FOWEY
The traveller along the cliffs from Polperro to the Fowey estuary
finds himself first in the parish of Lanteglos, known as
Lanteglos-by-Fowey, to distinguish it from Lanteglos-by-Camelford. The
accent, locally, is laid on the second syllable; and the name is a
curious composite of Celtic and corrupted Latin. Taking the _t_ as
simply euphonious, we have the Celtic _lan_, first signifying an
enclosure, then a sacred enclosure or consecrated ground, finally the
church erected on such an enclosure; and _eglos_, a corruption of the
Latin _ecclesia_, found elsewhere in Cornwall at Egloshayle and
Egloskerry; the same word appearing usually in English place-names as
Eccles, in Welsh as Eglwys, in Irish as Aglish or Eglish (Gaelic,
_eaglais_). The _llan_ or _lan_ may generally be considered of earlier
date than the _eglwys_ or _eglos_. Lanteglos is a large parish, with
which visitors chiefly become familiar by means of Polruan, a kind of
suburb of Fowey across the river. To many persons the beauty and
grandeur of the scenery will be more attractive than any antiquarian
details, but there can be no harm in mentioning that the church of
Lanteglos is dedicated to St. Wyllow, who is supposed to have had his
cell here in the early days of Cornish saintdom, and to have been
murdered by a relative who was probably an unrepentant pagan. The
greater number of the parishioners live at Polruan, distant rather
more than a mile; the church is surrounded by fields and lanes, whose
luxuriant growth of bank and hedge suggest a rich humidity of soil. In
summer there is a remarkable abundance of ragged-robins by the
wayside, with honeysuckles and wild-roses clustering above them in
glorious profusion; here and there rises the stately spire of a
foxglove. Ferns of exquisite grace and loveliness dispute the right of
existence with brambles and grasses and moss; and golden grain comes
close to the churchyard wall. Standing as it does in such isolation,
it is surprising to find that the church is a building of considerable
size; but it is never rare to discover noble churches even in greater
solitude than this--our forefathers did not measure the size of their
churches in relation to the probable number of their congregations.
Also, the fact that a church is out of sight does not always mean that
it is out of mind; and when the fine, deep-sounding peal of Lanteglos
bells rings for service on Sunday mornings, a good number of
countryfolk wend their way through the lanes and meadows towards it. A
rugged and time-worn Celtic cross keeps guard beside the porch,
having, doubtless, stood here since the days when the first Christian
missionaries found these monoliths of granite serving a pagan purpose,
and transformed them with rough labour into the Christian symbol.
There is another such cross standing on the hill about a mile distant,
looking down on the little fishing harbour of Polruan, by which is
also a holy well. It is not many years since Lanteglos Church was a
disgrace to the country-side, by reason of the decay into which it had
been allowed to fall; but that period of neglect is past, and a
careful restoration has preserved the noble groining of the interior
and the fine woodwork of the benches. The building, chiefly Decorated
with Perpendicular tower, is specially notable for its admirable
ribbed vaulting. The font is of earlier date, and near it are the
parish stocks, once devoted to the confining of unruly legs. In the
Lady Chapel, south of the chancel, where an abortive stairway points
to the former existence of a rood-gallery, is a lovely altar,
constructed mainly of pure alabaster, and the flooring before both
altars is of highly polished marble. Here, too, are some fine old
brasses to members of a family that has played its part in the
nation's history; one member of which family, the duellist Mohun, is a
prominent figure in Thackeray's _Esmond_. The Mohuns, coming from
Dunster, settled at Hall House in this parish in the fourteenth
century; it was doubtless in connection with them that the church once
belonged to a Bridgwater foundation. But the Mohuns had removed to
Boconnoc by the time that they achieved their greatest notoriety, in
the person of Lord Charles, some of whose duels partook rather of the
nature of assassination than of fair fight, the most notable being his
slaying of the actor Mountford. It was in keeping with his life that
Mohun should die in a combat of such fierceness that both the
combatants, himself and the Duke of Hamilton, received mortal wounds.
Hall House, near the Bodinnick side of the ferry from Fowey, is now a
farm, embodying some remains of the old mansion. The Hall Walk above
this eastern bank of the river gives a magnificent view of Fowey town
and harbour. Fowey itself needs to be seen from such a spot to be
fitly appreciated. The house was taken and held for the King by Sir
Richard Grenville, and it is said that Charles, who was here in
August, 1644, was nearly struck by a ball from across the river, Fowey
being at that time in the hands of the Parliamentarian Essex.
