On the other side of Wadebridge lies St. Breock, where "John Tregeagle of Trevorder, Esqr., 1679," is buried. 'Tis said that at his death, owing to some inaccuracy in his accounts--he was steward of the Robartes' estates--a poor man was sued for money that he had already paid. By the agency of the parson, who seems to have been some sort of a wizard, Tregeagle was induced to return to earth and give evidence for the defence, which evidence proved conclusive. Cornwall is full of legends about Tregeagle, who seems to have been a hard man and an oppressive steward; but no doubt, as often happens, the legends are of earlier date than the individual to whom they are momentarily attached. The wraith who gave them birth has faded out of living memory, is indeed dead; but like disturbed but sleepy birds, they have quickly settled again on some character still bulking largely in the public eye.
Beyond the little church the ground rises to St. Breock Downs, which are 700 ft. above sea level and strewn with prehistoric remains. Nine big stones in a straight line are followed by a menhir, a disposition often seen on Dartmoor; and at Pawton is a dolmen called the Giant's Quoit, an exceptionally fine example. The menhir is known as the Old Man, probably from houl mæn, a sun stone. The word "man" or "men" or "maiden" when met with in the west invariably means a stone, but those responsible for our latter-day legends were often unaware of this.
By way of the broad sunshiny estuary, which is as beautiful when the tide is out and the distant gulls stand like a string of pearls on the edge of the yellow sand, as when the whole expanse is one stretch of dimpling blue water, we come to Padstow. At Little Petherick, which is halfway, there is a copy of the 1684 edition of Foxe's "Book of Martyrs," and the south doorway of the church is believed to have been stolen from the ruined edifice on Constantine Bay--at any rate there is no mention in the churchwardens' accounts of any payment made.
A short distance from the mouth of the estuary and looking up the blue reaches to the open sea lies the little port of Padstow. In early days it was so near the Atlantic that wandering Danes (901) came and plundered its monastery of St. Petrock, and later the sand blocked up the wide mouth of the harbour forming the Doom Bar, and leaving only a narrow channel on the west. But the little place with its narrow streets all running uphill, its unprotected sharp-cornered quay, and its dominant manor-house, still contrives to exist. It is at its best perhaps when stress of weather has driven in the fishing fleet, and there is a forest of masts clustered by the wharves. On such occasions milk and bread are hard to come by, for there will be five hundred extra mouths to feed.