The Boundary between Devon and Cornwall on the north: Kilkhampton and its Association with the Grenvilles: Morwenstow and the Rev. R. Hawker: Tonacombe and Kingsley: Stowe: the Battles of Stamford Hill and Lansdowne: Tennyson and Bude: the Neighbouring Churches: a Female Dick Whittington.
Kilkhampton
The coach-road from Clovelly Dykes to Bude crosses Woolley Downs, but the border on the north is the little stream that runs into Marsland Mouth. The cliff paths with their fine views and the wonderful colour of sea and sky—such colour as elsewhere only the Mediterranean gives us—are the more interesting of the offered ways. Inland lies Kilkhampton, by the Tamar, with its church of St. James, the south doorway of which is one of the richest specimens of late Norman work in the duchy. But, more interesting than the finely carved choir stalls, numerous good bench-ends and doorway, is its connection with the family of Grenville, who, descendants of the Norman dukes, lived in the parish for six hundred years, and built the church. "Never a Grenville lacked loyalty" was the saying, and the sons of the old house at Stowe proved it by confiscated property and lives laid down. From Stowe came old Sir Richard who, with his little "Revenge," fought the fifty-three galleons of Spain.
"God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world before?"
From there came his grandson, gentle, gallant Sir Beville, who after his last stand against the Parliamentarians on Lansdowne, was brought back to lie in the old church of Kilkhampton; and from there, ruined and exiled for the sake of the last worthless Stuart, went out Sir Beville's younger son.
By Sir Beville lies his wife, the Lady Grace, for whom the epitaph to be seen in Minster Church might have been written:
"He first departing, she a little tried To live without him, could not and so died."
The Earls of Bath, descendants of the Grenvilles, are buried in a vault below the south aisle, but two hundred and fifty years have passed and the name—it is a Marquisate now—is Thynne (of the Inn), nor is the head of the family a Beville. The servant who brought back his master's body sleeps at Stratton. A huge man this Anthony Payne, seven foot two in his stockings! When he lay dead in the Tree Inn so large a coffin was required that it could not be got into the house. He and Sir Beville may be dead and buried, but their lives have been woven into the talk of the countryside, and the traveller has only to ask a discreet question or so and he will hear of the great deeds of old.
Morwenstow
The main interest of this part of the country—the extreme north—is centred in the tiny hamlet of Morwenstow with its thatched inn and its association with the Rev. Robert Hawker. He was no stranger when he came, for his father had been vicar of Stratton and lay buried there. For long the son, fearing the sadness of old associations, refused to preach in the sister parish, and when at last his reluctance was overcome and he stood in his father's pulpit it was only to hesitate and break down. He explained with faltering voice, "I stand amid the dust of those near and dear to me."
Morwenstow is reached from Marsland Mouth by the Henna Cliff (The Raven's Crag—and Welsh legend hath it that King Arthur was changed into one of these birds, though the Cornish say, a chough), from which is obtained a magnificent view of that wild coast, Dizzard, Cambeak, Tintagel, and Pentire, rising one beyond the other in shades of blue deepening to purple. The Norman doorway of the church, which like that of Marhamchurch is dedicated to St. Morwenna, is crowned with zigzag and chevron mouldings which are surmounted by a range of grotesque sea-faces—mermaid, dolphin, whale, and so forth. Mr. Hawker tells how the old piscina was found and reinstated. "The chancel wall one day sounded hollow when struck; the mortar was removed, and underneath there appeared an arched aperture which had been filled up with jumbled carved work and a crushed drain. It was cleared out and so rebuilt as to occupy the exact site of its former existence. It is of the earliest type of Saxon architecture, and for all we know may be the oldest piscina in the land."
The church roof is of wood, and shingles of rended oak occupy the place of the usual tiles. "Outside the screen and at the top of the nave is the grave of a priest. It is identified by the reversed position of the carved cross on the stone, which also indicates the self-same attitude in the corpse. The head is laid down toward the east while, in all secular interments, the head is turned towards the west."
On the south side of the churchyard—as in so many along this ruthless coast—are the graves of wrecked sailors; and Hawker, a great-hearted man and to some extent a poet, was foremost in rendering the last kind offices to the dead. Over forty men, the crews of three lost vessels, lie here, while the figurehead by one lot of graves is that of the brig Caledonia from Arbroath in Scotland. No wonder ships give these stupendous cliffs as wide a berth as possible. An occasional steamer is sighted, some tramp in search of cargo goes hurrying by, but, as a rule, the wide expanse is empty of surface life, a fact which is both noticeable and suggestive.
On a spot where he had seen the lambs sheltering from wind and weather, Mr. Hawker built the vicarage. With one of his personality as architect, it was impossible it should quite resemble any other manse; therefore it is not surprising to find that in the chimney-stacks he has reproduced the forms of certain church towers that he admired, while inset over the doorway is the distich:
"A house, a glebe, a pound a day, A pleasant place to watch and pray, Be true to Church, be kind to poor, O Minister for evermore!"
Tonacombe and Stowe
Not far from Morwenstow lie—or rather did lie, for though Tonacombe still preserves its original design, Stowe, near Coombe Valley, the home of the Grenvilles, was unfortunately destroyed in 1715—two old manor-houses. The former, which was built in the fifteenth century, has a fine stone-floored hall with timbered roof, old open fireplace, and minstrel's gallery. Some of the rooms, which have lattice windows, are panelled, and Charles Kingsley stayed in this "in some respects the most remarkable mediæval house in the west of England," while he was writing "Westward Ho."
Of far greater interest, however, is Stowe (Anglo-Saxon for a stockaded place), at one time a magnificent building. Of it only the moat remains, but when Sir Beville rose for Charles I., many a Cornishman, who in his boyhood had stayed at Stowe, practising arms under the eye of Anthony Payne, rose with him.
The Battle of Stamford Hill
To Stratton, a little south of Stowe, came in 1643 the Parliamentarian General, Lord Stamford. The cavaliers, not then very prosperous, but gallant gentlemen all, were lying at Launceston, and the Roundhead made the mistake of underestimating their strength. Sir Ralph Hopton and Sir Beville Grenville marched the twenty miles from the capital town without more food than a few biscuits. Intent on intercepting and driving out the intruder, they found when they reached Stratton late in the evening that he had entrenched himself strongly on a neighbouring hill. As he had the advantage in numbers, having about twice as many men and must know that they were tired, hungry, and in poor condition, the Royalists stood to their arms through the short May night in momentary expectation of an attack. Their leaders were at one of the Poughill cottages—they bear date 1620 and are still to be seen—and Sir Beville, while he waited anxiously, must have wondered how it had gone with wife and children, over above in the moated and stockaded house of Stowe.
Lord Stamford, however, did not take advantage of his enemy's weariness. No doubt he thought it would be more convenient, as the country was unknown to him, to scatter the little force by daylight. At any rate he sat still on the top of the hill and did nothing. In the grey dawn, therefore, the Royalists, the fiercer for their hunger and sleeplessness, decided not to wait any longer. Since he would not come down they must go up. Dashingly they attacked his entrenchment, doggedly they continued the fight. After nine hours of it, word was passed round that their scanty store of ammunition had come to an end. But they were nothing daunted. Grimly and in a strange silence they made the last assault; and this time were successful, the leaders of the four narrow columns meeting at the top of the hill. As they did so, Lord Stamford, who had looked on from a safe distance, set spurs