Nooks and Corners of Cornwall

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

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.

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.

Trevalgue

Beyond St. Columb Porth lies the island known as Trevalgue. On the land side this has six lines of entrenchment and about and upon it, as at Trevose, lie a quantity of flint chips. These chips are mostly worked. Here also are a large blow-hole and several interesting caverns. At Glendorgal, further along the cliff, a barrow was opened some years ago and found to contain a remarkable burial urn with two handles and on it a rough chevron pattern. The two barrows on the summit of Trevalgue were opened in 1842. They proved to contain a very ancient interment. The country people declare them to be the graves of two kings who fought all day long on the headland until at last each killed the other, and was buried where he fell.

"Burn me in my armour, all that is mine, and pile for me a cairn on the shore of the grey sea, the memorial of a luckless man, that men unborn may enquire concerning me."—Beowulf.

A Good Centre for Crantock, St. Cubert, and Trerice

Newquay, which is like the definition of a line—length without breadth—is hardly either a nook or a corner. It is marvellously well situated and consists mainly of large hotels. To stand on its beach, looking outward along the hazy cliffs and over the sparkling water, makes you feel as if you could forgive anything but the proximity of man and his immediate works. However Newquay, like Bude and Tintagel, is an excellent centre from which to go out and survey the land.

Legend says—what doesn't legend say?—that Crantock was once a seaport with seven churches, and "that the place was drowned in a deluge of sand, brought upon the wings of the wind." That wind has certainly blocked up the Gannel and put an end to any trade it may once have had. This Gannel is a tidal river flowing through a gorge in the hills, and it can be crossed at low tide by a plank bridge, while horse vehicles splash through the ford. It is, however, a dangerous place, for the tide flows swiftly and strongly, and lives have been lost through attempting the crossing a little late. The place is said to be haunted by a disembodied spirit, locally known as the "crake," the hoarse shriek of which acts as a warning; and it is certain that no countryman who fancied he had heard it would persist in an attempt to cross—although it is five good miles round by Trevemper!

Crantock was a college with a dean and canons at least as early as the reign of Edward the Confessor, the buildings having stood in what is now a walled garden, easily recognised by the old ship's figurehead which serves as a lintel to its gateway. The collegiate church which stands on a green slope looking towards the sea is one of the most interesting in Cornwall. There are several remains of Norman work, as for instance the inner doorway of the porch and part of the central tower arch and piers. In the church are preserved several pieces of carved alabaster, the intention of which is not known, and in the graveyard lies a large stone coffin. The vicar brought himself into notice some time since by objecting to the presence in his church of women who were not wearing hats. Courage is a fine thing, but it is generally understood that the difficulty nowadays is not to discourage people from attending service, but to get them to come.

It is not generally known that when the Black Death more—much more—than decimated Bodmin, the bodies were carried to Crantock and buried in a field on the north coast. Hundreds of years have passed, but the surface of this piece of ground is still uneven, and the people believe that if any one disturbs the earth the disease will break out again. So antiquarians—in search of the lost city of Langarrow—beware! The well of St. Carantocus is in the centre of the village, beneath a rough covering of stone; but it cannot compare either for beauty or renown with another well a mile or two distant. Under the high and rugged cliffs of Holywell Bay is a spring of fresh water, approached by a flight of fifteen worn steps that have been cut in the rock. Only accessible at low tide, it is in a beautiful cave of many strange sea tints, and the water drips from one lovely basin to another. In other days mothers brought their deformed or sickly children to be dipped in the wonder-working well—which, however, is now known to be of no medicinal value.

Between Kelsey Head and Penhale Point lies a wild region of blown sand. Inland are many deserted mines, the ruins of these "knacked bals" giving the strange countryside a deserted and desolate appearance, so that the tapering spire of Cubert Church, which forms a useful landmark, is welcome. Beyond this is more sand, the wide and dreary waste of Perranzabuloe (St. Piran in the Sands). The early oratory of this saint was buried by the blown sands, and so long lost that only the tradition of it remained. Early in the last century, however, the winds uncovered it again, and when the oratory was cleared from sand, the headless skeleton of a big man was discovered beneath the altar. Now St. Piran was the patron saint of tinners, and it was known that in 1281 the church had possessed a box in which his head was kept and a hearse on which his body was carried in procession; indeed, the commissary of the Dean and Chapter of Exeter reported in 1331 that "the parishioners continue as before to carry the relics of St. Piran in an unwarrantable manner to various and even distant places," and as late as 1433 Sir John Arundell bequeathed ten shillings "for enclosing the saint's head honourably." If these matters are so, the skeleton discovered cannot have been that of St. Piran, for the oratory was said to have been buried in the sand about 900 a.d., and, as we have seen, the relics were being carried about by the parishioners as late as 1281.

