I was 25 years old when a consultant oncologist at the Royal Free hospital told me I was going to die. Even as she said it I felt a steely certainty that she was wrong.
Quay Cottage, Port Quin, more home to me than anywhere else, was the place I immediately retreated to. There, in the blaze of summer and the wild magic of a total solar eclipse, I decided not to follow the advice of my doctors, and to embark on a journey of healing myself through diet, rest, yoga and meditation.
The nutritional therapy I undertook was a 2 year program combining diet, detoxification and supplements. Sodium, identified as the miscreant in the cells of the cancer patient, was to be eliminated at all costs, and even swimming in the ocean was forbidden.
During those years of healing and recovery I was drawn again and again to Port Quin where I felt bound together with the natural world, and fortified in mind and body by the vitality, the majesty and the sheer incredible expanse of sea and sky.
And I could feel always within me the steady hum of my body reviving and I knew the day would come when I would be well enough to swim in the waters of Port Quin bay. I longed for that day and when it came it was more than a swim, it was a kind of rebirth into a life lived more fully and with more heart.
Thank you Port Quin and to my dearest family and friends for everything you did to help me be well again.
When my Mum moved down from Doyden House to Quay Cottage in 1952ish, there was no electricity, no heating, a few more residents, and very few tourists. There was also no inside loo. There was a privy at the seaward end of the garden, which is now a shed and has always been know to us as Madeleine. It was named after the French schooner which remarkably squeaked through the mouth of the bay during a storm in 1901, and beached below the cottage. There was no way it was getting out again, so it was broken up as salvage (the story of the French crew and their antics in Port Isaac is for another day!). The door of the privy was made from the Madeleine’s deck timbers, and as recently as the early 1980s you could still make out a likeness of the schooner in full sail etched into it.
But in my Mum’s childhood, Madeleine the privy was nicknamed the ‘Loo with a View’. It was just a bucket with a toilet seat on top. My grandad would empty it when the evening high tide turned. You know the cave on the right of the bay? You know half way down you can look up to the right and see daylight? Slops went straight down there! “Gardy-Loo!”
In a distant echo of our “too much screen-time” issues now, when my Mum and her siblings used Madeleine, they were not allowed to take comics or magazines, and absolutely no Enid Blyton! They didn’t really care too much about that, as they would usually just prop the door open against the onshore wind and marvel at that view from their loo.
After attending the meeting on the 27th, I feel even more strongly that Dr Mead and co in no way understand the damage the proposed farms will have on this area. With the inner edge of the proposed farm being just over 500 metres from Port Quin harbour mouth. the seaweed farms will dramatically affect the marine life the we regularly witness feeding across the middle of the bay, not to mention the total lack of detail of any contingency plan, if and when the ropes and buoys get damaged and washed ashore in one of the many storms that will hit the infrastructure in this location. This, it seems, is a total experiment at the cost of Port Quin Bay, and has never been tested in such an exposed North Cornish location. 'Torbay', as Doctor Mead kept mentioning, is a world away in terms of sea conditions.
Where was the sensible and thorough consultation of the local community and businesses such as ours before such a ridiculous idea was allowed to get this far??
The Port Quin Disaster.
Taken from the book ‘The Seafarers of Port Isaac’, by Geoff Provis.
Port Quin is a fascinating natural harbour, about four miles west of Port Isaac. From the first time I visited Port Quin as a child, I have been impressed by it’s loneliness and deserted appearance. It is a quiet, isolated place, where time seems to stand still, and my interest in it was confirmed, when I was told as a child that it was indeed deserted many years ago when the fishing fleet was destroyed by a storm, and many of the fishermen were drowned. There was however, no proof that the disaster occurred, but the fact that there was a disaster, was never in doubt according to local families, who had the story handed down by their forefathers. The atmosphere of Port Quin is enhanced by ruined cottages which now consist of ivy covered walls, with recesses where doors and windows once were fitted.
The basic story is that long ago, the fishing fleet put to sea on a Sunday evening, and in a storm and heavy ground sea which came up quickly, all of the men and boats were lost, and the families forsook the village. The fact there are no official records of this disaster, only heightens the interest of locals and visitors alike.
