NOOKS AND CORNERS FROM PORT ISAAC TO THE VALE OF LANHERNE
_Port Isaac and the Fishing: Pentire: St. Enodoc and the Sand:
Lovebond's Bridge: Wadebridge and Egloshayle: "Jan Tergeagle": Menhirs:
Padstow and the Hobby Horse: Prehistoric Inhabitants: Harlyn Bay:
Trevose Head: Constantine: A Fogou: Bedruthan: The Vale of Lanherne._
PORT ISAAC
So long and so steep is the hill between Port Gavernoe and Port Isaac
that the Cornishman, though not noted for kindness to animals, does not
often ask his horse to negotiate it, and indeed these Cornish hills are
a sovereign specific for nerves. No one who has been up and down them,
behind one of the surefooted country-bred ponies, can fear any ordinary
descent.
From the hill the view of the little grey town is hardly inviting. It
lies huddled together as if it had slipped down the sides of the cleft
in which it rests. Very crooked are its narrow roads; all sideways,
askew and anyhow the small houses; there are no gardens, hardly any
backyards; and at certain seasons of the year young and stalwart men
seem to be conspicuous by their absence. "They'm all away at work and
they do belong to go, for there edn't no money here, only the fishin',"
is the explanation.
Fishing is indeed the reason for Port Isaac's existence and for that of
her smaller neighbours, Port Gaverne and Port Quin, each of which lies
at the head of a similar sandy inlet. Port Isaac, it is true, has a
harbour deep enough to admit steamers of 150 tons burden, and most of
the Delabole slates are shipped from here, but fishing is the main
interest. "Cousin Jack" is a strict Sabbatarian, but not so his rival
from the east coast. It is bad enough to see the fish caught in waters
he looks upon as his, but particularly so under the circumstances; and,
as a consequence, he has sometimes taken the law into his own hands. "If
a must fishey," says he, "leave en fishey fair," and one Monday morning
when the strangers endeavoured to land eight boatloads that had been
captured during Sunday night, his patience reached its limit. "All that
day gulls swarmed in the little harbour, and thereafter the place
reeked of decaying fish. So now the east countrymen deem it wiser to
land their Sunday's catch elsewhere."
Is it possible that this nook of the coast also reeks somewhat of
decaying fish? What of it? Many a fishing town lies ahead, and they were
not called "Fishy-gissy" and "Polstink" for nothing. May be--as you are
told when you get a whiff of the gasworks--it is a healthy smell; any
way, healthy or no, like those same gasworks it is not to be denied.
PENTIRE
"_From Padstow Point to Hartland Light,
Is a watery grave by day or night_"
runs the country saying, voicing the fear that haunts every fisherman's
cottage along the coast; and if the children, in their carelessness, lay
a loaf cut-side down, so that it looks like a boat turned bottom
upwards, the elders shiver and bid them right it at once. Pentire, which
stands out at one side of the estuary above low-lying Padstow, has two
points, the Eastern and the Western Horns; and a view up the entire
coast of Cornwall and onward to blunt Trevose that should not be missed.
On the eastern point of the bay is a well-defined cliff castle. It is
evident that the triple mounds and ditches were for purposes of defence,
but neither local history nor tradition has a word about those by whom
they were built. This only is certain, that the folk must have been
desperate who came to make their last stand on this wild and lonely
spot.
On the headland is a cave in some way connected with "Cruel Coppinger,"
who, by his brutality for years, dominated the western coast (though he
was perhaps less seen at Padstow than elsewhere). His smuggling lugger,
the _Black Prince_, was known from Morwenstow to Newquay, and many are
the wild deeds--he did not even stop short of murder--recorded of this
desperado, from the day he was landed on these shores to that other day
when, the measure of his iniquities being full, he set sail never to
return. Not that all smuggling was undertaken in so lawless a fashion.
