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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 map brings these stories to life, connecting you to the heart of Cornwall’s enchanted past.
The Battle of Hingston Down
The Battle of Hingston Down took place in 838, probably at Hingston Down in Cornwall, between a combined force of Cornish and Vikings on one side and the West Saxons led by King Ecgberht on the other. The Anglo Saxon Chronicle, which refers to the Cornish as the West Welsh, records that a great naval force arrived among the West Welsh, that they combined with them, and that Ecgberht then advanced to fight them at Hengestdune, putting both the Welsh and the Danes to flight. Most historians identify the battlefield as Hingston Down north east of Callington in Cornwall, though a minority favour sites on Dartmoor at Moretonhampstead or Down Tor. Yet the simplest reading of the Chronicle, coupled with geography and tradition, continues to favour the Cornish location.
Hingston Down itself is a commanding granite ridge, a ‘boss’ on the great batholith that underlies much of Devon and Cornwall. Rising above the Tamar Valley, it gives sweeping views across both counties and would have served as a natural stronghold for any army watching movements along the river corridor. The ridge later yielded rich seams of copper, and Hingston Down Mine, worked from at least the seventeenth century, had by 1882 produced more than sixty four thousand tons of ore, all sent to Calstock Quay and shipped to South Wales for smelting. A map by the old engine house still shows the original mine’s spread, now cloaked in rough vegetation. The same hill supported the Phoenix Brickworks in the 1870s, employing four hundred men and exporting bricks as far as the dockyards of St Petersburg before its demolition in 1968. These later industries underline how the hill has long drawn human enterprise, from warfare to mining to manufacture.
That long continuity makes Hingston Down a fitting stage for the struggle recorded in 838. A fleet arriving “among the West Welsh” fits naturally with the Tamar and Lynher estuaries, where Cornish and Viking forces could gather near secure moorings before challenging West Saxon authority east of the river. The hill’s height and proximity to the crossings near Calstock make it an ideal position for the allies to meet Ecgberht’s counter march. Local memory lingers in the tale of Dupath Well, close to Callington, where a fight between Saxons and a Cornishman named Colan is said to have created the spring, as well as in the persistence of the Hingston family name in the area. Such folklore, while not evidence in itself, shows that the memory of battle and loss endured in this landscape.
The broader context was the steady contraction of the British kingdom of Dumnonia, which once covered Devon and Cornwall. Eastern Devon fell to Wessex in the early eighth century, and in 815 Ecgberht raided Cornwall from east to west, likely marking the conquest of the remaining western parts of Devon. The battles of Gafulford and Hingston Down show that Cornwall, though pressured, was still able to muster armies and even forge alliances with seaborne Vikings. Hingston was the last recorded clash between Cornish and West Saxons, closing a century of conflict that began with the fight at Llongborth around 710. Cornwall’s political independence faded over the following decades, but the presence of later kings such as Dungarth, who died in 875, suggests that local rule persisted under West Saxon oversight rather than ending outright at Hingston.
Around this frontier, religion and landholding were also in flux. In 830 Ecgberht granted Landwithan and nearby estates, including Lezant, to the Bishop of Sherborne to support missions against the Celtic Church. Lezant’s dedication to St Briochus and its name from lan, place, and sant, holy, mark a deep-rooted sacred landscape that survived long after the wars. Later claims that Ecgberht granted Kilkhampton, Ros and Maker to Sherborne rely on much later monastic lists and are contradicted by earlier evidence, so they likely reflect later ambition rather than ninth century control.
Taken together, the evidence of geography, tradition, and text supports Hingston Down in Cornwall as the true site of the 838 battle. The hill’s position above the Tamar, its commanding views, its enduring folklore and later industry all root it firmly in the Cornish story. Here the Cornish and their Viking allies faced Ecgberht’s army in what proved to be the final great act of open resistance, an event that closed one chapter of independence but left a landscape whose granite backbone, mined and fought over for centuries, still carries the memory of that day.
Hingston Down itself is a commanding granite ridge, a ‘boss’ on the great batholith that underlies much of Devon and Cornwall. Rising above the Tamar Valley, it gives sweeping views across both counties and would have served as a natural stronghold for any army watching movements along the river corridor. The ridge later yielded rich seams of copper, and Hingston Down Mine, worked from at least the seventeenth century, had by 1882 produced more than sixty four thousand tons of ore, all sent to Calstock Quay and shipped to South Wales for smelting. A map by the old engine house still shows the original mine’s spread, now cloaked in rough vegetation. The same hill supported the Phoenix Brickworks in the 1870s, employing four hundred men and exporting bricks as far as the dockyards of St Petersburg before its demolition in 1968. These later industries underline how the hill has long drawn human enterprise, from warfare to mining to manufacture.
