TINTAGEL AND BOSCASTLE
When we come to the region that is specially sacred to traditions of
King Arthur we find ourselves in the presence of wonderful natural
charm and of considerable historic perplexity. Those who are content
with the ordinary guide-books, and who have no conception of Arthur
beyond what they may have gained from snatches of Tennyson, will not
be troubled by this perplexity; they will take the crumbling walls on
Tintagel heights to be the actual castle in which the Celtic prince
was born, and any round table will suffice them as being that around
which the king and his chieftains sat. But something a little better
than this is desirable. We want Arthur to be something more than a
mere ghost, something even more than the blameless hero of a beautiful
Victorian poem. Yet if we go to the learned authorities the ghost
becomes more ghostlike, the phantom becomes more dim; it is mainly
destructive criticism that we meet with, and assertions that are
largely negative. In spite of this, there must be something tangible
behind so persistent a rumour as this tradition of Arthur. Wherever
the Brythonic tribes extended, there we find traces of him. The Gaels
know nothing of him. Finn, Oisin, Cuthullin, Cormac--such as these
were the great Goidhelic heroes. But the British tradition reached
from Armorica to the Forth, and carried Arthur with it. The Welsh
claim him, the Bretons, the Cornish, the Lowland Scotch. Cornwall,
with Tintagel as an asset of faith, claims his birth; Somerset, with
Cadbury on the river Camel, claims Camelot; and Glastonbury boasts of
his grave. Of these claims, that of Cornwall is the most powerfully
supported; there is not only Tintagel, but Kelly Rounds, Damelioc, and
Cardinham. One of the Welsh Triads speaks of the three chief palaces
of Arthur as being Caerleon-on-the-Usk, Celliwig in Cornwall, and
Penrhyn Rhionedd in the north. Celliwig may safely be identified with
the partially effaced earthwork near St. Kew Station, known as Kelly
Rounds (probably from the Cornish _killi_, meaning woods or groves),
standing in what may be described as a Kelly district, for we have
here in a cluster such names as Kelly Green, Kelly Farm, Bokelly,
Kelly Brae, Calliwith. The Rounds have been cut across by a road, but
there are distinct traces of two ramparted circles, with some remains
of a sheltering earthwork to the west. Damelioc, a large and strong
entrenchment with three concentric ramparts, lies about seven miles
south-west of Tintagel; and it was here that Gorlois, Duke of
Cornwall, took up his position after placing his wife Igerne for
safety within Tintagel itself. The common story says that Uther, mad
with love, overcame and slew Gorlois at Damelioc, and gained admission
to Tintagel in his guise, thus becoming the father of Arthur. Of
course, there is the other tradition that represents Arthur as of
supernatural birth, washed to the shore by the waves, rescued by
Merlin, and given to the world as a son of Uther. Cardinham, the other
almost certain Arthurian locality in Cornwall, is about five miles
east of Bodmin, and is identified with the Caradigan where Arthur
sometimes held court. It is a large, lonely earthwork, in a field near
a farmhouse. It must not be forgotten that the guide-books usually put
forward Camelford as another most important Arthurian place,
mentioning Slaughter Bridge as the scene of the king's last battle.
There certainly was a battle here between Britons and Saxons, but this
took place at least two centuries after Arthur's time; and though a
spot named Arthur's Grave is shown to visitors, all definite
connection between the king and Camelford must be surrendered. The
last great battle, according to all authentic tradition, was fought
against Picts, and what would Picts have been doing in Cornwall? The
grave at Glastonbury, it must be owned with regret, is now generally
understood to be a monkish fable. It is not pleasant for a West of
England man to surrender either Camelford or Glastonbury, but truth
must be faced, and the fact is almost certain that Arthur's last
battle, and therefore his grave, must be sought in Scotland.
[Illustration: TINTAGEL.
