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The Mystique of Bossiney Mound
Nestled within the quiet village of Bossiney in Cornwall, Bossiney Castle is a site where history and legend converge in a timeless dance. This Norman fortification, constructed in the 11th century after the Norman Conquest, was once a defensive stronghold. Its modest motte—a circular mound now hidden on private land behind a Methodist chapel—offers a subtle yet profound reminder of its origins. Thought to be the work of Robert, Count of Mortain, half-brother to William the Conqueror, the castle’s timber design lacked a traditional bailey, hinting at its early construction style. Overshadowed by the grandeur of nearby Tintagel Castle, Bossiney Castle had fallen out of use by the late 13th century, but its stories linger on.
The mound's true power lies in its connection to the realm of myth. Local tradition ties the site to the legendary King Arthur, whose golden Round Table is said to lie buried beneath the earthen hill. According to folklorist Sabine Baring-Gould, the table rises to the surface on Midsummer’s Eve, casting a flash of golden light across the sky before disappearing once more into the earth. Another tale, steeped in European "King under the Mountain" traditions, claims Arthur and his knights sleep beneath the mound, awaiting England's moment of greatest need. Such legends infuse Bossiney Castle with a sense of magic and eternal hope, making it a spiritual landmark as much as a historical one.
Despite its legendary allure, the mound played a significant role in Cornwall’s history. It served as the site where parliamentary election writs were read and results declared for the Borough of Bossiney. In 1584, none other than Sir Francis Drake was elected from this very spot, briefly tying the legendary explorer to the village’s past. Drake’s tenure was short-lived, as the call of the sea soon returned him to his true vocation. By 1832, the Reform Act dissolved the borough, marking the end of the mound’s official political significance. Yet, its historical importance endures, carried forward through the tales of those who gathered here to cast their votes and raise their voices.
Today, Bossiney Mound exists as a quiet relic of the past, shrouded in mystery and myth. Its modest appearance belies the weight of its history, where Norman ambition, Arthurian legend, and Cornish tradition intertwine. Even in modern times, visitors and locals alike are drawn to its enigmatic presence. Some have reported supernatural lights or peculiar happenings near the chapel on Midsummer’s Eve, suggesting that the myths may not be entirely rooted in imagination. Whether as a historical artifact or a beacon of mystical wonder, Bossiney Castle remains a place where the boundaries of reality and legend blur, inviting us to dream and remember.
The mound's true power lies in its connection to the realm of myth. Local tradition ties the site to the legendary King Arthur, whose golden Round Table is said to lie buried beneath the earthen hill. According to folklorist Sabine Baring-Gould, the table rises to the surface on Midsummer’s Eve, casting a flash of golden light across the sky before disappearing once more into the earth. Another tale, steeped in European "King under the Mountain" traditions, claims Arthur and his knights sleep beneath the mound, awaiting England's moment of greatest need. Such legends infuse Bossiney Castle with a sense of magic and eternal hope, making it a spiritual landmark as much as a historical one.
Despite its legendary allure, the mound played a significant role in Cornwall’s history. It served as the site where parliamentary election writs were read and results declared for the Borough of Bossiney. In 1584, none other than Sir Francis Drake was elected from this very spot, briefly tying the legendary explorer to the village’s past. Drake’s tenure was short-lived, as the call of the sea soon returned him to his true vocation. By 1832, the Reform Act dissolved the borough, marking the end of the mound’s official political significance. Yet, its historical importance endures, carried forward through the tales of those who gathered here to cast their votes and raise their voices.
Today, Bossiney Mound exists as a quiet relic of the past, shrouded in mystery and myth. Its modest appearance belies the weight of its history, where Norman ambition, Arthurian legend, and Cornish tradition intertwine. Even in modern times, visitors and locals alike are drawn to its enigmatic presence. Some have reported supernatural lights or peculiar happenings near the chapel on Midsummer’s Eve, suggesting that the myths may not be entirely rooted in imagination. Whether as a historical artifact or a beacon of mystical wonder, Bossiney Castle remains a place where the boundaries of reality and legend blur, inviting us to dream and remember.
Jack The Giant Killer
The legend of Cormoran, the giant of St Michael’s Mount, is one of Cornwall’s most enduring myths. Cormoran is said to have built the tidal island himself, carrying immense blocks of white granite from the mainland with the help of his wife, Cormelian. The giant was meticulous in his choice of stone, but Cormelian, weary of the labour, attempted to use greenstone instead. When Cormoran discovered her plan, he angrily kicked her, causing her to drop the greenstone into the sea, forming what is now known as Chapel Rock. In another version of the tale, Cormelian was killed accidentally when Cormoran’s friend, the giant of Trencrom, hurled a hammer at her while the two giants playfully tossed it between their homes. Stricken with grief, Cormoran buried his wife near the Mount, where her grave became part of local legend.
From his stronghold on St Michael’s Mount, Cormoran was a fearsome presence in the region, terrorising the countryside and stealing livestock from nearby farms. He would wade ashore to carry sheep and cattle back to the island for his meals, leaving the local farmers in despair. Eventually, the people of Cornwall grew so desperate that they offered a reward to anyone brave enough to rid them of the giant. Jack, a young farmer’s son from Lands End, rose to the challenge with a cunning plan. One night, while Cormoran slept, Jack rowed to the island and dug a deep pit along the path the giant used each morning. By dawn, the pit was complete, and Jack lured Cormoran out of his cave by blowing a horn.
Enraged by the disturbance, Cormoran charged towards Jack, blinded by the rising sun. Unable to see the pit, the giant fell in, where Jack delivered a mortal blow with his pickaxe and buried him under the earth. Some versions of the story place these events near Morvah, where the pit became known as Giant’s Grave. Local legend holds that the ghostly moans of Cormoran can still be heard beneath the ground. Jack returned to the mainland as a hero, claiming the reward and earning the title of “Jack the Giant-Killer.” As a token of gratitude, the people of Cornwall presented Jack with a sword and a belt inscribed with his heroic deeds.
The legend of Cormoran and Jack is deeply intertwined with the history and folklore of St Michael’s Mount. The heart-shaped cobblestone on the island is said to mark the spot where Cormoran’s heart lies, a lasting reminder of his defeat. The Mount itself, once known as “The White Rock in the Wood,” is believed to have stood amidst a vast forest, linking it to the fabled sunken land of Lyonesse. With its fairy-tale castle, Chapel Rock, and connections to myth, St Michael’s Mount remains a site of fascination and wonder. It continues to inspire stories of heroism, mystery, and the enduring spirit of Cornish folklore.
From his stronghold on St Michael’s Mount, Cormoran was a fearsome presence in the region, terrorising the countryside and stealing livestock from nearby farms. He would wade ashore to carry sheep and cattle back to the island for his meals, leaving the local farmers in despair. Eventually, the people of Cornwall grew so desperate that they offered a reward to anyone brave enough to rid them of the giant. Jack, a young farmer’s son from Lands End, rose to the challenge with a cunning plan. One night, while Cormoran slept, Jack rowed to the island and dug a deep pit along the path the giant used each morning. By dawn, the pit was complete, and Jack lured Cormoran out of his cave by blowing a horn.
Enraged by the disturbance, Cormoran charged towards Jack, blinded by the rising sun. Unable to see the pit, the giant fell in, where Jack delivered a mortal blow with his pickaxe and buried him under the earth. Some versions of the story place these events near Morvah, where the pit became known as Giant’s Grave. Local legend holds that the ghostly moans of Cormoran can still be heard beneath the ground. Jack returned to the mainland as a hero, claiming the reward and earning the title of “Jack the Giant-Killer.” As a token of gratitude, the people of Cornwall presented Jack with a sword and a belt inscribed with his heroic deeds.
The legend of Cormoran and Jack is deeply intertwined with the history and folklore of St Michael’s Mount. The heart-shaped cobblestone on the island is said to mark the spot where Cormoran’s heart lies, a lasting reminder of his defeat. The Mount itself, once known as “The White Rock in the Wood,” is believed to have stood amidst a vast forest, linking it to the fabled sunken land of Lyonesse. With its fairy-tale castle, Chapel Rock, and connections to myth, St Michael’s Mount remains a site of fascination and wonder. It continues to inspire stories of heroism, mystery, and the enduring spirit of Cornish folklore.
Archangel Michael & St Michael's Mount
The Archangel Michael plays a central role in the spiritual and mythological narrative of St. Michael’s Mount (SMM), symbolizing protection, divine intervention, and the triumph of good over evil. His association with the site traces back to early medieval Christian traditions. According to legend, St. Michael is said to have appeared on the island, connecting its landscape with heavenly symbolism and cementing its reputation as a sacred destination. Tales of his appearances on SMM reinforced its role as a place of pilgrimage, with accounts emphasizing his role as a warrior who defeated evil forces, reflecting his role as protector in Christian theology (Cusack, 2018; TRE, 1862). These stories elevated the island’s sanctity and established it as a beacon for Christian devotion and spiritual reflection.
The most well-known story connected to the Archangel Michael involves his victory over a dragon, a symbol often interpreted as evil or sin within Christian iconography. This myth is famously associated with the narrative of St. Michael slaying a dragon, a depiction that has spiritual and symbolic ties to the triumph of divine power over chaos and disorder (Doble, 1932). This story connects with Christian teachings and also represents the duality of light and dark—a recurring motif in medieval iconography. SMM’s association with St. Michael’s victory and heavenly intervention gave the site its prominence as a key pilgrimage destination throughout the Middle Ages, especially during periods when Christian devotion and the search for divine miracles motivated travel.
Archangel Michael’s symbolism further established his association with ley lines and mystical energies at SMM. The St. Michael ley, a concept popularized in the 20th century by figures like John Mitchell, traces paths from SMM to other sacred sites such as Glastonbury, Avebury, and Bury St. Edmunds. This ley is believed to represent a spiritual axis connecting St. Michael’s divine influence across the English landscape (Griffiths, 2019). The association with St. Michael’s ley enhances SMM’s role as both a historical and mystical site, with devotees and pilgrims today retracing these symbolic routes in search of spiritual connection. The notion of these ley lines as sacred pathways further draws on the symbolic legacy of St. Michael, representing divine order, protection, and pathways through spiritual landscapes.
Modern interpretations have expanded these mythological and spiritual frameworks, incorporating St. Michael’s stories into broader New Age belief systems. Some interpretations link SMM and its ley lines to transcontinental spiritual pathways, like the "Apollo line," connecting Mount Carmel in Israel to Skellig Michael in Ireland (Del Guercio, 2017). These ley lines incorporate the Archangel Michael’s mythological symbolism with transnational sacred journeys and contemporary spiritual practices. While these ideas have drawn skepticism from historians and scientists (Watkins, 1922; Forrest, 1976), they underscore the enduring cultural significance of St. Michael's stories. His symbolism continues to act as a focal point for modern pilgrims, artists, and spiritual seekers as they explore SMM’s history and its mythological intersections. Whether as a heavenly warrior, protector, or divine guide, St. Michael’s enduring presence at SMM is a reflection of his role in medieval legend and his symbolic importance in modern interpretations of spirituality.
