Out on the moor again

Hooray. Back on Dartmoor for a just-under 7 miler in glorious weather. Clear skies (mainly) and great panoramic views. We started and ended the walk in a car park near Whiteworks, about a mile onto the moor from Princetown - home, of course, of Dartmoor Prison. Here are a few random photographs to add to my collection.


You may be thinking "what a strangely shaped route?". And you would be correct but I'm far too diplomatic to say why. Not that this detracted from the pleasure. Far from it as the added air of mystery was a bonus.

You can just make out 'PCWW 1917'. This is one of the boundary markers for the water catchment area for Burrator Reservoir, which, I estimate, is about two miles from this spot.

Before the reservoir was built, water was taken to Devonport via this eponymous leat. It was built in the 1790s to take water to Devonport and its Royal Naval dockyard. Plymouth was supplied by Drake's Leat. Both leats were 'retired' when the reservoir was built and Devonport was incorporated into the City of Plymouth (along with Stonehouse).
Over its original 28 mile length, the leat fell from a height of about 1390 feet to a level of about 130 feet i.e. it descended 1260 feet, giving it an average drop of 1 foot in 117 feet, less than a 1% slope. Quite an engineering feat over that distance, don't you think? And this gentle slope means that following a leat is always fairly level walking.

This is Hutchinson’s Cross, a modern wayside memorial cross which was erected in 1968 in memory of Lt. Commander B. Hutchinson’s mother who died in 1967. It has been suggested that this cross sits in a much earlier socket hole possibly filled by an ancient cross. On this side of the cross are the numbers 1887 – 1966 are inscribed denoting the ladies life-span and on the other (eastern) side, the letters S.L.H. standing for Sybil L (?) Hutchinson

Four cows and a Tree, giving me much more pleasure than ever Four Weddings and a Funeral did.

Looking towards Sharptor to the west. Blue sky. Vapour trail of a 'plane flying somewhere. Wherever it's bound, I'm not envious. I'm where I want to be.

Looking along the Down Tor stone row. These place are so atmospheric and, unlike Stonehenge, the monuments are not protected and you can touch them, run your fingers over them and connect with them. These were made by someone living and breathing 4000 years ago. Be amazed.

With the stone row and circle to myself, I set about wandering around the stones and chatting to the grazing Dartmoor ponies - just out of shot. We, as in us living in 2018, don’t really know the true meaning of these monuments in granite. I like to leave the true meaning and history to my imagination at times - did our ancestors watch the setting sun in awe and the rising moon in wonder from these markers. I really don’t want to discover that they are, in fact, washing line standing posts where Iron Age underpants were hung out to dry. I want to let my imagination run as wild as the Dartmoor ponies. It's much more fun.

Just a tree on the side of Down Tor. Guess the direction of the prevailing wind! Why photograph trees on Dartmoor? Because there aren't that many of them and they deserve some recognition for their perseverance.

Cuckoo Rock, the meaning of which is subject to many myths and legends. Me? I subscribe to the view that it looks like an extremely misshapen bird standing upside down with its head firmly embedded in the ground. Or something like that. Nowdays the Rock is a mecca for free-climbing enthusiasts. But they weren't there today. Pah, Fair weather climbers.

It's not uncommon to see bits of iron poking out of rocks in the middle of nowhere. Usually these can be rationalised as being a fastening of some sort for a gate. Not so in this case as this just seem possible. Could it be one of the Dartmoor tethers? In days of yore, farmers would ride up onto the moor as far as they could with their horse. But there came a point when the horse could not go any further, in which case the farmer dismounted and tethered his steed to one of these. Obviously, this was only done on regularly frequented routes. Makes sense to me.

The abandoned farm at Deancoumbe. You can make out the foundation of the old mowhay - the barn that was lifted off the ground by granite posts to stop rodents getting at the grain. Some of these are shaped like mushrooms.

Hawthorn berries and hanging lichen. Xmas is coming.

Just look at how clear the water is in this stream. I'd have no hesitation in drinking it as it is.

Looking due south west, you can just pick out Plymouth Sound as a ribbon in the distance. Look very carefully and you can make out the lighthouse on the Eddystone Rock, roughly 10 miles offshore. The visibility must be around 25 miles at this point.

And for those with poor vision and don't believe that there's a lighthouse to be seen, look at this one from my 200mm lens.

Somebody has commented that I rarely show people in my posts. Well, here's the group I spent this 'life is good' day with.

On this day in 1918, Second Lieutentant Alfred James Wills died.

