in Britain--and it would be a long story to tell of them--no other
matched the simple, unpretentious fisher-town of Polperro. No huge hotel
with glaring paint, no amusement pier or promenade, none of the earmarks
of the conventional resort into which so many fine old towns have--shall
I say degenerated?--are to be seen; nothing but the strangest jumble of
old stone houses, wedged in the narrow ravinelike valley. So irregularly
are they placed, with such a total disregard of straight lines and
directions, that it seems, as one writer has remarked, that they might
originally have been built on the hillsides at decent distances from
each other and by some cataclysm slid down in a solid mass along the
river. The streets are little more than footpaths and wind among a
hundred odd corners, of which the one shown in our sketch is only
typical. We cross the river--at low tide only a shallow stream--by the
narrow high-arched bridge, whose odd design and lichen-covered stones
are in perfect keeping with the surroundings, and come out on the sea
wall that overlooks the tiny harbor. A dozen old salts--dreaming, no
doubt, of their active younger days on the blue sea stretching out
before them--are roused from their reveries and regard us curiously.
Evidently tourists are not an everyday incident in Polperro, and they
treat us with the utmost civility, answering our queries in broad
Cornish accent that we have to follow closely to understand. A few
fishing boats still go out of the town, but its brave old days are past;
modern progress, while it has left Polperro quite untouched, has swept
away its ancient source of prosperity. Once its harbor was a famous
retreat for smugglers, who did a thriving business along the Cornish
coast, and it is possible some of these old fellows may have heard their
fathers tell thrilling tales of the little craft which slipped into the
narrow inlet with contraband cargos; of wrecks and prizes, with spoils
of merchandise and gold, so welcome to the needy fisherfolk, and of
fierce and often deadly conflicts with the king's officers.
[Illustration: POLPERRO, CORNWALL--LOOKING TOWARD THE SEA]
The tide is out and a few boats lie helplessly on their sides in the
harbor; no doubt the scene is more animated and pleasing when the green
water comes swelling up the inlet and fills the river channel, now
strewn with considerable unsightly debris. A violent storm driving the
ocean into the narrow cleft where the town lies must be a fearsome
spectacle to the inhabitants, and fortunately it has been well described
by Polperro's historian, who has told a delightful story of the town.
"In the time of storm," he writes, "Polperro is a striking scene of
bustle and excitement. The noise of the wind as it roars up the coomb,
the hoarse rumbling of the angry sea, the shouts of the fishermen
engaged in securing their boats, and the screams of the women and
children carrying the tidings of the latest disaster, are a peculiarly
melancholy assemblage of sounds, especially when heard at midnight. All
who can render assistance are out of their beds, helping the sailors and
fishermen; lifting the boats out of reach of the sea, or taking the
furniture of the ground floors to a place of safety. When the first
streak of morning light comes, bringing no cessation of the storm, but
only serving to show the devastation it has made, the effect is still
more dismal. The wild fury of the waves is a sight of no mean grandeur
as it dashes over the peak and falls on its jagged summit, from whence
it streams down the sides in a thousand waterfalls and foams at its
base. The infuriated sea sweeps over the piers and striking against the
rocks and houses on the warren side rebounds towards the strand, and
washes fragments of houses and boats into the streets, where the
receding tide leaves them strewn in sad confusion."
A brisk rain begins as we saunter along the river, and we recall that
the car has been left with top down and contents exposed to the weather.
We hasten back only to find that some of the fisherfolk have anticipated
us--they have drawn the top forward and covered everything from the rain
as carefully as we could have done--a thoughtfulness for the stranger in
the village that we appreciate all the more for its rarity. And though
we left the car surrounded by a group of merry, curious children, not a
thing is disturbed.
[Illustration: LANSALLOS CHURCH, POLPERRO]
The postmaster is principal shopkeeper and from him we learn something
of the town and secure a number of pictures which we prize, though
pictures are hopelessly inadequate to give any real idea of Polperro. As
yet tourist visitors to the village are not numerous, though artists
frequently come and are no longer a source of wonderment to the natives.
Two plain but comfortable old inns afford fair accommodations for those
who wish to prolong their stay. With the increasing vogue of the motor
car, Polperro's guests are bound to be on the increase, though few of
them will remain longer than an hour or two, since there is little to
detain one save the village itself.
