Rambles beyond Railways or, Notes in Cornwall Taken A-Foot

by Wilkie Collins

An illustrated travel book narrating writer Wilkie Collins's 1850 walking tour of Cornwall with his artist friend, Henry Brandling. Published in 1851 and dedicated to the Duke of Northumberland. In those days 'even the railway stops short at Plymouth' and the travellers have to sail to their first destination at St Germains.

William 'Wilkie' Collins (1824-1889) was an English novelist, playwright, and writer of short stories. He was hugely popular in his time, and wrote 27 novels, more than 50 short stories, at least 15 plays, and over 100 pieces of non-fiction work.

Genres: Travel, Nonfiction, History, Classics, British Literature, Victorian

195 pages, Hardcover

First published January 1, 1851

About the author

Wilkie Collins was an English novelist and playwright, best known for The Woman in White (1860), an early sensation novel, and The Moonstone (1868), a pioneering work of detective fiction. Born to landscape painter William Collins and Harriet Geddes, he spent part of his childhood in Italy and France, learning both languages. Initially working as a tea merchant, he later studied law, though he never practiced. His literary career began with Antonina (1850), and a meeting with Charles Dickens in 1851 proved pivotal. The two became close friends and collaborators, with Collins contributing to Dickens' journals and co-writing dramatic works.
Collins' success peaked in the 1860s with novels that combined suspense with social critique, including No Name (1862), Armadale (1864), and The Moonstone, which established key elements of the modern detective story. His personal life was unconventional—he openly opposed marriage and lived with Caroline Graves and her daughter for much of his life, while also maintaining a separate relationship with Martha Rudd, with whom he had three children.
Plagued by gout, Collins became addicted to laudanum, which affected both his health and later works. Despite declining quality in his writing, he remained a respected figure, mentoring younger authors and advocating for writers' rights. He died in 1889 and was buried in Kensal Green Cemetery. His legacy endures through his influential novels, which laid the groundwork for both sensation fiction and detective literature.

Reviews

[Gerry · Rating 4 out of 5]

A minor Victorian classic of travel in Cornwall and it is interesting to see how the Victorian novelist viewed the county in 1851. His narrative provides a fascinating insight into life long ago with the chapter on the Botallack Mine particularly enlightening. It is also interesting to note how he sees the difference between the hinterland of the county as opposed to the more tourist side down on the west coast. And as Collins says at the end of his ramble, "Come! let us once again 'jog on the footpath way' as contentially, if not quite as merrily, as ever; and, remembering how much we have seen and learnt that should surely better us both [himself and his reader:], let us, as we now lose sight of the dark, grey waters, gratefully, though sadly, speak the parting word: Farewell to Cornwall." This shows how the book is very much a product of its times. Collins finishes with a cruise on the Tomtit to the Scilly Isles and that adds another insight into travel in Victorian times.

[Jane · Rating 5 out of 5]

I love Wilkie Collins. And I love my native Cornwall. So imagine my delight when I found a book by Wilkie Collins in the library’s Cornish room. Joy!

Rambles beyond Railways: Notes in Cornwall taken a-foot. A travelogue visiting so many places I know so well. Bliss!

And it gets better. The book I picked up was the original 1851 edition. And a bookplate at the front advises me that it was found, in tatters, in 1933, restored and then presented to the library. What a wonderful thing to do! And so I was holding the same edition that the author himself must have held. Wow!

But enough gushing; enough exclamation marks! What about the contents?

I am pleased to report that they were a delight.

The journey began aboard ship. In 1851 the railway stopped in Plymouth and so travellers had to be ferried across the River Tamar into Cornwall. The vogage is wonderfully related with such vivid descriptions and a helpful local local boatman coming to life on the page.

It was the start of a 214 mile walking tour, and it was a joy to be allowed to walk alongside them. There are so many highlights, and I will share just a few.

