Читать книгу The Cornwall Coast - Arthur L. Salmon - Страница 7

Table of Contents

FOWEY

The traveller along the cliffs from Polperro to the Fowey estuary finds himself first in the parish of Lanteglos, known as Lanteglos-by-Fowey, to distinguish it from Lanteglos-by-Camelford. The accent, locally, is laid on the second syllable; and the name is a curious composite of Celtic and corrupted Latin. Taking the t as simply euphonious, we have the Celtic lan, first signifying an enclosure, then a sacred enclosure or consecrated ground, finally the church erected on such an enclosure; and eglos, a corruption of the Latin ecclesia, found elsewhere in Cornwall at Egloshayle and Egloskerry; the same word appearing usually in English place-names as Eccles, in Welsh as Eglwys, in Irish as Aglish or Eglish (Gaelic, eaglais). The llan or lan may generally be considered of earlier date than the eglwys or eglos. Lanteglos is a large parish, with which visitors chiefly become familiar by means of Polruan, a kind of suburb of Fowey across the river. To many persons the beauty and grandeur of the scenery will be more attractive than any antiquarian details, but there can be no harm in mentioning that the church of Lanteglos is dedicated to St. Wyllow, who is supposed to have had his cell here in the early days of Cornish saintdom, and to have been murdered by a relative who was probably an unrepentant pagan. The greater number of the parishioners live at Polruan, distant rather more than a mile; the church is surrounded by fields and lanes, whose luxuriant growth of bank and hedge suggest a rich humidity of soil. In summer there is a remarkable abundance of ragged-robins by the wayside, with honeysuckles and wild-roses clustering above them in glorious profusion; here and there rises the stately spire of a foxglove. Ferns of exquisite grace and loveliness dispute the right of existence with brambles and grasses and moss; and golden grain comes close to the churchyard wall. Standing as it does in such isolation, it is surprising to find that the church is a building of considerable size; but it is never rare to discover noble churches even in greater solitude than this—our forefathers did not measure the size of their churches in relation to the probable number of their congregations. Also, the fact that a church is out of sight does not always mean that it is out of mind; and when the fine, deep-sounding peal of Lanteglos bells rings for service on Sunday mornings, a good number of countryfolk wend their way through the lanes and meadows towards it. A rugged and time-worn Celtic cross keeps guard beside the porch, having, doubtless, stood here since the days when the first Christian missionaries found these monoliths of granite serving a pagan purpose, and transformed them with rough labour into the Christian symbol. There is another such cross standing on the hill about a mile distant, looking down on the little fishing harbour of Polruan, by which is also a holy well. It is not many years since Lanteglos Church was a disgrace to the country-side, by reason of the decay into which it had been allowed to fall; but that period of neglect is past, and a careful restoration has preserved the noble groining of the interior and the fine woodwork of the benches. The building, chiefly Decorated with Perpendicular tower, is specially notable for its admirable ribbed vaulting. The font is of earlier date, and near it are the parish stocks, once devoted to the confining of unruly legs. In the Lady Chapel, south of the chancel, where an abortive stairway points to the former existence of a rood-gallery, is a lovely altar, constructed mainly of pure alabaster, and the flooring before both altars is of highly polished marble. Here, too, are some fine old brasses to members of a family that has played its part in the nation's history; one member of which family, the duellist Mohun, is a prominent figure in Thackeray's Esmond. The Mohuns, coming from Dunster, settled at Hall House in this parish in the fourteenth century; it was doubtless in connection with them that the church once belonged to a Bridgwater foundation. But the Mohuns had removed to Boconnoc by the time that they achieved their greatest notoriety, in the person of Lord Charles, some of whose duels partook rather of the nature of assassination than of fair fight, the most notable being his slaying of the actor Mountford. It was in keeping with his life that Mohun should die in a combat of such fierceness that both the combatants, himself and the Duke of Hamilton, received mortal wounds. Hall House, near the Bodinnick side of the ferry from Fowey, is now a farm, embodying some remains of the old mansion. The Hall Walk above this eastern bank of the river gives a magnificent view of Fowey town and harbour. Fowey itself needs to be seen from such a spot to be fitly appreciated. The house was taken and held for the King by Sir Richard Grenville, and it is said that Charles, who was here in August, 1644, was nearly struck by a ball from across the river, Fowey being at that time in the hands of the Parliamentarian Essex.

