Tintagel

 Blog 4:

Tintagel, England, UK 2022

What is the first thing to come to mind when I say the word, "England?" If it has something to do knights of the round table, Kings that pull swords from stones or castles with drawbridges, then you are my kind of people. 

Since I was a small child, I have been in love with England for its medieval romanticism. Of course, naturally, as an adult, I realize just how romantic the time period was not. As a small child, all I had to go on was cartoons by Disney. Then Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves, featuring Kevin Costner as an Englishmen with an American accent came out, confusing. Great job, Alan Rickman, you were the best. In 5th grade though, it all changed for me. I watched First Knight with the gallant Lancelot portrayed by Richard Gere and the ever-handsome Sean Connery, playing none other than King Arthur. But wait, those two were not the star of the show. Julia Ormond, my Sabrina, was the perfect Guinevere. With her long-braided hair, quiet demeanor and the ability to control not only a King, but an entire army at her will. While I understand that all three movies were wildly inaccurate, especially the cartoon based on a fox taking down a cowardly lion, who doesn't enjoy a good story that features good, evil and a love triangle. 

As many of you know, King Arthur was a myth.  They can't actually prove that he existed. Just as we can't prove that many historical or religious figures existed. It's history, mythology and scripture that tell the tales of such heroines and villains. But I didn't care about the politics or what was accurate or a bunch of a hullabaloo. The first appearance of Arthur and Camelot (Chamalot, Camaalot, Kameloth...etc) actually was written in a poem by Chrétien de Troyes, a French poet. Yes, this was a myth, created by a French poet, not English, in the 1170's. The poem was called Lancelot, the Knight of the Cart. Wait, it wasn't even titled Arthur. What! 

Regardless of which male character won the title of most crucial to the myth, I loved the stories for how they made me feel. In fifth grade, were asked to either write a book report or make a diorama about a topic we were learning in class. I opted for the opportunity to write a play, make props and act it out. I loved acting the part of the fair maiden. I would dress up like Guinevere every chance I got. Granted, as a ten-year-old, I didn't understand that my dresses were fair more suited for the Lillith fair than the 12th century court. But that idealism I held for the time period and far-fetched love stories, in fact, one of the reasons I grew my hair out so long for 5 years in my thirties. I finally had Guinevere hair. Yes, I'm a nerd, we already established this. But embodying this strong female presence, made me feel invincible. She was not only was a great queen to her people, but was a great wife, prior to the whole falling for Lancelot thing. In a world where the stories rely heavily on men and their greatness, with women rearing children and tidying up the home in the background. I felt inspired and embolden to be a woman who could wrangle a King and land herself a knight all while running her own kingdom. Or would it be queendom? 

Down a rabbit hole I went, sorry, I'm back. The reason I was so excited to visit Cornwall, before I learned of everything else to come, was to visit Tintagel. What's Tintagel, you may ask? In Cornish, it is Tre War Venydh or Trevena, or Village on the Mountain, was settled as a mining town during the Roman times. At the time, with the abundance of trading materials, the houses were elegant European housing. Once they vacated the towns, still abundant with tin, the new Anglo-Saxons, lived well and prosperous in their exports. Tin and copper mining were very lucrative in Cornwall for centuries. 

But the name of the town and the now castle has little to do with the legend of tin and copper miners. Rather, it's a dilapidated castle that was known to be the birthplace of King Arthur. No, not the birth of the myth exactly, but where his mother enduring labor with no drugs, brought this great myth of a man into the world. A man who would eventually rule the great kingdom of Camelot. I was actually not aware that Camelot was not said to reside in England until many years later. Actually, it was stated to be in the current country of Wales. Yes, I can hear the groans of every cynic out there, the English take everything. Maybe, or maybe not. While we consider this to be English, the story is hailed from the 5th Century and therefore before England, Wales, Scotland or Ireland even existed. So, we will call the area what it is today, Great Britain. Share children, share. But who am I to argue. I fell in love with the story watching a Scottish man playing King Arthur, an English woman playing Guinevere and an American playing Lancelot. I was not about to judge.

It was a bleak day in September, when we arrive at Tintagel. At first glance, it was just another small seaside town. The drive from the Cotswolds was mostly back roads. We try to avoid the bland highway scene as much as possible when we travel. Eventually the somewhat suburban met rural. There we were greeted with a narrow, single-lane, high hedge roads, where our lives were in the hands of fate at every turn. The experience was both terrifying and exhilarating. Once we exited the hedges, my breath was practically sucked out to sea by the view of the open ocean, the hills of farmland, and dotted villages along the coast as we drove closer to the main attraction. 

The town of Tintagel was small, but mighty. Built by tourism and pretty quiet during the month we arrived. A most cloudy and highly windy September day was not the most suited for an ocean-side village. I can only imagine that the streets were bustling during the summer months. But on this day, we had the whole place to ourselves, minus the locals who ran their year-round shops necessary to basic survival needs. These were pubs, bakeries, artisan shops, a bank, a post office and a few gift shops that didn't close during the off-season. While I wanted to go into every available shop, per usual, I had only one thing on my mind. I looked over at Nick and said, " just park anywhere, its pasty time!" 

