Beware the wreckers!
The cliffs of the South West Coast Path ring with tales of unscrupulous villagers luring ships to their doom. But what is the truth behind the myths…?
TODAY THE SOUTH WEST COAST Path is a place of pleasure. Six hundred and thirty miles of some of the finest walking anywhere in Europe. Beaches, cliffs, sea-arches, dolphins and memories, through four counties (Somerset, Devon, Cornwall and Dorset) and a score of differing geologies.
But up until the late 19th century, it was England’s wild frontier: a place where the law only just held sway, and where the pounding antagonism of the sea shaped not only daily life, but the morals of those who lived along it.
For it’s said that God-fearing villagers would abandon their virtues and lead ships to their doom, then plunder the cargo and kill off any survivors. Welcome to the world of the wreckers. And welcome, in particular, to Prawle Point in Devon, which – so it’s said – was one of their hotspots.
For a walker, Prawle Point is magnificent. It’s the southernmost point of the county, and part of the South Devon Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty.
It’s also fantastically hard to get to. The nearest town, Salcombe, is a mere three miles away as the crow flies, but if you miss the ferry across Salcombe Harbour it’s at least an hour’s drive around the Kingsbridge estuary and down through the labyrinth of high-hedged lanes that criss-cross the South Hams. Devon is crinkly like that.
So as I set out from the village of East Prawle, I feel like I’m at the end of the world. Perhaps it’s little wonder that those who lived here in the 18th century felt very far from the rule of law.
And temptation was so, so close. As I reach the shore, I realise this coastline was virtually designed to maximise shipwrecks. Treacherous currents, submerged rocks, spiky headlands: nothing here was in the seaman’s favour.
And just east of Prawle Point lies one of the most perfect ‘ship traps’ on the south coast: a set of jaws formed by the rocky shore and a fangy island (often submerged), which together create a maelstrom that pulls ships in, traps them, and holds them in place while the surf pounds them to smithereens.
Thousands of lives have been lost along this stretch of coast over the centuries. As prep for this walk I’ve been reading a marvellous blog about the wrecks of the south west coast called Submerged, started by scuba diver Peter Mitchell.
”’“Treacherous currents, hidden rocks, spiky headlands: nothing at Prawle Point was i n t he se ama n's fav o ur.
“I have sometimes heard it said that if you could pull the plug out from the bottom of the sea, you could walk from Plymouth to Start Point over the remains of all the ships that have been wrecked along this part of the coast,” Peter wrote.
“To some this might seem an exaggeration, until you realise that in 1804, on one day alone in Deadmans Bay, ten ships were driven ashore during fierce southerly gales. And that kind of tally was by no means exceptional.”
But to what extent were the wreckers involved in these catastrophes? Well, according to contemporary accounts there were two kinds of wrecking. The first was simply taking advantage of a wreck that was happening anyway. An example of this comes in a 19th century tale from East Portlemouth, just round the coast from Prawle. Allegedly, as the vicar was delivering his sermon in the village church, a man burst in to inform him of a wreck taking place off the point. The vicar told his flock, and they rose as one and raced off to grab what they could, the vicar tearing off his vestments as he led the way to the beach.
The second form was more sinister: actually causing the wreck, usually by lighting a lantern to resemble either a lighthouse (thus forcing a ship away from safe waters into a dangerous area) or a harbour ( luring them directly to the danger).
The waters were muddied by the peculiar maritime laws of the 17th and 18th centuries. If a ship was officially ‘wrecked’, the locals’ right of salvage would kick in (a complicated arrangement, split between the finders and the owners of the land). But to be classed as a wreck, all those aboard the vessel would need to perish. Almost an incentive, then, for the locals to finish off the survivors in order to claim their rights.
Customs officers might turn up at a wreck, but it was to claim treasure for the Crown rather than to police the locals’ behaviour – and of course they would usually be heavily outnumbered. So it all sounds like a mess; a legal void filled by madness.
But as I make my way round Lobeater Rock and around Langerstone Point, I find myself wondering: was it really like that?
Possibly not, says Richard Platt, author of Smuggling in the British Isles. He accepts that violence, smuggling and legal chicanery were part of life on this coastline. But he adds: “It’s hard to believe tales of ships being deliberately lured onto the rocks, and crewmen cynically drowned for fear they’d testify about the plundering.
“Most of the local inhabitants were seafarers themselves, and knew of the inevitable loss of life that followed a wreck.” He adds that the villagers