NOOKS & CORNERS OF CORNWALL

IN THE SAME SERIES

NOOKS & CORNERS OF YORKSHIRE

By J. S. Fletcher

IN PREPARATION

NOOKS & CORNERS OF DEVON

By C. A. Dawson Scott

NOOKS AND CORNERS OF HAMPSHIRE AND SUSSEX

By Douglas Goldring

Price 2s. 6d. net each (with map)

NOOKS & CORNERS

OF CORNWALL

By C. A. DAWSON SCOTT

WITH A MAP

LONDON: EVELEIGH NASH

FOREWORD

At first sight it seems incongruous to speak of the Nooks and Corners to be found in so rugged a land as Cornwall. The masses of rock at Tintagel, Tol-Pedn, and the Lizard, the sheer drop of the High Cliff and the Dodman, the moors, the cromlechs, and the granite tors, are so impressive that we are apt to overlook the fertile valleys that intersect the country, the coves, coombes, and "pills" in which the hillside vegetation is often semi-tropical, and where the houses are embowered in flowering shrubs till they look like Jacks-in-the-Green that have taken root.

Nor do these picturesque villages, sheltered and fruitful, this magnificent coast scenery, these grey moors, comprise the whole of this half-smiling, half-frowning land. Here in out-of-the-way places are relics of forgotten creeds and peoples, earthworks, amphitheatres, castles, the caves of smugglers, and the subterranean hiding-places of neolithic man. There is so much to interest, so much to see—almost too much it would seem, certainly too much for any one holiday; but Cornwall is a place to go to again and again, to go to till it seems as your own land, and its people have forgiven you for being a "foreigner."

This Cornish folk, clannish but kindly, has of late years been decreasing. Not only is there the competition of foreign tin, but the lodes being now deep the cost of home production has proportionately increased. "Cousin Jack" therefore has to go in search of more remunerative metal, leaving "Cousin Jenny" at home to manage as best she can on his remittances.

Warnings

"You can only see Cornwall by walking through it," said George Borrow, but the traveller must bear in mind that a name, large on the map, is apt to materialise into a few cottages, a lonely farmhouse, or a rocky gorge with never an inhabitant. Nor though the voice of the tourist has now for several years been heard in the land has the response, in hotels, been great; while there are not as many country inns as might be expected. The cheerful, pleasure-loving Cornishman has another aspect to his character. Generally a Nonconformist and a Sabbatarian he—perhaps more particularly she—thinks the fewer inns the better. Hamlets the size of which would lead one to expect a wayside tavern are often drawn blank, and it is as well to make inquiry, when mapping out the day's journey, as to the accommodation to be found at its latter end.

It cannot be too firmly impressed upon the traveller that along the northern and western shores both boating and bathing are unsafe. It is a dangerous coast. Fortunately very few boats are kept, and these are seldom let out to strangers; but in the matter of bathing the tourist depends upon his own wisdom, and not only is there a bad undertow but the big rollers from the Atlantic come in when least expected.

Moreover he must, when following these cliff paths, be on the look-out for blow-holes. These sinister cavities result from the action of the sea at the cliff base and of the fresh water springs above. A depression is gradually formed, the surface sinks to be washed out by the tides, till at last a round hole has been formed. This is the blow-hole. In course of time the whole of the side towards the sea breaks away, leaving a tiny bay, which gradually enlarges. The Cornish who do not imagine that any one could be so foolish as to walk along this dangerous coast after dark do not safeguard the blow-holes, and it is as well to be on the look-out.

The Crosses and Churches

A word with regard to the innumerable crosses and churches.

At an early date in the history of Christianity, saints from the neighbouring countries of Brittany, Ireland and Wales appear to have poured into Cornwall. Some floated over on their altar-stones—a poetical way of saying they brought the said stones with them—others on a miraculous leaf, i.e., a coracle, while yet others appear to have walked! On arrival they found a large number of upright slabs and boulders, relics of an earlier creed and vanished race. With the sensible early-Christian habit of turning everything to account they soon invented a history and found a use for the stones.

On a lonely moorland these big menhirs made excellent way-marks; by some—possibly blocks that tradition accounted holy—the saints built their oratories, others they carved into rude crosses, and others they used as a centre about which to gather the countrypeople for service. As the local preaching-place, these last stones, like the oratories themselves, thus became the forerunners of the parish churches.

One reason for the multiplicity of these crosses—and unless those at any place should be exceptional, they will not be mentioned—may be found in the will of a certain Dr. Mertherderwa who, dying in 1447, directed that "new stone crosses are to be put up of the usual kind in those parts of Cornwall from Kayar Beslasek to Camborne Church, where dead bodies are rested on their way to burial, that prayers may be made and the bearers take some rest."

There are six different kinds of crosses. Upright slabs with a Latin cross front and back; Round-headed crosses; Holed crosses, of which only twenty-seven instances are known; Latin crosses, Gothic crosses and ornamented crosses.

The Churches

When Cornwall built her innumerable small but beautiful churches, that is to say from the thirteenth (and earlier) to the sixteenth century, she showed that an ornate and vivid ritual was to her taste. She objected to and resisted the Reformation, and on its becoming an established fact went peacefully to sleep, as far as religion was concerned, until the arrival of John Wesley. As a consequence very few of the churches are modern, and most of them have Norman remains—some antiquarians even say Saxon—and a good deal of old carved oak in benches, screens, and roofs. Some of this carving is of considerable merit, and the same may be said, though more doubtfully, of the numerous frescoes; but unless the mural paintings and bench ends are in some way remarkable they will not be insisted on, nor will the Norman and other survivals in the architecture be discussed.

The Plan of the Book

The roads from Launceston and from Saltash to the Land's End—and the main roads of Cornwall are excellent, as good as any in England—go as far as possible by way of the towns. The rivers, too, are no great matter, in fact precisians have maintained that there are none. The Tamar, which best deserves the name, was fixed as the eastern boundary by Athelstane in 926, while the Fal and Helford Rivers are mainly sea creeks, and the Camel and Fowey which until they become estuaries are never wider than a man, provided with a pole, can leap, are really only brooks of a fine and Tennysonian quality.

Undoubtedly then the way to see Cornwall is to follow the country roads that lead along the shore, beginning at the north where the coach crosses the border on its way from Clovelly Dykes to Bude, and ending at the Tamar. There would then remain only the reaches of that lovely river, the moorland, and what nooks and corners are to be found off the highways that run through the middle of the county.

My most sincere acknowledgments are due to Mr. Thurstan Peter, author of "The History of Cornwall," for his generous help while these pages were passing through the press.

CONTENTS

[CHAPTER I]

NOOKS AND CORNERS OF THE EXTREME NORTH

The Boundary between Devon and Cornwall on the north: Kilkhampton and its Association with the Grenvilles: Morwenstow and the Rev. R. Hawker: Tonacombe and Kingsley: Stowe: the Battles of Stamford Hill and Lansdowne: Tennyson and Bude: the Neighbouring Churches: a Female Dick Whittington

[CHAPTER II]

NOOKS AND CORNERS FROM WIDEMOUTH BAY TO ST. TEATH

The Great Cliffs: Boscastle and an Ancient Form of Tenure: Otterham and Warbstow Barrows: Trevalga and Bossiney: the Legend of St. Nechtan's Kieve: Tintagel: Arthur: The Castle: The Beach and Barras Head: The Roman Occupation: Quarries: Camelford and its Battle: Arthur's Hall: Lanteglos: Henlistone and the Brewers: The Camel: The Delabole Slate: St. Teath

[CHAPTER III]

NOOKS AND CORNERS FROM PORT ISAAC TO THE VALE OF LANHERNE

Port Isaac and the Fishing: Pentire: St. Enodoc and the Sand: Lovebond's Bridge: Wadebridge and Egloshayle: Jan Tergeagle: Menhirs: Padstow and the Hobby Horse: Prehistoric Inhabitants: Harlyn Bay: Trevose Head: Constantine: A Fogou: Bedruthan: The Vale of Lanherne

[CHAPTER IV]

NOOKS AND CORNERS FROM THE VALE OF LANHERNE TO HAYLE TOWANS

Hurling and St. Columb Major: Colan: The Gratitude of the Stuarts: Trevalgue: A Good Centre for Crantock, St. Cubert, and Trerice: St. Agnes and the Giant: Portreath: the Bassets: Godrevy: Gwithian: The Pilchards

[CHAPTER V]