The most well-known story connected to the Archangel Michael involves his victory over a dragon, a symbol often interpreted as evil or sin within Christian iconography. This myth is famously associated with the narrative of St. Michael slaying a dragon, a depiction that has spiritual and symbolic ties to the triumph of divine power over chaos and disorder (Doble, 1932). This story connects with Christian teachings and also represents the duality of light and dark—a recurring motif in medieval iconography. SMM’s association with St. Michael’s victory and heavenly intervention gave the site its prominence as a key pilgrimage destination throughout the Middle Ages, especially during periods when Christian devotion and the search for divine miracles motivated travel.
Archangel Michael’s symbolism further established his association with ley lines and mystical energies at SMM. The St. Michael ley, a concept popularized in the 20th century by figures like John Mitchell, traces paths from SMM to other sacred sites such as Glastonbury, Avebury, and Bury St. Edmunds. This ley is believed to represent a spiritual axis connecting St. Michael’s divine influence across the English landscape (Griffiths, 2019). The association with St. Michael’s ley enhances SMM’s role as both a historical and mystical site, with devotees and pilgrims today retracing these symbolic routes in search of spiritual connection. The notion of these ley lines as sacred pathways further draws on the symbolic legacy of St. Michael, representing divine order, protection, and pathways through spiritual landscapes.
Modern interpretations have expanded these mythological and spiritual frameworks, incorporating St. Michael’s stories into broader New Age belief systems. Some interpretations link SMM and its ley lines to transcontinental spiritual pathways, like the "Apollo line," connecting Mount Carmel in Israel to Skellig Michael in Ireland (Del Guercio, 2017). These ley lines incorporate the Archangel Michael’s mythological symbolism with transnational sacred journeys and contemporary spiritual practices. While these ideas have drawn skepticism from historians and scientists (Watkins, 1922; Forrest, 1976), they underscore the enduring cultural significance of St. Michael's stories. His symbolism continues to act as a focal point for modern pilgrims, artists, and spiritual seekers as they explore SMM’s history and its mythological intersections. Whether as a heavenly warrior, protector, or divine guide, St. Michael’s enduring presence at SMM is a reflection of his role in medieval legend and his symbolic importance in modern interpretations of spirituality.
The Devil in Torpoint
In a time of famine in Cornwall, with dry fields and empty bellies, the people of the Rame Peninsula grew desperate. Rumours of the Devil’s approach from Devon filled the air, and the locals resorted to drastic measures. The infamous sparrow mumblers gnawed on live birds, while others denuded the land, baking pies from whatever they could scavenge—lamb, herbs, pig, and conger eel. Yet even these efforts couldn’t satisfy their fear, and they cried out for help.
The answer lay in one last dish: the stargazy pie. With the market holding only a barrel of flour and a trickle of well water, villagers rushed to the sea for fish. They baked a crust filled with withered vegetables and pilchards, arranged with heads and tails poking skyward. The steaming pie, an ode to Cornish ingenuity, was placed in the marketplace just as the Devil reached the River Tamar. Tempted by the aroma, he sampled the pie but recoiled in horror, imagining his own fate sealed in pastry.
Fleeing back to Devon, the Devil swore never to return to Cornwall, lest he end up baked in a "Devilly pie." This tale, rooted in Cornish folklore and referenced in Richard Carew’s Survey of Cornwall (1607), lives on in the folk song Fish, Tin and Copper. It celebrates Cornwall’s resourcefulness and the indomitable spirit of its people, keeping the Devil—and other threats—at bay.
The answer lay in one last dish: the stargazy pie. With the market holding only a barrel of flour and a trickle of well water, villagers rushed to the sea for fish. They baked a crust filled with withered vegetables and pilchards, arranged with heads and tails poking skyward. The steaming pie, an ode to Cornish ingenuity, was placed in the marketplace just as the Devil reached the River Tamar. Tempted by the aroma, he sampled the pie but recoiled in horror, imagining his own fate sealed in pastry.
Fleeing back to Devon, the Devil swore never to return to Cornwall, lest he end up baked in a "Devilly pie." This tale, rooted in Cornish folklore and referenced in Richard Carew’s Survey of Cornwall (1607), lives on in the folk song Fish, Tin and Copper. It celebrates Cornwall’s resourcefulness and the indomitable spirit of its people, keeping the Devil—and other threats—at bay.
John Bray: Tales of Wrecks on the Wild North Cornwall Coast
My childhood was shaped by the wild waves of Widemouth Bay, where I surfed under the watchful gaze of its rugged cliffs. Early on, I discovered the haunting account of shipwrecks recorded by John Bray—a vivid chronicle of this dramatic and untamed coastline. Bray’s stories introduced me to Reverend Robert Hawker, the eccentric vicar of Morwenstow, celebrated for penning Cornwall’s unofficial anthem, Trelawney. Hawker, however, was just as renowned for collecting the grim tales of wreckers, smugglers, and disasters that peppered the history of the north Cornish coast. Relying heavily on the memories of locals like Bray, he captured the perilous nature of this “iron-bound coast,” where, within a mere 15-mile stretch, over eighty wrecks were remembered by a single man.
John Bray, born in 1744 near Bude, was no wrecker but a steadfast witness, salvager, and rescuer of shipwrecked lives and cargo. At the urging of Hawker, Bray documented nearly 40 wrecks he had encountered between Millook and Morwenstow, the first when he was just twelve. His accounts, written in a raw, unpolished style, are vivid with the horrors of lives lost and the treasures washed ashore—monkeys, oranges, muskets, and salted fish. Bray himself was a man of many trades—a farmer, constable, and salvage agent—who knew the coast like the back of his hand. Fierce yet fair, he worked alongside authorities to recover goods legally, even standing his ground against thieves intent on stealing salvaged cargo.
One of Bray’s most extraordinary tales involves a dream that drew him to Widemouth Bay, where a French brig was being torn apart by the waves. As its crew clung to wreckage, Bray, astride his horse, repeatedly braved the crashing surf to rescue them. By morning, the sailors, recovering in local homes, hailed him as a hero, offering him gold. Bray declined but returned home laden with oranges and lemons from the wreck’s cargo. In his final years, Bray completed his manuscript, a remarkable feat of memory for a man nearing 88. “I thank God for his goodness,” he wrote, “in permitting me such remembrance.” He passed away in 1836, leaving behind a priceless window into Cornwall’s turbulent maritime history—a record as raw and enduring as the coast he called home.
John Bray, born in 1744 near Bude, was no wrecker but a steadfast witness, salvager, and rescuer of shipwrecked lives and cargo. At the urging of Hawker, Bray documented nearly 40 wrecks he had encountered between Millook and Morwenstow, the first when he was just twelve. His accounts, written in a raw, unpolished style, are vivid with the horrors of lives lost and the treasures washed ashore—monkeys, oranges, muskets, and salted fish. Bray himself was a man of many trades—a farmer, constable, and salvage agent—who knew the coast like the back of his hand. Fierce yet fair, he worked alongside authorities to recover goods legally, even standing his ground against thieves intent on stealing salvaged cargo.
One of Bray’s most extraordinary tales involves a dream that drew him to Widemouth Bay, where a French brig was being torn apart by the waves. As its crew clung to wreckage, Bray, astride his horse, repeatedly braved the crashing surf to rescue them. By morning, the sailors, recovering in local homes, hailed him as a hero, offering him gold. Bray declined but returned home laden with oranges and lemons from the wreck’s cargo. In his final years, Bray completed his manuscript, a remarkable feat of memory for a man nearing 88. “I thank God for his goodness,” he wrote, “in permitting me such remembrance.” He passed away in 1836, leaving behind a priceless window into Cornwall’s turbulent maritime history—a record as raw and enduring as the coast he called home.
Is St Michael’s Mount the mysterious island of Ictis?
While exploring my collection of old Cornish folklore and history, I delved into Rev. T. Taylor’s 1932 account of St Michael’s Mount, a fascinating exploration of its history and legends. One striking aspect of the book is its discussion of Ictis, an island described by the first-century BC historian Diodorus Siculus as a key hub for the ancient tin trade. Ictis was said to be a tidal island, accessible by a causeway at low tide, where tin was brought by wagon before being shipped to Gaul. While various locations have been proposed as Ictis, St Michael’s Mount in Cornwall stands out as the most likely candidate, given its tidal causeway and proximity to the region’s rich tin deposits.
The geographical features of St Michael’s Mount align perfectly with Diodorus’s description. Medieval accounts, such as William of Worcester’s description of the Mount as “Hore-rok in the Wodd,” suggest it was once surrounded by dense woodland, further supporting the idea of a tidal island only accessible at low tide. The Mount’s strategic location also made it an ideal point for ancient mariners to navigate westward to the Loire, taking advantage of the prevailing westerly winds. This would have been far more efficient than the Isle of Wight, which required navigating against the wind and overland transport to reach tin sources, reinforcing the Mount’s suitability as a trading post.
In light of its unique features, St Michael’s Mount seems to be the most plausible site for Ictis. Its historical and geographical characteristics match Diodorus’s account of a vital trading hub for tin, and its role in connecting Britain to the Mediterranean world aligns with its importance in ancient commerce. While religious and medieval narratives surrounding the Mount may have complicated its historical identity, these should not overshadow its critical place in the ancient tin trade, embodying a legacy that connects Cornwall to broader Mediterranean trade routes.
The geographical features of St Michael’s Mount align perfectly with Diodorus’s description. Medieval accounts, such as William of Worcester’s description of the Mount as “Hore-rok in the Wodd,” suggest it was once surrounded by dense woodland, further supporting the idea of a tidal island only accessible at low tide. The Mount’s strategic location also made it an ideal point for ancient mariners to navigate westward to the Loire, taking advantage of the prevailing westerly winds. This would have been far more efficient than the Isle of Wight, which required navigating against the wind and overland transport to reach tin sources, reinforcing the Mount’s suitability as a trading post.
In light of its unique features, St Michael’s Mount seems to be the most plausible site for Ictis. Its historical and geographical characteristics match Diodorus’s account of a vital trading hub for tin, and its role in connecting Britain to the Mediterranean world aligns with its importance in ancient commerce. While religious and medieval narratives surrounding the Mount may have complicated its historical identity, these should not overshadow its critical place in the ancient tin trade, embodying a legacy that connects Cornwall to broader Mediterranean trade routes.
The Bewitchment of John Tonken
The Tonken Affair is one of Cornwall's most extraordinary witchcraft cases, preserved in a 1686 pamphlet discovered in Penzance's Morrab Library. The account details the dramatic experiences of 15-year-old John Tonken, who reportedly suffered violent fits and nightmarish visions of a woman in a red petticoat and blue jerkin. This mysterious figure allegedly forced him to vomit an array of bizarre objects, including nutshells, crooked pins, and even a beetling needle, leaving his community gripped by fear.
Witnesses described Tonken's torment as escalating to levitation, convulsions, and claims of physical attacks by the apparition. The unsettling phenomena drew public scrutiny, with neighbors attempting to debunk the events as trickery but finding no evidence of deceit. Tonken identified three women as his tormentors, leading to their arrest and imprisonment in Launceston Gaol on charges of witchcraft. The fate of these women remains uncertain, as no further records of their trial exist.
The Tonken Affair was not an isolated case. Similar tales, such as the infamous Lowestoft witch trials, depict children exhibiting hysterical behavior and accusing women of malevolent sorcery. These accounts often involved vomiting pins, spectral visions, and allegations of curses, echoing societal fears of witchcraft during the 17th century.
Though the truth behind Tonken’s ordeal remains a mystery, such cases reveal a society grappling with superstition, fear, and the scapegoating of vulnerable individuals. Whether fueled by personal grievances, mass hysteria, or genuine belief in the supernatural, these stories endure as haunting reminders of a dark chapter in history.