Bodinnick is just a tiny hamlet, a small cascade of houses tumbling to the riverside, with its own stone slip to meet the ferry at its foot. The road to this ferry is so steep as to be almost precipitous, and the cottages abutting on its side are embowered in fragrant bloom. There is a runnel of water at the roadside, and in one place this water is collected in a round stone basin that looks immensely old; from this it trickles forth again with coolness and musical plash. Having reached this spot, we may as well pass over into Fowey by the ferry here instead of by that from Polruan. If we had already come from Fowey to Bodinnick we should find that the ferryman would carry us back without further payment; the outward fee included a return—not like the ferry of Charon which had no return for passengers. The oars dip peacefully into the water, breaking its surface of glistening light; a delicious coolness, that phantom fragrance of water to which we can give no name, steals upward soothingly and sweetly.

Fowey, whose position is strikingly like that of Dartmouth, is named from its river, which rises at Foy-Fenton on the Bodmin Moors and passes through Lostwithiel on its journey to the mouth. Mr. Baring-Gould derives its name, as that of the Fal, from the Celtic falbh, which means the "running or flowing," but the point is hardly clear. It is pleasant to turn from such disputations to the place itself, which has become famous in present-day romance as "Troy Town," the fanciful title bestowed by a gifted literary resident. The true street of this town may be said to be its river, where it is delightful to do one's business by water—much pleasanter than the narrow and somewhat dingy road that lies out of sight behind. Each garden has its boat moored at its foot, where the tide eternally whispers and gurgles and ripples. Sometimes the stream flows silently, though it may be with power; at other times it finds a voice by which the air is possessed and thrilled. The old stained walls, the rugged ladders by which the folk descend to their boats, are washed by the clear, pure waters; the shimmer of water enters the dwelling-rooms and is reflected on the ceilings, a fluctuating quiver of light, moved by every breeze that ruffles the surface of the stream. The small gardens are green to the edge of the walls that drop sheer to the river; these ladders and gardens are the true household gates. Here and there may be a small strip of quay, with the soil and grime of industry—perhaps the blackness of coal-dust; but the prevalent flavour is domestic. Higher up the river there may be more dissonance, where the steamboats are being laden with china-clay and stone; there is a clang of cranes, a rattle of machinery, a bustle out of unison with the placid water beneath, the dense woodland behind. Maritime doings seem to lose much of their beauty when they are dependent on steam—they cannot lose it all. For pure beauty we must go to the sailing-boat, whether it be the fisher's smack with red or tawny sail, the graceful yacht of pleasure, the schooner or barque of commerce. All these are represented in this lovely harbour within its protecting sea-gates; but none of them are represented intrusively; there is plenty of room, and there are delightful creeks running up into utter woodland solitude, like that one which is the pleasantest way of reaching Lanteglos Church.

One feature of this Fowey creek is its constant clamour of seagulls. From morning to night their voice can be heard, sometimes with a noise of wrangling and discordance, sometimes in single cries of bodeful complaint. Occasionally the din is such that it is difficult to hear a friend speaking; the birds cluster and hover and swoop above with fierce argument and angry parleying. They are so accustomed to human presences that, even if sometimes a nuisance, they are more often a joy. They are never molested; they have a sense of privilege—the good women of the houses will come out and talk to them as one might to a pet canary. Very often the house-wife throws broken food to them, and laughs at their scramble for it—the birds' queer difficulty in settling downward on the water, the wide sweeps they take to reach what lies beneath, the awkward dives and tumblings when they are near the surface. In full flight they are graceful and buoyant, with an easy command of their passage; but in descending thus to snatch something from the tide they often appear clumsy. When the object they want is close beneath, they do not seem able to reach it without fluttering and effort; whereas if they see anything from a distance they can swoop down upon it with the greatest ease. Sometimes one will gather some morsel from the water or exposed beach, and soar away with it; if observed, another, or perhaps two, will pursue him, trying to snatch the booty from him. A flying bird with his beak engaged in holding a treasure is very much at the mercy of his pursuers; his only resource is either to outstrip his covetous comrades, or else hastily to gobble the desired morsel in a manner that must rob it of some of its sweetness. These gulls are peculiarly fond of settling on the boats that are moored at the foot of the gardens; sometimes as many as fourteen or fifteen may be seen on one little rowing-boat, all sitting solemnly with their heads turned in one direction. A single bird will alight first, and others follow till the boat is occupied from stem to stern. Such of the boats as are in frequent use are seldom visited in this way; but the birds select those that are rarely used, and the owners of these boats do not always appreciate the selection. Some are covered with canvas as a defence, and a few are at times decorated with streamers of coloured rags, like those that we innocently place in our gardens in seed-time to scare the sparrows. The gulls soon recover from their alarm, if they ever feel any; and it is somewhat suggestive of irony to watch a gull calmly wiping his beak on a piece of rag intended to scare him away. Whether meant as insulting or not, such conduct does not provoke the inhabitants to severe reprisals; the gulls are an institution of the place, to be grumbled at sometimes but always to be tolerated. And all the grumbling is not on one side, as one may judge from the noise the birds sometimes make. At times the sharp cawing of black crows mingles with the croaking, and of course other birds have their say as well, in the bright mornings and dreamy eves. Out beyond the mouth of the harbour there are curlews and puffins[Pg 55] [Pg 56] [Pg 57] on the lonely sea-washed crags; and in quiet weather there are more of the gulls seaward than up among the gardens. But they may certainly be regarded as the presiding genius of Fowey.