Lansallos Church is a splendid edifice surrounded by tall trees beneath
which are mouldering gravestones upon which one may read queer
inscriptions and epitaphs. There is also an ancient water-mill just
where the road enters the village, which still does daily duty, its huge
overshot wheel turning slowly and clumsily as the clear little moorland
stream dashes upon it. No famous man has come forth from the village,
but it produced a host of hardy seamen, who, under such leaders as Drake
and Nelson, did their full share in maintaining the unbroken naval
supremacy of England. And not a few of those who fought so valiantly for
their country gained their sea training and developed their hardihood
and resourcefulness in the ancient and--in Devon and Cornwall--honorable
occupation of smuggling.
We follow narrow, hedge-bordered lanes northward for several miles to
regain the main road from Liskeard to Lostwithiel; for while we should
have preferred the coast route, we have no desire to try conclusions
with the ferry at Fowey. The fitful weather has taken another tack and
for half an hour we are deluged, the driving rain turning the narrow
roads into rivers and making progress exceedingly slow. When we reach
the main highway the rain abruptly ceases and the sky again breaks into
mottled patches of blue and white, which scatter sunshine and shadow
over the fields. The country is intensely green and we are now in a spot
which a good authority declares the loveliest inland scenery in
Cornwall. It is the pleasant vale of the River Fowey, in the center of
which stands the charming old town of Lostwithiel, surrounded by
luxuriant pastures which stretch away to the green encircling hills.
There is a fourteenth-century bridge in the town which seems sturdy for
all its six hundred years of flood and storm; and the church spire, with
its richly carved open-work lantern, has been styled "the glory of
Cornwall," and we will agree that it is one of the glories of Cornwall,
in any event. It shows marks of cannon shot, for considerable fighting
raged round the town during the civil war.
So narrow and steep is the street that pitches down the hill into Fowey
that we leave the car at the top and make the descent on foot. Indeed,
the majority of the streets of the town are so narrow and crooked that
it is difficult for a vehicle of any size to get about easily. From the
hill we have a fine view of the little land-locked harbor, dotted with
fishing vessels. It shows to-day a peculiar color effect--dark blue,
almost violet, out seaward, while it fades through many variations of
greens and blues into pale emerald near the shore. The town is clean and
substantial-looking and it must have presented much the same appearance
two hundred years ago--no doubt most of the buildings we now see were
standing then. It is now a mere fisher village, somewhat larger and not
quite so primitive as Polperro, though in the day of smaller ships it
contended with Plymouth and Dartmouth for distinction as chief port of
Cornwall. It was during its period of prosperity and maritime importance
that the two towers, yet standing, were erected to guard the entrance of
the harbor. A chain stretched between these made the town almost
impregnable from attack by sea. Here the old-time seamen dwelt in
security and plotted smuggling expeditions and raids upon the
French--gentle occupations which greatly contributed to the prosperity
of the town. These profitable trades about the middle of the fifteenth
century proved Fowey's undoing. Peace had been declared with France, but
the bold sailors went on with their raids and captured French vessels
quite regardless of the treaties with that nation. This so incensed King
Edward IV. that he caused numerous "leading citizens" of Fowey to be
summarily hanged, levied a heavy fine on the town, and handed its ships
over to the port of Dartmouth. The last proceeding seems like a grim bit
of humor, for Dartmouth sailors were no less offenders against France
than their unfortunate neighbors. After this sad experience it was long
ere Fowey again held up its head and in the meanwhile it was far
distanced by its former rivals. Its sailors, who had wrought many
valorous deeds in the English navy, were little heard of afterwards and
the rash, foolish action of the king practically wiped out an important
port that would still have bred thousands of bold seamen to serve their
country.
[Illustration: A STREET IN FOWEY--CORNWALL]
At the harbor wall a grizzled old fisherman approaches us and politely
touching his cap offers to row us to a number of places which he
declares we should see. We demur, not being fond of row-boats; he
persists in his broad South-Country speech--to give it is past my
linguistic powers, though I wish I could--"Pardon me for pushing my
trade; it's the only way I have of earning a living now, since I gave up
the sea." We think it worth the modest sum he proposes to charge us for
a trip to hear him talk and we ask him about himself.