Witnesses described Tonken's torment as escalating to levitation, convulsions, and claims of physical attacks by the apparition. The unsettling phenomena drew public scrutiny, with neighbors attempting to debunk the events as trickery but finding no evidence of deceit. Tonken identified three women as his tormentors, leading to their arrest and imprisonment in Launceston Gaol on charges of witchcraft. The fate of these women remains uncertain, as no further records of their trial exist.
The Tonken Affair was not an isolated case. Similar tales, such as the infamous Lowestoft witch trials, depict children exhibiting hysterical behavior and accusing women of malevolent sorcery. These accounts often involved vomiting pins, spectral visions, and allegations of curses, echoing societal fears of witchcraft during the 17th century.
Though the truth behind Tonken’s ordeal remains a mystery, such cases reveal a society grappling with superstition, fear, and the scapegoating of vulnerable individuals. Whether fueled by personal grievances, mass hysteria, or genuine belief in the supernatural, these stories endure as haunting reminders of a dark chapter in history.
Chysauster Ancient Village
Chysauster, an Iron Age village in Cornwall, was occupied by the Dumnonii tribe from 100 BC to the 3rd century AD. Its ten courtyard houses, built with thick stone walls and arranged along a curving lane, reflect a carefully planned settlement. Practical features such as granite basins, paved floors, terraced gardens, and efficient drainage systems highlight the ingenuity of its inhabitants, who lived communally and sustained themselves through farming, weaving, and tin-smelting. Artefacts like spindle whorls and quern stones reveal a focus on domestic life, while evidence of tin trade links the village to wider networks, including the Mediterranean.
The enigmatic fogou at Chysauster, a collapsed underground passage, adds intrigue to the site. Its purpose remains uncertain—suggested uses include food storage, refuge, or even ceremonial functions. Similar structures found across Cornwall, Ireland, and Scotland suggest a shared architectural tradition, but its role in village life remains a mystery. Combined with artefacts such as pottery and tools, the fogou reflects both the practical and potentially spiritual dimensions of life in Chysauster.
Today, Chysauster stands as one of the best-preserved Iron Age settlements in Britain, offering visitors a chance to explore its ancient pathways and structures. The terraced gardens, central courtyards, and remains of the fogou bring the rhythms of Iron Age life vividly to mind, evoking a sense of community and connection to the land. This remarkable site, steeped in history and mystery, remains a testament to the resilience and ingenuity of its inhabitants.
The enigmatic fogou at Chysauster, a collapsed underground passage, adds intrigue to the site. Its purpose remains uncertain—suggested uses include food storage, refuge, or even ceremonial functions. Similar structures found across Cornwall, Ireland, and Scotland suggest a shared architectural tradition, but its role in village life remains a mystery. Combined with artefacts such as pottery and tools, the fogou reflects both the practical and potentially spiritual dimensions of life in Chysauster.
Today, Chysauster stands as one of the best-preserved Iron Age settlements in Britain, offering visitors a chance to explore its ancient pathways and structures. The terraced gardens, central courtyards, and remains of the fogou bring the rhythms of Iron Age life vividly to mind, evoking a sense of community and connection to the land. This remarkable site, steeped in history and mystery, remains a testament to the resilience and ingenuity of its inhabitants.
The Rocky Valley Labyrinths
Nestled in the steep, verdant confines of Rocky Valley, near Tintagel in Cornwall, two labyrinthine carvings etched into a shale outcrop evoke a haunting mystery. These finely crafted designs—elegant manifestations of the classical labyrinth motif—rest beside a murmuring stream, their origins shrouded in ambiguity and conjecture. Discovered in 1948 by S.J. Madge, their allure has captured the imaginations of many, from scholars and local historians to mystics and curious travelers.
Some interpret these carvings as relics of ancient diffusion from Mediterranean cultures, their motifs carried on the winds of prehistoric migrations. Others assert more cautious theories, linking the carvings to later traditions, such as those of 18th- and 19th-century artisans who, inspired by the revival of classical motifs, left such marks as whimsical declarations of presence or craftsmanship.
The mill at Trewethett—now a ruin that whispers its own tales of forgotten labor—stands nearby, its history intimately tied to the carvings. The labyrinths' position, just feet from the mill's earlier structure, suggests a curious relationship between human activity and the enigmatic patterns. Could they have been carved as symbols of luck or protection, ensuring prosperity for millers and workers within the mill’s austere embrace?
The labyrinths are carved into a friable shale, a rock so vulnerable to the elements that it challenges claims of ancient origins. If Bronze Age, their survival in such pristine condition defies all expectation. Their surroundings—a valley dense with ferns and rich in spiritual lore—only deepen the aura of mysticism. The nearby St. Nectan’s Glen, with its hermitage and sacred spring, hints at the spiritual resonance of this area throughout history.
Recent scholarship has tentatively placed these carvings in a more modern context, associating them with the cultural practices of the 18th and 19th centuries. The classical labyrinth design, with its deceptively simple "seed pattern," was widespread during this time, appearing in rural turf mazes, the facades of buildings, and even schoolboy graffiti. Whether a playful indulgence or a meditative symbol, the labyrinth transcended the mundane, weaving its way through folklore and artistic expression.
The carvings persist as a riddle inscribed on the canvas of time, inviting a blend of academic rigor and speculative wonder. In their silent grooves lies a potent reminder of humanity’s enduring need to create, mark, and connect across epochs. Whether born of Bronze Age ritual, medieval lore, or the playful whimsy of a miller’s hand, they echo the perennial interplay of art, nature, and mystery.
Some interpret these carvings as relics of ancient diffusion from Mediterranean cultures, their motifs carried on the winds of prehistoric migrations. Others assert more cautious theories, linking the carvings to later traditions, such as those of 18th- and 19th-century artisans who, inspired by the revival of classical motifs, left such marks as whimsical declarations of presence or craftsmanship.
The mill at Trewethett—now a ruin that whispers its own tales of forgotten labor—stands nearby, its history intimately tied to the carvings. The labyrinths' position, just feet from the mill's earlier structure, suggests a curious relationship between human activity and the enigmatic patterns. Could they have been carved as symbols of luck or protection, ensuring prosperity for millers and workers within the mill’s austere embrace?
The labyrinths are carved into a friable shale, a rock so vulnerable to the elements that it challenges claims of ancient origins. If Bronze Age, their survival in such pristine condition defies all expectation. Their surroundings—a valley dense with ferns and rich in spiritual lore—only deepen the aura of mysticism. The nearby St. Nectan’s Glen, with its hermitage and sacred spring, hints at the spiritual resonance of this area throughout history.
Recent scholarship has tentatively placed these carvings in a more modern context, associating them with the cultural practices of the 18th and 19th centuries. The classical labyrinth design, with its deceptively simple "seed pattern," was widespread during this time, appearing in rural turf mazes, the facades of buildings, and even schoolboy graffiti. Whether a playful indulgence or a meditative symbol, the labyrinth transcended the mundane, weaving its way through folklore and artistic expression.
The carvings persist as a riddle inscribed on the canvas of time, inviting a blend of academic rigor and speculative wonder. In their silent grooves lies a potent reminder of humanity’s enduring need to create, mark, and connect across epochs. Whether born of Bronze Age ritual, medieval lore, or the playful whimsy of a miller’s hand, they echo the perennial interplay of art, nature, and mystery.
Chûn Quoit
Chûn Quoit, one of Cornwall's most iconic Neolithic structures, stands as a testament to the ingenuity and spirituality of its ancient builders. Its name, derived from the Cornish *Chy Woone*, meaning "The House on the Downs," reflects its commanding presence on the windswept hills of West Penwith. Approximately 4,000 to 5,000 years old, this portal dolmen consists of four upright stones supporting a vast, 12-foot capstone, believed to have once been surrounded by an earthen mound. The placement of quoits, often on high ground but just below hilltops, suggests a deliberate connection to the settlements below, serving as visible yet accessible landmarks imbued with spiritual significance.
The term *Quoit* has its roots in local folklore, which attributes the massive capstones to games played by giants hurling stones across the hills. Such legends, while whimsical, underscore the awe these structures inspire, highlighting the immense effort required to construct them. Quoits like Chûn were not merely burial sites but multifunctional ceremonial hubs. Evidence from other cromlechs indicates they housed disarticulated bones, with remains periodically removed or replaced, suggesting ongoing rituals. Some theories propose these monuments served as places where shamans engaged in trance states to commune with ancestral spirits, reaffirming their role as spiritual focal points.
Chûn Quoit exists within a broader ceremonial landscape, closely linked to sites like Chun Castle, Men-an-Tol, and Lanyon Quoit. This dense network of ancient monuments reveals the area's rich prehistoric significance. Interestingly, excarnation—a practice of laying bodies on capstones for carrion birds—may have been performed here before remains were interred, further intertwining life, death, and the environment in sacred rituals. Surrounding these structures are legends of spectral lights and lingering energies, hinting at a spiritual resonance that continues to captivate visitors.
As one of the best-preserved quoits in Cornwall, Chûn Quoit endures as a bridge to the distant past. Its imposing presence and intricate history invite us to reflect on the beliefs and ingenuity of the people who shaped the landscape millennia ago, offering a profound connection to Cornwall’s enduring mysticism.
The term *Quoit* has its roots in local folklore, which attributes the massive capstones to games played by giants hurling stones across the hills. Such legends, while whimsical, underscore the awe these structures inspire, highlighting the immense effort required to construct them. Quoits like Chûn were not merely burial sites but multifunctional ceremonial hubs. Evidence from other cromlechs indicates they housed disarticulated bones, with remains periodically removed or replaced, suggesting ongoing rituals. Some theories propose these monuments served as places where shamans engaged in trance states to commune with ancestral spirits, reaffirming their role as spiritual focal points.
Chûn Quoit exists within a broader ceremonial landscape, closely linked to sites like Chun Castle, Men-an-Tol, and Lanyon Quoit. This dense network of ancient monuments reveals the area's rich prehistoric significance. Interestingly, excarnation—a practice of laying bodies on capstones for carrion birds—may have been performed here before remains were interred, further intertwining life, death, and the environment in sacred rituals. Surrounding these structures are legends of spectral lights and lingering energies, hinting at a spiritual resonance that continues to captivate visitors.
As one of the best-preserved quoits in Cornwall, Chûn Quoit endures as a bridge to the distant past. Its imposing presence and intricate history invite us to reflect on the beliefs and ingenuity of the people who shaped the landscape millennia ago, offering a profound connection to Cornwall’s enduring mysticism.
Chûn Castle
Chûn Castle, perched atop Chûn Downs near Penzance, is an impressive Iron Age hillfort built in the 3rd century BC. This circular site, measuring 85 meters in diameter, features two granite walls with external ditches and offers commanding views over Mount’s Bay, the Atlantic, and the land route into Penwith. Excavations reveal its primary use between the 3rd century BC and 1st century AD, with later activity in the 5th and 6th centuries. Its strategic location near Chûn Quoit, a Neolithic tomb over 2,000 years older, hints at an enduring cultural and spiritual significance.
Although in ruins, the castle's structure is striking, with the outer wall reaching up to 2.1 meters high today but likely standing at 3 meters originally. Evidence of Iron Age huts and later additions, such as 6th-century stone houses and a tin-smelting furnace, demonstrate its evolving role from defensive fort to industrial and communal hub. Local legends credit its construction to Jack the Tinner, a folkloric figure linked to tin mining and possibly derived from the Irish sun god Lugh.