Photo by][Gibson, Penzance.

FOWEY.

The village of Fowey—it calls itself a town—runs along in a single street on the westward bank of the river. At first sight this street is almost unattractive; it is narrow, with some awkward bends, and it gives no view of the water except an occasional peep through a low doorway. It runs to a considerable distance, and tries to increase its importance by changing its name at intervals; a few small alleys and by-roads strike off from it. One of its turnings is a sharp drop as well as a curve, perilous to all but the initiated. In some parts when a vehicle passes it is necessary to press very close indeed to the wall or in the kindly shelter of a doorway; the ample omnibus of the chief hotel spares little space for pedestrians. It may be with something of a malicious chuckle that one notices that this four-wheeled tyrant is often empty; but the malice is of evanescent nature, born of narrow escape. There are some shops, respectable if not imposing, and a goodly supply of inns; a fine church and a notable old Cornish manor-house. But all the time one has a sense that the real life of the place is the river behind these houses; even the leisurely little railway station does not seem of much consequence, though it acts as a feeder of the boats that busily ply here. Quite obviously this is no resort of mere pleasure, and it is all the more pleasurable for that; it has set itself to live sturdily, not troubling to attract the idler and the luxurious. Fowey is not altogether content to repose on its memories, though these are great. Generations of those who laboured on deep waters have nestled in these riverside homesteads, these nooks and corners and precipitous byways; they were lusty fighters and dauntless smugglers; they rose for their old faith, they fought loyally for their king, and they molested his enemies when he was at peace with them. In general they were a tough and independent lot, with a considerable scorn of those who live "in England"—that is to say, beyond the Tamar; and to this day an Englishman from the shires is very much of a foreigner with them. Even the man from a parish a few miles distant is looked at somewhat askance; after long years of residence they will still think him an outsider, and they repudiate with scorn the idea that any interlopers can understand them or their ways. They do not easily initiate strangers into the local mysteries or bestow the freedom of their township. Such an attitude may be out of date in this cosmopolitan age, but it is not unpleasant to strike against it; it coexists with the kindest of welcomes, the warmest of hospitalities. Yet it must be confessed that there are moods in which these Cornish folk are neither kind nor hospitable; their roughness is very rough, their parliamentary elections are often conducted in a spirit notorious for its violence. They are not all the gentle visionary dreamers that the Celts sometimes claim to be; indeed, there is much in their very physiognomy that proclaims them in large measure to be not true Celts at all, but men of still more aboriginal blood. Where then, it may be asked, shall we find the pure Celt? Yet it cannot matter greatly, except to those who set far too much store on matters of race. The weaving of ethnologic Britain would take more skill to unravel than the most learned can now attain to; it is a weft of many strands, strangely inter-knitted, and its result is infinite variety of personality. But it may be that here in Cornwall some of its earliest elements have lingered longer than in parts of the kingdom more exposed to invasion and immigration.