"I was a sailor, sir, for more than fifty years and I saw a lot of
hardship in my day with nothing to show for it now. It was all right
when I was young and fond of roving, but as I grew old it began to pall
and I wished I might have been able to lead a different life. But I had
to stick to it until I was too old to stand the work, and I got the
little boat here which makes me a poor living--there's nothing doing
except in summertime and I have to get along as best I can in winter."
"Do you own a house?"
"Own a house?" he echoed in surprise at our ignorance. "Nobody owns a
house here; the squire who lives in the big place on the hill yonder
owns the town--and everybody in it. A common man hasn't any chance to
own anything in England. It doesn't seem fair and I don't understand
it--but we live by it in England--we live by it in England."
We divert his bitter reflections by asking him about the town.
"Don't forget the old Ship Inn," he said, "and the church--it has the
tallest tower in Cornwall. You can see through the big castle on the
hill if you get permission. Any famous people?--why, yes--Sir Arthur
Quiller-Couch lives here. He's our only titled man and some of his
books, they say, tell about Fowey."
We thank our sailor friend and repair to the Ship Inn, as he counseled
us. They show us the "great Tudor room," the pride of the house--a large
beamed and paneled apartment with many black-oak carvings. But the chief
end of the Ship to-day appears to be liquor selling, and not being
bibulously inclined, we depart for the church. It was built in the reign
of Edward IV., just before that monarch dealt the town its death-blow as
a port and marked the end of Fowey's prosperity. The timber roof, the
carved-oak pulpit and stone baptismal font are all unusually fine and
there are some elaborate monuments to old-time dignitaries of the town.
Place House, the great castellated palace on the hill, with immense,
elaborately carved bow-windows, is the dominating feature of the town.
Inside there is some remarkable open timberwork roofing the great hall
and much antique paneling and carving. There is also a valuable
collection of furniture and objects of art which has accumulated in the
four hundred years that the place has belonged to the Treffry family. It
is more of a palatial residence than a fortress and it appears never to
have suffered seriously from siege or warfare.
[Illustration: PROBUS CHURCH TOWER, CORNWALL]
We are soon away on the highroad to Truro, which proves good though
steep in places. There is a fine medieval church at St. Austell and
another at Probus has one of the most striking towers we saw in England.
It is of later origin than the main body of the church; some two hundred
feet high, and is surmounted by Gothic pinnacles, with carved stone
balustrades extending between them. Near the top it is pierced by eight
large perpendicular windows, two to each side, and it is altogether a
graceful and imposing edifice. Such churches in the poor little towns
that cluster about them--no doubt poorer when the churches were
built--go to show the store the Cornishmen of early days set by their
religion, which led them out of their poverty to rear such stately
structures; but it is quite likely that a goodly part of the profits of
their old occupations--wrecking, smuggling and piracy--went into these
churches as a salve to conscience. Nor is the church-building spirit
entirely extinct, as proven by the magnificent towers of Truro
Cathedral, of which I shall have more to say anon and which soon breaks
into our view.
[Illustration: KYNANCE COVE, CORNWALL
From original painting by Warne-Browne]
As a matter of variation we take the southern route by the way of
Helston from Truro to Penzance. This is rougher and has more steep hills
than the direct road through Rudruth. Helston is some ten miles north of
the Lizard Peninsula, where there is much beautiful coast
scenery--especially Kynance Cove. Coming up the road along the coast
toward Marazion, one gets a perfect view of the castle-crowned bulk of
the Cornish St. Michael's Mount, the seat of the St. Aubyns. In the
distance it stands like an immense pyramid against a wide reach of
sunset sky, but as we come nearer the towers and battlements of the
castle come out weird and strange; in the purple shadows the whole vast
pile savors of enchantment. Beyond it shimmers the wide calm of Penzance
Harbor--as it chances, dotted with the dark forms of some fifty
leviathans of the British navy. For there is to be a great naval review
in Penzance the coming week; the king and queen and a host of
celebrities are expected. The town is gay with decorations and delirious
with expectancy of the big events to come. Graham-White, the famous
aviator, is to appear and there are to be many thrilling evolutions and
much powder-burning by the royal fleet. Hotels and lodging-houses are
crowded to the limit and if we have ever been somewhat dubious whether
to try the hospitality of Land's End for the night, it is settled
now--we could hardly stay in Penzance unless we camp on the street. It
was indeed a bitter disappointment to Penzance that the capricious
Cornish weather completely ruined the expected fete. Furious winds and
continual rain drove the fleet to the more sheltered Tor Bay and the
programme, on a greatly reduced scale, took place there. Aside from the
disappointment, the people of the town suffered a heavy loss in the
large sums they had spent in anticipation of the event. But Penzance is
all unconscious of the fate in store for it; its streets are thronged
and it is fairly ablaze with the national colors and elaborate
electrical decorations. We thread our way slowly through its streets
into the lonely indifferent lane that winds over steep and barren hills
to Land's End.
