From Devoran to Portreath: the Bissoe cycle trail and Mineral Tramway.

Devoran

Devoran quay, looking out towards Point; Feock and the Carrick Roads, then the English Channel beyond

Yesterday we took our bikes to the Bissoe Trail and did the coast-to-coast trip, from Devoran on the south coast (well, up Restronguet Creek a little, but that’s where the trail ends) via Bissoe to Portreath on the north coast – and back. 24 miles in total; not bad for oldies like us…

When the granite massif of nearby Carnmenellis was produced 300m years ago, the cooling rock left vapours and deposits that became rich veins of metals, principally tin (cassiterite) and copper (chalcopyrite), with some gold, arsenic (technically a ‘metalloid’, a by-product of tin and copper smelting in the later mining period) and other minerals. The Carnon Valley cuts at right angles across these veins, which explains how it became the base of some of the oldest mining activity in the western world.

Devoran

Devoran

The trail follows the route of the old Redruth and Chasewater (now spelt Chacewater) narrow-gauge mineral railway (or Tramway), which opened in 1825, and included several branches. Other lines later completed the route all the way to Portreath. When mining declined in the latter part of the 19C, so did the railway; it closed in 1915. Devoran ceased functioning as a commercial port at that point, and the tidal estuary had already silted up badly.

Devoran was, during the heyday of Cornwall’s mining industry in the 19C, a busy port. Mined minerals,

Devoran

Devoran

mostly tin and copper excavated in the nearby Gwennap area inland, were exported on the ships for smelting in S. Wales. Imports were largely coal to fuel the mines’ steam pumps and other materials to keep the mines operative. Its wooden wharf has largely disappeared, but there survive the remains of ore-storage bins, granite mooring-bollards and various former port buildings.

For a diagram map of the Gwennap mine sites, from ‘Fortune’ to ‘Busy’, ‘Maid’ to ‘Jane’ and ‘Unity’, and many others, with their quaint-sounding but deadly serious Cornish prefixes ‘Wheal,’ see HERE.

Bissoe trail

Bissoe trail passes beneath the viaduct

When tin streaming declined, coinciding with the fall in the price of tin, resourceful mining companies dug under the estuary to extract the remaining subterranean tin gravel. While the laden ships sailed above them, miners toiled 30-40 feet below.

The principal family behind Devoran’s industry was the Agar-Robartes, whose huge estate was at the sumptuous Lanhydrock House near Bodmin – now a National Trust property open to the public.

Carnon viaduct

Original Carnon Viaduct, with wooden supports on granite ‘stumps’ (Wikipedia image)

Halfway between Devoran and Bissoe stands a magnificent viaduct, carrying the line from Truro to Falmouth.  Brunel’s original stumps are still visible below the later, wooden Victorian arches.

It was started in the 1860s. The foundations had to be dug through over nine metres of mine waste material, aka ‘tailings’. These had built up over the

Carnon viaduct today

Carnon viaduct today

decades of expansion from streaming to later deep ‘hard-rock’ mining, and from the construction of the County Adit drainage system.

 

Bissoe is from the Cornish for birch trees. In the 1600s it was a small port at the head of the estuary. Tin streaming activity, using at that time a complex system of leats and sluices, produced so many ‘tailings’ that the valley silted up with this waste material, cutting the place off from the sea.

Nearby is the Point Mills Arsenic refinery. Some imposing building fragments remain, as my picture shows. It closed after 100 years of production in 1939. Arsenic was used principally as a pigment in dyes for the Lancashire textiles industry, and as an alloy with other metals. It was exported for use in sheep-dip, an insecticide and for glass-making.

Bissoe

Mining has scarred and transformed the area near Bissoe

The land itself in places remains scarred and pitted by mining activity, or piled high with waste heaps – now further scored by the tracks of mountain bikers. This wild, bleak moonscape is weirdly beautiful – a far cry from the ‘Cornish Riviera’ images about which I’ve written in recent posts. Yet this is as authentically ‘Cornwall’ as the more famous and picturesque Charlestown or Portloe.

This part of the trail has since 2000 formed the Bissoe Valley nature reserve, 7.5 acres of wetland, heath and post-industrial land. There’s

Old mine buildings nr Bissoe

Old mine buildings nr Bissoe

Old mine buildings nr Bissoeplenty of information, maps, photos, videos, etc. at this website.

It’s teeming with wildlife and flora: dragonflies, damsel flies, birds. No fish, though. The river Carnon is still so polluted by mineral contamination that its mud shines unnatural orange, and the water is eerily coloured as a consequence.

Our dog Bronte, when we were walking here some years ago, didn’t realise there was a river: it’s so overgrown that it looks like a ditch, fell in and was swept away. She was lucky, my wife and I were able to save her. Other dogs since have drowned.

Portreath beach

Portreath beach: my helmet on the wall as evidence we made it

Portreath derives from the Cornish for sandy cove. Tin streaming was recorded there as early as 1602. The mining port’s construction started in the 18C, and expanded considerably in the second half of the 19th. Its purpose was similar to that of its rival, Devoran.

The first ‘railroad’ in Cornwall was the Portreath Tramroad, originally with horse-drawn wagons (steam engines only arrived in the mid-19C), started in 1809, to link with the copper mines at Scorrier and Poldice, near St Day. By 1812 it stretched to Scorrier House, owned by the Williams family who later occupied Caerhays Castle, about which I wrote last time. This family, along with the Bassets (whose Tehidy estate is vast, and now a popular park), made a fortune as pioneers of the Cornish mining industry.

To the south is the site of the old cable-worked, steam-fuelled incline, which linked the harbour with the main rail line at Carn Brea, near Camborne, another busy mining zone until the 20C.

The link between the grand estates like Lanhydrock, Tehidy and Caerhays, the mines and industrial archaeology is constantly apparent when one travels through Cornwall. All along the cycle trail we saw old engine houses, chimneys and ruined buildings.

IMG_4578When we got home this handsome dragonfly was basking in the sun over our front door lintel. I tweeted it to Cornwall Wildlife Trust, who kindly identified it as a female Southern Hawker.

 

 

 

Cornish ramblings again: Portloe, Portholland, Caerhays

My latest posts have resulted from my end-of-holiday travels in this beautiful county of Cornwall as I strive to make the most of my fortunate location before work resumes soon.

Portloe clifftop

Portloe clifftop

On Sunday we went to the Roseland Peninsula, named according to one source after the Cornish for ‘heath’. Its bulk mirrors the landmass around Falmouth, across the Carrick Roads/Fal River estuary that forms its western boundary. Most of Cornwall’s coastline forms part of an AONB, of which the Roseland Heritage Coast forms part.

I recently wrote about my excitement at seeing a chough at Cape Cornwall; I didn’t see any on this trip, but there is apparently a pair that has successfully hatched three chicks in the area this year – the first time since the 1820s: link to the story HERE and for the RSPB Cornish Choughs project and further info see HERE.

