CHAPTER II

LOOE AND POLPERRO

As we pass along the coast from Whitesand Bay towards Looe we are approaching a spot that is now prized for its exceeding loveliness, but that formerly took high rank among the seaports of the West Country. In appearance and in ancient position it must be classed with Dartmouth and Fowey, which both were likewise notable ports in days when the English navy was in its sturdy infancy—days when the national pulse beat most keenly in the south and east instead of in the north and midlands. Commerce and industrialism have largely changed all that; Liverpool, Manchester, Birmingham have assumed metropolitan importance in their densely populated districts. Only Plymouth in the south-west is now of first-class consequence to the nation; and Plymouth is a parvenu compared with Looe and Fowey. The actual decline of these two little towns may not be great, but relatively it is enormous. Yet it deserves a milder term than decay, for the present-day life here is still wholesome and in a certain sense prosperous. It is a gentle and placid prosperity, very largely the happiness of places that have no history. There is the compensation of a glorious past, and there is the further compensation that such places preserve for us the best picture of what Old England truly was in days before she became "a nation of shopkeepers." It is no use to go to the flourishing commercial cities to find traces of earlier England; these cities have usually swept away the traces of antiquity they once possessed—tortuous streets are straightened and widened, quaint old houses are thrown down, the picturesque makes way for the useful; even the old churches are looked at askance, as occupying ground that might be devoted to warehouses and offices. In these quiet corners of the West such temptations have not presented themselves; population is thin, and there is little call for the destructiveness of expansion; mediævalism may still be found here, in the streets and byways, in the houses, and sometimes in the people. The chief peril is in the intrusion of the summer holiday and the "week-end." Irreparable damage is sometimes prompted by the desire to attract visitors. But those who come to the West Country are not usually such as seek for the noise and glare of the conventional watering-place. They come for natural beauty, pure air, and quietude. The recreative pleasure that they crave must be of a different kind from that with which they can daily become familiar if they please. There are theatres and music-halls in town; it does not add to the wittiness of the Pierrot or the humour of the comic singer to find them exercising their functions on a hot dusty beach, densely packed with humanity, strewn with torn newspapers, burnt matches, orange skins, and banana peelings. Yet those who feel in this manner are a minority, otherwise certain popular resorts would be less flourishing.

The crowds that flock to the average watering-place may leave their toils behind them, but they apparently wish to carry their amusements. Even the jaded mill-hand asks for the congested variety entertainments of Blackpool or of Douglas, rather than for the solitudes of shore and woodland. In moments of pessimism one may fear that the very capacity of peaceful enjoyment is being killed, and that ceaseless grinding work destroys the power of resting. When the ordinary tourist visits places of peaceful solitariness he usually does so in crowds that rifle and ravish the sacredness of this solitude; he ruthlessly desecrates that which he does not understand; he never learns its secrets; the most commonplace of public parks would have responded fully to his needs and their gratification. But the West has long been a resort of that wiser, certainly better endowed, minority that seeks for direct personal contact with Nature, face to face, and not merely as seen through the glass windows of huge pavilions or from the seats of fashion-haunted promenades. Therefore the majority of Western watering-places are not yet spoiled; their physical features have often assisted to preserve them. They have not lost the quaint simplicity of their parochialism, to become national if not cosmopolitan. Constant intercourse with even the most sober of visitors must take something from the provincialism, the cherished traditions and local customs, the personal peculiarities and dialect. But there is still a good deal left; there is still the possibility of reaching Nature in her inmost sanctuaries, and at the same time winning some of those elusive and shy confidences that are the charm of locality.

