CHAPTER XVI

TINTAGEL AND BOSCASTLE

When we come to the region that is specially sacred to traditions of King Arthur we find ourselves in the presence of wonderful natural charm and of considerable historic perplexity. Those who are content with the ordinary guide-books, and who have no conception of Arthur beyond what they may have gained from snatches of Tennyson, will not be troubled by this perplexity; they will take the crumbling walls on Tintagel heights to be the actual castle in which the Celtic prince was born, and any round table will suffice them as being that around which the king and his chieftains sat. But something a little better than this is desirable. We want Arthur to be something more than a mere ghost, something even more than the blameless hero of a beautiful Victorian poem. Yet if we go to the learned authorities the ghost becomes more ghostlike, the phantom becomes more dim; it is mainly destructive criticism that we meet with, and assertions that are largely negative. In spite of this, there must be something tangible behind so persistent a rumour as this tradition of Arthur. Wherever the Brythonic tribes extended, there we find traces of him. The Gaels know nothing of him. Finn, Oisin, Cuthullin, Cormac—such as these were the great Goidhelic heroes. But the British tradition reached from Armorica to the Forth, and carried Arthur with it. The Welsh claim him, the Bretons, the Cornish, the Lowland Scotch. Cornwall, with Tintagel as an asset of faith, claims his birth; Somerset, with Cadbury on the river Camel, claims Camelot; and Glastonbury boasts of his grave. Of these claims, that of Cornwall is the most powerfully supported; there is not only Tintagel, but Kelly Rounds, Damelioc, and Cardinham. One of the Welsh Triads speaks of the three chief palaces of Arthur as being Caerleon-on-the-Usk, Celliwig in Cornwall, and Penrhyn Rhionedd in the north. Celliwig may safely be identified with the partially effaced earthwork near St. Kew Station, known as Kelly Rounds (probably from the Cornish killi, meaning woods or groves), standing in what may be described as a Kelly district, for we have here in a cluster such names as Kelly Green, Kelly Farm, Bokelly, Kelly Brae, Calliwith. The Rounds have been cut across by a road, but there are distinct traces of two ramparted circles, with some remains of a sheltering earthwork to the west. Damelioc, a large and strong entrenchment with three concentric ramparts, lies about seven miles south-west of Tintagel; and it was here that Gorlois, Duke of Cornwall, took up his position after placing his wife Igerne for safety within Tintagel itself. The common story says that Uther, mad with love, overcame and slew Gorlois at Damelioc, and gained admission to Tintagel in his guise, thus becoming the father of Arthur. Of course, there is the other tradition that represents Arthur as of supernatural birth, washed to the shore by the waves, rescued by Merlin, and given to the world as a son of Uther. Cardinham, the other almost certain Arthurian locality in Cornwall, is about five miles east of Bodmin, and is identified with the Caradigan where Arthur sometimes held court. It is a large, lonely earthwork, in a field near a farmhouse. It must not be forgotten that the guide-books usually put forward Camelford as another most important Arthurian place, mentioning Slaughter Bridge as the scene of the king's last battle. There certainly was a battle here between Britons and Saxons, but this took place at least two centuries after Arthur's time; and though a spot named Arthur's Grave is shown to visitors, all definite connection between the king and Camelford must be surrendered. The last great battle, according to all authentic tradition, was fought against Picts, and what would Picts have been doing in Cornwall? The grave at Glastonbury, it must be owned with regret, is now generally understood to be a monkish fable. It is not pleasant for a West of England man to surrender either Camelford or Glastonbury, but truth must be faced, and the fact is almost certain that Arthur's last battle, and therefore his grave, must be sought in Scotland.