Chûn Castle likely served as a gathering place for trade, ceremonies, and tribal diplomacy during the Iron Age and early Christian periods. Connected to the Tinners Way, an ancient trackway leading to St. Michael’s Mount, the site underscores the importance of tin production and trade in Cornwall’s history. Despite its stones being plundered in the 18th century for local construction, the site remains a powerful link to the region's ancient past.
Although in ruins, the castle's structure is striking, with the outer wall reaching up to 2.1 meters high today but likely standing at 3 meters originally. Evidence of Iron Age huts and later additions, such as 6th-century stone houses and a tin-smelting furnace, demonstrate its evolving role from defensive fort to industrial and communal hub. Local legends credit its construction to Jack the Tinner, a folkloric figure linked to tin mining and possibly derived from the Irish sun god Lugh.
Chûn Castle likely served as a gathering place for trade, ceremonies, and tribal diplomacy during the Iron Age and early Christian periods. Connected to the Tinners Way, an ancient trackway leading to St. Michael’s Mount, the site underscores the importance of tin production and trade in Cornwall’s history. Despite its stones being plundered in the 18th century for local construction, the site remains a powerful link to the region's ancient past.
The White Lady of Godolphin House
For years, Godolphin House has been known as the home of a “White Lady,” a ghostly figure believed to be the spirit of Margaret Godolphin. This spectral woman is said to glide through the hall, appearing from a small closet that has long since been sealed up, and she is often seen wandering the gardens, particularly on the anniversary of her funeral. One old path on the estate, known as the “Ghost Walk” or “Ghost Path,” has become legendary as it leads toward Breage Church. Some say the path once ended at a now-vanished family chapel where Margaret’s coffin may have been kept before her final burial. The sound of rustling silk is often noted, as if the delicate fabric of her skirts is brushing the floors, and those who have glimpsed the White Lady describe a beautiful but sorrowful woman with long, dark curls. A. L. Rowse, a historian who spent a night in Godolphin House, described being startled awake by the unmistakable swish of a silk dress crossing his bedroom floor, adding to the sense that Margaret’s presence remains tied to the house that should have been hers.
The White Lady’s tragic story is rooted in betrayal. Margaret’s husband, Sydney Godolphin, did not attend her funeral, leaving the final journey to Cornwall in the hands of their mutual friend, John Evelyn. According to some accounts, Evelyn only accompanied the funeral cortege to Hounslow, turning back to London to assist Sydney in sorting through Margaret’s papers. This absence, whether driven by grief too deep to bear or for reasons less sympathetic, has fueled speculation that Margaret’s spirit is unsettled, bound to the house and its grounds by a broken promise. In the 1950s, Mary Schofield, the owner of Godolphin House, became convinced that the White Lady was indeed Margaret. Her young daughter reported seeing a woman with long, black curls standing by her bed, who then vanished into a now-blocked cupboard where a door once stood. In later years, Mary herself would sit by the “Ghost Walk” on the anniversary of her daughter’s sighting, hoping to glimpse the White Lady, but she never did. This persistent sense of loss and yearning seems to permeate the house, suggesting that Margaret remains tied to a life she never got to fully embrace.
Margaret’s final resting place is in Breage Church, a few miles from Godolphin House, in the Godolphin family vault beneath a side chapel known as the Godolphin Chapel. Although Margaret never visited Cornwall in life, she requested to be buried there, beside her husband’s family. In her final letter, delivered after her death, she requested a simple, inexpensive funeral and a journey by sea, but her wishes were not honored. Instead, Sydney ordered her body to be transported overland in a grand procession with six black horses and cavalry outriders, a choice that contradicted the simplicity she desired. It took fourteen days to reach Cornwall, and each night her coffin was removed from the hearse and placed in a local house with candles burning around it. There is a tradition that Margaret was buried with her jewels, adding a further layer of intrigue to her burial and fueling the idea that her spirit guards something precious left behind.
In Breage Church, a brass plaque added in the 19th century bears Margaret’s name and an inscription. More intriguing is a smaller brass plate on the altar, detailing Margaret’s life in Latin, which many believe was engraved by John Evelyn himself. This plaque, thought to have been originally attached to the lid of her coffin, was mysteriously discovered above ground during renovations. How and why it was moved remains unknown, adding another twist to Margaret’s story. These relics, hidden in the quiet corners of Breage Church, add to the sense that Margaret’s spirit, as the White Lady, has never fully left Godolphin House or Cornwall. Her enduring presence in the house’s halls and gardens, her tragic love story, and the mystery of her final resting place all suggest a woman forever caught between two worlds—one of privilege and duty in the English court, and another in the Cornish home she never fully knew.
The White Lady’s tragic story is rooted in betrayal. Margaret’s husband, Sydney Godolphin, did not attend her funeral, leaving the final journey to Cornwall in the hands of their mutual friend, John Evelyn. According to some accounts, Evelyn only accompanied the funeral cortege to Hounslow, turning back to London to assist Sydney in sorting through Margaret’s papers. This absence, whether driven by grief too deep to bear or for reasons less sympathetic, has fueled speculation that Margaret’s spirit is unsettled, bound to the house and its grounds by a broken promise. In the 1950s, Mary Schofield, the owner of Godolphin House, became convinced that the White Lady was indeed Margaret. Her young daughter reported seeing a woman with long, black curls standing by her bed, who then vanished into a now-blocked cupboard where a door once stood. In later years, Mary herself would sit by the “Ghost Walk” on the anniversary of her daughter’s sighting, hoping to glimpse the White Lady, but she never did. This persistent sense of loss and yearning seems to permeate the house, suggesting that Margaret remains tied to a life she never got to fully embrace.
Margaret’s final resting place is in Breage Church, a few miles from Godolphin House, in the Godolphin family vault beneath a side chapel known as the Godolphin Chapel. Although Margaret never visited Cornwall in life, she requested to be buried there, beside her husband’s family. In her final letter, delivered after her death, she requested a simple, inexpensive funeral and a journey by sea, but her wishes were not honored. Instead, Sydney ordered her body to be transported overland in a grand procession with six black horses and cavalry outriders, a choice that contradicted the simplicity she desired. It took fourteen days to reach Cornwall, and each night her coffin was removed from the hearse and placed in a local house with candles burning around it. There is a tradition that Margaret was buried with her jewels, adding a further layer of intrigue to her burial and fueling the idea that her spirit guards something precious left behind.
In Breage Church, a brass plaque added in the 19th century bears Margaret’s name and an inscription. More intriguing is a smaller brass plate on the altar, detailing Margaret’s life in Latin, which many believe was engraved by John Evelyn himself. This plaque, thought to have been originally attached to the lid of her coffin, was mysteriously discovered above ground during renovations. How and why it was moved remains unknown, adding another twist to Margaret’s story. These relics, hidden in the quiet corners of Breage Church, add to the sense that Margaret’s spirit, as the White Lady, has never fully left Godolphin House or Cornwall. Her enduring presence in the house’s halls and gardens, her tragic love story, and the mystery of her final resting place all suggest a woman forever caught between two worlds—one of privilege and duty in the English court, and another in the Cornish home she never fully knew.
Boleigh Fogou
The Boleigh Fogou, hidden near Lamorna Cove, stands as one of Cornwall’s most fascinating and well-preserved Iron Age monuments. Nestled in the garden of Rosemerryn House, this ancient underground structure is accessible only by prior arrangement with its owners, emphasising the care required to preserve its historical and spiritual significance. Surrounded by bluebells, ferns, and foxgloves, the fogou’s entrance is framed by a low mound, inviting visitors to step into a site believed to have been part of a once-thriving Iron Age settlement. This settlement, which spanned three acres and was encircled by a defensive ring, hints at the importance of this site in Cornwall’s ancient past.
The fogou itself stretches 11 metres in length, with a side tunnel—known as the "creep"—that curves in an L shape and rises toward the surface. Its interior, lit only by torchlight, creates a sense of mystery and reverence. Unique to Boleigh Fogou is the faintly visible Iron Age carving on its west jamb, thought to depict a Celtic deity, possibly a Mother Goddess, holding a lozenge said to symbolise the souls of the dead. This carving, the only one of its kind in Cornwall, supports theories that fogous were spiritual spaces for rituals involving birth, death, and the afterlife, rather than the grain stores or cattle shelters they were once assumed to be. Excavations have unearthed patterned pottery, further solidifying its connection to Cornwall's Iron Age culture.
Legends and history intertwine at Boleigh, with its name—meaning “place of slaughter”—possibly referencing a bloody battle between King Hywel of Cornwall and invading Saxons in AD 937. The fogou and its surroundings exude an almost otherworldly power, drawing visitors who claim to sense the presence of those who once lived there. Today, guests staying at Rosemerryn can freely explore the site, while others must arrange visits in advance. Whether viewed as a spiritual gateway or a historical treasure, the Boleigh Fogou continues to captivate those who venture to uncover its mysteries, bridging the gap between the ancient and modern worlds.
The fogou itself stretches 11 metres in length, with a side tunnel—known as the "creep"—that curves in an L shape and rises toward the surface. Its interior, lit only by torchlight, creates a sense of mystery and reverence. Unique to Boleigh Fogou is the faintly visible Iron Age carving on its west jamb, thought to depict a Celtic deity, possibly a Mother Goddess, holding a lozenge said to symbolise the souls of the dead. This carving, the only one of its kind in Cornwall, supports theories that fogous were spiritual spaces for rituals involving birth, death, and the afterlife, rather than the grain stores or cattle shelters they were once assumed to be. Excavations have unearthed patterned pottery, further solidifying its connection to Cornwall's Iron Age culture.
Legends and history intertwine at Boleigh, with its name—meaning “place of slaughter”—possibly referencing a bloody battle between King Hywel of Cornwall and invading Saxons in AD 937. The fogou and its surroundings exude an almost otherworldly power, drawing visitors who claim to sense the presence of those who once lived there. Today, guests staying at Rosemerryn can freely explore the site, while others must arrange visits in advance. Whether viewed as a spiritual gateway or a historical treasure, the Boleigh Fogou continues to captivate those who venture to uncover its mysteries, bridging the gap between the ancient and modern worlds.
Holy Wells and Werewolves - St Ruan's Holy Well
The holy well of St. Ruan is enclosed by a Victorian-era structure crafted from serpentine and topped with a granite arch, though the well itself may have served sacred purposes long before the advent of Christianity. Local lore ties the site to St. Ruan, a saint who faced accusations of being a werewolf from his own wife, who blamed him for the death of their baby and a series of livestock attacks in the area. According to the legend, St. Ruan was arrested but later exonerated when the King’s hunting dogs failed to react to him as they would have to a true wolf, proving his innocence and clearing his name of the accusations.
Another local saint, St. Rumon, lends his name to several places nearby, including the churches at Ruan Minor and Ruan Lanihorne, and St. Rumon’s Gardens in Redruth. Little is known about this 10th-century saint, but in the 1860s, the antiquarian and artist J.T. Blight documented the tradition that St. Rumon’s remains had been moved from their original resting place near Ruan to Tavistock Monastery by Duke Ordulph of Cornwall in 961 AD. This account aligns with the writings of William of Malmesbury, who visited Tavistock in 1120 and described St. Rumon’s “beautifully decorated shrine.” Yet, some local traditions insist that his final resting place remains at Ruan Lanihorne, keeping the mystery of his burial alive.