We visited the pretty fishing village of Looe:

“At each side of you rise high ranges of beautifully wooded hills; here and there a cottage peeps out among the trees, the winding path that leads to it being now lost to sight in the thick foliage, now visible again as a thin serpentine line of soft grey. Midway on the slopes appear the gardens of Looe, built up the acclivity on stone terraces one above another; thus displaying the veritable garden architecture of the mountains of Palestine magically transplanted to the side of an English hill. Here, in this soft and genial atmosphere, the hydrangea is a common flower-bed ornament, the fuchsia grows lofty and luxuriant in the poorest cottage garden, the myrtle flourishes close to the sea-shore, and the tender tamarisk is the wild plant of every farmer’s hedge. Looking lower down the hills yet, you see the houses of the town straggling out towards the sea along each bank of the river, in mazes of little narrow streets; curious old quays project over the water at different points; coast-trade vessels are being loaded and unloaded, built in one place and repaired in another, all within view; while the prospect of hills, harbour, and houses thus quaintly combined together, is beautifully closed by the English Channel, just visible as a small strip of blue water, pent in between the ridges of two promontories which stretch out on either side to the beach.”

St Michael’s Mount. The place, the legends and the history. They all came to life.


“Look up at the Mount. Behold, where the naked granite alone rose before, a chapel with a tower, built on the pinnacle of the eminence, and a range of buildings by its side; both superb with the massive adornments of Saxon architecture, and both rising like crowns of beauty on the noble summit of the Mount. See, on that stone terrace before the chapel, which overlooks the causeway, a row of men in black robes, with the sign of the cross worked on them. Hear the music of the organ rising sublimely, and mingling with the chaunt of the advancing procession, as it already begins to toil up the steep ascent. Now, while the foremost ranks approach the terrace, one man steps forth from his brethren who stand there, and speaks, holding up a crucifix in his hand. His words, as he addresses those beneath him, fall slowly and distinctly from his lips. He tells his audience that here, on the pinnacle of the Mount, the Archangel Michael first descended to earth; he commends them for coming from afar to visit the holy place; he promises remission of their sins, by the authority which he and his brethren hold from the Apostles of Christ, to all who have journeyed to St. Michael’s Chapel for religion’s sake. When he ceases, the pealing of the organ swells louder and louder on the air, and the members of the throng below kneel together, bareheaded, on the earth. As the robed Abbot, who has just addressed them, stretches out his hands over the whole assembly and speaks the blessing of the Church, the scene fades, darkens, vanishes; and this view dissolves in its turn, as the last dissolved before it. You have just beheld the Mount as it was in the eleventh century, when the shrines of religion grew many in the land – as it was when King Edward the Confessor gave the place to Benedictine monks, and when pilgrims journeyed to it reverently from all parts of our native country.”

And just around the bay, a glimpse of my home town:

” Look on, some three miles away on the beach, and observe those long ranges of white walls fronting the sea; extending up the base of the hill, inland; and backed by fields, plantations, gardens, and country dwelling-houses, all intermingled charmingly on the broad surface of the rising ground. This place has grown out of a few cottages built by fishermen: it is the most western town in Cornwall – Penzance.”

Of course there were standing stones:


“If a man dreamt of a great pile of stones in a nightmare, he would dream of such a pile as the Cheese-Wring. All the heaviest and largest of the seven thick slabs of which it is composed are at the top; all the lightest and smallest at the bottom. It rises perpendicularly to a height of thirty-two feet, without lateral support of any kind. The fifth and sixth rocks are of immense size and thickness, and overhang fearfully, all round, the four lower rocks which support them. All are perfectly irregular; the projections of one do not fit into the interstices of another; they are heaped up loosely in their extraordinary top-heavy form, on slanting ground half-way down a steep hill. Look at them from whatever point you choose, there is still all that is heaviest, largest, strongest, at the summit, and all that is lightest, smallest, weakest, at the base. When you first see the Cheese-Wring, you instinctively shrink from walking under it. Beholding the tons on tons of stone balanced to a hair’s breadth on the mere fragments beneath, you think that with a pole in your hand, with one push against the top rocks, you could hurl down the hill in an instant a pile which has stood for centuries, unshaken by the fiercest hurricane that ever blew, rushing from the great void of an ocean over the naked surface of a moor.”

So many wonderful places to see:

“What a scene was now presented to us! It was a perfect palace of rocks! Some rose perpendicularly and separate from each other, in the shapes of pyramids and steeples—some were overhanging at the top and pierced with dark caverns at the bottom—some were stretched horizontally on the sand, here studded with pools of water, there broken into natural archways. No one of these rocks resembled another in shape, size, or position—and all, at the moment when we looked on them, were wrapped in the solemn obscurity of a deep mist; a mist which shadowed without concealing them, which exaggerated their size, and, hiding all the cliffs beyond, presented them sublimely as separate and solitary objects in the sea-view.”