That long continuity makes Hingston Down a fitting stage for the struggle recorded in 838. A fleet arriving “among the West Welsh” fits naturally with the Tamar and Lynher estuaries, where Cornish and Viking forces could gather near secure moorings before challenging West Saxon authority east of the river. The hill’s height and proximity to the crossings near Calstock make it an ideal position for the allies to meet Ecgberht’s counter march. Local memory lingers in the tale of Dupath Well, close to Callington, where a fight between Saxons and a Cornishman named Colan is said to have created the spring, as well as in the persistence of the Hingston family name in the area. Such folklore, while not evidence in itself, shows that the memory of battle and loss endured in this landscape.
The broader context was the steady contraction of the British kingdom of Dumnonia, which once covered Devon and Cornwall. Eastern Devon fell to Wessex in the early eighth century, and in 815 Ecgberht raided Cornwall from east to west, likely marking the conquest of the remaining western parts of Devon. The battles of Gafulford and Hingston Down show that Cornwall, though pressured, was still able to muster armies and even forge alliances with seaborne Vikings. Hingston was the last recorded clash between Cornish and West Saxons, closing a century of conflict that began with the fight at Llongborth around 710. Cornwall’s political independence faded over the following decades, but the presence of later kings such as Dungarth, who died in 875, suggests that local rule persisted under West Saxon oversight rather than ending outright at Hingston.
Around this frontier, religion and landholding were also in flux. In 830 Ecgberht granted Landwithan and nearby estates, including Lezant, to the Bishop of Sherborne to support missions against the Celtic Church. Lezant’s dedication to St Briochus and its name from lan, place, and sant, holy, mark a deep-rooted sacred landscape that survived long after the wars. Later claims that Ecgberht granted Kilkhampton, Ros and Maker to Sherborne rely on much later monastic lists and are contradicted by earlier evidence, so they likely reflect later ambition rather than ninth century control.
Taken together, the evidence of geography, tradition, and text supports Hingston Down in Cornwall as the true site of the 838 battle. The hill’s position above the Tamar, its commanding views, its enduring folklore and later industry all root it firmly in the Cornish story. Here the Cornish and their Viking allies faced Ecgberht’s army in what proved to be the final great act of open resistance, an event that closed one chapter of independence but left a landscape whose granite backbone, mined and fought over for centuries, still carries the memory of that day.
The Trewhiddle Hoard
On 8 November 1774, tin miners working a stream near Trewhiddle, St Austell, uncovered one of Cornwall’s most remarkable archaeological finds: a hoard of 114 Anglo-Saxon coins together with a silver chalice and other gold and silver objects. The discovery was made some seventeen feet beneath the surface, in a heap of loose stones thought to be part of an old mine working. When found, several items were coated in copper from a local vein, suggesting they had lain undisturbed for centuries. The find was first collected and recorded by the antiquarian Philip Rashleigh of Menabilly, though the recovery was haphazard, and some pieces were lost before he could assemble the collection. Many fragments of the silver chalice, for example, had disappeared by the time his description appeared in print. Most of the surviving artefacts were later presented to the British Museum.
The hoard consisted of over a hundred silver pennies, mostly from the kingdoms of Mercia and Wessex, indicating that the objects were concealed around 868 AD. Alongside the coins were a range of ecclesiastical and secular items: silver mounts and strap-ends, a small chalice, pins, and fragments of other ornate metalwork. Many were decorated with niello inlay forming stylised animal and interlace designs. These decorative features became recognised as the hallmark of the “Trewhiddle style” of Anglo-Saxon art, later seen in objects across England. The craftsmanship suggests connections to monastic workshops or high-status patrons, marking the hoard as one of the most significant groups of Christian Saxon metalwork ever found.
Jonathan Rashleigh’s later 1868 paper in the Numismatic Chronicle provided the first systematic study of the Trewhiddle find, describing the coins, their distribution between Mercian and West Saxon mints, and their bearing on the political geography of late ninth-century Britain. He interpreted the hoard as property hidden for safekeeping, possibly to protect it from Viking raids, which were then devastating much of the English coast. Rashleigh compared the Trewhiddle assemblage with other Anglo-Saxon hoards from southern England, noting similarities in form and technique that reflected a wide network of trade and cultural contact across the British Isles.