In this sense Looe, or rather the two Looes, are purely delightful. When we liken the place to Fowey or Dartmouth we must grant it the advantages of being closer to the sea; it stands actually at the mouth of its river, instead of retired within protecting sea-gates. To some extent it has to submit to the tender mercies of the tripper, for Plymouth steamboats are fond of bringing excursionists here; apart from these invasions, the spot is as peaceful as could be desired except by the veriest misanthropist. Approached by rail from Liskeard, the journey is made in leisurely backward and forward stages, the engine being reversed at times; so that passengers, who are requested not to get out till "the train is at rest," sometimes imagine themselves to be carried back to their point of departure. It is an amusing little line, but it serves its purpose; and indeed has a definite usefulness in reminding us that we have come away from bustle and hurry to a region of placid leisure and quietness. Arrived at the journey's end, one at first wonders how the people get in and out of their houses, so higgledy-piggledy do they appear to be piled one on top of the other; but the mystery may be solved by exploring the lanes and allies. Deliveries of produce are still often made by panniered donkeys, in quaint old-world fashion. There are two Looes, East and West, and two rivers of the same name which meet above the bridge. East Looe belongs to the parish of St. Martin's, and West Looe to that of Talland; both were granted a corporation in the time of Elizabeth, and each, before the Reform Bill, returned two representatives to Parliament. The credit of having sent twenty vessels and 315 men to the siege of Calais is given to East Looe, but it may be guessed that all the residents on the banks of the Looe rivers joined in this great patriotic effort. Those were the days of the town's fiercest activities, though its business as a port trading with the Continent endured till long afterwards; and the pilchard-fishery was once more important than it is now. Pilchards now for the most part keep further west. There is still much fishing done, and some small coastwise shipping gives occasional bustle to the rugged little banjo-shaped pier. There was anciently a great animosity between the two Looes, as was natural with such near neighbours; and the two still nourish a lurking contempt for each other, not always successfully concealed. They are at one, however, in their scorn for the pretensions of Fowey. An intense local patriotism, that really cannot tolerate outside claims, is a feature of many Western towns; a man from the next parish is almost as much a foreigner as if he came from "the shires." The two Looes have been brought to an enforced companionship, but they are not mutually conciliatory. East Looe can claim to be the business portion of the town, having the pier and the principal shops, while West Looe is more select and residential. The debate as to the greater antiquity may be left for the two to settle between themselves, but its harbour and pier must long have given East Looe the practical precedence. At the harbour some coal and limestone are imported, and there is a shipment of fish, bark, granite, and china-clay. East Looe boasts a further relic of its past in the ancient pillory preserved at the porch of its town hall. St. Martin's, the parish church, has a Norman door, and a font that appears to be of the same date; there is also a more modern church, St. Anne's, whose dedication recalls that of the chapel which formerly stood on the old fourteen-arch bridge, long since displaced. At West Looe the church of St. Nicholas was once used as a town hall and room for general entertainment, and very curious indeed were some of the amusements that used to come here. Mr. Baring-Gould tells us that when he first saw Looe it struck him as one of the oddest old-world places in England. There was a booth-theatre fitted up, and luring the folk to its dingy green canvas enclosure. "The repertoire comprised blood-curdling tragedies. I went in and saw 'The Midnight Assassin; or, The Dumb Witness.' Next evening was to be given 'The Vampire's Feast; or, The Rifled Tomb.' This tragedy was followed by Allingham's play, 'Fortune's Frolick,' adapted to the narrow capacities of the company. It was performed in broad Cornish, and interspersed with some rather good and I fancy original songs. But surely nowhere else but at Looe could such a reminiscence of the old strolling company-show of fifty or sixty years ago be seen." It is said that there are still queer things to be seen at the annual fair of May 6th, the West Looe "cattle and pleasure fair." But the contact with outside influences has had its natural effect; Looe is not quite what it once was; better approaches have been made, so that the visitor no longer drops sheer upon the roofs of the houses as he did once; the claims of local