Both Plymouth and Falmouth may be spoken of as modern towns compared with Fowey. Its antiquity is proved by the dedication of its church to the Irish St. Finbar, who seems to have been a pupil of the Welsh Dewi, or St. David. Very many of Cornwall's saints came either from Ireland or Wales, and some from Brittany, to which the debt was repaid. Not much is known of Finbar, and that little is probably apocryphal. In 1336 the church was reconstructed and rededicated; Bishop Grandisson, who did this, may have thought that a more firmly established saint would be better, and he chose St. Nicholas, the patron of sailors and fishermen. A good part of the present building, including the north aisle, probably dates from that time; but the tower, a hundred feet high, is true Perpendicular. The groundwork has settled, causing a curious slope. The south-porch doorways appear to be late Norman. Among the monuments of the Treffrys is one erected by John Treffry during his own lifetime. Place House, the home of the Treffrys, stands close by, dominating the little town that presses around it. If its restoration had been conducted in better taste this fine old house might have been more beautiful than it is; its best features are the two exquisite fifteenth-century bay windows. The original hall and porch-room also survive, the latter being now known as the "Porphyry Room." Perhaps some visitors will take a deeper interest in the residence of Sir A. T. Quiller-Couch, the "Haven," standing pleasantly by the waterside, facing the mouth of the harbour. Thousands of readers have made the acquaintance of "Troy Town" through the romances of "Q"; and Mr. Couch is not only the writer of fiction that is often delightful, he is also a fine literary critic.

We do not know a great deal of Fowey in its earlier days, but its manor passed to Robert de Mortain at the Conquest. The town sent vessels to the Crusades, and in 1340 it shared with the port of Looe in sending a representative to a Council at Westminster. But the usual test by which historians now estimate the relative consequence of old English ports is the number of vessels contributed to the siege of Calais under Edward III., and by this test, which should not be pressed too hard, Fowey would appear to have been the chief port in the kingdom. She sent as many as forty-seven ships, the largest number of any, manned by 770 seamen. Next came Yarmouth, with fewer ships but more men; and Dartmouth was third. It is interesting to recall that to this memorable expedition Ilfracombe contributed six vessels, and Liverpool one. We may take it that the whole Fowey estuary shared in the manning and maintenance of this gallant squadron. The Fowey men had certainly the defect of their qualities, being proud and stiff-necked under the successes that attended them. It is reported that Fowey was made a member of the Cinque Ports, that very elastic "five"; but its comradeship in that association was clearly of a stormy and high-handed fashion. We read that certain Fowey men, passing near Rye and Winchelsea, "would vaile no bonnet," by which we may suppose is intended the customary salutation made in courtesy to a fellow-port.

Highly indignant, the men of Rye and Winchelsea sallied forth to teach the Foyens better respect, our seamen in those days being as willing to quarrel among each other as they were with the men of Normandy or Brittany. In the quaint words of the Cornish Hals, this contempt shown by the Fowey men, "by the better enabled seafarers reckoned intolerable, caused the Ripiers to make out with might and maine against them; howbeit with a more hardy onset than happy issue; for the Foy men gave them so rough entertainment as their welcome, that they were glad to depart without bidding farewell—the merit of which exploit afterwards entitled them Gallants of Fowey." Of course the Fowey men held their heads higher than ever after this, and even presumed to wear the arms of Rye and Winchelsea interwined with their own, in token of their supremacy. It was from such tough fibres that the British navy was built; those strenuous days of constant conflict and privateering were a grand tutorage for seamen, though not unexceptionable from a moral standpoint. But a town that behaved as Fowey did naturally had to suffer reprisals.

To quote again from Hals, we learn that certain Normans, with a commission from the King of France to "be revenged on the pirates of Fowey town, carried the design so secret that a small squadron of ships and many bands of marine soldiers was prepared and shipped without the Fowey men's knowledge. They put to sea out of the river Seine in July, 1457, and with a fair wind sailed thence across the British Channel and got sight of Fowey Harbour, where they lay off at sea till night, when they drew towards the shore and dropped anchor, and landed their marine soldiers and seamen, who at midnight approached the south-west end of Fowey town, where they killed all persons they met with, set fire to the houses and burnt one half thereof to the ground, to the consumption of a great part of the inhabitants' riches and treasures, a vast deal of which were gotten by their pyratical practices. In which massacre the women, children and weakest sort of people forsook the place and fled for safety into the hill country. But the stoutest men, under conduct of John Treffry Esquire, fortified themselves as well as they could in his then new built house of Place, where they stoutly opposed the assaults of the enemies, while the French soldiers plundered that part of the town which was unburnt without opposition in the dark." But the country-side was aroused, and men began to gather in such force that the French invaders found it prudent to depart with some haste, and with such of their spoil as they could hurriedly carry with them. They departed, says Hals, "with small honour and less profit." It was after this attack that the twin forts were built, at Polruan and Fowey, to protect the mouth of the river, and a chain was dropped at night between the two, as was the practice at Dartmouth.

