FROM LAND'S END TO ZENNOR
The western promontory of granite to which we give the name of Land's
End is not the grandest piece of coast in these parts; but it has the
prestige of a deep sentiment attaching to it, and there is no other
spot in England that draws visitors with such a powerful attraction.
In one sense the Scillies are the true Land's End, beyond which the
deeper gulfs of ocean lie; and, again, there is another land's end at
the Lizard, the southernmost point of England, and yet another at
Lowestoft, the most easterly. But Lowestoft looks towards the Teutonic
Continent, and the Lizard towards what we may call the Latin; both
remain European in their outlook. Land's End has a different attitude;
it looks westward, and the migratory instinct of European races has
ever taken them towards the West. It is the _Bolerion_ of Ptolemy, the
_Bolerium_ of Roman writers, the _Penwith_ of the Celts. Adding a
Saxon affix, Simeon of Durham named it _Penwithsteort_, the "tail of
Penwith." There is some doubt about the true meaning of Penwith; Mr.
Baring-Gould gives it as "headland of blood," which it might well be
as the last battle-ground of a defeated people; another interpretation
says the "wooded headland." To speak of it as wooded now seems
inappropriate, though we cannot forget the submerged trees of Mount's
Bay, nor can we say what might have been beyond when the point reached
farther westward. But it is as the last land in England that we cross
this windy moorland to reach the sea; and beyond, visible on days of
rare clearness, lie the Fortunate Isles of our dreams. Many a
pilgrimage is made through the length of Cornwall for this sole
purpose--to stand here at the dividing point of two channels, the
meeting of two seas, the Titanic outermost gateway that confronts the
fury or the rough sport of the ocean gods. The visitors come by
car-loads from Penzance or from St. Ives; not only during the summer
season but throughout the year--there are always some who wish to see
Land's End. They often bring the vaguest ideas of what the sight will
be; our visions of Land's End before we see it are often dim, immense,
mystical. Our dreams turn westward, to the land of the setting sun--to
the great ocean of the unknown that hems us in, beyond which lie the
promise, the golden hope, that have lured us onward from childhood,
through disappointment and failure and the bitter sorrow of loss--
"Still nursing the unconquerable hope,
Still clutching the inviolable shade."
And so we come to the land's end--the end that is also a beginning.
When Tennyson came hither he saw a funeral somewhere near, and he has
the brief note, "Land's End and Life's End." The sun had just set in a
great yellow flare. There is no spot where sunsets seem more pregnant
of meaning than here, where winds are more haunted by crying
ghosts, where there is a deeper significance in the "murmurs and
scents of the infinite sea."
[Illustration: CAVERN AT LAND'S END.
_Photo by Gibson, Penzance._]
But we must come to Land's End in the right mood--with sentiment and
inner vision, certainly, but without unrealisable expectations of a
mighty gigantic headland, an abrupt tremendous precipice. We shall
need the inner vision to contend with some jarring aspects of the
reality, which are naturally more aggressive if we come during the
holiday season. For the Land's End is a show-place, and we know what
that entails. There is a large modern hotel here, just as we find
similar edifices in some of the lovely solitudes of the Lizard and
confronting the very castle of Arthur at Tintagel. Being there, we
must take them philosophically--perhaps even make use of them. The
cottage once boasting in the name of the "First and Last House in
England" must now take a second place. There are some other aspects of
even more definite vulgarisation--the presence of the tripper with his
halfpenny newspaper, his bananas, and his mineral waters; there is
also too much building here, and the prospect of more. Mr. W. H.
