CRANTOCK, NEWQUAY, MAWGAN
After passing the extensive sands of Perran Bay the coast once more
becomes rugged and broken. This is a very quiet and lonely part of the
Cornish seaboard, but the popularity of Newquay is bringing it within
the knowledge of an increasing number of visitors. The railway now
touches the coast here at two points, Newquay and Perranporth, between
which limits those who wish to explore the country-side must rely on
other methods of transit. The shore is not only broken into rough
headlands, but has a number of off-lying islets. Thus there are the
Gull Rocks, off Penhale Point; the Chick, off Kelsey Head; and the
Goose, off East Pentire. The sands in this district have wrought more
havoc than the sea; and if tradition may be trusted there was once a
far more dense population. Barrows and traces of encampment are fairly
common, but the sand is supposed to hold more secrets yet; and if it
surrendered the old lost church of St. Piran, why should it not some
day unseal still other mysteries? There is indeed an atmosphere of
mystery and of myth brooding over this region, with its gaunt,
turf-clad headlands, its drifting sand-towans, its tracks and stone
hedges and lonely church-towns. It is easy to yield to the spirit of
dream and imagination--to see with other eyes than we use in city
life, to hear with other ears, to believe more and dispute less; the
very air is an intoxicant and a stimulant to fantastic vision. It
comes pure from the Atlantic or from the down-lands, from craggy
cliffs or grassy uplands; there is the wonderful glamour of the sea
reaching inland to possess and dominate the peaceful charm of the
country-side. The inhabitants in this quiet stretch of coast depend
rather on agriculture than on fish for their maintenance; the coast is
too unprotected, and there is no tolerable harbour to which
fisher-boats might run for safety. The cottages for the most part have
a pastoral atmosphere, and not the savour of fish and tangle of nets
that we meet in so many seaside villages. The lowing of cows comes
pleasantly, and the incessant murmur of poultry-yards; in late summer
there is the cutting and garnering of golden grain. The stone hedges
that divide the fields are generally broad enough to walk on with
comfort; very often, indeed, they are the best and quickest of
footpaths. Or one can lie on them in delightful languor, after
scrambling about the cliffs and towans, basking in the mellow
sunlight, laying in a store of warmth and beauty and fragrance as
reserve for dreary months of wet and fog. Centuries old, some of these
massive walls must be--often constructed doubtless from older
monuments of dim religious purpose, just as some of the gate-posts
were once menhirs and monoliths. The villagers have their rugged old
churches, to which they resort for baptisms and burials, but on
Sundays they go in greater numbers to the chapel or meeting-house. In
those people whom we classify, often wrongly, as Celtic, there seems
to be something that the Anglican Church does not wholly satisfy,
though it is necessary to speak with reserve on such a matter. They
can be devout Catholics, as in Ireland, or zealous Dissenters, as in
Wales and the West of England; perhaps these manifestations of the
religious spirit, seemingly so opposed, have yet a common feature in
allowing more play to the fancy. Dissent has one great charm for all
countryfolk--it gives them a large share in its activities, it allows
them to preach and to pray. This is certainly one secret of its
success, not limited to Cornwall. Even a parson like Hawker, beloved
by all his parishioners as he was, could not win them from Dissent.
There is a chance that the priests of Rome will step in and win where
the parish clergyman has partly failed. More than twenty years since,
Richard Jefferies wrote about the tonsured priest becoming a power in
English country lanes. Here in the West Country hundreds of rich acres
are held by the monastic orders. The country parson has now to fight
against his old opponent, the Methodist or Baptist, and his older
opponent, the priest of Rome. But the winds that sweep across the
meadows and sand-dunes, the waves that lap peacefully or dash
thunderously, tell us nothing of these old and often dismal quarrels.
They are but secular things after all; the things that are eternal
reach deeper than creed or vestment. We do not ask what fetish or
totem the sleepers in the grassy barrows believed in; we may ask if
they lived their lives truly and faithfully, doing that which was
good according to the light of their primitive consciences.
Between the two headlands of Penhale Point and Kelsey Head lies
Holywell Bay, the larger portion of which is in the parish of Cubert.
