His name was Howard, and he was the perfect escort to help a family navigate the heritage and winding roads of its ancestral English countryside.
By JANET K. KEELER
Published May 23, 2004
[Times photo: Scott Keeler]
Cornwall, England, is dotted with decaying mines such as the abandoned Crown’s tin mine near St. Just, along the southern coast. The last tin mine closed in 1986, ending a tradition of mining that dated to the Stone Age. Go to photo gallery, includes map
CORNWALL, England - I've never been the type to trust my travel arrangements to a man, but there I was in the backseat of a boxy Renault having relinquished the reins completely.
A man I barely knew was driving, the man I married was in the front seat and the man-child I gave birth to was beside me. Did I mention that I met the driver on the Internet?
A notorious backseat nag, I silenced myself with thoughts of my obituary. Surely we would die on these winding roads barely wide enough for one skinny car. We had hired a guide because neither my husband nor I was brave enough to drive a manual minicar on the "opposite" side of the road.
We were worried about the wrong thing: There seemed to be only one side of the road; a head-on crash was inevitable.
"Lots of people make the mistake of crashing into the hedges" that border many roads, said our guide, Howard Curnow. "There's a 3-foot-wide stone wall hidden in there."
Plenty of slate around these parts for a headstone, I thought.
After a week in London, the three of us were in bucolic Cornwall to do the ancestral-roots thing. My husband's people come from Cornwall's slate country, the area around Tintagel, the legendary birthplace of King Arthur.
We would spend three days buzzing around the countryside with Howard behind the wheel. Lunch each noon was a sturdy meat turnover, called a pasty, eaten in the car or standing in a field. (Picnic note: Do not put hot meat turnovers in a plastic bag lest they sweat and get soggy.)
We soaked up local color at dinner by eating in pubs. (Dinner note: Never order lasagna there.) In between, we saw more of Cornwall than we ever could have on our own or on a more structured tour. Howard found the dank, overgrown church where the distant relatives were married and then guided us to the slate quarry where maternal and paternal patriarchs toiled before finding their way to the quarries of Pen Argyl, Pa. We wore hard hats for the tour of the Delabole facility.
Oh, and we learned some folk songs.
A place apart
Cornwall, the county at the far southwestern tip of England, attracts holiday crowds every summer to its beaches and ticky-tacky seaside towns. Ice cream stands and souvenir shops line quaint, creaking streets, where people and cars seem to be on equal footing.
Roofs that aren't thatched are made of slate shingles and wee blooming flowers are everywhere, in porch pots, window boxes and growing wild from cracks in the roads.
Cornwall has the mildest weather in Great Britain, with summer starting earlier and lasting longer than in other part. The Gulf Stream carries warm water from the Caribbean northward and is, in part, what allows palm trees to grow there. Summer temperatures range from 57 degrees at night to 83 on the warmest days. Europe's best surfing beaches are around the north Cornwall town of Newquay, sometimes called the Cornish Riviera.
About a half-million residents are scattered over 1,400 square miles, an area slightly larger than Rhode Island. Cornwall is nearly an island, separated from the rest of England by the River Tamar. Maybe it is that physical separation that reinforces the fierce independence we encountered throughout the region. The black-and-white banner of St. Piran, the Cornish flag, flutters over buildings and homes and is often plastered on car bumpers and windows. The Union Jack is secondary, in casual sightings.
In recent years, there have been efforts to revive the Cornish language, a Celtic derivation, as is Welsh. The names of many towns reflect the region's Celtic heritage: Crows-an-Wra, Cadgwith, Penryn, Praze-an-Beeble. (Pen Argyl, the small town in the foothills of Pennsylvania's Pocono Mountains, was named by Cornish immigrants. Pen argyl means "head of the slate mountains.")
For visitors looking for substance over surf, there's more than enough. Abandoned tin mines line the cliffs of the northwestern coast and a walk among them is an eerie experience. Steady breezes ruffle the soft grasses and wildflowers that grow along cliffs and around stone buildings. The Atlantic smashes jagged breakers below - and little hands get tighter grips. A misstep would mean disaster.
There has been mining in Cornwall since the Stone Age, with tin, copper, zinc, slate, lead and iron hauled out of the ground at different times. It is said that the tin mentioned in the Old Testament was mined in Cornwall and brought to the Mideast by Phoenician merchants. The mining industry hit its zenith in the 19th century until foreign competition put a permanent dent in profits. The last tin mine closed in 1986.