improvement and sanitation have done something to remove quaint and characteristic features. Yet there are still picturesque whitewashed houses with ragged gables and outside staircases; there are still curious old porches and delightful hanging-gardens where myrtle, hydrangea, and geranium can thrive all the year round. The shops still partake of the dual character that we find in quiet villages, so that the grocer is also the chemist and the butcher is the greengrocer. In one case the grocer has not only a chemist's store but also keeps a circulating library—a charming confusion of trades that enables the visitor to do his shopping within very limited range. The fishing done here, both professionally and as a sport, is fairly considerable; the Looe fishing-fleet often goes as far afield as the shores of Ireland, but when at home the men hang about the quay in the usual fashion of their kind, getting an occasional job with visitors, but more often enjoying that dreamy laziness for which they appear supremely qualified. They have the faculty of gazing long and intently at nothing, and of disputing for hours over subjects of scarcely greater tangibility; but their capabilities and efficiency must not be measured by their customary longshore attitude. Sometimes their wrangling almost equals that of the gulls that clamour in crowds about the small harbour, and that are always on the look-out for refuse thrown from the boats or from the quaysides. A special haunt of these gulls is the little Looe Island lying off West Looe, which is about a mile in circumference and 170 feet in height. This islet, also called St. George's Isle, because a chapel to St. George once stood here, is of great value to the river-mouth as a natural breakwater, and was once of further value as an inestimable aid in smuggling. Traces of the chapel may yet be seen on the summit of the isle, and human remains found here may possibly date from an early Christian settlement; but the prevailing memories of the island are by no means saintly. It was once occupied by a reprobate pair who certainly lived the "simple life" to perfection so far as locality was concerned, but whose simplicity may otherwise be doubted. These were a man named Fyn and his sister "Black Joan," who appear to have been born on the Mewstone, near Plymouth, and who were as wild as their companion seabirds. Their desperate cleverness assisted ably in the running of many an untaxed cargo; and even when a coastguard was placed on the island itself, his vigilance was quite insufficient to baffle them. The smugglers of Whitsand Bay well knew the uses of Looe island, and made frequent expeditions to it. The supposed fishermen of Cawsand did far more smuggling than they did in their avowed avocation, finding it more exciting and profitable; they were joined by many wild spirits from Plymouth, discharged navy men, loafers, and dare-devils. A special kind of galley was built to suit them, ostensibly intended for seine-fishing, but in reality adapted for high speed and easy handling; and these boats often made the journey to and from the French shores, in the face of terrible danger not only from Preventive forces, but from sea and rock. Very often the cargoes were not landed at all from these boats, but were sunk near shore, to be fetched as opportunity offered. Suspicion soon attached to these fleet Cawsand fishing-boats, and when they set forth on their apparently innocent purpose, the coastguard men were in a state of irritated expectancy; they knew too often that they were being fooled, yet their task of prevention was both difficult and perilous. The order used to be sent out that "a rocket and blue-light will be fired from the Ramehead when the galleys go afloat, as a signal to Polperro." Many of the smugglers' tricks reveal invention of a high order. After their own galleys had earned too much of a risky reputation, many having been taken in the act, their owners resorted to the device of chartering French vessels, with which, under certain limits, the revenue cruisers could not interfere. It may be guessed that unscrupulous confederates on Looe island were able to play an important part in such enterprises; so that Fyn and "Black Joan" enjoyed a life of constant excitement, and an unlimited supply of the best spirits. Not many years since the floor of a barn on the islet collapsed, and underneath was discovered a cellar for the storage of such spirits. It will be seen that St. George's Isle fully deserved its share in the evil repute that formerly attached to such islands as the haunt of desperadoes; Lundy, off the North Devon coast, is another instance. It was probably in remembrance of this isle and its chapel that the Looe ship was named the George, of which it is related that, many centuries since, it attacked and captured three French vessels single-handed. But of this, and of Looe's nobler memories generally, there is small record.