My late Grandfather Anthony Provis, a well respected Port Isaac fisherman, wrote as follows:
‘It is a well known fact that years ago, Port Quin was a fishing village, with it’s seine loft, bark house, and old cannon partly sunk into the ground as mooring posts. It is said that the story of the disaster that befell Port Quin is a legend, but some years ago a very old lady related to me what happened on that Sunday in her forefathers’ time. The one thing that convinced me more than anything else, that the story is true, was when she said that, “The ground sea came up very fast, and then it came to blow a north easterly gale.” I have seen this happen on our coast many a time.
The ground sea would stop any craft from entering Port Quin, and there is no shelter on that coast in a north easterly wind. The old lady said, "The boats were blown ashore near Trevan Point, and five seine boats were lost with forty lives.”
The old lady pointed out places where there were once cottages, and which have now gone leaving no trace. There was once an old mill, and a chapel at Port Quin, and if the above story is a legend, there must be an explanation as to why Port Quin was deserted. Why are there now no boats? Why did the chapel fall into ruins and also some of the cottages, and why were the lofts deserted for fishing purposes? This tragedy is supposed to have happened on a Sunday evening, and following this, all the families are reported to have forsaken the village’. End of quote.
My great-grandparents had no doubt about the Port Quin story, and the older generation were convinced of the authenticity of it, as it had been handed down to them by their predecessors.
I shall now discuss a few matters concerning the above account.
The description given by the old lady is consistent with local sea conditions, and the narrow entrance to Port Quin Harbour prevented small seine craft entering during the conditions described.
I doubt if the chapel has any relevance. It could only have been built after the visit of John Wesley to Cornwall in the mid eighteenth century. Many such chapels have been built in smaller communities than Port Quin after the departure of the fishing families. Also, it is difficult to imagine the men going to sea on a Sunday during the early days of Methodism, so prevalent in Cornwall. Even during the 1950s and 1960s, whilst I was a youngster at Port Isaac, boats did not go to sea on a Sunday except for the odd one or two, as the Sabbath was the day of rest, so this points to a date prior to John Wesley’s arrival.
The abandonment of the pilchard cellars at Port Quin may also be discounted, as during the early nineteenth century the pilchard fishing failed on the North Cornish Coast, and sales of cellars and seines occurred at Port Gaverne and Port Isaac, as well as Port Quin.
What of the empty ivy covered remains of cottages at Port Quin? A small community did establish itself at Port Quin after the disaster, consisting of labourers mainly connected with farming, some seining and a small amount of mining. During the mid to late nineteenth century, many of these moved to Port Isaac, and some emigrated due to hardship and harsh economic times. I believe these cottages are related to this second exodus of families from Port Quin. Further proof of this is the photograph clearly showing a row of terraced cottages numbering at least four, which appear to be on the site of the ivy covered ones. This photo was probably taken during the late nineteenth century. During my research into this book, I was told that the Mitchell family may have a say over the ownership of these cottages, but I have no proof of this. Of more interest is the statement of the old lady, who said that many cottages had disappeared without trace. If foundations of those were found, this would be much more significant. There is an area of low bushes on the east side of the village just above the existing cottages, and the late Mrs Watts informed me that that particular area, once was inhabited and used as gardens.
My Great-Aunt Gertrude Mutton said that on calm days, Port Isaac fishermen who then fished with sail, listened to try and hear the screams of the drowning Port Quin men. This may seem strange to modern day people, but you must understand that working people in those days were very superstitious. However, the fact that the fishermen acted in this manner does lend some credence to the story handed down.
My Great-Grandmother Beatrice Provis nee Lobb, once showed my Uncle Harold Provis a painting when he was a boy, and told him that it was named ‘A Hopeless Dawn’, and that it was a painting of Port Quin after the storm, when all the fishing boats were lost. (See end of this section).
The disaster occurred during the pilchard fishing days. Carew’s survey of Cornwall, published in 1602, speaks of sean and drift net fishing, so we know that pilchard seining existed in Cornwall for hundreds of years.
A Port Isaac person of my Uncle Harold Provis’s generation, whose great grandfather was born at Port Quin, informed Harold, that the date handed down to him was 1612.
If 1612 is the correct date, that accounts for the fact there are no burial records of the disaster at St Endellion Church, or any memorial stones.
Conclusion.
We simply have no written proof of this disaster. Do you believe the story handed down by the local families? My experience of growing up in the local fishing community of Port Isaac, my personal knowledge of my grandfather, and the consistence of the story relating to local conditions, leaves me in no doubt that the disaster did occur. On the other hand, it is still an experience to stand at quiet, isolated, and lonely Port Quin, and gaze at the harbour and cliffs and wonder!