Hudson makes an appeal for a national fund that shall buy Land's End
and sweep away much of this. He says: "The buildings which now deform
the place, the unneeded hotels, with stables, shanties, zinc bungalows
sprawling over the cliff, and the ugly big and little houses could be
cleared away, leaving only the ancient village of Sennen, the old
farmhouses, the coastguard and Trinity House stations, and the old
fishing hamlet under the cliff." It is a dream that should not be
impossible to realise. But the visitor who stays here after sundown,
when the throng has departed, can to some extent realise it for
himself. When the dusk of nightfall has veiled the defacements and
deformities, he can stay on this ultimate headland alone with the
immemorial rocks, the whispering wind, the brooding sea, greeted by
the lights of the Wolf and the Longships, with a far twinkle from the
Scillies. To the south the skies are searched by the great light of
the Lizard. This, indeed, is a vision of peaceful intensity, but there
are other times when there is no peace here--when winds buffet the
barren downs and waves crash furiously on the caverned crags, when the
sentinel rocks of the old country are a horror of wreck and death. Of
such a scene it would be more easy to say too much than too little.
Even Ruskin, when he attempted to describe Land's End seas in his long
convoluted sentences, failed to do anything but give a series of
phrases and figures that the mind follows with weariness. Such things
must be sketched vividly and briefly, or language only betrays its own
limitations.
The rocks to which we immediately apply the name Land's End are only
about 60 feet above sea-level; there are many higher, even in the near
neighbourhood, and there are some more striking. Various fanciful, and
for the most part foolish, names have been applied to them, which need
not here be repeated. Both here and at the finer rock of Pordenack, a
little southward, the rock-formations somewhat resemble those of the
Giants' Causeway in appearance. But the noblest cliff of all on this
western promontory is that of Tolpedn-Penwith, to reach which we have
to pass Nanjisal Cove. Its name, the "holed headland of Penwith,"
refers to a deep cleft or fissure, which can be explored from the sea
when tide and weather permit. Part of this fine bluff is known as the
Chair Ladder, and has traditions of a witch, Madge Figgy, who used to
take flight with her comrades from this magnificent point, and here
would shriek her incantations above the roar of wind and waters. The
spot was certainly well chosen. There are some hidden crags, and some
that are not hidden, lying off Land's End, such as the Armed Knight,
the Irish Lady, and Enys Dodman, which is pierced by a grand natural
arch. Rather more than a mile out is a cluster of islets, on one of
which, Carn Bras, stands the Longships lighthouse, built in 1883 to
replace one that had been privately erected; it has an occulting light
of over seven hundred candle-power, visible at 16 miles. The lantern
has sometimes been shattered by the force of the seas, and the tower
rocks so violently that on one occasion one of the keepers went mad
with terror and shot himself. When a boat had been signalled and
managed to approach, the supposed corpse was slung down to it, and a
fisherman accidentally touching the wound, the man revived. The Wolf
light is about seven miles out, erected with immense labour and cost
on a most perilous reef of rocks. Both lighthouses are often quite
isolated by stress of weather.
[Illustration: SENNEN COVE.
_Photo by Gibson & Sons._]
Immediately north of Land's End is the truly charming little Sennen
Cove, with its church-town nearly a mile inland. Formerly its beach
was haunted by pixies and mermaids; now, in the summer, it becomes
quite fashionable with the presence of those who are lucky enough to
get lodgings. There is quite a competition to obtain rooms at this
quaint little fishing hamlet; those who love it best prefer it when it
is left more completely to the gulls and the fisher-folk. Most of the
fishing here is still done by the seine-net, and there is still
"huing" from the cliffs to announce the arrival of the pilchards.
Sennen can boast a new breakwater, and every scrap of harbourage is
often badly needed. The church is dedicated to a saint who seems more
real than some that we meet with in Cornwall. Senan or Senanus was an
Irishman who came here some time in the sixth century. It is related
of him that one day his mother was changing houses, and the youthful
saint declined to help her; she was angry and poured some water over
him. Even a saint may dislike house-moving or spring-cleaning.
However, in this case the domestic articles very considerately moved
of themselves. Another thing told of him is, that when being carried
to burial he sat up on his bier and gave orders that his feast-day
should be March the 8th, not the 1st. This foolish tale must have been
invented later by some priest who wanted to change the festival. The
church has a good tower built of massive granite blocks, and there is
a fine granite cross in the new churchyard. Within, there is a curious
mutilated alabaster figure, apparently a Virgin and Child, and there
is an old mural painting. At the rock known as the Table Men there is
a tradition of a great battle between Arthur and some Danish invaders,
and there is a conjecture of Danes having settled in this district.