PortloeWe started at Portloe, a tiny cove with pretty cottages clustered round its small natural harbour and clinging to the steep valley slopes around. Its name comes from the Cornish for cove pool: ‘porth logh’ (presumably Scots ‘loch’ is their Celtic equivalent). From the 17C it was a busy fishing port, but like most of the Cornish fishing industry (and mining, as I’ve written often before) it declined sharply in the 19C and early 20C. Now just a handful of small working boats survive.Portloe

Overlooking the slipway is the Lugger, a fashionable hotel/restaurant; the Ship is a more homely, less hip pub a few yards up the hill. Smugglers would have landed their contraband in tiny inlets like this, and the Lugger is said to have played its part in the past.

In fact the whole Cornish coastal path, which winds its way all round

Portloe

Looking east towards Dodman from above Portloe

the county peninsula, was originally made by the coastguards and revenue men who tried to intercept the smugglers. It’s a struggle much romanticised in fictional and film accounts; in reality it reflects the hardship endured by many of the people who lived (and still live) in this impoverished rural area, striking a harsh contrast with the privileged minority who owned and managed the mines and harbours.

Watchouse

View from the watchhouse on the coastal path above Portholland

The light in my pictures shows

Portholland

Looking west above Portholland: light changing

typical Cornish summer conditions. Dark, rain-threatening clouds blow rapidly over, pierced at times by bright, hot sunshine. It’s like several seasons passing in just a few minutes. Two miles away it can be raining while we bask under glorious blue skies.

Portholland

Lime kilns at Portholland

On to Portholland, with its tiny cluster of buildings, remnants mostly of lime kiln workings. Typical Cornish granite crags and cliffs loom around the tiny cove.

A few miles on we stopped at Porthluney beach, below the grey ramparts of Caerhays Castle. This curious building sits within a huge estate which passed to the Trevanion family in 1380. The gardens, which cover some 140 acres, were developed by the Williams family since the Victorian period, and are famous for their collections of magnolias, camellias, rhododendrons and daffodils.

The estate’s owners have long been associated with mining (and also smelting and banking); the castle displays the remains of what was once a much larger collection of minerals, collected over the generations from their local mining interests in places like nearby Gwennap, from their overseas mining interests, and from other collectors.

Caerhays Castle

Caerhays Castle

I don’t suppose the men and women who spent their working lives toiling above and below the ground – the hard rock Cornish miners I’ve written about recently – were much concerned with collecting samples of the rocks for the extraction of which they risked their lives and limbs. If they did they would doubtless have been arrested for theft.

With a new series about to air on the BBC based on Winston Graham’s Poldark novels, we’ll soon be invited to marvel at Cornwall’s breathtaking scenery and reinvented heritage.  It’s worth remembering that there’s far more to Cornwall in reality than the chocolate-box charm and the picturesqueness represented on GWR advertising posters and soft-focus historical fiction (‘The Camomile Lawn’ was filmed partly at Portloe). From the hills above Caerhays one can see the spoil heaps of the clay area of Hensbarrow Downs around St Austell, a landscape so scarred by the industry that sci-fi film crews (like those who made Dr Who) have used it for alien world locations.

Just inland from the nearest city, Truro, lies the Mining Heritage Trail, about which I’ll write soon. Crumbling engine houses and ruined industrial buildings dot these landscapes, a visual reminder of the long-gone industries on which the Cornish people once depended. The landscape itself there is pitted and scored, discoloured and ravaged by centuries of mine working.

Webster could see ‘the skull beneath the skin’. Cornwall’s metaphorical skull isn’t even concealed beneath the land: it protrudes everywhere – in the granite outcrops and the hollow engine houses, the thronged beaches and the congested summer arterial roads. It contains Du Maurier’s romanticised Jamaica Inn (and the garish tourist site that has become) and the man engine disaster at the Levant Mine in 1919 when 31 men were killed.

These post-industrial sites (more on them next time) are in many ways more authentically Cornish than the honeypot locations beloved of TV crews and audiences.

And then there are the choughs.

 

St Piran’s Oratory and Church, Penhale Sands

Our Cornish travels continued yesterday. We revisited Penhale Sands, a favourite walk of our much-missed dog, Bronte. It’s years since we’ve been there: seemed too sad without her ecstatic explorations and refusal to acknowledge the presence of rabbits. I’m glad we finally went.

Penhale Sands dunesThe views are terrific. Superficially it’s rather bland – miles of irregularly undulating dunes, now grass-covered, but with sandy trails and rabbit-excavated pits a reminder of what lies beneath the surface – a lot of sand, blown inland for centuries from the long Atlantic-battered beaches nearby.

 

When we used to walk Bronte there, St Piran’s Oratory was just another dune-like bump. Now it’s been re-excavated and it’s exciting to see the 7C stone remains – not spoiled too much by the modern protective block walls.

St Piran's Oratory

St Piran’s Oratory

 

St Piran’s Cornish name is Peran, Latin Piranus, hence the name of nearby resort Perranporth, and many other places and church dedications in Cornwall, Celtic Britain and Britanny. It’s also a popular boys’ name in Cornwall.

 

Piran was a 5 or 6C Cornish abbot, one of many Celtic saints said to have travelled across the sea from Ireland, where he has been identified with St Ciarán of Saigir (apparently the P and K sounds often transpose in Celtic languages).

 

St Piran's OratoryHis legend is one of many hagiographical accounts of saints being preserved from drowning: in one version he was thrown into the sea strapped to a millstone, having angered the pagan king of Leinster (or a group of tribal kings) with his holy deeds. The sea calmed, and he floated safely across to north Cornwall, where he became a hermit, attracting numerous followers – the first of his converts were said to have St Piran's Oratorybeen a fox, a badger and a boar. He soon established his Oratory on the sands near to where he landed.

Another legend claims he lived to the age of 206.

He is also said to have rediscovered tin-smelting, by lighting his fire on a black hearthstone which turned out to be rich in tin ore. The tin smelted to the surface to form a white-silver St Piran's Oratorycross on the black background.

 

Piran is thus the patron saint of tin-miners, and popularly recognised as official saint of Cornwall. The flag of St Piran, a white cross on a black background, is generally recognised as Cornwall’s flag. The colours are said to represent the black ore and contrasting metal of tin – or the light of truth shining in the darkness.

 

It flies proudly at all kinds of Cornish sites, St Piran's Oratorygatherings and functions, from the county council offices to the Gorsedh Kernow, or Cornish eisteddfod.

 

His feast-day on 5 March is marked by a procession and celebration of Cornish culture and heritage, across the dunes to the Oratory. Daffodils are placed there, and a play in the Cornish language has been

St Piran's Oratory

Oratory doorway

performed at the event.

 

The Oratory is possibly an early Christian chapel. It is a small building (approx. 9m x 5.5, according to the explanatory sign outside) with a ‘stone bench, which extends around the interior’, a nave and chancel, which may have been divided by a wooden rood screen.  There are ‘doorways to the south and east’.

 

An early medieval inscribed stone is built into the wall of the building, and the southern doorway was, at some point, rebuilt with ‘three carved heads incorporated into the arch’.

 

The Oratory was first documented by Leland in 1540. It must became covered and hidden by sand in medieval times, and was first excavated in the 1830s, when some not particularly sympathetic ‘restoration’ took place.

