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Dive into the rich landscapes that shaped Cornwall’s folklore. From ancient sites steeped in mystery to dramatic coastlines whispered about in legends, our locations section brings these stories to life, connecting you to the heart of Cornwall’s enchanted past.
Ballowall Barrow
Ballowall Barrow, also known as Carn Gluze Barrow, is one of the largest and most intricate prehistoric funerary monuments along the West Penwith coastline in Cornwall. Situated dramatically on the cliff top at Ballowall Common, the barrow has stood the test of time, despite being hidden under debris from nearby tin mines until its discovery in 1878. Excavated by the renowned Cornish antiquarian William Copeland Borlase, it revealed a complex structure that reflects multiple phases of funerary practices spanning both the Neolithic and Bronze Age periods. Originally a large stone mound, the barrow contains several cists, or stone-lined chambers, some with Bronze Age pottery and burnt bone, along with an entrance grave that provides further insight into its ceremonial significance.
The barrow's design is unique, with the central mound surrounded by two concentric drystone walls, creating a striking and complex funerary structure. Inside, five small cists were discovered, some containing cremated remains and pottery. A T-shaped pit possibly indicates a grave, while additional cists were found both within the mound and around its perimeter. After the excavation, Borlase added stone walls to make the site more accessible to visitors, creating a circular passage around the central mound. Unfortunately, this reconstruction has made the site harder to interpret, as it altered the barrow’s original form, and some features, including the central cists, were lost or obscured.
The barrow is thought to have undergone several phases of use. The earliest feature is believed to be a long pit at its centre, later surrounded by cists and encased by a high stone mound. This mound was then re-faced with stone, and further cists were added along the periphery. A stone-kerbed platform was built around the mound, possibly incorporating what was once a west-facing entrance grave. Finds of funerary urns and cremation burials suggest a Neolithic and early Bronze Age date, though the presence of a Roman coin within one of the cists hints that the site may have continued to serve as a focal point for the local community even after the Bronze Age.
Ballowall Barrow remains an important Scheduled Monument, managed by English Heritage and cared for by the National Trust. Despite the complexities added by later reconstruction, it offers a fascinating glimpse into the burial and ceremonial practices of the past. With its unique combination of Neolithic and Bronze Age elements, the barrow stands as one of Cornwall's most significant and enigmatic ancient sites. Though no similar monument has been identified in the region, Ballowall Barrow remains a vital piece of the puzzle in understanding the prehistoric landscape of West Penwith, where the past continues to be uncovered and explored.
The barrow's design is unique, with the central mound surrounded by two concentric drystone walls, creating a striking and complex funerary structure. Inside, five small cists were discovered, some containing cremated remains and pottery. A T-shaped pit possibly indicates a grave, while additional cists were found both within the mound and around its perimeter. After the excavation, Borlase added stone walls to make the site more accessible to visitors, creating a circular passage around the central mound. Unfortunately, this reconstruction has made the site harder to interpret, as it altered the barrow’s original form, and some features, including the central cists, were lost or obscured.
The barrow is thought to have undergone several phases of use. The earliest feature is believed to be a long pit at its centre, later surrounded by cists and encased by a high stone mound. This mound was then re-faced with stone, and further cists were added along the periphery. A stone-kerbed platform was built around the mound, possibly incorporating what was once a west-facing entrance grave. Finds of funerary urns and cremation burials suggest a Neolithic and early Bronze Age date, though the presence of a Roman coin within one of the cists hints that the site may have continued to serve as a focal point for the local community even after the Bronze Age.
Ballowall Barrow remains an important Scheduled Monument, managed by English Heritage and cared for by the National Trust. Despite the complexities added by later reconstruction, it offers a fascinating glimpse into the burial and ceremonial practices of the past. With its unique combination of Neolithic and Bronze Age elements, the barrow stands as one of Cornwall's most significant and enigmatic ancient sites. Though no similar monument has been identified in the region, Ballowall Barrow remains a vital piece of the puzzle in understanding the prehistoric landscape of West Penwith, where the past continues to be uncovered and explored.
Boskednan Stone Circle
Boskednan Stone Circle, tucked away on the windswept moors of Cornwall, is a haunting remnant of the past, its mystery seeping through the cracks of time. Located roughly 4 miles northwest of Penzance, the circle, often referred to as the Nine Maidens or Nine Stones of Boskednan, was once a grand structure with 22 upright stones encircling a 69-metre perimeter. Today, only 10 stones remain—six standing defiantly against the elements, one barely clinging to the earth, and the rest lost to the soil, their stories buried beneath the creeping heather. The stones, some reaching as high as 2 metres, still whisper of ancient rites and forgotten rituals, though much of the original structure is lost to time and human interference.
Erected during the late Neolithic or early Bronze Age by the enigmatic Megalithic culture, the Boskednan Stone Circle has stood since an era where the land itself held secrets. The first recorded mention came in 1754, when antiquarian William Borlase described 19 standing stones, though much of the circle had already begun to fade into ruin. Excavations by Borlase’s descendant, William Copeland Borlase, unearthed a cist containing a chevron-patterned urn—a fragment of the early Bronze Age, confirming that this place was more than just a circle of stones. It was a site of ritual, of remembrance, and perhaps of sacrifice, yet what else remains hidden beneath the earth, no one can say.
The circle sits upon a remote, windswept saddle of moorland, its isolation accentuating the eerie stillness of the place. To the southwest, the land plunges into the shadowy valley of Chyandour Brook, its waters winding their way toward the distant sea. The stone circle, encircled by the long-forgotten hills of Mulfra, Bodrifty, and the looming presence of Carn Galver, feels like a forgotten doorway into another world. Just over a mile away, the stone setting of Men-an-Tol calls out to those who listen closely, while the valley’s edges seem to embrace the circle in a silent, spectral watch. Despite its remote location, far from the well-trodden tourist paths, Boskednan retains an air of haunting solitude, its mystery and isolation intact.
Today, Boskednan stands with only a scattering of stones still reaching towards the sky. Seven stones remain upright, some leaning outward, their weathered surfaces marked by centuries of neglect and erosion. Others lie fallen, half-submerged in the earth, their once-proud forms obscured by the relentless encroachment of heather. The northern stones, taller than the rest, may once have marked an entrance or aligned with the distant Carn Galver, a peak that rises from the horizon like an ancient sentinel. The landscape surrounding Boskednan, dotted with other megalithic sites, gives an impression of a once-thriving ceremonial landscape, a place where the land itself seemed to pulse with purpose. But the story of Boskednan is one of fading echoes, a place where the past slips between the cracks, and where the dead still seem to linger, watching from the shadows.
Erected during the late Neolithic or early Bronze Age by the enigmatic Megalithic culture, the Boskednan Stone Circle has stood since an era where the land itself held secrets. The first recorded mention came in 1754, when antiquarian William Borlase described 19 standing stones, though much of the circle had already begun to fade into ruin. Excavations by Borlase’s descendant, William Copeland Borlase, unearthed a cist containing a chevron-patterned urn—a fragment of the early Bronze Age, confirming that this place was more than just a circle of stones. It was a site of ritual, of remembrance, and perhaps of sacrifice, yet what else remains hidden beneath the earth, no one can say.
The circle sits upon a remote, windswept saddle of moorland, its isolation accentuating the eerie stillness of the place. To the southwest, the land plunges into the shadowy valley of Chyandour Brook, its waters winding their way toward the distant sea. The stone circle, encircled by the long-forgotten hills of Mulfra, Bodrifty, and the looming presence of Carn Galver, feels like a forgotten doorway into another world. Just over a mile away, the stone setting of Men-an-Tol calls out to those who listen closely, while the valley’s edges seem to embrace the circle in a silent, spectral watch. Despite its remote location, far from the well-trodden tourist paths, Boskednan retains an air of haunting solitude, its mystery and isolation intact.