The wizard Merlin is said to have foretold another landing of Norsemen
here, to precede the end of the world; perhaps he meant the Germans.
In the past Sennen had a bad name for smuggling and piracy. Curving
northward is the beautiful and partially sheltered Whitesand Bay,
which has memories of some historic landings--Athelstan, Stephen,
John, Perkin Warbeck; but the coast is very dangerous, and is rendered
more so by off-lying rocks such as the Brisons. It is singular that
Cornwall should begin and end with a Whitesand Bay. Inland rises the
height of Chapel Carn Brea, which must be distinguished from the Carn
Brea of Redruth; it reaches about 660 feet, but Bartinney, or Bartine,
is still higher. Both are crowded with prehistoric remains, but Carn
Brea is the more interesting in this respect, for its cairn, whose
lower layer held the bones of some Stone Age chieftain, was crowned at
the summit by a Christian oratory. It is a great pity that this
chapel, probably one of the oldest religious structures in the
kingdom, was not preserved. Above the Stone Age burial was a dolmen of
the Bronze Age; and above this were layers that told of Romano-British
civilisation. But the antiquities of this district really need a book
to themselves. When we reach Cape Cornwall we are in the immediate
neighbourhood of mining again, and the fine headland itself is crowned
with an old mine-stack. Its formation gives Cape Cornwall the
appearance of reaching even farther westward than Land's End, and the
view from its summit is grandly impressive. This is the parish
of St. Just-in-Penwith (so called to distinguish it from St.
Just-in-Roseland). Mr. Hind thinks St. Just the dreariest town in
Cornwall, and its best friends do not call it lovely; but there is a
rather interesting Perpendicular church, with some earlier relics, and
there is also a _plan-an-guare_, like the Planguary of Redruth--an
old-world amphitheatre, first used for sports and later for
miracle-plays. The name means "place of play." It is now used for
religious and other meetings. The moorland country here is barren and
windswept, with disfigurations from mining; and the dismal summit of
Cam Kenidzhek is haunted with queer traditions. This is the "carn of
the howling wind" or the "hooting cairn," covered with traces of the
immemorial past and feared in old days as a special domain of evil
spirits. About a mile westward is the old Botallack mine, perhaps the
most famous in all Cornwall, which reached to the sea and considerably
beyond; it was long closed, and the decayed buildings had quite a
romantic appearance on the wild, bare cliffs, but the revival of
Cornish minings has brought a new activity. The old workings run for
about a third of a mile below the sea, and it is said that the pitmen
were often terrified by the roar of the waves above their heads,
dashing the loose boulders of rock. But the great Levant mine, a
little over a mile northward, runs for about a mile beneath the sea,
being worked for tin, copper, and arsenic. Once, not many years since,
the sea actually broke into its workings. This is mining, indeed, in
all its grimmest reality, and the arsenic-working in particular has a
bad effect on the miners. But it earns dividends. Pages might be
written about the old miners' superstitions, but even underground
these things have died out; even the perils are now lessened by modern
science. Yet at Wheal Owles, in 1892, eighteen men lost their lives
through the flooding of the workings.
Just beyond Levant is Pendeen Village, with a new lighthouse on the
coast. At Pendeen manor-house, now a farm, was born the eminent
Cornish antiquary, Dr. Borlase, in 1695. For his age he was a
tolerably enlightened archaeologist, and his works on local antiquities
have supplied the basis of much subsequent writing; but of course they
present pitfalls for the unwary. He was Vicar of Ludgvan for fifty
years. The curious _fogou_ of Pendeen Vau was actually in the garden
of his birthplace, so that he had an early stimulus to research.
