Motor Tours in the West Country 15

Motor Tours in the West Country 15

In spite of all its strength Castle Terrible was several times taken in

the Civil War. Finally it was seized by Fairfax, and kept. He came to

Launceston at midnight, and many of the enemy escaped “by the darknesse

of the night, and narrownesse and steepnesse of the wayes.” Those who

were taken were amazed in the morning, when they were brought before the

general, and “had twelve pence apeece given them, and passes to goe to

their homes.”

 

[Illustration: TOWN GATE, LAUNCESTON.]

 

When the Skellum’s brother Sir Bevill was here his troops were quartered

in the church that is a few minutes’ walk from the castle, the church

that is surely unique in its effect of richness. For every one of its

granite stones bears a device, sacred or profane, and round the base is a

course of shields, with letters carved upon them to form an inscription.

Over the south door are St. George and the Dragon, and St. Martin and the

Beggar; and at the east end is a prostrate figure of the Magdalen, at

which, by a curious disregard of a certain great saying, it is considered

lucky to throw stones. Within the church is a sixteenth-century pulpit, a

Norman font, and a good deal of modern carving. Of the priory that Bishop

Warelwast founded at Launceston hardly anything remains, except the

Norman arch that has been set in the doorway of the “White Hart.”

 

We have a fine drive back to Bodmin over the moors, where the hills are

many but the road is good. There is no heather here, but a great expanse

of grass and waving fern, and scattered stones, and slopes of gorse, and

now and then, impressive in its loneliness, an ancient Celtic cross of

granite by the wayside. We enter Bodmin by an over-arching avenue, and

pass out of it on the Wadebridge road, at the back of the asylum.

 

The short run to Wadebridge is through a lovely country of woods and

valleys and rivers, on a road that is well-graded if hilly. There is

little obvious attraction in Wadebridge itself, however, for at low

tide the river winds through mud-flats that are not flat enough to be

picturesque, and the famous bridge--“the longest, strongest, and fairest

that the shire can muster”--is not as striking in fact as it appears

in pictures. Like Bideford Bridge, it is said to be founded on sacks

of wool. Its founder was one Lovibond, the vicar of this old church of

Egloshayle that we see beside the river. We do not cross the bridge,

but turn to the right on the road to Camelford; and a few minutes later

pass near a British camp called Castle Killibury or Kelly Round. We are

entering Arthur’s country--a land of shadowy legend, a land that has

been peopled for us with a host of adorable, improbable figures, a land

of disillusionment, but none the less of unconquerable romance. For

this round encampment by which we drive is thought to be one of the

few authentic relics of the authentic Arthur, the Kelliwic of the Welsh

Triads, a stronghold and court of the British prince who truly lived, and

fought, and died of a grievous wound--but not at Camelford.

 

We are on our way now to the spot that was long believed, and is still

believed by many, to be the scene of his last battle: Slaughter Bridge.

We turn off to the left in the outskirts of Camelford on rather a rough

road to Camelford Station, and there take a narrow lane on the right

which leads in a moment to the little grey bridge with the grim name.

There is grim truth behind the name, moreover, for if it was not here,

but in Scotland, that Arthur died, there has been slaughter on a large

scale on the rushy banks of this brook that sings so gaily. Here, in the

ninth century, Britons and Saxons fought and died by thousands, and no

one knows to-day who won the battle.

 

On the left is the old gateway of Worthyvale. A little way within it is

a wooden shed, where we shall find a guide to show us the ancient stone

that does duty alternately as Arthur’s grave and his resting-place when

he was wounded. Its age and position and probable origin are sufficiently

romantic, for it is thought to be the tombstone of some warrior who was

slain in the great battle. It lies now on level grass below the rocky

bank, with the stream close beside it, and tree stems fringed with

hart’s-tongues leaning over it. The path that leads to it is very steep

and very slippery, and as one struggles down it the little barefooted

guide prattles cheerfully of the ladies and old gentlemen who have, from

time to time, fallen headlong into the stream.

 

From Slaughter Bridge a few miles, a few lanes, a few hills bring us,

with hearts--even middle-aged hearts--beating a little faster than usual,

to the very citadel and stronghold of that Land of Faery of which Arthur

is the King.

 

Who can tell wherein the enchantment of Tintagel lies? Its crown of

towers is gone; its glory is departed. Only, on the summit of the dark,

steep island a few low walls, a doorway, and a window remain of the

mediæval castle that seems to have no history. Not a stone here speaks of

Arthur. Yet it is of Arthur only that we think.

 

And if there is no fragment here of the castle where Arthur was born,

neither have we any visions of the Table Round, nor of Guinevere and her

ladies, nor of Launcelot, nor Galahad; for the King’s court was not here.