To Port Quin and it’s Disaster.
Rocky cove, jagged inlet, beach with boulders strewn,
Cold dark cliffs with grassy slopes, where folk oft walk alone, Cottages hanging o’er the rocks, and some decayed and falling,
Cellars once by fishers used, with seine nets draping like an awning.
Old cob walls and limestone too, slated roofs and some are new,
Barrels stacked around the doors, and boats to cannon tied on shore,
Sombre dawn and isolation, lonely gulls in deprivation,
O’er your port a mystery.
Men in tranquil solitude, seek your story to unfold,
To learn the secret of your cove, midst the roll of passing years,
The saga of the womens’ tears, did boats go out and not return,
Was it in a Sunday storm?
Oh your beauty lays it’s grasp, on my heart and holds it fast,
But your rendering of my thoughts, and the tantalizing tales of your boats with reddish sails,
How I long to know.
Did the widows and their sons, and their daughters and their mums,
Forever leave your port in haste, and leave the village such a waste,
Still you mock and still you jeer, yet you hold me ever near,
Part of Cornwall’s ‘Lantic’ Coast, delightful to a countless host,
Of visitors who come and pause, and gaze and then traverse your ancient land, while we wrestle
to understand the mystery.
There are you like a jagged peak, jutting into the mighty deep,
Was it here the folk did weep, as they stared at ‘A Hopeless Dawn’,
Over your delightful Awn.
Oh little gem, Port Quin you are, shining like a lonely star,
And yet your awesome solitude, fans my yearning for the truth,
Tarry then and greet the years, tides may flow and ebb and splash,
O’er your little beach and crash, like a mountain on the shore,
But I stand and look out still, wondering, pondering o’er your tales,
Of north east wind and heavy rain, and within your history past,
Is locked your secret till the last.
Harold Provis.
A Hopeless Dawn, by Frank Bramley.
The story behind this wonderful painting reflects that of the story of Port Quin
itself. My great-grandparents were convinced it represented the scene after the disaster, but the Tate Gallery where it is exhibited, do not believe it is attributable to any particular disaster.
Frank Bramley opened the Newlyn Painting School with Stanhope Forbes and what is certain is that the Hopeless Dawn was painted in Cornwall in 1888.
The title of the painting comes from a passage by John Ruskin which affirms that Christ is at the helm of every boat. The kneeling woman, comforted by her mother-in-law, realises that her husband is lost at sea, but the open Bible, altar-like table and print on the wall hint at the consolation of religion.
Note the old weather glass, apparently by bay leaves near the window. The painting was finished by Bramley around the mid to late nineteenth century, when drowning at sea was common. Many similar scenes were enacted at Port Quin, Port Gaverne, Port Isaac and indeed many other homes during the period covered by this book.
Author’s note. Port Quin has always meant a lot to my family at Port Isaac and we go back many centuries on both my mother’s and father’s side. They used it as a place to go to relax and enjoy the solitude away from what at times was a hard life. They have always been interested in the Port Quin disaster as is evident from the above.
I have omitted photos from this account.
Geoff Provis. 2024.
Copyright 2011 Geof Provis - All rights reserved.
Port Quin has been a staple part of our family life since the 1960’s when my mother, Helen, would travel there as young child with her family for their holidays. I have been continuing the tradition, staying at the beautiful Quay Cottage since before I can remember with my parents, and now, 30 years on, with my husband, James.
When we first met, James lived in Cornwall but had never heard of the beautiful bay that is Port Quin. After several visits, and knowing me well enough to know that it was my favourite spot on earth, in December 2022 he proposed to me on the headland on a beautiful, blustery day. It was the most magical moment. Just us and the waves and the wind, overlooking my special place.
Port Quin has always been more than a location for me, it’s my safe space, it's where I go to in my mind when things aren’t feeling brilliant in reality. As soon as I walk up to the headland (in the past I was accompanied by my Labrador, Woody, who continued joining me on the walk until she was 15 years old!) my troubles disappear. It has helped me through so many hard times and given me so much joy. Now that it means so much to James too, our dream is to live as close as possible to our wonderful Port Quin in the future so that it can become our daily haunt. It is magical there and can’t quite be described, you have to experience it for yourself! It is healing, and I’ve never found anywhere else that has the same ability to do this as Port Quin.