Bodinnick is just a tiny hamlet, a small cascade of houses tumbling to
the riverside, with its own stone slip to meet the ferry at its foot.
The road to this ferry is so steep as to be almost precipitous, and
the cottages abutting on its side are embowered in fragrant bloom.
There is a runnel of water at the roadside, and in one place this
water is collected in a round stone basin that looks immensely old;
from this it trickles forth again with coolness and musical plash.
Having reached this spot, we may as well pass over into Fowey by the
ferry here instead of by that from Polruan. If we had already come
from Fowey to Bodinnick we should find that the ferryman would carry
us back without further payment; the outward fee included a
return--not like the ferry of Charon which had no return for
passengers. The oars dip peacefully into the water, breaking its
surface of glistening light; a delicious coolness, that phantom
fragrance of water to which we can give no name, steals upward
soothingly and sweetly.
Fowey, whose position is strikingly like that of Dartmouth, is named
from its river, which rises at Foy-Fenton on the Bodmin Moors and
passes through Lostwithiel on its journey to the mouth. Mr.
Baring-Gould derives its name, as that of the Fal, from the Celtic
_falbh_, which means the "running or flowing," but the point is
hardly clear. It is pleasant to turn from such disputations to the
place itself, which has become famous in present-day romance as "Troy
Town," the fanciful title bestowed by a gifted literary resident. The
true street of this town may be said to be its river, where it is
delightful to do one's business by water--much pleasanter than the
narrow and somewhat dingy road that lies out of sight behind. Each
garden has its boat moored at its foot, where the tide eternally
whispers and gurgles and ripples. Sometimes the stream flows silently,
though it may be with power; at other times it finds a voice by which
the air is possessed and thrilled. The old stained walls, the rugged
ladders by which the folk descend to their boats, are washed by the
clear, pure waters; the shimmer of water enters the dwelling-rooms and
is reflected on the ceilings, a fluctuating quiver of light, moved by
every breeze that ruffles the surface of the stream. The small gardens
are green to the edge of the walls that drop sheer to the river; these
ladders and gardens are the true household gates. Here and there may
be a small strip of quay, with the soil and grime of industry--perhaps
the blackness of coal-dust; but the prevalent flavour is domestic.
Higher up the river there may be more dissonance, where the steamboats
are being laden with china-clay and stone; there is a clang of cranes,
a rattle of machinery, a bustle out of unison with the placid water
beneath, the dense woodland behind. Maritime doings seem to lose much
of their beauty when they are dependent on steam--they cannot lose it
all. For pure beauty we must go to the sailing-boat, whether it be the
fisher's smack with red or tawny sail, the graceful yacht of
pleasure, the schooner or barque of commerce. All these are
represented in this lovely harbour within its protecting sea-gates;
but none of them are represented intrusively; there is plenty of room,
and there are delightful creeks running up into utter woodland
solitude, like that one which is the pleasantest way of reaching
Lanteglos Church.
One feature of this Fowey creek is its constant clamour of seagulls.
From morning to night their voice can be heard, sometimes with a noise
of wrangling and discordance, sometimes in single cries of bodeful
complaint. Occasionally the din is such that it is difficult to hear a
friend speaking; the birds cluster and hover and swoop above with
fierce argument and angry parleying. They are so accustomed to human
presences that, even if sometimes a nuisance, they are more often a
joy. They are never molested; they have a sense of privilege--the good
women of the houses will come out and talk to them as one might to a
pet canary. Very often the house-wife throws broken food to them, and
laughs at their scramble for it--the birds' queer difficulty in
settling downward on the water, the wide sweeps they take to reach
what lies beneath, the awkward dives and tumblings when they are near
the surface. In full flight they are graceful and buoyant, with an
easy command of their passage; but in descending thus to snatch
something from the tide they often appear clumsy. When the object they
want is close beneath, they do not seem able to reach it without
fluttering and effort; whereas if they see anything from a distance
they can swoop down upon it with the greatest ease. Sometimes one will
gather some morsel from the water or exposed beach, and soar away with
it; if observed, another, or perhaps two, will pursue him, trying to
snatch the booty from him. A flying bird with his beak engaged in
holding a treasure is very much at the mercy of his pursuers; his only
resource is either to outstrip his covetous comrades, or else hastily
to gobble the desired morsel in a manner that must rob it of some of
its sweetness. These gulls are peculiarly fond of settling on the
boats that are moored at the foot of the gardens; sometimes as many as
fourteen or fifteen may be seen on one little rowing-boat, all sitting
solemnly with their heads turned in one direction. A single bird will
alight first, and others follow till the boat is occupied from stem to
stern. Such of the boats as are in frequent use are seldom visited in
this way; but the birds select those that are rarely used, and the
owners of these boats do not always appreciate the selection. Some are
covered with canvas as a defence, and a few are at times decorated
with streamers of coloured rags, like those that we innocently place
in our gardens in seed-time to scare the sparrows. The gulls soon
recover from their alarm, if they ever feel any; and it is somewhat
suggestive of irony to watch a gull calmly wiping his beak on a piece
of rag intended to scare him away. Whether meant as insulting or not,
such conduct does not provoke the inhabitants to severe reprisals; the
gulls are an institution of the place, to be grumbled at sometimes but
always to be tolerated. And all the grumbling is not on one side, as
one may judge from the noise the birds sometimes make. At times the
sharp cawing of black crows mingles with the croaking, and of course
other birds have their say as well, in the bright mornings and dreamy
eves. Out beyond the mouth of the harbour there are curlews and
puffins on the lonely sea-washed crags; and in quiet weather there
are more of the gulls seaward than up among the gardens. But they may
certainly be regarded as the presiding genius of Fowey.