St Piran's Oratory

Old photo of a skeleton on the noticeboard by the Oratory; better images on the St Piran’s Trust website

Sand encroached again, and the structure was in danger of collapse. In 1910 a protective concrete shell was built over it. During this work several skeletons were found, including one near the doorway of a woman with a small child in her arms.

 

Because of vandalism, regular flooding and damage caused by treasure-hunters, the Oratory was reburied in 1980. The St Piran Trust was formed in 2000 to raise funds for its re-excavation and preservation, and to promote and interpret the historic sites associated with the saint. The restored structure seen in my pictures was finally revealed again in 2014.

 

St Piran's Church

St Piran’s Church

St Piran’s Church remains are found near to the Oratory. It’s not known when it was built, but its oldest parts have been dated 12 or 13C – though it may have been built on the site of an earlier church. It’s located inside an ancient cemetery.

 

A south aisle and tower were added between 13-16C. In 1804 the encroachments of sand were St Piran's Churchsuch that a new church was built two miles inland at Lambourne, and the fabric of the old one was reused for its construction. The remains fell into ruin.

It was excavated 1917-20, and again, with the aid of St Piran’s Trust, this century. Again their website has masses of useful detail and great images and maps.

St Piran's Cross

St Piran’s Cross

Nearby stands the cross of St Piran, probably coeval with the Oratory (pre-Norman Conquest) and the oldest in the county.

[I am indebted to the information on the St Piran’s Trust website for much of the content of this post. I’d strongly recommend you click on the link HERE to see its excellent gallery of pictures of these ancient sites dating back to the Victorian period and beyond, showing the various generations of excavation, and other fascinating documentation and information – such as an account of medieval relics of St Piran, and an entertaining blog. There’s a separate section on Perran Round nearby, site of a Plen an Gwari or ‘playing place’ – it’s been described as ‘Britain’s earliest theatre’ – about which see my recent post about St Just, site of another one.

 

See also the trailblazing site of Golden Tree Productions for more on plenis an gwari].

 

 

 

 

 

 

Profound personal engagement with place: Kurt Jackson, artist

Yesterday’s post about my trip with my wife to Penwith, in the far west of Cornwall, ended with a mention of an art gallery in St Just: the Jackson Foundation. Kurt Jackson is one of our favourite artists, and probably one of the finest living British painters of natural phenomena – from flora and fauna to land, sea and riverscapes.

Cape Cornwall

Cape Cornwall, looking west towards Land’s End

Looking at his currently exhibited work at St Just inspired us to deviate from our road home to take a look at a place that is one of his greatest inspirations and which features in much of his artwork, and in a video installation that can be seen in the gallery upstairs: Cape Cornwall. I included some pictures of it in yesterday’s post. Here’s another.

 

You might have seen some lovely reproductions of his work at Paddington Station in London some ten years ago, decorating the wooden boards screening building work that was going on there at the time.

The new Jackson gallery

The new gallery that will open shortly at the Jackson Foundation

In recent years his ‘projects’ have been inspired by a particular route – a river, a prehistoric track way, or a workplace and its inhabitants – quarry, mine, fishermen, farmers; a group of fauna or flora – crows, bees, a tree – or just his personal response to a particular place.

His paintings often include written notes on the sounds, wildlife and other sensual influences that pervade his warm, almost spiritual depictions of the scenes in which he immerses himself in order to capture their living essence and biodiversity – their past and present ‘clamour and silence’, as the catalogue describes his ‘This Place’ exhibition.

Born in Dorset in 1961, he graduated from Oxford in 1983 with a degree in zoology; his love for and deep empathy with living things animates all of his work. A year later he moved to Cornwall with his wife, and settled in St Just, on the marginal edge of mainland Britain, a ‘transitional space’, as he calls it, between the the wild and rugged moorland, granite outcrops and craggy cliffs of west Cornwall, and the Atlantic Ocean.

This is how his gallery website sums up his approach:

A dedication to and celebration of the environment is intrinsic to both his politics and his art and a holistic involvement with his subjects provides the springboard for his formal innovations. Jackson’s practice involves both plein air and studio work and embraces an extensive range of materials and techniques including mixed media, large canvases, print making and sculpture…

Three illustrated monographs on Jackson have been published by Lund Humphries depicting his career so far; A New Genre of Landscape Painting (2010), Sketchbooks (2012) and A Kurt Jackson Bestiary (2015). A Sansom & Company book based on his touring exhibition Place was published in 2014.

His passionate interest in psychogeography – the culture, lived history and precarious ecology of our world – is reflected in his numinous work, but also in his involvement with charities and campaigning organisations, from his role as artist in residence on a Greenpeace ship and at Cornwall’s Eden Project (and at Glastonbury Festival!), to acting as ambassador for Survival International. He has also worked closely with Friends of the Earth, WaterAid, Oxfam and Cornwall Wildlife Trust.

We managed to catch his latest exhibition – ‘Place’ – just before it closed – today. It arose from a collaboration with 32 writers from a varied range of backgrounds, and reveals the physical diversity of the British landscape, whilst providing an insight into the concept of ‘place’ – that ‘collective sense of identity, meaning, longing and nostalgia present within the British psyche’, as his website puts it.

Words are provided by writers Robert Macfarlane and Richard Mabey, as well as by scientists, poets, and others, each providing a personal transcript or evocation of a place they felt connected with. Jackson’s pictures are complemented by these portraits and images in words.

Inside the gallery at the Jackson Foundation

Inside the gallery at the Jackson Foundation

The Foundation will close for a couple of weeks now, reopening to house his next exhibition, from Sept. 14: ‘Obsession – Following the Surfer’. Here’s his website again:

Obsession sees Jackson follow his studio assistant on surfing trips around the Cornish coast.

He adds:

“Often it’s argued that the surfer’s path is a spiritual one – this connection between the individual and the wave, the ocean hosting its rider, but what is certain is that it opens the eyes of that person to the natural world, to an extraordinarily beautiful and powerful side of nature that needs respect and admiration and in the long run our protection and conservation.”

This body of work was produced in partnership with Cornwall-based eco-campaigners Surfers Against Sewage to highlight the charity’s work to protect the UK’s oceans, waves and beaches for everyone to enjoy safely and sustainably.

*****

For reasons of copyright I have been unable to reproduce any images of his artwork here, but the links I’ve included will take you to a number of websites where you can enjoy some beautiful representations. If you’ve never seen his work before, I’d urge you to take a look.

Even better, take a trip down to the land of Lyonesse and man engines, where DH and Frieda Lawrence strode the cliff paths, haunt of the ghosts of countless hard rock Cornish miners who lost their lives or limbs extracting the minerals that transformed this world of Celtic fantasy into an industrial, working, living landscape.

Choughs

Painting of Cornish (red-billed) and yellow-billed Alpine choughs, by J.F. Naumann (via Wikipedia)

PS to yesterday’s notes on Cornish choughs:

legend has it that King Arthur didn’t really die: he was transformed into a chough. For this reason it’s still considered unlucky to kill or harm one of these handsome corvids – one of which I was lucky enough to spot at Cape Cornwall yesterday.