“We now go across the beach to explore some caves—dry at low water—on the opposite side. Some of these are wide, lofty, and well-lighted from without. We walk in and out and around them, as if in great, irregular, Gothic halls. Some are narrow and dark. Now, we crawl into them on hands and knees; now, we wriggle onward a few feet, serpent-like, flat on our bellies; now, we are suddenly able to stand upright in pitch darkness, hearing faint moaning sounds of pent-up winds, when we are silent, and long reverberations of our own voices, when we speak. Then, as we turn and crawl out again, we soon see before us one bright speck of light that may be fancied miles and miles away—a star shining in the earth—a diamond sparkling in the bosom of the rock.”

But this is so much more than a travelogue. There are myths and legends:

“It is said that the terrible Cornish giant, or ogre, Tregeagle, was trudging homewards one day, carrying a huge sack of sand on his back, which—being a giant of neat and cleanly habits—he designed should serve him for sprinkling his parlour floor. As he was passing along the top of the hills which now overlook Loo Pool, he heard a sound of scampering footsteps behind him; and, turning round, saw that he was hotly pursued by no less a person than the devil himself. Big as he was, Tregeagle lost heart and ignominiously took to his heels: but the devil ran nimbly, ran steadily, ran without losing breath—ran, in short, like the devil. Tregeagle was fat, short-winded, had a load on his back, and lost ground at every step. At last, just as he reached the seaward extremity of the hills, he determined in despair to lighten himself of his burden, and thus to seize the only chance of escaping his enemy by superior fleetness of foot. Accordingly, he opened his huge sack in a great hurry, shook out all his sand over the precipice, between the sea and the river which then ran into it, and so formed in a moment the Bar of Loo Pool.”

And there are wonderful accounts of Cornish lives and communities. Miners, fisherman, and so much more:

“Now, the scene on shore and sea rises to a prodigious pitch of excitement. The merchants, to whom the boats and nets belong, and by whom the men are employed, join the “huer” on the cliff; all their friends follow them; boys shout, dogs bark madly; every little boat in the place puts off, crammed with idle spectators; old men and women hobble down to the beach to wait for the news. The noise, the bustle, and the agitation, increase every moment. Soon the shrill cheering of the boys is joined by the deep voices of the “seiners.” There they stand, six or eight stalwart sunburnt fellows, ranged in a row in the “seine” boat, hauling with all their might at the “tuck” net, and roaring the regular nautical “Yo-heave-ho!” in chorus! Higher and higher rises the net, louder and louder shout the boys and the idlers. The merchant forgets his dignity, and joins them; the “huer,” so calm and collected hitherto, loses his self-possession and waves his cap triumphantly; even you and I, reader, uninitiated spectators though we are, catch the infection, and cheer away with the rest, as if our bread depended on the event of the next few minutes. “Hooray! hooray! Yo-hoy, hoy, hoy! Pull away, boys! Up she comes! Here they are! Here they are!” The water boils and eddies; the “tuck” net rises to the surface, and one teeming, convulsed mass of shining, glancing, silvery scales; one compact crowd of tens of thousands of fish, each one of which is madly endeavouring to escape, appears in an instant!”

This is a book that has clearly been thoroughly researched and it hold a wealth of material, wonderful vivid writing and extraordinary insight.

I didn’t mean to gush, but I really can’t help it. Some books you can’t analyse and pick over, you just love them unconditionally.

I was so sorry to leave.

“Come! the night is drawing round us her curtain of mist; let us strap on our trusty old friends, the knapsacks, for the last time, and turn resolutely from the shore by which we have delayed too long. Come! let us once again “jog on the footpath way” as contentedly, if not quite as merrily, as ever; and, remembering how much we have seen and learnt that must surely better us both, let us, as we now lose sight of the dark, grey waters, gratefully, though sadly, speak the parting word: – FAREWELL TO CORNWALL!”

I will definitely be bringing this book home from the library again, and walking again through my homeland in such wonderful company.

[Peter · Rating 4 out of 5]

What a delightful book. The title Rambles beyond Railways serves as an excellent introduction as well. Collins tells us as we begin our reading that the railway ends at Plymouth, so, as we enter this book, we too shed the world of mid-Victorian England and travel by boat to the magical and mystical world of The Cornish coastline.