We may assume that Arthur was a Romanised Briton, born in the late fifth century at Tintagel; his name being possibly a Celtic form of the Latin Artorius. He became the champion of his race against encroaching Saxons, North-Country Picts, and wandering pagan hordes who fought for lust of bloodshed and pillage. Against these it is likely that Arthur sought to maintain a semi-Romanised, partially Christianised civilisation. He is credited with twelve great battles, in all of which he proved victorious; some of these were certainly in Somerset, and the last of his triumphs, that of Badon Hill, somewhere in Wessex. His rule thus established on a firm foundation, for many years Britain knew comparative peace and good government. The Round Table of which we hear so much is probably a symbolic addition of the bards, unless it means that in Arthur's time persons of good class began to sit decently together at tables. The thirteenth battle, in which he lost his life fighting against his nephew Mordred, has usually been given to the West of England—Malory and Tennyson both do so. But the traditions that became most popular sprang up in an age when the Cymry were forgetting the former wide extent of their tribal sway, and were limiting their racial pride to a part of the country that was still free from the Teuton. The fact that Arthur's last fight was with the Picts, and against Mordred, is almost conclusive as to its location. His sister, the mother of Mordred, had married Llew or Lot, of the Lothians, and there is reason to believe that the king was already familiar with this part of Scotland. The battle is always given as fought at Camlan, and this name has diverted later writers to the Camels of Cornwall and of Somerset. But the Celtic cam in place-names is quite common; it signifies crooked, and we find it in a number of river-names. Mordred had become a chieftain of the Picts, and he possibly resented any claims of suzerainty on the part of Arthur. The fight, whose date is stated as 542, was almost certainly waged at Camelon on the river Carron, near Falkirk. Arthur was defeated—it is likely that his forces were greatly outnumbered; and he died, either on the field or as an immediate result of a wound then received. Not many miles distant is an earthwork still known as Mordred's Castle; and at Carron, nearer still, there was formerly a mound or cairn known as Arthur's Oon (oven). All the picturesque detail in Tennyson's wonderful "Passing of Arthur" must be attributed to Cymric bards, to the genius of Malory, and to the poet's imagination; we must be content with the conclusion that Arthur was born but did not die in Cornwall.

In any case nothing of the present ruins at Tintagel existed in the time of Arthur. Geoffrey of Monmouth, who wrote about the year 1150, says of the stronghold that "it is situated upon the sea, and on every side surrounded by it; and there is but one entrance into it, and that through a straight rock, which three men shall be able to defend against the whole power of the kingdom." Even Gorlois, we remember, only gained admittance by stratagem. Tintagel, Dundagel, or Dundiogl, the Dunecheniv of Domesday, seems certainly to have belonged to Gorlois when Uther was Pendragon or Head-king of Britain; it would have been a cliff-castle such as that on Pentire Head. As years passed the rock probably became more insular, and when the Norman stronghold was built it was connected with the mainland by a drawbridge. From earliest times the castle attached to the Earls of Cornwall, one of whom protected David, Prince of Wales, during his revolt against Edward I. Later it was used as a kind of prison, a Mayor of London being confined within it. Elizabeth had some thought of restoring it, for it had already become ruinous; Leland says: "The residue of the buildings of the Castle be sore wetherbeten, and yn ruine; but it hath beene a large thinge." Its outworks extended to the mainland, but the great keep was on the isolated mass of rock. Here also are the remains of St. Juliet's chapel, with its altar-slab and stone benches. It is not easy to say much about the Juliot or Julitta to whom this chapel was dedicated; but the chapel is certainly that mentioned in the thirteenth-century High History of the Holy Grail. "They came into a very different land, scarce inhabited of any folk, and found a little castle in a combe. They came thitherward and saw that the enclosure of the castle was fallen down into an abysm, so that none might approach it on that side, but it had a right fair gateway and a door tall and wide, whereby they entered. They beheld a chapel that was fair and rich, and below was a great ancient hall." But the spirit of modernism now comes very near to this sacred spot of antiquity; on an opposite headland stands a commodious hotel, and the Tintagel golf-links come very close to the castle. A tiny port lies below, from which a little slate is sometimes shipped. The village, whose correct name of Trevena is being displaced by that of Tintagel, lies about a mile inland; it is clean and comfortable, but not remarkably picturesque except for the old gabled building that was once its post-office. Those who want the perpetual presence of the sea will not be contented with it. Its church, dedicated to SS. Marcelliana and Materiana (of whom the latter may be the Welsh Madron), stands at a distance, above the cliffs west of the castle; it is a stern, bare building, magnificently placed, so fully exposed to the force of Atlantic gales that the very tombstones have been buttressed. A portion of the walls, in their rude simplicity, appears to be Saxon, but many orders are represented here, from the late Norman chancel-arch to the Decorated south transept and Perpendicular screen. There is a rugged circular font, and what is supposed to be a Roman milestone. The vestry was formerly a Lady-chapel, possibly Saxon, with a thirteenth-century door and a curious mutilated altar. The south-transept window is to the memory of J. Douglas Cook, founder of the Saturday Review, who returned to his native Cornwall to die. In the churchyard are the graves of drowned seamen, British and foreign. It is a striking and solemnising little church, quite in harmony with a district of myth and sublimity. It is possible that some who come to Tintagel for the first time may be disappointed. If so, they have expected too much, or have expected the wrong thing. There is no gloss of false romance about the place; the ruins have not the hollow pretentious grandeur of some Norman castles; what we see is the unadorned, unveiled reality of a majestic coast, the low, stark walls of ruin on an immemorial site, the naked wind-beaten church on the heights, the sea breaking into gaunt caverns below. Sheep feed within the enclosure to which we scramble by a ragged path. Sentiment may resent the hotel and the golfers, but any jarring note can easily be ignored. Yet even Tennyson seems to have been disappointed at first; afterwards, the spirit of the place sank into him and prevailed. Perhaps old Hawker has described it best, in few pregnant words:—