NOOKS AND CORNERS FROM LELANT TO PENZANCE

Gold in Cornwall: Knill's Monument: The Antiquities of the Extreme West: Cliff Castles: Fogous: Menhirs: Dolmens: Oratories: Superstitions: St. Ives: Wesley: Irving: A Ripe Old Age: The Mines: Sancreed and St. Buryan: Lighthouses: Whitesand Bay: The Land's End: Mousehole and Dolly Pentreath: Newlyn: Penzance

[CHAPTER VI]

NOOKS AND CORNERS FROM THE SCILLY ISLES TO ROSELAND

The Land of Lyonesse: The Scillies: The Law of Wrecks: Mr. Smith: The Admiral's Honour: Ding Dong Mine: St. Michael's Mount: An Old Ceremony: China Clay: Wrecks: Germoe and Breage: Pengersick: Flora Day: The Loe Pool: Serpentine: Gunwalloe and Mullion: The Lizard: Bells: The Helford River: Mawgan: Roseland

[CHAPTER VII]

NOOKS AND CORNERS FROM FALMOUTH TO TRURO

The Rise of Pendennis Castle: Sir John Arundel: The Killigrews: Sir Walter Raleigh: The General Post Office and Falmouth: Penryn: The Fal: The Stannary Courts: Old Truro: Foote and Lowry

[CHAPTER VIII]

NOOKS AND CORNERS FROM ST. MAWES TO LISKEARD

St. Mawes and Gerrans: Tregony and Probus: Cornish Mutton: A Story of Cornish Vengeance: Mevagissey: Antiquarian Finds: The Capital of Clayland: Cock's and Hen's Barrow: Carglaze Mine: Luxulyan: The Civil Wars: Lostwithiel: Lanhydrock House and Restormel Castle: The Fight on St. Winnow's Downs: The Gallants of Fowey: Place: Lanteglos: Polperro: Stories of Talland, Killigarth, and Trelawne: The Giant's Hedge: Boconnoc: Liskeard

[CHAPTER IX]

NOOKS AND CORNERS FROM LISKEARD TO LAUNCESTON

King Dungarth and King Alfred: Menheniot: St. Keyne: Looe: A Cage for Scolds: Looe Island and the Smugglers: The Armada: Sheviock: The Eddystone: Mount Edgcumbe: The Tamar: Trematon Castle: Markets: Saltash: Moditonham: Paleologus: Pentillie: Cotehele: Hingston Down: Polyfant: Launceston

[CHAPTER X]

NOOKS AND CORNERS FROM LAUNCESTON TO DOZMARÉ

The Upper Reaches of the Tamar: Launceston: The Old Highways: St. Clether: Altarnon: Trebartha: The Trethevy Dolmen: The Cheesewring: St. Cleer: St. Neot: Dozmaré: Tregeagle: Lake Dwellings

[CHAPTER XI]

NOOKS AND CORNERS FROM BROWN WILLY TO CAMBORNE

Brown Willy and Row Tor: Michaelstow, St. Tudy and St. Mabyn: St. Breward and Blisland: Holland: Bodmin: Lanivet: Mitchell; Cornish Names: Blackwater and Illogan: Redruth and St. Day: Carn Brea: Camborne: A Word in Farewell

HOTELS ACCORDING TO THE ROUTE

Stratton. The Tree Inn.

Bude. The Falcon; Grenville.

Boscastle. Wellington.

Tintagel. Wharncliffe; King Arthur's Castle; Clifton House.

Camelford. King's Arms.

Wadebridge. Molesworth Arms.

Padstow. South-Western; St. Petrock's.

Newquay. Atlantic; Victoria; Headland; Great Western.

Perranporth. Perranporth; Tywarnhale.

Portreath. Portreath Hotel; by Gurnard's Head, the Treryn Hotel.

St. Ives. Tregenna Castle; Western; Queen's.

Lelant. Lelant Hotel.

Land's End. First and Last.

Penzance. Queen's; Riviera Palace; Mount's Bay; Western; Railway.

Scilly. Holgate's; Tregarthen's (both on St. Mary).

Helston. Angel.

Lizard. Housel Bay; Hill's; Caerthillian.

Coverack. The Coverack Headland Hotel; St. Keverne; St. Keverne Inn.

Falmouth. Falmouth; Green Bank; King's; Royal Albion.

Truro. Red Lion; Royal; Union.

St. Austell. Luke's White Hart; Queen's Head.

Fowey. Fowey.

Looe. Commonwood; Looe; Headland House.

Saltash. Bray's; Railway; Green Dragon.

Launceston. White Hart; King's Arms.

Moors. The Jamaica Inn.

Bodmin. Royal; Town Arms.

Redruth. Tabb's.

Camborne. Commercial; Tyack's.

CHAPTER I

NOOKS AND CORNERS OF THE EXTREME NORTH

The Boundary between Devon and Cornwall on the north: Kilkhampton and its Association with the Grenvilles: Morwenstow and the Rev. R. Hawker: Tonacombe and Kingsley: Stowe: the Battles of Stamford Hill and Lansdowne: Tennyson and Bude: the Neighbouring Churches: a Female Dick Whittington.

Kilkhampton

The coach-road from Clovelly Dykes to Bude crosses Woolley Downs, but the border on the north is the little stream that runs into Marsland Mouth. The cliff paths with their fine views and the wonderful colour of sea and sky—such colour as elsewhere only the Mediterranean gives us—are the more interesting of the offered ways. Inland lies Kilkhampton, by the Tamar, with its church of St. James, the south doorway of which is one of the richest specimens of late Norman work in the duchy. But, more interesting than the finely carved choir stalls, numerous good bench-ends and doorway, is its connection with the family of Grenville, who, descendants of the Norman dukes, lived in the parish for six hundred years, and built the church. "Never a Grenville lacked loyalty" was the saying, and the sons of the old house at Stowe proved it by confiscated property and lives laid down. From Stowe came old Sir Richard who, with his little "Revenge," fought the fifty-three galleons of Spain.

"God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world before?"

From there came his grandson, gentle, gallant Sir Beville, who after his last stand against the Parliamentarians on Lansdowne, was brought back to lie in the old church of Kilkhampton; and from there, ruined and exiled for the sake of the last worthless Stuart, went out Sir Beville's younger son.

By Sir Beville lies his wife, the Lady Grace, for whom the epitaph to be seen in Minster Church might have been written:

"He first departing, she a little tried
To live without him, could not and so died."

The Earls of Bath, descendants of the Grenvilles, are buried in a vault below the south aisle, but two hundred and fifty years have passed and the name—it is a Marquisate now—is Thynne (of the Inn), nor is the head of the family a Beville. The servant who brought back his master's body sleeps at Stratton. A huge man this Anthony Payne, seven foot two in his stockings! When he lay dead in the Tree Inn so large a coffin was required that it could not be got into the house. He and Sir Beville may be dead and buried, but their lives have been woven into the talk of the countryside, and the traveller has only to ask a discreet question or so and he will hear of the great deeds of old.

Morwenstow

The main interest of this part of the country—the extreme north—is centred in the tiny hamlet of Morwenstow with its thatched inn and its association with the Rev. Robert Hawker. He was no stranger when he came, for his father had been vicar of Stratton and lay buried there. For long the son, fearing the sadness of old associations, refused to preach in the sister parish, and when at last his reluctance was overcome and he stood in his father's pulpit it was only to hesitate and break down. He explained with faltering voice, "I stand amid the dust of those near and dear to me."

Morwenstow is reached from Marsland Mouth by the Henna Cliff (The Raven's Crag—and Welsh legend hath it that King Arthur was changed into one of these birds, though the Cornish say, a chough), from which is obtained a magnificent view of that wild coast, Dizzard, Cambeak, Tintagel, and Pentire, rising one beyond the other in shades of blue deepening to purple. The Norman doorway of the church, which like that of Marhamchurch is dedicated to St. Morwenna, is crowned with zigzag and chevron mouldings which are surmounted by a range of grotesque sea-faces—mermaid, dolphin, whale, and so forth. Mr. Hawker tells how the old piscina was found and reinstated. "The chancel wall one day sounded hollow when struck; the mortar was removed, and underneath there appeared an arched aperture which had been filled up with jumbled carved work and a crushed drain. It was cleared out and so rebuilt as to occupy the exact site of its former existence. It is of the earliest type of Saxon architecture, and for all we know may be the oldest piscina in the land."

The church roof is of wood, and shingles of rended oak occupy the place of the usual tiles. "Outside the screen and at the top of the nave is the grave of a priest. It is identified by the reversed position of the carved cross on the stone, which also indicates the self-same attitude in the corpse. The head is laid down toward the east while, in all secular interments, the head is turned towards the west."