Recent scholarship, however, has re-examined this traditional assumption. While it has long been supposed that the hoard was hidden to escape Viking plunder, there is no direct evidence that Viking forces raided Cornwall during the 860s or 870s. Instead, new interpretations propose that the deposit might have been buried by Vikings themselves. The mixture of Christian liturgical and secular objects parallels certain Scandinavian hoards of the same period, and it is now suggested that Trewhiddle may reflect not merely defensive concealment but also military or trading activity between Viking groups and Cornish communities.
Whether concealed by a local cleric, an Anglo-Saxon traveller, or a Scandinavian settler, the Trewhiddle hoard remains a pivotal discovery for understanding Cornwall’s place within the shifting world of the ninth century. It bridges art, economy, and belief at a time of great political transformation, when Wessex was consolidating power and external pressures were reshaping Britain’s cultural landscape. The survival of its intricately decorated metalwork has ensured that “Trewhiddle” endures not only as a place name but as a defining term in the study of Anglo-Saxon art and archaeology.
The hoard consisted of over a hundred silver pennies, mostly from the kingdoms of Mercia and Wessex, indicating that the objects were concealed around 868 AD. Alongside the coins were a range of ecclesiastical and secular items: silver mounts and strap-ends, a small chalice, pins, and fragments of other ornate metalwork. Many were decorated with niello inlay forming stylised animal and interlace designs. These decorative features became recognised as the hallmark of the “Trewhiddle style” of Anglo-Saxon art, later seen in objects across England. The craftsmanship suggests connections to monastic workshops or high-status patrons, marking the hoard as one of the most significant groups of Christian Saxon metalwork ever found.
Jonathan Rashleigh’s later 1868 paper in the Numismatic Chronicle provided the first systematic study of the Trewhiddle find, describing the coins, their distribution between Mercian and West Saxon mints, and their bearing on the political geography of late ninth-century Britain. He interpreted the hoard as property hidden for safekeeping, possibly to protect it from Viking raids, which were then devastating much of the English coast. Rashleigh compared the Trewhiddle assemblage with other Anglo-Saxon hoards from southern England, noting similarities in form and technique that reflected a wide network of trade and cultural contact across the British Isles.
Recent scholarship, however, has re-examined this traditional assumption. While it has long been supposed that the hoard was hidden to escape Viking plunder, there is no direct evidence that Viking forces raided Cornwall during the 860s or 870s. Instead, new interpretations propose that the deposit might have been buried by Vikings themselves. The mixture of Christian liturgical and secular objects parallels certain Scandinavian hoards of the same period, and it is now suggested that Trewhiddle may reflect not merely defensive concealment but also military or trading activity between Viking groups and Cornish communities.
Whether concealed by a local cleric, an Anglo-Saxon traveller, or a Scandinavian settler, the Trewhiddle hoard remains a pivotal discovery for understanding Cornwall’s place within the shifting world of the ninth century. It bridges art, economy, and belief at a time of great political transformation, when Wessex was consolidating power and external pressures were reshaping Britain’s cultural landscape. The survival of its intricately decorated metalwork has ensured that “Trewhiddle” endures not only as a place name but as a defining term in the study of Anglo-Saxon art and archaeology.
Carn Kenidjack Holed Stones
Perched on Kenidjack Common near St Just in Cornwall, the Kenidjack holed stones form a fascinating grouping of prehistoric megaliths with circular apertures cut into them. The main cluster comprises four large granite slabs aligned roughly east-northeast to west-southwest, while a smaller outlier lies a few metres to the northwest. Their collective arrangement is unusual in Cornwall, where single holed stones are sometimes found, but rarely in deliberate groups. Over the centuries, these stones have likely been disturbed, re-erected, or shifted, meaning their current positions may not reflect the precise arrangement intended by their prehistoric builders.
Archaeological investigations in 2023 explored whether any evidence remained of the stones’ original settings in the earth. Excavations beneath one of the main stones revealed traces of a possible pit or hollow and a burnt flint flake, suggesting ancient activity, although dating the find proved difficult. Another of the stones showed no clear sign of disturbance, leaving open the question of whether all five were once part of a unified monument. The investigation also confirmed that later movement of the stones may have altered their alignment, complicating any effort to determine their original astronomical or ritual purpose.
One of the most compelling theories is that the Kenidjack holed stones were used for observing the sun. The low positioning of the holes makes it unlikely they were meant for direct viewing, as looking through them toward the rising sun would be both awkward and dangerous. Instead, the idea is that the holes allowed the first light of sunrise to pass through and project a small circular beam of sunlight onto the ground behind the stone. Calculations suggest the current orientation of several of the stones corresponds with the rising sun around late November through December, particularly during the winter solstice period, when sunlight would have shone through the apertures in a striking display.