Pendeen has now its own church, which is of remarkable interest
although quite recent. In plan and exterior it is modelled on Iona
Cathedral, and was built by the Cornish missioner, Robert Aitken, who
influenced his people so powerfully that the granite was both given
and wrought free of cost. A castellated wall with a fine arched
gateway surrounds the building, which proves that under the right
impulse the people may still become church-builders--and will still
attend church. Eastward of Pendeen is the church town of Morvah. This
tract of coast from Land's End to St. Ives has perhaps been neglected
by visitors and writers, only one spot, and that not the finest,
Gurnard's Head, being really familiar. The stony barrenness of the
inland country is compensated by a real grandeur of coast-line,
invisible from the road and therefore often left unexplored. Morvah
has traditions of mermaids, with some idea that its name may be a
corruption of the Breton _morverch_; but we must probably seek some
other derivation. Tonkin says the name simply means _locus maritimus_.
Stories of mermaids are common enough, or rather were so, along this
north shore, doubtless explained by the seals that were once
frequent, and would be still if not shot off by the usual insensate
"man with a gun." The small church is Perpendicular, with a pinnacled
tower. In this parish is the magnificent Chun or Chywoon castle, on a
hill about 700 feet high. This western extremity of Cornwall was
guarded by a line of hill forts, of which this Chun, if not the most
powerful, remains in best preservation. We cannot speak with decision
as to the date of their earliest use, but this stronghold of Chun was
almost certainly utilised as late as the fifth or sixth centuries, and
may have seen fighting during the days when Irish invaders, even if
they came as travelling saints, were not always welcomed. The first
and second vallum can be traced with their ditches, and there was
doubtless an inner wall. The masonry is of different character from
that cyclopean piling of boulders which was all the earlier men had
known of building. Of such cyclopean style, though it is a small
specimen, is the Chun cromlech, standing near. In the near
neighbourhood are the _Men Scryfa_ (the inscribed stone), the
_Men-an-tol_ (the holed stone), the Nine Maidens, the Lanyon Quoit,[A]
the huts of Bosporthennis, the Mulfra Quoit--all being monoliths, or
other survivals of wonderful interest, with the strange fascination of
their mystery. Cairns, barrows, sepulchral monuments, we can
understand, for death and burial are ever with us; but what was the
meaning of these circles and standing-stones--who built them, and for
what purpose? They are interpreted astronomically now--the latest,
perhaps the correct, theory. The earliest peoples who brought any
culture to these shores came from the East, and we cannot tell what
profundities of astrologic science they carried with them. It is
generally acknowledged that when the rough Teutons came they
encountered and checked a mental culture higher than their own. But we
can only conjecture dimly, and leave the controversialists to wrangle.
[A] See illustration, page 181.
On the moorland beyond Morvah rises the tor of Carn Galva, standing
stern and solitary like a little patch of Dartmoor. On the coast is
the grand sheer cliff of Bosigran, the western protection of Porthmeor
Cove, with traces of prehistoric fortification; it is a noble bluff of
granite, with a drop of 400 feet. Puffins nest in the crevices below.
A little westward are the pinnacled rocks of Rosemergy, covered with
lichens and in parts clad in ivy; the neighbouring turfy slopes are
fragrant with heather and gorse. Little streams filter their way from
the moorland to the coves, reaching the sea through hollows rich with
ferns--there are still rare ferns to be found in the more inaccessible
shelters. Just beyond is another Treryn Dinas, like that of the Logan
near St. Levan; but this Treen is better known as the Gurnard's Head.
It is a favourite show-place, winning perhaps more attention than it
deserves in comparison with other places near it; but the rocky and
turf-clad headland, with its traces of a far-distant past, is really
very beautiful, reaching like a couchant beast into the waves that are
sometimes of the purest blue, sometimes white with seething foam.
There was an old chapel on the neck of the promontory, and near are
remains of some rude granite huts. The popularity of the place has
brought a modern hotel.
[Illustration: GURNARD'S HEAD.
