A Poem for National Poetry Day 2017

It's National Poetry Day today and the theme is Freedom. So here's a poem on that subject from my collection Breadcrumbs, which is published by Indigo Dreams. 















Longships

for CB


We arrive 
hunched under history

dragging our pasts 
like phantom limbs,

stop 
when the land stops

Beyond sorrel, wild madder, gorse
cloud and sea touch,

a blind dissolving 
into nothing,

this last slab of granite 
becoming the first 

Put down your things, 
you say. Catch hold my hand 

Dance 

Dance 

©Deborah Harvey 2016

 

 

Artwork by Dru Marland

Kilgoodh Ust

What's the other side of the stile?

Why, this.  Cape Cornwall - or in Cornish, Kilgoodh Ust, goose back of St Just.  

Lovely, isn't it?  In fact, the only thing that could make it more gorgeous would be the permanent installation of this.

But it's not all wild beauty.  Like Dartmoor, this landscape is post industrial.  In the Kenidjack - or Nancherrow - valley alone, a little to the north, there are eight former mines. And this is what remains of the Kenidjack arsenic works. Nice. 

On the cliff top at the far side of the valley are the ruins of Wheal Edward and West Wheal Owles (which were in fact used during the filming of Poldark and thus justify my inclusion of a photo of the rugged and picturesque Aiden Turner).

You can't even wander around without being warned about the past. 

Most prominent of all is the mine chimney on Cape Cornwall itself, part of the less imaginatively named Cape Cornwall Mine. We were privileged to visit during the annual Flying Ant Day. 

Until the first Ordnance Survey 200 years ago , Cape Cornwall, where the great Atlantic currents divide, was considered the most westerly point of Great Britain.   There are good views from here to the usurper promontory, Peal Point (now known as Land's End), four miles to the south. 

There are also some perilous-looking paths right at the very edge of the cliff. Danger of Death EVERYWHERE. 

Being a bit of a history buff, Ted was also interested in St Helen's Oratory, which dates back to Romano-Christian times (approx 4th century).   

The ancient cross on the gable end of the chapel was found nearby. Apparently another cross, with a chi-rho monogram, was discovered in the mid-19th century, by the John Buller, the Vicar of St Just, and taken back to the vicarage, but unfortunately his successor threw it down the well and it has never been recovered. Ding dong dell.

To the Ends of the Earth ...

... or at least Land's End, mainly because the Northerner hadn't been there.

'There are no service stations in the whole of Cornwall,' I announced en route. 'Though there are lots of snack vans. The more St Piran's flags they fly, the dodgier the food.'

With that, a brand new service station hove into view.  There was a McDonalds, Subway, Costa Coffee and not a flag in sight.  On the plus side, the toilets are designated in English and Cornish.  No one speaks Cornish - at least not as their native tongue.  I love that. 

'Cornwall! I hear you have a chough problem. Well, worry no longer. Chasing a speciality.'

Sez Ted. 

No choughs at Land's End -not that we saw, anyhow. Lots of jackdaws, though. 

'Psst. Bonio!'

'Do you mind? I am being romantic!'

If Dartmoor and Bodmin are the granite spine of the West Country, are these the toe nails?

Looking towards Irish Lady and Pedn-Men-Du in the middle distance, with Cape Cornwall and the Brisons in the distance.

A Tor by any other name ... or Dartmoor-on-Sea. 

Dancing at the end of the earth

Longships and the lighthouse in the background. 

The Peal

Enys Dodnan

After all that wondrous beauty ... 

... it was time to go to the pub in Sennen.  Let's call it the first pub in England, rather than the last, eh?

A quick visit to Minack Theatre along the coast where some youngsters were battling the elements with a few scenes from A Midsummer Night's Dream, delivered rather woodenly.  To be fair, they were up against it. (I made a mental note to come and see The Tempest here.) 

 Porthcurno. No Teds allowed. 

Then a dash across the toe-hold to Zennor and the Church of St Senara, with its circular, pre-Christian churchyard.  






Senara was wrongly accused of adultery by her husband, a Breton King, and tossed into the sea in a barrel.  She was visited by an angel whilst floating off the coast of Cornwall and gave birth to a son who, funnily enough, also turned out to be a saint.  Are you thinking Danaë and Perseus?  Yep, me too.  

In the church tower there are some interesting gravestones.  One has a lovely engraving of the four winds on it, and another covered the grave of Matthew Thomas who was killed at the age of 44 in Wheal Chance tin mine in 1809.  But of course we, like everyone else, were there to see the Mermaid Chair.  And here it is.

Close-up of the Mermaid?  Oh, all right then. 

Really, the story of the Mermaid is that of Mathey Trewella, a fine young man and the best singer in the parish.  He caught the attention of a woman who for many years had periodically visited the church in Zennor, yet never seemed to age at all.  She too had a beautiful voice that was the match of his.  One day he followed her and never returned.