Some have speculated about potential stellar alignments, but this remains less convincing. The narrow horizon view and atmospheric distortion would have made it difficult to use the holes to track the first appearance of bright stars. Only a few, such as Sirius or Rigel, could have been visible in the relevant sky window. Given these limitations, the solar alignment theory remains the most plausible explanation for the stones’ design and placement.
Beyond their function, the Kenidjack holed stones occupy a landscape steeped in symbolism and prehistoric ritual. They lie close to the Tregeseal stone circles and other ancient monuments known for their solar connections, particularly with the winter solstice sunrise. The outlier stone’s placement, seemingly oriented toward the outcrop of Carn Kenidjack itself, may indicate a deliberate visual or ceremonial link with the hill.
Archaeological investigations in 2023 explored whether any evidence remained of the stones’ original settings in the earth. Excavations beneath one of the main stones revealed traces of a possible pit or hollow and a burnt flint flake, suggesting ancient activity, although dating the find proved difficult. Another of the stones showed no clear sign of disturbance, leaving open the question of whether all five were once part of a unified monument. The investigation also confirmed that later movement of the stones may have altered their alignment, complicating any effort to determine their original astronomical or ritual purpose.
One of the most compelling theories is that the Kenidjack holed stones were used for observing the sun. The low positioning of the holes makes it unlikely they were meant for direct viewing, as looking through them toward the rising sun would be both awkward and dangerous. Instead, the idea is that the holes allowed the first light of sunrise to pass through and project a small circular beam of sunlight onto the ground behind the stone. Calculations suggest the current orientation of several of the stones corresponds with the rising sun around late November through December, particularly during the winter solstice period, when sunlight would have shone through the apertures in a striking display.
Some have speculated about potential stellar alignments, but this remains less convincing. The narrow horizon view and atmospheric distortion would have made it difficult to use the holes to track the first appearance of bright stars. Only a few, such as Sirius or Rigel, could have been visible in the relevant sky window. Given these limitations, the solar alignment theory remains the most plausible explanation for the stones’ design and placement.
Beyond their function, the Kenidjack holed stones occupy a landscape steeped in symbolism and prehistoric ritual. They lie close to the Tregeseal stone circles and other ancient monuments known for their solar connections, particularly with the winter solstice sunrise. The outlier stone’s placement, seemingly oriented toward the outcrop of Carn Kenidjack itself, may indicate a deliberate visual or ceremonial link with the hill.
Parc an Creeg Barrow
In the quiet cul de sac of Parkencreeg in Carnon Downs lies an extraordinary piece of Cornwall’s ancient past. Beneath a small grassy plot rests a Bronze Age barrow, a burial mound more than 3,500 years old. Positioned high on the ridge above the Carnon Valley, it forms part of a wider network of prehistoric sites that once marked the landscape with ceremony and meaning.
Across Cornwall, over three thousand such barrows still survive, scattered across moors, fields, and coastal hills. While many are associated with burials, not all contained human remains. Some may have served as ritual or ceremonial centres, where communities gathered to mark seasonal events, honour ancestors, or connect with the spiritual world. These mounds were more than resting places for the dead; they were focal points for the living.
Today, one of the Carnon Downs barrows rests quietly among homes in Parkencreeg, its Cornish name meaning “Field of the Barrow.” It stands as a subtle reminder of the depth of history that underlies Cornwall’s modern communities, where ancient landscapes and daily life continue to share the same ground.
Across Cornwall, over three thousand such barrows still survive, scattered across moors, fields, and coastal hills. While many are associated with burials, not all contained human remains. Some may have served as ritual or ceremonial centres, where communities gathered to mark seasonal events, honour ancestors, or connect with the spiritual world. These mounds were more than resting places for the dead; they were focal points for the living.
Today, one of the Carnon Downs barrows rests quietly among homes in Parkencreeg, its Cornish name meaning “Field of the Barrow.” It stands as a subtle reminder of the depth of history that underlies Cornwall’s modern communities, where ancient landscapes and daily life continue to share the same ground.
Penventinnie Round
Over 750 rounds are recorded in the British Isles, particularly around the Irish Sea. In England, they are mostly confined to south-west Devon and Cornwall, where many more examples may yet be discovered. Typically sited on hillslopes and spurs, rounds are a major source of evidence for understanding settlement and social organisation during the Iron Age and Roman periods in south-west England. Because of this significance, those with substantial surviving remains are often considered to be of national importance.