Ah, but there are older rocks to see in Cornwall. We marveled at Lanyon Quoit, a neolithic burial tomb, estimated to be 6,000 years old. Not far from the southern Cornish city of Penzance and Lanyon Quoit, Howard drove us to the "Merry Maidens," a mysterious circle of stones set in place about 2,000 years ago. The story goes that a single stone about 100 yards away represents an amorous lad chasing the maidens. The gods weren't happy with the shenanigans and the whole lot of them were turned to stone.
How interesting that a thoroughly modern tool brought us to this ancient place.
A Googled vacation
I found Howard by using the Internet search engine www.google.com His Web site was the first to pop up when I typed in "touring cornwall." A series of e-mail exchanges ensued and I found him delightful and slightly eccentric. Who still calls London the "Big Smoke," a reference to the billowing stacks and air pollution of the Victorian era?
And Howard helped me overcome my guilt of being too wimpy to drive.
"Here in Cornwall, in particular, there is so much to see, but if you are concentrating on missing the granite hedges in a 7-foot roadway or the oncoming traffic in a 12-foot roadway, then you will never see 50 percent of what you came to see," he wrote.
Another selling point was Howard's knowledge of Cornwall. He's lived all his life in St. Hilary, pop. 30, just a few miles east of Penzance (as in Pirates of), and he traces his ancestry, on both sides, back 150 years to Cornwall. If anyone could negotiate the nooks and crannies, he'd be the one.
Aware of stories about Internet predators, I did some search, via the Web, before we shook virtual hands on the deal.
I found out that Howard, then 63, is chairman of the Cornwall Wildlife Trust, a group dedicated to conserving the region's natural resources. He is a member of a pub singing group called Cadgwith Singers, which specializes in songs that celebrate Cornwall's history and lament creeping homogenization from America and the rest of Britain.
(He would often sing to us in the car or on the back patio of his home as we gazed across lush countryside. One song spoke to the demise of the region's historic industries: "Cornish lads are fisherman/and Cornish lads are miners,/but when the fish and tin are gone/what are the Cornish boys to do?")
Howard is a bard of the Cornish Gorseth, which means he's a card-carrying protector of Cornish culture and traditions. And he's a planner of protests who once organized a march against a large grocery chain for pushing unauthentic pasties on the public. No peas and carrots, please. A real pasty, as Howard often told us, contains chunks of skirt steak, potatoes, rutabaga and onions, period.
He'd been driving tourists around Cornwall since 1991 and promised us a good time. And for a mere 50 pounds, about $80, we could stay at his house, too. He never said, though, we'd have to walk to another town for dinner.
Goldsithney death march
Howard collected us at the Penzance train station and quickly announced that because our first day together didn't technically start until the next day, we were on our own for dinner. He'd made reservations for us at a local pub because he had plans with visiting family. On the way to St. Hilary, he pointed out the Crown Inn Pub in Goldsithney, not unlike the more than 1,000 Crown Inn Pubs around England.
It looked fun enough for our first night in Cornwall, but as we traveled farther and farther past it, I wondered how we would return. Would we have to drive anyway?
"Walk down the lane to the red phone booth and turn left," Howard said. "Turn right at the school and keep walking until you get to the Crown Inn."
The marquee at the school announced that Puss and Boots would be performed the next Wednesday. I made a mental note about curtain time but wondered if we would make it back in time. It was Sunday night.
We kept walking.
When we got to the top of one big, bad hill, my husband called back, "It's all downhill from here." Yes, until our return to St. Hilary when we had to trudge back up. My plan to look pathetic over Yorkshire pudding in order to get a ride from a local failed. How hearty and stoic these Cornwall people were. Just like my in-laws.
I began to feel like the subject of a tragic poem:
"Mother died in Goldsithney,
Father was married the next day."
Looking for ancestors
It seems there are ghosts all over Cornwall, lurking in abandoned mines, sweeping across the moors, perching on wide seawalls and huddled in ancient churches. Writer Daphne du Maurier lived in Cornwall and her novels, including her most famous, Rebecca, were inspired by the people and landscape. John Wesley sowed the seeds of Methodism in Cornwall, finding many folks eager to break free of the Church of England.
My husband had come with bits of information about places where he might uncover family history. One was the Anglican church in the parish of St. Breock near Wadebridge, which is now mostly known for its 18-mile Camel Trail for walking and cycling.
Though Wadebridge was 50 miles and dozens of small towns north of St. Hilary, Howard knew the church precisely.
When we arrived, the church appeared abandoned. An overgrown cemetery surrounded the water-stained masonry walls, which were nearly black in places. Those headstones that weren't covered in slick moss were leaning so far over that a stiff wind might render them as horizontal as the bodies below.
