THE PADSTOW DISTRICT
When we turn from the Mawgan district to make our way towards the
Padstow estuary the grand, broken coast goes with us, ever presenting
new aspects of varying beauty--coves of golden sand succeeded by
gaunt, caverned headlands, with here and there a craggy islet lying
among the tumbling breakers. The great plateau of the Bodmin Moors
here touches the coast, bringing its profusion of prehistoric
remains--though in that matter there is little of Cornwall that is not
plentifully endowed. Immediately above Bedruthan there is one
cliff-castle, and on Park Head, a little beyond, are the burial tumuli
of some unknown people. We are now in the parish of St. Eval, whose
church stands on high ground about two miles inland. It is said that
Bristol merchants, in the eighteenth century, found this church so
useful a landmark for their vessels that they rebuilt it at their own
cost. Eval is a saint not easy to identify; there is an inscribed
stone in Pembrokeshire giving the name _Evali fili Dencui_, so that he
may have been a missionary from South Wales. North of Park Head are
the Butter Coves, and the coves of Porthmear and Portcothan. They are
magnificent in times of rough weather. In a quiet way Porthcothan is
beginning to attract visitors, but the place is not very accessible,
and has little but its loveliness to recommend it. There is, however,
a remarkable _fogou_, or subterranean cavern, about 38 feet long and 6
feet in height, with a passage leading into another similar chamber.
_Fogou_ is the Cornish word for cave (sometimes corrupted into Hugo);
but it usually signifies a cavern or passage of artificial
construction, built at an early date for the concealment of persons or
of property. There are good specimens at Cairn Uny, at Trelowarren,
and at Trewoofe near Lamorna. In most of these passages only a few
yards can now be traversed, as they have fallen into disuse, and
unless repaired frequently the sides and roofs have a tendency to fall
in. Sometimes they obviously connect with old hill-castles and
strongholds, in which case their construction takes us beyond the
reach of history; and generally their formation was assisted or
suggested by nature. But their comparatively recent use by smugglers
for the concealment of run goods makes it particularly difficult to
speak with certainty as to their true antiquity; and the coves around
Porthcothan saw the landing of many an illicit cargo. Stories of
fugitive Royalists taking refuge in these _fogous_ are common, and
have doubtless a basis of fact. It is supposed that the entire length
of the Porthcothan _fogou_ must have been over 1,000 yards, one
gallery leading to Trevethan, whence another communicated with the
beach at Porthmear.
[Illustration: PORTHCOTHAN BAY.
_Photo by Alex. Old._]
Passing other jagged points and creeks, we come to Constantine Bay,
where the ordinary visitor may pardonably suppose he is on the steps
of a Roman emperor, but the Constantine here recorded was a genuine
Cornish saint. Perhaps his name was Cystennyn, Latinised after, as was
a common custom. He was of the Cornish royal family, being son of
Cador; and Geoffrey of Monmouth tells us, fabulously, that he
succeeded Arthur as King of the British. He is chiefly remembered in
literature by the abuse that Gildas heaped upon him, in those letters,
written about 546, that are notable for imperfect accuracy, fervent
religion, and virulent bad temper. Gildas calls Constantine the
"tyrannical whelp of the unclean lioness of Damnonia"; and further
asks, "Why standest thou astonished, O thou butcher of thine own soul?
Why dost thou wilfully kindle against thyself the eternal fires of
hell?" It is quite likely that Constantine had done some bad things
and been no better than his neighbours; but it is supposed that he was
converted in his old age, through the preaching of St. Petrock, whom
we shall meet more intimately at Padstow. It is said that Constantine
was hunting, and the stag that he was pursuing took refuge in
Petrock's cell; the animal's recognition of the saint's holiness and
appeal to his protection so touched his heart as to lead to a change
of life. Another story refers his conversion to grief at the death of
his wife. Mr. Baring-Gould tells us that: "So completely did he sever
himself from the world, that it was supposed by some that he had been
murdered by Conan, his successor. He retired to a cell on the sands in
the parish of St. Merryn, near Padstow, where there was a well, and
where he could be near Petrock, through whom he had been brought to
the knowledge of himself." It is probable that he journeyed later to
the creek of the Helford River, in South Cornwall, and founded the
Constantine that we find there. It is doubtless on the site of his
original cell that the old church of St. Constantine stands,
overwhelmed and ruined by sand-storms long since, buried utterly for a
time like that of St. Piran, and now again visible, a few broken and
rugged walls among the towans. The sand that destroyed the church
destroyed also the village, and the parish was merged in that of St.