Today, Boskednan stands with only a scattering of stones still reaching towards the sky. Seven stones remain upright, some leaning outward, their weathered surfaces marked by centuries of neglect and erosion. Others lie fallen, half-submerged in the earth, their once-proud forms obscured by the relentless encroachment of heather. The northern stones, taller than the rest, may once have marked an entrance or aligned with the distant Carn Galver, a peak that rises from the horizon like an ancient sentinel. The landscape surrounding Boskednan, dotted with other megalithic sites, gives an impression of a once-thriving ceremonial landscape, a place where the land itself seemed to pulse with purpose. But the story of Boskednan is one of fading echoes, a place where the past slips between the cracks, and where the dead still seem to linger, watching from the shadows.
The Artognou Stone
Discovered during excavations at the windswept promontory of Tintagel on Cornwall’s north coast, the so-called "Artognou Stone" is a small slate slab bearing two distinct inscriptions. Found near the ruins of early medieval buildings, the stone lay within a securely sealed archaeological layer, offering rare and tangible evidence of activity at the site during the post-Roman period. Though modest in appearance—measuring just 35 by 20 centimetres—it has sparked intense interest due to its inscriptions, which include both a possible Christogram and a Latin text. The stone’s location within one of Britain’s most legendary sites has led to both scholarly scrutiny and public fascination, as it invites questions about the individuals who lived, traded, and commemorated their dead at Tintagel in the sixth century.
The dating of the inscribed slate has been established using two methods. Firstly, it was found in a secure archaeological context alongside imported pottery types that date to the fifth or sixth centuries. Secondly, the style of lettering on the slate matches that seen on other British inscribed stones from the post-500 period, particularly in Cornwall and Scotland. A motif at the top right of the slate shows a large diagonal cross flanked by the Greek letters Alpha and possibly Omega, with a Chi (X) in the centre—likely forming a Christogram. Below this symbol, overlapping it slightly, is a Latin inscription carved more lightly, reading: PATERN[--] COLI AVI FICIT ARTOGNOU, which seems to have been repeated in part further down. The informal, scratched nature of this writing suggests it was graffiti rather than a formal dedication.
The name "Artognou" has been translated as “Artognou, descendant of Patern[us] Colus, made this.” The Brittonic name means “Bear Knowing,” derived from arto (bear) and gnāwo- (to know), and is linguistically related to names in Old Breton and Welsh. Despite media attention dubbing this find the “Arthur Stone” due to its discovery at Tintagel—a site long associated with King Arthur—scholars such as John Koch have firmly rejected a direct connection. Koch argues that "Artognou" and "Arthur" are linguistically unrelated, the latter likely deriving from the Latin Artorius. Still, the sixth-century context of the stone and Tintagel’s association with Geoffrey of Monmouth’s legendary account of Arthur’s conception there helped fuel popular speculation.
The archaeological re-evaluation of Tintagel was sparked in the 1990s by a grass fire that exposed long-buried building foundations. Previous interpretations suggested a monastic presence, but subsequent excavations led by Professor Chris Morris for English Heritage painted a different picture. Findings included imported pottery, glass, and coins from regions as far as Byzantium and Visigothic Spain—clear signs of wealth and wide trade networks. These discoveries supported the view that Tintagel was not isolated but was, in fact, a key centre of Dumnonian political and economic power. The so-called “Artognou Stone” was uncovered within a sealed seventh-century context but later dated to the sixth century, strengthening theories that the site held strategic importance during the early medieval period.
The stone itself appears to carry two inscriptions. The first, deeper and in a Roman script, may be part of an official or commemorative notice. One theory posits that the inscription originally referred to the Roman Emperor Maxentius, connecting Tintagel to a larger imperial network. Others suggest the name “Maxe” could refer to prominent sixth-century clerics such as St. Maxentius or Joannes Maxentius, both active in western Christendom. While definitive conclusions remain elusive, these theories highlight Tintagel’s potential role as a religious and commercial hub with Mediterranean ties. Regardless of whether Artognou was a ruler, scribe, or commemorated ancestor, the stone provides compelling evidence of Tintagel’s stature in the post-Roman world—one that may have inspired legends but also had very real historical weight.
The dating of the inscribed slate has been established using two methods. Firstly, it was found in a secure archaeological context alongside imported pottery types that date to the fifth or sixth centuries. Secondly, the style of lettering on the slate matches that seen on other British inscribed stones from the post-500 period, particularly in Cornwall and Scotland. A motif at the top right of the slate shows a large diagonal cross flanked by the Greek letters Alpha and possibly Omega, with a Chi (X) in the centre—likely forming a Christogram. Below this symbol, overlapping it slightly, is a Latin inscription carved more lightly, reading: PATERN[--] COLI AVI FICIT ARTOGNOU, which seems to have been repeated in part further down. The informal, scratched nature of this writing suggests it was graffiti rather than a formal dedication.
The name "Artognou" has been translated as “Artognou, descendant of Patern[us] Colus, made this.” The Brittonic name means “Bear Knowing,” derived from arto (bear) and gnāwo- (to know), and is linguistically related to names in Old Breton and Welsh. Despite media attention dubbing this find the “Arthur Stone” due to its discovery at Tintagel—a site long associated with King Arthur—scholars such as John Koch have firmly rejected a direct connection. Koch argues that "Artognou" and "Arthur" are linguistically unrelated, the latter likely deriving from the Latin Artorius. Still, the sixth-century context of the stone and Tintagel’s association with Geoffrey of Monmouth’s legendary account of Arthur’s conception there helped fuel popular speculation.
The archaeological re-evaluation of Tintagel was sparked in the 1990s by a grass fire that exposed long-buried building foundations. Previous interpretations suggested a monastic presence, but subsequent excavations led by Professor Chris Morris for English Heritage painted a different picture. Findings included imported pottery, glass, and coins from regions as far as Byzantium and Visigothic Spain—clear signs of wealth and wide trade networks. These discoveries supported the view that Tintagel was not isolated but was, in fact, a key centre of Dumnonian political and economic power. The so-called “Artognou Stone” was uncovered within a sealed seventh-century context but later dated to the sixth century, strengthening theories that the site held strategic importance during the early medieval period.
The stone itself appears to carry two inscriptions. The first, deeper and in a Roman script, may be part of an official or commemorative notice. One theory posits that the inscription originally referred to the Roman Emperor Maxentius, connecting Tintagel to a larger imperial network. Others suggest the name “Maxe” could refer to prominent sixth-century clerics such as St. Maxentius or Joannes Maxentius, both active in western Christendom. While definitive conclusions remain elusive, these theories highlight Tintagel’s potential role as a religious and commercial hub with Mediterranean ties. Regardless of whether Artognou was a ruler, scribe, or commemorated ancestor, the stone provides compelling evidence of Tintagel’s stature in the post-Roman world—one that may have inspired legends but also had very real historical weight.
Menacuddle Holy Well and the Druid’s Chair
Tucked into a quiet valley just outside St Austell is one of Cornwall’s most overlooked gems—Menacuddle Holy Well and the Druid’s Chair. Enveloped by rhododendrons and ancient trees, this 15th-century granite well house sits beside a gentle stream and waterfall, its clear spring waters once believed to hold powerful healing properties. In medieval times, sick children were bathed here and ulcers treated with its waters. Bent pins were thrown into the well for luck, and even today, the site carries a hushed, otherworldly air.
The well house, with its ivy-clad Gothic archway, was restored in 1922 by Admiral Sir Charles Graves Sawle in memory of his only son, who died in the trenches of Ypres. He gifted it to the people of St Austell—a quiet act of remembrance that added another layer of soul to this sacred space. A nearby chapel once stood on this site, but has long since vanished into the earth, leaving only the water, the stones, and the stories behind.
Just across the stream is the curious Druid’s Chair—carved from a single granite block, its smooth seat inviting and oddly comfortable. While its name hints at ancient rituals, no one really knows its origin. It may have been part of 18th-century landscaping by Charles Rashleigh, the visionary behind the transformation of nearby Charlestown. Once a small fishing village called Porthmuer, Charlestown became a major port for exporting Cornwall’s ‘white gold’—china clay—thanks to Rashleigh’s ambition and engineering prowess. But his story ended in tragedy, betrayed by men he trusted, his fortune lost, and his legacy nearly forgotten.