It was rather an agreeable diversion spiced with adventure, and
gentleman, parson, farmer, and peasant all lent a hand. "Cruel
Coppinger's" is not the only cave along this coast that is said to have
been haunted by "spirits"--as indeed they were, and by silks and lace as
well! Nor were the hiding-places only those provided by Nature. The
pulling down of old houses has revealed many a hollow in the thick walls
and under the flagged floors; there is even a story that one great
gentleman used to conceal a store of illicit goods--in his carriage!
Relics of an older civilisation have been dug up on these headlands. It
is possible, before the sand swept in overwhelmingly, that the coast may
have supported a larger population. Roman coins and beads, strange blue
iridescent glass, and bits of red glaze, the glaze of Samian ware, have
been found; and among these things articles of a yet earlier date, as
for instance, a roughly made coral necklace thought to be British or
earlier.
ST. ENODOC AND THE SAND
From this point westward the coast has been afflicted with sandstorms,
churches have been buried, towns obliterated by the drifting particles.
Blowing steadily for three days at a time, the frightened people have
left their houses to escape suffocation, and fled inland only on their
return to find the face of the country changed beyond recognition. St.
Enodoc Church, during one of these visitations, was covered with sand
above the level of the roof, only the thirteenth-century broach spire
remaining above the waste to indicate the whereabouts of the building.
In order to perform service, the parson, after some digging, managed to
enter by the roof; and it may be wondered why on that lonely waste a
service should be required. It was not, however, a matter of saving
souls, but of obtaining tithes. About forty years ago the church was
excavated, and it now lies in a deep trench. The path is lined with a
curious collection of stone mortars or measures, which however are not
ecclesiastical. Near by rises the desolate Bray Hill, under which, early
last century, storms having shifted the sands, the ruins of what is
thought to be an oratory came to light.
The churches of St. Minver and St. Kew are both interesting. The former
contains three octagonal slate piers supporting pointed arches, the
remains of a fine oak rood screen, and--an article which seems nowadays
somewhat out of place, but no doubt is stored there against destruction
or oblivion--the stocks. St. Kew lies in a lovely wooded valley, and is
one of the finest churches in Cornwall, but is not often visited. Fine
woodwork is to be seen in the cradle roof, while the chancel screen was
carefully modelled on one of earlier date. The communion cup is
Elizabethan, but more interesting is a glass egg-shaped bowl with silver
mounts of 1598. When Bodmin Church was restored (1472) it seems to have
sold its fine old windows to any church that would buy, and St. Kew was
fortunate enough to secure one, that in the north chapel. Not far from
here is Polrode, where, serving as part of the bridge, is a good, though
mutilated, example of a roundheaded cross with beaded angles. At St.
Endellion, a little north of Kew, is a stoup carved with the arms of
Roscarrock, Chenduit, and Pentire--and heraldic stoups are rare.
LOVEBOND'S BRIDGE
On the road to Wadebridge is an earthwork known as Castle Killibury or
Kelly Rounds, which was known to have been in existence--and out of
repair--as early as 1478. Commanding the road down to the ford it was
evidently once a place of considerable strength. This ford was not
bridged until the reign of Edward IV., when a fine bridge with a span of
seventeen arches was built by a man named Lovebond. At first it was so
narrow that only pack-horses could cross, and over every pier protecting
angles were placed for the need of pedestrians. The bridge was 320 ft.
long, and the finest of its kind in England. It has been widened, but
its character carefully preserved. For a long time it was believed that
on account of the shifting sands the piers rested on packs of wool.
Examination, however, has proved the story an invention, for they are on
a rock foundation.