Nearby, a small, 15th-century well house stands close to the road outside Cadgwith, drawing visitors with a curious mix of modern offerings—a small basket of tea lights and a cigarette lighter, inviting those passing by to light a candle in memory of loved ones. The well, surrounded by railings and lovingly tended, has a visitor’s book in a tin for those who wish to leave their prayers or thoughts. Although the well is referred to as St. Ruan’s on maps, a sign inside the structure references St. Garda and the Holy Cross, reflecting the dedication of the nearest church. Hidden not far away, down a secluded dead-end lane, lie the haunting ruins of St. Ruan Major Church. Once celebrated as “one of the most curious and interesting” churches in Cornwall, the structure now stands as an atmospheric ruin open to the night sky, its grandeur faded but its spirit lingering among the remnants of its stone walls.
Another local saint, St. Rumon, lends his name to several places nearby, including the churches at Ruan Minor and Ruan Lanihorne, and St. Rumon’s Gardens in Redruth. Little is known about this 10th-century saint, but in the 1860s, the antiquarian and artist J.T. Blight documented the tradition that St. Rumon’s remains had been moved from their original resting place near Ruan to Tavistock Monastery by Duke Ordulph of Cornwall in 961 AD. This account aligns with the writings of William of Malmesbury, who visited Tavistock in 1120 and described St. Rumon’s “beautifully decorated shrine.” Yet, some local traditions insist that his final resting place remains at Ruan Lanihorne, keeping the mystery of his burial alive.
Nearby, a small, 15th-century well house stands close to the road outside Cadgwith, drawing visitors with a curious mix of modern offerings—a small basket of tea lights and a cigarette lighter, inviting those passing by to light a candle in memory of loved ones. The well, surrounded by railings and lovingly tended, has a visitor’s book in a tin for those who wish to leave their prayers or thoughts. Although the well is referred to as St. Ruan’s on maps, a sign inside the structure references St. Garda and the Holy Cross, reflecting the dedication of the nearest church. Hidden not far away, down a secluded dead-end lane, lie the haunting ruins of St. Ruan Major Church. Once celebrated as “one of the most curious and interesting” churches in Cornwall, the structure now stands as an atmospheric ruin open to the night sky, its grandeur faded but its spirit lingering among the remnants of its stone walls.
Goonhilly Downs
Driving toward Goonhilly Downs on a crisp February afternoon, Sarah Louise found herself captivated by an inexplicable brightness in the sky. Initially resembling an oversized star, the diamond-shaped object’s swift, erratic movements defied reason. Smooth and silvery, brighter than any satellite, it vanished and reappeared in different parts of the cloudless expanse, leaving Sarah and her son awestruck. Their encounter became another chapter in Cornwall's enduring fascination with the unexplained—a land where ancient landscapes and modern mysteries intertwine.
This remarkable sighting unfolded in a region steeped in history and intrigue. The Goonhilly Downs, with their rolling heather and gnarled gorse, are home to legends of highwaymen and disorienting fogs, but also to remnants of Bronze Age rituals. Towering above this timeless scene is the Dry Tree menhir, a 10-foot standing stone weathered grey by millennia. It whispers of ritual significance, its placement by ancient hands a testament to its importance. Against this backdrop, Sarah’s sighting joins a growing catalogue of celestial oddities in Cornwall—glimmering red stars merging in Truro, glowing orbs in Treknow, and mysterious “tic-tac” shapes over Landrake.
These stories of strange lights and unexplained phenomena echo the haunting beauty of the Downs themselves. Descriptions from travelers of the past speak of the "savage waste of Goonhilly," a land that perplexed even locals when mist concealed familiar landmarks. Yet, on clear days, the landscape feels timeless, where prehistoric stones stand resolute under skies that continue to bewilder those who gaze upward. For Sarah, as for many others, the Cornish skies seem to hold secrets just out of reach, tethering the ancient and the modern in a dance of the unknown.
This remarkable sighting unfolded in a region steeped in history and intrigue. The Goonhilly Downs, with their rolling heather and gnarled gorse, are home to legends of highwaymen and disorienting fogs, but also to remnants of Bronze Age rituals. Towering above this timeless scene is the Dry Tree menhir, a 10-foot standing stone weathered grey by millennia. It whispers of ritual significance, its placement by ancient hands a testament to its importance. Against this backdrop, Sarah’s sighting joins a growing catalogue of celestial oddities in Cornwall—glimmering red stars merging in Truro, glowing orbs in Treknow, and mysterious “tic-tac” shapes over Landrake.
These stories of strange lights and unexplained phenomena echo the haunting beauty of the Downs themselves. Descriptions from travelers of the past speak of the "savage waste of Goonhilly," a land that perplexed even locals when mist concealed familiar landmarks. Yet, on clear days, the landscape feels timeless, where prehistoric stones stand resolute under skies that continue to bewilder those who gaze upward. For Sarah, as for many others, the Cornish skies seem to hold secrets just out of reach, tethering the ancient and the modern in a dance of the unknown.
The Witches Rock
Walking from Nancledrea Bottoms towards Zennor, we pass Trewa—a place steeped in tales of witchcraft and mystery. Generations of Cornish folklore speak of Trewa as the gathering place where, each midsummer, the witches of the west would meet under the veil of night. Scattered across the land are the remains of ancient tin stream works, thought by some to be relics from a time “before the deluge,” older than anything else in Cornwall. The landscape itself is as mysterious as the legends that surround it, with massive granite boulders littering the hillsides and valleys, tossed like dice by the giants who, as the stories go, once roamed this land. At Embla Green, the ruined Giant’s House still stands—remnants of a long-forgotten ruler whose presence lingers only in whispers. The “Giant’s Well” and “Druid’s Well” bubble with secrets, their waters reflecting the sky that has witnessed centuries of untold rituals. Nearby, Zennor’s coit or cromlech rises solemnly, an ancient stone structure that looms with the weight of countless midsummer gatherings.
Zennor has always been a land of poverty and superstition, its rugged terrain difficult to cultivate and shrouded in a sense of the otherworldly. This harsh and isolated parish—‘the place where the cow was so hungry it ate the bell-rope’—has long been fertile ground for tales of witchcraft. For generations, whenever ill-fortune struck, it was the witches who bore the blame, their shadowy presence always close at hand. The Witches’ Rock, a legendary meeting place between Nancledra and Zennor, was said to draw these women, often just solitary, elderly figures, to gather for their secretive rites. Villagers told stories of witches calling up violent storms to wreck ships on the coast or casting malevolent spells to ruin the harvest. As you stand on Zennor Head, staring out over the jagged cliffs and churning sea, it is easy to imagine these tales unfolding under a moonlit sky, the wind carrying their incantations out over the waves.
Beyond the stories, the physical landscape is rich with clues. The granite cairns scattered across the hills seem to form an unspoken language, a pattern of shapes worn and twisted by centuries of Cornish weather. Their strange forms can easily be mistaken for ancient tombs or long-forgotten temples, standing as silent witnesses to the passage of time. On midsummer eve, the witches of Penwith were said to light fires on every cromlech and rock basin, filling the hills with a wild, flickering glow as they renewed their pacts with the dark forces that granted them power. This eerie tradition, local lore claims, gave the area the name “Burn Downs.” In the midst of these haunting stone shapes was the Witches’ Rock, a great, square granite formation that towered over the landscape. Here, under the cloak of darkness, the witches would meet to conduct their forbidden ceremonies. Though the rock has been removed, taking with it a chapter of Cornwall’s living folklore, its memory still lingers. They say the last true witch of Zennor died only a few decades ago, and with her passing, the fairies fled. Yet, some believe the fair folk remain hidden, peeking out from the gorse and heather that drape the hills.
Even now, the shadows of the past are never far away. The witches might be gone, but the air around Zennor still holds echoes of their presence, like a whispered story carried on the wind. One custom tied to the vanished Witches’ Rock remains vivid: anyone brave enough to touch the rock nine times at midnight was said to be protected from bad luck forever. As you wander these ancient paths, it is not hard to believe that Cornwall’s magic remains alive, sleeping in the stones and waiting to be awakened by those who still remember the old ways. The fairy lights that some say flicker in the distance are not merely tricks of the eye, but remnants of an older world—a world where witches, giants, and spirits still danced beneath the midsummer moon.
Zennor has always been a land of poverty and superstition, its rugged terrain difficult to cultivate and shrouded in a sense of the otherworldly. This harsh and isolated parish—‘the place where the cow was so hungry it ate the bell-rope’—has long been fertile ground for tales of witchcraft. For generations, whenever ill-fortune struck, it was the witches who bore the blame, their shadowy presence always close at hand. The Witches’ Rock, a legendary meeting place between Nancledra and Zennor, was said to draw these women, often just solitary, elderly figures, to gather for their secretive rites. Villagers told stories of witches calling up violent storms to wreck ships on the coast or casting malevolent spells to ruin the harvest. As you stand on Zennor Head, staring out over the jagged cliffs and churning sea, it is easy to imagine these tales unfolding under a moonlit sky, the wind carrying their incantations out over the waves.
Beyond the stories, the physical landscape is rich with clues. The granite cairns scattered across the hills seem to form an unspoken language, a pattern of shapes worn and twisted by centuries of Cornish weather. Their strange forms can easily be mistaken for ancient tombs or long-forgotten temples, standing as silent witnesses to the passage of time. On midsummer eve, the witches of Penwith were said to light fires on every cromlech and rock basin, filling the hills with a wild, flickering glow as they renewed their pacts with the dark forces that granted them power. This eerie tradition, local lore claims, gave the area the name “Burn Downs.” In the midst of these haunting stone shapes was the Witches’ Rock, a great, square granite formation that towered over the landscape. Here, under the cloak of darkness, the witches would meet to conduct their forbidden ceremonies. Though the rock has been removed, taking with it a chapter of Cornwall’s living folklore, its memory still lingers. They say the last true witch of Zennor died only a few decades ago, and with her passing, the fairies fled. Yet, some believe the fair folk remain hidden, peeking out from the gorse and heather that drape the hills.
Even now, the shadows of the past are never far away. The witches might be gone, but the air around Zennor still holds echoes of their presence, like a whispered story carried on the wind. One custom tied to the vanished Witches’ Rock remains vivid: anyone brave enough to touch the rock nine times at midnight was said to be protected from bad luck forever. As you wander these ancient paths, it is not hard to believe that Cornwall’s magic remains alive, sleeping in the stones and waiting to be awakened by those who still remember the old ways. The fairy lights that some say flicker in the distance are not merely tricks of the eye, but remnants of an older world—a world where witches, giants, and spirits still danced beneath the midsummer moon.
The Giants of Trencrom/Torcrobm Hill
Trencrom Hill rises majestically from the wooded lands of Trevetha’s park, near Lelant, Cornwall—a place where the boundary between history and myth is blurred, and the very air hums with ancient power. Known once as “Torcrobm,” derived from the Cornish “torr crobm,” meaning “hunched bulge,” Trencrom is a land shaped by giants, where the landscape tells stories of those who walked before. The hill features a Neolithic tor enclosure, later adapted into an Iron Age fort, with cairns and hut circles scattered across its summit, remnants of a time when it was a place of power and refuge. Managed by the National Trust since 1946, Trencrom spans 63.18 acres and now serves as a memorial to the Cornish men and women who died in the two World Wars. Yet the hill’s true essence is timeless—its stone-touched heart pulses with the weight of centuries, echoing tales of long-lost civilizations, of warriors and sorcerers, of giants who roamed this land before the first plough turned the earth.