Second Lieutenant 87209
Alfred James Wills
182nd Royal Garrison Artillery
Died 18th October 1918

Age 23

Alfred James Wills was born on 3rd August 1895 at Middlewood in North Hill, one of the three sons and three daughters of James and Jessie Wills. He was baptised at St Torney’s church in North Hill on 2nd September 1895. His father was a bootmaker and the family moved from North Hill to South Petherwin and then to Venterdon, from where Alfred attended Stoke Climsland School. In the 1911 census, he seems to be working with his father as an apprentice bootmaker but this must ahve changed as his given occupation when he joined the army was farm hand/ horseman. In early 1918, before his posting abroad, Alfred married Ethel Annie Jones, also from North Hill, in Launceston Registry Office. Their time together was very short because, within a few months, Alfred was killed. His widow lived until 1990.

Alfred's headstone in the Highland Cemetery at Le Cateau

Alfred’s full Service Record survives and the salient points of Alfred’s military career can be summarised as follows. He was attested (technically enlisted) on 9th December 1915 and posted to the Army Reserve same date. This was a "Derby Scheme" enlistment and was quite normal. Effectively it meant that he had enlisted but his services are not immediately required. He was subsequently mobilised (called-up) on 29th May 1916 and posted to the Royal Garrison Artillery (RGA) depot in Bury St Edmunds. He was appointed as a bombardier on 28th September 1916 and posted to a reinforcements depot on 10th November 1916, making him available for overseas service. He joined the No 423 Siege Battery on 5th May 1917 and applied for a commission and posted to a cadet school in Aldershot in the same month.

After his officer training, on 20th January 1918, he was given a commission in the RGA and embarked for France (Folkestone to Le Havre) on 30th March 1918, where he joined the 182nd Siege Battery on 20th April 1918. The battery was equipped with 6 Ordnance BL 6 inch 26cwt howitzers - the qualifier "26cwt" refers to the weight of the barrel and breech together. These guns needed 10 crew and could fire a 40kg shell a distance of 10km. One source gives that guns of this type fired 22.4 million rounds during the Western Front campaign.



6 inch 26cwt Howitzer of the type used by the 182nd Siege Battery

Alfred’s unit was involved in the Battle of the Selle which started in thick mist at 5:20 a.m. on 17th October 1918. Behind a creeping barrage, the infantry and tanks moved forward on a ten mile long front, south of Le Cateau. Despite tenacious enemy resistance and much uncut wire, the River Selle was crossed during the first day and by nightfall Le Cateau had been captured. The fighting continued into the next day and it is likely that Alfred was killed at this time during enemy counter barrage fire. On the same day two other 182 men (Gunners J Waugh and W Harrison) also died. All three bodies were exhumed in 1920 from a grave location at the entrance to a sugar factory near Inchy, nearly three miles from Le Cateau, and reinterred together at the nearby Highland Cemetery in Le Cateau, a small town in Northern France about 19 kilometres south-east of Cambrai, quite close to the border with BelgiumAll three were identified by their clothes and identifying cross. The inscription on Alfred’s headstone, ‘A loving son, true and kind. A beautiful memory left behind. They will be done’, was chosen by his father, James. The charge levied for these 60 words was 19s 6p.

Alfred’s residual wage and War Gratuity amounted to £81 18s 10p but there is no record of who received these monies.

The official record of the effects left by Alfred Wills

 

I like a good laugh

I was looking forward to a nice Sunday yesterday with the feet up, a bag of Tesco's finest popcorn and maybe watching a box set of Laurel and Hardy’s best screwball slapstick. Had a bit of a hankering for some of the classics of comedy recently. Can’t think why. What I got instead was a nice Sunday watching a poor man’s tribute act of same, only without the humour or the slapstick. Also probably missing the talent, skill and charisma. (sigh) No, Sunday became one of those days where if you didn’t laugh, you’d cry - hysterically.

Seems yesterday’s EU talks between Michel Barnier and Dominic Raab didn’t exactly go smoothly. The outcome? Well it was all a bit on-again/off-again throughout the day, as reports of done deal and no deal kept flying back and forth. The current situation, (so far as we know), is that Mrs May’s plan, (once again), has been rejected. At this moment in time, it appears that the dreaded ‘no deal’ scenario looms just that little bit closer as the parties remain deadlocked. The very bestest outcome of Brexit fudge, (bangs head off table), looking decidedly ropey to say the least. The pending cabinet meeting on Tuesday and the EU summit on Wednesday should prove to be fairly…. tense…. affairs.