Written in 1851, this travelogue takes us on a long ramble to visit a world of friendly people, incredibly mysterious landscapes and a series of adventures that we don't readily associate with the Wilkie Collins of The Moonstone or The Woman in White. In this book Collins takes us down the shafts of mines, into small fishing boats, then high atop the craggy coast and then, with his backpack strapped on, unfolds a seemingly lost series of towns and vistas. More than once I had to pause and remind myself that I was reading Wilkie Collins.

I believe this is an essential book to read if you enjoy the work of Wilkie Collins. It may be that this book mesmerized me so much that I imagined it, but within the eerie places Collins visited, the windswept vistas he saw and the unique people he met, I saw the shadows of settings, plot lines and moods that would spring to full-fledged life in his later work.

If you enjoy the more "popular" work of Collins I urge you to read this book. If you want to touch a part of England that was still tucked away from the torrid growth of Victorian industrialism read this book. It will be a treat.

[Jay Rothermel · Rating 5 out of 5]

A charming book on a fascinating subject.

Highlights:

*An old furze-cutter and what he had to tell

*A-Z of the pilchard industry

*Down a mine and thankfully back up

*Sailing to the Scillies

*Poignant anecdotes:

[....] We found ourselves standing before the damp, dismantled stone wang of a solitary cottage, placed on a plot of partially open ground, near the outskirts of the wood. Long dark herbage grew about the inside of the ruined little building; a toad was crawling where the leaves clustered thickest, on what had once been the floor of a room; in every direction corruption and decay were visibly battening on the lonesome place; - its aspect would repel rather than allure curiosity, but for the mysterious story associated with it, which gives it an attraction and an interest that are not its own.
Years and years ago, when this desolate building was a neat comfortable cottage, it was inhabited by two ladies, of whose histories, and even names, all the people of the district were perfectly ignorant. One day they were accidentally found living in their solitary abode, before anyone knew that they had so much as entered it, or that they existed at all. Both appeared to be about the same age, and both were inflexibly taciturn. One was never seen without the other; if they ever left the house, they only left it to walk in the most unfrequented parts of the wood; they kept no servant, and never had a visitor; no living souls but themselves ever crossed the door of their cottage. They procured their food and other necessaries from the people in the nearest village, paying for everything they received when it was delivered, and neither asking nor answering a single unnecessary question. Their manners were gentle, but somewhat grave and sorrowful as well. The people who brought them their household supplies, felt awed and uneasy, without knowing why, in their presence; and were always relieved when they had dispatched their errand and had got well away from the cottage and the wood.
Gradually, as month by month passed on, and the mystery hanging over the solitary pair was still not cleared, these superstitious doubts spread widely through the neighbourhood. Harmless as the conduct of the ladies always appeared to be, there was something so sinister and startling about the unearthly seclusion and secrecy of their lives, that people began to feel vaguely suspicious, to whisper awful imaginary rumours about them, to gossip over old stories of ghosts and false accusations that had never been properly sifted to the end, whenever the inhabitants of the cottage were mentioned. At last they were secretly watched by one or two villagers whom intense curiosity had endowed with a morbid courage and resolution. Even this proceeding led to no results whatever, but increased rather than diminished the mystery.
The expertest eaves-droppers, who had listened at the door, brought away no information with them for their pains. Some declared that when the ladies held any conversation together, they spoke in so low a tone that it was impossible to distinguish a word they said. Others, of more imaginative temperament, protested, on the contrary, that their voices were perfectly audible, but that the language they talked was some mysterious or diabolical language of their own, incomprehensible to everybody but themselves. One or two expert and daring spies had even contrived to look in at them through the window, unperceived; but had seen nothing uncommon, nothing supernatural,nothing, in short, beyond the spectacle of two ladies sitting quietly and silently by their own fireside. Thus, after all their exertions, the village people still remained as ignorant as ever about the names, characters, and histories of the tenants of the lonely cottage in the wood.
So matters went on, until one day an universal agitation was excited in the neighbourhood by a rumour that one of the ladies was dead. The rustic authorities immediately repaired to the cottage, accompanied by a long train of eager followers: they found that the report was true. The surviving lady was seated by her companion’s bedside, weeping over a corpse. She spoke not a word; never seemed even to look up at the villagers as they entered; - question after question was put to her without ever eliciting an answer; kind words were useless - even threats proved equally inefficient: the lady still remained weeping by the corpse, and still said nothing. Gradually her inexorable silence began to infect her interrogators: the mystery of her conduct awed their fickle resolution and oppressed their simple minds. For a few moments nothing was heard in the room but the dash of the waterfall hard by, and the singing of birds in the surrounding wood. Bitterly as the lady was weeping, it was now first observed by everybody that she wept silently, that she never sobbed, never even sighed in the heaviness of her grief.
People began to urge each other, superstitiously, to leave the place. It was determined that the corpse should be removed and buried; and that afterwards some new expedient should be tried to induce the survivor of the mysterious pair to abandon her inflexible and ominous silence. It was anticipated that she would have made some sign, or spoken some few words when they lifted the body from the bed on which it lay; but even this proceeding produced no visible effect. As the villagers quitted the dwelling with their dead burden, the last of them who went out left her in her solitude, ever speechless, ever weeping, as they had found her at first.
Days passed, and still she sent no message to any one; - weeks elapsed, and the idlers who waited about the woodland paths where they knew that she was once wont to walk with her companion, never saw her, watch for her as patiently as they might. From haunting the wood, they soon got on to hovering round the cottage, and to looking in stealthily at the window. They saw her sitting on the same seat that she had always occupied, with a vacant chair opposite; her figure wasted, her face wan already with incessant weeping: it was a dismal sight to all who beheld it - a vision of affliction and solitude that sickened their hearts.
No one knew what to do; the kindest-hearted people hesitated, the hardest-hearted people dreaded to disturb her. While they were still irresolute, the end was at hand. One morning a little girl, who had looked in at the cottage window, in imitation of her elders, reported, when she returned home, that she had seen the lady still sitting in her accustomed place, but that one of her hands hung strangely over the arm of the chair, and that she never moved to pick up her pocket-handkerchief which lay on the ground beside her. At these ominous tidings the villagers summoned their resolution, and immediately repaired to the lonesome cottage in the wood.
They knocked and called at the door - it was not opened to them; they raised the latch and entered. She still occupied her chair; her head was resting on one of her hands, the other hung down, as the little girl had told them. The handkerchief, too, was on the ground, and was wet with tears. Was she sleeping? They went round in front to look. Her eyes were dull, wide-open, glaring; her drooping hand, worn almost to mere bone, was cold to the touch as the waters of the valley-stream on a winter’s day - she had died in her wonted place; died in mystery and in solitude as she had lived.
They buried her where they had buried her companion. No traces of the real history of either the one or the other have ever been discovered from that time to this.
Such is the tale that was related to us of the cottage in the valley of Nighton’s Keive. It may be only imagination; but the stained roofless walls, the damp clotted herbage, and the reptiles crawling about the ruins, give the place a gloomy and disastrous look. The air, too, seems just now unusually still and heavy here; for the evening is at hand, and the vapours are rising in the wood. The shadows of the trees are deepening; the rustling music of the waterfall is growing dreary; the utter stillness of all things, besides, becomes wearying to the ear.

