the moment. In the dour, black little Cove, "the Horsepond," overlooked by beetling cliffs, is Pigeon Hugo, only to be seen from a boat.

The scenery has here again attained to a black and savage grandeur, and the sea is not to be reached at all except at the deep hollow in the cliffs known as Gue Graze. Here were situated the soapstone quarries, and streaks of steatite, the "soapstone" in question, are easily found. They are of a dirty white hue and the substance feels greasy or soapy to the touch. Chemically, it is "magnesia," and commercially is generally known as "French chalk," used in softening boots and shoes, and by tailors.

The bold promontory of Vellan Head now leads round to Pol Cornick, and then to the bastioned heights of Pradanack, where Mullion Island comes into view, a long way ahead. The chance explorer here has the scene entirely to himself: to himself and the gulls, and the bunnies that inhabit among the bracken and grey-mottled boulders.

A final stretch of cliff-tops, and you presently are looking down upon Mullion Cove, properly "Porthmellin," for the village of Mullion is close upon a mile inland. "Porthmellin" means Mill Cove. Mullion Island, a great black rock with some real grass on it, stands guardant, as it were, in advance, with other black and monstrous rocks on either side, those over to Poldhu blacker than their fellows; and gulls, emphasising the blackness and their own whiteness, poise, screaming, in air against them.

A smart hotel—I do not know the name of it—stands on the headland and seems to insolently hint that, even here, mankind has tamed the wilds. He certainly has made the Cove, down there, look toy-like, and the road up to Mullion village now resembles that through some ancestral park. But nature has provided the huge and savage setting that makes the little enfolding walls of the harbour, the little pool within, and the two or three little houses, look smaller than they really are. A general deceptiveness as to scale pervades the Cove: the rock of Mullion Island is, for instance, a mile in circuit, and does not appear to be one quarter that size. But the calm of a typical August day is the deepest deception of all. It requires one of the autumn equinoctial gales to reveal the innate unconquerable savagery of the place, when a strong man can scarce stand before the wind, and giant waves leap over the arms of the harbour and rush, seething and hungry for prey, up the shore.

MULLION COVE.

There are many records of wrecks at Mullion Cove and the cliffs between it and the Lizard. From them I take that of a wreck on the rocks of Mên-y-Grib = "Rock like a Comb," in 1867.