Legend Land, Vol. 1 | Page 2

church one Sunday, and
after service he followed her as she walked away towards the cliffs.
Mathey Trewella never returned to Zennor, nor did the lovely stranger
ever attend church again.
Years passed by, and Mathey's strange disappearance was almost
forgotten when, one Sunday morning, a ship cast anchor off Pendower
Cove, near Zennor. The captain of the vessel was sitting idling on the
deck when he heard a beautiful voice hailing him from the sea. Looking
over the side he saw the mermaid, her long yellow hair floating all
around her.

She asked him to be so kind as to pull up his anchor, for it was resting
upon the doorway of her house under the sea and she was anxious to
get back to Mathey, her husband, and her children.
In alarm, the captain weighed anchor and stood out to sea, for sailors
fear that mermaids will bring bad luck. But later he returned and told
the Zennor folk of Mathey's fate, and they, to commemorate the strange
event, and to warn other young men against the wiles of the
merrymaids, had the mermaid figure carved in the church.
And there it is to-day for all the world to see, and to prove, to those
who do not believe the old stories, the truth of poor Mathey Trewella's
sad fate.
Zennor is a lovely moorland village in the neighbourhood of some of
the wildest scenery in Cornwall. To the south-west rugged moors
stretch away to the Land's End. To the north a quarter of an hour's walk
brings you to the coast with its sheltered coves and its cruel cliffs.
Gurnard's Head, one of the most famous of all Cornish promontories, is
less than two miles away. Grim, remote, yet indescribably fascinating,
the country around Zennor is typical of that far western corner of
England which is swept continually by the great health-giving winds of
the Atlantic.
In its sheltered valleys flowers bloom all the year round. On its bold
hill-tops, boulder-strewn and wild, there remain still the old mysterious
stones and the queer beehive huts erected by men who inhabited this
land in the dark days before Christianity.
Gorse and heather riot over the moorland. There is a charm and peace
about this too little known country that compels health and well-being.
Yet Zennor is only five and a half miles by the moorland road from St.
Ives, that picturesque little fishing town that artists and golfers know so
well. St. Ives, less than seven hours' journey from Paddington, is an
ideal centre from which to explore the coast and moorland beauties of
England's furthest west.

[Illustration: The Mermaid of Zennor: Bench End in Zennor Church]
[Illustration]

THE STONE MEN OF ST. CLEER
A thousand feet above sea level among the heather and bracken of
Craddock Moor, four or five miles north of Liskeard, you may find
to-day the remains of three ancient stone circles known as "The
Hurlers." Antiquaries will tell you that the Druids first erected them,
but the people of the countryside know better. From father to son, from
grandparent to child, through long centuries, the story has been handed
down of how "The Hurlers" came to be fixed in eternal stillness high up
there above the little village of St. Cleer.
Exactly how long ago it was nobody knows, but it happened in those
early days when pious saints were settling down in the remote parts of
savage Cornwall and striving to convert the wild Cornish from their
pagan ways.
Then, as even to this day, the game of Hurling--a sort of primitive
Rugby football--was a popular pastime with the people. Village used to
play against village, with goals perhaps four or five miles apart. And
the good folk of St. Cleer were as fond of the game as any of their
neighbours--so fond, in fact, that they would play it on any and every
occasion, despite the admonitions of their local saint and parson, after
whom the village was named.
Again and again he would notice that his little church was empty on
Sunday mornings while the shouts and noise of a hard-fought Hurling
match drifted across the moorland in through the open church door.
Again and again he would take his flock to task for their godless ways
and their Sabbath-breaking games. But it was of little use. For a Sunday
or two they would be penitent and attend service. Then would come a
fine morning, and a challenge perhaps from the Hurlers of St. Ive or
North Hill, on the other side of the moors, and the young men would

decide to chance another lecture from the patient saint, and out they
would go to the hillside to do battle for the honour of their parish.
But even the patience of saints