For all of you Americans that have no idea just how amazing a pasty is or what a pasty is (CLICK FOR RECIPE,) please let me enlighten you.

This hand-held food item was traditionally made from left over scraps from dinner, generally consisting of potato, beef, cheese or lamb. Whatever, really, the world is your oyster. (Thought I don't recommend using oysters in your pasties.) Then the ingredients were wrapped in a heavy, yet flaky dough, baked golden to perfection and ready to go wherever your feet could take you.

What made the pasty so popular to those who were living in Cornwall were their accessibility. The twisted crust that wrapped around the bottom of the pastry. No, it wasn't made as an ornate crust, but rather a safety mechanism. As stated before, Cornwall is famously known for tin mining practices. They mined for tin and copper throughout the bronze age. Tin had many practical uses for simple household items. Many still used today. In fact, in the 19th century, 2 million tons of tin, as well as two-thirds of the world's copper and half of the world's arsenic came out of Cornwall alone. Quite impressive for a peninsula at the southernmost point of England. We will be visiting some abandoned Tin mines in the next couple of blogs, so I don't want to go too far into detail. Instead, I'd rather leave you in suspense. 

The point of me mentioning the tin mining, was to point out that with all that Arsenic by product, the danger of poisoning oneself was quite high. The men who worked in the mines would spend all day and some of the night, often sometimes seeing only darkness for days. Having a meal handy was important, but the crust of the pasty was a handle of sorts, allowing the arsenic riddled hands to hold the food without ingesting the volatile material. I thought about this fact, while I inhaled my lamb and potato pasty, eyeing the bakery up the street, ready for seconds. For a small seasonal town, we had a great time taking in the sights and meeting the friendly people. The buildings were all small, single storied cottage-like homes and shops. The one that fascinated me the most, outside of the castle, was the old post office. The structure was entirely made of stone and resembled a small castle or a medieval church. The slate roof and unevenly laid stones with tiny grid windows, made me appreciate not only the history of the 14th century house, but the people of the National Trust who saved it from demolition in 1903. 

After we had filled our bellies with pasty, pretended that the post office was open, so I could do something other act like a stalker and peek in its windows, we hit several tourist shops and even snagged a bunch of free breakfast rolls from a baker about to close for the day. (We were delighted at the gift and sat out on our private balcony on the pier of St. Ives eating them the next morning with butter and a bit of jam.)

Now it was off to the main event, Tintagel Castle. The structure, while no longer resembling the quid essential castle-look of such grand palaces as Windsor Castle or fortresses like Edinburgh Castle. This gridded display of stacked rocks, more similar to Urquhart Castle in Scotland, was down a long steep hill that was jarring at first to think of climbing back up after the exploration of the ground. Thankfully, there was a gentleman, in a small turnaround spot at the top of the hill bearing the logo of the castle of his car. Its purpose was shuttling the visitors up and down the hill for free, with steepness of the climb, proving a bit difficult for the older guests. Nick told me that I could handle it and having sat in the car for a bit that day, my legs were rested. In the end, it seemed like a great idea and far more adventurous. We made it about halfway down the hill and then veered off the main road to a small pathway. Nick being a man who loved to hike, led us down a small hill that met with a meager walking bridge. Its purpose was to take us alongside the moss-covered hill before leading us down to the gift shop and restrooms below. Tourist trap! I bought a T-shirt, naturally. Definitely one of my favorites! 

Exiting the shop, we saw a caravan of elderly coming off the tram and making their way towards the restrooms, so we decided to head towards the large walking bridge that would take us over to the island. To reach the bridge we had to summit a 45-degree hill. Yes, many hills in England. 

We were greeted with the great Atlantic Ocean and large Island that stood just off its shores. Not a calm beach like many of us would imagine here in Rhode Island. This sharp rocky shoreline was violent and could sweep you up in a New York minute. The wind was not on our side either. After all that climbing we were faced with terrible news. Upon meeting with the park managers, we were told that the bridge that went over to the island, where we could explore the castle and take a selfie with the famous King Arthur sculpture, Gallos, was closed that day, due to the veracity of the winds. Safety first, I get it, but come on! I mean I have been dying to see this place for years. Refusing to miss anything else, I decided to buck up and move onto the next cool sight. We walked down the steep metal stairs with several platforms that allowed the stairway to twist in several direction. Our goal was to gaze into Merlin's Cave, a large, mouthed cave that sat at the base of the treacherous island. The water was a mesmerizing cerulean blue, with strong white caps slapping hard against the rocks. Stone that had stood the test of the time. While the bridge that was closed was made of steel and constructed only recently in 2019, it was not the first. They had built this modern bridge to once again allow guests to cross to the Island. The same way that so many had done on the land bridge that stretched across the chasm. That is, until it collapsed somewhere between the 14th and 17th century.

