The Magical Mount

As our last chapter closed, I was cycling around Mount's Bay heading for St. Michael's Mount, a tiny fascinating island just a stone's throw out to sea from the village of Marazion about two miles from Penzance in Cornwall.

When the tide is low you can walk across the causeway to the island but the rising tide completely covers it making the island accessible only by boat.

The island is in the shape of a pointy topped hill and sitting on the top of the granite rock is the home of the St Aubyn family. Originally a monastery in the 11th century, then a fortress during the Civil War, the castle was eventually purchased in the mid 17th century by Colonel John St Aubyn.

The tide is well in when I arrive so it's into the boats which scurry back and forth taking visitors there and back for one pound fifty a trip. There are several different landing stages depending on the height of the tide, so you may not arrive back in the same place from which you started!

As you draw closer to the Mount it's easy to imagine you've got mixed up in an Enid Blyton adventure. This place must surely have inspired her 'Five Go To Smuggler's Top'. There is something wildly romantic about a castle perched on top of a tiny island. Who knows what secrets are hiding within these ancient walls.

The pathway up the mount to the castle is not for the faint-hearted. After a civilised stretch of cobblestone paving you arrive at the Pilgrim Steps, the ancient route consisting of wide, deep, steps of rock blocks, none too even after centuries of use. This is the route the Pilgrims took, after crossing the causeway at low tide, to the church at the top, inspired by four miracles which were reported here in 1262-63.

Having made it to the top of the steps, you pause for a breather at the Giant's Well where, according to legend, Cormoran was slain by Jack the Giant Killer. You then discover you have just completed the easy part of the ascent. Thereafter the path slopes ever upwards and is constructed from rounded stones, about the size of a duck egg, set in mortar, not the easiest surface to gain a good footing upon. Next comes the rough steps hewn from the rock on which the castle is built. I pass an old lady on a stick being helped and encouraged by her daughter, I assume. Somehow I feel she's left this visit a little late in life.

You have now arrived at two terraces bristling with cannons pointing out to sea. The guns in these batteries were used to repel the Parliamentarians during the Civil War. The Mount was one of the last castles to surrender to Cromwell's troops around 1647.

Entering the castle there is no hint left of men's foolish war games except in paintings, and a room, once part of the old monastery, given over to a display of weaponry.

Over the centuries it has been transformed into a comfortable home, parts of which are still used by the incumbent family on special occasions, like Christmas dinner in the old monks' refectory at the seventeenth century oak dining table. The family's private living quarters occupy five floors below the South Terrace, where they can hopefully get on with their lives in spite of the hundreds of visitors that troop up their hill each week.

Every window looks out to the surrounding sea confirming that this is indeed an island of the classic storybook variety. High up on the terraces leading to the church one can look down on the gardens that surround the castle. This corner of England is influenced by the Gulf Stream giving it a Mediterranean climate where plants, more reminiscent of our southern Australian gardens, thrive in the relatively mild conditions. Winter gales lash this tiny island but the gardens survive to bloom again the following spring.

The castle clusters around the old Priory Church dating from the fourteenth century. Services are still held here every Sunday during the warmer months and at Christmas and Easter. But all is not as pious and serene as it appears, the church holds a grisly secret.

Several hundred years ago the church was undergoing some alterations when a secret door was discovered. It lead to a flight of narrow stone steps, at the bottom of which is a small chamber. In this chamber was found the skeleton of a man measuring over seven feet tall. There was no clue to his identity and no knowing how long he had lain in this forgotten pit. His remains were buried on the island but no one knows where, consequently he can't be dug up for the purpose of carbon dating. One hopes the poor chap was dead when he was tossed down the stairs, but it's more likely that he died a miserable death of starvation.

The doorway is still able to be cleverly concealed behind the seats in the family pews. It stands open for visitors to see but can be closed over and you would never know it existed at all.

There are nine rooms in the castle that are open to the public, each one a treasure trove of paintings, books, china, silverware, furniture and furnishings, and clocks, one of which is a tidal clock, made around 1780, showing the movements of the tide in Mount's Bay.

The weather is closing in a little and it's time to head down the Pilgrim Steps to the small island harbour for the boat back to the mainland. The mounting waves toss us this way and that and I feel like the disciples might have felt on the sea of Galilee. But our skipper steers us safely between the rocks and the little harbour wall at Marazion, and we're thankfully on dry land again.

Time is up, just a few days in London then on the plane for the long journey back home. So where better to end this commentary of our eighty day adventure than gazing back at the magical island of St Michael's Mount.