In the graveyard, on a slab fastened to the church, is the following epitaph:
"_Here lyeth the body of Robert Bake, son of Samuel Bake, who was buried the xxx day of January, 16--. But what cheere-up altho our sonne be gone Altho his bodiy must be racke and toren With filthy bitter bitinge wormes of dust And be consumd as all our bodies must Yet still cheere-up comforte yourselves: in this Tho the bodiy died the soule emmortall is And now in heaven most ioyfully shall singe O: grave where is thy strength, death where is thy victory With God above for all e-terny-tie: For Robert Bake._"
NOOKS AND CORNERS FROM PORT ISAAC TO THE VALE OF LANHERNE
_Port Isaac and the Fishing: Pentire: St. Enodoc and the Sand: Lovebond's Bridge: Wadebridge and Egloshayle: "Jan Tergeagle": Menhirs: Padstow and the Hobby Horse: Prehistoric Inhabitants: Harlyn Bay: Trevose Head: Constantine: A Fogou: Bedruthan: The Vale of Lanherne._
So long and so steep is the hill between Port Gavernoe and Port Isaac that the Cornishman, though not noted for kindness to animals, does not often ask his horse to negotiate it, and indeed these Cornish hills are a sovereign specific for nerves. No one who has been up and down them, behind one of the surefooted country-bred ponies, can fear any ordinary descent.
From the hill the view of the little grey town is hardly inviting. It lies huddled together as if it had slipped down the sides of the cleft in which it rests. Very crooked are its narrow roads; all sideways, askew and anyhow the small houses; there are no gardens, hardly any backyards; and at certain seasons of the year young and stalwart men seem to be conspicuous by their absence. "They'm all away at work and they do belong to go, for there edn't no money here, only the fishin'," is the explanation.
Fishing is indeed the reason for Port Isaac's existence and for that of her smaller neighbours, Port Gaverne and Port Quin, each of which lies at the head of a similar sandy inlet. Port Isaac, it is true, has a harbour deep enough to admit steamers of 150 tons burden, and most of the Delabole slates are shipped from here, but fishing is the main interest. "Cousin Jack" is a strict Sabbatarian, but not so his rival from the east coast. It is bad enough to see the fish caught in waters he looks upon as his, but particularly so under the circumstances; and, as a consequence, he has sometimes taken the law into his own hands. "If à must fishey," says he, "leave en fishey fair," and one Monday morning when the strangers endeavoured to land eight boatloads that had been captured during Sunday night, his patience reached its limit. "All that day gulls swarmed in the little harbour, and thereafter the place reeked of decaying fish. So now the east countrymen deem it wiser to land their Sunday's catch elsewhere."