It is a wild region of blown sand. The two headlands are grandly
lashed by breaking waves in rough weather, while the interlying beach
is swept with great rolling breakers. A little inland are many traces
of discontinued mining; and though their suggestions are dismal
enough, these are probably more picturesque in their neglect and decay
than they could be if in full operation. The bay and the sands are
named after the holy well of St. Cubert, formerly one of the most
famous of Cornwall's numerous wells. St. Cubert, the titular patron of
the parish and well, has been mistaken for St. Cuthbert; but it is
obvious to any one who has devoted any study to Cornish saint-lore
that the Northumbrian saint has no business here, good man though he
was. He has been intruded to displace some earlier and less widely
known possessor. Cuthbert was certainly never in Cornwall, and the
older Cornish dedications are almost invariably the actual footprints
of Celtic missionaries. It is probable that the true Cubert was St.
Cybi, or Cuby, whom we find at Cuby near Grampound, and whose name
also survives in the Caergybi and Llangybi of Wales. There is another
well of St. Cuby at Duloe, north of Looe; and he was related to some
of Cornwall's most notable saints. The Holy Well is a fresh-water
spring on the north side of the beach; it is in a cave, accessible at
low water, and is reached by a flight of rough steps. Its water was
once supposed to be highly medicinal--in fact, miraculous. It is true
that there is some mineral solution in the water, but this is not of
medicinal value. The well or spring is in a kind of grotto at the head
of rugged steps in the rock; and its water drips into a series of
natural basins, beautiful with the loveliest colouring--quite a fairy
grotto, worthy of being a sea-nymph's bathing-place. Our faith in
miraculous cures may be slight enough at this present time, but so
long as the human eye can appreciate loveliness this spot must ever
have its delicate satisfying charm, all the more striking in contrast
to the long, weary stretches of sand-dune.
The beauty of the spot abides, but the old-world faith in the waters
has well-nigh departed--gone with many another quaint credulity. The
change cannot be better emphasised than by a quotation from another
writer, who described the same scene several centuries since. The
Cornish historian Hals writes: "In this parish is that famous spring
of water called Holywell (so named, the inhabitants say, for that the
virtues of this water was first discovered on All-hallows Day). The
same stands in a dark cavern of the sea-cliff rocks, beneath full
sea-mark on spring tides, from the top of which cavern fall down or
distil continually drops of water from the white, blue, red, and green
veins of those rocks.... The virtues of this water are very great. It
is incredible what numbers in summer season frequent this place and
waters from counties far distant." It is said that, even within the
nineteenth century, the crowd that used to assemble here, especially
those bringing rickety and crippled children, was so large that the
scene resembled a fair. But now it is curiosity that brings the
visitor, or the attraction of a lonely, beautiful scene; Cornish
mothers seek other remedies for their delicate children; only perhaps
a few of the elder folk fondly nurse a memory and a belief in the
powers of St. Cubert's Well. Yet the spring flows on, heedless of its
neglect as it was heedless of its worship; it is only the false, the
fantastic, the deceptive that have passed--the truth, the loveliness
remain.
About two and a half miles from the well, across the sand-downs and
commons, is the little church-town of Cubert. It stands high,
overlooking the sand-wastes of Holywell and Perran Bays, and its
church serves the purpose of a landmark in this somewhat trackless
district. It is Early English in character, with later additions, such
as the Decorated woodwork about its roof; the graceful tower has an
octagonal upper stage and low spire, with three bells in the belfry.
The church was struck by lightning in 1848, and restored under the
care of G. E. Street, R.A. The font, of Norman design, was preserved
from mutilation in Puritan times by veiling its beauties beneath a
covering of plaster. During the restoration a granite monumental stone
was unearthed, of Romano-British character; it has been placed in the
wall outside the tower, and its inscription reads _Conectoci fili
Tegerno Mali_. Whether legends of the lost Langarrow are true or not,
there was evidently a considerable population of this part in early
British times. Cubert is still peaceful and primitive, being a little
too far from Newquay to be overrun by the summer visitors. A pleasant
and fairly good road leads towards Crantock, passing by Trevowah,
beyond which a turning to the left takes us to West Pentire and the
small bay known as Porth or "Polly" Joke. The "joke" needs
explanation; possibly it is the corruption of some forgotten Cornish
word. It is a charming little bay lying snugly between the two
headlands of Kelsey and West Pentire, both of which command fine views
of coast and sea. We are now in the parish of Crantock, whose
antiquity and importance have been over-shadowed by the ever-growing
popularity of the comparatively juvenile Newquay; yet present-day
Crantock owes so much to Newquay that it cannot afford to be
disdainful. In these days no picturesque village can afford to scorn a
wealthy neighbour; yet Crantock claims to have been a populous town
before Newquay was dreamed of.