On the south side of the churchyard—as in so many along this ruthless coast—are the graves of wrecked sailors; and Hawker, a great-hearted man and to some extent a poet, was foremost in rendering the last kind offices to the dead. Over forty men, the crews of three lost vessels, lie here, while the figurehead by one lot of graves is that of the brig Caledonia from Arbroath in Scotland. No wonder ships give these stupendous cliffs as wide a berth as possible. An occasional steamer is sighted, some tramp in search of cargo goes hurrying by, but, as a rule, the wide expanse is empty of surface life, a fact which is both noticeable and suggestive.

On a spot where he had seen the lambs sheltering from wind and weather, Mr. Hawker built the vicarage. With one of his personality as architect, it was impossible it should quite resemble any other manse; therefore it is not surprising to find that in the chimney-stacks he has reproduced the forms of certain church towers that he admired, while inset over the doorway is the distich:

"A house, a glebe, a pound a day,
A pleasant place to watch and pray,
Be true to Church, be kind to poor,
O Minister for evermore!"

Tonacombe and Stowe

Not far from Morwenstow lie—or rather did lie, for though Tonacombe still preserves its original design, Stowe, near Coombe Valley, the home of the Grenvilles, was unfortunately destroyed in 1715—two old manor-houses. The former, which was built in the fifteenth century, has a fine stone-floored hall with timbered roof, old open fireplace, and minstrel's gallery. Some of the rooms, which have lattice windows, are panelled, and Charles Kingsley stayed in this "in some respects the most remarkable mediæval house in the west of England," while he was writing "Westward Ho."

Of far greater interest, however, is Stowe (Anglo-Saxon for a stockaded place), at one time a magnificent building. Of it only the moat remains, but when Sir Beville rose for Charles I., many a Cornishman, who in his boyhood had stayed at Stowe, practising arms under the eye of Anthony Payne, rose with him.

The Battle of Stamford Hill

To Stratton, a little south of Stowe, came in 1643 the Parliamentarian General, Lord Stamford. The cavaliers, not then very prosperous, but gallant gentlemen all, were lying at Launceston, and the Roundhead made the mistake of underestimating their strength. Sir Ralph Hopton and Sir Beville Grenville marched the twenty miles from the capital town without more food than a few biscuits. Intent on intercepting and driving out the intruder, they found when they reached Stratton late in the evening that he had entrenched himself strongly on a neighbouring hill. As he had the advantage in numbers, having about twice as many men and must know that they were tired, hungry, and in poor condition, the Royalists stood to their arms through the short May night in momentary expectation of an attack. Their leaders were at one of the Poughill cottages—they bear date 1620 and are still to be seen—and Sir Beville, while he waited anxiously, must have wondered how it had gone with wife and children, over above in the moated and stockaded house of Stowe.

Lord Stamford, however, did not take advantage of his enemy's weariness. No doubt he thought it would be more convenient, as the country was unknown to him, to scatter the little force by daylight. At any rate he sat still on the top of the hill and did nothing. In the grey dawn, therefore, the Royalists, the fiercer for their hunger and sleeplessness, decided not to wait any longer. Since he would not come down they must go up. Dashingly they attacked his entrenchment, doggedly they continued the fight. After nine hours of it, word was passed round that their scanty store of ammunition had come to an end. But they were nothing daunted. Grimly and in a strange silence they made the last assault; and this time were successful, the leaders of the four narrow columns meeting at the top of the hill. As they did so, Lord Stamford, who had looked on from a safe distance, set spurs to his horse, and fled headlong. Cornwall was won for King Charles, and from the battlefield Francis Basset of Tehidy could write to his wife "Dearest soule, ring out the bells, raise bonfires, publish these joyful tidings."

A year or two later, however, Stratton told a different tale. Cornwall might in the main be Royalist, but all England was for a change in the government; and presently Lord Essex, driving Sir Richard Grenville—a brother of Sir Beville—before him, crossed the Tamar and stormed the house at Stowe. It was the beginning of evil days. In 1646 Hopton, the Royalist General, retired to Stratton with a broken, dispirited and, alas! disorderly army, and from thence Sir Thomas Fairfax drove him back across the pass at Wadebridge which Cromwell—it is the only mention of him in Cornish annals—was sent to secure.

The Battle of Lansdowne Hill

But by then Sir Beville was dead. After the—surely the name is ironical—battle of Stamford Hill, he and his victorious troops had marched to the King's aid. At the battle of Lansdowne, on the heights above Bath, Sir Beville, sorely wounded, was struck out of his saddle by a pole-axe. The pikemen he was leading fell into confusion, and in an instant the Parliamentarians were among them, hewing them down. Then did Anthony Payne, Sir Beville's giant retainer, come to the rescue. Catching his master's riderless horse, he set on it young John, a stripling of sixteen, Sir Beville's eldest son; and led him to the head of the wavering pikemen. The appeal was irresistible. The Cornish followed their beloved leader's son like men possessed; and so, while Sir Beville lay dying on the hillside, his regiment, led by his faithful servant and his young son, swept all before them.

One is glad to remember that at the Restoration when the family's confiscated estates were restored to them, young John, in memory of his own deeds and those of his greater father, was created Earl of Bath.

Tennyson at Bude

Bude with its wide sands and unsafe harbour is without historical associations, but it can be used, having hotels, as a centre from which to visit the more interesting towns (so-called, but they are no bigger than an ordinary village) and hamlets of the neighbourhood. Tennyson, when he had it in mind to write his Arthurian Idylls, came here—no doubt for local colour, though being a Victorian what he said was, "That he must go to Bude and be alone with God!" During his visit he rode out to Morwenstow to call on Mr. Hawker, and the less-known bard has left an interesting account of their interview.

"I found my guest ... a tall, swarthy, Spanish-looking man with an eye like a sword. He sate down, and we conversed. I at once found myself with no common mind.... Before he left the room, he said: 'Do you know my name?'

"I said: 'No, I have not even a guess.'

"'Do you wish to know it?'

"'I don't much care—that which we call a rose, &c.'

"'Well, then,' said he, 'my name is Tennyson.'

"'What!' said I, 'the Tennyson?'

"'What do you mean by the Tennyson? I am Alfred Tennyson, who wrote "Locksley Hall," which you seem to know by heart.'

"So we grasped hands, and the Shepherd's heart was glad."

Churches of the Neighbourhood

With regard to certain old churches, St. Olaf's, at Poughill, has two rather crudely restored mural paintings and, set heavily in the south door, what is reputed to be one of the few genuine sanctuary rings still in existence. The church at Marhamchurch also shows the remains of frescoes, while Stratton has a fine stoup, and in the north wall of the chancel an Easter sepulchre, probably the only one in the county. That of Swithin—dear apple saint—at Launcells, has a circular font reputed to date from Saxon times, and the fifteenth century bench-ends, though rudely carved, show a play of symbolic fancy, unusual in Cornwall. On one you see the visit of Mary when she mistook the gardener for Christ, Mary being represented by a spice-box, the gardener by a spade! On another the Harrowing of Hell is represented by the jaws of a dragon, and so with the various subjects. An empty grave and cross triumphant tells the story of the resurrection, while the supper at Emmaus, though faithfully suggested, is given without the introduction of a single human figure. It is all symbolism—riddles which are interesting to guess, but not always easy.

Week St. Mary

Some five miles or so south of Marhamchurch lies Week St. Mary, about a native of which village a sort of Dick Whittington story is told. In a field adjoining the churchyard the remains of extensive buildings can be traced, and these, once a chantry, were said to be due to the pious energy of Dame Thomasin Perceval. As a girl she herded geese on the common of Greenamore, until in the shape of a staid and, alas! already married merchant, the Prince came riding by. He spoke to the girl and found her as pleasant in discourse as to the eye. Without more ado, therefore, he took her away with him—and here, though propriety is preserved, the fairy-tale suddenly drops to unromantic fact—he took her to wait upon his wife! In course of time, however, that good lady died and the middle-aged Prince was free to marry his goose-girl.

After many years she returned as a rich widow to her native parish, and there spent the remnant of her days in a cheerful and rather bustling philanthropy, repairing anything in the way of churches, bridges, and roads that required attention, portioning the virtuous and hard working of her own sex and generally playing Lady Bountiful—or so it is said!

In the churchwardens' Accounts of Stratton under date 1513 we read:

"paid for my lady parcyvale ijs Meneday [i.e. day of prayer for her soul] to iiij preistes & for bred & ale 1s. 1d."