And yet, it lives on—in the cobbled streets of Charlestown, in the flowing water of Menacuddle, and in the stone chair beneath the trees. This is a place where memory lingers in the landscape, where history and folklore entwine. Menacuddle isn’t just a well. It’s a whisper of Cornwall’s soul.
The well house, with its ivy-clad Gothic archway, was restored in 1922 by Admiral Sir Charles Graves Sawle in memory of his only son, who died in the trenches of Ypres. He gifted it to the people of St Austell—a quiet act of remembrance that added another layer of soul to this sacred space. A nearby chapel once stood on this site, but has long since vanished into the earth, leaving only the water, the stones, and the stories behind.
Just across the stream is the curious Druid’s Chair—carved from a single granite block, its smooth seat inviting and oddly comfortable. While its name hints at ancient rituals, no one really knows its origin. It may have been part of 18th-century landscaping by Charles Rashleigh, the visionary behind the transformation of nearby Charlestown. Once a small fishing village called Porthmuer, Charlestown became a major port for exporting Cornwall’s ‘white gold’—china clay—thanks to Rashleigh’s ambition and engineering prowess. But his story ended in tragedy, betrayed by men he trusted, his fortune lost, and his legacy nearly forgotten.
And yet, it lives on—in the cobbled streets of Charlestown, in the flowing water of Menacuddle, and in the stone chair beneath the trees. This is a place where memory lingers in the landscape, where history and folklore entwine. Menacuddle isn’t just a well. It’s a whisper of Cornwall’s soul.
Tregeseal Stone Circle
Tregeseal East Stone Circle, also known in Cornish as Meyn an Dons ("Stones of the Dance"), dates from the late Neolithic to early Bronze Age (approx. 2500–1500 BC). It consists of a slightly-flattened circle of 19 granite stones, ranging in height from 0.8 to 1.5 metres. Over the centuries, several stones have fallen and been re-erected, while others now lie scattered nearby. Archaeological evidence suggests that this was once part of a larger ceremonial complex. A second circle once stood in the adjoining field to the west, and remnants of a possible third—identified through crop marks—may represent either a lost stone circle or a burial cairn.
The site stands within the myth-laced landscape of Truthwall Common, rich with stories of the Otherworld. Local folklore speaks of fairy feasts, demonic encounters, and beings from beyond the veil. One tale recalls a miner who stumbled upon a gathering of fairies at the circle, only to be bound in gossamer thread until dawn. Another legend tells of a meeting with the Devil himself on nearby Carn Kenidjack, whose towering form dominates the horizon. Pee Tregear, a well-known local figure, was said to have been piskey-led through the moor to this very spot, where he encountered the elusive little folk. Such tales may echo ancient rites, ancestral spirits, and the deep funerary heritage of this ritual landscape.
Tregeseal East is the only surviving member of what was once a trio of stone circles aligned east to west along the hillside near St Just in Penwith. Today’s circle consists of 19 granite blocks, though it is believed to have originally contained 21. Only the eastern half of the circle is thought to retain its original layout, with the rest subject to centuries of movement, loss, and restoration. The largest of the three circles, now largely vanished, once stood to the west and contained at least ten stones in 1885. A third, much smaller feature recorded in 1947 RAF aerial photography may have been a circle—or simply a prehistoric hut.
The history of the site has been documented since at least the 18th century. William Borlase described 17 upright stones in his 1754 work Antiquities of Cornwall, while William Cotton produced a drawing of the site in 1827 showing other now-lost stones still in place. In 1872, William Copeland Borlase recorded 15 standing stones in Naenia Cornubia, carefully mapping their positions. While the circle has been reshaped by time and human hands, it remains a powerful presence—one steeped in mystery, myth, and memory.
The site stands within the myth-laced landscape of Truthwall Common, rich with stories of the Otherworld. Local folklore speaks of fairy feasts, demonic encounters, and beings from beyond the veil. One tale recalls a miner who stumbled upon a gathering of fairies at the circle, only to be bound in gossamer thread until dawn. Another legend tells of a meeting with the Devil himself on nearby Carn Kenidjack, whose towering form dominates the horizon. Pee Tregear, a well-known local figure, was said to have been piskey-led through the moor to this very spot, where he encountered the elusive little folk. Such tales may echo ancient rites, ancestral spirits, and the deep funerary heritage of this ritual landscape.
Tregeseal East is the only surviving member of what was once a trio of stone circles aligned east to west along the hillside near St Just in Penwith. Today’s circle consists of 19 granite blocks, though it is believed to have originally contained 21. Only the eastern half of the circle is thought to retain its original layout, with the rest subject to centuries of movement, loss, and restoration. The largest of the three circles, now largely vanished, once stood to the west and contained at least ten stones in 1885. A third, much smaller feature recorded in 1947 RAF aerial photography may have been a circle—or simply a prehistoric hut.
The history of the site has been documented since at least the 18th century. William Borlase described 17 upright stones in his 1754 work Antiquities of Cornwall, while William Cotton produced a drawing of the site in 1827 showing other now-lost stones still in place. In 1872, William Copeland Borlase recorded 15 standing stones in Naenia Cornubia, carefully mapping their positions. While the circle has been reshaped by time and human hands, it remains a powerful presence—one steeped in mystery, myth, and memory.
The Cunaide Stone
Originally erected beside a grave at the eastern foot of Carnsew Hillfort, the Cunaide Stone once marked a late fifth- or early sixth-century burial site, its inscription honouring a woman named Cunaide. In 1843, workmen from Harvey & Co. rediscovered the stone during landscaping work on the hill, which by then had been transformed into a Victorian park known as The Plantation. While attempting to remove the massive pillar—over six feet tall and weighing 70 stone—the workers broke it into four pieces. These fragments were later embedded into a wall within the park, accompanied by a slate plaque bearing a translation. Though widely circulated, this early interpretation was flawed. The true inscription, as later read by Professor Charles Thomas, states: HIC PACE NVP(er) REQVIEVIT CVNAIDE HIC (IN) TVMVLO IACIT VIXIT ANNOS XXXIII, or: "Here in peace lately went to rest Cunaide. Here in the grave she lies. She lived 33 years."
This unusually long Latin inscription, spread over ten lines, has sparked decades of scholarly debate. Charles Thomas dated the stone to around 450–475 CE and believed it was chosen for burial due to the natural quartz and tourmaline veins forming a cross at its top—a Christian symbol. While R.A.S. Macalister offered a slightly different reading in Corpus Inscriptionum Insularum Celticarum (1945), both agreed on its significance. The presence of such a stone and burial near Carnsew Hillfort has led some to argue that this location retained strategic and cultural importance into the post-Roman period. It may have functioned as a secular power centre within the kingdom of Dumnonia, working in tandem with an ecclesiastical site at nearby Phillack, which was known to be distributing Mediterranean imports across western Cornwall.
In December 2017, the Cunaide Stone was carefully removed from The Plantation and transferred to Hayle Heritage Centre for conservation, having long been designated ‘at risk’ by Historic England. It underwent professional cleaning and was digitally preserved through close-range laser scanning and photogrammetry. This work, carried out by conservators from Kelland Conservation in collaboration with Historic England, involved removing moisture-absorbing paper pulp and meticulously cleaning the four stone sections. Once repositioned to resemble their original form, the stone’s imposing presence and delicate inscription—some letters barely a millimetre deep—were revealed with new clarity. Independent archaeologist Tom Goskar then scanned the stone, producing a “point cloud” of over 24 million data points, now being analysed to verify or challenge earlier readings.