From Trencrom’s summit, the view unfolds like an ancient scroll, with the southern coastline spreading out beneath a sky that seems too vast to hold. The land dips and rises gently, guiding the eye towards Mount’s Bay, where the iconic St Michael’s Mount looms like a sentinel—an enigmatic fusion of church, castle, and modern dwelling, its silhouette framed by the fertile lands of Marazion and Penzance. The bay stretches wide, embracing the peninsulas to the east and west, which reach out like arms towards Lizard Point and Mousehole, while the serene fishing villages of Newlyn and Mousehole nestle in the arms of the western hills. The surrounding landscape reveals a quiet beauty, with mining towns like Camborne and Redruth dotting the hills and valleys. From Trencrom, you can glimpse the towering granite formations of Cam Brea and the mineral-rich hills of Godolphin, areas once teeming with miners, now left with the vestiges of their industrial past, like ghosts still whispering in the wind. To the east, the jagged granite peaks of Roughtor and Brown Willy—Cornwall’s highest hills—stand watch, their weathered forms speaking of ancient times when the land was ruled by stone and shadow.
The very earth beneath Trencrom’s slopes is imbued with legends, and none more so than the tale of the giants who once called these hills their home. The giants, fierce and brutish, left a legacy of stone walls and ancient barrows, and though they are gone, their spirits still linger in the windswept moors. They built massive hedge walls using the great granite boulders scattered across the land, and in the earth between, they planted oaks and elms, hazel and hawthorn, creating wild, untamed landscapes that still thrive today. One of these giants, young Tom, became the stuff of legend. Standing at a mere eight feet tall, Tom was a giant who enjoyed his laziness as much as his appetite—two pasties for lunch, three for tea, and none for work. His mother, ever frustrated by his idleness, would often try to prod him into action, but Tom’s true strength was not just in his size—it was in his ability to find his own path and to fight for what was right, even when it meant facing off against the mightiest of foes.
Tom’s greatest adventure unfolded when he crossed paths with Blunder, an old, fearsome giant who had taken to blocking the roads and terrorizing the local land. One day, while driving an ox cart loaded with beer from Penzance to St Ives, Tom encountered six men struggling to move a fallen tree. With a casual wave of his hand, he lifted the trunk and cleared the path, much to the amazement of the men. But Blunder, angered by Tom’s impudence, saw this as a challenge to his authority and ordered him to leave. Undeterred, Tom marched his ox cart straight through Blunder’s land, opening the gates to the giant’s fortress and walking right in. A battle of wits and strength ensued, with Blunder wielding an enormous elm branch and Tom, unfazed, using the wheel and axle from his cart as his sword and shield. The duel was fierce, but fair—Tom played by the rules, and when Blunder fell, mortally wounded, Tom honored the ancient giant with a burial at Wheal Reeth, near Trencrom Hill. Before his death, Blunder, with surprising humility, offered Tom all his riches—gold, silver, and the lands he had once ruled—asking only that Tom give him a proper burial. Tom did so, and from that day on, the treasures of Blunder’s kingdom were said to be hidden beneath the hills of Cornwall, protected by the mythical Spriggans who guarded them jealously.
The story of Tom, the young giant, didn’t end with Blunder’s death. Tom went on to have many more adventures, some with his wife Joan and others with his friend Jack, all while managing the vast wealth and land left to him by Blunder. The riches were said to be passed down through the generations, with some of it still whispered to be hidden in the pockets of Cornish families like the Trewellas, Trewarthas, and Tregarthens. Trencrom Hill, where the giants once trod, remains a living monument to their memory—an enduring symbol of the land’s mystical history, where the echoes of ancient battles, buried treasures, and timeless legends can still be felt beneath the earth. The wind that sweeps across the hilltop carries with it the stories of giants, while the stones and cairns speak in hushed tones, telling tales of a Cornwall where magic and myth walk hand in hand with the rugged beauty of the land.
From Trencrom’s summit, the view unfolds like an ancient scroll, with the southern coastline spreading out beneath a sky that seems too vast to hold. The land dips and rises gently, guiding the eye towards Mount’s Bay, where the iconic St Michael’s Mount looms like a sentinel—an enigmatic fusion of church, castle, and modern dwelling, its silhouette framed by the fertile lands of Marazion and Penzance. The bay stretches wide, embracing the peninsulas to the east and west, which reach out like arms towards Lizard Point and Mousehole, while the serene fishing villages of Newlyn and Mousehole nestle in the arms of the western hills. The surrounding landscape reveals a quiet beauty, with mining towns like Camborne and Redruth dotting the hills and valleys. From Trencrom, you can glimpse the towering granite formations of Cam Brea and the mineral-rich hills of Godolphin, areas once teeming with miners, now left with the vestiges of their industrial past, like ghosts still whispering in the wind. To the east, the jagged granite peaks of Roughtor and Brown Willy—Cornwall’s highest hills—stand watch, their weathered forms speaking of ancient times when the land was ruled by stone and shadow.
The very earth beneath Trencrom’s slopes is imbued with legends, and none more so than the tale of the giants who once called these hills their home. The giants, fierce and brutish, left a legacy of stone walls and ancient barrows, and though they are gone, their spirits still linger in the windswept moors. They built massive hedge walls using the great granite boulders scattered across the land, and in the earth between, they planted oaks and elms, hazel and hawthorn, creating wild, untamed landscapes that still thrive today. One of these giants, young Tom, became the stuff of legend. Standing at a mere eight feet tall, Tom was a giant who enjoyed his laziness as much as his appetite—two pasties for lunch, three for tea, and none for work. His mother, ever frustrated by his idleness, would often try to prod him into action, but Tom’s true strength was not just in his size—it was in his ability to find his own path and to fight for what was right, even when it meant facing off against the mightiest of foes.
Tom’s greatest adventure unfolded when he crossed paths with Blunder, an old, fearsome giant who had taken to blocking the roads and terrorizing the local land. One day, while driving an ox cart loaded with beer from Penzance to St Ives, Tom encountered six men struggling to move a fallen tree. With a casual wave of his hand, he lifted the trunk and cleared the path, much to the amazement of the men. But Blunder, angered by Tom’s impudence, saw this as a challenge to his authority and ordered him to leave. Undeterred, Tom marched his ox cart straight through Blunder’s land, opening the gates to the giant’s fortress and walking right in. A battle of wits and strength ensued, with Blunder wielding an enormous elm branch and Tom, unfazed, using the wheel and axle from his cart as his sword and shield. The duel was fierce, but fair—Tom played by the rules, and when Blunder fell, mortally wounded, Tom honored the ancient giant with a burial at Wheal Reeth, near Trencrom Hill. Before his death, Blunder, with surprising humility, offered Tom all his riches—gold, silver, and the lands he had once ruled—asking only that Tom give him a proper burial. Tom did so, and from that day on, the treasures of Blunder’s kingdom were said to be hidden beneath the hills of Cornwall, protected by the mythical Spriggans who guarded them jealously.
The story of Tom, the young giant, didn’t end with Blunder’s death. Tom went on to have many more adventures, some with his wife Joan and others with his friend Jack, all while managing the vast wealth and land left to him by Blunder. The riches were said to be passed down through the generations, with some of it still whispered to be hidden in the pockets of Cornish families like the Trewellas, Trewarthas, and Tregarthens. Trencrom Hill, where the giants once trod, remains a living monument to their memory—an enduring symbol of the land’s mystical history, where the echoes of ancient battles, buried treasures, and timeless legends can still be felt beneath the earth. The wind that sweeps across the hilltop carries with it the stories of giants, while the stones and cairns speak in hushed tones, telling tales of a Cornwall where magic and myth walk hand in hand with the rugged beauty of the land.
Montol Festival
The Montol Festival, held each December 21st in Penzance, Cornwall, is a mesmerizing revival of midwinter customs that celebrate the winter solstice and the traditional Feast of St. Thomas the Apostle. Rooted in historical Cornish practices and creatively reimagined for modern audiences, the festival spans several days but reaches its peak on Montol Eve. Conceived as a counterpart to Penzance’s summer Golowan Festival, Montol draws from customs that reflect Cornwall’s vibrant folklore, many of which had faded from living memory by the mid-20th century. At its heart, Montol honors the interplay of light and dark, symbolizing renewal, transformation, and community.
The festival is known for its guise dancing, an ancient Cornish tradition where participants don elaborate costumes and masks, joining lantern-lit processions through the streets in a spectacle of music, dancing, and mystery. A Lord of Misrule, chosen by the drawing of colored beans, leads the revelers, embodying themes of mischief and inverted social norms. Highlights of the evening include the "Chalking of the Mock," a ceremony where a Yule log is marked and burned on a bonfire, signifying the return of light after the solstice. Other customs enrich the celebration, from traditional Cornish guiser plays, such as St. George and the Turkish Knight, to the iconic Cornish candle dance and the haunting melodies of local carols.
Historically inspired but not tied to one specific tradition, Montol takes cues from 19th-century accounts of Penzance’s guise dancers, described as parades of masked revelers in antique finery. Antiquarians like A.K. Hamilton Jenkin and William Bottrell recorded these vibrant customs, which Montol now resurrects with creative license. The addition of modern touches, such as Pen Hood and Penglaz, the festival’s Obby Osses, ensures the festival feels both timeless and contemporary. Montol transforms Penzance into a place where ancient traditions and modern community spirit intertwine, offering a mystical and meaningful celebration of Cornwall’s enduring cultural legacy.
The festival is known for its guise dancing, an ancient Cornish tradition where participants don elaborate costumes and masks, joining lantern-lit processions through the streets in a spectacle of music, dancing, and mystery. A Lord of Misrule, chosen by the drawing of colored beans, leads the revelers, embodying themes of mischief and inverted social norms. Highlights of the evening include the "Chalking of the Mock," a ceremony where a Yule log is marked and burned on a bonfire, signifying the return of light after the solstice. Other customs enrich the celebration, from traditional Cornish guiser plays, such as St. George and the Turkish Knight, to the iconic Cornish candle dance and the haunting melodies of local carols.
Historically inspired but not tied to one specific tradition, Montol takes cues from 19th-century accounts of Penzance’s guise dancers, described as parades of masked revelers in antique finery. Antiquarians like A.K. Hamilton Jenkin and William Bottrell recorded these vibrant customs, which Montol now resurrects with creative license. The addition of modern touches, such as Pen Hood and Penglaz, the festival’s Obby Osses, ensures the festival feels both timeless and contemporary. Montol transforms Penzance into a place where ancient traditions and modern community spirit intertwine, offering a mystical and meaningful celebration of Cornwall’s enduring cultural legacy.
Golowan Festival - Mazey Day
War-barth, Golowi a Wren–Together, We Shine
The Golowan Festival, revived in 1991 by Stephen Hall and the Penzance community, brings to life the midsummer traditions that once flourished in the town. Many of the familiar elements—crowds, fireworks, serpent dancing, market stalls, and the Mock Mayor—are rooted in celebrations that date back to the 19th century. Bonfires once blazed across Penzance in places like the Greenmarket and Market Jew Street, marking the festive spirit of midsummer.