CHAPTER II

NOOKS AND CORNERS FROM WIDEMOUTH BAY TO ST. TEATH

The Headlands

The cliffs from Marsland Mouth to Trevose Head are fine, much finer than those on the better known south coast. The seas also are wilder, these shores seeming to suffer from fiercer onslaughts of the Atlantic. On a blustery day it is nothing to see the tortured waves break into a spray that is flung full forty feet into the air, while except in sheltered dips and coves—of which there are none too many in this part—neither tree nor shrub can live. This gives the headlands a barren look, the bold outlines are of grey boulders rather than vegetation, and behind them on the windy downs crouch the grey hamlets and solitary farms. For sheer beauty of crag and precipice, of mighty seas and broken slipped sea-front, there is nothing in the duchy that can compare with this piece of coast. Upon the great cliffs of Widemouth Bay, of which the name is sufficiently descriptive, follow Dizzard Point (500 ft.) with its landslip, Castle Point, so called from the circular earthwork on its summit, Pencarrow Head (400 ft.), between which and Cambeak (500 ft.) at the mouth of a wooded valley lies the lovely Crackington Cove and which brings us to the High Cliff with its sheer drop of 735 ft. This last is the highest in Cornwall, nearly double the height of the Dodman, that glory of the southern coast, while it is far higher than the Land's End and the Lizard. A little inland is yet higher ground, for Tresparret Down, a barren and desolate heath, is some 850 ft. above sea level!

Somewhat to the north of the High Cliff is St. Genys, the saint of which is said to have been one of three brothers, all of whom were beheaded. This particular brother is believed to have walked about afterwards, his head held under his arm, a proceeding which reminds us that "King Charles walked and talked, half an hour after his head was cut off!"

There is here an interesting example of an Elizabethan communion cup and paten cover, but it must be remembered that many cups of that date are older in material than in shape. When the word cup was substituted for chalice, we find by the churchwarden's accounts that the vessels were frequently re-shaped. We have, for example, one of 1571, "to Iohn Ions, goldsmith, for changing the chalice into a cup, £1 15s. 5d."

Boscastle

After the High Cliff the shore gradually assumes a less terrific aspect, until Boscastle, with its tiny firth and its blow-holes, is reached. This little straggling place took its name from Botreaux Castle (or Castel-boterel), which was built here in the twelfth century. The last Lord Botreaux died in 1462, and of the castle only a grassy mount, called Jordans, from a neighbouring stream, remains. This mount is on the hill, that steep and wooded hill which leads down into Boscastle, and on the sides of which the houses are hung like birds' nests on a cliff.

At the end of the valley the hills unite into slaty cliffs which take a sudden fjord-like turn before reaching the sea. This short and tiny estuary cannot, of course, compare with the smallest of those winding inlets which make the strange beauty of the Norwegian coast, inlets whose walls would dwarf the High Cliff and whose majestic desolation would make the barrenest headland in the west seem mild and fertile.

If the tide is in, the islet at the mouth of Boscastle Harbour sends up sudden showers of spray which suggest a geyser, but are in reality due to a blow-hole, and there is another on the mainland.

An ancient form of tenure survives here. The upper part of Forrabury Common is divided into "stitches"—slips of land divided by boundary marks only—and these stitches are held in severalty from Lady Day to Michaelmas, the proprietors for the rest of the year stocking it in common, according to the amount of their holdings. The hilly part of the common being unfit for cultivation is stocked in common all the year round.

Boscastle has two churches, that of Forrabury, which has been too zealously restored, deal having been substituted for the sixteenth-century oak benches and for the old pulpit that was covered with arabesques, and Minster. Near Minster, on Waterpit Downs, is a fine specimen of Celtic interlaced work on a cross shaft. It is now rescued, but for many years it served to bear the pivot of a threshing-machine. The church itself stands on the chancel site of an old minster. A doorway, now blocked, once led to the priory buildings, but of them nothing remains.

Otterham and Warbstow Barrows

Inland from Boscastle is Otterham, which possesses two bells dating from before the Reformation and mentioned in the inventory of Edward VI. The inscriptions on these mediæval bells are interesting, a frequent one being, "With my living voice I drive away all evil things." A little to the east of Otterham, on a hill 807 ft. above sea level, is Warbstow Barrows, one of the largest and best preserved earthworks in the county. Its two ramparts have each two entrances, the outer wall being 15 ft. high with a ditch 15 ft. wide. In the middle is a barrow known as the Giant's Grave, perhaps the resting-place of a chieftain who died in defence of the place, and was buried where he fell. Cornwall is thickly strewn with these memorials of the past. Earthworks of different race encampments lie cheek by jowl, strings of forts reach from sea to sea, and even the cliffs are fortified. These cliff castles, and there are traces of fortification on almost every headland, must have been built by people who were actually "between the devil and the deep sea." Foot by foot they must have given way, till at length they stood with their backs to the sea, defending from their enemies one ultimate rock. Only too often is there a grave within these defences, the grave of the last man, strong enough to hold back the enemy, but slain at last.

To the south-west of Boscastle is Willapark Head, and beyond it are some caves which until recently were haunted, as was all this north-western coast, by mild-eyed seals. "A man with a gun" and the English instinct to "go out and kill something," an instinct useful in the days of the mammoth and the cave-tiger, but more than a little tiresome in our present state of civilisation, is responsible for their disappearance. There are still the caves to be seen.

St. Nechtan's Kieve Bossiney

Inland the little towns are of slight interest, with the exception of the old cross at Lambrenny, but the walk along the cliffs—and the Cornish are amiably ignorant that trespassers ought to be prosecuted—presents an ever-changing panorama of lichened rocks and lacy surf and every shade of wonderful blue. In Trevalga Church is some old woodwork that has been carefully placed against the east wall of the church, and presently we are crossing the neck of the Rocky Valley on our way to derelict Bossiney—Bossiney once having mayor and officers and represented in Parliament by Sir Francis Drake, but now only a sleepy lovely nook in a quiet corner of the land! At the head of the Rocky Valley is St. Nechtan's Kieve, a fine but broken waterfall of some 40 ft. A legend is told of two unknown ladies who inhabited a cottage near by and who died without ever having revealed their names, but the legend sprang like so many others from the fertile brain of the Rev. Robert Hawker. He thought the place looked as if it ought to have a legend, and not finding one was both ready and able to supply the deficiency. A cross which was formerly part of the garden gate and was supposed to be of the ninth century has been taken to Tintagel, and is now to be seen in the garden of that comfortable old-fashioned hostelry, the Wharncliffe Arms.

Tintagel

The far-famed "Dundagel" consists of a single grey street, lined in irregular fashion with grey cottages and houses. In this land of stone you sigh for the cheerful sight of a red-brick building or a glowing tiled roof; but the stone used is grey, and where the roofs are not of a cold blue slate, they are of a thatch held on by ropes that are heavily weighted. The place is still primitive. Until recently the nearest baker lived at Delabole, and to judge by the prizes (instead of cakes) on view in his window, he must have been the king of pastry cooks. In Cornwall, however, the housewife still bakes her own bread and is in other ways more self-sufficing, and let us add more thrifty, than elsewhere.

Arthur

"Who Arthur was," says Milton, "and whether any such person reigned in Britain hath been doubted heretofore and may again with good reason." We must remember that the traditions concerning him were not reduced to writing until centuries after his death, while Gildas, who was born according to his own account in what would be Arthur's lifetime, does not mention him.

The legends, however, assert that he was born at Tintagel Castle about 499 a.d., that he had three wives, but no children, and that his second wife, Yenifer (Guinevere), was buried with him at Glastonbury. Against the probability of this is the fact that Tintagel is not mentioned in Domesday and that its ruins are of the thirteenth century with later additions. It is quite likely, however, that the place, which is strongly situated on a jutting headland—the so-called Island—was fortified from time immemorial. It may originally have been one of those pathetic cliff castles, may have been improved on and made habitable by the conquering race of that epoch, and may eventually have fallen into decay.

The Castle

The present ruins are said to represent a castle built some little time after the Norman Conquest, a castle which speedily fell out of repair, for it had to be restored by Richard, King of the Romans, brother of Henry III., before he could entertain his nephew, David, Prince of Wales, here in 1245.

When Cornwall, till then an earldom, was made a duchy (1337) and bestowed on the Black Prince, a boy seven years old, all the castles were again fallen into decay. At Tintagel the timber had even been removed from the great hall "because the walls were ruinous." The main part of the building appears to have been on the Island, but it was connected with outworks on the shore by a drawbridge. Sir Richard Grenville, who made an official survey in 1583, tells us that this drawbridge, which had been in existence within living memory, was gone, its supports having been washed away by the waves. The sea having continued its work of destruction, the space is now too wide for any drawbridge to span, and in spite of a handrail the little climb to the "Island" ruins is a dizzy one. Nor is there much to see. Some of the masonry is recent, while the tiny chapel and altar are of about the same date as the later parts of the castle, but the view is fine. It makes up for the disappointment in Tintagel as a castle, for the disappointment of finding that here is no certain tradition of Arthur, that the very people feel about him much as Milton did. He may have been born here, this may have been his very castle of Dindraithon, but if so they know nothing of it. Arthur is a thing of books, of art, not life, of the Morte, the Idylls, and—best of all perhaps—of Clemence Housman's wonderful story "Sir Aglovaine de Galis," but he has no place in present-day folklore.