Advisory note: It’d be well worth readers’ time, at this point, to stock up on popcorn around now. You may not want to miss a second of what happens next and running short on snacks would never do. Also? After Brexit is finalised, stocking up on anything may prove to be a bit of a problem.

Probably also worth mentioning that for swathes of the population, Brexit of any description may look beyond grim.  Soft, medium, hard and any other buzz term you care to mention, would be basically the equivalent of putting lipstick on the proverbial pig.

Just to recap, and as far as I’m aware, there was no agreed definition of the terms of Brexit prior to, or during, the EU referendum. No exit strategy in place by either UK government, or the leave campaign. Not even a negotiating stance. The deal was subsequently described however, as going to be “one of the easiest in human history”. How’s that working out for those around now, do you think? More importantly, how is it working out for you?

On this day, 22nd December 1915, Private Percy Jenkin was killed

 Percy Jenkin was the first of the three sons of James and Mary Jenkin/Jenkins who were killed in the war. He was born in 1893 in Lower Downgate and was baptised at his parents' house on 19th October 1893 as part of the Callington Methodist Circuit. The family moved to nearby Kelly Bray quite soon thereafter. By the time of the 1911 census, Percy was working as a live-in waggoner at Manaton Farm in South Hill, about two miles from Kelly Bray.


Entry in the 1911 Census for Manaton Farm, South Hill.

Percy’s military career began when he enlisted in the Duke of Cornwall’s Light Infantry at Launceston on 5th December 1914. Initially he joined the 9th Battalion at Falmouth but had transferred to the 7th by the time he had landed in Boulogne on 27th October 1915. From there, his battalion moved to the front line around Armentieres where preparations for the Battle of the Somme were underway.

Within a matter of two months Percy was killed on 22nd December and a poignant newspaper report dated 15th January 1916 tells us: "It is understood that Private Jenkin had been in the trenches for nearly six weeks and had obtained leave to go on a journey of one mile to procure and despatch a Xmas greeting card for a little friend of his at Golberdon. The card, accompanied by a letter to the child’s parents, intimating that he was in good health, was dated on the day of his death. So it is assumed that on his return to the trenches he was killed. Private Jenkin will be greatly missed and his genial disposition won him high esteem and many friends".

The report of Percy Jenkin's death that appeared in the Cornwall and Devon Post of 15th January 1916.

An enlargement and enhancement of the photograph of Percy Jenkin from the above article.

Percy lies buried in Plot K7 at the Y Farm Military Cemetery at Bois-Grenier, a village just to the south of Armentieres.

Percy's headstone at the Military Cemetery.

 As well as being commemorated on both the memorials in Stoke Climsland, Percy is also remembered on the Golberdon Memorial. He had been connected with the Wesleyan Church there and its Sunday School. As the newspaper reported "his general disposition won him high esteem and many friends".

Golberdon War Memorial.

 Percy had left his effects to his brother and sole legatee, Alfred. He received the sum of £5 14s 10p (worth approximately £500 at today's rate) on 25th February 1916, comprised of £2 4s 10p cash and £3 10s War Gratuity. The War Gratuity was introduced in December 1918 as a payment to be made to those men who had served in WW1 for a period of 6 months or more home service or for any length of service if a man had served overseas. It was calculated based on the actual length of service.

Form recording the dispersal of Percy's effects.

 

 

Just Dahlias.

Just Dahlias. They speak for themselves. It's been a good year and they are still coming along. I think Mrs P has supplied most of the district with bunches and several people are picking their own from tubers we have given them. Very satisfying.

When is enough, enough?

The nightmare is knocking at the door. The ultimate worst case scenario - everything that Better Together told us back in 2014 that only a No vote could protect us from -  is in the street, peering in through our windows, rattling our doors, about to get in. Boris Johnson as Prime Minister presiding over the hardest Brexit imaginable. It’s almost upon us. The next few weeks could be defining ones for us all. If Boris Johnson becomes leader of the Conservatives, it means that the Tories have, to use Johnson’s own widely condemned words, strapped a suicide belt around us all.