Merryn, whither the beautiful font was conveyed. This font and other
portions of St. Merryn Church are of the well-known Cataclew stone,
from the Cataclew quarries by Trevose Head. This stone was formerly
put to very effective use in church-building, and it is pleasant to
know that it has again come into popularity.
[Illustration: RUINS OF CONSTANTINE CHURCH.
_Photo by Alex. Old._]
But the fact that has given greatest distinction to this spot, and
that which does more than anything else to draw visitors, is the
discovery, about ten years since, of a prehistoric burial-ground at
Harlyn Bay. The _Athenaeum_ of that date announced to its readers that
"a discovery of the highest importance to the study of the prehistoric
races inhabiting England before the first Roman invasion has recently
been made in a remote corner of Cornwall. On a sloping sandy hillside
overlooking the picturesque white sand-bay of Harlyn excavations were
being made by Mr. Reddie Mallett for sinking a well preparatory to
building a house overlooking the sea. The spot selected for boring
turned out to be exactly in the centre, not of a tumulus containing
but two or three interments, but of a perfect cemetery, with three
distinct layers of burials of men, women, and children. The drift
sand that is so extensive in this part of Cornwall rose some 8 to 10
feet above the graves, but when the original hardly compressed sand
was reached, the great slates with which the kists were carefully
formed were often not more than 2 feet below this surface." Dr. Beddoe
pronounced the remains to be neolithic, and the persons here interred
were of a dolichocephalic or long-skulled race--sometimes known as the
long barrow-builders, who generally buried their dead without
cremation. There were some tiny kists for children, but a great number
of the bodies had been buried uncoffined. The district had afforded
earlier similar traces of pre-Roman interment, but nothing on so large
a scale as this. Although a great deal of excavation has gone on
since, and there is a small museum erected close by to contain the
more striking finds, much more may yet be done and other secrets be
revealed. It is not quite certain yet where the persons lived whose
bones have thus been uncovered to the gaze of a late generation of
sight-seers, but it is supposed that their habitations must have been
near this site. They were, of course, in a higher state of
civilisation than mere cave-dwellers, but their huts may have been of
perishable wattle, or they may have come from some of the hut-circles
of the Bodmin Moors. The remains, like those around St. Piran's,
bespeak a somewhat dense population. As Harlyn Bay has become popular
for picnic parties from Padstow and elsewhere, this old necropolis
often resounds with laughter and merry-making; but in winter and in
rough weather it is left to its own solemnity. A spirit of awe broods
above it; we remember the words of Ezekiel: "The hand of the Lord was
upon me, and carried me out in the Spirit of the Lord, and set me down
in the midst of the valley which was full of bones."
Meeting the ocean westward of Harlyn is Trevose Head, with its
lighthouse and coastguard station. The headland rises to nearly 250
feet, and its light is sorely needed, the coast, with its outlying
masses of crag, being a deadly peril to navigation. The views to be
obtained here are of exceptional grandeur, and the lighthouse-keepers,
though far less lonely than on many similar stations, generally
welcome a visit.
[Illustration: TREVOSE LIGHTHOUSE.