On the top of the mainland outworks is a doorway which in an eerie manner opens upon space, and a sheer drop of many hundreds of feet. It shows how much the sea is encroaching. Once upon a time this probably led to the look-out tower. Now the very foundations of that tower are gone and presently the masonry will go too, and the waters will roar unhindered between the mainland and the island.

The Beach and Barras Head

Far below is a tiny dark beach, the colour of which is explained when having climbed down a wooden stairway clamped to the rock—the only means of approach—it is found to consist entirely of rounded pieces of slate. They are of all weights and sizes, but there is no sand, no shells, nothing but slate. Opposite the Castle rock is Barras Head, and there at last the big modern hotel can be ignored and the wanderer lie out on the short, dry turf with the long line of hazy coast to either hand and, before him, the islands white with sea-birds and pink with thrift and the boundless stretch of sunlit waters.

"To be by the translucent green, the blue
Deepening to purple where the weed is dense!
To hear the homing call as the brave sweep
Of wings is folded on a sea-girt rock!
To lie in golden warmth while tow'ring waves
Break with a lazy roar along the cliffs—
To lie and dream."

It is here that Swinburne, venturing on a swim, was nearly drowned. The same story is told of him on the French coast, only there it was Guy de Maupassant who brought him back in safety. The great French writer is reported to have said that the little English poet, with his bladder-like head and attenuated body, struck him as hardly sane. Yet it was Maupassant who died mad, not Swinburne.

An Inscribed Stone

At Tintagel was discovered in 1888 a stone on which is inscribed IMP C G Val Lic Licin, i.e., Imperatore Cæsare Galerio Valerio Liciniano Licinio, who reigned 307-324 a.d. It is evident therefore that whether Arthur was here or not the Romans were. What a pity that no one has been able to discover any satisfactory evidence in enduring stone of the British king's existence!

The cruciform church on the cliff is largely Norman, but portions of it belong to almost every succeeding age and period. Some have even held that it contains Saxon work, but the authorities are not agreed.

A Dangerous Occupation

On the way to Trebarwith along the cliffs—and Trebarwith is a narrow rocky opening up which the tide rushes with tremendous force—are quarries. It is strange to see men, with the carelessness of long habit, walk to the very edge of the cliff, lie down and, with their legs hanging over, feel with their feet for the rough ladder that leads down the rock-face to the quarry opening; or to see them stand on a plank that juts out over the sea, and is maintained in its position by a chunk of rock, casually adjusted. If the plank should give, or the rock roll aside! But a man stands there from morning till night loading and unloading slates.

The Battle of Gafulford

Inland from Tintagel is Camelford, with its local tradition of a battle. At Slaughter Bridge, near Worthyvale, one and a half miles from Camelford, fragments of armour, ornaments of bridles, weapons, have been found, and in 823 a battle was certainly fought at some place then called Gafulford between the Saxons of Devon and the Celts of Cornwall, a battle in which the Cornish were defeated. May not this unknown Gafulford be Camelford? Writers have suggested that this may have been the scene of Arthur's last battle; but the weight of tradition is against this theory, a more likely place having been pointed out in Scotland.

Arthur's Hall

While on the subject of the legendary British king, it would be interesting to see a supposed feasting-chamber, which from before the time of Henry VIII. was known as Arthur's Hall. South-west of Brown Willy, it is about five miles from Camelford, in the parish of St. Breward. It appears at present as a pit hollowed out in a light sandy soil. This excavation, which is 159 ft. long, is enclosed by an earthen bank with slabs of granite about 7 ft. high, placed evenly on the inner side. The absence of true walls makes it doubtful whether it was roofed over, but it may have had a self-supporting skeleton roof, covered with a web of branches or with sods.

Lanteglos

As is so often the case in Cornwall, the Camelford church is at some distance from the place to which it ministers, being, indeed, a mile and a half away at Lanteglos. In the churchyard is a celebrated stone with an inscription in eleventh-century Saxon capitals: "ÆLSELTH & GENERETH WROHTE THYSNE SYBSTEL FOR ÆLWYNEYS SAUL & FOR HEYSEL." About a quarter of a mile from the church is the well-known entrenchment called Castle Goff, with a single rampart and ditch.

The Forty Brewers of Helston

Below Lanteglos is the manor of Helston, and Domesday records "that there were forty brewers on the royal manor of Henliston." This is the only mention in the great survey of brewers as an item of population, and forty seems a good many for one place. Did they brew all the beer in the county; and was it Henliston ale that so appalled Andrew Borde when he thought to visit Cornwall, that he turned back saying: "it looked as if pigges had wrasteled in it"?

The River

Camelford is not far from either of the sources of the Camel, and the upper moorland reaches of the twin streams abound in charming spots where the water frets among boulders and swirls in sunshine and shadow among ferns and wild flowering shrubs. The sisters do not join forces till they reach Kea Bridge, over ten miles from their source, but as soon as depth allows of their existence sweet small trout are plentiful.

The Delabole Slate

Between Camelford and Tintagel are the now silent quarries of North Delabole (or Dennyball). The road winds between great walls and under archways of slate which look as if a touch would send the whole erection sliding and rushing down upon the wayfarer. But the slates were set up by cunning fingers and have withstood the gales of this coast for a score of years. Very different is their mournful creeper-grown desolation from the arid activity of Delabole. The approach to the high grey windy street is marked by deep ferny lanes. Here are thirty acres of quarry and rubble heap, a hideous excavation. In 1602 the quarry, already old, was 900 ft. long, in 1882 it had grown to 1300 ft., and it is growing still. The best slate is called bottom stone and lies at a depth of from 25 to 40 fathoms, for the quarry is now over 400 ft. deep. Beautiful crystals the so-called Cornish diamonds, are found in these workings, truly the only beautiful things in a most dreary place.

St. Teath

When the church at little sleepy St. Teath was restored in 1877, two massive Norman responds at the east end of the north aisle were discovered. There is also some good roof timber and a little ancient glass. The pulpit bears the arms of the Carminows and their motto: "Cala Rag Whetlow"—a straw for a tell-tale. It was John of Gaunt, "time-honoured Lancaster," that Prince who, though never a king, was the ancestor of so many, who upon true evidence found Carminow of Cornwall "to be descended of a lineage armed 'Azure a bend Or' since the time of King Arthur;" and indeed the Carminows were certainly here at the Conquest. They are now extinct, the last of the family, a devoted Royalist, dying in 1646.

In the graveyard, on a slab fastened to the church, is the following epitaph:

"Here lyeth the body of Robert Bake, son of Samuel Bake, who was buried the xxx day of January, 16—.
But what cheere-up altho our sonne be gone
Altho his bodiy must be racke and toren
With filthy bitter bitinge wormes of dust
And be consumd as all our bodies must
Yet still cheere-up comforte yourselves: in this
Tho the bodiy died the soule emmortall is
And now in heaven most ioyfully shall singe
O: grave where is thy strength, death where is thy victory
With God above for all e-terny-tie:
For Robert Bake."

CHAPTER III

NOOKS AND CORNERS FROM PORT ISAAC TO THE VALE OF LANHERNE

Port Isaac and the Fishing: Pentire: St. Enodoc and the Sand: Lovebond's Bridge: Wadebridge and Egloshayle: "Jan Tergeagle": Menhirs: Padstow and the Hobby Horse: Prehistoric Inhabitants: Harlyn Bay: Trevose Head: Constantine: A Fogou: Bedruthan: The Vale of Lanherne.

Port Isaac

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.

St. Enodoc and the Sand

From this point westward the coast has been afflicted with sandstorms, churches have been buried, towns obliterated by the drifting particles. Blowing steadily for three days at a time, the frightened people have left their houses to escape suffocation, and fled inland only on their return to find the face of the country changed beyond recognition. St. Enodoc Church, during one of these visitations, was covered with sand above the level of the roof, only the thirteenth-century broach spire remaining above the waste to indicate the whereabouts of the building. In order to perform service, the parson, after some digging, managed to enter by the roof; and it may be wondered why on that lonely waste a service should be required. It was not, however, a matter of saving souls, but of obtaining tithes. About forty years ago the church was excavated, and it now lies in a deep trench. The path is lined with a curious collection of stone mortars or measures, which however are not ecclesiastical. Near by rises the desolate Bray Hill, under which, early last century, storms having shifted the sands, the ruins of what is thought to be an oratory came to light.