Thanks to Fynn, at the Jackson Foundation, for the photos of the gallery interior.

Asides: Cornish choughs, St Just and Cape Cornwall

My long summer break is coming to an end, so my wife and I are trying to make the most of our beautiful county of Cornwall.

Market Square, St Just

Market Square, St Just (Wikipedia image)

Yesterday we drove down to St Just in Penrith – the most westerly of Cornwall’s regions. It’s the most westerly town in mainland Britain, beyond the tourist honeypot of St Ives, and west even of DH Lawrence’s Zennor – about which I posted several pieces recently. It’s part of the Cornwall AONB (Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty).

The town’s name is of uncertain provenance: it might be named after the 6th or 7th C Welsh hermit St Iestyn (Latin Justinus) and said to have been a son of a ruler of the Celtic kingdom of Dumnonia in SW England. This confessor-saint is attributed with the founding of St Just’s namesake village in the Roseland peninsula. In the 15C bones found in the church were said to be remains of St Justus of Trieste, a 3rd C Italian martyr.

It’s a rugged, wild part of the peninsula, with huge granite boulders half-buried in the moorland. Fields host brooding standing stones, and massive crags and headlands jut skywards from the land and over the sea. Many of the field wall-boundaries reflect Iron Age  agricultural systems.

This element-battered scenery was once teeming with industrial activity: the Man Engine pieces I posted recently explain about Cornwall’s mining heritage. Penwith is now a post-industrial landscape, with engine-houses and chimneys abundant on the moors and the clifftops. Levant and Botallack nearby still have buildings and working visible, while Geevor, an 18C tin mine which closed in 1990, is open to the public.

The 1861 census recorded that over 9200 people lived in St Just, but the sharp decline in demand for Cornish copper and tin resulted in mass migration of miners to all parts of the globe. The town’s twins in Bendigo, Australia and Nevada City, USA, reflect this mining diaspora. The current population of St Just is just over 4000.

The St Just plen-an-gwari (or playing place – there’s a village of that curious name just outside of my town of Truro) is a large circular space, encircled by a 2-metre high wall of stone, one of only two surviving in the county. It hosted sports and performances of all kinds, including medieval miracle plays such as the Cornish Ordinalia. John Wesley preached there.

The gaunt granite crags of Penwith are the haunt of many kinds of wildlife and seabirds

Red-billed chough

Red-billed or Cornish chough (image from oliversCornwall website

and notably of the iconic red-billed or Cornish choughs. These once-prolific corvids have been associated with the county since the 13C. Their Cornish name ‘palores’ (meaning ‘digger’ – they probe the ground for invertebrates to eat) nearly became extinct down here, but are now starting to flourish again.

Cape Cornwall

Cape Cornwall: the chimney on top is a remnant of the mine there. Hazy cloud but bright Atlantic light when I took this picture

I could hardly contain my excitement as we walked from the National Trust carpark on to the chimney-capped headland of Cape Cornwall and I saw my first ever wild chough. It watched us approach, then languidly flew off towards the distant hills towards Lands End.

This handsome bird has an ancient association with Cornwall, and features in its coat of arms.

This is from Olivers Cornwall website description:

ARMS: Sable fifteen Bezants in pile within a Bordure barry wavy of eight Argent and Azure.
CREST: On a Wreath Argent and Azure a Chough proper resting the dexter claw upon a Ducal Coronet Or.
Motto ‘ONE AND ALL’.
Granted 5th April 1939.

Old coat of arms for Cornwall:

Old coat of arms for Cornwall: Olivers site image

These ‘bezants’ (an ancient coin, name a corruption of Byzantium) were allegedly raised by loyal Cornishmen (hence the motto) and paid as ransom for the release of Richard, Earl of Cornwall (1209-1272, son of King John), who’d been captured by Saracens. They may also be a visually punning reference to the French for ‘peas’ (pois), as Richard was earl of Poitou.

Duchy of Cornwall crest

Duchy of Cornwall crest

The College of Arms illustration below (from mrssymbols website) shows the shield’s supporters as a pair of choughs (blazoned as ‘beaked and legged gules’), each of which holds an ostrich feather, a badge of the Prince of Wales…The motto below, ‘houmout’, is thought to convey the notion of ‘high mood’ or ‘courage’ (although the similar-sounding German word Hochmut can be translated as ‘arrogance’ or ‘pride’).

Back to St Just, where we had an excellent bowl of broccoli and stilton soup (and a pint of Sharp’s Doom Bar ale – grimly named for the sandbar in the Camel estuary, near to where it’s brewed in Rock) – in the Commercial hotel, one of three (three!) pubs in the market square. I derive disproportionate pleasure from ordering this beer as the locals do: ‘A pint of Doom, please.’

View from Cape Cornwall

View from Cape Cornwall, looking towards the headland of Land’s End

The west of Cornwall has long been associated with the arts – not just in St Ives. There are several good galleries in St Just, and a thriving community of arts and crafts practitioners. We were headed for one that opened just a couple of years ago, featuring the work of one of our favourite local artists: Kurt Jackson. He’s lived in St Just since the 80s, and much of his work  brilliantly depicts the seascapes, land, flora and fauna of this beautiful county.

There’s a useful website about Cornish Choughs HERE; follow them on Twitter @cornishchoughs

Goodness degraded: Anne Bronte’s Agnes Grey

Agnes Grey, by Anne Bronte (she was the youngest of the Bronte children), was published in 1847 when she was 26, in the same volume as Emily’s Wuthering Heights. Being a less potent, poetic or emotionally visceral novel, lacking its gothic passion and sexual charge, Anne’s first novel tended to be overlooked. This is understandable, but I’d argue, despite its flaws, that it’s still worth reading – just don’t expect a masterpiece like WH or Jane Eyre.

The prim, irritating puritanical Christian- didactic tone of Agnes, who narrates, is established in the pedantic opening paragraph:

All true histories contain instruction; though, in some, the treasure may be hard to find…Whether this be the case with my history or not, I am hardly competent to judge. I sometimes think it might prove useful to some, and entertaining to others; but the world may judge for itself. Shielded by my own obscurity…I do not fear to venture, and will candidly lay down before the public what I would not disclose to the most intimate friend. (p.15 – all references to the Penguin Popular Classics edition I read)

Agnes Grey PPC cover

My copy in the cheap and cheerful Penguin Popular Classics edition

It’s based largely on Anne’s own difficult and degrading experiences as a governess in two upper-middle-class Yorkshire families. In the first part of the novel Agnes insists on taking a poorly paid position as governess to the children of the Bloomfield family; her clergyman father had foolishly speculated his savings and lost everything, and her own family was practically destitute. She’s just 18, and naively expects her young charges to be as biddable and respectful as she and her siblings had been. She’s in for a nasty shock:

The name of governess, I soon found, was a mere mockery as applied to me, my pupils had no more notion of obedience than a wild, unbroken colt’ (49)

Seven-year-old Tom is a petty tyrant whose ‘propensity to persecute the lower order’ (he gleefully tortures birds and small animals) is positively encouraged by his doting parents and relatives. The polysyllabic, rather stilted Victorian prose style adopted for the most part by Anne Bronte is apparent here and in my other quotations; it makes the novel rather plodding, exacerbated by the over-earnest moralizing tone – but she’s capable of flashes of vernacular energy and outspokenness, especially when quoting the unruly children’s tantrums.