This single memorial has opened up broader questions about the Hayle Estuary's role in the late and post-Roman periods. It joins a constellation of archaeological interest points in the area, including a fourth- or fifth-century burial site and early chapel at Lelant, uncovered during the 19th-century construction of the St Ives railway. Some scholars even suggest the churchyard of Lelant Parish Church may preserve the footprint of a Roman fort once positioned to guard the estuary. To the west, Trencrom Hill rises—an unexcavated Neolithic tor enclosure and Iron Age hillfort with commanding views of St Ives Bay and Mount’s Bay. Early medieval inscribed stones and finds of grass-marked pottery suggest Trencrom, too, may have held significance in this transitional era, supporting Thomas’s wider theory of a spiritually and politically active post-Roman landscape in west Cornwall.
This unusually long Latin inscription, spread over ten lines, has sparked decades of scholarly debate. Charles Thomas dated the stone to around 450–475 CE and believed it was chosen for burial due to the natural quartz and tourmaline veins forming a cross at its top—a Christian symbol. While R.A.S. Macalister offered a slightly different reading in Corpus Inscriptionum Insularum Celticarum (1945), both agreed on its significance. The presence of such a stone and burial near Carnsew Hillfort has led some to argue that this location retained strategic and cultural importance into the post-Roman period. It may have functioned as a secular power centre within the kingdom of Dumnonia, working in tandem with an ecclesiastical site at nearby Phillack, which was known to be distributing Mediterranean imports across western Cornwall.
In December 2017, the Cunaide Stone was carefully removed from The Plantation and transferred to Hayle Heritage Centre for conservation, having long been designated ‘at risk’ by Historic England. It underwent professional cleaning and was digitally preserved through close-range laser scanning and photogrammetry. This work, carried out by conservators from Kelland Conservation in collaboration with Historic England, involved removing moisture-absorbing paper pulp and meticulously cleaning the four stone sections. Once repositioned to resemble their original form, the stone’s imposing presence and delicate inscription—some letters barely a millimetre deep—were revealed with new clarity. Independent archaeologist Tom Goskar then scanned the stone, producing a “point cloud” of over 24 million data points, now being analysed to verify or challenge earlier readings.
This single memorial has opened up broader questions about the Hayle Estuary's role in the late and post-Roman periods. It joins a constellation of archaeological interest points in the area, including a fourth- or fifth-century burial site and early chapel at Lelant, uncovered during the 19th-century construction of the St Ives railway. Some scholars even suggest the churchyard of Lelant Parish Church may preserve the footprint of a Roman fort once positioned to guard the estuary. To the west, Trencrom Hill rises—an unexcavated Neolithic tor enclosure and Iron Age hillfort with commanding views of St Ives Bay and Mount’s Bay. Early medieval inscribed stones and finds of grass-marked pottery suggest Trencrom, too, may have held significance in this transitional era, supporting Thomas’s wider theory of a spiritually and politically active post-Roman landscape in west Cornwall.
Mother Ivey's Bay
Long ago, in the 16th century, a wealthy fish merchant in Harlyn Bay built his fortune on silver-scaled pilchards—caught, salted, and shipped to Catholic Europe for Lent and fish Fridays. His house, still standing today, bore the carved motto Dulcis Lucri Odor—“Profit Smells Sweet.” Yet while his barrels brimmed with riches, the local villagers starved. One harsh season, a shipment of pilchards returned unsold from Italy. Though the fish were no longer fit for market, they were still good enough to eat—enough to feed the desperate community. But when the villagers begged for help, the merchant refused. Instead, he had the fish ploughed into a field as fertiliser.
Mother Ivey, a white witch and healer who lived near Trevose Head, had long been a guardian to the people of Padstow and St. Merryn. She was not known for wrath—but this cruelty pushed her beyond reason. Devastated by the merchant’s selfishness, she cursed the very land where the fish were buried. Her warning was stark: “Break the soil, and death will follow.” At first, her curse was ignored. But within a year, the merchant’s eldest son was thrown from his horse while riding in the very field—and died. Word spread, and fear grew. The once-profitable land became known as cursed, and over the centuries, it claimed more lives. In the 1970s, a man with a metal detector collapsed from a heart attack; shortly after, a water company foreman died while laying pipes in the same soil.
By 1997, even modern institutions didn’t dare challenge the curse. When South West Water needed to dig through the field as part of its Clean Sweep programme, the landowner insisted the land be exorcised before any work began. A priest from St. Columb Major was called in to bless the field, and only then did the digging proceed. No further tragedies have been recorded—but the field remains untouched, left to rewild under cautious skies. As one local tenant farmer put it: “I wouldn’t plough that field—not for any money.”
Still, Mother Ivey is remembered not for vengeance alone, but for her fierce love for her people. The bay that bears her name—once called Polventon—is a haven of calm waters, golden sands, and abundant sea life, sheltered by Trevose Head. Today, it is home to the RNLI lifeboat station, where brave souls continue her legacy of protection, risking their lives to save others from the silvery seas. Her spirit, it seems, lives on in more than just the legend of the cursed field.
Mother Ivey, a white witch and healer who lived near Trevose Head, had long been a guardian to the people of Padstow and St. Merryn. She was not known for wrath—but this cruelty pushed her beyond reason. Devastated by the merchant’s selfishness, she cursed the very land where the fish were buried. Her warning was stark: “Break the soil, and death will follow.” At first, her curse was ignored. But within a year, the merchant’s eldest son was thrown from his horse while riding in the very field—and died. Word spread, and fear grew. The once-profitable land became known as cursed, and over the centuries, it claimed more lives. In the 1970s, a man with a metal detector collapsed from a heart attack; shortly after, a water company foreman died while laying pipes in the same soil.
By 1997, even modern institutions didn’t dare challenge the curse. When South West Water needed to dig through the field as part of its Clean Sweep programme, the landowner insisted the land be exorcised before any work began. A priest from St. Columb Major was called in to bless the field, and only then did the digging proceed. No further tragedies have been recorded—but the field remains untouched, left to rewild under cautious skies. As one local tenant farmer put it: “I wouldn’t plough that field—not for any money.”
Still, Mother Ivey is remembered not for vengeance alone, but for her fierce love for her people. The bay that bears her name—once called Polventon—is a haven of calm waters, golden sands, and abundant sea life, sheltered by Trevose Head. Today, it is home to the RNLI lifeboat station, where brave souls continue her legacy of protection, risking their lives to save others from the silvery seas. Her spirit, it seems, lives on in more than just the legend of the cursed field.
Aleister Crowley & Cornwall: Fact or Fiction
Aleister Crowley, often dubbed the "wickedest man in the world," is a figure entwined in both historical fact and local legend. Despite claims of his involvement in occult rituals in Cornwall, there is very little hard evidence to suggest that Crowley had a lasting or significant connection to the region. His visit to Cornwall, often linked to mystical sites like the Men-an-Tol stone circle, remains largely speculative, with many of these stories more rooted in folklore than documented history. Although Crowley was in Cornwall briefly in 1938, he did not have an extended or deep association with the area, despite being in Newlyn to visit his son, Ataturk, who grew up there.
In recent years, the connection between Crowley and Cornwall has been reignited by urban explorers. A group exploring an abandoned farmhouse in the region filmed their findings, which included a disturbing discovery: a Sefirot pattern on the floor, surrounded by candles. The Sefirot, a magical symbol, is traditionally used in rituals to summon dark forces, and its presence in the farmhouse fueled rumors that Crowley may have used the site for occult practices. However, while Crowley has been linked to the property in local literature since the 1950s, there is no concrete evidence that he ever lived there or conducted rituals at the site.
Crowley was known for his rigorous diary-keeping, which clears him of being in Cornwall during a mysterious death linked to the farmhouse in the 1930s. Nevertheless, his visit later that year to see his newborn son suggests that he had connections to the area. The farmhouse, surrounded by strange rock formations and isolated on a hill, continues to be a point of fascination for those intrigued by Crowley’s legacy. The house remains a focal point for occult enthusiasts, with many speculating about its mystical significance, especially in light of its association with Crowley’s reputation as an occultist.
