The Hall Walk        by Jill Bailey

This is a story about real places and real people who existed more than three centuries ago. Some of what is written here actually happened; some of what is written occurred only in the mind of the author; but all of what is written might just be true.

The Hall Walk links the village of Boddinick to the small town of Polruan in southeast Cornwall. The four mile path winds its way up and down the steep, wooded banks of the River Fowey, and crosses the creek named Pont Pill about half way along its course. The Walk was described in Carew's survey of Cornwall in 1602 "as a place of diversified pleasings". As the end of the twentieth century approaches, it is still enjoyed by thousands of walkers every year.

In a long, low granite shelter, not far from the Boddinick end of the Hall Walk, a plaque erected by the National Trust marks the place where, during the Civil War, on 17th August 1644, King Charles narrowly escaped death when a shot killed a poor fisherman who was standing where the King had stood a short time before. What had brought the King to this place? Why was a poor fisherman here, high above the water where his living lay? From where did the enemy shoot, and did they realise the King had escaped, or did they believe the regent had been mortally wounded? What did the local people from the parishes of Boddinick and Lanteglos make of it, and what happened to the family of the poor dead fisherman?

Perhaps it was that the King came to these parts under cover of darkness, late at night on 16th August in the year sixteen hundred and forty four. With a small band of perhaps six or eight trusted men, he would have moved stealthily along, a short way inland, to avoid being sighted by one of the fishing boats at sea, which were known to be used as cover by the enemy's men. The progress of the King's men might have been halted at the head of Pont Pill creek, where the torrent of the river, swollen by a high spring tide, made the crossing too dangerous. Cold, wet, hungry and in need of rest, the King's band rejected the idea of following the river upstream to a safe crossing point. Instead, they decided to rest until the tide fell and allowed them to ford the creek in safety.

In a stone shack, with a roof of rough thatch, on the exact spot that Pont Pill Cottage stands today, slept a young fisherman, Nathaniel, Elizabeth, his wife, their son, seven year old Davey, and baby Mary. Nathaniel, Elizabeth and Davey huddled together under a threadbare blanket on a straw-filled mattress in a corner of the one room that was their home. Mary slept in an old fish crate beside them. Elizabeth was the first to wake as the door of the shack was pulled open and a low voice spoke roughly from the darkness.

"Get out here. Move quickly - in the name of the King".

Elizabeth's hands shook as she pulled a woollen shawl over the thin cotton shift that served both as night-dress and underdress for the coarsely woven pinafore she wore by day. Nathaniel was up now and pulling on his boots as Elizabeth shook Davey awake and scooped the baby from the fish box. Nathaniel led his family outdoors where they huddled together nervously, trying to make out the shape of the man who spoke to them through the darkness, which was thickened by the dense fog, which rose from the waters of the creek.

"Don't be afraid". The voice was not unkind. "We need a place to rest 'til the tide falls. Do you have any food?"

Elizabeth nodded in the darkness. "A little broth" she whispered, "I can warm it through, but I'll need some wood to re-kindle the fire".

"You - get the wood" ordered the voice, "and take the boy".

Nathaniel pushed Davey ahead of him towards the woodpile, which was in a sheltered hollow at the foot of a low cliff a little way from the shack.

The stranger followed Elizabeth through the doorway, looked round as though checking that nobody had remained, hidden inside, and then stepped outside again. "It's all clear" Elizabeth heard him hiss. The thick undergrowth behind the house rustled as the men concealed within it clambered out.

"This way Highness".

Elizabeth paled as she realised the identity of the man who had crossed the threshold into her home. Uncertain of what to do, she bobbed in a clumsy curtsey and kept her eyes cast down as she turned back to rekindling the fire.

"Thank you madam; you are very kind".

She turned to face the man who had spoken in such soft, clear tones. He smiled, and a warm glow spread through Elizabeth's body as his clear blue eyes met hers. He held her gaze for a long moment, until a damp piece of wood sent sparks flying from the fire and Elizabeth had to move quickly to prevent them setting light to the dry bracken that covered the earth floor of the shack.