Crantock, or St. Carantoc, stands a little way inland from the coast,
and the older part is cradled in a sheltering hollow. Its boast of
former importance is by no means an idle one. Even within
comparatively recent years the estuary of the Gannel, now sand-locked,
was navigable for large fishing-craft; and the "new quay" of the
prosperous neighbour points indirectly to a time when there was an old
quay here. In the sand-flats and rocks around the river-mouth it is
possible to trace signs of old shipping, old mooring-rings, and
curious excavations. Hals tells us that "in this parish is the port or
creek or haven, called the Gonell or Ganell. It also, at full sea,
affordeth entrance and anchorage for ships of greatest burthen, if
conducted by a pilot that understandeth the course of the channel."
But tradition goes further back than this, and speaks of Crantock as
having been once part of a large town or district named Langarrow, or
sometimes Languna, most of which now lies beneath the sand-towans.
This town is said to have had many fine churches and buildings, vying
with the best cities in the Britain of that day, which seems to have
been the tenth century. With wealth drawn from a fertile soil, a
productive sea, and from rich mines of tin and lead, the inhabitants
waxed proud in their prosperity, and revelled in luxurious vice. It
would seem that a problem as to the provision of labour for the
mines--still a vexed question in parts of the British dominions--led
the Government of that day to convert Langarrow into a criminal
settlement. There were no opposition newspapers in those times, or
their perusal would be deeply interesting. The convicts were not
allowed to reside within the town, but had a reservation or compound
outside, and they passed most of their time toiling in the mines for
the enrichment of others. Such work was probably done chiefly by means
of quarrying and "streaming," rather than by the burrowing underground
which we now generally understand as mining. This importation of
criminal labour added greatly to the wealth of the neighbourhood, but
it gradually induced its ruin. The daughters of Langarrow began to
marry with the convicts; a slow process of contamination took place
among those whose morals were already sapped by luxury. At last the
town absolutely reeked with wickedness--so says the highly moral
legend. When the sin had reached its utmost the wrath of God
descended. The cities of the Plain were destroyed by fire; this
Cornish town was overwhelmed by a terrible uprising of wind and sea.
The waves broke angrily over the haunts of man's degradation, followed
by driving sands that blotted them out for ever. But perhaps it may
not be for ever. Some day the fickle sand may desert that which it
once buried, or the spade may lay bare relics that shall prove the
tradition's truth. The lost church of St. Piran has been found; it may
be so with the lost Langarrow. Already many human remains have been
found among the sand-heaps that extend intermittently from here to
Perranporth, and traces of "kitchen-middens" which would throw back
the date of Langarrow a thousand years or so. Some have imagined that
the destruction occurred at the time when Lyonesse was swallowed by
the waves, leaving only the Scillies to point to its former extent;
and there have been those who identified this catastrophe with the
tempest mentioned in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle under the date 1099.
Others, again, without daring to name a date, have thought that the
storm which destroyed Langarrow may have been the same as that which
overwhelmed the "Lost Hundred" of Cardigan Bay. But without denying
these convulsions of nature, we cannot venture to identify or time
them.