Accounts of the festivities, often documented in local newspapers, provide a colorful picture of those lively times. The earliest mention of the festival appears in a 1754 book by antiquarian William Borlase, who noted the midsummer fires in Cornwall and traced the term “Golowan” to Cornish roots, meaning the Feast of St. John. The 19th century saw spirited celebrations with bonfires, torches, and serpent dances, along with a bustling quay fair, where townsfolk enjoyed boating, music, and a street fair atmosphere.
However, by the late 1800s, Penzance’s midsummer revelry had waned. Stricter laws regulating fireworks and safety concerns led to quieter streets. Reports from the time describe incidents of rowdy behavior, fireworks accidents, and increasing pressure from authorities. By the 1880s, the celebration had nearly vanished, leaving only controlled public displays and a few nostalgic memories of a once vibrant tradition.
The festival found new life in 1991, thanks to the efforts of local groups and Penzance Town Council. It began with Mazey Day, a single-day event, and has since expanded into a week-long celebration of the Feast of St. John. The revived Golowan Festival now features serpent dances, parades, greenery, banners, and a lively Quay Fair. The streets of Penzance are once again alive with music, giant sculptures, and the joyful energy of a community reclaiming its cultural heritage.
The Golowan Festival, revived in 1991 by Stephen Hall and the Penzance community, brings to life the midsummer traditions that once flourished in the town. Many of the familiar elements—crowds, fireworks, serpent dancing, market stalls, and the Mock Mayor—are rooted in celebrations that date back to the 19th century. Bonfires once blazed across Penzance in places like the Greenmarket and Market Jew Street, marking the festive spirit of midsummer.
Accounts of the festivities, often documented in local newspapers, provide a colorful picture of those lively times. The earliest mention of the festival appears in a 1754 book by antiquarian William Borlase, who noted the midsummer fires in Cornwall and traced the term “Golowan” to Cornish roots, meaning the Feast of St. John. The 19th century saw spirited celebrations with bonfires, torches, and serpent dances, along with a bustling quay fair, where townsfolk enjoyed boating, music, and a street fair atmosphere.
However, by the late 1800s, Penzance’s midsummer revelry had waned. Stricter laws regulating fireworks and safety concerns led to quieter streets. Reports from the time describe incidents of rowdy behavior, fireworks accidents, and increasing pressure from authorities. By the 1880s, the celebration had nearly vanished, leaving only controlled public displays and a few nostalgic memories of a once vibrant tradition.
The festival found new life in 1991, thanks to the efforts of local groups and Penzance Town Council. It began with Mazey Day, a single-day event, and has since expanded into a week-long celebration of the Feast of St. John. The revived Golowan Festival now features serpent dances, parades, greenery, banners, and a lively Quay Fair. The streets of Penzance are once again alive with music, giant sculptures, and the joyful energy of a community reclaiming its cultural heritage.
Padstow’s ‘Obby ‘Oss Festival
Each year, as May Day dawns in the Cornish town of Padstow, an ancient enchantment takes hold. The 'Obby 'Oss festival awakens a tradition steeped in mystery and folklore, passed down through generations like a cherished secret. At midnight on April 30th, the town gathers outside the Golden Lion Inn to sing the haunting "Night Song," a chorus that echoes through the darkened streets, calling forth the summer’s arrival. By morning, Padstow is transformed—its narrow lanes adorned with greenery, flowers, and flags, crowned by the towering maypole at its heart. The air hums with excitement, for the 'Obby 'Osses, the festival’s legendary hobby horses, are about to emerge.
Two processions take to the streets, each led by a different 'Oss—the Old 'Oss, steeped in tradition, and the Blue Ribbon 'Oss, once a symbol of temperance and now of peace. The 'Osses are no ordinary creatures. Shrouded in black oilskin cloaks and crowned with eerie masks, they embody a strange and playful spirit. Each is accompanied by a Teaser, a white-clad figure wielding a painted club, whose antics keep the 'Oss dancing through the town. Behind them trails a jubilant crowd of musicians playing accordions and drums, and the Mayers, townsfolk singing the ancient "Morning Song." Together, they create a living tapestry of sound, movement, and color as they weave their way through Padstow’s streets, spreading laughter and wonder.
Legends whisper that the 'Obby 'Oss has roots far deeper than the recorded 18th-century origins of the festival. Some claim it descends from Celtic Beltane rites, celebrating fertility and the renewal of life, while others see echoes of ancient Germanic traditions. Whether pagan relic or community ritual, the festival pulses with a timeless energy. As the 'Osses sway and snap, they perform a dance as old as the town itself, their snapping jaws a playful nod to the mingling of mischief and reverence. When the processions meet at the maypole in the late afternoon, it is a moment of unity—two halves of the town coming together in shared celebration.
For Padstow, the 'Obby 'Oss is more than a festival; it is the beating heart of its identity, a defiant affirmation of heritage and community. Though the festival draws visitors from far and wide, its spirit remains deeply rooted in the townsfolk, with participation reserved for those whose families have lived here for generations. As night falls and the 'Osses retreat to their stables, the final song rises into the air, bidding farewell to the revelry until next May Eve. For those who witness it, the 'Obby 'Oss is more than a spectacle—it is a bridge between the past and present, a dance of time that carries the essence of Padstow into the future.
Two processions take to the streets, each led by a different 'Oss—the Old 'Oss, steeped in tradition, and the Blue Ribbon 'Oss, once a symbol of temperance and now of peace. The 'Osses are no ordinary creatures. Shrouded in black oilskin cloaks and crowned with eerie masks, they embody a strange and playful spirit. Each is accompanied by a Teaser, a white-clad figure wielding a painted club, whose antics keep the 'Oss dancing through the town. Behind them trails a jubilant crowd of musicians playing accordions and drums, and the Mayers, townsfolk singing the ancient "Morning Song." Together, they create a living tapestry of sound, movement, and color as they weave their way through Padstow’s streets, spreading laughter and wonder.
Legends whisper that the 'Obby 'Oss has roots far deeper than the recorded 18th-century origins of the festival. Some claim it descends from Celtic Beltane rites, celebrating fertility and the renewal of life, while others see echoes of ancient Germanic traditions. Whether pagan relic or community ritual, the festival pulses with a timeless energy. As the 'Osses sway and snap, they perform a dance as old as the town itself, their snapping jaws a playful nod to the mingling of mischief and reverence. When the processions meet at the maypole in the late afternoon, it is a moment of unity—two halves of the town coming together in shared celebration.
For Padstow, the 'Obby 'Oss is more than a festival; it is the beating heart of its identity, a defiant affirmation of heritage and community. Though the festival draws visitors from far and wide, its spirit remains deeply rooted in the townsfolk, with participation reserved for those whose families have lived here for generations. As night falls and the 'Osses retreat to their stables, the final song rises into the air, bidding farewell to the revelry until next May Eve. For those who witness it, the 'Obby 'Oss is more than a spectacle—it is a bridge between the past and present, a dance of time that carries the essence of Padstow into the future.
The Tragedy of Joan Wytte
For nearly two centuries, Joan Wytte, the “Fighting Fairy Woman of Bodmin Town,” remained a restless spirit. Born in 1775, she was a revered healer and clairvoyant in Cornwall, known for using sympathetic magic with “clooties” to cure ailments. But a severe tooth abscess in her later years turned her temper fierce, leading to violent confrontations that convinced locals she was possessed. Joan’s strength became infamous, and she was eventually imprisoned in Bodmin Jail for public brawling, where the squalid conditions led to her death at 38.
Even in death, Joan’s suffering continued. Her bones were exhumed and used in dark séances and pranks before being put on public display in the Museum of Witchcraft in Boscastle. For 40 years, her skeleton hung behind glass, attracting the curious and the cruel alike. Children mocked her, and visitors pointed, turning her once-powerful figure into a mere spectacle. But strange disturbances plagued the museum—flickering lights, objects moving on their own, and whispers in the dark—signs, they said, that Joan’s spirit was far from at rest.
Graham King, a modern-day witch and the museum’s new curator, decided Joan deserved peace. He enlisted the help of Cassandra Latham, another witch, to perform a séance on Hallowe’en, hoping to connect with Joan’s spirit and learn what she truly desired. In the candlelit woods, Joan’s voice came through: she wanted to be laid to rest, away from the prying eyes that had tormented her for so long. King resolved to grant her wish, but kept the burial site secret to protect it from curiosity seekers.
On a misty night, deep in the Cornish woods, a small group gathered to bury Joan’s remains. Her bones, freed from their metal fastenings, were placed in a wicker basket lined with wool. Beside her were offerings—brandy, tobacco, and herbs meant to ease her spirit’s journey. No elaborate rituals were performed, only quiet words of farewell as the grave was gently covered. A simple stone marked the site: “Joan Wytte. Born 1775. Died 1813 in Bodmin Jail. Buried 1998. No longer abused.”
Since that night, rumors persist about the woods. Some say they feel a chill or catch a whiff of old tobacco, while others claim to hear a faint whisper carried on the wind. Joan Wytte’s story, like the restless spirit she once was, lingers still—a haunting reminder of a woman who sought justice even beyond the grave.
Even in death, Joan’s suffering continued. Her bones were exhumed and used in dark séances and pranks before being put on public display in the Museum of Witchcraft in Boscastle. For 40 years, her skeleton hung behind glass, attracting the curious and the cruel alike. Children mocked her, and visitors pointed, turning her once-powerful figure into a mere spectacle. But strange disturbances plagued the museum—flickering lights, objects moving on their own, and whispers in the dark—signs, they said, that Joan’s spirit was far from at rest.
Graham King, a modern-day witch and the museum’s new curator, decided Joan deserved peace. He enlisted the help of Cassandra Latham, another witch, to perform a séance on Hallowe’en, hoping to connect with Joan’s spirit and learn what she truly desired. In the candlelit woods, Joan’s voice came through: she wanted to be laid to rest, away from the prying eyes that had tormented her for so long. King resolved to grant her wish, but kept the burial site secret to protect it from curiosity seekers.
On a misty night, deep in the Cornish woods, a small group gathered to bury Joan’s remains. Her bones, freed from their metal fastenings, were placed in a wicker basket lined with wool. Beside her were offerings—brandy, tobacco, and herbs meant to ease her spirit’s journey. No elaborate rituals were performed, only quiet words of farewell as the grave was gently covered. A simple stone marked the site: “Joan Wytte. Born 1775. Died 1813 in Bodmin Jail. Buried 1998. No longer abused.”
Since that night, rumors persist about the woods. Some say they feel a chill or catch a whiff of old tobacco, while others claim to hear a faint whisper carried on the wind. Joan Wytte’s story, like the restless spirit she once was, lingers still—a haunting reminder of a woman who sought justice even beyond the grave.
Woon Gumpus Common (a.k.a The Gump)
Beneath the silver glow of the harvest moon, near St. Just and the restless waves of Cape Cornwall, stands a mystical hill known as The Gump. In ancient days, the Little People—fairies, piskies, and spriggans—held grand revels here, and mortal eyes, trusted and believing, were allowed to witness their ethereal wonders. But as humanity grew “wise” and skeptical, the fairies retreated, still present but unseen, waiting for those whose hearts remain open to magic. The Gump, though silent now, carries whispers of their laughter, the scent of enchanted feasts, and the glint of otherworldly treasures beneath its grassy folds.
