Newquay is in Cornwall without being Cornish, and is one of the few
towns which has no "saint" belonging to it. Most of the towns in
the peninsula date back to the days of saints and giants, and then
crystallize somehow. Newquay didn't grow that way, and was content
to remain until quite recently the habitation of a score of fisher
families, who lived by beach-combing and pilchard-seining. If the town
of to-day were wiped out, there would remain the old fish-cellars, a
few weather-beaten cottages, and the "Huer's hut" on the Headland.
Newquay town is a modern creation, and lies between Padstow and St.
Ives, which are rich in saints and antiquities, and stand apart and
distinct from everything modern, crystallizing around and about, but
receiving little of the old life and tones. The original name of the
place was Towan Blistra, which sounds genuine. The growth of Newquay is
no miracle. People who went there for their health got better, and then
the "faculty" said, "Try Newquay;" then the Great Western Railway took
up the cry, and shouted, "Try Newquay;" and that's all the process.
The sea and rocks, and sands and caves, are all genuine. The fine
hotels are fine hotels, and fine hotels after their style are new in
this part of the world. The houses have a hurried, built-by-contract
look about them, and the whole place wants to be built over again,
and built differently. Most of the inhabitants now are Cornish in a
transition state, so you don't know quite where you are. The hotel
porter was regal; the man in charge of the lift was imported with the
machine, and when asked, said he thought a "piskie" was a new crank, or
something like that, for working the lift. Newquay is like that now.
You go there for the air, and you get it until every nerve is braced,
and you get rid of the dismals, and eat and drink and sleep, until you
find that the one pleasure of life is living, simply that. Even Cornish
people come to Newquay to be toned. The Bookworm lost his restlessness
at night entirely here, and no longer read strange books in his sleep.
If you want to talk with a real Newquay man, you will find him on the
Headland, looking at the sea. We scraped acquaintance with one watching
his nets dry on the grass. He told us he hadn't heard about piskies
lately. When he was a boy, and fish was cured in the old cellars, and
the Headland was the Headland, and no mistake about it, and when a
fisherman was a fisherman, and everything was as it ought to be, and
had been from time "back along," why, then, there were piskies, of
course. Everything was different now, and he would not be surprised if
piskies were never heard of any more. Guy said gently that that might
be a good thing, but the man ironed out all intelligence from his face
and said nothing. He did not wish to have old memories stirred just
then.
[Illustration: NEWQUAY.]
The old men wandering about the Headland always looked seaward when
talked to, as though they were sure of the sea, and the rocks, and
the beaches; all else, round and about, was slipping from them--new
houses, new streets, crowds of people in strange garments, and such
faces! worn and wisht! why did they pitch upon this place? Guy said
these old grumblers were very ungrateful. A fine town had sprung up,
money poured into the place, and nothing was taken from it, and the old
boys were not thankful. The Bookworm took the side of the native,
and said no one liked the place which he called his own, and had grown
to love, to be transformed by strange hands so suddenly. What did the
ancient Briton think of the Roman villa with tesselated floors, and
hot and cold baths, and clothes mended on the while-you-wait system?
Much better, no doubt, than British huts and blue paint, but not to the
native taste. A diet of Chablis and oysters disagreed at first with a
stomach used to whelks and gingerbeer.
Variety is one of the attractions of the county. For a tourist who
rides a bike or a motor, the variety is perpetual, and he must pull
up even now and again and ask himself what has become of the last
sensation. If you can rely upon your legs, you had best walk from
village to village until you are where you wish to be. To lose one's
self is an advantage sometimes; and you can't go very far wrong. When
at Newquay, breathing in the Atlantic on the north, you are only twenty
miles from your friends breathing in the soft airs of the sunny south.
The tramp across the country, from north to south, is simply delicious.
First of all, there are the moors, springy to the foot, restful to the
eye, and the "coombes" running seawards and catching sunbeams, so that
you get opposing lines of light and shadow, and charm everywhere.