XIX
LAND'S END TO LONDON
The first sight of Land's End Hotel, a low, drab-colored building
standing on the bleak headland, is apt to beget in the wayfarer who
approaches it at sunset a feeling of regret that he passed through
Penzance without stopping for the night. Nor does his regret grow less
when he is assigned to ill-furnished rooms with uncomfortable-looking
beds--which, I may say, do not belie their looks--or when he sits down
to a dinner that is only a slight improvement upon our memorable banquet
at John O'Groats. But we did not come to Land's End to find London hotel
comforts and conveniences, but for purely sentimental reasons, which
should preclude any fault-finding if accommodations are not just to our
liking. It was our fancy to spend a night at both Land's End and John
O'Groats--and it must be largely imagination that attracts so many
tourists to these widely separated localities, since there are surely
hundreds of bits of English and Scottish coast more picturesque or
imposing than either.
[Illustration: SUNSET NEAR LAND'S END, CORNWALL
From original painting by Thos. Moran, N. A.]
But here we are, in any event, and we go forth in the gray twilight to
take note of our surroundings. An old fellow who has been watching us
closely since our arrival follows us and in a language that puzzles us a
little urges the necessity of his services as guide if we are to see the
wonders of Land's End. We are glad enough to have his assistance and he
leads us toward the broken cliffs, thrusting their rugged bulk far into
the white-capped waves which come rolling landward. The sky and sea are
still tinged with the hues of sunset and a faint glow touches the
reddish rocks along the shores. It is too late for the inspiring effect
shown in Mr. Moran's wonderful picture--had we been an hour earlier we
might have beheld such a scene. Subdued purplish hues now prevail and a
dark violet-colored sea thunders upon the coast. The wind is blowing--to
our notion, a gale, though our old guide calls it a stiff breeze.
"A 'igh wind, sir? Wot would you call a wind that piles up the waves so
you can't see yonder lighthouse, that's two hundred and fifty feet tall?
That's wot I'd call a 'igh wind, sir. And you'd be drenched to the skin
in a minute standing where you are."
We revise our ideas of high winds accordingly, but a stiff breeze is
quite enough for us, especially when the old man urges us to come out
upon what seems to us an exceedingly precarious perch--because it is the
"last rock in England." It stands almost sheer as a chimney with the sea
foaming in indescribable fury some fifty or sixty feet below, and we
have to decline, despite our guide's insistence that we are missing the
chief sensation of Land's End. It was no doubt this identical spot which
so impressed John Wesley, who visited Land's End in 1743, when he made
his famous preaching tour in Cornwall.
"It was an awful sight," he wrote. "But how will this melt away when God
ariseth in judgment. The sea beneath doth indeed boil like a pot. One
would indeed think the sea to be hoary! But though they swell, they
cannot prevail. He shall set the bounds which they cannot pass!" But the
great preacher did not say whether he stood on the "last rock" or not.
We follow our guide in a strenuous scramble over the huge rocks to reach
particular viewpoints, and, indeed, there are many awe-inspiring vistas
of roaring ocean and rock-bound coast. Everywhere the sea attacks the
shore in seeming fury, the great foam-crested waves sweeping against the
jagged edges and breaking into a deluge of salt spray.
"I've seen more than one ship go to pieces on these rocks in winter
storms," says our guide. "At the last wreck twenty-seven lives were
lost. I recovered one body myself--a fine Spanish-looking gentleman six
feet three inches tall," he goes on, with an evident relish for gruesome
details.