[Dave · Rating 4 out of 5]

Charming, light-hearted tour of Cornwall. Collins is more interested in honest, amusing narrative than in going to extremes; I don’t remember reading too many travel writers talking about how they got lost and couldn’t find what they were looking for, or skipped going to the bottom of a mine because their guide said it was just like the upper parts. The best stuff is this simple narrative—more charming than the local lore that the story is padded with. This edition has the advantage of an added essay about a cruise to the Scilly Islands, which is even better than the main book.

[Rob Smith, Jr. · Rating 4 out of 5]

Collins serves a great travel log of a trip and his artistic pal make across Cornwall in the the 1850s. It is fascinating as he writes of recent events being in the early 1800s in the area as visions of the War of 1812 cross my mind.

His details written want me to go there now, though 170 years has passed and the area has altered quite a bit from Collins' writing. Though, the historic areas still stand, as I looked those up. Much looking as Collins' describes according to recent photos and what Google Earth can provide.

Two sections should have been jettisoned. Those are where Collins' deviates from the roaming and, at different points, summarizes two plays at length. Distracting and unneeded.

Of course, those could be skipped over as the wonderful and poignant stories of the people and places in the journey are so well written and often enlightening.

Following teh travel narrative is a very humorous tale of a a fellow and crew sailing to out islands. It's a short thing, but fun reading and certainly interesting in a historical aspect.

Bottom line: i recommend this book. 8 out of ten points.

