Legend Land Volume Ii Part 2

Running across the southern part of the heart of wild Dartmoor is a very ancient road. "The Abbot's Way" they call it, and antiquaries hold varied opinions as to when it was made, and even as to where it led to and from. To-day, much of this old trackway has gone back to nature and cannot be distinguished from the rugged moorland across which it pa.s.ses, but some stretches of it survive in a strange green path marked here and there by a boundary stone or a much-weathered Celtic cross.

But the old stories--tales perhaps even older than the road--tell that the Abbot's Way is the favourite hunting ground of the Wish Hounds or Yell Hounds, an eerie spectre-pack that hunts across the wildest parts of the moor on moonless nights.

Strange, gruesome tales are told by those who, benighted or lost in the fog, have stumbled home through the dark of a winter night across the grim moorland. They tell--half dazed with fear--as they reach at last some house and welcome human companionship, of the wild baying of the hounds that drifted through the murk night to their ears, or of the sudden vision of the pack pa.s.sing at whirlwind speed across bog and marsh urged onward by a grim black figure astride a giant dark horse from whose smoking nostrils came flame and fire.

The description of this figure, "The Midnight Hunter of the Moor,"

seldom varies, although stories of the Wish Hounds differ from time to time.

Some say that they are headless, and that their blood-curdling cries seem to emerge from a phosph.o.r.escent glow of evil smoke that hovers about the place where the head should be. Others describe them as gaunt, dark beasts with huge white fangs and lolling red tongues.

Up on the grim wild moors it is not hard at midnight, through the roaring of the wind, or in the stillness of a calm night broken only by the weird cry of some nocturnal bird or the distant sound of a rushing stream, to imagine, far away, the baying of this spectre-pack.

The old country folk hold that the man or beast who hears the devilish music of the Wish Hounds will surely die within the year, and that any unhappy mortal that stands in the way of the hunt will be pursued until dawn, and if caught will inevitably lose his soul; for the dark huntsman, they say, is the devil, whose power is great over that rugged country between sunset and sunrise.

Even to-day some of the older people will tell you stories of escapes they have had from the Midnight Hunter, or of the fate that befell some friend or neighbour very many years ago who never returned from a night journey across the moor.

But grim as it may be after nightfall, the country which the Abbot's Way traverses is one of amazing beauty. You may pick up this old track on the moors a mile or two from Princetown, or strike north to join it from South Brent or Ivybridge station. To the west there is a stretch of it clearly marked near Sheepstor where it crosses the head-waters of the Plym.

Some think the old Way got its name because it was the means of communication between the Abbeys of Buckfast on one side of the moor and Tavistock on the other. Others say it was an old wool-trading track to the west.

Dartmoor all around this district is at its best. It is a riot of rugged boulder, fern, and heather, through which rushing streams, full of trout, flow swiftly southward to the Channel. The Tors here are not the highest of the moor, yet many of them rise well above the 1,500 feet level.

It is a country easy of access, for the Great Western main line skirts the southern edge of Dartmoor between Totnes and Plymouth, and railway and coaching services enable the tourist to visit some of the most remote parts of the moor in a day trip from Torquay, Dartmouth, Teignmouth, or in fact any of the South Devon seaside resorts between Dawlish and Plymouth. But the visitor who wishes to explore Southern Dartmoor at leisure will find Newton Abbot the most convenient centre.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _The Abbot's Way_]

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THE LOST LAND OF LYONESSE

There is a lot of truth mingled with the old legends that tell of the lost land of Lyonesse, a fertile and prosperous country that once extended west from Cornwall as far as the Scillies. According to those old traditions a vast number of villages and 140 churches were overwhelmed on that day, over eight hundred years ago, when the angry sea broke in and drowned fertile Lyonesse, and now, as an old rhyme has it:

"_Beneath Land's End and Scilly rocks_ _Sunk lies a town that Ocean mocks._"

On that fatal day, November 11, 1099, a mighty storm raged all about our coasts, but the gale was of unparalleled severity in the West. Those who have seen a winter gale blowing across the sea that now flows above the Lost Land will know that it is very easy to believe that those giant angry waves could break down any poor construction of man's hand intended to keep the wild waters in check.

For Lyonesse, they say, was stolen by the sea gradually. Here a bit and there a bit would be submerged after some winter storm, until came this grim November night, when the sea made a clean sweep of the country and rushed, with stupendous speed, across the flat wooded lands until it was brought to a halt by the ma.s.sive cliffs of what is now the Land's End peninsula.

There was a Trevilian, an ancestor of the old Cornish family of that name, who only just escaped with his life from this deluge. He had foreseen what was coming and had removed his farm stock and his family from his Lyonesse estate, and was making one further journey to his threatened home when the sea broke in upon it. Trevilian, mounted on his fleetest horse, just beat the waves, and there is a cave near Perranuthnoe which, they say, was the place of refuge to which the st.u.r.dy horse managed to drag his master through the angry waters.