Despite his notorious reputation and the rumors surrounding his time in Cornwall, the truth about Crowley’s activities in the region remains elusive. Some suggest that the farmhouse was a location for dark magical practices, but there is no definitive evidence to confirm this. The legacy of Crowley in Cornwall is a blend of myth, speculation, and a few fragmented facts, making it difficult to separate the man from the folklore that surrounds him.
Ultimately, while Crowley’s name continues to be linked with the area, especially through stories of demonic rituals and occult practices, it’s important to note that much of this is based on hearsay and speculation. There is very little hard information to confirm that Crowley spent a significant amount of time in Cornwall or that he used the farmhouse for occult activities. As such, the connection between Crowley and Cornwall remains a compelling mystery, fueled by legend more than verifiable fact.
In recent years, the connection between Crowley and Cornwall has been reignited by urban explorers. A group exploring an abandoned farmhouse in the region filmed their findings, which included a disturbing discovery: a Sefirot pattern on the floor, surrounded by candles. The Sefirot, a magical symbol, is traditionally used in rituals to summon dark forces, and its presence in the farmhouse fueled rumors that Crowley may have used the site for occult practices. However, while Crowley has been linked to the property in local literature since the 1950s, there is no concrete evidence that he ever lived there or conducted rituals at the site.
Crowley was known for his rigorous diary-keeping, which clears him of being in Cornwall during a mysterious death linked to the farmhouse in the 1930s. Nevertheless, his visit later that year to see his newborn son suggests that he had connections to the area. The farmhouse, surrounded by strange rock formations and isolated on a hill, continues to be a point of fascination for those intrigued by Crowley’s legacy. The house remains a focal point for occult enthusiasts, with many speculating about its mystical significance, especially in light of its association with Crowley’s reputation as an occultist.
Despite his notorious reputation and the rumors surrounding his time in Cornwall, the truth about Crowley’s activities in the region remains elusive. Some suggest that the farmhouse was a location for dark magical practices, but there is no definitive evidence to confirm this. The legacy of Crowley in Cornwall is a blend of myth, speculation, and a few fragmented facts, making it difficult to separate the man from the folklore that surrounds him.
Ultimately, while Crowley’s name continues to be linked with the area, especially through stories of demonic rituals and occult practices, it’s important to note that much of this is based on hearsay and speculation. There is very little hard information to confirm that Crowley spent a significant amount of time in Cornwall or that he used the farmhouse for occult activities. As such, the connection between Crowley and Cornwall remains a compelling mystery, fueled by legend more than verifiable fact.
Castilly Henge
Castilly Henge, a monument quietly nestled beside the Innis Downs roundabout on the A30, stands as a silent witness to millennia of history. Its large, egg-shaped form rises from the land, its dimensions spanning approximately 60m in width and 80m in length. The earthworks, particularly the inner ditch which stretches 30m wide, encircle a site that once held great significance. The outer bank of the henge, rising to 2m, holds the secrets of its Neolithic past, a tangible connection to the distant ancestors who shaped this landscape.
Despite its roadside position, Castilly Henge exudes an unexpected serenity. The hum of traffic fades as you step through the original north entrance, which still stands strong, offering access to a space that feels remarkably sheltered and peaceful. The south entrance, in contrast, is much harder to reach, its location hinting at later alterations to the site. This smaller entrance is believed to have been added much later, perhaps in response to changing uses of the henge. Yet, it serves as a reminder that this ancient monument has witnessed multiple layers of history, each marking its own chapter.
When the new Innis Downs road junction was planned, archaeologists turned their attention to the area, hoping to uncover more about the site’s ancient past. Their investigations extended into the surrounding land, yet the results proved quiet. No prehistoric relics or structures were discovered nearby, allowing construction to proceed with minimal disruption. The road was carefully placed in a cutting to lessen its impact on the monument, preserving Castilly Henge's integrity amidst the modern landscape.
Over the centuries, the henge’s role has evolved. In more recent history, it is believed to have been used for defence during the Civil War, adding another layer to its story. Earlier still, in the mid-18th century, the site was recorded by William Borlase as a “Plain an Gwarry,” a place for Cornish drama and performance. Today, the henge still bears the marks of human presence. The current farmer, with a sense of humor or perhaps reflection, has left his own contribution in the form of a rusting hulk of machinery at the centre of the monument, adding an unusual but contemporary chapter to the long story of Castilly Henge.
Despite its roadside position, Castilly Henge exudes an unexpected serenity. The hum of traffic fades as you step through the original north entrance, which still stands strong, offering access to a space that feels remarkably sheltered and peaceful. The south entrance, in contrast, is much harder to reach, its location hinting at later alterations to the site. This smaller entrance is believed to have been added much later, perhaps in response to changing uses of the henge. Yet, it serves as a reminder that this ancient monument has witnessed multiple layers of history, each marking its own chapter.
When the new Innis Downs road junction was planned, archaeologists turned their attention to the area, hoping to uncover more about the site’s ancient past. Their investigations extended into the surrounding land, yet the results proved quiet. No prehistoric relics or structures were discovered nearby, allowing construction to proceed with minimal disruption. The road was carefully placed in a cutting to lessen its impact on the monument, preserving Castilly Henge's integrity amidst the modern landscape.
Over the centuries, the henge’s role has evolved. In more recent history, it is believed to have been used for defence during the Civil War, adding another layer to its story. Earlier still, in the mid-18th century, the site was recorded by William Borlase as a “Plain an Gwarry,” a place for Cornish drama and performance. Today, the henge still bears the marks of human presence. The current farmer, with a sense of humor or perhaps reflection, has left his own contribution in the form of a rusting hulk of machinery at the centre of the monument, adding an unusual but contemporary chapter to the long story of Castilly Henge.
Mulfra Vean Settlement
High on the windswept shoulder of Mulfra Hill, just below the more famous quoit, lies a lesser-known treasure: the remains of a Courtyard House settlement known as Mulfra Vean. In 1954, archaeologist Charles Thomas led a small team to trial-excavate part of this site. What they uncovered was a classic example of West Penwith’s distinctive domestic architecture—an Iron Age homestead consisting of a large round room, a side chamber, and an open courtyard. Though the excavation was limited, the findings were striking.
The team focused on a structure long buried beneath turf, bracken, and encroaching stone. Beneath the collapsed walls and centuries of soil lay signs of human occupation—beaten earth floors, compacted surfaces, and dark layers filled with pottery and other remnants of daily life. What stood out most was the rich assemblage of ceramics, including coarse native pottery, Roman coarse ware, and a single, well-preserved shard of decorated Samian ware, imported from Gaul and likely dating to the late 1st or early 2nd century A.D.
Even more intriguing was the presence of cordoned ware—a rare find in Cornish Courtyard House sites. This wheel-made pottery, with its distinctive grooved decoration and fine sandy temper, is usually associated with coastal or continental influences. Its presence at Mulfra Vean suggests contact or trade with regions across the Channel, possibly with Brittany or Normandy. Some vessels were likely imports; others, local imitations of foreign styles. These finds challenge assumptions about isolation in Iron Age Cornwall and hint at a much broader network of exchange.
No hearth was uncovered during the excavation, but the layout, depressions, and post-hole settings strongly indicate that Mulfra Vean was a lived-in home. Large bowls, small flanged dishes, and storage jars—some wheel-made—point to domestic use, while the compacted earth floors reveal generations of footfall. Though the entrance to the side room remains undiscovered, and the full extent of the courtyard unexcavated, the site already offers a vivid glimpse into the lives of its inhabitants—farmers, traders, perhaps even potters—who once looked out over both Cornish coasts from this high, exposed ridge.
Mulfra Vean reminds us that Cornwall’s ancient past isn't just ceremonial, but deeply human. Here was a home—part of a wider community whose traces remain etched into the land. As the excavation notes suggest, this settlement likely spans the Late Iron Age through to the Roman period. Further research may yet reveal even more about this hilltop homestead and its place in the story of West Penwith.