[Dan Rowley · Rating 5 out of 5]

Absolutely loved this. ❤️
Have read much of Collins's fiction and didn't know how this would compare. Really enjoyable. Such a great writer.

[Snoakes · Rating 4 out of 5]

If you know Cornwall, this travelogue by Wilkie Collins makes for a fascinating read.
He visited the county in 1850, shortly before the railway arrived, meaning his account captures the last time Cornwall was quite so remote from the rest of the country. Starting in Looe he travels on foot around the coast, with occasional forays inland, visiting places that are mostly still on the tourist trail today. He is sometimes patronising towards the locals as only a privileged Victorian gentleman can be, but on the whole he likes the Cornish people he meets and speaks of them warmly.
I would have preferred a bit more description of the places he visits, so the modern reader can see how much has changed, particularly instead of the slightly tedious section in the centre where he describes two plays he attends. His description of a tour down a mine is however thoroughly engrossing.
He finishes with a description of a cruise from Weston Super Mare to the Isles of Scilly which is written in a slightly different and more humorous style.
It's a fascinating glimpse of the past - well worth reading if you know Cornwall at all well.

[Tom Beech · Rating 4 out of 5]

Albeit with one or two errors where legend and fact became intermingled, this was a rousing and thoroughly charming tour through Cornwall. The book contained some new historical information for me and the descriptions of the varied locations were vivid and timeless. The postscript to the book was worth reading as well. Two mischievous gents finding their way to the Scilly Isles. Their preparation for the journey was hilarious! All in all, this fairly short book left me wanting more at the end but what there was I thoroughly enjoyed.

[Andy Davis · Rating 4 out of 5]

Stick with it. I wasn't sure I like comic tone early on. Seemed a bit dismissive of locals and dated. But there are some really interesting segments including a funnier and interesting account of a trip down a tin mine, there are some nice insights on cliff climbing and Cornish drama and an interesting trip to an ancient convent. I ended by having really enjoyed it.

[Adrienne Howard · Rating 4 out of 5]

I want to go to Cornwall.

[Bill Evans · Rating 4 out of 5]

1850 walking tour of Cornwall with a little History and legend thrown in. Pretty good read.

[Perry Whitford · Rating 4 out of 5]

An amiable traipse through a Cornwall which still is, yet isn't there anymore.

Collins visited Cornwall in the days before tourists besieged the place. The locals couldn't believe they were hiking, were bemused by their backpacks and called them "Trodgers!" (trudgers), with one old woman being particularly upset for them ("Ah, poor fellows! poor fellows!" she sighs in answer, "obliged to carry all your baggage on your own backs!—very hard! poor lads! very hard, indeed!")

He had difficulty locating Land's End because there were no signposts!

The county has long since become overrun with tourists, or "Emmets" (ants) as the locals unlovingly term them. Understandably the warm reception received by outsiders which Collins noted as synonymous back in 1850 is no longer the case, but the walks and the landmarks mostly are.

He saw the Hurlers stone circle, the bizarre huge stack of stones called the Cheesewring (with all the small stones on the bottom!) and St. Coder's Well when it was still in ruins. He visited Lizard Point, Kynance Cove, the copper mine at Botallack which stretched out beneath the sea, and the most romantic site in English history, the remains of Tintagel Castle.

He had to mention the lingering superstition of the area, such as the belief that 'no wound will fester as long as the instrument by which it was inflicted is kept bright and clean,' illustrated by the example of boy injured by a pitchfork whose family kept the prongs nice and shinny until he was better.

The highlight was a chapter describing the fishing of shoals of pilchards was worth reading on its own, an exciting operation involving all the men, women and children of the coastal villages.

Tacked on unnecessarily at the end was a fictionalised five-man trip to the Scilly Isles, overwritten flimflam called 'The Cruise of the Tomtit.'

[John · Rating 4 out of 5]

My Introduction to this book was its excellent description of South Caradon mine . A description that have used over and over again in my own productions.
My blog contains an extract from the book.

http://navsbooks.wordpress.com/2014/1...

[Gayle Styles · Rating 5 out of 5]

Loved it, but could not recommend to many people!

[Cynthia · Rating 4 out of 5]

I love anything relating to Cornwall....just go with that.

[John · Rating 4 out of 5]

A fascinating view of Cornwall in the mid-19th Century. Well worth a read.

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DNF @ 45%

I really don't know why I even picked it up.