The name of Langarrow, however, may safely be regarded as historic;
and this, with its variants of Languna or Langona, is the earliest
name that we can trace at Crantock. It proves the existence of a
settlement here before the time of St. Carantoc; it seems also to
prove the earlier existence of a church. The "garrow" might denote an
untraceable St. Garrow or Carrow. Langona has been differently
interpreted as the "Meadow Church" and the "Church on the Downs,"
either of which names would be appropriate. But we reach something
more definite when we come to St. Carantoc himself, the Irish Cairnech
or Crannach. He is a genuine personality of British saint-lore, the
only doubt being whether he was an Irishman, a Welshman, or a
Cornishman. All three countries have claimed him. Most likely he was a
Welshman, and as he lived at a time when Wales and Cornwall were
practically one land, Cornwall must not feel defrauded if this
decision is arrived at. The most notable point about Cairnech is his
connection with St. Patrick, who appears to have been his intimate
friend; some even say that Patrick was baptized by Cairnech. It is
clear that Cairnech was associated with Patrick in the famous revision
of the Brehon Laws which became known as the _Senchus Mor_. It was
natural that, in Cornish, his name should become Crannog, Latinised
into Carantocus; in Wales it seems to have become Caranog. Singularly
enough, not far from the Welsh Newquay there is one of his churches,
Llangranog, so that both Newquays have their Crantock. The fact that
Cairnech was chosen to make one of this committee of revision
establishes the esteem in which he was held; though it must be
confessed that some authorities doubt that the Brehon Laws were ever
revised at all at this date. When the saint came to Cornwall (always
supposing that he was not born here), he is reputed to have landed in
the Gannel, and to have built his cell on a strip of land that the
local chieftain gave him. While whittling the handle of his mattock he
noticed that a wood-pigeon picked up the shavings in its mouth and
carried them to a certain spot. He took this as a sign that he was to
build his church there, and this, says tradition, is the present site
of Crantock Church. There was a collegiate foundation here in Saxon
times, mentioned in the Exeter Domesday as Langorroc; but the oldest
existing portions of the building are Transition-Norman and Early
English, dating from the reign of Edward III., at which time the
previous collegiate establishment seems to have been restored. The
accommodation was for a dean and nine prebendaries, which proves that
Crantock must have served a large neighbourhood. There must have been
a much older building on the site, perhaps coeval with the ancient St.
Piran's; for a large sandstone coffin, of at least a thousand years in
antiquity, was discovered in the churchyard some years since, and now
lies there to be marvelled at by the casual visitor and to delight the
antiquary. Not many years ago the church had fallen into sad decay,
but the Rev. G. M. Parsons set himself to remedy this, and by
strenuous collecting he was enabled to reopen the restored edifice in
1902. At the time of the Dissolution the establishment here consisted
of a dean, nine prebends, and four vicars-choral, quite a cathedral
foundation; but at that time the revenue was very small, there being
barely enough to support one vicar, and the prebends must have been
simply honorary titles bestowed on neighbouring clergy. There is every
proof that the church was intended for a large body of resident
priests, there being an important division between choir and nave.
There are other collegiate relics in the village, besides the usual
holy well. The church stands finely on a sloping meadow looking
towards the sea. The village is typically Cornish even to the extent
of having no public-house (unless that defect has lately been
remedied). A few years since the inhabitants regarded the lack with
befitting pride; but the views of visitors differ. It is amusing to
learn the experiences of those who had arranged a stay at Crantock
without previous knowledge of this missing source of refreshment; and
the fact has afforded an explanation of their very frequent walks to
Newquay. As a commercial centre it may freely be admitted that
Crantock is limited. Its chief link with civilisation is the tiny
post-office, which is also a provision store; but Cornwall has
acquaintance with a kind of glorified hawking or peddling with which
dwellers in town have no concern. A shop on wheels may occasionally be
seen in the heart of some quiet hamlet, surrounded by speculative
housewives and wondering children. But Crantock has its charm of the
present, as well as a delightful association with the past. Close to
its undulating slopes lies the grandeur of a glorious coast, meeting
the deep blues and greens of the Atlantic. On the headland across the
Bay there are barrows that tell of days before the coming of Saxon and
Norman; and among these sport numberless rabbits, vanishing with
marvellous quickness at the slightest movement. In storm all is
magnificence; in calm there is the brooding of a fathomless peace. It
is a perfect rest to lie on the sandy dunes or breezy warrens, gazing
dreamily at sky and waters. The air rings with the cry of sea-fowl and
the song of the lark, while from beyond comes the eternal wash of
waves or the low boom from hidden caves. Blended with these comes the
more homelike sound of cattle, and often the laugh of children. At
nightfall the village and its surrounding meadows soon become
slumberous. The field-paths and lanes become utterly lonely and
solemn. Bats swoop down, and around the isolated farms may be heard
the strange cry of the owl. It is little wonder that superstition dies
slowly in such an atmosphere; and there was one such superstition
that long lingered around the Gannel gorge. Perhaps it is not yet
quite dead, but is told by some mothers to their children at
nightfall.