[Illustration: FOWEY.
_Photo by Gibson, Penzance._]
The village of Fowey--it calls itself a town--runs along in a single
street on the westward bank of the river. At first sight this street
is almost unattractive; it is narrow, with some awkward bends, and it
gives no view of the water except an occasional peep through a low
doorway. It runs to a considerable distance, and tries to increase its
importance by changing its name at intervals; a few small alleys and
by-roads strike off from it. One of its turnings is a sharp drop as
well as a curve, perilous to all but the initiated. In some parts when
a vehicle passes it is necessary to press very close indeed to the
wall or in the kindly shelter of a doorway; the ample omnibus of the
chief hotel spares little space for pedestrians. It may be with
something of a malicious chuckle that one notices that this
four-wheeled tyrant is often empty; but the malice is of evanescent
nature, born of narrow escape. There are some shops, respectable if
not imposing, and a goodly supply of inns; a fine church and a notable
old Cornish manor-house. But all the time one has a sense that the
real life of the place is the river behind these houses; even the
leisurely little railway station does not seem of much consequence,
though it acts as a feeder of the boats that busily ply here. Quite
obviously this is no resort of mere pleasure, and it is all the more
pleasurable for that; it has set itself to live sturdily, not
troubling to attract the idler and the luxurious. Fowey is not
altogether content to repose on its memories, though these are great.
Generations of those who laboured on deep waters have nestled in these
riverside homesteads, these nooks and corners and precipitous byways;
they were lusty fighters and dauntless smugglers; they rose for their
old faith, they fought loyally for their king, and they molested his
enemies when he was at peace with them. In general they were a tough
and independent lot, with a considerable scorn of those who live "in
England"--that is to say, beyond the Tamar; and to this day an
Englishman from the shires is very much of a foreigner with them. Even
the man from a parish a few miles distant is looked at somewhat
askance; after long years of residence they will still think him an
outsider, and they repudiate with scorn the idea that any interlopers
can understand them or their ways. They do not easily initiate
strangers into the local mysteries or bestow the freedom of their
township. Such an attitude may be out of date in this cosmopolitan
age, but it is not unpleasant to strike against it; it coexists with
the kindest of welcomes, the warmest of hospitalities. Yet it must be
confessed that there are moods in which these Cornish folk are neither
kind nor hospitable; their roughness is very rough, their
parliamentary elections are often conducted in a spirit notorious for
its violence. They are not all the gentle visionary dreamers that the
Celts sometimes claim to be; indeed, there is much in their very
physiognomy that proclaims them in large measure to be not true Celts
at all, but men of still more aboriginal blood. Where then, it may be
asked, shall we find the pure Celt? Yet it cannot matter greatly,
except to those who set far too much store on matters of race. The
weaving of ethnologic Britain would take more skill to unravel than
the most learned can now attain to; it is a weft of many strands,
strangely inter-knitted, and its result is infinite variety of
personality. But it may be that here in Cornwall some of its earliest
elements have lingered longer than in parts of the kingdom more
exposed to invasion and immigration.
