I woke in the middle of the night, got dressed and let myself out of the old building attached to the pub. There was a wind whipping the ivy on the granite wall just outside my bedroom window. Behind it the squat block of Zennor church was silhouetted against the sky; stars burned above it all. The wind makes a consistent low moan as it passed from the west, from over the miles and miles of ocean out there, over Land’s End and over this low cluster of buildings amongst the rocks and heather. Once again I felt that vertiginous sense of deep time around me.
When I wake it’s cold but sunny and the wind has dropped. How the world is transformed between night and day.
It seems apt to be visiting Zennor church on Valentine’s Day to see the place where the story of the Zennor mermaid was born. This is the legend of the mermaid who seduced Matthew Trewelha, a local boy with a beautiful singing voice who sang in the choir at the church.
One version of the story tells how a beautiful woman would come to evensong to hear Matthew sing. It was the mermaid, Morveren, dressed as a woman. As she listened she let out a sigh and he saw her and instantly fell in love with her and she with him. It’s told that she was frightened being on land and made her way with him back to the sea at Pendour Cove (the nearest cove just north west of the village). On the way back her coat got tangled revealing the tip of her tail. It was then that he knew. She turned and told him:
“I cannot stay. I am a sea creature, and must go back where I belong.”
But it didn’t matter to him.
“Then I will go with ye. For with ye is where I belong.”
And they were never seen again. What a story! I’m with Matthew – I could easily be seduced by a pretty face and the immense romance of the sea.
Inside the church is a 400 year old chair with the Zennor mermaid carved into its side. She is holding up a comb and a mirror. Unfortunately her beauty is obscured as her face is no longer there. It reminds me of the many faceless angels I’ve seen in churches all over England defaced by Cromwell’s men.
Someone has created a well replicated wood carving of her with her beauty intact. It’s on the wall at the end of the one room in the Tinners Arms. Last night, as the wind groaned outside, I sat there transfixed watching her holding her comb and mirror, her tail curled, while the fire flickered in the grate.
The Slow Walker 