_Photo by Gibson & Sons._]
We may assume that Arthur was a Romanised Briton, born in the late
fifth century at Tintagel; his name being possibly a Celtic form of
the Latin _Artorius_. He became the champion of his race against
encroaching Saxons, North-Country Picts, and wandering pagan hordes
who fought for lust of bloodshed and pillage. Against these it is
likely that Arthur sought to maintain a semi-Romanised, partially
Christianised civilisation. He is credited with twelve great battles,
in all of which he proved victorious; some of these were certainly in
Somerset, and the last of his triumphs, that of Badon Hill, somewhere
in Wessex. His rule thus established on a firm foundation, for many
years Britain knew comparative peace and good government. The Round
Table of which we hear so much is probably a symbolic addition of the
bards, unless it means that in Arthur's time persons of good class
began to sit decently together at tables. The thirteenth battle, in
which he lost his life fighting against his nephew Mordred, has
usually been given to the West of England--Malory and Tennyson both do
so. But the traditions that became most popular sprang up in an age
when the Cymry were forgetting the former wide extent of their tribal
sway, and were limiting their racial pride to a part of the country
that was still free from the Teuton. The fact that Arthur's last fight
was with the Picts, and against Mordred, is almost conclusive as to
its location. His sister, the mother of Mordred, had married Llew or
Lot, of the Lothians, and there is reason to believe that the king was
already familiar with this part of Scotland. The battle is always
given as fought at Camlan, and this name has diverted later writers to
the Camels of Cornwall and of Somerset. But the Celtic _cam_ in
place-names is quite common; it signifies crooked, and we find it in a
number of river-names. Mordred had become a chieftain of the Picts,
and he possibly resented any claims of suzerainty on the part of
Arthur. The fight, whose date is stated as 542, was almost certainly
waged at Camelon on the river Carron, near Falkirk. Arthur was
defeated--it is likely that his forces were greatly outnumbered; and
he died, either on the field or as an immediate result of a wound
then received. Not many miles distant is an earthwork still known as
Mordred's Castle; and at Carron, nearer still, there was formerly a
mound or cairn known as Arthur's Oon (oven). All the picturesque
detail in Tennyson's wonderful "Passing of Arthur" must be attributed
to Cymric bards, to the genius of Malory, and to the poet's
imagination; we must be content with the conclusion that Arthur was
born but did not die in Cornwall.
[Illustration: KING ARTHUR'S CASTLE.
_Photo by Alex. Old._]
In any case nothing of the present ruins at Tintagel existed in the
time of Arthur. Geoffrey of Monmouth, who wrote about the year 1150,
says of the stronghold that "it is situated upon the sea, and on every
side surrounded by it; and there is but one entrance into it, and that
through a straight rock, which three men shall be able to defend
against the whole power of the kingdom." Even Gorlois, we remember,
only gained admittance by stratagem. Tintagel, Dundagel, or Dundiogl,
the _Dunecheniv_ of Domesday, seems certainly to have belonged to
Gorlois when Uther was Pendragon or Head-king of Britain; it would
have been a cliff-castle such as that on Pentire Head. As years passed
the rock probably became more insular, and when the Norman stronghold
was built it was connected with the mainland by a drawbridge. From
earliest times the castle attached to the Earls of Cornwall, one of
whom protected David, Prince of Wales, during his revolt against
Edward I. Later it was used as a kind of prison, a Mayor of London
being confined within it. Elizabeth had some thought of restoring it,
for it had already become ruinous; Leland says: "The residue of the
buildings of the Castle be sore wetherbeten, and yn ruine; but it
hath beene a large thinge." Its outworks extended to the mainland, but
the great keep was on the isolated mass of rock. Here also are the
remains of St. Juliet's chapel, with its altar-slab and stone benches.
It is not easy to say much about the Juliot or Julitta to whom this
chapel was dedicated; but the chapel is certainly that mentioned in
the thirteenth-century _High History of the Holy Grail_. "They came
into a very different land, scarce inhabited of any folk, and found a
little castle in a combe. They came thitherward and saw that the
enclosure of the castle was fallen down into an abysm, so that none
might approach it on that side, but it had a right fair gateway and a
door tall and wide, whereby they entered. They beheld a chapel that
was fair and rich, and below was a great ancient hall." But the spirit
of modernism now comes very near to this sacred spot of antiquity; on
an opposite headland stands a commodious hotel, and the Tintagel
golf-links come very close to the castle. A tiny port lies below, from
which a little slate is sometimes shipped. The village, whose correct
name of Trevena is being displaced by that of Tintagel, lies about a
mile inland; it is clean and comfortable, but not remarkably
picturesque except for the old gabled building that was once its
post-office. Those who want the perpetual presence of the sea will not
be contented with it. Its church, dedicated to SS. Marcelliana and
Materiana (of whom the latter may be the Welsh Madron), stands at a
distance, above the cliffs west of the castle; it is a stern, bare
building, magnificently placed, so fully exposed to the force of
Atlantic gales that the very tombstones have been buttressed. A
portion of the walls, in their rude simplicity, appears to be
Saxon, but many orders are represented here, from the late Norman
chancel-arch to the Decorated south transept and Perpendicular screen.