There used to be another memorial of this great inundation at Sennen Cove, near the Land's End, where for centuries stood an ancient chapel which it was said a Lord of Goonhilly erected as a thanksgiving for his escape from the flood that drowned Lyonesse.

To-day all that is left of the lost land are the beautiful Scilly Islands and the cl.u.s.ter of rocks between the Scillies and Land's End, known as the Seven Stones. These rocks are probably the last genuine bit of old Lyonesse, for their Cornish name is Lethowsow, which was what the old Cornish called Lyonesse. Even now the local fishermen refer to the Seven Stones as "The City," for tradition tells that there was situated the princ.i.p.al town of the drowned land, and stories are told of how on calm days ruined buildings may be discerned beneath the waters near Lethowsow, and that in times past fishing-nets have brought up old weathered domestic utensils from the sea bottom near at hand.

A lightship now marks the Seven Stones, and at low water on a rough day the sight of the huge breakers dashing themselves into foam upon the rocks is an awe-inspiring one.

The Scillies lie twenty-seven miles west of Land's End and are reached by a regular service of steamers from Penzance. The journey across is fascinating, and magnificent views of the rugged coast are to be obtained.

And the Islands themselves provide a perfect place for a lazy holiday.

A winter climate they seldom know; flowers bloom right through the year, and sea fishing and boating there are ideal. The Scillies consist of a group of about forty granite islands, only a few of which are inhabited.

Many of the islets are joined together by bars of sand at low tide.

Though in the Scillies you may feel very far away from the great world, quaint, fascinating Penzance, from which you start, is very near--in time--from London. It is only six and a-half hours from Paddington, although over 300 miles have to be traversed in the rail journey.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _The Seven Stones_]

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THE PISKIE'S FUNERAL

The sand-hills that abound near the church of Lelant, by St. Ives, are now famous the world over for providing one of the most excellent golf courses in this country. But in the far-away simpler days, before golf had come south, and when Cornwall was a distant land seldom visited by strangers, the Lelant sand-hills had a different fame.

In those days they used to say that they were the favourite meeting-place of the piskies, or, as folks from other parts of England would call them, fairies. Strange stories were told by the people of Lelant of the moonlight revels indulged in by the small folk in sheltered corners of that great stretch of sand-dunes that borders the Hayle river.

One of the strangest stories is that of a piskie funeral, seen with his own eyes by a respectable villager ever so many years ago.

Old Richard, who witnessed this amazing sight, was returning late one night from St. Ives, whither he had been in search of fish. As he ascended the hill towards his home, he thought he heard the bell of Lelant church tolling. This struck him as being curious, for it was just midnight, so he went out of his way to have a look at the church, in case anything was wrong.

Arriving in sight of the building, he saw faint lights within; and still the bell continued to toll, though, as he noticed then, in a strange way, with a queer m.u.f.fled sound that aroused no echo.

Richard then crept forward to see what was happening. Peering cautiously through one of the windows, he was at first unable to distinguish anything, although a strange light illuminated the whole church. But after a few moments he was able to discern a funeral procession moving slowly up the centre aisle. It consisted of the little people, crowds of whom filled the church. Each piskie looked very sad, although, instead of being dressed in mourning, each carried a gay wreath or garland of roses or myrtle.

Presently the watcher beheld a bier borne by six piskies, and on it was the body--no bigger than a small doll, he said--of a beautiful lady.

The mournful procession moved forward to the sanctuary, where Richard observed two tiny figures digging a wee grave quite close to the altar table. When they had completed their task, the whole company crowded around while the pale, lovely corpse was gently lowered into the earth.

At this moment all the piskies burst into the saddest notes of lamentation, tearing their wreaths and garlands asunder and casting the flowers into the grave. Then one of the midget grave-diggers threw in a shovelful of earth and the most piteous cry of sorrow went up from the small folk, who wailed, "Our Queen is dead! Our Queen is dead!"

Old Richard was so much affected by this that he joined in the cry of lamentation. But no sooner was his voice heard than all the lights were extinguished and the piskies fled in consternation in every direction.

Richard himself was so much alarmed that he ran for his home, firmly convinced that he was fortunate to have escaped with his life.

Lelant Church and the sand-hills remain to-day much as they were on that long-ago midnight when Richard attended the piskie's funeral, but nowadays the country round about has become one of the most favoured, by visitors, in all Cornwall.

Lelant with its golf course, pretty Carbis Bay with its wonderful bathing beach, and St. Ives, beloved of artists and those in search of rest and health, a few miles further on, are all places that exercise the strongest fascination for those who have once visited them. The district is singularly attractive to the tourist; wild, rugged coast or grim moorland scenery is to be found within easy walking distance, while nestling in between the forbidding cliffs are pleasant sheltered sandy coves where one may bathe in safety or laze away the sunny hours, protected from the harsher winds that sweep the uplands.

Large modern hotels are to be found at St. Ives and Carbis Bay, and the sailing and sea-fishing of the Hayle Estuary are as good as any in all that favoured land of Cornwall.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Lelant Church_]