It’s not just that Johnson is a liar and a cheat. It’s not just that he is a serial philanderer with a history of treating women with contempt. It’s not just that he makes blatantly racist statements.  It’s not just that he has consistently lied about the EU.  It’s not just that he has been a global embarrassment every time he holds public office. It’s not just that he has no principles other than the advancement of his career. It’s not just that the only thing larger than his ego is his sense of entitlement. It’s not just that he could beat Donald Trump in a narcissism contest. It’s not just that he demands a fantasy Brexit without any concern for jobs, for the economy or for its effect on ordinary working people. It’s not just that he has no constructive plan, only a destructive one wrapped up in a Union Jack. It’s not just that you can list all those failings and shortcomings and the career of the boorish Johnson carries on unimpeded, which all by itself points to a deep and intractable structural failure at the very heart of the British political system.

It’s all those things and more. Boris Johnson is dangerous. Boris Johnson is how fascism will gain entry into the centre of the British establishment, as a “character”, masquerading as a cheeky chappy as he stirs up racism and xenophobia while cutting public services and privatising everything that’s not nailed down.

There are rumours swirling around Westminster that the hard line Brexitists could make a move against Theresa May within the next few weeks. They already have the number of MPs they require in order to trigger a leadership election but they’re only holding off because they’re uncertain that they have enough to topple May. Here we are, weeks away from the deadline when the UK needs to have a serious and credible proposal on Brexit to present to the EU in order not to crash out with no deal in March, and both the Conservatives and Labour are far more interested in settling political scores within their own parties than they are in avoiding the looming cliff edge.

It’s very easy to sit back, snarkily and sarcastically, demolishing the claims of politicians without offering any solutions yourself. It can be amusing and entertaining to play with words and to make ridiculous comparisons for comic effect. It is, after all, what I sometimes do in this blog. The difference, however, is that I don’t want to be Prime Minister and I don’t get paid £275,000 a year for it. That’s what the Daily Telegraph pays Boris Johnson for allowing him to use their newspaper as a platform for his political ambitions, polluting the body politic with his opportunistic careerism. His suicide vest column appeared in the Mail on Sunday, which no doubt has also paid him handsomely and which profits on the clicks, page views, and increased publicity which the controversy has generated for them. But what Boris Johnson doesn’t do is to tell us what he would do with the power that he so blatantly craves. That’s what is really offensive, plus the fact, as Johnson personifies, that the politics of the UK are determined and defined by those who crave power for power’s sake. Not by what the people need.

Theresa May, her Conservative Brexist opponents, and the Labour party, none of them have a plan for Brexit. Not one of them. That’s offensive. That’s what the media and the public should be getting upset about, not about a boorish careerist’s boorish choice of boorish words. What’s offensive is that the grouping of far right Conservatives who seek to bring down Theresa May’s government at a time of political uncertainty, as the Brexit clock is ticking to midnight, are still unable to agree on an alternative plan. What’s offensive is that even now, even at this time of crisis when time is running out, British political parties are still incapable of putting the interests of the people of the UK before their own naked political ambitions.

What’s really offensive here isn’t that Boris Johnson compared Theresa May’s Brexit strategy to strapping on a sucide vest, the real offensiveness is that over two years after the Brexit vote those who pushed for an exit from the EU still have no coherent plan. What’s offensive is that they’re telling us that contingency plans are being made to deal with social disturbances. What’s offensive is that the Labour party is tearing itself apart over the definition of anti-semitism when it’s the definition of leadership that they really ought to be worried about.

And what’s most offensive of all is that this shower of selfish careerists who substitute their ego for principles are telling us that they know best and we should trust them. The countdown is not just ticking away on Brexit, it’s also ticking away on the UK itself. There’s only so much offensiveness we can take: when is enough enough?

There is a word for this government..

And the word is kakistocracy 

Theresa May’s government continues to set new standards or, to put it another way, plumb new depths. There you were, thinking that David Davies had smashed all world records for clueless Secretaries of State and then along comes the Northern Irish secretary Karen Bradley.

This week, she admitted that she didn’t know that the electorate in Northern Ireland votes along sectarian lines. Speaking in an interview with the in-house magazine of the Houses of Parliament, Karen presented this nugget of insight, or more accurately, presented herself as a nugget. “I didn’t understand things like when elections are fought, for example, in Northern Ireland – people who are nationalists don’t vote for unionist parties and vice versa. So, the parties fight for election within their own community.”

In terms of grasping the nuances of the political landscape of Northern Ireland, that’s very much like admitting that you didn’t realise that hills are the high bits and valleys the low bits. It’s like admitting that you always thought baby oil was made from actual babies. It’s like thinking that Greenland must be covered with a dense rainforest because otherwise it would be called Iceland. I could go on in this vein but I'll spare you. I will tell you, however, how old she is. She's 48. How could anyone of that age with political aspirations not understand how Northern Ireland works? Where has she been hiding?