I figured we'd give the joint the once over and head farther north to the realm of King Arthur. Howard, as we came to expect, had other plans.
The church was not abandoned at all, just locked. Howard and my husband, Scott, scurried up a slippery hill toward the watchman's house, but before they did, it was suggested the 7-year-old and I tramp around the cemetery looking for headstones with family names, including Jewel, Harding and Cowling. The call of the GameBoy almost kept our son in the car, but long, creepy shadows falling on the cemetery made him want company.
We found no family, or many names at all. The elements had smoothed the stones so that most inscriptions were unreadable.
The church smelled of must and dust that may have been present since its dedication in 1259. We sat in the front pew and imagined what the weddings of two brothers who were married on the same day in 1862 might have looked like. Was the church full? Were the dresses gorgeous? Did they do the chicken dance at the reception? Okay, only I wondered that.
Before we could get too swept away, Howard, ever the conservationist, reminded us that we were using the congregation's electricity without paying for it.
From Wadebridge, we went west to Boscastle, a north-coast harbor town with a 16th century quay and 14th century cottages dotting the cliffs. Howard drove slowly along the narrow streets, intent on driving through to Tintagel. Fate, though, had other plans.
"Stop," I shrieked. Above a business, in fading gold letters, I spied "Cowling & Son" written in fancy script. I had no luck on the headstones, but I hit the lottery here.
A woman came out of what looked to be a tearoom, to gawk back at the gawkers. Scott shot up and through the car's sunroof and yelled, "I'm a Cowling. From America!"
"I thought we were Keelers," our son said.
The woman was not a Cowling; the script above the door belonged to the butcher shop that used to occupy the space. But there was a Cowling nearby, she said, an older lady who knew the butcher. Howard thought he knew the lady, so we pressed on, up the hill to a small house perched precariously. Scott disappeared, followed by Howard.
We couldn't get out of the car. Howard had parked an inch from a stone wall and a delivery truck stopped on the other side.
"Who is Dad again?" our son asked.
"He's a Cowling. From America."
We were still laughing when they returned to the car. The genealogy couldn't be confirmed, but the hint of connection was enough to make the stop successful.
If it weren't for Howard
Though Howard pushed us at a brisk pace over moors and valleys, through fishing villages and mining towns, we knew we'd never have experienced anything like it on our own. Especially in three days. (Though I could have gone without sitting on a bench wet with paint while we waited for Howard to get back from the dentist.)
We would never have shared a spot of tea with a women's club in Redruth, a central Cornish town with a Stone Age fort and renovated castle. Howard was the speaker for the monthly meeting. His topic: What makes the Cornish different.
We even took part in the raffle for a package of biscuits.
On our own, we would not have come upon the soccer field in Penryn, where an excavation had uncovered the uneven stone floor of a 13th century cathedral at the College of St. Thomas the Martyr and the Virgin Mary of Glasney. King Henry VIII ordered the dissolution of the church and college in 1548.
We held shards of pottery that were at least 700 years old. It amazed us that the day after we left, the site would be closed and within a week, children would be again running roughshod over history.
On another morning, we drove to a remote site with Howard as he accepted a donation of land to the Cornish Wildlife Trust. Climb the hill, he said, and you can see the ocean. We walked up the moor, gingerly stepping over cow patties, and halfway up, turned and saw the sea, a distant blue. The clouds were chased away by a strong, cold breeze and we imagined what the hillside might look like when the native flowers and grasses returned.
It was a perfect moment when past and future mingled in the present. The stuff of literary inspiration.
And then we saw Howard waving madly below. No time to get poetic. There was something even more magical around the bend.
GETTING THERE: The most scenic way to get to Penzance, Cornwall, is by train from London's Paddington Station. A first-class, round-trip ticket is about $260; standard class is $130. The trip takes about 51/2 hours and there are up to 10 departures daily. Tickets can be purchased before you leave the United States from www.britrail.net Seats on the left side of the train have the best view traveling to Penzance.
TOURING: Howard Curnow's Web site is www.cornwall-tours.com He may be difficult to reach, but keep trying. Be warned that the phone number on his Web site is wrong. The correct number is 44 01736 710116. For three days of touring, about 10 hours each day, we paid $1,100. Lunch and dinner were extra. He offered us four nights lodging at his home for $85, including a light breakfast.
Other operators offering tours for small groups:
* Pixie Tours offers guided tours to major destinations and out-of-the-way places by small van. Web site: www.pixietours.co.uk Phone: 44 01209 714000.
For general information about visiting Great Britain, click on the British Tourist Authority site, www.visitbritain.com or call toll-free 1-800-462-2748.