Both Plymouth and Falmouth may be spoken of as modern towns compared
with Fowey. Its antiquity is proved by the dedication of its church to
the Irish St. Finbar, who seems to have been a pupil of the Welsh
Dewi, or St. David. Very many of Cornwall's saints came either from
Ireland or Wales, and some from Brittany, to which the debt was
repaid. Not much is known of Finbar, and that little is probably
apocryphal. In 1336 the church was reconstructed and rededicated;
Bishop Grandisson, who did this, may have thought that a more firmly
established saint would be better, and he chose St. Nicholas, the
patron of sailors and fishermen. A good part of the present building,
including the north aisle, probably dates from that time; but the
tower, a hundred feet high, is true Perpendicular. The groundwork has
settled, causing a curious slope. The south-porch doorways appear to
be late Norman. Among the monuments of the Treffrys is one erected by
John Treffry during his own lifetime. Place House, the home of the
Treffrys, stands close by, dominating the little town that presses
around it. If its restoration had been conducted in better taste this
fine old house might have been more beautiful than it is; its best
features are the two exquisite fifteenth-century bay windows. The
original hall and porch-room also survive, the latter being now known
as the "Porphyry Room." Perhaps some visitors will take a deeper
interest in the residence of Sir A. T. Quiller-Couch, the "Haven,"
standing pleasantly by the waterside, facing the mouth of the harbour.
Thousands of readers have made the acquaintance of "Troy Town" through
the romances of "Q"; and Mr. Couch is not only the writer of fiction
that is often delightful, he is also a fine literary critic.
We do not know a great deal of Fowey in its earlier days, but its
manor passed to Robert de Mortain at the Conquest. The town sent
vessels to the Crusades, and in 1340 it shared with the port of Looe
in sending a representative to a Council at Westminster. But the usual
test by which historians now estimate the relative consequence of old
English ports is the number of vessels contributed to the siege of
Calais under Edward III., and by this test, which should not be
pressed too hard, Fowey would appear to have been the chief port in
the kingdom. She sent as many as forty-seven ships, the largest number
of any, manned by 770 seamen. Next came Yarmouth, with fewer ships but
more men; and Dartmouth was third. It is interesting to recall that to
this memorable expedition Ilfracombe contributed six vessels, and
Liverpool one. We may take it that the whole Fowey estuary shared in
the manning and maintenance of this gallant squadron. The Fowey men
had certainly the defect of their qualities, being proud and
stiff-necked under the successes that attended them. It is reported
that Fowey was made a member of the Cinque Ports, that very elastic
"five"; but its comradeship in that association was clearly of a
stormy and high-handed fashion. We read that certain Fowey men,
passing near Rye and Winchelsea, "would vaile no bonnet," by which we
may suppose is intended the customary salutation made in courtesy to a
fellow-port.
Highly indignant, the men of Rye and Winchelsea sallied forth to teach
the Foyens better respect, our seamen in those days being as willing
to quarrel among each other as they were with the men of Normandy or
Brittany. In the quaint words of the Cornish Hals, this contempt shown
by the Fowey men, "by the better enabled seafarers reckoned
intolerable, caused the Ripiers to make out with might and maine
against them; howbeit with a more hardy onset than happy issue; for
the Foy men gave them so rough entertainment as their welcome, that
they were glad to depart without bidding farewell--the merit of which
exploit afterwards entitled them Gallants of Fowey." Of course the
Fowey men held their heads higher than ever after this, and even
presumed to wear the arms of Rye and Winchelsea interwined with their
own, in token of their supremacy. It was from such tough fibres that
the British navy was built; those strenuous days of constant conflict
and privateering were a grand tutorage for seamen, though not
unexceptionable from a moral standpoint. But a town that behaved as
Fowey did naturally had to suffer reprisals.
To quote again from Hals, we learn that certain Normans, with a
commission from the King of France to "be revenged on the pirates of
Fowey town, carried the design so secret that a small squadron of
ships and many bands of marine soldiers was prepared and shipped
without the Fowey men's knowledge. They put to sea out of the river
Seine in July, 1457, and with a fair wind sailed thence across the
British Channel and got sight of Fowey Harbour, where they lay off at
sea till night, when they drew towards the shore and dropped anchor,
and landed their marine soldiers and seamen, who at midnight
approached the south-west end of Fowey town, where they killed all
persons they met with, set fire to the houses and burnt one half
thereof to the ground, to the consumption of a great part of the
inhabitants' riches and treasures, a vast deal of which were gotten by
their pyratical practices. In which massacre the women, children and
weakest sort of people forsook the place and fled for safety into the
hill country. But the stoutest men, under conduct of John Treffry
Esquire, fortified themselves as well as they could in his then new
built house of Place, where they stoutly opposed the assaults of the
enemies, while the French soldiers plundered that part of the town
which was unburnt without opposition in the dark." But the
country-side was aroused, and men began to gather in such force that
the French invaders found it prudent to depart with some haste, and
with such of their spoil as they could hurriedly carry with them. They
departed, says Hals, "with small honour and less profit." It was after
this attack that the twin forts were built, at Polruan and Fowey, to
protect the mouth of the river, and a chain was dropped at night
between the two, as was the practice at Dartmouth.