The churches of St. Minver and St. Kew are both interesting. The former contains three octagonal slate piers supporting pointed arches, the remains of a fine oak rood screen, and—an article which seems nowadays somewhat out of place, but no doubt is stored there against destruction or oblivion—the stocks. St. Kew lies in a lovely wooded valley, and is one of the finest churches in Cornwall, but is not often visited. Fine woodwork is to be seen in the cradle roof, while the chancel screen was carefully modelled on one of earlier date. The communion cup is Elizabethan, but more interesting is a glass egg-shaped bowl with silver mounts of 1598. When Bodmin Church was restored (1472) it seems to have sold its fine old windows to any church that would buy, and St. Kew was fortunate enough to secure one, that in the north chapel. Not far from here is Polrode, where, serving as part of the bridge, is a good, though mutilated, example of a roundheaded cross with beaded angles. At St. Endellion, a little north of Kew, is a stoup carved with the arms of Roscarrock, Chenduit, and Pentire—and heraldic stoups are rare.

Lovebond's Bridge

On the road to Wadebridge is an earthwork known as Castle Killibury or Kelly Rounds, which was known to have been in existence—and out of repair—as early as 1478. Commanding the road down to the ford it was evidently once a place of considerable strength. This ford was not bridged until the reign of Edward IV., when a fine bridge with a span of seventeen arches was built by a man named Lovebond. At first it was so narrow that only pack-horses could cross, and over every pier protecting angles were placed for the need of pedestrians. The bridge was 320 ft. long, and the finest of its kind in England. It has been widened, but its character carefully preserved. For a long time it was believed that on account of the shifting sands the piers rested on packs of wool. Examination, however, has proved the story an invention, for they are on a rock foundation.

It was over this bridge that the broken Royalists hurried in 1646, a long disorderly straggle of men and guns and baggage, with Cromwell, grimly patient, at their heels. Had there been union and discipline in the forces, they would have been no easy conquest; but there had long been dissension among the leaders, and the condition of the common soldiers was both wretched and demoralised. As Clarendon records, they were "feared by their friends, scorned by their enemies, terrible only in plunder and resolute in running away." With such troops as these nothing could be done. Sir Richard Grenville, tyrannical and quarrelsome, had been committed to Launceston gaol, Prince Charles himself had left the country, and only the loyal Hopton was left. Once across the Camel and the soldiers were penned into the western half of the peninsula; but a spark of that old spirit which had won so many victories for the king was shown in a skirmish at St. Columb Major. It was the last flicker of life. In March the commissioners met at Tresillian Bridge, terms were agreed on, and the Royalist army disbanded on honourable conditions.

Wadebridge and Egloshayle

Wadebridge is a little market town, so little that it has not even a resident dentist! It has, however, an air of life which is unusual in Cornwall; but that may be partly due to the cheery little streams that run through the open gutters of the main streets. Here you buy chickens by the pound and new-laid eggs—sometimes—for a halfpenny each; but the place is neither beautiful nor interesting. Very different is Egloshayle, the "church by the river," a name which it deserves, for the water washes against the fence of the haunted graveyard. Historians tell us that the Loveybound who was vicar here in 1462 and who built the south aisle and fine three-stage western tower must not be confounded with the Lovebond of about the same date who built the bridge, that indeed it is a case of "It wasn't Mr. William Shakespeare who wrote the plays, but another gentleman of the same name." The church is about a mile up the river from Wadebridge, and stands in a group of chestnuts. The sculptured stone pulpit is of the fifteenth century, and in the roof of the south aisle is some good oak of the same date. The hood-mouldings of the tower doorway are ornamented with angels bearing shields, on one of which is cut the name "I. Loveybound" and the device of three hearts banded together with a fillet.

On the other side of Wadebridge lies St. Breock, where "John Tregeagle of Trevorder, Esqr., 1679," is buried. 'Tis said that at his death, owing to some inaccuracy in his accounts—he was steward of the Robartes' estates—a poor man was sued for money that he had already paid. By the agency of the parson, who seems to have been some sort of a wizard, Tregeagle was induced to return to earth and give evidence for the defence, which evidence proved conclusive. Cornwall is full of legends about Tregeagle, who seems to have been a hard man and an oppressive steward; but no doubt, as often happens, the legends are of earlier date than the individual to whom they are momentarily attached. The wraith who gave them birth has faded out of living memory, is indeed dead; but like disturbed but sleepy birds, they have quickly settled again on some character still bulking largely in the public eye.

Menhirs

Beyond the little church the ground rises to St. Breock Downs, which are 700 ft. above sea level and strewn with prehistoric remains. Nine big stones in a straight line are followed by a menhir, a disposition often seen on Dartmoor; and at Pawton is a dolmen called the Giant's Quoit, an exceptionally fine example. The menhir is known as the Old Man, probably from houl mæn, a sun stone. The word "man" or "men" or "maiden" when met with in the west invariably means a stone, but those responsible for our latter-day legends were often unaware of this.

By way of the broad sunshiny estuary, which is as beautiful when the tide is out and the distant gulls stand like a string of pearls on the edge of the yellow sand, as when the whole expanse is one stretch of dimpling blue water, we come to Padstow. At Little Petherick, which is halfway, there is a copy of the 1684 edition of Foxe's "Book of Martyrs," and the south doorway of the church is believed to have been stolen from the ruined edifice on Constantine Bay—at any rate there is no mention in the churchwardens' accounts of any payment made.

Padstow and the Hobby Horse

A short distance from the mouth of the estuary and looking up the blue reaches to the open sea lies the little port of Padstow. In early days it was so near the Atlantic that wandering Danes (901) came and plundered its monastery of St. Petrock, and later the sand blocked up the wide mouth of the harbour forming the Doom Bar, and leaving only a narrow channel on the west. But the little place with its narrow streets all running uphill, its unprotected sharp-cornered quay, and its dominant manor-house, still contrives to exist. It is at its best perhaps when stress of weather has driven in the fishing fleet, and there is a forest of masts clustered by the wharves. On such occasions milk and bread are hard to come by, for there will be five hundred extra mouths to feed.

A quaint survival of the ancient May Day celebrations exists in the Hobby Horse, a wooden circle with a dress of blackened sail-cloth, a horse's head, and a prominent tail. This is carried through the town, the bearers meanwhile chanting a song which, in spite of an old tune and refrain, is full of topical allusions.

Halfway up one of the steep roads that lead out into the country is the beautifully situated Prideaux Place. The family, though of respectable antiquity, has not taken any leading part in the history of the county, but in the house are some interesting pictures, a Vandyke, and some early Opies. When the old home of the Grenvilles was finally dismantled, the great staircase was brought from Stowe and set up here to be a link with the immemorial past.

Round Padstow the land is fertile, very fine wheat being grown; and it is believed that a certain farmer pays his rent with the produce of a single field of asparagus. It is astonishing that more of the succulent edible is not grown, or that the sandhills of the coast are not utilised as they were round Southampton for growing strawberries. A fortune may lurk in the sand, the devastating sand, or, if that is too much to ask, at least it may give back more than it has taken. But the farmers are disinclined for change, and if you ask why there are so few milch kine and why vegetables and other amenities of life are so difficult to get, you are told: "Spoase they'm warm men, got a long stocking. They don't trouble."

Prehistoric

Along the estuary to the north is a way which, in windy weather, is dangerous, but at other times gives a succession of lovely views and which brings the walker past Rockferry (mentioned as early as 1337) to Stepper Point, with its white day-mark. The cliffs for a little are high and not too safe, but Tregudda Gorge with its amethyst and topaz crystals, its flints and worked slates, is a lonely and a beautiful spot. The Cornish tell strange stories of these places, stories of the "little people" whom they believe to be fairies,[1] but who are probably the neolithic dwarf race which is said to have inhabited parts of the country. They are also firm believers in psychic faculty, though they call it by other older names. A man interested in such matters met a London friend at the Padstow terminus. Aware that his friend was supposed to be clairvoyant, he without comment put a fragment of bone that he had found on an old kitchen midden in the other's hand and asked him what he saw. "Now, this is interesting," said the other, "for I see walking away before me a little brown man dressed in skins. On his feet are brogues of hide with the hair inside."