The team focused on a structure long buried beneath turf, bracken, and encroaching stone. Beneath the collapsed walls and centuries of soil lay signs of human occupation—beaten earth floors, compacted surfaces, and dark layers filled with pottery and other remnants of daily life. What stood out most was the rich assemblage of ceramics, including coarse native pottery, Roman coarse ware, and a single, well-preserved shard of decorated Samian ware, imported from Gaul and likely dating to the late 1st or early 2nd century A.D.
Even more intriguing was the presence of cordoned ware—a rare find in Cornish Courtyard House sites. This wheel-made pottery, with its distinctive grooved decoration and fine sandy temper, is usually associated with coastal or continental influences. Its presence at Mulfra Vean suggests contact or trade with regions across the Channel, possibly with Brittany or Normandy. Some vessels were likely imports; others, local imitations of foreign styles. These finds challenge assumptions about isolation in Iron Age Cornwall and hint at a much broader network of exchange.
No hearth was uncovered during the excavation, but the layout, depressions, and post-hole settings strongly indicate that Mulfra Vean was a lived-in home. Large bowls, small flanged dishes, and storage jars—some wheel-made—point to domestic use, while the compacted earth floors reveal generations of footfall. Though the entrance to the side room remains undiscovered, and the full extent of the courtyard unexcavated, the site already offers a vivid glimpse into the lives of its inhabitants—farmers, traders, perhaps even potters—who once looked out over both Cornish coasts from this high, exposed ridge.
Mulfra Vean reminds us that Cornwall’s ancient past isn't just ceremonial, but deeply human. Here was a home—part of a wider community whose traces remain etched into the land. As the excavation notes suggest, this settlement likely spans the Late Iron Age through to the Roman period. Further research may yet reveal even more about this hilltop homestead and its place in the story of West Penwith.
Mulfra Quoit
High on a windswept hill in the land of granite and gorse lies Mulfra Quoit, one of the smallest chambered tombs in Penwith—but what it lacks in size, it makes up for in presence. Overlooking the sweep of Mounts Bay, it rests just below the summit of Mulfra Hill, offering views in all directions. Like its nearby cousin, Chûn Quoit, it once stood within a circular barrow, now lost to time. Only three of the original four upright stones remain, and the capstone—at 2.9m wide—now leans at a jaunty angle, having slipped sometime before the 18th century.
The monument’s imperfect state has its own charm. William Borlase excavated the chamber in 1749, finding blackened soil and layers of clay, which he believed pointed to a long-decomposed internment—though no bone or pottery was ever found. He also speculated the stones may have been dragged from a rocky outcrop a mile to the northwest. Later visitors, like the antiquarian Mr Preston in 1878, romanticised the site as the tomb of a prehistoric hero, a Cornish counterpart to the greats buried in Westminster Abbey.
Local legend does not cling tightly to Mulfra Quoit in the way it does to others like Lanyon or Carwynnen. Still, it shares the familiar nickname of “the Giant’s Grave” and has been imagined as the resting place of a warrior chieftain. Perhaps it is the scale of the stones, or their weathered permanence, that stirs such visions. These megaliths endure not only as tombs but as markers in the landscape—silent witnesses to ancient rites and stories now half-remembered.
The surrounding hill still bears signs of the lives once lived here. Just beyond Mulfra lies a courtyard house settlement and nearby, Bodrifty’s reconstructed Iron Age roundhouse. From this windswept ridge, one can glimpse both coasts of Cornwall. Toads once hopped through the bracken, and in old Cornish sayings, their erratic movement gave rise to phrases like “blown about like a Mulfra toad in a gale of wind”. Even the fallen quoit has inspired whimsy—one writer claimed the capstone had been toppled by the wind and now offered shelter to sheep from the howling blasts.
To stand at Mulfra is to feel the quiet hum of a deeper landscape story—of warriors, farmers, poets, and winds. Like its nearby neighbours—Men-an-Tol, Boskednan, Lanyon—this quoit is one stone in a vast mosaic of memory. And carved into its capstone are two mysterious initials: HP. Graffiti? Or something older, waiting to be deciphered?
The monument’s imperfect state has its own charm. William Borlase excavated the chamber in 1749, finding blackened soil and layers of clay, which he believed pointed to a long-decomposed internment—though no bone or pottery was ever found. He also speculated the stones may have been dragged from a rocky outcrop a mile to the northwest. Later visitors, like the antiquarian Mr Preston in 1878, romanticised the site as the tomb of a prehistoric hero, a Cornish counterpart to the greats buried in Westminster Abbey.
Local legend does not cling tightly to Mulfra Quoit in the way it does to others like Lanyon or Carwynnen. Still, it shares the familiar nickname of “the Giant’s Grave” and has been imagined as the resting place of a warrior chieftain. Perhaps it is the scale of the stones, or their weathered permanence, that stirs such visions. These megaliths endure not only as tombs but as markers in the landscape—silent witnesses to ancient rites and stories now half-remembered.
The surrounding hill still bears signs of the lives once lived here. Just beyond Mulfra lies a courtyard house settlement and nearby, Bodrifty’s reconstructed Iron Age roundhouse. From this windswept ridge, one can glimpse both coasts of Cornwall. Toads once hopped through the bracken, and in old Cornish sayings, their erratic movement gave rise to phrases like “blown about like a Mulfra toad in a gale of wind”. Even the fallen quoit has inspired whimsy—one writer claimed the capstone had been toppled by the wind and now offered shelter to sheep from the howling blasts.
To stand at Mulfra is to feel the quiet hum of a deeper landscape story—of warriors, farmers, poets, and winds. Like its nearby neighbours—Men-an-Tol, Boskednan, Lanyon—this quoit is one stone in a vast mosaic of memory. And carved into its capstone are two mysterious initials: HP. Graffiti? Or something older, waiting to be deciphered?
The Lost City of Langarrow
The dunes of Cornwall have incredible stories to tell. Beneath the windswept sands stretching between Crantock and Perranporth lies the whispered legend of Langarrow—also known as Langona—a once-mighty city said to have vanished beneath a catastrophic sandstorm some 900 years ago. Tradition claims the city was England’s largest, with seven grand churches and a wealth drawn from sea, soil, and mine. Its people lived in abundance, trading far and wide, until their indulgence in vice sealed their fate. When judgement came, it came swiftly: three days and nights of relentless wind buried the city forever, its churches and inhabitants entombed in dunes that remain to this day.
Langarrow was more than myth to those who lived nearby. The city was known for exiling criminals from across Britain, who laboured in its mines and built a navigable harbour at the Gannel. Though these convicts were at first excluded from the city, over time, they were absorbed into its life. Marriages between convicts and citizens followed, and with them came a moral decline. As sin spread, so did the belief that divine wrath would follow—and it did. The storm not only destroyed Langarrow but contributed to the decline of neighbouring Crantock, which had once been a thriving religious centre with a dean and nine prebends.
But unlike fabled Avalon or Lyonesse, Langurroc—possibly a local variation of Langarrow—was very real. Thought to have been situated where Crantock now stands, it was considered more developed than early Newquay. Recently, the story resurfaced when fierce coastal storms shifted the sands and exposed old stone walls on Crantock beach. These structures, surrounded by rusting wire and half-buried in the dunes, sparked local speculation and a sense of deep connection to a buried past. While these walls likely date to the late 19th century, the timing and symbolism were not lost on those who still remember the tales.
The National Trust, which manages the beach, confirmed the walls were probably old Cornish hedges or field boundaries, based on maps from 1888 to 1913. Over time, the shifting dunes consumed them, much like they are said to have swallowed Langarrow. Such rediscoveries feed the imagination: what else might lie hidden beneath the surface? Bleached bones, old chapels, and forgotten roads? Perhaps only the wind and sand know the truth—but the landscape itself seems to whisper of loss, memory, and buried glory.