It was over this bridge that the broken Royalists hurried in 1646, a
long disorderly straggle of men and guns and baggage, with Cromwell,
grimly patient, at their heels. Had there been union and discipline in
the forces, they would have been no easy conquest; but there had long
been dissension among the leaders, and the condition of the common
soldiers was both wretched and demoralised. As Clarendon records, they
were "feared by their friends, scorned by their enemies, terrible only
in plunder and resolute in running away." With such troops as these
nothing could be done. Sir Richard Grenville, tyrannical and
quarrelsome, had been committed to Launceston gaol, Prince Charles
himself had left the country, and only the loyal Hopton was left. Once
across the Camel and the soldiers were penned into the western half of
the peninsula; but a spark of that old spirit which had won so many
victories for the king was shown in a skirmish at St. Columb Major. It
was the last flicker of life. In March the commissioners met at
Tresillian Bridge, terms were agreed on, and the Royalist army disbanded
on honourable conditions.
WADEBRIDGE AND
EGLOSHAYLE
Wadebridge is a little market town, so little that it has not even a
resident dentist! It has, however, an air of life which is unusual in
Cornwall; but that may be partly due to the cheery little streams that
run through the open gutters of the main streets. Here you buy chickens
by the pound and new-laid eggs--sometimes--for a halfpenny each; but the
place is neither beautiful nor interesting. Very different is
Egloshayle, the "church by the river," a name which it deserves, for the
water washes against the fence of the haunted graveyard. Historians tell
us that the Loveybound who was vicar here in 1462 and who built the
south aisle and fine three-stage western tower must not be confounded
with the Lovebond of about the same date who built the bridge, that
indeed it is a case of "It wasn't Mr. William Shakespeare who wrote the
plays, but another gentleman of the same name." The church is about a
mile up the river from Wadebridge, and stands in a group of chestnuts.
The sculptured stone pulpit is of the fifteenth century, and in the roof
of the south aisle is some good oak of the same date. The hood-mouldings
of the tower doorway are ornamented with angels bearing shields, on one
of which is cut the name "I. Loveybound" and the device of three hearts
banded together with a fillet.
On the other side of Wadebridge lies St. Breock, where "John Tregeagle
of Trevorder, Esqr., 1679," is buried. 'Tis said that at his death,
owing to some inaccuracy in his accounts--he was steward of the
Robartes' estates--a poor man was sued for money that he had already
paid. By the agency of the parson, who seems to have been some sort of a
wizard, Tregeagle was induced to return to earth and give evidence for
the defence, which evidence proved conclusive. Cornwall is full of
legends about Tregeagle, who seems to have been a hard man and an
oppressive steward; but no doubt, as often happens, the legends are of
earlier date than the individual to whom they are momentarily attached.
The wraith who gave them birth has faded out of living memory, is indeed
dead; but like disturbed but sleepy birds, they have quickly settled
again on some character still bulking largely in the public eye.
MENHIRS
Beyond the little church the ground rises to St. Breock Downs, which are
700 ft. above sea level and strewn with prehistoric remains. Nine big
stones in a straight line are followed by a menhir, a disposition often
seen on Dartmoor; and at Pawton is a dolmen called the Giant's Quoit, an
exceptionally fine example. The menhir is known as the Old Man, probably
from houl maen, a sun stone. The word "man" or "men" or "maiden" when met
with in the west invariably means a stone, but those responsible for our
latter-day legends were often unaware of this.
By way of the broad sunshiny estuary, which is as beautiful when the
tide is out and the distant gulls stand like a string of pearls on the
edge of the yellow sand, as when the whole expanse is one stretch of
dimpling blue water, we come to Padstow. At Little Petherick, which is
halfway, there is a copy of the 1684 edition of Foxe's "Book of
Martyrs," and the south doorway of the church is believed to have been
stolen from the ruined edifice on Constantine Bay--at any rate there is
no mention in the churchwardens' accounts of any payment made.
PADSTOW AND THE HOBBY HORSE
A short distance from the mouth of the estuary and looking up the blue
reaches to the open sea lies the little port of Padstow. In early days
it was so near the Atlantic that wandering Danes (901) came and
plundered its monastery of St. Petrock, and later the sand blocked up
the wide mouth of the harbour forming the Doom Bar, and leaving only a
narrow channel on the west. But the little place with its narrow streets
all running uphill, its unprotected sharp-cornered quay, and its
dominant manor-house, still contrives to exist. It is at its best
perhaps when stress of weather has driven in the fishing fleet, and
there is a forest of masts clustered by the wharves. On such occasions
milk and bread are hard to come by, for there will be five hundred extra
mouths to feed.