In place of such we have an interesting memorial of Looe's former use of the "cage," a companion instrument to the pillory. It is stated that "at East Looe Hannah Whit and Bessie Niles, two women of fluent tongue, having exerted their oratory on each other, at last thought it prudent to leave the matter in dispute to be settled by the Mayor. Away they posted to his worship. The first who arrived had scarce begun her tale when the other bounced in in full rage, and began hers likewise, and abuse commenced with redoubled vigour. His worship, Mr. John Chubb, ordered the constable to be called, and each of the combatants thought her antagonist was going to be punished, and each thought right. When the constable arrived, his worship pronounced the following command to him, 'Take these two women to the cage, and there keep them till they have settled their dispute.'" It is therefore clear that the name of John Chubb must be added to the roll of Looe heroes; and something may also be said for the constable—if he accomplished his mission safely.

There are many beautiful walks to be enjoyed from Looe, one being along the cliffs to Downderry; still more delightful is the walk along the banks of the West Looe River to Watergate, where the luxuriant foliage and the rich undergrowth of ferns are a perpetual joy. Such wooded loveliness is of a kind that we do not usually associate with Cornwall, though it is amply to be found in different parts of the Duchy; it is more like parts of the Lyn or the Wye than what is generally attributed to Cornwall. Another beautiful walk or row is up the east river to Sandplace. Talland also should certainly be visited; it is about two miles from West Looe, of which it is the mother-parish. The church, with its campanile tower, is most finely situated among wooded hills, and contains some beautiful workmanship. There is an altar-tomb of Sir John Beville, 1574; and there are bench-ends bearing Beville and Grenville arms. The families were connected, as we are reminded by the name of the noble Sir Beville Grenville. The transept was formerly known as the Killigarth Chapel; and Killigarth, close by, was formerly the Beville manor, noted in old days for its prodigal hospitality. The house has been destroyed, and a farm stands on the site, retaining the old name. A mile or two inland is Trelawne, another notable Cornish manor associated with one of the great old families. Parts of the house, which is in Pelynt parish, date from the fifteenth century, but a great deal of restoration has been done. The Trelawneys removed hither from Alternon in 1600. Mrs. Bray's novel, Trelawney of Trelawne, gives many particulars about the family and the locality; but this typical Cornish name is now chiefly recalled by the refrain of Hawker's "Song of the Western Men":—

"And shall Trelawney die? Here's twenty thousand Cornishmen Will know the reason why."

Hawker's song, which both Scott and Macaulay took to be a genuine old local ballad, was skilfully woven around those three lines and made to apply to the committal of the Seven Bishops, Sir Jonathan Trelawney, then Bishop of Bristol, being one of the Seven. The ballad had an enormous circulation and reputation, but, being issued anonymously, brought little renown to its author. The refrain is generally supposed, and was believed by Hawker himself, to belong to a popular ballad of the days when the bishops were committed; but it seems to have been earlier still, and to belong directly to this neighbourhood of West Looe. It has been revealed that an earlier Trelawney was imprisoned in the Tower in 1627, and there seemed a probability that his life would be taken. Being much beloved in the district of his home, some one was inspired to write the quatrain:—

"And must Trelawney die, And shall Trelawney die? We've thirty thousand Cornish boys Will know the reason why!"

This circulated rapidly through the Duchy, and reached London, where it is said to have procured the Cornishman's release. It is certain that John Trelawney was committed to the Tower in 1627 by the House of Commons, but was shortly released by order of the King and created a baronet. It is very probable, therefore, that this occasion was really the origin of the much-debated refrain, and that its use was revived by the committal of Bishop Trelawney, if not on other occasions and attached to other names as well. Hawker was not always sufficiently explicit as to the derivations of his poems, and he was guilty of one or two mystifications, some of which still survive in the popular guide-books (such as his story of the "Silent Bells of Bottreaux"); but he cannot be accused on this occasion, as he never asserted that his ballad was really ancient; and he certainly did fine service in embodying and perpetuating the stirring refrain. As Hawker states, he never claimed the chorus, but he did claim the ballad.

But after making all allowance for the beauties and varied associations of the Looes and of Talland, it must candidly be confessed that the great gem of the district is Polperro. From West Looe it is reached by way of Portlooe and Talland; there are daily excursions by brake from Looe in the season. Of course visitors can go by boat if they prefer; the distance is about four miles. The little port was once much more inaccessible than it is now; passengers literally dropped into it by a path part of which was cut into steps; no wheeled vehicle could possibly get down. The houses cluster at the mouth of a deep ravine that runs up to the village of Crumplehorn. Approaching the place by road, Mr. Norway says that "just at first one sees nothing of the town, but all at once it bursts upon the sight as the road runs round a bend, a striking huddled group of houses, cast so strangely into a heap as to produce the impression that they must have been built originally upon the hillside at comfortable distances apart; and that by some slipping of the rock foundations the houses have slid and slid until they can slide no further, but are brought to a standstill in the very bottom of the hollow.