There is a rugged circular font, and what is supposed to be a Roman
milestone. The vestry was formerly a Lady-chapel, possibly Saxon, with
a thirteenth-century door and a curious mutilated altar. The
south-transept window is to the memory of J. Douglas Cook, founder of
the _Saturday Review_, who returned to his native Cornwall to die. In
the churchyard are the graves of drowned seamen, British and foreign.
It is a striking and solemnising little church, quite in harmony with
a district of myth and sublimity. It is possible that some who come to
Tintagel for the first time may be disappointed. If so, they have
expected too much, or have expected the wrong thing. There is no gloss
of false romance about the place; the ruins have not the hollow
pretentious grandeur of some Norman castles; what we see is the
unadorned, unveiled reality of a majestic coast, the low, stark walls
of ruin on an immemorial site, the naked wind-beaten church on the
heights, the sea breaking into gaunt caverns below. Sheep feed within
the enclosure to which we scramble by a ragged path. Sentiment may
resent the hotel and the golfers, but any jarring note can easily be
ignored. Yet even Tennyson seems to have been disappointed at first;
afterwards, the spirit of the place sank into him and prevailed.
Perhaps old Hawker has described it best, in few pregnant words:--
"Hark! stern Dundagel softens into song.
They meet for solemn severance, knight and king,
Where gate and bulwark darken o'er the sea."
He gives us the words of Arthur, when the listeners "hush their hearts
to hear the king":--
"I would not be forgotten in this land:
I yearn that men I know not, men unborn,
Shall find, amid these fields, King Arthur's fame.
Here let them say, by proud Dundagel's walls--
'They brought the Sangraal back at his command,
They touched these rugged rocks with hues of God,'
So shall my name have worship, and my land."
And after the king had spoken:--
"That night Dundagel shuddered into storm--
The deep foundations shook beneath the sea."
And we have the grand final picture:--
"There stood Dundagel, throned; and the great sea
Lay, a strong vassal at his master's gate,
And, like a drunken giant, sobb'd in sleep."
There was a time when Trevena, with Bossiney and Trevalga, formed a
borough, and sent members to Parliament, of whom Francis Drake was
one. It needed little apology to disfranchise such a small corporation
as this, but the first Reform Bill had to deal with far greater
anomalies. Bossiney has other attractions than such memories as this,
having a delightful cove protected by the fine headland of Willapark.
The fishing hamlet is close to an ancient burial-mound or barrow, from
which election writs were once read and the local mayor proclaimed.
From this cove we can pass upward into the glorious Rocky Valley, with
its broken crags, its tangled foliage and rushing stream, its old
mill. It is just a little like the gorge at Lynmouth, but wilder.
This is the stream forming the famous cascade known as Knighton's (or
St. Nectan's) Kieve. It is not very easy to find, and, here as at
Tintagel, a key must be procured before its beauties can be examined.
The Kieve is a basin of rock, into which the water has a fall of about
40 feet. St. Nectan is supposed to have been a brother of Morwenna, of
Morwenstow; it is said he had an oratory here, and when he was dying
he threw its silver bell into the waterfall. But Mr. Baring-Gould says
that he died at Hartland. Following the usual guide-book convention,
this would be the right moment for quoting Hawker's ballad, "The
Sisters of Glen Nectan," but that piece is not one of his happiest
efforts, and the legend is at least dubious. Those who journey afoot
from Bossiney to Boscastle will find it almost impossible to keep to
the coast, as the Rocky Valley forms an impediment, especially when
its stream is in flood after heavy rains. But they can find a
tolerable road to Trevalga, crossing the stream at the Long Bridge,
and at Trevalga they will find an interesting little church. The shore
here is broken into some small creeks of great beauty, but one chasm
is so dark and sombre that it has won the name of Blackapit. There are
dangers along these wild beaches; the poet Swinburne, when a boy, was
almost cut off by the tide near Tintagel. From Blackapit we rise to
Willapark Point and the church of Forrabury. The view from the Point
is very fine, covering the ravine and haven of Boscastle on the east,
and looking towards Tintagel on the west. Forrabury, the parish church
of Boscastle, is dedicated to St. Symphorian, whoever that saint be
(perhaps St. Veryan); and in situation it much resembles that of
Tintagel. The pulpit and the woodwork of the altar date from the
fifteenth century. There is a good granite cross in the churchyard.
Here again there is a temptation, into which most writers fall, of
quoting from Hawker, with his poem, "The Silent Tower of Bottreaux,"
in which he gives us a legend accounting for the fact that this church
has only a single bell. But as he frankly confessed, in after life,
that he had invented the story on the very slightest foundation, it is
better to avoid quoting from the ballad, except solely for the
melodious smoothness of its burden:--
"Come to thy God in time,
Thus saith the ocean chime;
Storm, whirlwind, billow past,
Come to thy God at last."