Only La Beale Isoud we may see sitting in her bower upon this rock, and

Tristram kneeling at her feet, and behind him Mark with the uplifted

sword. This was the stronghold of the ancient Cornish Earls; and if

Arthur was born here it was because his birth was the result of magic,

and not because Uther Pendragon had any rights in this place. But since

we are here in a world of legend we may surely take the legend of our

choice. Let us forget the ugly tale of Uther and Igerne, and remember

only how, after the thunders of the storm upon this shore--

 

“There came a day as still as heaven, and then

They found a naked child upon the sands

Of dark Tintagel by the Cornish sea;

And that was Arthur.”

 

There are the sands below us, the little bay in the curve of the cliff,

the transparent sea that brought the mysterious King to his kingdom.

 

And because all is mystery here, because behind the veil there is so

little that is solid, so little that we know, it is not in the sunshine

of a summer day that Tintagel has the most meaning. It is when the

mists are trailing on the sea, and the dark rock is wrapped in a cloud

as impenetrable as the legends that shroud Arthur, and for a moment a

passing gleam lightens the fog above our heads and shows the pale ghost

of a castle-wall uplifted against the sky--it is then that Tintagel seems

indeed to be the heart of the world of dreams, the most perfect symbol of

the mingled mystery and truth of the story of Arthur.

 

[Illustration: TINTAGEL.]

 

More than three hundred years ago Carew gave his impressions of the

island fortress. “In passing thither,” he says, “you must first descend

with a dangerous declining, and then make a worse ascent by a path as

everywhere narrow so in many places through his stickleness occasioning,

as through his steepness threatening, the ruin of your life with the

failing of your feet. At the top two or three terrifying steps give

you entrance to the hill.” Those who suffer from unsteady heads will

feel this lively description to be most accurate as regards the island;

but the castle on the mainland may be reached by a path which, though

narrow and tortuous enough, does not occasion, nor even threaten, the

ruin of one’s life. And from those crumbling twelfth-century walls we

may walk along the cliff to the little grey church that has stood here,

buffeted by every wind of heaven, since the days of the Saxons. Part of

the Saxon masonry is still here, and an old font green with moss, and

various ancient stones. What this bleak cliff has to bear in the way of

sea-winds may be seen in the churchyard, where all the tombstones--thin

slabs of slate--are strongly buttressed by masonry three times as thick

as themselves. In a corner is the poetical grave of an Italian sailor

drowned on this shore: an ordinary ship’s life-buoy nailed to a rough

wooden cross.

 

We drive away through the pretty village of Trevena, dip into the wooded

and flowery dell of Bossiney on a steep and rather rough road, and soon

run down into Boscastle among the orchards. The narrow gorge, where the

village lies smothered in trees, ends in a little landlocked harbour,

and high up on the hill to the left stands the church of Forrabury--the

church whose bells, says the legend, are lying at the bottom of the

sea with the bones of the blasphemous skipper who was bringing them

to Boscastle. R. S. Hawker tells the story in “The Silent Tower of

Bottreaux.” We cross the stream and begin a very long climb. This hill

has a bad reputation; but its steepest gradient--one in six--is quickly

past, and above it there is nothing very serious. After three miles of

climbing we find some fine wide views; and as we drive between the high

hedges on the rough road to Bude, catch glimpses of sea and headland on

the left.

 

The charm of Bude, I imagine--and many people find it very charming--lies

more in its surroundings than itself, more in the splendid coast and

rolling sea than in the rather dull little town. The sands and boats at

the river-mouth are picturesque, and so is the “cross-pool,” where Hawker

in his sealskin coat once masqueraded as a mermaid (of a somewhat full

habit), to the sad confusion of the youth of Bude.

 

Far more attractive in itself is Stratton, hard by, with the dark

church-tower raised above the street, and half its houses hidden by

the trees. In this church with the fine roof and the granite pillars

is buried, under a black marble slab elaborately inlaid with brasses,

a Sir John Arundel of the sixteenth century; the father, I believe, of

John-for-the-King. And in the north aisle, with no stone to tell the tale

of his brave and faithful service, lies Anthony Payne, the tender-hearted

giant who taught little boys to fish, and fought with the strength of ten

by Bevill Grenville’s side, and wrote a letter for which alone, if for

nothing else, he deserves an epitaph. When Sir Bevill died at Lansdowne

Hill it was Anthony Payne who broke the news to Lady Grenville. “You

know, as we all believe,” he wrote, “that his soul was in heaven before

his bones were cold. He fell, as he did often tell us he wished to die,

in the great Stewart cause, for his country and his King. He delivered

to me his last commands, and with such tender words for you and for his

children as are not to be set down with my poor pen, but must come to

your ears upon my heart’s best breath. Master John, when I mounted him

upon his father’s horse, rode him into the war like a young prince as he

is.… I am coming down with the mournfullest load that ever a poor servant

did bear, to bring the great heart that is cold to Kilkhampton vault. O!

my lady, how shall I ever brook your weeping face?”[12]

 

Down in the street we may find the house where this servant with the

heart and tongue of gold was born and died. It was once a manor-house of

the Grenvilles, but is now the “Tree” Inn, and shows little sign of age.

Until lately there was a hole still in the ceiling through which Anthony