We made our way from Newquay to Roche, one of the portals to the land
of the white men--a wonderful land, producing the white clay which is
shipped to all quarters of the globe. The heathen Chinee has found it
out, and buys it in lumps. At first, he used to buy it by the yard in
his calico. The Lancashire merchant bought the white clay and worked
it into his inferior cotton goods, and John Chinaman paid extra for
the loaded yarn. The heathen learnt the secret in the course of time,
imported the clay, loaded his own yarn, and put the profit into his own
pocket. Then the "Yellow peril" was talked about.
All the white patches in the hills and valleys visible from here spell
"kaolin," or "china clay," and everything that china clay touches is
white; white waggons piled up with square white blocks travel along
white, dusty roads, drawn by white-powdered horses, driven by men as
white as ghosts in the last stages of galloping consumption.
"Fish, tin, and copper," was the old commercial toast; but china clay
has come in and taken a front seat. It is only a hundred and fifty
years ago since a long-nosed Quaker found out that the stuff was good
for pottery; and then chemists came in and found there was money in it
for manufacturers of cotton and paper; and now the society beauty may
have the satisfaction of knowing that her fair cheek is made fairer
still by honest china clay most delicately perfumed. The men and
women who handle the clay get the same stuff for nothing, and do well
enough without the perfume. China clay, being a modern industry in this
land of ancients, has no piskie, or nuggie, or bucca connected with
it, and Guy took kindly to it on that account, saying it represented
the practical, hard-headed twentieth century. Who would buy Cornwall
for its legends, he would like to know! Whereas all the world was
buying mountains of china clay. He supposed if this long-nosed old
Quaker had lived a thousand or two years ago he would have been turned
into a piskie, and a fine crop of legends would have sprung up. We
failed to trace any legend or folk-lore about china clay. It was all
modern--modern discovery, modern uses, modern shipments; the only thing
fabulous seemed to be the inexhaustible supply and the value of certain
spots free from impurities. One might almost fancy legend at work--the
wicked giant and the sainted virgin crumbling into kaolin rather than
be the heroine of the romance with wedding bell accompaniment.
We came to a rock where there is a well which is said to ebb and flow
with the tide; only it doesn't. The water is said to be brackish, which
it probably is; but a reverend canon, writing on the spot, warned
visitors against tasting it on that account. All brackish water does
not come from the sea. However, this was a holy well once on a time,
and young people even now drop bent pins into it and wish. It is very
simple, and costs nothing. Then there is the cell in which St. Roche
lived until he died, and then, the apartment being light and airy, and
680 feet above the sea, was occupied by successive saints. At present
the apartment is unoccupied, but the parish is taking care of it.
This is the cell wherein the damned soul of Tregeagle tried to find
sanctuary when pursued by the fiends from Dozmary Pool. The inhabitants
of the wild and desolate region between Roche and Dozmary hear the
hell-hounds pursuing the shrieking soul on dark tempestuous nights,
and on Christmas Eve the hunt is said to be on a grand scale. The
inhabitants of the moors keep indoors after dark. The story is told in--
[Illustration: "THE SOUL OF TREGEAGLE IN PAIN."]
A BALLAD OF THE HAUNTED MOOR.
When the snow lay on the moor, brown moor,
And frost hung crystals on bracken and tree,
Gehenna and Sheöl and Blackman's whelp
Shook themselves free with deep-mouthed bay
To hunt a poor soul in pain.
A soul in pain, a notable soul,
The soul of Tregeagle, a deathless soul,
Burning in winter in Dozmary Pool,
Freezing in summer in Dozmary Pool,
The soul of Tregeagle in pain.
The Black hunter's horn rang clear, rang clear,
And the pack gave music, yap, yap, yap;
Gehenna and Sheöl led straight to the Pool,
Followed hot-foot by Blackman's whelp.
The wonderful pack runs strong in the night
To hunt a poor soul in pain.
