Motor Tours in the West Country 10

Motor Tours in the West Country 10

further out, “danced lustily as the gallantest dancer at Court.” Through

that channel he and the rest sailed out into the gale when their game

was done, to do their thorough work. Many times he had sailed through it

already on various quests of war and adventure--and, it must be owned, of

pillage: and it was from this harbour, afterwards, that he went on the

voyage that “was marred before it was begun, so great preparations being

too big for a cover,” the voyage to Nombre de Dios Bay, where he lies

“dreaming all the time of Plymouth Hoe.”

 

Very long and very stirring is the visionary pageant that rises before

us here: the Black Prince, triumphant, sailing in with his prisoner, the

King of France; poor Katherine of Aragon, landing here in an outburst

of welcome; John Hawkins, setting forth on those dubious but gallant

undertakings that the Queen called “private enterprise” and Hawkins

called “the Queen’s business.” His son Sir Richard long remembered a

scene that took place when he was a boy, under that green hill that faces

us. A fleet of Spaniards, bound for Flanders to fetch a new bride for

Philip II., dared to sail between the island and the mainland “without

vayling their top-sayles, or taking in of their flags; which my father

Sir John Hawkins perceiving, commanded his gunner to shoot at the flag

of the admiral, that they might thereby see their error.” They saw it

quickly, and the matter ended with feasting.

 

Sir Richard’s own ship, too, takes part in the ghostly pageant, sailing

close to the land to bid goodbye, for many more years than he suspected,

to the throng that stood here on the Hoe to do him honour. Amid blowing

of trumpets, and music of bands, and roaring of guns he left the harbour,

with his thoughts full of the lady who took pleasure in red carpets. And

it was there, below us, that the brave heart of Blake gave its last throb

as he entered English waters--the heart that is buried, they say, in St.

Andrew’s Church.

 

The long procession of adventurous ships winds endlessly on, past the

island, and out of the harbour, and away into the world of the past. The

ships of Frobisher and Gilbert, of Grenville and of Raleigh are there,

and the _Mayflower_ with the Pilgrim Fathers, and the ship of Captain

Cook. And at the last I see a little ship sail in alone, and on her deck

a disappointed, disillusioned woman; the woman whom the French have never

forgiven because, when they broke her heart, she omitted to repay them

with smiles--the daughter of Marie Antoinette. The Duchesse d’Angoulême

came hither from Bordeaux, in exile for the second, but not for the last

time, with the marshals’ vows of fidelity and the news of their joining

Napoleon still ringing in her ears together.

 

 

 

 

SOUTH CORNWALL

 

 

SUMMARY OF RUN THROUGH SOUTH CORNWALL

 

DISTANCES.

 

Plymouth

Looe, viâ Horningtops 23 miles

Polperro 5 ”

Lostwithiel 12 ”

Fowey 7 ”

Truro 22 ”

Falmouth 11 ”

Lizard 19 ”

Penzance 28 ”

Land’s End, viâ St. Buryan 12 ”

---------

Total 139 miles

 

ROADS.

 

Hills steep and very frequent.

 

Surface: on main roads good. By-roads often very narrow and rather rough.

 

 

IV

 

SOUTH CORNWALL

 

One approaches Cornwall diffidently: one leaves it with a sense of

profound ignorance. There is no county, of course, of which any true

knowledge can be gained in one visit, whether the visitor be a motorist,

or a bicyclist, or that very superior person the pedestrian; but perhaps

this is truer of the Duchy than of any other part of England. The

knowledge of Cornwall is a special study with many branches, familiar

only to Cornwall’s devoted sons. It is easy to love her beautiful face at

first sight, and easy to learn the part of her history that is also the

history of England, but behind and within these superficial things is the

vast hoard of her local legends and traditions, and the bewildering story

of her unnumbered saints. A slight knowledge of tin-mining, too, were

not amiss. One can only admit ignorance, and drive on happily.

 

Those who elect to approach the coast of Cornwall from Tavistock, through

Callington and Liskeard, will travel on a fine road, which four times

dips down to streams and forthwith climbs up again. On so hilly a road as

this, one may depend on finding beautiful scenery. After passing through

Liskeard the better road to take is the upper one by Morval, as it is

less rough than the road that follows the Looe.

 

[Illustration: LOOE RIVER.]