I once again felt like I was being pulled into a Harry Potter movie. You know the scene that I'm talking about.  In The Half-Blood Prince, Dumbledor and Harry apperate onto a large rock protruding from the ocean with high waves reaching up to graze them. They face a large cave, in search of the deathly hallow that Voldemort had hidden inside. While Merlin and Harry were both wizards, and that scene was filmed in Ireland at the Cliffs of Moher, I think that the magic of this place lies less in wands and spells and more in the legends and historical narratives that have lasted for centuries. What is really fascinating is the story behind the castle. 

Back in the early 13th century, Richard, Earl of Cornwall, younger brother to King Henry III, having loved the legend of King Arthur so much, that he built a castle to commemorate the story of the great King's birthplace. The story has a great many overlapping traits the Celtic story of Tristan( Tristem, Tristram) and Isold (Isolt, Iseault, Yseault). That story centers around a knight who was sent to gather a princess who was to wed his king and instead he falls in love with her. They both end up dead. Surprise, surprise. Two youngsters from different places, torn apart and end up dead. Romeo and Juliet, anyone? 

But the story that Richard fell in love with was not Tristan and Isolt (yes, I went with that spelling), it was of a far more famous myth involving a man by the sur name of Pendragon. In the early 12th century, a man by the name of Geoffrey of Monmouth wrote a story of Uther Pendragon and his desire for Ygerna (EE-GER-NA), the wife of the Baron of Cornwall known as Gorlois. Fearful of an attack and his wife's virtue(doubtful), Gorlois decides to move his wife away from Uther to a place, a fortress, a stronghold, where no one, especially Pendragon could touch his property. Yep, he put her in a castle-like structure on a rocky island. Surprising enough, it was not guarded by a dragon. But wait, there is still a wizard! Uther goes to Merlin, the wizard. He asks him to transform him into Gorlois.  With a magical potion, his ploy to enter Tytangel undetected works, and he takes Ygerna for his prize. NO surprise, she ends up pregnant with his child and that child's name is... DING DING DING, Arthur Pendragon. (Fun fact, "Pendragon" means "Highest Commander", but Monmouth changed its meaning to "Head Dragon," as it better fit his narrative that Uther witnessed a dragon shaped comet, calling it Pendragon. Yet, funny enough, it was Uther's brother who saw the comet.) Yep, the famous King Arthur is a product of a love child. With her husband, Gorlois, killed by Uther's men prior to the conception (sure, make the story work) the spell is lifted, and Uther is married to Ygerna, making Arthur legitimate. Anyone else feel awkward reading this. I don't think I remember hearing Ygerna saying yes. (Rolls eyes.) The Grimm Brothers give it two thumbs up. It's terrible how many bedtime stories and dreamily interpretations done by Disney end up being savage and ruthless in the original story telling. 

Aside from the grotesque story of his birth, the island was incredible to witness. Even from afar, walking along the cliffs edge through the ankle high grass and a naturally worn-down foot path was breathtaking. After breathing in the salt air and watching the gulls sail on the winds above us for a good twenty minutes we reached a small church. The church was named after St. Materiana. It was given for a famous orator from the 5th century. 

We pushed open the heavy oak doors, lacquered in some sustaining substance that no doubt is sticky in the summer months. Once inside the wind howled against the large, mortared stones, places over a thousand years ago for meeting of prayers and probably general social visits. The windows were still painted with stories of saints and sinners and, naturally, a stained-glass image of Arthur pulling the sword from the stone. Inside the church, as expected, we saw an altar. What was new, was a large, latticed chancel blocking the view to the public. This wall was constructed to give the royal and wealthy privacy during mass, while the common folk listened and gazed at the symbolic colored glass for their religious education. After all, most of the population was illiterate. Remember, this is an early Anglican church. But I bet you didn't know that it was once ruled by Normans. In, fact, there are many surviving relics from the Noman invaders that still exist and are displayed within the church. Pagan and Christian art together, whodathunkit.

In a small corner of the church, I notice that there is worn pillar standing erect, proud and tall in devotional space. This is a mile marker or milestone, from the 4th century Roman times. The Romans as we all know where the first civilization to create road systems, allowing systematic traveling. Just like the Romans used the obelisks to measure how far they travelled, we now use the term "Milestone," to state how far we have come in life. Food for thought. Still hungry? Keep reading...

 While I am not religious, there is something I have always loved about churches. They were often the first museums. Their hierarchal position, for the most part, outside of wars and natural disaster, kept them pristine, polished and relished. So therefore, the glass soldered into windows, the ancient relics placed on its altars and within its chambers as keepsakes were protected and are still here today for us to marvel at. 

So, whether you are in town for the food, the natural beauty, the history, the myths of a derelict castle or just passing through on the way to another spectacular location, Tintagel offers so much for you to enjoy and will leave you wishing you could stay a bit longer.