The traveller

Once upon a time there was a lion, slightly cross-eyed, but solid and made of bronze.

His life was not what many people would call exciting. He spent his time on a large brown wooden door at the entrance to a house outside Nicosia. When people came to the door, they lifted the large ring in his mouth and knocked, sending a sonorous sound reverberating through the house.

The thing he most loved, apart from being important and guarding the front door, was the view. His house stood on a hill and had a wonderful view northwards towards the Kyrenia hills. He could watch the sun, wind and rain changing the patterns of the landscape and see the sinking sun illuminating the mountains at evening time. Up there great Crusader castles ringed the mountain tops reminding him of the history of the island. The Venetians had ruled the island for many years and he was clear that he was a lion of St Mark, the emblem of their power.

But new people came to the house. He was not sure about them, especially the new lady. She insisted that the porch behind him should go. The walls were pulled down revealing four square sandstone pillars, bringing light to the rooms within. His door came down. The lion was not sure that he was keen on this idea, especially when he heard that he was not going to be fixed to the new green door. What would his future be? Was he going to be melted down and turned into shell-casing or, worse still, into a cooking pot?

He need not have worried. He found himself attached to the wall under the canopy where he could watch people coming and going, avoiding the indignity of grubby hands swinging on his knocker. He could still enjoy the wonderful view even if he could no longer announce their arrival.

He gradually became accustomed to his new position. The family certainly made lots of noise and seemed to attract cats, of whom he naturally approved, and a rather lovely small brown dog. The latter had a habit of chasing the cats although never quite catching them.  

Time passed and the family started packing up to leave. The lion had great hopes that he would be replaced on a new wooden door where he could once again command all and sundry: but no, he was packed up and found himself on a long journey.

There were ups and downs: months spent in darkness and in lofts. Occasionally he was brought out and mounted on a wall so he could watch the countryside: at other times packed away. A black and white dog replaced the brown one and the children grew up. The smells, sounds, temperatures and copperness of Cyprus were a distant memory.

Eventually he found himself once more on a wall. The air was salty and the wind often bitterly cold but he had command of a small yard where a range of bushes and flowers thrived and brought colour and delight. Once more he had importance and could watch the comings and goings. The lady who had had him taken off the large door was still there, older but still recognisable and still talking to him. Lucky holey stones made of flint hung from a cord tied around his knocker.

He watched the lord and lady of the house get older and saw the children grow up and produce children of their own. Often these new cubs would pause alongside him and he would hear again the story of his life being passed on to them. He knew that, like them, he was a member of their family.

The lion realised that the feelings of rejection that he had felt all those years ago had turned to love and affection. He was a treasured remnant of a time gone by, valued by the family.

Then there was only the lady. He began to worry about what would happen to him if she left. He had heard talk of junk shops and even rumours of a return to Cyprus but his heart was now with the family. To return to a country he had left over fifty years ago held little appeal although he occasionally hankered for the sound of the cicadas and the smell of rosemary and pines on the hot breeze.

One day he found himself being packed once again and all his familiar fears came to surface. There was nothing he could do. After a journey he once more tasted the salt on the wind, heard the seagulls' cries and felt the wind on his face.

He recognised the people around him: the children who had grown up, the grand children and even regular visits from the old lady. In front of him was a creek and a garden. Once more he could watch the comings and goings from a position of retirement next to a front door. Beneath him was protective stone griffin - a very distant cousin - helping guard the entrance from unwanted intruders.

All would be well after all. Home was where his family was.

There is an essential copperness to this area, he thought. I may be bronze, but this is a place that values copper and tin. I feel at home here and continue to feel valued.

And with that thought the lion settled down to his familiar duties of watching and thinking, mulling over his past.

If an answer is required, don't even think of knocking. Our lion is far too venerable to make a loud noise.

The Coffin Path

A bright sunny post-Easter weekend persuaded us out to one of the loveliest stretches of the SW Coast Path near Zennor. This also gave us the opportunity to discover the Coffin Path, another of the ancient trackways of West Penwith. It turned out to be a good decision as the walk was lovely.

We parked in a small car park beside Trevalgan Hill and set off over its crest, past the very simple plaque remembering local artist Peter Lanyon, towards Trevalgan farm and eastwards onto the Coffin Path heading for St Ives.

'Coffin Path' is an unusual name for a path which links together a series of farmsteads; faintly macabre in a way. Tradition has it that vicars encouraged such straight tracks to their churches in order to attract the living and the dead, both of whom could provide money to his living. This may be true but seems rather mercenary.

In some parts of the country the route taken by a coffin traditionally became what we now think of as a right of way.

The landscape is ancient: the field boundaries consisting of massive boulders which must have been moved there by Bronze Age or Iron Age people (or, if you prefer it, the giants of W Penwith). The soil is thin and the bedrock shows through in places. It is a land suitable for cattle and sheep.

There is a real sense of continuity of occupation and agricultural husbandry on the landscape. The sites of the farms have probably been occupied since those early times, having been handed down through families. These are simple Celtic farms and the path is a natural linkage between them. The fact that the path also leads to a church would have been a bonus, guaranteeing a steady traffic on at least one day a week.

The path is very easy to spot. Some black and white posts mark the next hedge-crossing where as often as not there is a lovely granite cattle grid stile. The ground was dry and did not require our stout walking boots.

There was a faintly unnerving moment when we had to leave the path and head left to meet the Coast Path, a turning that we probably missed. We eventually found ourselves heading westwards on the Coast Path, comforting ourselves that D H Lawrence probably walked this way during World War I. He and his German-born wife lived in Zennor although we are ashamed to say we do not know in which house.

One farmer has diversified into holiday accommodation and there were signs of 'tourism' which, while not unwelcome, do manage to confuse. We suspected that the stone circle on the cliff edge and a couple of the 'standing stones' were distinctly 20th century additions. But a standing stone is a standing stone and must be revered.

This is a wonderful stretch of coast, hard going with some stiff ups and downs over large boulders but with dramatic scenery, crashing surf and the occasional inaccessible beach of black sand. Somewhere in the surf, the black head of a seal could sometimes be spotted checking up on the walkers above.

Eventually, we reached Zennor Head and turned inland to the village itself. An essential component of any A-Z of British place names, Zennor is compact, rugged, unyielding and well-cared for. The church of St Senara is one of Simon Jenkins' 1,000 Best Churches in England, rated one star. Cornwall does well in this book with 30 churches.

The greatest delight is, of course, the mermaid carving on the bench-end but the church has a rough simplicity of its own with bare stone walls and few comforts. Outside is a fine wheel-headed cross.

We ate our lunch out of the wind, using the coffin rest as a table. It is good to see that the two seats on either side have armrests for those needing to rest after carrying a coffin along the path.

Nothing in Zennor is light-weight, every stone looks to have needed the strength of several men to lift them into position. To men like that, a coffin would have seemed light.

Narrowly avoiding the lure of the Tinner's Arms whose siren song was as powerful as the mermaid's, we headed back eastwards onto the Coffin Path past five settlements. The area is rich in mysticism and magic and some of the groves we passed through were redolent of Madron Well further south. Overgrown and ruined masonry was covered in ivy and moss. A small well, now dry, was all there was to show of past activities.

Turning off at Trevessa, we made our way back to the car and homewards, revelling in having discovered yet another lovely part of this county.

The Coffin Path is highly recommended. If you do not want the long version, there is a short cut which delivers a 5 mile walk which includes Zennor.

We walked 8.7 miles in 4 hours. A map of our route is here (click on Coffin Path if it is not highlighted) and some pictures are here.