This clueless individual is now changing the rules relating to elections to Stormont, to prevent another election in the near future. She’s not doing this out of concern for the well being of the people of Northern Ireland, she’s doing it because the British Government is terrified that if there is an election soon, the people of Northern Ireland, frustrated and angry as they are with the Brexit process, might very well elect a majority to Stormont in favour of reunification.
To paraphrase Albert Einstein. “Two things are infinite. The universe and the stupidity of the Conservative party.”  If there is indeed a purpose to the rank cretinosity (?) of this Conservative government, it can only be to test our anger management skills.

Everyone is entitled to an opinion, this is true. But that doesn’t mean all opinions are equal. It may be your opinion that the Moon is made of green cheese or that the Earth is flat, but that doesn’t make your opinion as valid as the opinion of a professor of geology or astronomy who has actually studied the processes of formation of the Earth and its Moon. It means you are a perfect candidate for a position in Theresa May’s cabinet. The opinion that no deal is better than a bad deal is the flat Earthism of modern British politics. Unfortunately we can’t send them off to the Moon where they can make trade deals involving all the cheese there. We’re living in a kakistocracy, which is a system of government that is run by the worst, least qualified or most unscrupulous citizens. Or, to put it another way, government by the shittiest.

There is however a serious point here. Quite clearly Karen Bradley was not selected for her job because she was the best qualified person to deal with the sensitive and delicate issue of Northern Ireland. A Northern Ireland which is poised on the brink of a hard border with the Republic and the destruction by the British government of the settlement which has underpinned peace in the province for the past 20 years. She got the job because of internal political manoeuvering within the Conservative party. Quite frankly, that is an outrageous dereliction of duty by the government. Her appointment makes it abundantly clear that this Conservative government has precisely the square root of zero's interest in doing what is right by Northern Ireland.

To make matters worse, it is obvious from the antics of a Labour opposition which is so wrapped up in internal feuding that it cannot make a dent on the polling of even this government of kakistocrats that it offers no relief, no escape route. That’s because they are kakistocrats too.

With a government and an opposition of kakistocrats, we’re all left covered in crap. British politics are irretrievably broken.

Whitsand Bay walk: Rame to Tregantle

Bank Holiday Monday. What to do? A bit more of the Cornish Coastal Footpath, that's what. For this stretch we went a little closer to home and tackled one of the two remaining segments we had to do to complete the south-east Cornwall portion. We took two cars, left one at the end, then drove to the start in the other and walked back. It was a just under 5 miler along Whitsand Bay from Rame Head to Tregantle Fort. A clear, quite sunny day and one that was ideal for a walk along the coast. And it delivered exactly what we were expecting from the day.

Here's the route. Really easy directions, just head west with the sea on the left hand side. Just under 5 miles and, as the profile shows, with a few ups and downs. About 1/3 of it was along a road but a road with sea views all the way so that wasn't a distraction. Oh yes, I will mention that we had a choice of two watering holes at about the half way mark. The View and the Clifftop. We chose The View and very good it was, too. With a view.

The lump to the left of the more discernible spike in the middle distance is where we started the walk. The lump is the lookout on Rame Head and it was originally one of the Lloyds Signal Stations. It was used to send messages to passing ships using flags during the day and, often less successfully, lights at night. By 1905 radio signalling had rendered visual forms of communication obsolete and the building was converted into a radio station. Some time around 1925 it was converted into a Coastguard lookout and is now run by the National Coastwatch Institution.
The spike is a chapel, now a ruin, is dedicated to St Michael in common with many other mediaeval chapels in high, rocky places. The chapel was first licensed for Mass in 1397 and is thought to be on the site of a Celtic hermitage. It used to be a place of pilgrimage from the nearby Maker church and there is a tradition of lodging coins between the stones of the chapel in memory of sailors. I put one there for my dad shortly after he died.

This stone by the side of the path, inscribed with WD and 1867, is a boundary marker from the War Department. The War Department eventually became the Ministry of Defence (MOD). The upward-pointing "broad arrow" symbol above WD began as a 16th Century mark for the government's property that later appeared on prison uniforms and military equipment. Although it is no longer used by the MOD, it is still a criminal offence to reproduce the symbol on goods without authority. One of my uncles worked in the Army stores and my tool box still has several 'broad arrow' spanners in it. Maybe I should return them? 