[Illustration: CRANTOCK CHURCH.
_Photo by Alex. Old._]
Penpoll Creek is reached by a delightful wild-flower lane leading from
Crantock; it is the quickest way into Newquay. What may be called the
main road goes inland, by Trevemper Bridge, a good four
miles--sometimes to be chosen instead of taking the ford. The Gannel
is only a small stream in itself, but here, at its sandy mouth, it
broadens to a considerable width, and flows with rapid current. At
Penpoll the road runs to meet the river on either side, and there is a
narrow plank-bridge by which travellers can pass dryshod when the tide
is low. But the banks of sand are very shallow, and are quickly
flooded by the incoming water; this little bridge of planks is soon
washed by the waves, and during some hours each day the Gannel cannot
be forded. In broad daylight, when visitors from Newquay are passing
and repassing, the spot may be cheerful enough; but at nightfall a
dusky solemnity possesses it. There is the rumour of immemorial
tradition in the air; it comes with the lap of the water and the low
sob that breathes from the sands; it speaks in the cry of the birds as
they wing their way restlessly from bank to bank. The countryfolk
whisper that these birds are the souls of those who have been drowned
at the ford--those who have dared to pass unwarily when the tide was
pouring in with the force of the ocean behind it. The moment of safety
had gone, but rather than drive many miles round to the bridge at
Trevemper, they risked the passage, their horses became confused by
the whirl of waters, and by the sands, that are always treacherous in
a rising tide; the flow was too strong for swimming; the waves soon
bubbled mockingly above the drowned heads of man and beast.
But there is another cry that suddenly resounds through the stillness,
a long-drawn, mysterious utterance, passing drearily, difficult to
locate, more difficult to name--one of those sounds by which Nature at
times reaches to the dark places of our spirit and terrifies us with
vague dread of the unknown. Is it the wail of an owl or other bird of
the night? It pervades the air wildly and lingeringly. Those who come
late to the ford and hear this sudden strange call draw rein and turn
backward; it is better to drive the weary distance to the bridge than
to brave a crossing when this warning is abroad. Those who are
familiar with this country-side, with its dim lingerings of Celtic
tradition, its strange borderland of myth and reality, know the
meaning of the cry in their hearts, though, perhaps, they decline to
give mention to it with their lips. They have been told in their
childhood of a man who once lived in these parts, whose life was
stained by many black deeds, and lightened by a single good one. He
had been a smuggler, a wrecker, a pirate; his hand was red with blood,
his soul dark with the soil of crime. One night a cottager lay dying,
and was praying that a priest might be fetched to his bedside. Moved
by a rare impulse of pity, the man of many sins set forth to cross the
Gannel and to bring the priest from a religious house beyond. But the
time for fording had passed; the river was running swiftly, and waves
were leaping hungrily about the usual track of passage. Yet it meant a
long delay to go round by the bridge, and the occasion was pressing.
Merging all his virtue into one brave deed, the man plunged into the
boiling torrent, and never reached the other side. In consideration of
this last action the doom that would otherwise have been his was
mitigated into a nobler penance. He is permitted to haunt the shores,
and by his cries to warn passengers when the ford has become perilous.
So does he save others and work out his own salvation.
Immediately beyond the Warren, with its old-world tumuli, is Fistral
Bay, the eastern point of which is Towan Head, giving Newquay its
finest promenade. Here, just beyond the golf-links, are two of the
largest hotels, and beyond these is the lifeboat-house, with its slip
for launching. Beneath are caverns and natural tunnels once devoted to
smuggling; while a memorial of old Newquay's other industry exists in
the quaint Huer's House, on the eastern point of the headland. It was
from this look-out that the hue-and-cry was raised when the shoals of
pilchards were sighted; a man being on watch here, to give signal to
the fishing-boats. But the pilchards do not come so far eastward now;
the house remains to remind Newquay, now in the day of its pride and
fashion, that it was a humble lowly fishing village. Carew, three
centuries since, spoke of "newe Kaye, a place in the north coast of
Pydar Hundred, so called because in former times the neighbours
attempted to supplie the defect of nature by art, in making there a
kay for the rode of shipping."