"Hark! stern Dundagel softens into song. They meet for solemn severance, knight and king, Where gate and bulwark darken o'er the sea."

He gives us the words of Arthur, when the listeners "hush their hearts to hear the king":—

"I would not be forgotten in this land: I yearn that men I know not, men unborn, Shall find, amid these fields, King Arthur's fame. Here let them say, by proud Dundagel's walls— 'They brought the Sangraal back at his command, They touched these rugged rocks with hues of God,' So shall my name have worship, and my land."

And after the king had spoken:—

"That night Dundagel shuddered into storm— The deep foundations shook beneath the sea."

And we have the grand final picture:—

"There stood Dundagel, throned; and the great sea Lay, a strong vassal at his master's gate, And, like a drunken giant, sobb'd in sleep."

There was a time when Trevena, with Bossiney and Trevalga, formed a borough, and sent members to Parliament, of whom Francis Drake was one. It needed little apology to disfranchise such a small corporation as this, but the first Reform Bill had to deal with far greater anomalies. Bossiney has other attractions than such memories as this, having a delightful cove protected by the fine headland of Willapark. The fishing hamlet is close to an ancient burial-mound or barrow, from which election writs were once read and the local mayor proclaimed. From this cove we can pass upward into the glorious Rocky Valley, with its broken crags, its tangled foliage and rushing stream, its old mill. It is just a little like the gorge at Lynmouth, but wilder. This is the stream forming the famous cascade known as Knighton's (or St. Nectan's) Kieve. It is not very easy to find, and, here as at Tintagel, a key must be procured before its beauties can be examined. The Kieve is a basin of rock, into which the water has a fall of about 40 feet. St. Nectan is supposed to have been a brother of Morwenna, of Morwenstow; it is said he had an oratory here, and when he was dying he threw its silver bell into the waterfall. But Mr. Baring-Gould says that he died at Hartland. Following the usual guide-book convention, this would be the right moment for quoting Hawker's ballad, "The Sisters of Glen Nectan," but that piece is not one of his happiest efforts, and the legend is at least dubious. Those who journey afoot from Bossiney to Boscastle will find it almost impossible to keep to the coast, as the Rocky Valley forms an impediment, especially when its stream is in flood after heavy rains. But they can find a tolerable road to Trevalga, crossing the stream at the Long Bridge, and at Trevalga they will find an interesting little church. The shore here is broken into some small creeks of great beauty, but one chasm is so dark and sombre that it has won the name of Blackapit. There are dangers along these wild beaches; the poet Swinburne, when a boy, was almost cut off by the tide near Tintagel. From Blackapit we rise to Willapark Point and the church of Forrabury. The view from the Point is very fine, covering the ravine and haven of Boscastle on the east, and looking towards Tintagel on the west. Forrabury, the parish church of Boscastle, is dedicated to St. Symphorian, whoever that saint be (perhaps St. Veryan); and in situation it much resembles that of Tintagel. The pulpit and the woodwork of the altar date from the fifteenth century. There is a good granite cross in the churchyard. Here again there is a temptation, into which most writers fall, of quoting from Hawker, with his poem, "The Silent Tower of Bottreaux," in which he gives us a legend accounting for the fact that this church has only a single bell. But as he frankly confessed, in after life, that he had invented the story on the very slightest foundation, it is better to avoid quoting from the ballad, except solely for the melodious smoothness of its burden:—

"Come to thy God in time, Thus saith the ocean chime; Storm, whirlwind, billow past, Come to thy God at last."