The oratory, like that of St. Constantine, is concealed among the sandhills, and by no means easy to find. At the edge of the dunes is a heath upon which, north of St. Piran's Well, is the Round, a turfed amphitheatre. This ancient open-air theatre has a rampart about 10 ft. high, rising in seven steps, of which traces remain. The area will hold about two thousand spectators, and in the middle ages miracle plays were doubtless performed here. These plan-an-guare, or playing-places, were probably constructed in very early times for games or contests after the manner of the Romans, and seem to have been in use for the performance of sacred dramas up to the fifteenth century or even later. At Perran a ditch formerly ran across the floor, and it has been suggested that this was for boats, &c., used in scenic effects, but it may have had other, possibly grimmer, uses.

Some three and a half miles south-east of Newquay is Trerice, another home of the Arundells. They were truly a fighting race. John Arundell of Trerice raised a body of troops during the wars of the Roses and fought on the Lancastrian side, and a later John, nicknamed "John for the King" and "Game to the Toes," fought with his four sons for Charles I., and in his old age held Pendennis Castle after all the other forts in Cornwall had surrendered.

His ancient manor house came—as did most of the Arundell estates, for they wedded cannily—by marriage. It was built in 1572 on the site of an older house, the very solid masonry of which has been found under the soil. Unfortunately the Arundells, ennobled after the Restoration as Lord Arundell of Trerice, died out with the "Wicked Lord" in 1773.

A minstrel's gallery extends the whole length of the hall, and a window there has no less than 576 panes of glass. In another room is a table of black oak, the top of which is made of a single plank, which table is said to have been in the house three hundred years. But the glory of Trerice has departed. Old Sir John lies buried at Cuby, and the countrypeople talk of the last bearer of the name with bated breath. The north wing of the house was pulled down after his death and all his personal possessions burnt—but still the place remains untenanted.

St. Agnes and the Giant

At Perranporth the bewildering similarity of the dunes is broken for the moment by cliff and cavern scenery. The little village lies high, and some arched rocks are to be seen at low tide. Two miles to the west is Cligga Head, a fine bluff rock, but though St. Agnes Beacon, a lofty hill covered with blocks of granite, rises to 620 ft., these cliffs cannot be compared for grandeur or majesty with those of the wilder north. The Beacon, on the summit of which are tumuli, appears in the stories of the Cornish giants, St. Agnes—or, as her proper name is, St. Ann—proving one too many for a tiresome monster with the absurd name of Bolster. She is said to have persuaded him to go in for a little spring blood-letting and to fill one mine-shaft. But the shaft communicated with the sea, so the accommodating giant bled to death. If this had happened where the Red River runs out by Gwithian, the reason for the legend would have been apparent, for that terrible little tin-stream sullies the blue waters of the bay for miles around; but there is no tin-stream by St. Agnes Beacon. Between Perranporth and the latter the cliff-walk is spoilt by the extensive enclosures of a modern dynamite factory. The house in which the painter Opie was born is on the way to St. Agnes. He was the son of a carpenter, but going to London soon attracted so much attention that he was known as the "Cornish Wonder." Dying of overwork when forty-six—considering his age rather a curious name to give the disease—he was buried in St. Paul's.

After these few cliffs, the coast sinks again to meet the encroaching sand. A hundred and twenty years ago the Upton farmhouse was suddenly overwhelmed, the family, to escape suffocation, making their way out by the bedroom windows. A few years later, the sands shifted, showing the buried house, still standing as they had left it. These stretches of sand are now planted with a rush, the arundo arenaria, which binds it together, and in the course of time results in the growth of a short sweet turf.

Portreath and the Bassets

When the Spanish and French combined fleets threatened Plymouth in 1779, Francis Basset of Tehidy placed two batteries of guns at Portreath, in those days known as Basset's Cove. It has the reputation of being the most unsafe harbour on the coast; and, as it lies at the bottom of a valley, is reminiscent of Port Isaac; but its wooded hills are less steep and more charming.

A little inland is Tehidy House, the seat of the Bassets, a famous Cornish family. The house once had parks and plantations of far greater area than at present; they are said indeed to have reached to the foot of Carn Brea. During the Civil Wars many a humdrum family flowered into distinction. It was a chance to prove their mettle. After the battle of Bradock Down the Francis Basset of that date was knighted, and a little later we find him Sheriff of the county. His marriage was such another as that of his friend, Sir Beville Grenville, and after Essex' troops had surrendered to the King in 1644, he hurried to send his lady the gracious news. "I write this on the saddle. Every friend will pardon the illness of it, and you chiefly, my perfect joy. The King and army march presently for Plymouth. Jesu give the King, it and all. The King, in the hearing of thousands, as soon as he saw me in the morning, cried to me, 'Dear Mr. Sheriff, I leave Cornwall to you safe and sound.'" Before the war Sir Francis had represented St. Ives in Parliament. In 1640 he presented the town with a silver wishing cup, on which was inscribed:

"If any discord 'twixt my friends arise
Within the borough of beloved Saint Ies
It is desired that this my cup of love
To every one a peacemaker may prove,
Then am I blessed to have given a legacie
So like my heart unto posteritie."