There is usually some amount of charm about a harbour; but neither the
harbour nor even the sea is visible from the streets of Newquay,
except in rare glimpses. Modern Newquay seems to have striven to
render itself uninteresting; Mr. Hind says that it is the ugliest
though the most popular coast-town in Cornwall. Of course, this only
applies to the town, not to its situation, its fine cliffs and broad
sands; Newquay townsfolk might with a little foresight have made their
leading street into a most attractive promenade by leaving one side
open towards the sea. As it is, the streets are resorted to for
shopping and business purposes, and for nothing else; they have
nothing else to offer. Commonplace on this plateau above the cliffs,
the coast becomes glorious below, eaten out as it is into grand caves
and hollows, with alluring stretches of weeded beach and firm
shell-sand. Fistral Beach and the bracing headlands have their own
special charm; but the popular beach at Newquay is that which reaches
towards St. Columb and Trevalgue Head. Visitors find particular
delight in the Island, a mass of rock that is really insular at high
water, and the numerous caves are a constant temptation to young and
old explorers. There are barrows also above the Crigga Rocks, linking
modern Newquay with a far-forgotten past; and at St. Columb Porth,
generally called Porth for short, are traces of submerged forest.
Trevalgue Head is practically an island, joined to the mainland by a
narrow bridge; and in tempestuous weather this is a grand spot for
noting the force and sublimity of Cornish seas. The Banqueting Hall
and Cathedral Cavern are especially fine caves here. Of course, care
must always be taken to watch the tides, or trouble may be expected.
About a mile inland from the Porth is the village of St. Columb Minor,
the mother-parish of Newquay; farther inland still is St. Columb
Major, and both churches appear to be dedicated to a maiden Columba,
who suffered martyrdom in Gaul. We must not think of the great Irish
Columba here. The district has long been a chief centre of Cornwall's
popular game of hurling, which still enjoys an annual revival,
sometimes in the village itself, sometimes on the sands reaching
towards Newquay. The ball used on these occasions is a little smaller
than a cricket-ball, and has a coating of silver; it is inscribed with
the verse--
"St. Columb Major and Minor,
Do your best;
In one of your parishes
I must rest."
The sides are not now confined to the parishes, but usually consist of
"Married _versus_ Single," or "Townsmen _versus_ Countrymen." The ball
is thrown up and hurled from hand to hand, no kicking being allowed;
and the game is won by him who reaches the opponents' goal with it.
From Carew's account of the game as formerly played, we may judge that
a very extensive ground was used; he speaks of the players as taking
"their way over hills, dales, hedges, ditches--yea, and thorou bushes,
briers, mires, plashes, and rivers whatsoever--so as you shall
sometimes see twenty or thirty lie tugging together in the water,
scrambling and scratching for the ball. A play verily both rude and
rough." A writer of half a century since gives this description: "A
ball about the size of a cricket-ball, formed of cork or light wood
and covered with silver, was hurled into the air, midway between the
goals. Both parties immediately rushed towards it, each striving to
seize and carry it to his own goal. In this contest, when any
individual having possession of the ball found himself overpowered or
outrun by his opponents, he hurled it to one of his own side, if near
enough, or if not into some pool, ditch, furze, brake, garden, house,
or other place of concealment, to prevent his adversaries getting hold
of it before his own company could arrive." It is clear that hurling
somewhat resembled football as anciently played in England and
Scotland between parish and parish. In old times the ball was provided
by the corporations of the different localities; we read in the St.
Ives parish accounts for the year 1639: "Item for a Silver Bole that
was brought to towne, 6s. 6d." On such balls was often inscribed the
Cornish motto, _Guare teag yu guare wheag_--"Fair play is good play."
A curious method of forming sides, in the past, was to set all the
Toms, Williams, and Johns on one side, while their neighbours of other
Christian names were ranged against them; from whence came the rhyme--
"Toms, Wills and Jans,
Take off all on the sands."
But even St. Ives seems now to have abandoned the old sport, and it is
limited to these parishes of St. Columb. Cornwall now devotes itself,
and very successfully, to our customary football.