The friends were walking by the estuary and the tide was in. "He has got into a queer sort of basket boat covered with hides and is paddling about among a lot of other little brown people in similar boats. Ah, there is a forest over there." The antiquarian looked across the discoloured line of the Doom Bar to the sandhills opposite, but not a tree was to be seen. He remembered afterwards, however, that many centuries ago a forest, now submerged, had occupied the eastern side of the Camel estuary.

So sparsely inhabited is this coast that the worked flints and arrow-heads of that bygone people still lie on the undisturbed surface of the rocky land. The flints are so sharp, so clean, that it seems their owners can have only just laid them down. And we must remember that this is not a flint country. Every sharp atom was brought from far away in the days when the rivers had to be forded and there were only paths over the waste. Yet, onward from Tregudda Gorge, there are any number to be found. Moreover after Trevone—an uninteresting place where some bathing fatalities have occurred—we come, in broad and beautiful Harlyn Bay, to the necropolis of this vanished race.

Harlyn Bay

In 1900, when digging for the foundations of a house, an oblong slate kist, lying north and south, and containing a "crouched" burial, was found. The drift sand lay some 8 to 10 ft. above the grave, within which the skeleton lay on his side, his hands over his eyes, his knees bent under him in what seems to us an attitude of devotion; as he lay the first ray of the rising sun would strike athwart his face. Further investigation showed that the discovered kist was only one of a group of interments, and that the graves covered some 90 ft., giving signs of a long continued series of burials, rather than of a great number within a short period. The date of interment is considered to be that of the later iron age, no great antiquity it is true, but some few thousand years ago. The kind and courteous owner, Colonel Bellers, allows access to this prehistoric graveyard—locally known as the Boneries—and near by is a small museum for the preservation of interesting finds. Some of the kists have been left in situ and, to preserve them from wind and weather, have been covered with a sort of cucumber frame, and the stranger looks down through the glass on to the brown bones in their enduring coffins of slate. Here lies a chieftain, for over his kist were heaped rough lumps of quartz crystal; here a mother and child, little bones and bigger; and here, in a heterogeneous mixture of all sorts and sizes, is a hint of tragedy. Were they the result of a battle—of a cannibal feast—or of justice done!

A tooth from this strange and lonely graveyard was enclosed in a little box and sent to a friend in London with instructions to place it unopened in the hands of a clairvoyant. No information was vouchsafed with the tooth, and the mystified go-between was only asked to take down what was said, and this he did. At first the clairvoyant seemed rather puzzled. "I can see a wide, sandy bay with rocks and cliffs, a rough tumbling sea, and at the head of the bay a dense wood; but the people are not like any I've ever seen before. They seem to be skin-clad savages with black hair. There are quite a lot of them. One is running across the sands and others are rushing after him; they have weapons in their hands and he is fleeing in deadly terror. Ah, he has run into the wood—now they've all disappeared!"

Was the last scene in that prehistoric man's life being re-enacted before the clairvoyant's gaze? Had he contravened his fellows' unknown laws and so been hunted to his death?

After a little the seer continued: "I see the bay again, but it's a little different, more sand and fewer trees. Some men in present-day dress are standing by a hole in the ground. They——" and a description was given of the people who had been present at the opening of the kist. "I think the hole is a grave, though it seems too short to be that" (the kist being a "crouched" burial was, of course, much shorter than an ordinary grave), "at any rate there are bones in it."

Of the gold ornaments found in Cornwall the most remarkable are the two torques found near Harlyn; bronze fibulæ have also been found here, but a good many of these finds are now in the Truro Museum. Harlyn, in spite of the grisly nature of its chief attraction, is an incomparable bay of wide firm sand, rock pools, and low safe cliffs. As it is sheltered by Trevose Head, the bathing is safe. A little way along the cliffs is a disused fish-cellar, over the door of which is the motto: "Lucri dulcis odor"—sweet is the smell of gold! But the fish have left these shores and the big black boats—boats that are oddly reminiscent of the Viking's ships at Christiania—lie rotting in the sun.

Trevose Head

Trevose Head (lighthouse), blunt and rounded, with an ear on each side of its broad head, is a somewhat eerie place. On its western slope is a large and sinister blow-hole, and much of the land seems to have slipped a little and to be slipping more. It is here, by the rabbit burrows, that so many worked flint arrow-heads and fish spears have been found; while on its eastern side are caves inaccessible to the ordinary person, but if report says truly once of great use to the smuggler. The cliffs are of catacleuse, a dark and durable stone, of which on the cave side there are quarries.

Beyond Trevose Head, with its view from Cape Cornwall to Lundy Isle, the land curves inward past the rocky ridges and big rolling sand-dunes of Constantine. A shepherd's family is said to have held for many generations a cottage on Constantine under the lord of Harlyn Manor by the annual payment of a Cornish pie made of limpets, raisins, and sweet herbs. Food is cheap in Cornwall, but wages are correspondingly low. A farm pays its labourers—it calls them the cowman, the bullockman, and the horseman—from 13s. 6d. to 18s. a week, and with that, though conditions differ a little on different farms, they generally give a cottage, 100 ft. of potato ground, the run of a pig on the land, 100 battens of tamarisk wood—almost the only wood on this part of the coast—and, most prized of all, the right to let lodgings. On this the labourers sometimes manage to save. In one absolutely authentic instance, a couple, labourer and farm-servant, who married at twenty-one and eighteen, contrived to rear a healthy family of three and before they were forty to save enough to buy a piece of land, build a lodging-house, and go into business on their own account. "Never refused a day's work in my life," said the woman, "but we lived on what he brought home, and saved what I made." And what he brought home had been from thirteen to fifteen shillings a week. "Nor I never bought any tinned stuff," she said. "There's a deal of money goes that way, if the young women nowadays 'ud only believe it. Why, a tin of pears, where's the nourishment in that, and think of the price. Nearly a shilling gone."

And that woman baked her own bread, did, not only her own "bit of washin'," but that of the one or two houses in the neighbourhood, went out charing and cleaning, and took lodgers! They were thrifty folk, never dreamed of buying a newspaper, and as a consequence had to save every scrap of letter-paper, grocery bags, and oddments in order to have the wherewithal to light the fire in the slab range. The pig was their great stand-by. His meat, frugally cut, distributed in pasties with a careful hand, lasted them the greater part of the year, and then there were the lodgers. The tourist is not over-welcome to the farmer on account of his carelessness with regard to gates. He lets the young stock in among the corn and passes on oblivious of the damage he has caused, but he is a godsend to the labourer's capable wife.

Constantine

Constantine is another lovely and lonely bay. The jagged ridges of stone run out at either end of the wide arc, a deep blue in sunlight, black in cloudy weather, and between them lies a rainbow beach of shells. The owners of the property have set their faces against hotels, and on the stretch of sand-dunes are only the ruins of a one-time wrecker's cottage, and a small black hut. The man who gave his name to the place was supposed to be a descendant of King Lear (here spelt Llyr), who was converted in his old age by the Padstow saint, Petrock. The sand which destroyed his oratory is also said to have destroyed a populous village, but seeing the desolation on every hand, this is a little difficult to believe. At any rate the neighbouring churches seem to have benefited by the saint's misfortune, for St. Merryn as well as Little Petherick gathered up any trifles she thought might come in useful, and the beautiful font at the former church is said to have been taken from her. One thing only was left to

"that ruined church
Whose threshold is the sacrificial stone
Of a forgotten people!"

Under the archway of the western door, a heavy-rounded lump, lies the old stone. It was probably a source of pride to Constantine ap Llyr. He had taken from the heathen their greatest treasure, their sacrificial stone, which had been brought from a distance, for there is no stone of that nature in the neighbourhood, and he had set it in his threshold where it should be trodden underfoot of men. And now the old church and the yet older stone lie alike forgotten, and there is peace.

On Constantine Island—again only so-called—a little, very ancient house was discovered some years ago. The walls were of slabs of stone and the greatest height of the interior was 7 ft. From the discovery of two hearth-stones, one inside and one on the outside of the building, it was thought that the place was only used as a dwelling in bad or cold weather, and that otherwise its prehistoric owner kept it as a storehouse. Unfortunately the little ruin has been removed piecemeal by the hungry visitor.

A Fogou

Not only are there many caverns along this coast, but several fogous or artificial caves have been discovered. These fogous may have been used for smuggling or as hiding-places in time of war, but the fact that some are obviously connected with old cliff castles and strongholds, points to a greater antiquity; in fact, they may have been prehistoric storehouses. In a secluded valley, near Porthcothan, a little further along this coast, is an interesting example. The cavern is 36 ft. long and about 6 ft. high, the breadth being about 5 ft. The sides are lined with rough stones, simply piled up, and the roof consists of stone slabs. From this chamber a passage leads to another similarly constructed. It is said to have been much longer, in fact over 1000 yards, one gallery leading to Trevethan, whence another opened on to the beach at Porthmear.