No doubt he saw that his borough was mainly Parliamentarian and that trouble was ahead, and took this sweet and pleasant manner of testifying the unalterable nature of his personal sentiments.

It is sad to think how many of the families that distinguished themselves during those wars are now only a memory.

"The four wheels of Charles' wain,
Grenville, Godolphin, Trevanion, Slanning slain."

But though Trerice is empty, Lanherne a nunnery, and Stowe but a farmhouse, there are Bassets still at Tehidy, and long may they continue.

The house contains some interesting pictures by the best of our English artists, and a service of plate made from the silver found in Dolcoath mine.

Godrevy

After Portreath are several fine cliffs ending in Navax Point, the further horn of which looks across the deep curve of St. Ives Bay. On an island just off the shore is the white and black of Godrevy Lighthouse, first built in 1857. On the day Charles I. was beheaded a vessel containing his wardrobe and other furnishings was driven by a sudden squall on the Godrevy Rocks. Fifty-eight persons were drowned, only a man, a boy, and a dog reaching the little island.

Gwithian

The shore here is strewn with the iridescent purple shells of a small oyster, which lie gleaming like coloured pearls on the sand and weed. It has a charming view, the broad bay with the narrow horn of St. Ives running out on the south-west, and Carbis Bay—white houses and green woods—nestling on the hillside. Among the sands to the left is another half-buried, half-excavated oratory, and the little village of Gwithian. In 1676 a woman named Cheston Marchant is said to have died here at the age of 164. She is well known by tradition to the present inhabitants, who relate that in her extreme old age—and she was for many years bedridden—her teeth and hair were renewed; and that travellers who came to see her out of curiosity frequently took back with them a lock of her hair.

Pilchard Fishery

The little ugly town of Hayle lies some miles away across the towans—as the sandhills are called—and these same towans, with their soft sea breezes, firm turf, and excellent bathing, must presently, one would think, develop into the sort of watering-place agreeable to the mothers of little children. Hidden among its trees in a dip of the land lies Phillack with a badly restored church, and in the graveyard a good two-holed cross; but as this bay is famous for pilchard fishing the main interest lies towards the sea.

The largest catch of pilchards recorded is that of a St. Ives seine. In 1868, at one "shot" this net took five thousand six hundred hogsheads, or over sixteen million fish!

The best account of the Hayle and St. Ives pilchard fishing is by Mr. H. D. Lowry in "Chambers' Journal," but it is too long to quote and only a resumé can be given.

As soon as the fish are expected the "huers" (from hue and cry) take up their position at the white house on Carrick-gladden. It is their business, looking down on the water from above, to watch for the characteristic reddish shadow that indicates the presence of fish. To the men in the boats this shadow is invisible, and when the cry of "Hëva" [found] re-echoes from the heights, they shoot the nets as directed from above. Nor are the directions only shouted. The huers hold, one in each hand, a big iron ring covered with a white cloth. This is sharply distinct "against the background of heather and sad-coloured grass." In olden days furze was used, and the white disks are therefore still spoken of as "the bushes." Very simple is the code of movements. To send the boats east, the disks are moved from west to east, and vice versa, while an emphatic downward movement gives the exciting order to "shoot the seine." And the size of those seines! It takes thirty-five men, each three or four yards behind his nearest fellow, to carry the whole length of the net.

When the fish are in and the order has been given to close the seine, the huers raise their speaking trumpets anew with a cry of "Bloucers!" This brings a number of fresh people on the scene, whose business it is to secure what the nets have captured. The warps, great ropes, fastened to the ends of the seine, are brought back and attached to windlasses, and by this means the net is slowly drawn in till, even at high tide, it would still touch bottom and afford no way of escape to the imprisoned fish. Great black pilchard boats are dragged by four horses from their accustomed resting-place and towed out towards the seine. The fish are then dipped out by the basketful and tipped over into the boat, which, when filled, contains over thirty hogsheads—say one hundred thousand fish! When the boats come slowly in, laden with their molten silver, carts are backed down to the water and loaded. "Jousters," who retail the fresh fish through the country, buy their stock, the carts carry the fish to the cellars that they may be salted, and in an hour or two every street in every town for miles round will be resounding with the cry of "Fresh Pilcher, Pilcher, Pilcher!"

While on the subject of fish, it may be mentioned that the biggest edible crab caught off the coast of Cornwall weighed 13 lbs., and the largest conger 120 lbs. Is it possible they caught and weighed the sea-serpent by mistake?

CHAPTER V