_Photo by Gibson & Sons._]
The cove of Porthglaze with its strange turret-like rocks, the coves
of Pendour and Zennor--all these are beautiful, and cannot be seen
from the road; the visitor must explore them by scrambling along the
cliffs, crossing summits and gorges and gullies, not deterred by
difficulties that to a careless or nervous climber might become
dangers. Only so can this fine coast be fully known.
In its situation the village of Zennor is like some of the wild, stony
parts of Ireland; but the cottages are too comfortable to be Irish.
Close to it stretches the stone-strewn moorland. Everywhere we have
proof of the abundance of stone, the scarcity of wood; hedges are of
rough boulders and pebbles; stiles are the charming Cornish
"gridirons"; there is a stream crossed by rugged little stone bridges.
The church is of the thirteenth century, restored in 1890; of course
there had been earlier restoration, for the tower is Perpendicular.
The dedication is to St. Sinara or Senar, a virgin probably of Irish
origin; but we know nothing about her, and little of the early
building itself, except that in 1270 the Bishop of Exeter granted it
to his college at Glassiney near Penryn, and the living seems to have
been starved. Zennor, indeed, was formerly known as the place "where
the cow ate the bell-rope," a sportive neighbourly reference to its
poverty and infertility. But the most famous feature of the church is
its carved mermaid. There are two good old bench-ends, now forming the
sides of sedilia, and of these the mermaid is one, represented with
comb, mirror, and fishy tail. The story tells that the men of Zennor
were very fine singers in the old days, and one, a squire's son who
sang in the choir, had so beautiful a voice that this mermaid came
all the way up from the sea-beach to hear him, Sunday after Sunday.
How she did it is not explained; but at last her importunity
prevailed, and the youth went away with her. She had lured him to the
"Sand-strewn caverns cool and deep
Where the winds are all asleep;
Where the spent lights quiver and gleam,
Where the salt weed sways in the stream."
The dial on the tower also bears the figure of a mermaid. There must
have been some origin for such a legend; perhaps some youth was
drowned off the coast, and it was imagined that a mermaid had beguiled
him away. The same sea-lady appears to have been heard of later, for
it is said that "a long time after, a vessel lying in Pendour Cove
cast her anchor, and in some way barred the access to a mermaid's
dwelling. She rose up from the sea and politely asked the captain to
remove it. He landed at Zennor, and related his adventure, and those
who heard it agreed that this must have been the lady who decoyed away
the poor young man." But why poor? The connection may have been a
happy one; the mermaid was evidently courteous in manners, though her
representation on the Zennor bench-end is not exactly beautiful.
Zennor Hill or Beacon rises to 750 feet in desolate grandeur, and on
this high land, often haunted by foxes and badgers, is the great
Zennor Quoit or cromlech, thought to be the finest in Britain. Its
slab, 18 feet in length, has slipped from its rest. It is an immense
titanic monument, whose story no one can tell us; yet in this
district these things are common, and utterly disregarded by the
countryfolk. They have forgotten even the tales of the giants who used
to play "bob-buttons" with them. He who wanders among these undated
relics and wild stony moorlands may easily go astray; the cairns and
tors are very like each other, and paths are few. Sometimes also there
are blinding mists or fierce winds heavy with rain; at other times a
glamour of loveliness steals over the desolate wastes, sunsets wrap
them in atmospheric glory, or dreamy noons brood over them with deep
calm. Between Zennor and St. Ives is the parish of Towednack, where
they tried to build a hedge around the cuckoo. It is just a symbol of
our craving to keep the springtime ever with us; the hedge was not
high enough, and the cuckoo flew out at the top. The name of the
hamlet was formerly Towynnok, which evidently embodies a dedication to
St. Winnoc--probably the same saint as we find at Landewednack. The
low, sturdy little tower has no pinnacles; when the folk were building
it the devil came each night and pulled them down. But this parish
does not touch the sea at all. Off the coast are the rocks known as
the Carracks, beyond which we pass Penynys and Hor Point, and so reach
the "Island" of St. Ives.