The House on the Strand by Daphne du Maurier

Queen Anne houses, tin and copper mines, the pub across the road, all these were centuries later than my time. I felt as an archaeologist must feel who discovers a late Roman villa instead of a Bronze Age camp.
    "Well, thanks very much," I said, "good day to you," and turned the car and drove back up the hill. If the Champernounes had descended this road in 1328, their covered wagonettes would have been baulked by the mill-stream at the bottom, unless an older bridge than the one I had seen once forded it. Half-way up the hill I turned left into a side-lane, and presently saw the three farmsteads the man had mentioned. I reached for my road-map. This side-road that I was on would join the main road at the top of the hill—the long tunnel must run deep underground beneath the road, a fine feat of engineering—and yes, the farm on my right was Trevenna, the one in front of me Trenadiyn, and the third, near to the railway line itself would be Treverran. So what, I asked myself? Drive to each in turn, knock upon the door, and say, Do you mind if I sit down for half-an-hour, give myself what the drug-addicts call a fix and see what happens?
    Archaeologists had the best of it. Someone to finance their digs, enthusiastic company, and no risk of a lunatic asylum at the end of the day. I turned, drove back along my side-road, and up the steep hill towards Tywardreath. A car, towing a caravan, was trying to edge its way into the entrance of a bungalow half-way up the hill, effectively blocking my passage. I braked, almost in the ditch, and let the driver proceed with his manoeuvres. He shouted his apologies, and finally succeeded in getting both car and caravan parked beside the bungalow. He climbed out of his car and walked towards me, apologising once again. "I think you can get past now," he said. "I'm sorry for the hold-up."
    "That's O.K." I told him, "I'm in no hurry. You did a fine job getting your caravan clear of the road."
    "Oh well, I'm used to it," he said. "I live here, and the caravan gives us extra room when we have summer visitors."
    I glanced at the name on the gate. "Chapel Down," I said. "That's unusual."
    He grinned. "That's what we thought when we built the bungalow," he said. "We decided to keep the name of the actual plot of ground. It's been Chapel Down for centuries, and the fields across the road are both called Chapel Park."
    "Anything to do with the old Priory?" I asked.
    He did not register. "There were a couple of cottages here once," he said, "some sort of a Methodist meeting-house, I believe. But the field names go back a lot further than that."
    His wife came out of the bungalow with a couple of children, and I started up the car. "All clear ahead," he called, and I pulled away from the ditch and drove up the hill until the curve in the road hid the bungalow from sight. Then I pulled across to a lay-by on the right, where there was a pile of stones and timber. I had reached the summit of the hill, and beyond the lay-by the road curved down to Tywardreath, the first houses already in sight. Chapel Down... Chapel Park... Could there have been a chapel here in former days, long since demolished, either on the site of the caravan-owner's bungalow or near the lay-by, where a modern house fronted the road? Below the house a gate led into a field, and I climbed over it, circuiting the field and keeping close to the hedge until the sloping ground hid me from sight. This was the field the caravan-owner said was Chapel Park. It had no distinctive feature that I could see. Cows were grazing at the far end. I scrambled through the hedge at the bottom, and found myself on the precipitous grassland a few hundred feet above the railway, looking straight into the valley. I lit a cigarette and surveyed the scene. No chapels tucked away, but what a view, Treesmill Farm away to my right, the other farms beyond, all sheltered from prevailing wind and weather, immediately below me the railway, and beyond it the strange