A soul in pain, a notable soul;
The soul of Tregeagle, a deathless soul,
Flies from the Pool with a shriek, a shriek;
In terror there flies with a shriek
The soul of Tregeagle in pain.
The Black hunter's horn rings clear, rings clear,
And the hungry pack, the hellish pack,
Gehenna and Sheöl and Blackman's whelp,
Scent the poor soul now from the Pool,
Free from the pool on the snow-clad moor,
Free to escape its terrible doom.
Tally-ho! A soul in pain, in pain!
The dark soul of Tregeagle in pain,
Flies in black night across the moor,
The desolate moor in snow and ice,
The soul of Tregeagle in pain.
Runs the Hunter's horse with hoofs on fire,
The terrible, howling pack breathe fire,
And yap, yap, yap, along the white track,
Follow the poor soul in pain, in pain--
Race the poor soul in terror and pain--
Gehenna still leading the pack.
To a light! a light! the hunted soul,
The soul of Tregeagle in pain,
Flies to a light on a rock, a rock--
Flies to a light on Roche Rock,
The soul of Tregeagle in pain.
The scent, the fiendish scent, lies well,
On snow-white moor and frosted fern;
The keen wind blows it back to the pack,
The Black hunter's pack with eyes of fire--
Gehenna and Sheöl and Blackman's whelp,
Yap, yap, yap! Hunting a soul in pain.
Mile upon mile, o'er cairn and crag,
O'er perilous ways in combe and hill;
In sight of dead spectres abroad to-night
Flies the scared soul in pitiless pain,
The soul of Tregeagle in pain.
A holy saint, a saint prays there:
He hears the cry of a soul in pain;
He knows the bark of the hellish pack,
Gehenna and Sheöl and Blackman's whelp
Hunting a soul in pain, in pain,
Hunting a soul in deathless pain.
The window is shut: no room, no room!
Gehenna and Sheöl and Blackman's whelp
Breathe liquid fire with nostrils wide;
The saint prays lusty for himself,
Not for Tregeagle in pain.
Back o'er the moor, the frozen moor,
Flies the curst soul to Dozmary Pool.
With gleaming fangs and eyes aflame,
The pack, the pack, the hellish pack
Race by his side, yap, yap, yap--
Race by the side of the soul in pain.
Back to the Pool, the frozen pool,
The burning soul, the notable soul,
Flies to its prison of tears, hot tears,
Flies to its cursed prison of tears,
The soul of Tregeagle in pain.
And the pack, the loathsome, hellish pack,
Gehenna and Sheöl and Blackman's whelp,
Were baulked of their prey this time, this time.
But still they wait on the lonesome moor,
To hunt the poor soul in pain, in pain--
The soul of Tregeagle in pain.
There is a lot of moorland about here, and a Cornish moor, with its
poor soil and windswept bracken, turning brown and golden before its
time, its gallant heaths struggling amongst the rocks, or blooming
grandly in sheltered patches, tells its tale of hardship. There is not
much to be seen generally but rough ponies running wild, and rabbits
and wild birds innumerable. A moor is not much of a place for a lonely
man with sad indigestion bad upon him.
This was our first real experience of a Cornish moor, and we walked
along gaily enough for a time; but conversation languished, for each
was impressed in his own way by the immense void upon the earth.
Whichever way we looked, there was nothing beyond speaking of limit
to rolling moorland--the hills were only gaunt sentinels to a greater
silence. To come from a city with millions treading on the heels of
millions, and people in despair of getting breathing room, and then
to find one's self upon a moor, is to experience a new sensation. Guy
suddenly sent up a shout, sprinted a hundred yards and back again, and
then wanted the Bookworm to "tuck in his tup'ny"--the loneliness had
got upon his nerves, but he felt better after this performance. The
story of Tregeagle hunted by hell-hounds had its origin in a locality
more desolate than this, and the Bookworm said he was convinced that
locality had much to do with the making and colouring of myths.
[Illustration: FRONT DOORS.]