Nooks and Corners of Cornwall Part 4

ST. TEATH

When the church at little sleepy St. Teath was restored in 1877, two ma.s.sive Norman responds at the east end of the north aisle were discovered. There is also some good roof timber and a little ancient gla.s.s. 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 x.x.x 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 G.o.d 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 Fis.h.i.+ng: 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 fis.h.i.+n',"

is the explanation.

Fis.h.i.+ng 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 s.h.i.+pped from here, but fis.h.i.+ng 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 circ.u.mstances; and, as a consequence, he has sometimes taken the law into his own hands. "If a 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 fis.h.i.+ng 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 s.h.i.+ver 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 sh.o.r.es 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 fas.h.i.+on.

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 gla.s.s, 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 t.i.thes. 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 s.h.i.+fted 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 gla.s.s 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 s.h.i.+fting 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 s.h.i.+elds, 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 maen, 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 suns.h.i.+ny 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 fis.h.i.+ng fleet, and there is a forest of masts cl.u.s.tered 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 Vand.y.k.e, 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 astonis.h.i.+ng 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 spa.r.s.ely 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.