The novel is largely worth reading for these depictions of fiendish Victorian upper-class children: their cruel, selfish behaviour towards Agnes (and animals, over whom they also claim rightful dominion) reflects and reveals the deep class divisions and of Victorian society. Downtrodden, selfless, shy Agnes has to contend with the oppression and abuse of the children she is notionally in charge of; their portrayal in the narrative foretells what they will become when they grow up – cruel, heartless and feeling as completely justified in their attitudes and amorality as their complacently cruel, socially offensive parents and adult relatives.

That Agnes, in her lonely isolation, does so by reaching for Christian homilies and puritanical submission to adversity is pretty wearing, but the children’s demonic, sadistic nastiness prevents the novel from sinking completely into moralistic tedium.

Outfaced by these recalcitrant, disobedient, almost feral children she digs deep into her store of Christian forbearance and tenacity:

Patience, Firmness and Perseverance were my only weapons (50)

 

– but she secretly longs for a ‘birch rod’ or to have the courage to box the bullying ruffian Tom’s ears.

OWC cover Agnes Grey

The more elegant OWC cover – via Wikipedia

It’s ‘degrading to submit so quietly’ and ‘intolerable to toil so constantly’- but Agnes strives to resist being ‘subdued’. This submissiveness becomes grating, and one longs for a bit of spirit in our grey heroine. It’s a long wait.

Her position with the Bloomfields ends with ignominious dismissal:

I had been seasoned by adversity, and tutored by experience… [I] longed to redeem my lost honour [in the eyes of her family] (84)

She takes a new post with the Murrays – a socially superior family to the Bloomfields. The children in this household are older, but if anything more selfish and unruly than the Bloomfields, because they are more cunning and ruthless. Matilda is a tomboy who swears like a trooper, and totally uncontrollable. Rosalie, at 17, is disarmingly pretty, and aware of it: she’s a dangerous, manipulative flirt. Both are capricious and wilful.

Agnes continues to suffer mortifications and humiliation with ill-suppressed righteous indignation:

I sometimes felt myself degraded by the life I led, and ashamed of submitting to so many indignities; and sometimes I thought myself a precious fool for caring so much about them, and feared I must be sadly wanting in Christian humility, or that charity which ’suffereth long and is kind, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, beareth all things, endureth all things.’ (115)

She has to accept her powerless position, being in a social limbo – neither servant nor  equal to the Murrays. Thus when they return from church together, she has no choice whether she is to walk with the girls or travel back in their carriage:

I liked walking better, but a sense of reluctance to obtrude my presence on any one who did not desire it, always kept me passive on these and similar occasions; and I never inquired into the causes of their various whims. Indeed, this was the best policy – for to submit and oblige was the governess’s part, to consult their own pleasure was that of the pupils. (167)

Title page of the first 1847 edition

Title page of the first 1847 edition

The Murray children, being slightly older, treat Agnes with more contempt and disdain even than the Bloomfields had. Agnes, for her part, can only fall back on her sense of virtue and its superiority to the superficial, outward charms of preening, beautiful, deceitful Rosalie:

It is foolish to wish for beauty. Sensible people never either desire it for themselves, or care about it in others. If the mind be but well cultivated, and the heart well disposed, no one ever cares for the exterior.

So said the teachers of our childhood; and so say we to the children of the present day. All very judicious and proper, no doubt; but are such assertions supported by actual experience? (214-15)

Here at last we see a flicker of spirit in her: she challenges her own moral certitude.

Agnes Grey represents an intermittently interesting use of the first-person narrative, autobiographical voice, as I hope my quotations have indicated. We are largely invited to share the innermost thoughts and suppressed feelings of Agnes. There is very little subtlety in the way this is done: there’s no free indirect discourse or revelation of character through witty dialogue, as in Jane Austen, say. Our narrator claims to be mining her diaries of the time for raw material, and as such the narrative often reads too much like ‘this happened then this, and this is how I felt, though I said nothing.’

But read Agnes Grey for its uncharacteristic Victorian depiction of obnoxious, indulged children and spoilt adolescents (though I know Dickens has some pretty awful children in his novels). Their awfulness is an index of the social injustices and inequalities of which this novel is largely an indictment. The romance part is unconvincingly tacked on to provide a supposedly upbeat ending (that’s no spoiler).

It would be interesting to hear what your views are of this novel, or of the depiction of children in literature: wilful savages if left unchecked (Lord of the Flies), or angelic (Little Dorrit, Little Nell) – any more?

Tom at Wuthering Expectations wrote about the Bronte sisters collectively HERE, and considered Agnes Grey  ‘a dud’; a bit harsh, but understandable.

 

 

Like a heroine in a Victorian melodrama: Patrick McGrath, Asylum

Patrick McGrath, Asylum (first published 1996; Penguin paperback, 1997)

Stella Raphael’s husband Max is a forensic psychiatrist and deputy superintendent of a ‘maximum security’ mental institution closely resembling Broadmoor (known when it opened in 1863 as a ‘Criminal Lunatic Asylum’; famous inmates included Richard Dadd, the artist) in Berkshire, 30 miles north of London. She plunges into a ‘catastrophic love affair characterized by sexual obsession’, with inmate Edgar Stark – said to be a gifted sculptor, but a deeply disturbed individual who developed a delusional jealousy for his wife that culminated in his murdering her, decapitating her and mutilating her head, hence his incarceration and treatment at this institution.

Her story is ‘one of the saddest I know’, states our self-important, stuffy narrator, Peter Cleave, a senior psychiatrist at the institution, who is treating Stark. Later in the story he treats Stella, too, after she has a breakdown as a result of just one too many catastrophes in her life. His narrative, we quickly realise, arises from his over-confident interpretations of what she appears to have told him in their consultations.

The melodramatic gothic plot of this taut, gripping novel is outlined from the start, and it is narrated with tough, even brutal bluntness, as the opening paragraph makes clear, as if to forestall a reader’s desire for suspense:

Four lives were destroyed in the process [of Stella and Edgar’s affair], but whatsoever remorse she may have felt she clung to her illusions to the end. I tried to help but she deflected me from the truth until it was too late. She had to. She couldn’t afford to let me see it clearly, it would have been the ruin of the few flimsy psychic structures she had left.

What kept my attention wasn’t so much this lurid scenario, but the intriguing narrative technique. I’ve not read any other McGrath novels yet, but from what I’ve seen in interviews with him he’s fond of the ‘unreliable narrator’ approach. That’s apparent from page 1, and the extract I quoted above provides a revealing example of how the author exploits this ambiguity and slipperiness in what we have so smugly shown to us by Cleave, the narrator, too confident that his professional insights and self-awareness are superior to anyone else’s – including the protagonist in this affair: Stella.