A quaint survival of the ancient May Day celebrations exists in the
Hobby Horse, a wooden circle with a dress of blackened sail-cloth, a
horse's head, and a prominent tail. This is carried through the town,
the bearers meanwhile chanting a song which, in spite of an old tune and
refrain, is full of topical allusions.
Halfway up one of the steep roads that lead out into the country is the
beautifully situated Prideaux Place. The family, though of respectable
antiquity, has not taken any leading part in the history of the county,
but in the house are some interesting pictures, a Vandyke, and some
early Opies. When the old home of the Grenvilles was finally dismantled,
the great staircase was brought from Stowe and set up here to be a link
with the immemorial past.
Round Padstow the land is fertile, very fine wheat being grown; and it
is believed that a certain farmer pays his rent with the produce of a
single field of asparagus. It is astonishing that more of the succulent
edible is not grown, or that the sandhills of the coast are not utilised
as they were round Southampton for growing strawberries. A fortune may
lurk in the sand, the devastating sand, or, if that is too much to ask,
at least it may give back more than it has taken. But the farmers are
disinclined for change, and if you ask why there are so few milch kine
and why vegetables and other amenities of life are so difficult to get,
you are told: "Spoase they'm warm men, got a long stocking. They don't
trouble."
PREHISTORIC
Along the estuary to the north is a way which, in windy weather, is
dangerous, but at other times gives a succession of lovely views and
which brings the walker past Rockferry (mentioned as early as 1337) to
Stepper Point, with its white day-mark. The cliffs for a little are high
and not too safe, but Tregudda Gorge with its amethyst and topaz
crystals, its flints and worked slates, is a lonely and a beautiful
spot. The Cornish tell strange stories of these places, stories of the
"little people" whom they believe to be fairies,[1] but who are probably
the neolithic dwarf race which is said to have inhabited parts of the
country. They are also firm believers in psychic faculty, though they
call it by other older names. A man interested in such matters met a
London friend at the Padstow terminus. Aware that his friend was
supposed to be clairvoyant, he without comment put a fragment of bone
that he had found on an old kitchen midden in the other's hand and
asked him what he saw. "Now, this is interesting," said the other, "for
I see walking away before me a little brown man dressed in skins. On his
feet are brogues of hide with the hair inside."
The friends were walking by the estuary and the tide was in. "He has got
into a queer sort of basket boat covered with hides and is paddling
about among a lot of other little brown people in similar boats. Ah,
there is a forest over there." The antiquarian looked across the
discoloured line of the Doom Bar to the sandhills opposite, but not a
tree was to be seen. He remembered afterwards, however, that many
centuries ago a forest, now submerged, had occupied the eastern side of
the Camel estuary.
So sparsely inhabited is this coast that the worked flints and
arrow-heads of that bygone people still lie on the undisturbed surface
of the rocky land. The flints are so sharp, so clean, that it seems
their owners can have only just laid them down. And we must remember
that this is not a flint country. Every sharp atom was brought from far
away in the days when the rivers had to be forded and there were only
paths over the waste. Yet, onward from Tregudda Gorge, there are any
number to be found. Moreover after Trevone--an uninteresting place where
some bathing fatalities have occurred--we come, in broad and beautiful
Harlyn Bay, to the necropolis of this vanished race.