The two Columb churches are both interesting, that of St. Columb Minor
having the second highest tower in Cornwall. Porth Island is really a
portion of the Glendorgal estate, the home of the late Sir Richard
Tangye, who did so much for the preservation of local antiquities.
Just beyond is Flory Island (Flory being clearly a corruption of
Phillory), sometimes known as Black Humphrey's Isle; Black Humphrey
was one of the pirate-smugglers whose tales are common around this
coast.
Beyond the northern end of Watergate Bay we come to Mawgan Porth, and
a mile beyond this are the famous Bedruthan Steps. Both places, but
especially the Steps, afford a very favourite excursion from Newquay,
seven miles distant; and whether the journey is performed on foot, or
by cycle, motor-car or carriage, it is full of interest and beauty. It
is best to come during the ebb of a spring tide, when the coves and
caves may safely be explored; at other times there is grave peril. The
caverns at Mawgan Porth are remarkably fine, and the grandly wild
stretch of beach can hardly be spoken of with too great enthusiasm.
The coast is as pitiless as it is beautiful, and many relics of
wreckage are often washed ashore; after heavy storms the crags and
caves are still searched for jetsam. It may be noted that those who do
not wish to examine the caves, but who desire to see massive waves
breaking on a magnificent coast-line, should come when the tide is
nearing the full after prolonged westerly winds; they will see
something that is even grander than high-arched dusky caverns and
glimmering rock-tunnels. The beach at Bedruthan has nothing specially
to distinguish it from those at Newquay and Porth, with the exception
of the isolated masses of rock and boulder that in some sense cause it
to resemble Kynance. Several of these have been given fanciful
names--such names being always dear to the average tourist; one of
these is the striking Queen Bess rock, and another is the Good
Samaritan. This last is so named, not very aptly, because it proved
the destruction of an East Indiaman, the _Good Samaritan_, many years
since; but as it is an ill wind that blows no one any good, so it is
certain that the wreck of this richly-cargoed vessel provided the
womanfolk of the district with fine silks and satins for many years
after. We can thus understand the point of the local saying, "It is
time for a Good Samaritan to come." The coast-people's attitude
towards wrecks has never been one of ingratitude--except when
Preventive officers proved too wary. Diggory Island, a little to the
north, has two natural arches, making a fine spectacle at floodtide.
[Illustration: BEDRUTHAN STEPS.
_Photo by Alex. Old._]
Perhaps it is partly by reason of its contrast with the wild, stark
coast that the far-famed Vale of Lanherne has won its reputation. It
is a spot that has excited the enthusiasm of painters, versifiers, and
guide-books; yet probably its chief charm is the surprise of its
sylvan and pastoral character in a tract of country that is not
notable for either. Counties farther east can show hundreds of such
scenes; but the quiet rusticity and woodland features here come with a
special touch of soothing and repose after the long, bare moorlands,
sandy dunes, and stern, naked cliffs. There is also another
attraction--the convent of Lanherne, once the manor-house of the
Arundells. Mr. Baring-Gould says that "Lanherne lies in the loveliest
vale in Cornwall"; Mr. Hind says, "the Vale of Lanherne did not rouse
my enthusiasm." Most visitors agree with the Rector of Lew Trenchard.
The mansion, now the convent, came into possession of the "great
Arundells" in 1231 by marriage with a daughter of John de Lanherne. It
was in the reign of Henry VII. that a later Arundell purchased
Wardour Castle, in Wiltshire, and gifted it to his son Sir Thomas, who
was married to a sister of Catherine Howard; and it is at Wardour that
the family of Arundell still flourishes. The family remained Catholic
through the Reformation, and the sanctuary lamp in Lanherne Chapel was
never extinguished; so that English Catholics have a very special
regard for this spot, where the light of their faith still burns
brightly after so many centuries. The front of the old house dates
from 1580; but many buildings have been added of late years for the
accommodation of the nuns, whose seclusion is very strict. It came
into possession of the Carmelites in 1794, when a party of nuns,
driven from France by the Revolution, came to England, having in vain
tried to find safety at Antwerp. They were given this mansion by
Henry, eighth Lord Arundell of Wardour.