_Photo by Alex. Old, Padstow._]
Padstow is situated on the western side of the Camel estuary, below
the sandbank known as the Doom Bar (probably _dune-bar_). The gates of
the river-mouth are the Stepper Point, with its white day-mark, and
Pentire Point; the Doom Bar lies well within these, almost blocking
the passage, which, with vessels of any draught, must be made on the
Stepper side. The name Doom Bar is, of course, provocative of legend,
and an appropriate one has been found. It is said that Padstow had
once a safe and commodious harbour, whose mouth was haunted by a
beautiful mermaid. The harbour was under her special protection, and
she was consequently revered by the inhabitants. But one day a youth
foolishly fired on her from the cliffs. With a cry of rage she plunged
into the water, but reappeared for a moment to vow that henceforth the
harbour should be ruined. An old Cornishman who told the story in the
days when such traditions still passed current, used to add: "We
have had commissions and I know not what about converting this place
into a harbour of refuge. A harbour of refuge would be a great
blessing, but not all the Government commissions in the world could
keep the sand out, or make the harbour deep enough to swim a frigate,
unless the parsons can find out the way to take up the merry-maid's
curse." But there is another tradition attaching to the Bar. This is
the country of Tregeagle--he lies buried at St. Breock, close to
Wadebridge: "John Tregeagle, of Trevorder, Esqr., 1679." His story
forms a curious mixture of the recent and the prehistoric. We see that
a man named Tregeagle truly lived and died something more than two
centuries ago; but the Tregeagle or Tergagle of legend belongs to
folk-lore rather than to modern social life. Very old ideas and
superstitions have in some manner become attached to a recent name;
tradition has a knack of bringing forward its dates; stories of
immemorial antiquity are related as though they were the experience of
the narrator's father or grandfather, and are modernised to suit that
supposition. Legend never sticks at absurdity or anachronism. From
some versions of the story it would appear that Tregeagle could not
have lived earlier than the seventeenth century, in actual accordance
with the date on his tombstone; but in others certain of the early
Cornish saints are introduced, carrying the history twelve centuries
back or further still. It would seem that Tregeagle was a landowner in
the neighbourhood of Bodmin, holding the Trevorder estate; but he won
his chief notoriety as steward on the lands of the Robartes family, at
Lanhydrock. There is still a room in the Lanhydrock mansion known as
Tregeagle's. The man doubtless did many things of which morality
cannot approve, but tradition has overdone itself in attributing to
him every possible crime, including the murder of his wife, his
children, and his sister. He was an unjust steward, grinding the
tenants unmercifully, and enriching himself not only at their expense
but at that of his employer. But he contrived to purchase the goodwill
of the Church, and at his death it was only seemly that the clergy
should do what they could for him. When the spirits of darkness came
to claim the soul of the dying wretch they were successfully repelled
by the priests with the powers of bell, book, and candle. The Church
wrangled with the fiends above the breathless body, defeated them in
heated theological controversy, dismissed them with contumely, and
laid Tregeagle to rest with his fathers at St. Breock. He was not
destined to repose there long. There was a heritage of trouble in
connection with the Lanhydrock estate, and the defendant in one
particular case sorely needed the witness of Tregeagle himself, to
settle a disputed point. By some means he managed to procure it; the
clergy provided a safe-conduct, and the figure of the dead Tregeagle
was led into the witness-box. A thrill of horror passed through the
court, but this spectral witness gave evidence faithfully, and gained
a triumphant verdict for defendant. The trouble now was what to do
with Tregeagle. The fiends were still waiting for him; defendant who
had summoned him took no further interest in the matter; but the
clergy felt that they still owed him a duty. They knew that the dead
man's chance at the Day of Doom was not a good one, but in the
meantime they would do what they could. It was decided to give him a
perpetual penance, which might keep the evil spirits at a distance. He
was led away to the shores of Dosmare Pool, on the desolate Bodmin
Moors, and there set to drain the pool with a leaky limpet-shell. In
those days Dosmare was supposed to be bottomless--a reputation which
it has since destroyed by drying in hot summers. For long years
Tregeagle toiled at his hopeless task. If he ceased from his labour
for a moment he would be at the mercy of the devils.
