A thousand feet above sea level among the heather and bracken of
Craddock Moor, four or five miles north of Liskeard, you may find to-day
the remains of three ancient stone circles known as "The Hurlers."
Antiquaries will tell you that the Druids first erected them, but the
people of the countryside know better. From father to son, from
grandparent to child, through long centuries, the story has been handed
down of how "The Hurlers" came to be fixed in eternal stillness high up
there above the little village of St. Cleer.
Exactly how long ago it was nobody knows, but it happened in those early
days when pious saints were settling down in the remote parts of savage
Cornwall and striving to convert the wild Cornish from their pagan ways.
Then, as even to this day, the game of Hurling--a sort of primitive
Rugby football--was a popular pastime with the people. Village used to
play against village, with goals perhaps four or five miles apart. And
the good folk of St. Cleer were as fond of the game as any of their
neighbours--so fond, in fact, that they would play it on any and every
occasion, despite the admonitions of their local saint and parson, after
whom the village was named.
Again and again he would notice that his little church was empty on
Sunday mornings while the shouts and noise of a hard-fought Hurling
match drifted across the moorland in through the open church door. Again
and again he would take his flock to task for their godless ways and
their Sabbath-breaking games. But it was of little use. For a Sunday or
two they would be penitent and attend service. Then would come a fine
morning, and a challenge perhaps from the Hurlers of St. Ive or North
Hill, on the other side of the moors, and the young men would decide to
chance another lecture from the patient saint, and out they would go to
the hillside to do battle for the honour of their parish.
But even the patience of saints comes to an end at last, and good St.
Cleer saw something more than words was needed to lead his people into
the right way. And so it happened one Sunday morning, in the midst of a
hot tussle on Craddock Moor, the outraged St. Cleer arrived in search of
his erring flock.
He bade them cease their game at once and return to church. Some of them
obeyed, wandering sheepishly off down the hill; some were defiant and
told the worthy man to go back to his prayers and not to come up there
to spoil sport.
Then St. Cleer spoke in anger. Raising his staff he told them in solemn
and awful tones that it should be as they had chosen. Since they
preferred their game on the moor to their service in church, on the moor
at their game they should stay for ever. He lowered his staff and to the
horror of all onlookers the defiant ones were seen to be turned into
stone.
Many centuries have passed since then. Time, wind and rain have
weathered the stone men out of all semblance of humanity. Some have been
destroyed, but most still remain as an awful example to impious Sabbath
profaners. And there you may see them silent and still, just as they
were struck on that grim Sunday in the dark long ago.
The glorious moorland, rugged and wild, stretches all about them--a
wonderful walking country, where one may escape from all cares and
wander for hours amid the bracken and sweet-smelling grasses and find
strange prehistoric remains seldom visited by any but the moorland sheep
and the wild birds. It is a country of vast spaces and far views. You
may see on one hand the Severn Sea, on the other the Channel; to the
east the upstanding blue hills of Dartmoor and to the west the rugged
highlands by Land's End--and then trudge back at night weary but happy
to Liskeard, described as "the pleasantest town in Cornwall," and find
it hard to believe that only five hours away is the toil and turmoil of
London.
[Illustration: _"The Hurlers," St. Cleer_]
[Illustration]