It must have been on another occasion that the wife of Thomas Treffry, as Leland tells us, "repelled the French out of her house in her husband's absence." But the great days of Fowey were nearing their end. When Edward IV. made peace with France the town declined to countenance this termination of hostilities, and continued to wage war on its own account; perhaps it felt that there was much yet to be wiped off. "I am at peace with my brother of France," came the royal message; but the Fowey men were not at peace, and they said so. It is even stated that they slit the nose of the King's pursuivant, which almost made it appear that they were willing to be at war with the King of England also. Edward was not the man to be so trifled with, but the course he took was unkingly and despicable. He sent a party of men, who were clearly afraid to come nearer than Lostwithiel; and these, pretending to be harbouring some new designs against the French, invited the men of Fowey to come and take counsel with them. The Fowey men were then treacherously seized and their leader hanged; and the men of Dartmouth were fetched to take away the chain from Fowey Harbour and to snatch its ships. It may be that Dartmouth had some accounts to settle with its Cornish neighbour, but even these Devonians must have felt some grudging at such an act. This was the death-blow of Fowey's naval prosperity. She was now at the mercy of her foes, home or foreign. Yet she continued to bear herself bravely. Later, she erected St. Catherine's Fort as a defence; it is now a picturesque ruin. In the Civil War Fowey, like Cornwall generally, was loyal to her King, and though Essex took the town, it was soon retaken, with six thousand prisoners, and held for a year and a half longer. A few years later, (in 1666) the Dutch chased our Virginian fleet into Fowey Harbour, and dared to follow the vessels with the purpose of destroying them. But the Fowey forts had a word to say in the matter, and they made the place so hot for the great Dutch frigate of seventy guns, that it was glad enough to escape without finishing its errand. Such are the leading incidents in the history of this plucky little town, which formerly returned two members to Parliament. Relatively, its eminent position is entirely lost, but it has an eminence for loveliness of situation that can never be taken from it, and it can educate its sons in a glorious though chequered tradition. It has memories of occupation long before days of Cinque Port emulation. Close to Menabilly Park (Menabilly is the seat of the Rashleighs, a Cornish family of ancient repute) is a granite pillar known as the Longstone, bearing the inscription Cirusius hic jacit Cunomori filius, doubtless commemorating a Romanised Cornishman. At this manor-house, about two miles westward of Fowey, on a height above the sea, is a curious grotto built by a former Rashleigh to exemplify the mineral wealth of the Duchy. It is octagonal, and its sides are inlaid with native ores, fossils, shells, and stones. There is a further remarkable mineral collection at the house, with fine specimens of sulphuret of tin and copper, malachite, fluor, crystals, topaz, with some blocks of prehistoric tin. The coast here extends to Gribbin Head, and there is then a sharp bend inward to Par sands. Par is not particularly attractive, except for its pleasant bay; but the decay of its former mining activities is compensated for by its busy shipping of china-clays at the quays built by the late Mr. Treffry. Much of the china-clay goes to distant potteries, or is used for the whitening of cheap so-called linens; of course, much of this is despatched at the railway station which is the junction for Fowey. This is a British export which seems to be advancing by leaps and bounds; and this St. Austell district, with another active port at Charlestown, is practically its centre. It is said that, in this district alone, the royalties paid to ground landlords approach the figure of £90,000 per annum, and foreign companies are keenly endeavouring to establish a footing. But the presence of the powdery clay is not alluring except to those who profit by its output, and we may leave Par and Charlestown to their industrialism. Tywardreath (the "house or town-place on the sands") claims mention for the memory of its old Benedictine priory, now vanished. To pursue the Fowey River inland, past the charming Golant and St. Winnow, is a delightful excursion with a fitting termination in the beauties of Lostwithiel; but on the present occasion it takes us too far from the coast. The loveliness of this river resembles and equals that of the Fal and of the Dart.