[Illustration: ST. KNIGHTON'S KIEVE.
_Photo by Alex. Old._]
Boscastle, taking its name from the old Norman family of Bottreaux
(though there are many other place-names in Cornwall beginning with
_bos_, which means abode or dwelling-place), is certainly the most
romantic and picturesque haven in the Duchy, though there may be
others that surpass it in actual beauty. The coast has a wild grandeur
rather than loveliness, and in dismal or stormy weather there is a
weird, solemn gloom. The little town lies sheltered at the head of a
gorge in which two rivulets meet and form the haven. Old Leland in his
graphic manner mentions one only of these brooks: "There cummith down
a little broke from South-Est out of the Hilles thereby, and so
renning by the West side of the Towne goith into Severn Se betwixt two
hilles, and there maketh a pore Havenet, but of no certaine
salvegarde." It is the river Valency of which he speaks, the more
important of the streams that join just above the haven. This is a
tiny land-locked harbour with stone piers, at which some coal, lime,
and general merchandise are imported; the entrance is very difficult
to make, and vessels that succeed in doing so have to be warped in by
immense hawsers. Seeing this, and the small haven at Bude, one
realises the wildness of this unsheltered coast, where such perilous
places are called harbours. The village, though not large, is a long
one, straggling down a hill and along the narrow ravine. Its activity
is maintained by the daily arrival and departure of cars from
Camelford, Bude, Otterham, and Tintagel, bringing many visitors in the
summer season. Some come to stay, but most make only a fleeting call;
Nature has placed grave obstacles in the way of Boscastle's ever
becoming a fashionable watering-place. Its charm is unique and
undeniable; but it appeals to the artist, the sturdy pedestrian and
climber, the lover of solitude that at times is absolute desolation,
rather than to the parent of a family. But the desolation, if that is
not too stern a word to use, only applies to the coast; the Valency
Valley is verdant and beautiful. It runs among furze and bracken by
the riverside, and by this path we can reach the quiet, lovely vale in
which Minster stands, so named from a former monastic establishment.
Like the church at Tintagel, this of Minster is dedicated to St.
Materiana, whom Mr. Baring-Gould identifies with the Welsh Madrun. The
tower is of a single stage; there are good bench-ends and
roof-carvings. A portion of the church having fallen in one Sunday,
after morning service, it was rebuilt about forty years since. The
priory was founded by William de Bottreaux in the reign of Richard
I., but does not seem to have had a long existence. Minster is a large
parish, but Forrabury is one of the smallest in Cornwall.
Pentargon, the bay and headland beyond the Boscastle golf-links, is
sometimes interpreted as "Arthur's Head," but this is doubtful. The
caves here, and those below Willapark, were once much haunted by
seals; the coast being absolutely honeycombed by the constant fretting
of the waves. At times, but rarely, the Cornish chough may be seen on
the cliffs, recalling the old tradition that the spirit of Arthur
lingers around his native rocks in this form--a tradition that was
even familiar to Cervantes, though he knew the Welsh version of it,
which makes Arthur a raven. Eastward past Beeny the cliffs gradually
rise, till at High Cliff they reach the height of 700 feet; it needs
some enthusiasm for a pedestrian to keep to the coast-line, though
every mile has its grandeur. Beyond Cambeak lies the delightful
Crackington Cove, which will some day become a watering-place; it
stands at the mouth of a verdant valley with a stream like that of the
Valency. It is in the parish of St. Genny's, whose church is dedicated
to St. Genesius of Auvergne, of whom it is related that after being
beheaded he walked about with his head under his arm. The saints of
Cornwall are reported to have done some extraordinary things, but they
do not usually descend to absurd actions of this nature; and there may
be a shrewd suspicion that Genesius has no business here at all.
William Braddon, a Parliamentary officer and member in the time of the
Civil War, lived at Treworgye in this parish, and was buried in the
church; some have supposed that he was vicar here. Pencannow Head,
the north limit of Crackington Cove, rises sheer from the shore to the
height of 400 feet. Dizzard Point is far less precipitous. A few miles
further east the cliffs break to allow room for a fine stretch of
sands at Widemouth Bay, and here we have another spot that is certain
to develop into a pleasure-resort of the future. It cannot, of course,
compare with the coast magnificence of the shore from Pentire to
Boscastle, but it has what these wilder spots lack--a possibility of
conventional settlement and expansion in the style of watering-place
that the British public chiefly loves.