Here they have been ever since, the settlement having been much
enriched and enlarged more recently. Their presence has drawn other
Catholics to the spot, so that the district is quite mediaeval in its
spiritual atmosphere; besides which many visitors not of the faith
come hither to worship in the beautiful chapel, and to try to obtain
glimpses of the fair recluses. Having once taken the veil, these nuns
never again leave the precincts. They attend the services in a gallery
concealed by a grating; they take exercise in a high-walled garden;
when they die they are buried in the convent cemetery. There cannot
fail to be a touch of sadness in thinking of these ladies thus
secluded from the "stir of existence," severed from the interests of
their brothers and sisters, not even having the fair country-side and
grand coast as a feast for their eyes, their lives spent in ceaseless
prayer and liturgy. It is strange that such things should be, and we
can only imagine the haven to be welcome to those who, in their
declining years, crave perfect peace and retirement after the stress
of uttermost sorrow or restless buffetings. There are paintings of
Vandyke and Rubens in the chapel. Outside the door is an old cross,
brought from Gwinear, which is supposed to be Anglo-Saxon; its
inscriptions have never been deciphered. They are thought to be in
both Saxon and Latin. There is a secret chamber in the older part of
the convent, dating from those Elizabethan days when priests lurked
about the Cornish country-side, nourishing their faith in the
villagers, who were very slow to welcome the Reformation, and always
seeking if possible to stir a rising against the new order. It is said
that a priest was once successfully concealed here for eighteen
months.
Many stirring things are told of the Arundells, who were dauntless
Royalists. One is the siege of Wardour Castle in 1643, when it was
heroically defended by Blanche, wife of Lord Arundell, who was with
the King at Oxford. This lady, with a garrison of fifty, so stoutly
resisted the Parliamentary attack that most honourable terms of
capitulation were granted; but these terms were not kept. It was
another Arundell, then a very old man, who defended Pendennis. The
family had another house at Trerice, about three miles south-east of
Newquay; and at the Restoration, when their confiscations were
removed, the title of Lord Arundell of Trerice, now extinct, was
created. Carew has some curious remarks about them. He says: "Their
name is derived from Hirondelle, in French, a swallow, and out of
France at the Conquest they came, and six swallows they gave in
arms. The country people entitled them the Great Arundells; and
greatest stroke, for love, living, and respect, in the country
heretofore they bear. Their house of Lanhearn standeth in the parish
called Mawgan. It is appurtenanced with a large scope of land which
was employed in frank hospitality."
[Illustration: MAWGAN CHURCH.
_Photo by Alex. Old._]
The next attraction at Mawgan is its church. Perpendicular in style
but dating from the thirteenth century, its pinnacled tower is
surrounded by beautiful Cornish elms, and close to the graveyard runs
a prattling brook. The restoration by Butterfield was not all that
might be desired, but it happily spared the carved bench-ends, the
fine pulpit and the screen. There are also some good brasses and
memorials of the Arundells. In the churchyard is a remarkable
lantern-cross--not Celtic but mediaeval; it is described by Blight as
"the most elaborate of the kind in Cornwall. What is intended to be
represented by this carving is not very evident; an angel seated on a
block in a corner holds a serpent turning round a pillar, and with its
head touching the face of a king. By the king's side is the figure of
a queen kneeling before a lectern." There is also in the graveyard a
curious monument, the stern of a boat, bearing the record of ten
seamen who drifted ashore in their little vessel, frozen to death, at
Beacon Cove in 1846. Before leaving Mawgan most visitors will take a
ramble through the beautiful Carnanton woods, while some may remember
that Carnanton was the residence of William Noye, Attorney-General to
Charles I., who as member for St. Ives had signalised himself as a
champion of parliamentary rights. Ministerial rank worked a wonderful
change; so much so that Noye was actually the originator of the
ship-money tax which played so large a share in embroiling the nation.
Hals goes so far as to say that Noye "was blow-coal, incendiary, and
stirrer-up of the Civil War"; and it was he who prosecuted the
arrested members of the House of Commons. He had the reputation of a
miser, so that, when he died, it was stated that his heart had
shrivelled into the shape of a leather purse. It is rather a pitiful
memory to attach to so delightful a district.