"The winter storms must be terrible, indeed," we venture.
"You can't imagine how dreadful," he answers. "I've seen the sea so
rough that for three months no boat could reach yonder lighthouse a mile
away; but the keeper was lucky to have food and he kept his light
shining all the time. It's a dreary, lonely country in winter time, but
more people would come if they only knew what an awful sight it is to
see the sea washing over these headlands."
The same story is told--in more polished language--by a writer who spent
the winter in Cornwall and often visited Land's End on stormy nights:
"The raving of the wind among the rocks; the dark ocean--exceedingly
dark except when the flying clouds were broken and the stars shining in
the clear spaces touched the big black incoming waves with a steely gray
light; the jagged isolated rocks, on which so many ships have been
shattered, rising in awful blackness from the spectral foam that
appeared and vanished and appeared again; the multitudinous hoarse
sounds of the sea, with throbbing and hollow booming noises in the
caverns beneath--all together served to bring back something of the old
vanished picture or vision of Bolerium as we first imagine it. The glare
from the various lighthouses visible at this point only served to
heighten the inexpressibly sombre effect, since shining from a distance
they make the gloomy world appear vaster. Down in the south, twenty-five
miles away, the low clouds were lit up at short intervals by wide white
flashes, as of sheet lightning, from the Lizard light, the most powerful
of all lights, the reflection of which may be seen at a distance of
sixty or seventy miles at sea. In front of the Land's End promontory,
within five miles of it, was the angry red glare from the Longships
tower, and further away to the left the white revolving light of the
Wolf lighthouse."
Darkness has fallen and almost blotted out the wild surroundings save
for the gleams which flash from the lighthouses across the somber
waters. We wend our way back to our inn to rest as best we may in
anything but comfortable beds after an unusually strenuous day; we have
traveled but one hundred and twenty miles since leaving Plymouth in the
morning, but we have seen so much and had such varied experiences that
we have a dim feeling of having come many times as far.
A glorious morning gives us the opportunity of seeing the wild coast at
its best. A dark blue sea is breaking on the reddish brown rocks and
chafing into white foam at their feet. We wander out on the headland to
get a farewell glimpse of the scene--for there is little to tempt one to
linger at Land's End; you may see it all at a sunset and sunrise. There
is no historic ruin on the spot, and surely any thought of the hotel
will hasten your departure if you ever had any intention of lingering.
Sennan, a forlorn collection of stone huts about a mile from Land's End,
is worth noting only as a type of the few tiny villages in the bit of
barren country beyond Penzance and St. Ives. There is nothing to catch
the artistic eye in these bleak little places; they lack the quaintness
of Polperro or St. Ives and the coziness and color of the
flower-embowered cottages of Somerset and Hampshire. The isolated
farmhouses show the same characteristics and a description by a writer
who lived in one of these during the winter months is full of interest:
"Life on these small farms is incredibly rough. One may guess what it is
like from the outward aspect of such places. Each, it is true, has its
own individual character, but they are all pretty much alike in their
dreary, naked and almost squalid appearance. Each, too, has its own
ancient Cornish name, some of these very fine or very pretty, but you
are tempted to rename them in your own mind Desolation Farm, Dreary
Farm, Stony Farm, Bleak Farm and Hungry Farm. The farmhouse is a small,
low place and invariably built of granite, with no garden or bush or
flower about it. The one I stayed at was a couple of centuries old, but
no one had ever thought of growing anything, even a marigold, to soften
its bare, harsh aspect. The house itself could hardly be distinguished
from the outhouses clustered round it. Several times on coming back to
the house in a hurry and not exercising proper care I found I had made
for the wrong door and got into the cow-house, or pig-house, or a shed
of some sort, instead of into the human habitation. The cows and other
animals were all about and you came through deep mud into the
living-room. The pigs and fowls did not come in but were otherwise free
to go where they liked. The rooms were very low; my hair, when I stood
erect, just brushed the beams; but the living-room or kitchen was
spacious for so small a house, and had the wide old open fireplace still
common in this part of the country. Any other form of fireplace would
not be suitable when the fuel consists of furze and turf."