"The confusion of the town is immense. It is a labyrinth of winding alley often ending in a cul-de-sac. But the downward sweep of the headlands is superb; and under the towering cliffs studded with bosses of golden furze lies a little pier and harbour with the sea-foam flying sharply round the jutting peaks of rock before a stiff south-wester, while the gulls wheel shrieking overhead, and out at sea a schooner is labouring heavily." Unfortunately, the cliffs, both here and at Talland, have lately been somewhat disfigured by huge scaffoldings erected by the Admiralty for speed tests; but it takes more than this to spoil Polperro. In spite of its appearance of having slipped, many of the houses look as if they were carved out of the very rock itself, and in some cases their steps actually are so carved. Polperro, part of which is in the parish of Talland and part in Lansallos, remains more lonely and primitive than Looe, for it is not touched by the railway, and its site offers little temptation to expansion. But it is becoming more and more sought after; artists have learned to love it and have introduced it to the art galleries; the inevitable sophistication must follow, just as Clovelly and Robin Hood's Bay have become sophisticated. But nothing can take from Polperro the loveliness of its position at the mouth of this seaward gorge, the beauty of the hills that surround it, the deep, restful blue of its seas. There are three piers protecting its safe little harbour, but even these are hardly enough in times of tempest, and heavy baulks of wood are let down into grooves, further to break the force of the waves. The sea has played a deadly part to Polperro folk in the past, and is ready to do so again. Old Jonathan Couch, the forefather of our present "Q," gives a striking picture of what Polperro used to be like in a storm during the days when he was doctor here, a century since:—"The noise of the wind as it roars up the coomb, the hoarse rumbling of the angry sea, the shouts of the fishermen engaged in securing their boats, and the screams of the women and children carrying the tidings of the latest disaster, are a peculiarly melancholy assemblage of sounds, especially when heard at midnight. All who can render assistance are out of their beds, helping the sailors and fishermen; lifting the boats out of reach of the sea, or taking the furniture of the ground-floors to a place of safety." Every fishing port round the coast knows what such a tempest means, and the horror, the hopeless and helpless desolation it arouses in the minds of the women at home, if it should overtake their men at sea. In these aspects, at least, our shores are still primitive; they still know the primal force of wind and waves: there is no sophisticating, no taming of these. But days are not all of storm and wreckage; there are many times here when the waves lap peacefully against the old stone piers, when the air is soft and delicious, and when the women at their doors, engaged in their everlasting task of knitting jerseys for their men, can chatter of the happiest subjects without dreaming of storm or shipwreck. This is the calmer mood in which visitors generally find Polperro.

Probably not many visitors will trouble to inquire into the derivation of the name of Polperro; they will be content to know that it is Cornish. There would be something to do indeed if tourists were to ask the meaning of every place-name they meet with, and if they depended on local replies their last state would certainly be worse than their first. But an intelligent inquiry into the origin of place-names is always delightful and useful. Pol, of course, is one of the recognised Cornish prefixes; it is simply pool, the Welsh pwll, a creek or inlet or "pill." The perro is supposed to be a corruption of Peter, and the whole name would thus mean Peter's Pool, so called from a chapel to St. Peter that once stood on Chapel Hill. An earlier name was Porthpeyre, which neither assists nor contradicts such a derivation. That St. Peter should be the patron of an old fishing town is only natural. Leland speaks of the place: "a fishar towne with a peere." There are some who say that you really have to walk sideways in Polperro, the streets are so narrow; but that is an exaggeration. Small as the place is, it afforded abundant material to Mr. Jonathan Couch, the country doctor who lived and died here (1788-1870), for his History of Polperro, which is a very charming book; and he further added to the reputation of the town by discovering certain ichthyolitic remains known as the "Polperro fossils." Happily he was a naturalist who recognised that the study of man is an important branch of all natural history; and geologic curiosities, interesting as they are, can hardly compete with the tales of old Polperro privateers and smugglers. Polperro built its own boats as it bred its own seamen, and both were excellent. That they were arrant smugglers was a characteristic of the times and of the locality; it is not for us to judge them. That they were men of piety is proved by the epitaph of that smuggler who prays for the pardon of the Preventive man who had shot him down:—

"I by a shot which rapid flew Was instantly struck dead. Lord, pardon the offender who My precious blood did shed."

They were able to show a clean pair of heels not only to the excisemen but also to the King's enemies; as was proved by the Polperro captain who escaped from right under the nose of two French frigates during our last war with "that sweet enemy, France."

Lansallos, one of the mother-parishes of Polperro, has a finely placed church, useful as a sea-mark. It seems to have been in this parish that a former resident had a very interesting duck-pond. It had all the appearance of being like other ponds, and the revenue officers, who sometimes dined here with their hospitable host, could see nothing in the least suspicious. But, when desired, this duck-pond could be made to swing round on a pivot, and underneath it was a most convenient recess which was an admirable storehouse for such things as it was not expedient for the Preventive men to see. The ingenuity fostered by smuggling was notorious, but surely few cleverer devices than this were ever conceived for the evasion of the King's revenue.