HARLYN BAY
In 1900, when digging for the foundations of a house, an oblong slate
kist, lying north and south, and containing a "crouched" burial, was
found. The drift sand lay some 8 to 10 ft. above the grave, within which
the skeleton lay on his side, his hands over his eyes, his knees bent
under him in what seems to us an attitude of devotion; as he lay the
first ray of the rising sun would strike athwart his face. Further
investigation showed that the discovered kist was only one of a group of
interments, and that the graves covered some 90 ft., giving signs of a
long continued series of burials, rather than of a great number within a
short period. The date of interment is considered to be that of the
later iron age, no great antiquity it is true, but some few thousand
years ago. The kind and courteous owner, Colonel Bellers, allows access
to this prehistoric graveyard--locally known as the Boneries--and near
by is a small museum for the preservation of interesting finds. Some of
the kists have been left _in situ_ and, to preserve them from wind and
weather, have been covered with a sort of cucumber frame, and the
stranger looks down through the glass on to the brown bones in their
enduring coffins of slate. Here lies a chieftain, for over his kist were
heaped rough lumps of quartz crystal; here a mother and child, little
bones and bigger; and here, in a heterogeneous mixture of all sorts and
sizes, is a hint of tragedy. Were they the result of a battle--of a
cannibal feast--or of justice done!
A tooth from this strange and lonely graveyard was enclosed in a little
box and sent to a friend in London with instructions to place it
unopened in the hands of a clairvoyant. No information was vouchsafed
with the tooth, and the mystified go-between was only asked to take down
what was said, and this he did. At first the clairvoyant seemed rather
puzzled. "I can see a wide, sandy bay with rocks and cliffs, a rough
tumbling sea, and at the head of the bay a dense wood; but the people
are not like any I've ever seen before. They seem to be skin-clad
savages with black hair. There are quite a lot of them. One is running
across the sands and others are rushing after him; they have weapons in
their hands and he is fleeing in deadly terror. Ah, he has run into the
wood--now they've all disappeared!"
Was the last scene in that prehistoric man's life being re-enacted
before the clairvoyant's gaze? Had he contravened his fellows' unknown
laws and so been hunted to his death?
After a little the seer continued: "I see the bay again, but it's a
little different, more sand and fewer trees. Some men in present-day
dress are standing by a hole in the ground. They----" and a description
was given of the people who had been present at the opening of the kist.
"I think the hole is a grave, though it seems too short to be that" (the
kist being a "crouched" burial was, of course, much shorter than an
ordinary grave), "at any rate there are bones in it."
Of the gold ornaments found in Cornwall the most remarkable are the two
torques found near Harlyn; bronze fibulae have also been found here, but
a good many of these finds are now in the Truro Museum. Harlyn, in spite
of the grisly nature of its chief attraction, is an incomparable bay of
wide firm sand, rock pools, and low safe cliffs. As it is sheltered by
Trevose Head, the bathing is safe. A little way along the cliffs is a
disused fish-cellar, over the door of which is the motto: "Lucri dulcis
odor"--sweet is the smell of gold! But the fish have left these shores
and the big black boats--boats that are oddly reminiscent of the
Viking's ships at Christiania--lie rotting in the sun.
TREVOSE HEAD
Trevose Head (lighthouse), blunt and rounded, with an ear on each side
of its broad head, is a somewhat eerie place. On its western slope is a
large and sinister blow-hole, and much of the land seems to have
slipped a little and to be slipping more. It is here, by the rabbit
burrows, that so many worked flint arrow-heads and fish spears have been
found; while on its eastern side are caves inaccessible to the ordinary
person, but if report says truly once of great use to the smuggler. The
cliffs are of catacleuse, a dark and durable stone, of which on the cave
side there are quarries.