It must have been on another occasion that the wife of Thomas Treffry,
as Leland tells us, "repelled the French out of her house in her
husband's absence." But the great days of Fowey were nearing their
end. When Edward IV. made peace with France the town declined to
countenance this termination of hostilities, and continued to wage
war on its own account; perhaps it felt that there was much yet to be
wiped off. "I am at peace with my brother of France," came the royal
message; but the Fowey men were not at peace, and they said so. It is
even stated that they slit the nose of the King's pursuivant, which
almost made it appear that they were willing to be at war with the
King of England also. Edward was not the man to be so trifled with,
but the course he took was unkingly and despicable. He sent a party of
men, who were clearly afraid to come nearer than Lostwithiel; and
these, pretending to be harbouring some new designs against the
French, invited the men of Fowey to come and take counsel with them.
The Fowey men were then treacherously seized and their leader hanged;
and the men of Dartmouth were fetched to take away the chain from
Fowey Harbour and to snatch its ships. It may be that Dartmouth had
some accounts to settle with its Cornish neighbour, but even these
Devonians must have felt some grudging at such an act. This was the
death-blow of Fowey's naval prosperity. She was now at the mercy of
her foes, home or foreign. Yet she continued to bear herself bravely.
Later, she erected St. Catherine's Fort as a defence; it is now a
picturesque ruin. In the Civil War Fowey, like Cornwall generally, was
loyal to her King, and though Essex took the town, it was soon
retaken, with six thousand prisoners, and held for a year and a half
longer. A few years later, (in 1666) the Dutch chased our Virginian
fleet into Fowey Harbour, and dared to follow the vessels with the
purpose of destroying them. But the Fowey forts had a word to say in
the matter, and they made the place so hot for the great Dutch
frigate of seventy guns, that it was glad enough to escape without
finishing its errand. Such are the leading incidents in the history of
this plucky little town, which formerly returned two members to
Parliament. Relatively, its eminent position is entirely lost, but it
has an eminence for loveliness of situation that can never be taken
from it, and it can educate its sons in a glorious though chequered
tradition. It has memories of occupation long before days of Cinque
Port emulation. Close to Menabilly Park (Menabilly is the seat of the
Rashleighs, a Cornish family of ancient repute) is a granite pillar
known as the Longstone, bearing the inscription _Cirusius hic jacit
Cunomori filius_, doubtless commemorating a Romanised Cornishman. At
this manor-house, about two miles westward of Fowey, on a height above
the sea, is a curious grotto built by a former Rashleigh to exemplify
the mineral wealth of the Duchy. It is octagonal, and its sides are
inlaid with native ores, fossils, shells, and stones. There is a
further remarkable mineral collection at the house, with fine
specimens of sulphuret of tin and copper, malachite, fluor, crystals,
topaz, with some blocks of prehistoric tin. The coast here extends to
Gribbin Head, and there is then a sharp bend inward to Par sands. Par
is not particularly attractive, except for its pleasant bay; but the
decay of its former mining activities is compensated for by its busy
shipping of china-clays at the quays built by the late Mr. Treffry.
Much of the china-clay goes to distant potteries, or is used for the
whitening of cheap so-called linens; of course, much of this is
despatched at the railway station which is the junction for Fowey.
This is a British export which seems to be advancing by leaps and
bounds; and this St. Austell district, with another active port at
Charlestown, is practically its centre. It is said that, in this
district alone, the royalties paid to ground landlords approach the
figure of L90,000 per annum, and foreign companies are keenly
endeavouring to establish a footing. But the presence of the powdery
clay is not alluring except to those who profit by its output, and we
may leave Par and Charlestown to their industrialism. Tywardreath (the
"house or town-place on the sands") claims mention for the memory of
its old Benedictine priory, now vanished. To pursue the Fowey River
inland, past the charming Golant and St. Winnow, is a delightful
excursion with a fitting termination in the beauties of Lostwithiel;
but on the present occasion it takes us too far from the coast. The
loveliness of this river resembles and equals that of the Fal and of
the Dart.