Note the self-righteous tone of condemnation in the first sentence quoted, Cleave’s implicit suggestion that Stella should have shown ‘remorse’, but instead stubbornly, wrong-headedly ‘clung’ to her ‘illusions to the end’. This is not the objective, impartial analysis of a clinician; it’s McGrath’s carefully planted clue, at the outset of the narrative, that Cleave is biased and probably motivated by his own weaknesses, desires and punitive (of others) inclinations.

This is brought out in his evasive admission that Stella ‘had to’ deflect him from ‘the truth’. That it was ‘too late’ when he realised this alerts us to the novel’s inevitably tragic ending. It was not in Stella’s selfishly deluded interests when the passionate affair with Edgar was taking place, he insists in the fictional present time at which we are to imagine him composing these lines, to let him ‘see clearly’. The implication is that she was mendacious and he was cleverly duped. This leads to the question, how could he, a highly experienced psychiatrist who specialises in manipulative sexual obsessives, let that happen?

Asylum: cover pageIt’s clear that everything that follows represents a version of events that lacks complete veracity or clarity: the narrator’s perceptions are ‘deflected’ by Stella’s devious (as Cleave represents them) manipulations. It’s the tension that this narrative technique produces that’s almost unbearable by the novel’s final stages, and that gives the narrative its ferocious, startling power.

Cleave’s voice increasingly intervenes with nods and winks that are intended to nudge us into concurring with his own interpretations of Stella’s partial revelations, but which cumulatively have the opposite effect. Here’s a random example from the early stages of the affair, when Stella is first attracted to Edgar, and hides away a sketch of her that he’d drawn and given to her:

She kept it in a locked drawer and showed it to nobody, for reasons she was reluctant to look at too closely. Nothing improper was happening on the surface, but she hadn’t said a word about her new friend to Max; and by consistently failing to mention an event of significance in her day she was practising a form of duplicity. She rationalized it. She should have known that deception eventually eats away all that is wholesome in a marriage, and she should have faced this, but she didn’t. She chose not to. From this evasion all else followed.

The similar structure to my first quotation is telling: ‘She had to’ is echoed in ‘She chose not to’. The judgemental, self-pitying tone is again apparent. Those pained, subjective, condemnatory barbs against her: her ‘reluctance’ to look closely at her secretive actions (‘she should have known’ and ‘should have faced them’ is transparently accusatory); the adoption of her presumed inner voice of self-delusion in ‘Nothing improper was happening on the surface’, with the clear suggestion that she’s concealing from herself the ‘true’, explosive significance ‘under the surface’; even that snide reference to ‘her new friend’ is redolent of … well, Cleave’s jealousy. She’s not the only one harbouring a morbidly jealous disposition.

Patrick McGrath in 2008: photo by David Shinbone via Wikimedia Commons

Patrick McGrath in 2008: photo by David Shankbone via Wikimedia Commons

Numerous further examples could be cited. Here, on p. 71, Jack Straffen [see PS below], the institution’s superintendent, tries to warn Stella about Edgar’s scheming nature; this only serves to increase her determination to be vigilant about revealing her true feelings. The narrator provides her interior monologue:

…it was Jack Straffen who was attempting to manipulate her, not Edgar.

But this is Cleave’s anguished projection of how he imagines Stella was thinking at that point; it’s his jealousy again that’s revealed, not Stella’s self-deceptions. Then the voice slips back into Cleave’s own, and his intemperate, unprofessional partiality and jealous bitterness become even more apparent:

Oh, he was cunning, my Edgar. He had prepared her for something like this…

‘My Edgar’ sounds like a twisted (mad?) parody of Jane Austen’s ‘My Fanny’ in Mansfield Park.

A few pages later he reveals his prejudices again. With the narrative now peppered with ‘she said’ and ‘she admitted to me’ to justify his corrosive judgements on the doomed pair, he comes out with this extraordinary statement, after a particularly salacious account of Stella’s exhilaration and terror at knowingly stepping beyond the bounds of the law, society, her marriage and family in indulging her morbid sexual obsession (again this is Cleave’s portrayal of it, remember):

Romantic women, I reflected: they never think of the damage they do in their blind pursuit of intense experience. Their infatuation with experience.

His condescension and misogyny are made luridly clear, while Cleave…cleaves to his own self-deluded sense of outraged, superior probity and moral integrity. His corruption of the concept of freedom into something only deluded, infatuated women indulge in is deplorable.

Except of course he isn’t entirely wrong in his perception of Stella and Edgar. But lovers from Tristan and Isolde to Cathy and Heathcliff have been the subject of more compassionate fictional treatment. McGrath destabilises the reader’s own perceptions and preconceptions of what distinguishes ‘morbid obsession’ from hopeless passion.

Later Cleave says:

At root, I suppose, in spite of everything she loved him, or told herself she did, and women are stubborn in this regard.

His attempt at objectivity flounders immediately as he makes his habitual lapses into sexist generalisation and personal animosity: he condemns Stella because his perception is that in deceiving him she represented womankind’s generic duplicity and weakness – Stella maris, the idealised Virgin Mary, revealed as sexually depraved, intrinsically flawed Eve, who’s woe to man. This is a leap into an obsessive view – a kind of madness – as deluded as Edgar’s or, if she is mad, Stella’s.

As Cleave narrates Stella’s downward spiral into immolation, he brings to light his own, symmetrically similar descent.

I’ll stop there, having gone on longer than I intended. This is a skilfully deployed narrative, and McGrath’s engaging use of it invites us to think we’re wise to Cleave’s duplicity in insisting on Stella’s own devious manipulations of him, but, like him, we don’t fully see it until it’s ‘too late’.

So: the story of mutually destructive sexual obsession that ‘destroyed four lives’ is the ‘surface’ story, but what makes this novel compelling, for me, is that artfully duplicitous, multi-layered narrative voice.

PS.

I note in Wikipedia, where I was reading up on Broadmoor, that a child murderer called JACK STRAFFEN escaped from there in 1952, after which the alarm siren system was introduced. Interesting therefore that McGrath gives his 1959 superintendent, when the action of this novel is said to take place, the same name. Maybe it’s another indication of his questioning of the notion of ‘insanity’ and people who ‘run mad with love’, as Robert Burton anatomises it.

See also: Trevor at The Mookse and Gripes for a slightly more critical view of Asylum

 

Now I am glad and free: DH Lawrence’s response to Cornwall – final part

[5 September 1916, to Dollie Radford,(pen-name of the poet, 1858-1920, real name

View from the moors above Zennor

View from the moors above Zennor

Caroline Maitland), from Higher Tregerthen] The blackberries are ripe: we have made about ten pounds of jam…We have had many many beans out of both gardens, and peas at last…they were very good. But it has been very rainy…The heather is all out on the hills – very beautiful indeed – purple patches. And the young gorse is all in flower again…The bracken is withering, the sunsets are tremendous, almost terrible, the autumn is coming in…The Murrys are both in London.

[In letters quoted in my earlier posts on Lawrence’s letters, he’d expressed his dismay and disappointment at what he saw as the desertion, from the cottage next to his own, by the Middleton Murrys: they found this part of Cornwall too bleak and ‘rugged’, he complained.]

Tinner's Arms, Zennor

The Tinner’s Arms, Zennor, where the Lawrences stayed before moving into Higher Tregerthen nearby. Stopped for a pint of Tinner’s ale there yesterday and took this picture.