 

On the whole, however, I think the most satisfactory way to enter

Cornwall is by Plymouth and Torpoint Ferry. Indeed, I would even suggest

that those who have crossed the Moor to Tavistock should choose this

route; for the road from Tavistock to Plymouth is magnificent in itself,

and overlooks some of the finest views in Devon. And moreover the park

of Mount Edgecumbe[6] is but a little way from Torpoint. It is true

that beautiful Cothele is but a little way from the Callington road;

but Cothele is not open to the public, though by the kindness of Lord

Mount Edgecumbe its granite walls and historic furniture may sometimes

be seen. But Mount Edgecumbe, says John Prince, is “the most beauteous

gentile seat in all those western parts.” The commander-in-chief of the

Armada, looking at it from the sea, “was so affected with the sight

thereof” that he determined to keep it for his share “in the partage

of this kingdom.” His taste was better than his seamanship. The house

that stands in this lovely park was built by the grandson of the builder

of Cothele--a gentleman, according to Carew, “in whom mildness and

stoutness, diffidence and wisdom, deliberateness of undertaking and

sufficiency of effecting, made a more commendable than blazing mixture of

virtue.” However commendable, he was less attractive, I think, than his

grandsire, whom deliberateness of undertaking would not have saved when

he was pursued by his enemies among the woods of Cothele. He pushed a

large stone into the Tamar, and flinging his cap after it, hid among the

trees. Richard III.’s messengers of death, hearing the splash and seeing

the floating cap, thought he was drowned and went away. “He afterwards

builded in the place of his lurking a chapel.”

 

The road from Torpoint to Polbathick is excellent, and where it winds

round the creeks of the Lynher estuary there are woods on the river’s

very verge, as is the lovely custom beside these West Country waters.

Across the valley is St. German’s, wherein are some of Cornwall’s most

venerable memories and the home of the famous Eliot who died nobly in the

Tower. At the fork just beyond Polbathick it is advisable to take the

road to the right, for though it is a good deal the longer it is also a

good deal the smoother, and avoids a pair of steep hills at Hessenford.

The direct road is quite practicable, however, and those who choose it

may take the opportunity of running down the wooded valley of the Seaton

to the shore. On the other hand, if we go by the longer road we shall see

more of the Looe estuary, which is far more beautiful.

 

[Illustration: LOOE HARBOUR.]

 

To it the Liskeard road runs suddenly down; then turns and follows it

very closely to the sea. Even closer to the water is the little railway,

which clings to the bank under the hanging trees, and at one point

actually goes on its adventurous way in mid-stream. The water, gorgeous

as a peacock’s breast, flows evenly between thickly wooded hills, and as

the valley widens the town appears at the end of it, climbing its steep

sides.

 

As one approaches a place that is a byword for beauty there is always

a lurking fear of disappointment. But the fishing-towns of Devon and

Cornwall are so disarming, so personal in their charm, that they never

disappoint. Indeed, the trouble is rather that they win the heart too

quickly. Each one in turn appears the ideal spot in which to settle for

life. So is it here. As we cross the bridge that joins East Looe to

West, and look down at the green timbers of the little quays and at the

countless boats, or up at the many-coloured gardens above the road; as

we drive round the point, and find the open sea rippling in upon a rocky

shore, it seems obvious that this, and no other, is the place to live

in. The conviction lasts until we reach Polperro.

 

This we cannot do by way of the wide road that runs round Hannafore

Point, for this ends abruptly opposite Looe Island. We must return to the

bridge, and without crossing it take the road that rises on the left. As

we mount the steep hill we see below us the meeting of the two rivers and

their two wooded valleys, and behind us among the trees the scattered

houses of the town. At a point about two miles from Looe we turn to the

left, and run down a long and winding hill into a tiny green gorge, with

steep sides rising almost from the roadway. It ends in the narrow street

of Polperro. Here, at the beginning of the street, is the stable-yard

of a little hotel, where standing-room may be found for the car. Beyond

this point it is practically impossible for a large car to turn, for the

twisted alleys of this cramped and cabined village are hardly more than

paths, and owing to their contortions on the hillside are often broken by

steps.

 

[Illustration: STREET OF POLPERRO.]

 

Why anyone should want to turn I cannot imagine; for this is certainly

the place to live in! We knew all about it, of course, before we came

here: a thousand artists have painted it. Large numbers are painting

it at this moment; a group at every corner. Since there are so many of

them it is fortunate that artists--even amateurs--are among the few

human beings who are not blots upon a landscape. They may give us lovely

pictures of this place: of the headlands that clip the huddled houses so

closely between them; and the stream that rushes under weed-grown walls

to the sea; and the landlocked harbour with its crowd of little boats;

and the cobbled lanes and whitewashed cottages and flights of footworn

steps; and the flowers that brighten every narrow alley; and, best of