Beyond Trevose Head, with its view from Cape Cornwall to Lundy Isle, the
land curves inward past the rocky ridges and big rolling sand-dunes of
Constantine. A shepherd's family is said to have held for many
generations a cottage on Constantine under the lord of Harlyn Manor by
the annual payment of a Cornish pie made of limpets, raisins, and sweet
herbs. Food is cheap in Cornwall, but wages are correspondingly low. A
farm pays its labourers--it calls them the cowman, the bullockman, and
the horseman--from 13_s_. 6_d_. to 18_s_. a week, and with that, though
conditions differ a little on different farms, they generally give a
cottage, 100 ft. of potato ground, the run of a pig on the land, 100
battens of tamarisk wood--almost the only wood on this part of the
coast--and, most prized of all, the right to let lodgings. On this the
labourers sometimes manage to save. In one absolutely authentic
instance, a couple, labourer and farm-servant, who married at twenty-one
and eighteen, contrived to rear a healthy family of three and before
they were forty to save enough to buy a piece of land, build a
lodging-house, and go into business on their own account. "Never refused
a day's work in my life," said the woman, "but we lived on what he
brought home, and saved what I made." And what he brought home had been
from thirteen to fifteen shillings a week. "Nor I never bought any
tinned stuff," she said. "There's a deal of money goes that way, if the
young women nowadays 'ud only believe it. Why, a tin of pears, where's
the nourishment in that, and think of the price. Nearly a shilling
gone."
And that woman baked her own bread, did, not only her own "bit of
washin'," but that of the one or two houses in the neighbourhood, went
out charing and cleaning, and took lodgers! They were thrifty folk,
never dreamed of buying a newspaper, and as a consequence had to save
every scrap of letter-paper, grocery bags, and oddments in order to have
the wherewithal to light the fire in the slab range. The pig was their
great stand-by. His meat, frugally cut, distributed in pasties with a
careful hand, lasted them the greater part of the year, and then there
were the lodgers. The tourist is not over-welcome to the farmer on
account of his carelessness with regard to gates. He lets the young
stock in among the corn and passes on oblivious of the damage he has
caused, but he is a godsend to the labourer's capable wife.
CONSTANTINE
Constantine is another lovely and lonely bay. The jagged ridges of stone
run out at either end of the wide arc, a deep blue in sunlight, black in
cloudy weather, and between them lies a rainbow beach of shells. The
owners of the property have set their faces against hotels, and on the
stretch of sand-dunes are only the ruins of a one-time wrecker's
cottage, and a small black hut. The man who gave his name to the place
was supposed to be a descendant of King Lear (here spelt Llyr), who was
converted in his old age by the Padstow saint, Petrock. The sand which
destroyed his oratory is also said to have destroyed a populous village,
but seeing the desolation on every hand, this is a little difficult to
believe. At any rate the neighbouring churches seem to have benefited by
the saint's misfortune, for St. Merryn as well as Little Petherick
gathered up any trifles she thought might come in useful, and the
beautiful font at the former church is said to have been taken from her.
One thing only was left to
"_that ruined church
Whose threshold is the sacrificial stone
Of a forgotten people!_"
Under the archway of the western door, a heavy-rounded lump, lies the
old stone. It was probably a source of pride to Constantine ap Llyr. He
had taken from the heathen their greatest treasure, their sacrificial
stone, which had been brought from a distance, for there is no stone of
that nature in the neighbourhood, and he had set it in his threshold
where it should be trodden underfoot of men. And now the old church and
the yet older stone lie alike forgotten, and there is peace.
On Constantine Island--again only so-called--a little, very ancient
house was discovered some years ago. The walls were of slabs of stone
and the greatest height of the interior was 7 ft. From the discovery of
two hearth-stones, one inside and one on the outside of the building, it
was thought that the place was only used as a dwelling in bad or cold
weather, and that otherwise its prehistoric owner kept it as a
storehouse. Unfortunately the little ruin has been removed piecemeal by
the hungry visitor.
A FOGOU
Not only are there many caverns along this coast, but several fogous or
artificial caves have been discovered. These fogous may have been used
for smuggling or as hiding-places in time of war, but the fact that some
are obviously connected with old cliff castles and strongholds, points
to a greater antiquity; in fact, they may have been prehistoric
storehouses. In a secluded valley, near Porthcothan, a little further
along this coast, is an interesting example. The cavern is 36 ft. long
and about 6 ft. high, the breadth being about 5 ft. The sides are lined
with rough stones, simply piled up, and the roof consists of stone
slabs. From this chamber a passage leads to another similarly
constructed. It is said to have been much longer, in fact over 1000
yards, one gallery leading to Trevethan, whence another opened on to the
beach at Porthmear.