Whether Langarrow was a flourishing metropolis or simply the magnified memory of a lost village, the story endures because it speaks to something deeper—a longing for connection to place, to history, and to mystery. Walking the dunes today, the echoes are still there: the tolling of church bells beneath the sand, the ghost of a city swallowed whole, and the eternal promise that Cornwall, in all her wildness, has not yet told all her secrets.
Langarrow was more than myth to those who lived nearby. The city was known for exiling criminals from across Britain, who laboured in its mines and built a navigable harbour at the Gannel. Though these convicts were at first excluded from the city, over time, they were absorbed into its life. Marriages between convicts and citizens followed, and with them came a moral decline. As sin spread, so did the belief that divine wrath would follow—and it did. The storm not only destroyed Langarrow but contributed to the decline of neighbouring Crantock, which had once been a thriving religious centre with a dean and nine prebends.
But unlike fabled Avalon or Lyonesse, Langurroc—possibly a local variation of Langarrow—was very real. Thought to have been situated where Crantock now stands, it was considered more developed than early Newquay. Recently, the story resurfaced when fierce coastal storms shifted the sands and exposed old stone walls on Crantock beach. These structures, surrounded by rusting wire and half-buried in the dunes, sparked local speculation and a sense of deep connection to a buried past. While these walls likely date to the late 19th century, the timing and symbolism were not lost on those who still remember the tales.
The National Trust, which manages the beach, confirmed the walls were probably old Cornish hedges or field boundaries, based on maps from 1888 to 1913. Over time, the shifting dunes consumed them, much like they are said to have swallowed Langarrow. Such rediscoveries feed the imagination: what else might lie hidden beneath the surface? Bleached bones, old chapels, and forgotten roads? Perhaps only the wind and sand know the truth—but the landscape itself seems to whisper of loss, memory, and buried glory.
Whether Langarrow was a flourishing metropolis or simply the magnified memory of a lost village, the story endures because it speaks to something deeper—a longing for connection to place, to history, and to mystery. Walking the dunes today, the echoes are still there: the tolling of church bells beneath the sand, the ghost of a city swallowed whole, and the eternal promise that Cornwall, in all her wildness, has not yet told all her secrets.
Boscawen-ûn
Boscawen-ûn is an ancient stone circle in West Penwith, Cornwall, dating back to the late Neolithic to early Bronze Age (c. 2500–1500 BC). The site consists of 19 granite stones, forming a slightly oval arrangement rather than a perfect circle. A large leaning central stone, standing 2.4 metres tall, dominates the site, though its original position remains a mystery. One of the stones, located on the northeast side, is a striking piece of almost pure white quartz, a material believed to have spiritual significance. Nearby, a cluster of stones may have once formed a burial cist, and a noticeable gap on the western side raises questions about a missing stone or a designated entrance.
The name Boscawen-ûn comes from the Cornish language, meaning "elder tree on the downs," derived from the nearby farm. This site holds deep historical and cultural significance, as it was mentioned in the Welsh Triads as one of the three principal bardic meeting places in Britain. Its connection to druidic tradition continued into modern times when, in 1928, the site hosted the revival of the Gorsedd of the Bards of Cornwall, cementing its status as a sacred and ceremonial location. The site's alignment with celestial events further enhances its importance, with the central leaning stone marking the midsummer solstice sunrise and the setting sun on Samhain (31st October) aligning with the quartz stone.
Like many stone circles in Cornwall, Boscawen-ûn likely served multiple functions—as a ritual site, a gathering place, and possibly even a marketplace. Archaeological evidence suggests that quartz held ritual significance, and the 19-stone design may have been influenced by the 18.6-year lunar cycle. The central stone also features ancient carvings, including what appear to be axe-heads or possibly human feet and breasts, hinting at its potential origins as part of a Neolithic tomb. Some experts, including Aubrey Burl, speculate that the leaning pillar predates the circle, reinforcing the theory that this area was sacred long before the circle was constructed.
The circle's secluded location, on a gentle southwest-facing slope, adds to its mystique. In the past, reaching the site required wading through dense bracken, but modern efforts to maintain the area have made access easier. However, some lament the loss of its once-hidden tranquillity, as its relative obscurity added to its sense of discovery. Unlike the nearby Merry Maidens stone circle, which is well-known and frequently visited, Boscawen-ûn retains an atmosphere of quiet reverence, standing as a testament to Cornwall’s ancient past.
The site's name has evolved over time, appearing in records as Beisgowan and Biscawoon before its modern Anglicised form. It is sometimes referred to as the "Nine Maidens," a name shared by several other stone circles in Britain, though the number rarely matches the legend. The landscape surrounding Boscawen-ûn remains rich in prehistoric sites, with ancient trackways connecting villages, burial sites, and stone monuments. These routes, unchanged for millennia, remind us that places like Boscawen-ûn were once vibrant centres of life, trade, and ceremony, forming part of a network of sacred and communal spaces that have shaped Cornwall’s history for thousands of years.
The name Boscawen-ûn comes from the Cornish language, meaning "elder tree on the downs," derived from the nearby farm. This site holds deep historical and cultural significance, as it was mentioned in the Welsh Triads as one of the three principal bardic meeting places in Britain. Its connection to druidic tradition continued into modern times when, in 1928, the site hosted the revival of the Gorsedd of the Bards of Cornwall, cementing its status as a sacred and ceremonial location. The site's alignment with celestial events further enhances its importance, with the central leaning stone marking the midsummer solstice sunrise and the setting sun on Samhain (31st October) aligning with the quartz stone.
Like many stone circles in Cornwall, Boscawen-ûn likely served multiple functions—as a ritual site, a gathering place, and possibly even a marketplace. Archaeological evidence suggests that quartz held ritual significance, and the 19-stone design may have been influenced by the 18.6-year lunar cycle. The central stone also features ancient carvings, including what appear to be axe-heads or possibly human feet and breasts, hinting at its potential origins as part of a Neolithic tomb. Some experts, including Aubrey Burl, speculate that the leaning pillar predates the circle, reinforcing the theory that this area was sacred long before the circle was constructed.
The circle's secluded location, on a gentle southwest-facing slope, adds to its mystique. In the past, reaching the site required wading through dense bracken, but modern efforts to maintain the area have made access easier. However, some lament the loss of its once-hidden tranquillity, as its relative obscurity added to its sense of discovery. Unlike the nearby Merry Maidens stone circle, which is well-known and frequently visited, Boscawen-ûn retains an atmosphere of quiet reverence, standing as a testament to Cornwall’s ancient past.
The site's name has evolved over time, appearing in records as Beisgowan and Biscawoon before its modern Anglicised form. It is sometimes referred to as the "Nine Maidens," a name shared by several other stone circles in Britain, though the number rarely matches the legend. The landscape surrounding Boscawen-ûn remains rich in prehistoric sites, with ancient trackways connecting villages, burial sites, and stone monuments. These routes, unchanged for millennia, remind us that places like Boscawen-ûn were once vibrant centres of life, trade, and ceremony, forming part of a network of sacred and communal spaces that have shaped Cornwall’s history for thousands of years.
The Dragon of Trewoofe Well
The legend of the Dragon of Trewoofe Well speaks of a time when a fearsome beast held dominion over a sacred spring near the village of Trewoofe. This well, a vital source of fresh water, was said to be guarded by a monstrous dragon whose scales shimmered like polished emeralds and whose eyes burned with an eerie, gem-like glow. Its breath was a torrent of searing fire, and its very presence cast a long shadow of fear upon the villagers who dared not approach the well without offering tribute.
For generations, the dragon’s reign remained unchallenged. The people of Trewoofe, bound by fear and necessity, surrendered offerings to the beast in exchange for the water they so desperately needed. But as time wore on, the dragon’s demands grew insatiable, and the burden on the village became unbearable. The wellspring of life had become a site of oppression, and the villagers despaired, their hopes dwindling like the water they could no longer freely draw.