One night, after many years of fruitless toil, there came a terrific
storm, with thunder and earthquake. In sheer horror and despair
Tregeagle fled. Immediately the demons were on his track, chasing him
so closely that he could not stay to dip his limpet-shell in the
foaming water. Feeling that they were upon him, he rose with a cry of
anguish, and fled across the pool, thus gaining a temporary advantage,
for spirits of evil cannot cross water. He made for the hermitage on
Roche Rock, the yelling pursuers at his heels. Just as they were about
to seize him he thrust his head within the small window of the
hermit's chapel, and thus was safe. There was still a difficulty about
his position. He could not get further into the church, nor does it
appear that the hermit desired it; and he could not withdraw his head
lest the fiends should seize him. He had to stay and listen to the
good man's prayers and liturgies, which only added to the terrors of
his guilty conscience, so that his remorseful screams were heard above
all the psalms and prayings. The hermit found it a great affliction,
for the population of the district was kept away by the unpleasantness
of Tregeagle's presence. At last two other clergy came to his
assistance, and Tregeagle was led away to the coast at Padstow. His
new task was to make ropes of sand--one of the familiar penances of
such traditions. He could not do it; it was worse than draining
Dosmare. Night and day he rendered the place hideous with his frantic
cries, and the Padstow folk did not like it at all. It was making the
neighbourhood unbearable. At their earnest request another effort was
made by the priests to dispose of poor Tregeagle. He was ruining the
harbour by his attempts to make the ropes of sand; every rising sea
scattered these ropes, however carefully formed, and the sand was
accumulating in a bar of Doom. It is said that St. Petrock himself,
the spiritual founder of Padstow, forged a chain of which every link
was a prayer, and thus led away the unhappy ghost to Helston. In the
estuary of the Hel River he spoiled the harbourage also, for a devil
tripped him one day, when toiling across with a sack of sand, and the
sand was spilt right across the mouth of the river. At last he was
cast out from Helston also, and dismissed to Land's End, where he
remains labouring to this day, endeavouring to sweep the sands from
Porthcurno Cove into Nanjisal. Of course, it cannot be done; the full
force of the Atlantic drives around Land's End, and the sands are
driven backward again and again. But he is safe from the immediate
attack of the fiends, and he is out of the way of the countryfolk. His
cries are lost in the crash of the seas that dominate that desolate
shore, and the fishermen have given up thinking about Tregeagle.
The legends vary in telling his doom; some make the draining of
Dosmare his last penance and some this task at the Land's End. But if
an imaginative reason is desired to account for the formation of the
Padstow Doom Bar, surely this tale will do as well as any other.
[Illustration: CLIFFS NEAR PADSTOW.
_Photo by Alex. Old._]
It will be seen that this chronicle of Tregeagle carries him back to
the time of Petrock, the patron saint of Padstow, whose name is a
corruption of Petrock's-stow. Little Petherick, sometimes called St.
Petrock Minor, is thought to be a corruption of the same name. Petrock
was a Celtic saint, probably a Welshman, who went to Ireland for his
religious education; he crossed to Cornwall in a coracle, and landed
in this estuary of the Camel. He founded an oratory here, and probably
another at Little Petherick. It is also suggested that he established
another cell at Place, the seat of the Prideaux, but it seems more
likely that the chapel at Place was founded by St. Samson. After
spending many years at Padstow the saint is said to have voyaged to
the East, visiting India, and also going on a visionary journey to
some Island of the Blest, after the manner of St. Brendan. After
returning to Cornwall he removed to Bodmin and established the most
important of his religious foundations. Like Padstow, Bodmin was
formerly named Petrockstow, and this has caused endless confusion to
the chroniclers as well as some quarrels between the two towns.
Further, the saint evidently went into Devon; we trace his footsteps
at Dartmouth, Exeter, Hollacombe, Anstey, and elsewhere. Bodmin can
boast precedence of Padstow in certain respects, for it attained
episcopal consequence, besides being the county town of Cornwall; but
with regard to priority in connection with Petrock, it is clear
Padstow has the first claim. At one time Padstow appears to have been
called Lodenek or Lodernek, but in the thirteenth century it was
certainly known as Aldestowe; in fact, the town has been troubled with
a multiplicity of names, which is always a regrettable thing, for a
person or a place. The town is about two miles within the estuary, and
were it not for the sands that block its entrance, this would be truly
a fine harbour; even so, it is the best that North Cornwall possesses.