[On 11 October L. writes to Murry a conciliatory letter: ‘what I hate in you is an old you that corresponds to an old me which must pass away, the beastly thing. Meanwhile he says he and Frieda continue their ‘long and bloody fight’, but are ‘at one’; ‘it is a fight one has to fight – the old Adam to be killed in me, the old Eve in her – then a new Adam and Eve. Till the fight is finished, it is only honourable to fight. But, oh dear, it is very horrible and agonising.’]

[On 7 Nov. he writes to Catherine Carswell that he wants ‘to go away from England forever’, to go to ‘a country of which I have hope, in which I feel the new unknown.’ In short, to America, which is ‘monstrous’, ‘falser’ than England, but ‘nearer to freedom’. It is less corrupted than England: ‘my Florida idea was right.’ Cornwall as Rananim, it seems, has failed. To Koteliansky he wrote, on the same day, his Rananim, ‘my Florida idea, was the true one. Only the PEOPLE were wrong…I have done with the Murries, both, for ever…So I have with Lady Ottoline Morrell and all the rest. And now I am glad and free.’]

Zennor moors

Zennor moors

[23 Feb. 1917, to D. Radford] The spring is coming also. Yesterday the lambs were dancing, and the birds whistled, the doves cooed all day down at the farm. The world of nature is wonderful in its revivifying spontaneity…the cooing of the doves is very real, and the blithe impertinence of the lambs as they peep round their mothers. They affect me as the Rainbow, as a sign that life will never be destroyed, or turn bad altogether.

[5 May 1917, to JM Murry! So much for ‘I have done with the Murries’.] I have been gardening very hard: made a new garden just above the little one, and planted also a large corner of a potato field – not with potatoes, but carrots, peas, spinach, etc…The primroses and blackthorn are out…

Zennor moors[11 May 1917, to Koteliansky] Today I have been cutting blackthorn and gorse to make a fence to keep the lambs out of my garden. I loathe lambs, those symbols of Christian meekness. They are the stupidest, most persistent, greediest little beasts in the whole animal kingdom. Really, I suspect Jesus of having very little to do with sheep, that he could call himself the Lamb of God. I would truly rather be the little pig of God, the little pigs are infinitely gayer and more delicate in soul. My garden is very beautiful, in rows. But the filthy lambs have eaten off my broad beans. The salads are all grown, and the scarlet runners are just ready for the sprint.

[Poor lambs! They suffer the same transformation of attitude towards them as many of L’s friends, the Murrys especially]

[23 May, to Murry] I have three gardens: the little one, which is a gem: pansies and columbine and fuchsia as well as veg: then the little field at the back…broad beans, etc., spinach, many beautiful rows: then in the field below, peas, beans, etc. I have worked hard.

Zennor moors[29 August 1917, to D. Radford] My garden was so splendid, thirty nice marrows sprawling and rolling abroad under the leaves, festoons of beans and peas, and myriads of sweet-peas and nasturtiums climbing, to say nothing of endive and beet and spinach and kohlrabi and all the rest….on the speckled melon plant there is a big green melon, lovely. If there were sun, it would ripen.

[23 Sept. 1917, to Koteliansky] We have had fine gardens full of vegetables…There has been a curious subtle mystic invisibleness in the days, a beauty that is not in the eyes.

[In October the Lawrences were ordered out of Cornwall by the military authorities, who suspected Frieda of spying. She was German-born, a von Richthofen, distantly related to the notorious air-ace, the Red Baron.]

I shall end this sequence of posts on how the letters of Lawrence reveal his response to Cornwall with this extract from John Worthen’s DHL biography website:

In spite of what he feared would be the fate of his fiction after The Rainbow, in the spring of 1916 he started again on the Sisters material, and – after an enormous creative effort in which he wrote the whole book twice – in November finished the first version of Women in Love.  But it was rejected by every publisher who saw it; the fact that it contained recognisable re-creations of several people (including Russell, Heseltine and the Morrells) did not help.

He and Frieda stayed in Cornwall, living as cheaply as they could; the English Review published the first versions of what would become Studies of Classic American Literature, his pioneering study of the great nineteenth century American writers.  Early in 1917 the Lawrences made another, more serious attempt to be allowed to go to America, but they could not obtain passports…All the Lawrences could now do was live precariously in friends’ flats and country cottages.  In 1917 he completed a major revision of Women in Love; it was the novel which represented his last comprehensive attempt to write for his country, as it examined and characterised contemporary anxiety and conflict.   In future novels, his voice would often – quite consciously – come from the sidelines: he staged guerrilla attacks as well a full-frontal assaults: his writing was goading, insistent, revelatory.

Photographs all my own.

The magic fades: DH Lawrence’s response to Cornwall, pt 3

DH Lawrence’s response to Cornwall, continued: the idyll fades, disillusion and desertion sets in. Extracts from the Collected Letters, ed. Harry T. Moore, Heinemann, London, 1970, vol. 1

[To Barbara Low, from Higher Tregerthen, nr Zennor (all the following letters were written from there), 1 May 1916] It is very lovely here, with the gorse all gone yellow and the sea a misty, periwinkle blue, and the flowers coming out on the common. The sense of jeopardy spoils it all – the feeling that one may be flung out into the cess-pool of a world, the danger of being dragged into the foul conglomerate mess, the utter disgust and nausea one feels for humanity, people smelling like bugs, endless masses of them, and no relief: it is so difficult to bear.

[As my last set of extracts showed, the military and other state authorities had started to show an unsettling interest in this ménage of the Lawrences: Frieda striding around W. Cornwall in brightly coloured mismatched stockings, speaking English in her heavy German accent, their cottage curtains similarly mismatched. Locals suspected this suspiciously unconventional couple were signalling to the enemy submarines which patrolled the waters off the peninsula. Nevertheless, DHL’s outbursts in letters of this time are disquieting, Nietzschean in their contempt – even if it’s understandable he’s so upset.]

Ottoline Morrell

Lady Ottoline Morrell, society and literary hostess, by Baron Adolf de Meyer, platinum print, 1912. Wikimedia Commons

[To Ottoline Morrell, ?4 May 1916] The country is very beautiful, with tangles of blackthorn and solid mounds of gorse blossom, and bluebells beneath, and myriads of violets, and so many ferns unrolling finely and delicately. I have begun a new novel [this would become Women in Love]

[To OM, 24 May] The country is simply wonderful, blue, graceful little companies of bluebells everywhere on the moors, the gorse in flame, and on the cliffs and by the sea, a host of primroses, like settling butterflies, and sea-pinks like a hover of pink bees, near the water.

[To Catherine Carswell, 19 June] I have nearly done my new novel. It has come rushing out, and I feel very triumphant in it.
The Murrys have gone over to the south side, about thirty miles away. The north side was too rugged for them. And Murry and I are not really associates. How I deceive myself. I am a liar to myself, about people. I was angry when you ran over a a list of my ‘friends’ – whom you did not think much of. But it is true, they are not much, any of them.
I give up having intimate friends at all. It is a self-deception. [He goes on to invite the Carswells to stay in the Murrys’ vacated rooms next door!]
It is very fine here, foxgloves now everywhere between the rocks and ferns. There is some magic in the country. It gives me a strange satisfaction.