As dawn breaks in the eastern sky, the narrow snake of water that is Pont Pill remains in the shadows of the steep wooded slopes that surround it. Above the damp shadows, the first rays of watery sunlight fall on a grassy clearing above the point where the Pill joins the River Fowey. Today, the water below is dotted with boats - fishing craft, pleasure cruisers, a launch bearing the distinctive colours of the Royal National Lifeboat Institute, and the ferry boat that carries passengers across the narrow strip of water between Fowey and Polruan. The houses, shops and restaurants of these two towns seem to tumble down to the sea walls, to which rotting wooden ladders and crumbling stone steps cling, providing the townsfolk with access to their moorings.

A herring gull screamed overhead as King Charles and his band of followers stood in the sun-touched clearing above Pont Pill on 17th August 1644. The tide had fallen, uncovering the wide, grey mud flats of the shadowy creek, and they had accomplished their crossing with ease. Looking down on the tiny cluster of cottages that was Polruan, the party watched a single lugger as it moved sluggishly through the waters of the river. A fishing boat perhaps, returning rather late to harbour with the tide fast approaching its lowest point? As the lugger moved closer, its faded red sail flapping in the frail breeze, the King told his men of his plans. A small boat was hidden two miles upstream, at Mixtow. This would carry them over the River Fowey without attracting the attention that their use of the ferry at Boddinick surely would. From Fowey, they would proceed overland to Charlestown, to be joined by a larger band of trained men, currently hiding in wait at St.Austell. Together they would form a strong fighting force.

As the King's men listened to their leader's soft, firm voice, Nathaniel climbed the path where their feet had fallen only minutes before. He carried a parcel of smoked fish and oatmeal biscuits, and his wife's instructions to follow the men who had slipped silently away just before dawn, and to give them the food to sustain them on their journey. Nathaniel was not happy. It was difficult enough to catch fish to sell, and to feed his family, without his wife making charity of it to the King!

On the path behind his father, Davey lay hidden in the undergrowth. Forbidden by his mother to accompany Nathaniel, Davey was afraid to show himself; yet so intent was he on taking another look at the King, that he had risked the wrath of Elizabeth, which was sure to follow, and taken off a few minutes after his father. His anticipation of the faces of the boys of the parish when they heard his story kept Davey warm as he lay in the long grass still soaked with the dew of the previous night.

Today on the Hall Walk, the path is slippery with wet mud. Sudden heavy showers have soaked the trees and, between the showers, the warmth of a watery sun brings a steamy humidity to the place. August 17th 1664 might have been just such a day. Sunshine and rain; warmth and wetness; heavy black clouds producing dark shadows against bright sunlight. Somebody on a lugger on the river, looking up at a small group of men clustered in a clearing high above Pont Pill, might first have been dazzled by a shaft of sunlight, then drenched by a squally shower. As the group broke up and came together again, it would have been difficult to follow the movements of any one individual. As some of the men moved off, it might have been possible to pick out the figure of the King - recognisable from descriptions heard from someone who had seen him, or knew someone who had seen him. But as a cloud passed in front of the sun, casting a dark shadow on the clearing, the man who stood where the King had been, and who fell a second after the shot of a gun rang out, could as easily have been a poor fisherman carrying a parcel of smoked fish that his wife had sent for the King.

But the men on the lugger saw the King fall, and a loud cheer rose from the boat. The sound reached the people in the waterside houses of Polruan - "The King is fallen!" It echoed along the river to the head of Pont Pill creek where Elizabeth was searching the banks for her son.

Davey waited until the shouts from across the water had ceased, and the scuffles in the undergrowth around the clearing had moved away. When, at last, it was silent, he slid out from his hiding place towards the body that lay in the centre of the clearing. A dark red stain was spreading across the ragged shirt his father wore. The thick, warm blood seeped out from under Nathaniel's hand, which lay motionless on his chest over the place where the lead ball had entered his body. The blue pallor of his face, and the coldness of the hand that Davey touched, told him that his father was dead.