Bedruthan

To the south of Park Head, a fine cliff on which are several tumuli, is the Church of St. Eval, the tower of which was so useful a landmark that when it grew ruinous in 1727, some Bristol merchant subscribed towards the rebuilding. It is near Bedruthan Steps, where a fine shore is strewn with detached rocks and islands. One of the former is named "Queen Bess," from a fancied resemblance, ruff, farthingale and all, to the royal spinster; another "The Good Samaritan," because a vessel of that name was wrecked there. This vessel had been an East Indiaman laden with the silks and spices of a warmer clime, and a good deal of the cargo was saved, so much indeed that nowadays when a lass finds her finery growing the worse for wear, she says, "It is time for a Good Samaritan to come."

On the cliff above Redruthan Sands is an ancient earthwork known as Red Cliff Castle, which is supposed to have been British. It would be interesting to learn whether it is in any way connected with the numerous great caves which honeycomb its rock foundation. So far, however, no fogou has been discovered here.

Vale of Lanherne

From Mawgan Porth, the far-famed Vale of Lanherne lies inland some two miles or so, a contrast to the rough wild coast and its splintered rocks. Beyond the church and nunnery, in their peaceful setting of small-leaved Cornish elms, among the branches of which the rooks build above the little rippling stream, are the lovely woods of Carnanton. It used to be said that amid all the religious communities represented in Cornwall long ago, there was never a nunnery, but this is no longer the case. In the reign of Henry VII. an Arundell of Lanherne purchased Wardour Castle, in Wiltshire, and when his younger son Thomas, married a sister of Queen Catherine Howard, the old man settled on him the Wardour house and estate. In course of time the elder branch came to be represented by a daughter only, and she marrying her cousin of Wardour the estates were re-united. In 1794 Henry, eighth Lord Arundell of Wardour, gave the old home of his race—it had been in the family since 1231—to some English Theresian nuns, who had fled from Paris in fear of what was to come. The present house is not very old, though a part of it dates from 1580, which part contains a secret chamber, wherein a priest once lay concealed for some sixteen months. It is said that the silver sanctuary lamp in the convent chapel has burnt continuously and that the Roman Catholic services have been held without intermission since pre-Reformation days. A picture supposed to be by Rubens, "The Scourging of our Blessed Lord at the Pillar," is shown, also other reputed old masters. Adjoining the house is a little garden, used as a cemetery, in which three priests and several nuns have been buried, and which contains a tenth-century four-holed cross of Pentewan stone, the shaft of which is covered with interlaced work.

Mawgan Church, which is close to the nunnery, is remarkably rich in brasses, many of which are now attached to the old screen through the shameful ignorance of a late rector. There were here formerly some interesting palimpsest brasses of foreign workmanship, but large portions of these have been removed by the Arundells—whom they concerned—to Wardour Castle. On the south side of the churchyard is one of those pathetic memorials only too common along this coast. The white painted stern of a boat lies close to the convent wall, and on it is inscribed: "Here lie the bodies of ... who were drifted on shore in a boat, frozen to death, at Beacon Cove, in this parish, on Sunday, the 13th day of December, MDCCCXLVI." A beautiful Gothic cross of fifteenth-century work stands at the west end of the church. It is the most elaborate example of a lanthorn cross in Cornwall and contrasts well with the restored granite cross, dating from the earliest period of such monuments, which is to be seen in the additional churchyard.

CHAPTER IV

NOOKS AND CORNERS FROM THE VALE OF LANHERNE TO HAYLE TOWANS

Hurling and St. Columb Major: Colan: The Gratitude of the Stuarts: Trevalgue: A Good Centre for Crantoch, St. Cubert, and Trerice: St. Agnes and the Giant: Portreath: the Bassets: Godrevy: Gwithian: The Pilchards.

Hurling and St. Columb Major

At the head of the lovely Vale of Lanherne is a district which has long been the centre for the old game of "hurling," and although football has largely taken its place, it is still sometimes played on Shrove Tuesday. The ball is smaller than that used for cricket, is light to handle, and has a coating of silver. The one now in use is inscribed with this couplet:

"St. Columb Major and Minor do your best,
In one of your parishes I must rest."

During the short reign of Edward VI. the ferment against the reformation doctrines came to a head in Cornwall. The people rose under Humfrey Arundel and marched to Exeter, only however to meet with a crushing defeat. Four thousand were slain, and their leaders taken and hanged at Tyburn. Martial law was then proclaimed, and Sir Anthony Kingston, Provost Marshal, was sent down into Cornwall. Among other stories told of him is that of his expeditious visit to St. Columb. Arrived at the little market town he promptly seized "Master Mayow" and directed that he should be hanged as a rebel. "Mistress Mayow, intending to plead for her husband's life, spent so long a time in prinking herself that by the time she reached the presence of the judge, her husband was dead."

In the neighbourhood of St. Columb are nine menhirs in a line, called the Nine Maidens, or in Cornish "Naw Voz"; also Castle-an-Dinas, a large triple entrenchment on a high tableland enclosing six acres of ground and two tumuli. Hither came the Royalist leaders in 1646 to discuss the question of surrender, and here King Arthur is supposed to have stayed when on pleasure bent. The waste land around is known as Goss Moors, and there he hunted not only the red deer but the wolf.

"The Green Book of St. Columb" is one of the historical treasures of the county. It is so called from the colour of its leather binding, and is a book of parish accounts dating from the reign of Elizabeth.[2] Curious to relate, the rectory-house is surrounded by a moat. The church, which is very large for Cornwall, contains some good brasses and bench-ends, the brass of Sir John Arundell and his two wives (1545) being probably the finest example in the county. This church has had hard usage. In 1676 a barrel of gunpowder which lay in the rood-loft was fired by some mischievous boys. Three of them were killed, and a great deal of other damage was done. Some few years later the tower was struck by lightning, and the people, made wiser by misfortune, were careful to erect a less lofty one, which, however, was itself struck a few years since.

Colan

Halfway between the two St. Columbs is the little church of Colan, which contains the interesting brass of ffrancis Bluet, 1572, and Elizabeth, his wife, with effigies of both and of their thirteen sons and nine daughters. Below it is a smaller brass containing these words:

"Behold thyselfe

by us; Suche one

Were we as thow:

And thou in tyme

Shalt be: even doust

As we are nowe."

The Gratitude of the Stuarts

Lady Nance's Well was once the resort of pilgrims, who threw crosses of wood into the water. If they swam all would go well during the ensuing year, but, alas, if they should sink! Another well and the remains of its covering building are to be seen at Rialton, a priory which once possessed extensive rights, but of which only the ruined buildings remain. They lie in a beautiful valley east of the village of St. Columb Minor. At this latter the communion plate, which was presented by Francis, second Earl of Godolphin, and bears his arms, is massive, the flagon holding nearly a gallon! By the west door is a large painting of the royal arms, presented by Charles II. to the parish, as marking his sense of their loyalty to his father, and it might be as well to give here the letter of thanks written by Charles I. to his loyal county of Cornwall and still to be seen painted on wood in so many of the churches. It was written immediately after the fall of Exeter.

"C. R. To the inhabitants of the Co. of Cornwall.

"We are so highly sensible of the merit of our county of Cornwall, of their zeal for the defence of our person and the just rights of our crown, in a time when we could contribute so little to our own defence or to their assistance, in a time when not only no reward appeared, but great and probable dangers were threatened to obedience and loyalty; of their great and eminent courage and patience in their indefatigable prosecution of their great work against so potent an enemy, backed with so strong, rich, and populous cities, and so plentifully furnished and supplied with men, arms, money, ammunition, and provision of all kinds; and of the wonderful success with which it pleased Almighty God, though with the loss of some most eminent persons—who shall never be forgotten by us—to reward their loyalty and patience by many strange victories over their and our enemies in despite of all human probability and all imaginable disadvantages; that as we cannot be forgetful of so great desert so we cannot but desire to publish it to all the world and perpetuate to all time the memory of their merits and of our acceptance of the same; and to that end we do hereby render our royal thanks to that our county in the most public and lasting manner we can devise, commanding copies hereof to be printed and published, and one of them to be read in every church and chapel therein, and to be kept for ever as a record in the same; that as long as the history of these times and of this nation shall continue, the memory of how much that county hath merited from us and our crown may be derived with it to posterity.

"Given at our camp at Sudeley Castle, 10th of Sep., 1643."

Poor king! a pathetic letter, voicing only too plainly his expectation of disaster and the surprise which the successes of his reckless gallant Cornish subjects had caused him.