Looking due west along Whitsand Bay, with Looe Island in the distance. It gets sandier further on and, despite the steep climb down to the beach, it is a very popular place.

Polhawn Fort faces out over the beach and was built in the early 1860s to defend the eastern approach to Whitsand Bay. It was armed with a battery of seven 68-pounder guns. A design flaw was that its exposed left side could be attacked from the sea and this was not as heavily fortified as the front which faces onto the beach. Were they expecting an attack from the sand-castle builders?  Rather than improving it, its role was taken over by the batteries at Tregantle and Raleigh (Torpoint) and Polhawn was abandoned by the MOD in 1928. The building survives as an exclusive hotel and upmarket wedding venue.

The warning sign was more dramatic than the actual route. At no time did I (we?) feel that we were venturing along anything remotely dangerous.

This part of the cost is dotted with little huts, chalets and shacks hugging the cliffs. It is known as 'Plymouth by the Sea' as it is a popular place with residents of the nearby city. They might not look much, and many of them do not have main services, but they fetch a good price when they come up for sale.

It was a clear day and the lighthouse on the Eddystone rock was quite visible, as was the stump of the previous lighthouse built by Smeaton. The top part of the latter is now part of the iconic panorama of Plymouth Hoe. The inset shows the relationship of the two. At this point, they are about 8 miles off-shore.

On the cliff at Tregonhawke overlooking Whitsand Bay we came across this simple stone Celtic cross keeping alive the memory of a 150-year-old family tragedy. It is inscribed:
In the beloved memory of Edward Spender
Aged 44 years
And of his sons
Reginald and Sidney
Who were drowned whilst bathing
Beneath this cliff
On Whit-Sunday June 9 1878
Edward died while trying to rescue his sons, Reginald, aged 13, and Sydney, aged 11. The family legend, or so I've read,  is that they died by being trapped in quicksand. However, members of the local surf lifesaving club think that a rip current is a more likely explanation.

 

Tregantle Fort (in the distance) was one of many erected by the Royal Commission established by Palmerstone - they came to be known as 'Palmerstone's Follies'. It was built between 1858 and 1866  and was to guard the western approaches to Plymouth. Originally it was intended to house 22 breech loaders (7 inch), 13 rifle muzzle loaders (64 pounders), 10 smooth bore breech loaders (32 pounders) and 26 other mounted guns. However, it was never fully armed and by 1882 there were only six gunners in a fort equipped for 1000. One gun was fired, experimentally, in 1886. The fort was used as an infantry barracks as early as 1891. The associated rifle ranges were built in the early 1900’s following its change to an infantry battalion HQ. It is still used as a firing range so, beware, when the red flags are flying. 

As a bonus, at the end of our walk we pooped into St Germanus's church at Rame. St. German is known as the fighting German Bishop who is supposed to have landed nearby when he came to England to suppress the Pelagian Heresy in AD 400. (Wikipedia says: Pelagianism is the belief in Christianity that original sin did not taint human nature and that mortal will is still capable of choosing good or evil without special divine aid. This theological theory is named after the British monk Pelagius, although he denied, at least at some point in his life, many of the doctrines associated with his name. Pelagius was identified as an Irishman by Saint Jerome. Pelagius taught that the human will, as created with its abilities by God, was sufficient to live a sinless life, although he believed that God's grace assisted every good work. Pelagianism has come to be identified with the view that human beings can earn salvation by their own efforts. But you knew all this already, didn't you?) 
The church is considered to be one of the best mediaeval churches in Cornwall but there was an earlier Norman church which pre-dates the present building, which was enlarged and rebuilt in the 13^th Century. 
Those with a keen eye will admire the  slender unbuttressed tower with its broached spire, both unusual features for a Cornish church - or so I read.

The church has no modern utilities such as electricity, gas or water and is still lit by candles during services. We haven't been to one but I think we really should. Illumination is achieved via these rather quaint broom-stick candle holders at the end of the pews.

Stained glass window dating from the early 20th Century.

Looking up the aisle through the rood screen towards the Norman font. Lots of lovely woodwork, which was being polished by two volunteers when we were there. More candle holders in evidence everywhere.

I wonder who Donald was named after? Was he related to the great man? Did he, Donald, hate his parents for giving him his middle name? I think I would have. Even Norman is better than Horatio.

And our next stretch? Well, it's got to be filling in the gap between our finishing point on this walk and Downderry. About 6 miles and something we'll have to plan when the firing range is not in operation.