Through a gap in the trees, Davey looked out to the open sea beyond Fowey. A lugger, its faded red sail billowing in the strengthening breeze, disappeared around the headland. Davey ran. Brambles tore at his legs. Branches ripped his arms and face as he fled from the corpse that had been his father, down the steep path towards his home. He slithered and stumbled on the sodden earth and, more than once turned on an ankle, tripped over the root of a tree, slid on a rock green with moss and wet from the torrential rain that now fell. He covered the two miles to the head of the Pill where the tide was rising fast. The water reached Davey's chest, nearly sweeping him off his feet as he waded through the swirling torrents. He scrambled out of the water and raced for the door of the shack, crying for his mother as he ran.

The place was empty.

Pont Pill is a picturesque spot. Rowing boats lie on the grassy banks outside the National Trust cottages. Walkers stop for picnics at the water's edge. A black Labrador splashes playfully in the water. But, even today, it is not difficult to imagine the gloom which falls on the place when the weather is foul, and the sun's rays cannot reach the depths of the valley to warm the grassy banks or reach into the tiny windows in the thick stone walls of the cottages. Davey wept. The tears streamed down his face and he breathed in huge gasps that shook his tiny frame. His mother must have gone to Polruan, and Davey ran in her tracks. Another two miles - uphill this way, and equally wet and slippery; the branches and brambles still scratching and tearing at him as he ran.

The Russell Arms in Polruan serves St. Austell Ales and excellent home-cooked meals. At the end of the four-mile Hall Walk, it is the perfect place to find rest and refreshment. Walkers, tourists and locals mix in the convivial atmosphere, whiling away an hour or two before taking the ferry from the quay back to Fowey.

In past centuries far more places than today were licensed to serve ale, and the Russell Arms would, more than likely, have been the site of such a "kiddley", where the people of Polruan and the parishes of Boddinick and Lanteglos would have gathered to drink and to gossip.

Elizabeth sat in the kiddley with the other women, weeping over the death of their King. When Elizabeth told of how she had fed the King and his men on the previous night, and how they had rested in her home, the tragedy took on a much greater significance and the women wept more loudly. When Davey fell through the doorway of the kiddley, scratched and bleeding, his chest heaving, and his breath rasping from his lungs, Elizabeth jumped from her seat and held him to her. The sight of his mother's tear-stained face puzzled Davey - did she already know what had happened to Nathaniel? But, as he recovered enough to speak he heard the other women talking.

"Poor mite - wouldn't have thought he'd take on so at the death of the King".

Realisation dawned and Davey clung to his mother, tears welling up once more.

"Come now boy" Elizabeth soothed.

"But it weren't the King - it were father!" Silence fell as the women heard his words.

Nathaniel's body lay on the grassy banks of the Pill where the men from Boddinick had laid it. The tide had risen again, and Elizabeth could only sit on the opposite side of the swollen river, in the fast falling dusk, and look at the long, low shape of her husband's corpse. It lay only a few yards away, but out of reach until the tide fell enough for the body to be carried safely home.

One hundred and fifty years later, a stone quay would be built here where Pont Pill meets the river. Later still, a wooden bridge would carry the footpath across the water. But Elizabeth knew nothing of this as she silently mourned her husband, whose body she could see, but not touch.

When the tide fell, as the sun rose and the sky above the valley turned a pale shade of grey, Nathaniel's body was carried through the shallow water of the Pill and laid, in a rough coffin of elm, in a corner of his one room home.

Elizabeth smoothed the creases in her husband's shirt while the men waited outside ready to nail the lid on the coffin. She wondered what had happened to the parcel of fish. Perhaps Nathaniel had dropped it as he fell. Perhaps one of the men who had fetched his body had taken it. Perhaps he had managed to give it to the King before he died. As she ran her hand, for the last time, over Nathaniel's chest, Elizabeth felt something hard and round beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. She slipped her hand inside the shirt and drew out a large coin.

Elizabeth had never seen anything like it, but knew from its dull yellow colour, that it was gold. And she recognised the head, roughly imprinted on the sovereign, as that of the man she had sheltered in her home last night.