BEDRUTHAN
To the south of Park Head, a fine cliff on which are several tumuli, is
the Church of St. Eval, the tower of which was so useful a landmark that
when it grew ruinous in 1727, some Bristol merchant subscribed towards
the rebuilding. It is near Bedruthan Steps, where a fine shore is strewn
with detached rocks and islands. One of the former is named "Queen
Bess," from a fancied resemblance, ruff, farthingale and all, to the
royal spinster; another "The Good Samaritan," because a vessel of that
name was wrecked there. This vessel had been an East Indiaman laden with
the silks and spices of a warmer clime, and a good deal of the cargo was
saved, so much indeed that nowadays when a lass finds her finery growing
the worse for wear, she says, "It is time for a Good Samaritan to come."
On the cliff above Redruthan Sands is an ancient earthwork known as Red
Cliff Castle, which is supposed to have been British. It would be
interesting to learn whether it is in any way connected with the
numerous great caves which honeycomb its rock foundation. So far,
however, no fogou has been discovered here.
VALE OF LANHERNE
From Mawgan Porth, the far-famed Vale of Lanherne lies inland some two
miles or so, a contrast to the rough wild coast and its splintered
rocks. Beyond the church and nunnery, in their peaceful setting of
small-leaved Cornish elms, among the branches of which the rooks build
above the little rippling stream, are the lovely woods of Carnanton. It
used to be said that amid all the religious communities represented in
Cornwall long ago, there was never a nunnery, but this is no longer the
case. In the reign of Henry VII. an Arundell of Lanherne purchased
Wardour Castle, in Wiltshire, and when his younger son Thomas, married a
sister of Queen Catherine Howard, the old man settled on him the Wardour
house and estate. In course of time the elder branch came to be
represented by a daughter only, and she marrying her cousin of Wardour
the estates were re-united. In 1794 Henry, eighth Lord Arundell of
Wardour, gave the old home of his race--it had been in the family since
1231--to some English Theresian nuns, who had fled from Paris in fear of
what was to come. The present house is not very old, though a part of it
dates from 1580, which part contains a secret chamber, wherein a priest
once lay concealed for some sixteen months. It is said that the silver
sanctuary lamp in the convent chapel has burnt continuously and that the
Roman Catholic services have been held without intermission since
pre-Reformation days. A picture supposed to be by Rubens, "The Scourging
of our Blessed Lord at the Pillar," is shown, also other reputed old
masters. Adjoining the house is a little garden, used as a cemetery, in
which three priests and several nuns have been buried, and which
contains a tenth-century four-holed cross of Pentewan stone, the shaft
of which is covered with interlaced work.
Mawgan Church, which is close to the nunnery, is remarkably rich in
brasses, many of which are now attached to the old screen through the
shameful ignorance of a late rector. There were here formerly some
interesting palimpsest brasses of foreign workmanship, but large
portions of these have been removed by the Arundells--whom they
concerned--to Wardour Castle. On the south side of the churchyard is one
of those pathetic memorials only too common along this coast. The white
painted stern of a boat lies close to the convent wall, and on it is
inscribed: "Here lie the bodies of ... who were drifted on shore in a
boat, frozen to death, at Beacon Cove, in this parish, on Sunday, the
13th day of December, MDCCCXLVI." A beautiful Gothic cross of
fifteenth-century work stands at the west end of the church. It is the
most elaborate example of a lanthorn cross in Cornwall and contrasts
well with the restored granite cross, dating from the earliest period of
such monuments, which is to be seen in the additional churchyard.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] The fairies seem to be identical with the Tuatha da Danaan of
Ireland.