[Lack of money – L calls it ‘penuriousness’ – is still a problem, and he smarts at the sense of living off the charity of others – but at least he has been exempted from military service.]

[To Barbara Low, 8 July] I should have died if they had made me a soldier… It is the most terrible madness. And the worst of it all is, that it is a madness of righteousness. These Cornish are most, most unwarlike, soft, peaceable, ancient. No men could suffer more than they, at being conscripted…they believe in their duty to their fellow man. And what duty is this, which makes us forfeit everything, because Germany invaded Belgium? Is there nothing beyond my fellow man? If not, there is nothing beyond myself…because I am the fellow-man of all the world, my neighbour is but myself in a mirror. So we toil in a circle of pure egoism…I know that, for me, the war is wrong…To fight for possessions, goods, is what my soul will not do…All this war, this talk of nationality, to me is false. I feel no nationality, not fundamentally…one fights too hard already, for the real integrity of one’s being.

[L is forced to type up the MS of his new novel, and revisions of The Rainbow, himself; he has only £6 in the world, he writes on 12 July. Next day he writes to thank J.B. Pinker for the cheque for £50 he’d received from him.]

[To K. Mansfield, 16 July; she has returned to Mylor, nr Falmouth, on the ‘soft’ south coast. L is benign and adopts a cheerful tone, gossiping about visitors and repairs and improvements being made to the leaking, damp house she and Middleton Murry had so precipitously abandoned. L generously hides his disappointment at this perceived desertion.] The corn is very high, the hay is out…the Tremeada [nearby farm] corn full of the most beautiful corn-marigolds…The foxgloves are really wonderful…full like honeycombs, with purple wells.
[Then his tone shifts:] Really, one should find a place one can live in, and stay there. Geographical change doesn’t help one much. And people go from bad to worse. I think I shall be staring out from Higher Tregerthen when I am a nice old man of seventy.
[He doesn’t try to disguise the rebuke.]

DH Lawrence in Cornwall, pt 2: I feel fundamentally happy and free

So, Lawrence has established himself in his ‘Promised Land’ of Cornwall. He’s aware it’s not Florida, where he’d hoped to establish his Utopian ‘colony’ of artist-philosophers, Rananim, with disciple-friends like John Middleton Murry and Katherine Mansfield (‘truly blood kin’, he calls them in a letter to them of 11 March 1916), but it might be just as good. His longing for a peaceful life is almost palpable. [The name Rananim is taken from his Ukrainian-Russian friend the literary patron and translator Samuel Koteliansky’s Hebrew songs.]

He’s found the cheap rented cottage he was looking for: in Higher Tregerthen, a cluster of houses near Zennor, on the coast between St Ives and Penzance. Temporarily he and Frieda stay in the village inn, The Tinner’s Arms – its name reflects the mining heritage that was the subject of my recent posts on the Man Engine in Cornwall.

His flow of almost daily letters continues. Here’s a further selection; I’ve picked out his revealing descriptions to the local scene, which tell as much about his own state of mind, his hopes and feelings, as they do in evoking the sense of place…

Fields near Zennor:

Fields near Zennor

 [5 March 1916, from Tinner’s Arms, Zennor, to Middleton Murry and K. Mansfield] We have been here nearly a week now. It is a most beautiful place: a tiny granite village nestling under high, shaggy moor-hills, and a big sweep of lovely sea beyond, such a lovely sea, lovelier even than the Mediterranean… To Penzance one goes over the moors, high, then down into Mount’s Bay, looking at St Michael’s Mount, like a dark little jewel. It is all gorse now, flickering with flower: and then it will be heather; and then, hundreds of foxgloves. It is the best place I have been in, I think.
…The place is rather splendid. It is just under the moors, on the edge of the few rough stony fields that go to the sea. It is quite alone, as a little colony.

[He goes on to plead with this letter’s recipients to rent the adjoining house to his, ‘the long house with the tower’, establishing two more friends with them, Heseltine and someone else, it will be like ‘a little monastery’. He even tells them who will occupy which rooms. ‘It would be so splendid if it could but come off: such a lovely place: our Rananim.’ There they could ‘strike some sort of root’ because ‘we must buckle to work.’ There must be no more ‘follies and removals and uneasinesses.’ I find his words here redolent of ‘uneasiness’. He concludes:]
…This country is pale grey granite, and gorse: there is something uralt and clean about it.
[His cottage, he proudly confides, ‘is only £5 a year.’ The larger house next door has a rent of £16 p.a. – chickenfeed, even then. Subsequent letters reveal why they were so cheap.]

[11 March? 1916, Tinner’s Arms, to JMM and KM] I told you all about the house: the great grey granite boulders, you will love them, the rough primeval hill behind us, the sea beyond the few hills, that have great boulders half submerged in the grass, and stone grey walls. There are many lambs under your house. They are quite tame. They stand and cock their heads at one, then skip into the air like little explosions…I’m sure we shall live on at Tregerthen a long while, years, a tiny settlement to ourselves. And the war will end before next summer…
[Yeah, right. More wishful thinking all round here. Even the lambs he later revises his opinion about, as we shall see.]

[Letters at this time relate how he’s been making furniture, cupboards, shelves, etc. He loved throwing himself into physical, manual labour; later he helped his farmer neighbours with harvesting and other farm work. This is all about the ‘freedom’ he seeks, not scenery per se. The first letter L. writes from the two-room cottage at Higher Tregerthen is dated 7 April, to Ottoline Morrell, when he says the JMMs have moved in, too, and they were busy decorating and putting things in order. ‘The Murrys like it also’, he claims – prematurely as it turned out.]

Lower Tregerthen farm, their neighbours

Lower Tregerthen farm, their neighbours

[16 April 1916, Higher Tregerthen, to Catherine Carswell] Here, doing one’s own things, in this queer outlandish Celtic country, I feel fundamentally happy and free, beyond.

[Letters now refer to the ominous wartime threats to this Cornish idyll; JMM is arrested by the police for evading conscription; he’s released when he shows rejection certificate. But General Conscription seems increasingly likely; L ruefully suggests he’d be used as a clerk, and often vents his spleen on jingoists and ‘patriotism’]

[18 April 1916, Higher Tregerthen, to O. Morrell] But one is impotent, and there is nothing left but to curse. Only, how one hates one’s King and Country: what a sickening false monster it is! How one feels nauseated with the bloody life, one stodge of lies, and falsehood. I don’t care a straw what the Germans do. Everything that is done nationally, in any sense, is now vile and stinking, whether it is England or Germany. One wants only to be left alone, only that…I hate the whole concern of the nation. Bloody false fools, I don’t care what they do, so long as I can avoid them, the mass of my countrymen: or any other countrymen.
I feel the war must end this year. But in one form or another war will never end now…It is very beautiful, all the gorse coming out on the hillsides. But one feels behind it all the dirty great paw of authority grasping nearer and nearer of jeopardy…the unspoken question all the time is how long do we hold out.