Boscastle, taking its name from the old Norman family of Bottreaux (though there are many other place-names in Cornwall beginning with bos, which means abode or dwelling-place), is certainly the most romantic and picturesque haven in the Duchy, though there may be others that surpass it in actual beauty. The coast has a wild grandeur rather than loveliness, and in dismal or stormy weather there is a weird, solemn gloom. The little town lies sheltered at the head of a gorge in which two rivulets meet and form the haven. Old Leland in his graphic manner mentions one only of these brooks: "There cummith down a little broke from South-Est out of the Hilles thereby, and so renning by the West side of the Towne goith into Severn Se betwixt two hilles, and there maketh a pore Havenet, but of no certaine salvegarde." It is the river Valency of which he speaks, the more important of the streams that join just above the haven. This is a tiny land-locked harbour with stone piers, at which some coal, lime, and general merchandise are imported; the entrance is very difficult to make, and vessels that succeed in doing so have to be warped in by immense hawsers. Seeing this, and the small haven at Bude, one realises the wildness of this unsheltered coast, where such perilous places are called harbours. The village, though not large, is a long one, straggling down a hill and along the narrow ravine. Its activity is maintained by the daily arrival and departure of cars from Camelford, Bude, Otterham, and Tintagel, bringing many visitors in the summer season. Some come to stay, but most make only a fleeting call; Nature has placed grave obstacles in the way of Boscastle's ever becoming a fashionable watering-place. Its charm is unique and undeniable; but it appeals to the artist, the sturdy pedestrian and climber, the lover of solitude that at times is absolute desolation, rather than to the parent of a family. But the desolation, if that is not too stern a word to use, only applies to the coast; the Valency Valley is verdant and beautiful. It runs among furze and bracken by the riverside, and by this path we can reach the quiet, lovely vale in which Minster stands, so named from a former monastic establishment. Like the church at Tintagel, this of Minster is dedicated to St. Materiana, whom Mr. Baring-Gould identifies with the Welsh Madrun. The tower is of a single stage; there are good bench-ends and roof-carvings. A portion of the church having fallen in one Sunday, after morning service, it was rebuilt about forty years since. The priory was founded by William de Bottreaux in the reign of Richard I., but does not seem to have had a long existence. Minster is a large parish, but Forrabury is one of the smallest in Cornwall.

Pentargon, the bay and headland beyond the Boscastle golf-links, is sometimes interpreted as "Arthur's Head," but this is doubtful. The caves here, and those below Willapark, were once much haunted by seals; the coast being absolutely honeycombed by the constant fretting of the waves. At times, but rarely, the Cornish chough may be seen on the cliffs, recalling the old tradition that the spirit of Arthur lingers around his native rocks in this form—a tradition that was even familiar to Cervantes, though he knew the Welsh version of it, which makes Arthur a raven. Eastward past Beeny the cliffs gradually rise, till at High Cliff they reach the height of 700 feet; it needs some enthusiasm for a pedestrian to keep to the coast-line, though every mile has its grandeur. Beyond Cambeak lies the delightful Crackington Cove, which will some day become a watering-place; it stands at the mouth of a verdant valley with a stream like that of the Valency. It is in the parish of St. Genny's, whose church is dedicated to St. Genesius of Auvergne, of whom it is related that after being beheaded he walked about with his head under his arm. The saints of Cornwall are reported to have done some extraordinary things, but they do not usually descend to absurd actions of this nature; and there may be a shrewd suspicion that Genesius has no business here at all. William Braddon, a Parliamentary officer and member in the time of the Civil War, lived at Treworgye in this parish, and was buried in the church; some have supposed that he was vicar here. Pencannow Head, the north limit of Crackington Cove, rises sheer from the shore to the height of 400 feet. Dizzard Point is far less precipitous. A few miles further east the cliffs break to allow room for a fine stretch of sands at Widemouth Bay, and here we have another spot that is certain to develop into a pleasure-resort of the future. It cannot, of course, compare with the coast magnificence of the shore from Pentire to Boscastle, but it has what these wilder spots lack—a possibility of conventional settlement and expansion in the style of watering-place that the British public chiefly loves.