PROBUS CHURCH TOWER, CORNWALL
We are soon away on the highroad to Truro, which proves good though steep in places. There is a fine medieval church at St. Austell and another at Probus has one of the most striking towers we saw in England. It is of later origin than the main body of the church; some two hundred feet high, and is surmounted by Gothic pinnacles, with carved stone balustrades extending between them. Near the top it is pierced by eight large perpendicular windows, two to each side, and it is altogether a graceful and imposing edifice. Such churches in the poor little towns that cluster about them—no doubt poorer when the churches were built—go to show the store the Cornishmen of early days set by their religion, which led them out of their poverty to rear such stately structures; but it is quite likely that a goodly part of the profits of their old occupations—wrecking, smuggling and piracy—went into these churches as a salve to conscience. Nor is the church-building spirit entirely extinct, as proven by the magnificent towers of Truro Cathedral, of which I shall have more to say anon and which soon breaks into our view.
KYNANCE COVE, CORNWALL
From original painting by Warne-Browne
As a matter of variation we take the southern route by the way of Helston from Truro to Penzance. This is rougher and has more steep hills than the direct road through Rudruth. Helston is some ten miles north of the Lizard Peninsula, where there is much beautiful coast scenery—especially Kynance Cove. Coming up the road along the coast toward Marazion, one gets a perfect view of the castle-crowned bulk of the Cornish St. Michael’s Mount, the seat of the St. Aubyns. In the distance it stands like an immense pyramid against a wide reach of sunset sky, but as we come nearer the towers and battlements of the castle come out weird and strange; in the purple shadows the whole vast pile savors of enchantment. Beyond it shimmers the wide calm of Penzance Harbor—as it chances, dotted with the dark forms of some fifty leviathans of the British navy. For there is to be a great naval review in Penzance the coming week; the king and queen and a host of celebrities are expected. The town is gay with decorations and delirious with expectancy of the big events to come. Graham-White, the famous aviator, is to appear and there are to be many thrilling evolutions and much powder-burning by the royal fleet. Hotels and lodging-houses are crowded to the limit and if we have ever been somewhat dubious whether to try the hospitality of Land’s End for the night, it is settled now—we could hardly stay in Penzance unless we camp on the street. It was indeed a bitter disappointment to Penzance that the capricious Cornish weather completely ruined the expected fete. Furious winds and continual rain drove the fleet to the more sheltered Tor Bay and the programme, on a greatly reduced scale, took place there. Aside from the disappointment, the people of the town suffered a heavy loss in the large sums they had spent in anticipation of the event. But Penzance is all unconscious of the fate in store for it; its streets are thronged and it is fairly ablaze with the national colors and elaborate electrical decorations. We thread our way slowly through its streets into the lonely indifferent lane that winds over steep and barren hills to Land’s End.