Two vessels sailed from here for the siege of Calais; and in the
sixteenth century some sort of corporation was granted, but this seems
to have been lost. At the present day it is a picturesque, quaint old
town, in a beautiful and most interesting site, dominated by a
weather-beaten old church. But Mr. Hind, though he finds much to
admire, does not regard Padstow as in any sense typically Cornish. He
says: "An air-voyager dropped from a flying-machine upon the roof of a
Padstow house would never think that he was in Cornwall. If he walked
out to Stepper Point, or strode some miles westward to Trevose Head,
the first land sighted in old days by Canadian timber vessels trading
to Padstow, the majestic sweep of coast, the jagged headlands and
scattered rocks would certainly suggest Cornwall; but the estuary of
the Camel from Wadebridge to Padstow, although beautiful, has no claim
to the epithet wild. The panorama induces reflection, moves one to a
mood of gentle melancholy; but it does not stimulate. Nowhere in
Cornwall have I seen such sand--gold, grey and yellow, equally lovely
at all tides. Looking across the river, the eye is soothed by these
wastes of blown sand stretching inland from the sea to where the
little hamlet called Rock rises from the shore." Sundries are imported
at the docks, and there is some shipment of corn; but the
ship-building, once notable, has greatly declined, and the town now
does little but repairing. It is satisfactory to find that the sands
of the Doom Bar have a certain value, as they contain much carbonate
of lime, and they are carried inland for agricultural purposes. The
church, which stands well above the town, has a good Early English
tower, and a beautiful, finely carved catacleuse font; in the south
porch the parish stocks are preserved. In the chancel, over the
piscina, is an effigy sometimes mistaken for that of St. Anthony, but
almost certainly the figure is St. Petrock himself, with his usual
symbols, the staff and wolf, at his feet. There are modern monochrome
pictures from drawings by Hofmann in front of the organ. It is natural
to find monuments of the Prideaux family both within the church and
without; in the churchyard also are two granite crosses, one much
mutilated.
Prideaux Place, generally named Place, stands a little higher than the
church, in a glorious situation; it is a finely designed Elizabethan
mansion--Elizabethan in style if not exactly in date--erected by Sir
Nicholas Prideaux about the year 1600. Its old staircase was brought
thither when Stowe House, once the seat of the Grenvilles, was broken
up. The Prideaux are a Cornish family of ancient note, whose names we
often meet with in the Duchy's annals; but the most widely known was
Humphrey Prideaux, born here in 1648, who at one time was Rector of
St. Clement's, Oxford, and later became Dean of Norwich. He wrote a
Life of Mahomet, and also a work in which he attempted to bridge over
the interval between the Old and New Testaments--rather a ticklish
job, one might imagine. There are a good many excellent pictures at
the house--a Vandyck and many Opies; but the visitor, unless specially
introduced, will have to be content with the outside of the beautiful
manor-house.
Padstow has been associated from immemorial times with a special
celebration of the May-Day festival, immediately deriving from the old
folk-plays and mummings that were once universal. The special survival
here is of the Hobby Horse, that once played so prominent a part in
these boisterous masquerades, but such life as it still enjoys at
Padstow is somewhat a galvanised existence, just as children still
occasionally dress in poor tinsel and gaiety in order to collect a few
coppers. Such exhibitions are melancholy rather than interesting--
"For who would keep an ancient form
Thro' which the spirit breathes no more?"
The horse is a wooden circle, with a dress of blackened sailcloth, a
horse's head, and a prominent tail. Readers of Scott's _Abbot_ will,
of course, remember that the Hobby Horse was equally popular in
Scotland. The Hobby Horse song, as rendered at Padstow, was probably
only a variant of verses common elsewhere, but local and topical
allusions were freely introduced, and stanzas were addressed to
special personages. The performance is in a moribund condition, and it
is certainly not worth while for a stranger to travel to Padstow on
May-Day to see it. Very likely he would not see it; it is a thing
that may be discontinued at any time. If we were devoting our
attention to Cornwall as it used to be, much would come into this book
which is now utterly obsolete, and would cause as great surprise to
Cornish folk as to others.
[Illustration: A ROUGH CORNISH SEA.
