Although this harbour “ys a havyng very notable and famose,” it lacks the charm of Fowey and Dartmouth; and it is only in the upper reaches that the Fal has the beauty of the Dart. It is wisest to start from Falmouth. The hills at first are low and the estuary wide; but when Carrick Roads have narrowed into King Harry’s Reach and the river sweeps past us between the rolling woods, we remember Hawker singing of his native Cornwall and “her streams that march in music to the sea.” We take our winding way past the ferry to which King Harry never came, past many alluring creeks, past Tregothnan—the home but not the house of Admiral Boscawen—and round the green banks of Woodbury, till we see Truro’s white cathedral against the sky.
When we finally drive away from Falmouth our most prudent course is to go out of the town past the recreation-ground, and take the road that leads to the Lizard by Constantine; for though the longer road by Helston is by far the better of the two, there are dark whispers heard in this neighbourhood, sometimes, of measured distances and other perils. We see on the left the by-road to Penjerrick, where Caroline Fox wrote her delightful journal and charmed so many men of mark; pass through Constantine, a village of solid stone houses, and thatch, and gardens, and run down into Gweek. It was here that Hereward the Wake twice rescued the Cornish princess from unpleasant suitors. The high green walls of oak and ash that Hereward saw are further down the river, but this is the head of the tide where King Alef’s palace stood, and the champion of England slew the giant, and where now a brisk trade is carried on in bone-manure. Whatever may be the truth about Hereward, the last fact admits of no doubt.
The miles that lead to Lizard Town are of the sort that one remembers ever after with a thrill. It is rather a complex thrill, with contributions from the past and from the future and from the exhilarating present. The Marconi towers, slim fingers pointing skyward, are not without their influence on our pulses, with their hints of future conquests, and their message that the fairy-tale of to-day is the science of to-morrow. The road is broad and smooth and level, and lies between low hedges, and has the straightness that the motorist loves; beyond the waving tamarisks a flat land of green and purple stretches away to the horizon; for the first time in many days the car speeds over the plain at the pace she loves best; and the sea-wind rushes to meet us with its story of the Spanish Armada.
THE LIZARD.
We slow down at last in Lizard Town, where the squalid little houses are smothered in flowers fit for a palace, blazing draperies of scarlet and rose—the climbing geraniums that in Cornwall grow, not as a favour, but because they enjoy it. Here it is perhaps best to leave the car, though it is perfectly possible to drive to the foot of the lighthouse, where there is room to turn. The first lighthouse that stood on this spot was built by one of the Killigrews of Arwenack, to the great displeasure of the people. He was robbing them of God’s grace, they naïvely complained—meaning the spoils of the wrecked.
Beyond the lighthouse are grassy slopes where it is good to sit alone among the sea-pinks. To right and left are long headlands and curving bays; on every side are masses of grey rock crowned with golden lichen; and beyond them the sea comes laughing from the South. And on a sudden we see the mighty crescent of the Armada, seven miles wide, sweep up the Channel to its doom, with the smoke of many guns flying before the gale, and with every man upon his knees.
It is a disappointment to learn that the track to Kynance Cove is too sandy for motors; but only a few miles further along the coast is the cove of Mullion, which is easily reached on quite a good road. Those who know Kynance declare it is more attractive than Mullion, but I think there must be some mistake about this, because it is not possible to be more attractive than Mullion. From the tiny harbour with its two sheltering piers a natural tunnel—passable only when the tide is low—leads through the rock to the sands of a little bay. Here the cliffs are high and wild, and masses of black rock rise sheer from the ripples of a blue-green sea, and in the caves the “serpentine” stones are red and green and pink and full of sparkles, like the stones of Aladdin’s cave. One can see at a glance that the superstition about Kynance Cove is quite without foundation.