Then came a hero, one whose name has faded into the mists of time but whose deeds still echo in the land’s whispered tales. Armed with cunning rather than brute strength, the hero devised a plan to rid Trewoofe of its tormentor. Some say the dragon was tricked into revealing its weakness, while others claim the hero engaged in a battle of wit and will, using the landscape itself to entrap the beast. Whatever the truth, the dragon was ultimately defeated—its power broken, its reign ended. And in some versions of the tale, it was turned to stone, left as a silent sentinel over the land it once terrorised.
The tale of the Dragon of Trewoofe Well, though lesser known than other Cornish dragon myths, carries with it the timeless themes of courage, perseverance, and the triumph of wisdom over brute force. It is a story of liberation, of a people reclaiming what was once theirs, and of a hero whose legend endures in the quiet murmurs of the Cornish landscape. In the rustling of leaves and the trickling of water, perhaps the echoes of the dragon’s last breath can still be heard.
The historical record of Trewoofe Well adds an intriguing layer to its legend. While historian Nicholas Orme does not mention this well in his writings on Cornish saints, it was evidently known in earlier centuries for its reputed healing properties. A letter from 1667, written by Alexander Daniel of Laregan, describes how the well cured a young woman, Miss An Levelis, of a severe wart that threatened to become a disfiguring ulcer. Daniel’s account also claims that the water improved eyesight and relieved various ailments, drawing noble visitors who sought its restorative powers. Though later dismissed as mere folklore, these claims hint at the well’s significance beyond its mythical guardian, suggesting that it may have once been a site of pilgrimage or local veneration. Perhaps, like many such places in Cornwall, the legend of the dragon arose to explain and protect the well’s mysterious virtues, blurring the line between history and myth.
For generations, the dragon’s reign remained unchallenged. The people of Trewoofe, bound by fear and necessity, surrendered offerings to the beast in exchange for the water they so desperately needed. But as time wore on, the dragon’s demands grew insatiable, and the burden on the village became unbearable. The wellspring of life had become a site of oppression, and the villagers despaired, their hopes dwindling like the water they could no longer freely draw.
Then came a hero, one whose name has faded into the mists of time but whose deeds still echo in the land’s whispered tales. Armed with cunning rather than brute strength, the hero devised a plan to rid Trewoofe of its tormentor. Some say the dragon was tricked into revealing its weakness, while others claim the hero engaged in a battle of wit and will, using the landscape itself to entrap the beast. Whatever the truth, the dragon was ultimately defeated—its power broken, its reign ended. And in some versions of the tale, it was turned to stone, left as a silent sentinel over the land it once terrorised.
The tale of the Dragon of Trewoofe Well, though lesser known than other Cornish dragon myths, carries with it the timeless themes of courage, perseverance, and the triumph of wisdom over brute force. It is a story of liberation, of a people reclaiming what was once theirs, and of a hero whose legend endures in the quiet murmurs of the Cornish landscape. In the rustling of leaves and the trickling of water, perhaps the echoes of the dragon’s last breath can still be heard.
The historical record of Trewoofe Well adds an intriguing layer to its legend. While historian Nicholas Orme does not mention this well in his writings on Cornish saints, it was evidently known in earlier centuries for its reputed healing properties. A letter from 1667, written by Alexander Daniel of Laregan, describes how the well cured a young woman, Miss An Levelis, of a severe wart that threatened to become a disfiguring ulcer. Daniel’s account also claims that the water improved eyesight and relieved various ailments, drawing noble visitors who sought its restorative powers. Though later dismissed as mere folklore, these claims hint at the well’s significance beyond its mythical guardian, suggesting that it may have once been a site of pilgrimage or local veneration. Perhaps, like many such places in Cornwall, the legend of the dragon arose to explain and protect the well’s mysterious virtues, blurring the line between history and myth.
Embla Tumulus
The discovery of Bronze Age gold at Amalveor Farm near Towednack, Cornwall, offers a fascinating glimpse into the region’s ancient past. On 11 December 1931, a pair of gold bracelets was unearthed and later declared treasure trove, marking them as objects of significant historical and cultural importance. Dated to around 1000 BC, these artefacts exemplify the refined craftsmanship of the Middle Bronze Age. Their eventual placement in the British Museum underscores their significance, linking Cornwall’s past to broader European trade networks, particularly with Ireland, which has historically been associated with similar gold finds.
The hoard at Amalveor was not an isolated discovery but part of a broader pattern of Bronze Age treasures found across Cornwall. Just a month before the bracelets were uncovered, a labourer discovered approximately 16 ounces of gold in a hedge-bank on the same farm. This led to further excavations, which revealed an array of gold objects, including two torcs, four penannular bracelets, and three unfinished pieces of raw gold. The presence of these unfinished items suggests that Amalveor may have been a site of metalworking, rather than merely a location of hidden wealth. The torcs, particularly the smaller one with its unique triple-strand design, showcase a level of artistry closely linked to Irish craftsmanship from the same period.
The landscape surrounding Amalveor Farm is rich in prehistoric features, including tumuli, which may provide further context for these Bronze Age finds. A tumulus (plural: tumuli) is a mound of earth and stones raised over a grave or graves, commonly known as a barrow. These burial mounds, which can be round or long, were constructed throughout England between 2200 BC and 1100 BC. Many have been destroyed over time, but those that remain often reveal insights into the burial customs and beliefs of ancient societies. The Northern section of the Amalveor barrow resembles a ring cairn, and there is evidence of a possible stone row to the east, suggesting a site of ritual significance. These elements highlight the possibility that the Amalveor hoard may have been part of a burial offering, connecting the artefacts to Cornwall’s ancient funerary practices.
The composition and weight of the gold objects indicate deliberate craftsmanship, rather than a random collection of scrap metal. Some pieces exhibit remarkable precision, with slight variations in weight hinting at a systematic production process. The inclusion of similar bracelets in the Beachy Head hoard (dated to approximately 1000–700 BC) suggests that the Amalveor finds belong to the same era, just before the close of the British Bronze Age. Whether these artefacts were burial offerings, trade goods, or personal adornments remains uncertain. However, their discovery deepens our understanding of Cornwall’s prehistoric connections, hinting at long-distance trade routes, ritual practices, and cultural influences shared with Ireland and beyond.
The hoard at Amalveor was not an isolated discovery but part of a broader pattern of Bronze Age treasures found across Cornwall. Just a month before the bracelets were uncovered, a labourer discovered approximately 16 ounces of gold in a hedge-bank on the same farm. This led to further excavations, which revealed an array of gold objects, including two torcs, four penannular bracelets, and three unfinished pieces of raw gold. The presence of these unfinished items suggests that Amalveor may have been a site of metalworking, rather than merely a location of hidden wealth. The torcs, particularly the smaller one with its unique triple-strand design, showcase a level of artistry closely linked to Irish craftsmanship from the same period.
The landscape surrounding Amalveor Farm is rich in prehistoric features, including tumuli, which may provide further context for these Bronze Age finds. A tumulus (plural: tumuli) is a mound of earth and stones raised over a grave or graves, commonly known as a barrow. These burial mounds, which can be round or long, were constructed throughout England between 2200 BC and 1100 BC. Many have been destroyed over time, but those that remain often reveal insights into the burial customs and beliefs of ancient societies. The Northern section of the Amalveor barrow resembles a ring cairn, and there is evidence of a possible stone row to the east, suggesting a site of ritual significance. These elements highlight the possibility that the Amalveor hoard may have been part of a burial offering, connecting the artefacts to Cornwall’s ancient funerary practices.
The composition and weight of the gold objects indicate deliberate craftsmanship, rather than a random collection of scrap metal. Some pieces exhibit remarkable precision, with slight variations in weight hinting at a systematic production process. The inclusion of similar bracelets in the Beachy Head hoard (dated to approximately 1000–700 BC) suggests that the Amalveor finds belong to the same era, just before the close of the British Bronze Age. Whether these artefacts were burial offerings, trade goods, or personal adornments remains uncertain. However, their discovery deepens our understanding of Cornwall’s prehistoric connections, hinting at long-distance trade routes, ritual practices, and cultural influences shared with Ireland and beyond.
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