_Photo by Alex. Old._]
If the tide serves, it is certainly worth while to go up to
Wadebridge, if only for the sake of the grand old bridge, originally
built of seventeen arches, in the year 1485, by Thomas Lovibond, Vicar
of Egloshayle. The bridge has been widened since its erection, but is
not otherwise much changed. There was a ferry here in the past, but it
was perilous, and Lovibond could not rest till, with the assistance of
his bishop, he had collected money for this beneficent work. There was
a great difficulty in sinking foundations for the bridge, owing to the
shifting sands, but, guided by a dream, Lovibond is said to have
resorted to packs of wool--the same method reported by tradition of
Bideford Bridge. The bridge is 320 feet long, and remains the best
specimen of its class in England, as it retains its protecting angles
for the use of pedestrians, which at Bideford have been removed.
Lovibond was not only a bridge-builder; he also erected the fine tower
of his church at Egloshayle (the mother-parish of Wadebridge).
Egloshayle probably means the "church by the river" (_eglos-hel_); its
church is particularly interesting for its western doorway, its Norman
font, and its Kestell monument, while there is some good carving in
the roof of the south aisle. The church of St. Breock is distant
nearly a mile from Wadebridge, on the western side of the river, and
is perhaps still more delightful in its position; it is noteworthy for
its monuments, which, however, have been much displaced. It is here
that the remains of Tregeagle lie entombed; his spirit, if we may
credit tradition, is otherwise engaged. St. Breock is supposed to have
arrived in Cornwall, from Wales, earlier than Petrock. He was an old
man, and, as Mr. Baring-Gould tells us, one day his companions "left
him to sing psalms in his cart whilst they were engaged at a distance
over some pressing business. When they returned they found a pack of
wolves round the old man, but whether his sanctity, or toughness, kept
them from eating him is left undecided." Surely it must have been his
sanctity. His name attaches to the Breock Downs, a high-lying moorland
rising to about 700 feet, thickly strewn with prehistoric remains.
Wadebridge has suffered by the opening of the railway to Padstow, but
it can boast that its rail to Bodmin was the second line to be opened
in England. Many jests were current in reference to the speed of this
early railway. Professor Shuttleworth, who was born at Egloshayle
Vicarage, says: "I have often seen the train stop while people got out
and gathered blackberries. But it is lovely country down around
Egloshayle and Wadebridge, just as pretty and quiet as can be." Mr.
Arthur Norway also has a very tender regard for the district, for a
similar reason, and he has given some weird stories of local
superstition. But it cannot be claimed that Wadebridge is on the
coast, and we must retreat seaward.
[Illustration: WADEBRIDGE.
_Photo by Alex. Old._]
Readers of Baring-Gould's stirring novel, _The Roar of the Sea_, are
sure to look eagerly for St. Enodoc's Church. It lies among the
sand-dunes on the eastern bank of the estuary, and is now protected
from the sands that once practically buried it by the growth of
rush-grass and tamarisk hedges; even now it lies low within a deep
trench, and we can easily picture its condition in days when the
parson used to enter through the roof to perform service, so as to
keep his tithes. Built in 1430, it was the successor of an earlier
cell of the saint's. Its slightly crooked spire of slate is the sole
landmark to guide a visitor. In the graveyard is a curious collection
of stoups and water-bowls. It is about forty years now since the
church was excavated from the sands that rose to its roof and restored
to usefulness. Those familiar with Mr. Baring-Gould's book will
remember that he places the home of Cruel Coppinger in this district,
with his house at Pentire Glaze; but we shall find the true home of
Coppinger further northward, near Morwenstow. Just within Hayle Bay is
the little village of Polzeath, which in time may become a popular
watering-place; it has a wonderful charm of position, and enough sand
to satisfy anybody. The fine headland of Pentire reaches beyond, with
its off-lying islet of Newland. Mr. Norway thinks that the stretch of
coast visible from Pentire is the finest in all Cornwall, and he
speaks with authority. On the west the view extends to Trevose, and
embraces the whole of the beautiful Padstow harbour, together with an
unlimited ocean of marvellous ever-changing colours. "On the east the
prospect seems almost boundless. Port Isaac Bay lies just below,
sweeping far back into the land, half hidden by the Eastern Horn of
Pentire. Across the bay Tintagel lies directly opposite, eight miles
away over the sea, every crevice and gully of its riven island clearly
marked in the translucent air; and beyond it the eye follows leagues
and leagues of iron cliffs towering far higher than any others in the
west, and point after point of noble jagged promontories, past
Boscastle, set back a little out of sight, past Bude and Cambeak, and
rugged Morwenstow, till it rests at last on the dim line of Hartland
Point, full 40 miles away as a bird would fly. It is idle to compare
any other view in the West Country with this either in extent or
grandeur, or in the immediate beauty of its surroundings. It is little
known, and rarely visited by any but by shepherds. Yet it is more easy
of access from Wadebridge than the Land's End or the Logan from
Penzance; and there will be some to whom its very loneliness is an
additional attraction. However this may be, those who leave Cornwall
without visiting Pentire have missed its noblest scenery."