One such tale speaks of a miserly old man, consumed by greed, who sought to claim the fairies’ treasures. One moonlit night, lured by haunting melodies that seemed to rise from the earth itself, he crept toward the Gump. The hill, desolate and still by day, transformed before his eyes into a realm of dazzling beauty. Hosts of fair folk emerged, their jewels flashing like starlight, their banquet tables laden with riches beyond imagining. Yet even amid their revelry, the miser’s covetous thoughts betrayed him, and the spriggans—mischievous guardians of the hill—were watching.
As the old man plotted his theft, the fairies turned their gaze upon him, freezing him in his tracks. Darkness descended, and unseen hands tethered him to the ground with gossamer bonds. Pinched, pricked, and ridiculed by the spriggans, he endured a torment that felt eternal. At dawn, he awoke to find himself tangled in dewdrop-laden webs, their shimmering beauty a mocking reminder of the jewels he sought but could not claim. Humbled and broken, he crept home, vowing never to speak of his shameful encounter.
Years later, as a reformed man, the miser shared his tale, a cautionary legend of greed and reverence. The Gump remains, its magic waiting for those brave or foolish enough to seek it. Yet the fairies are not so easily fooled. Their treasures, like their presence, are for those who seek wonder—not wealth.
One such tale speaks of a miserly old man, consumed by greed, who sought to claim the fairies’ treasures. One moonlit night, lured by haunting melodies that seemed to rise from the earth itself, he crept toward the Gump. The hill, desolate and still by day, transformed before his eyes into a realm of dazzling beauty. Hosts of fair folk emerged, their jewels flashing like starlight, their banquet tables laden with riches beyond imagining. Yet even amid their revelry, the miser’s covetous thoughts betrayed him, and the spriggans—mischievous guardians of the hill—were watching.
As the old man plotted his theft, the fairies turned their gaze upon him, freezing him in his tracks. Darkness descended, and unseen hands tethered him to the ground with gossamer bonds. Pinched, pricked, and ridiculed by the spriggans, he endured a torment that felt eternal. At dawn, he awoke to find himself tangled in dewdrop-laden webs, their shimmering beauty a mocking reminder of the jewels he sought but could not claim. Humbled and broken, he crept home, vowing never to speak of his shameful encounter.
Years later, as a reformed man, the miser shared his tale, a cautionary legend of greed and reverence. The Gump remains, its magic waiting for those brave or foolish enough to seek it. Yet the fairies are not so easily fooled. Their treasures, like their presence, are for those who seek wonder—not wealth.
Hurlers
Shrouded in mist and mystery, Bodmin Moor is a bleak landscape where ancient relics and industrial remnants intertwine. Trees, bent by relentless winds described as "furious grsts" by a Tudor writer, stand as silent witnesses to millennia of history. Among these hills lie barrows and tombs, stone circles, and Bronze Age settlements, predating Roman conquests. Interspersed are decaying engine houses and disused quarries, echoes of a once-thriving mining community that sought copper, lead, and granite.
On the southeastern edge of the moor, three interlocking rings of standing stones date back to around 1500 BC. These enigmatic formations, partially fallen and cloaked in moss, prompt questions about their purpose. Folklore suggests they were once men turned to stone for playing hurling on the Sabbath, a divine punishment for their irreverence. This tale, dismissed by 18th-century scholars, hints at the deep cultural and mystical significance these stones held, perhaps as sites of ancient ceremonies and rituals.
Amid this landscape, alignments to the sun and moon hint at the stones' possible roles in marking natural cycles. From the Hurlers, one can trace lines to other ritual sites, creating a 'ceremonial landscape' where prehistoric dramas unfolded. Nearby, the stony ramparts of Stowe's Hill and the significant Rillaton Barrow connect these sites to celestial events, reinforcing their sacred importance. These alignments, symbolic rather than scientific, suggest a space set apart for communal and religious activities.
Beyond the Hurlers, the Cheesewring, a peculiar granite formation, adds to the moor's mystique. Legend speaks of a Druid priest at Rillaton offering endless wine from a golden goblet, a story entwined with tragedy and mystery. Excavations at Rillaton Barrow in 1837 unearthed a golden cup, believed to be the very goblet of legend, now housed in the British Museum. These tales and landmarks transform Bodmin Moor into a realm where history, myth, and the landscape itself weave a tapestry of the mystical and the sublime.
On the southeastern edge of the moor, three interlocking rings of standing stones date back to around 1500 BC. These enigmatic formations, partially fallen and cloaked in moss, prompt questions about their purpose. Folklore suggests they were once men turned to stone for playing hurling on the Sabbath, a divine punishment for their irreverence. This tale, dismissed by 18th-century scholars, hints at the deep cultural and mystical significance these stones held, perhaps as sites of ancient ceremonies and rituals.
Amid this landscape, alignments to the sun and moon hint at the stones' possible roles in marking natural cycles. From the Hurlers, one can trace lines to other ritual sites, creating a 'ceremonial landscape' where prehistoric dramas unfolded. Nearby, the stony ramparts of Stowe's Hill and the significant Rillaton Barrow connect these sites to celestial events, reinforcing their sacred importance. These alignments, symbolic rather than scientific, suggest a space set apart for communal and religious activities.
Beyond the Hurlers, the Cheesewring, a peculiar granite formation, adds to the moor's mystique. Legend speaks of a Druid priest at Rillaton offering endless wine from a golden goblet, a story entwined with tragedy and mystery. Excavations at Rillaton Barrow in 1837 unearthed a golden cup, believed to be the very goblet of legend, now housed in the British Museum. These tales and landmarks transform Bodmin Moor into a realm where history, myth, and the landscape itself weave a tapestry of the mystical and the sublime.
The Giant of Gorran
The towering earthwork at Gorran, stretching from cliff to cliff, wasn’t the work of ancient laborers—it was the feat of a giant who completed it in a single night. This formidable creature dwelled on the promontory, terrorizing the countryside and feasting on the unwary until a local doctor, bolder than the rest, hatched a plan to rid the land of its monstrous menace.
One day, the giant ate something that left him writhing in agony, his roars shaking the cliffs and terrifying the villagers. Desperate for relief, he summoned the doctor, who decided that instead of healing, the best course was to eliminate the threat. With false compassion, he convinced the giant that only a bloodletting would cure him, urging him to spill his blood into a great chasm by the cliff. Trusting the doctor, the giant extended his arm, and as he grew weaker from blood loss, the doctor seized his chance, kicking the fading giant to his doom.
The place where the giant fell is now known as Dodman Point, or Dead Man’s Point, while the blood-filled chasm is famed for its thick growth of ivy, nourished by the giant’s sacrifice. The spot below, called “The Giant’s House,” stands as a reminder of the day the cliffs of Gorran were freed from a terrible curse.
One day, the giant ate something that left him writhing in agony, his roars shaking the cliffs and terrifying the villagers. Desperate for relief, he summoned the doctor, who decided that instead of healing, the best course was to eliminate the threat. With false compassion, he convinced the giant that only a bloodletting would cure him, urging him to spill his blood into a great chasm by the cliff. Trusting the doctor, the giant extended his arm, and as he grew weaker from blood loss, the doctor seized his chance, kicking the fading giant to his doom.
The place where the giant fell is now known as Dodman Point, or Dead Man’s Point, while the blood-filled chasm is famed for its thick growth of ivy, nourished by the giant’s sacrifice. The spot below, called “The Giant’s House,” stands as a reminder of the day the cliffs of Gorran were freed from a terrible curse.
Tintagel and the Legend of King Arthur
In the windswept cliffs and rugged moors of Cornwall, the legend of King Arthur takes root, weaving magic into its wild landscape. The tale begins with Uther Pendragon, whose obsession with the beautiful Ygraine led him to Tintagel under the guise of her husband, Gorlois, thanks to Merlin’s spellcraft. That fateful night not only conceived Arthur but also set into motion a destiny entwined with heroism, betrayal, and magic. While historians debate its truth, Tintagel’s mystique, tied forever to Geoffrey of Monmouth’s 12th-century writings, draws believers and skeptics alike to ponder its role in Arthur’s story.
After Arthur’s birth, Merlin spirited him away to safety, raising him under Sir Hector’s care until the day he pulled the sword from the stone, proving his right to rule. Arthur’s reign from Camelot, alongside Guinevere and the Knights of the Round Table, epitomized chivalry and unity. Yet shadows loomed over the king, from the tragic love of Lancelot and Guinevere to the rebellion led by Mordred, Arthur’s own son by Morgan le Fay. These conflicts foretold Arthur’s downfall, though his legend lived on, promising his return in Britain’s hour of need.
Cornwall is steeped in places whispering Arthurian echoes. Castle-an-Dinas, where Arthur hunted, and Bodmin Moor, with its evocative names like Arthur’s Bed, invite visitors to walk where he might have stood. St Nectan’s Glen, where knights prayed before their quests, exudes an ancient magic, its waterfall said to conceal treasures guarded by spirits. Tintagel remains the most iconic site, its ruins perched dramatically above the Atlantic, as if defying time itself.
The mystery of Arthur’s existence endures, despite a lack of historical evidence. Was he a 5th-century warlord who rallied Celtic tribes against Saxon invaders? Or merely a myth crafted to embody Britain’s enduring ideals? Geoffrey’s Arthur, a fierce conqueror, evolved into Malory’s noble king, inspiring generations. Yet the essence of Arthur, as Cornwall believes, transcends history—it lives in the soul of the land.
From the Round Table’s rumored resting place to the ghostly bell of St Nectan’s Glen, Cornwall keeps Arthur’s spirit alive. Whether he was real or imagined, Arthur’s legend embodies a timeless hope, a beacon of courage and unity in the face of chaos. In Cornwall, where the line between myth and reality blurs, Arthur is not just a memory—he is a promise.
After Arthur’s birth, Merlin spirited him away to safety, raising him under Sir Hector’s care until the day he pulled the sword from the stone, proving his right to rule. Arthur’s reign from Camelot, alongside Guinevere and the Knights of the Round Table, epitomized chivalry and unity. Yet shadows loomed over the king, from the tragic love of Lancelot and Guinevere to the rebellion led by Mordred, Arthur’s own son by Morgan le Fay. These conflicts foretold Arthur’s downfall, though his legend lived on, promising his return in Britain’s hour of need.
Cornwall is steeped in places whispering Arthurian echoes. Castle-an-Dinas, where Arthur hunted, and Bodmin Moor, with its evocative names like Arthur’s Bed, invite visitors to walk where he might have stood. St Nectan’s Glen, where knights prayed before their quests, exudes an ancient magic, its waterfall said to conceal treasures guarded by spirits. Tintagel remains the most iconic site, its ruins perched dramatically above the Atlantic, as if defying time itself.
The mystery of Arthur’s existence endures, despite a lack of historical evidence. Was he a 5th-century warlord who rallied Celtic tribes against Saxon invaders? Or merely a myth crafted to embody Britain’s enduring ideals? Geoffrey’s Arthur, a fierce conqueror, evolved into Malory’s noble king, inspiring generations. Yet the essence of Arthur, as Cornwall believes, transcends history—it lives in the soul of the land.
From the Round Table’s rumored resting place to the ghostly bell of St Nectan’s Glen, Cornwall keeps Arthur’s spirit alive. Whether he was real or imagined, Arthur’s legend embodies a timeless hope, a beacon of courage and unity in the face of chaos. In Cornwall, where the line between myth and reality blurs, Arthur is not just a memory—he is a promise.
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