[Illustration: PORT ISAAC.
_Photo by Gibson & Sons._]
It is a large claim that Mr. Norway makes, but surely it is justified.
The parts of Cornwall that are best known are naturally those that
come within range of the more popular resorts--Newquay, Bude,
Penzance, St. Ives, Falmouth--while eastern Cornwall is accessible
from Plymouth. But this stretch of coast is near no popular centre,
and, with the exception of Tintagel and Boscastle, it remains
neglected. If Padstow or Polzeath, Portquin or Port Isaac, ever become
more popular, visitors will flock to these grand cliffs and marvel
that they never came here before. There is a remarkable triple
entrenchment on the eastern Horn of Pentire, above its stark, rugged
caverns; but those who came here and fortified this noble headland, in
far-back days of which we can only dream, came not in search of the
picturesque as we do, nor probably for the spiritual repose that we
crave in this age of hurry. Even sterner necessities governed their
existence. Cliff-camps of this nature cannot have been designed
against any foe from the sea--even to-day it would be a perilous thing
indeed to attempt a forcible landing at such places--they were more
likely a last refuge from invading tribes that came overland from the
south-east. The struggles witnessed here must almost certainly have
been far earlier than the coming of Roman or Teuton; it was probably
successive waves, or antagonist tribes, of Stone Age men that here
contended and opposed each other. But the ditches and embankments have
little to tell us; tradition is silent, the lonely barrows are dumb.
Yet the blood of the peoples still flows within Cornish veins; and
those characteristics that we vaguely speak of as Celtic often derive
from a far earlier source.
The little island to the east of Pentire is the Mouls, and to the
right is Portquin Bay. Port Isaac Bay, beyond Kelland Head and Varley
Point, takes its name from the delightful little fishing village of
Port Isaac, of which Port Gaverne may almost be considered as a
suburb. Both are in the parish of St. Endellion, but Port Isaac has
its own church, erected in Early English style in 1882. Its small pier
is said to date from the time of Henry VIII., and before the railway a
good deal of Delabole slate was shipped here. The fishing for
pilchards is here done by trawlers, not by seines, as round Land's
End. The name may probably be interpreted as _porth izic_, the "corn
port," though certainly this is not a grain country. Very
appropriately, it is said that fish are exhibited among the fruits
and flowers at the Port Isaac annual harvest service. Some other West
Country fishing-towns have introduced nets and oars at such services,
but to bring in the actual fish seems peculiar to this place. The fish
has always been a sacred symbol in Christian art, and it represents to
fisher-folk what the fruits of the earth do to the field labourer.
Both these little twin ports--Isaac and Gaverne--are entirely
charming, and much to be commended to all who would know unspoiled
Cornwall. Nestling within their tiny coves, they have a varied
background of interesting country, pleasant little beaches, beautiful
cliffs, and a glorious sea. There is one other resort to be visited
before reaching Tintagel, and that is Trebarwith Strand, which
similarly reaches the sea by a tiny cove, with the Gull Rock lying off
shore as a target for storms. Trebarwith is likely to become
fashionable. It has a fine stretch of sands, and provides some of the
best bathing to be had in North Cornwall. Those who wish to be near
Tintagel and yet close to the sea had better come to Trebarwith rather
than to the Tintagel village itself.