The round north-west of Penventinnie is a well-preserved example and is expected to retain valuable archaeological evidence. This includes details about the construction of the monument, the lives of its former inhabitants, and the wider landscape in which they lived. Its survival makes it an important site for interpreting Cornwall’s later prehistoric and Romano-British past.
The monument itself is a near-circular defended enclosure with an inner bank and outer ditch, positioned just below the summit of a north-facing spur. The enclosure measures about 85m by 60m, defined by a single earthen rampart up to 8m wide and 2m high, except where entrances occur. The original entrance lies on the north-east side, with a more recent break on the south-west. The surrounding ditch, especially clear to the north, is less distinct to the south, likely due to natural deposits filling it. The site benefits from natural defences, with the Kenwyn River and its tributaries enclosing three sides. Several contemporary settlements lie nearby, including rounds at Threemilestone, Higher Besore, Polstain, and Carvinack, as well as the larger hillfort at Bosvisack.
Today, Penventinnie Round sits close to the rapidly expanding Langarth Garden Village development on the edge of Truro. Planned to house up to 10,000 residents, this project places the ancient monument in stark contrast with the modern growth of the city. Despite the pressure of development, the round remains a visible reminder of Cornwall’s deep past, set within a changing landscape.
The round has been recorded and referenced for centuries. It appeared on the tithe map of around 1840, marked as ‘Ancient Fort’, and was later noted by antiquarians such as MacLaughlan in 1847 and Thomas in 1851. Henderson, writing in the early 20th century, described it as a “very perfect round” with a thick earth rampart and a well-defined ditch, though already showing some wear. Surveyed again by the Ordnance Survey in 1965, the ditch had by then been partially ploughed in, with a new gap opened on the south-west. The monument was scheduled in 1975, with its designation updated in 1997. Aerial photographs continue to show the round clearly as a ring of trees, a striking feature that has endured through centuries of record and observation.
The round north-west of Penventinnie is a well-preserved example and is expected to retain valuable archaeological evidence. This includes details about the construction of the monument, the lives of its former inhabitants, and the wider landscape in which they lived. Its survival makes it an important site for interpreting Cornwall’s later prehistoric and Romano-British past.
The monument itself is a near-circular defended enclosure with an inner bank and outer ditch, positioned just below the summit of a north-facing spur. The enclosure measures about 85m by 60m, defined by a single earthen rampart up to 8m wide and 2m high, except where entrances occur. The original entrance lies on the north-east side, with a more recent break on the south-west. The surrounding ditch, especially clear to the north, is less distinct to the south, likely due to natural deposits filling it. The site benefits from natural defences, with the Kenwyn River and its tributaries enclosing three sides. Several contemporary settlements lie nearby, including rounds at Threemilestone, Higher Besore, Polstain, and Carvinack, as well as the larger hillfort at Bosvisack.
Today, Penventinnie Round sits close to the rapidly expanding Langarth Garden Village development on the edge of Truro. Planned to house up to 10,000 residents, this project places the ancient monument in stark contrast with the modern growth of the city. Despite the pressure of development, the round remains a visible reminder of Cornwall’s deep past, set within a changing landscape.
The round has been recorded and referenced for centuries. It appeared on the tithe map of around 1840, marked as ‘Ancient Fort’, and was later noted by antiquarians such as MacLaughlan in 1847 and Thomas in 1851. Henderson, writing in the early 20th century, described it as a “very perfect round” with a thick earth rampart and a well-defined ditch, though already showing some wear. Surveyed again by the Ordnance Survey in 1965, the ditch had by then been partially ploughed in, with a new gap opened on the south-west. The monument was scheduled in 1975, with its designation updated in 1997. Aerial photographs continue to show the round clearly as a ring of trees, a striking feature that has endured through centuries of record and observation.
Nanstallon Roman Fort
The Roman fort at Nanstallon, located on the south-western edge of Bodmin Moor, overlooks the River Camel from the south, opposite Boscarne, about two and a half miles west of Bodmin. It is both the most southern and most western of all known Roman stations in the British Isles. Built during the reign of Nero, the fort is thought to have been occupied from around AD 65 to 79, and today survives only as earthworks. Its position was strategically chosen, controlling one of the lowest fords across the River Camel, while also monitoring movement inland between the Camel and the River Fowey.
Excavations carried out between 1966 and 1969 revealed much about the structure and use of the site. The ramparts were formed from clay thrown up between turf revetments, enclosing a fort that measured 290 feet east–west by 330 feet north–south, covering just over two acres. The defences included six-posted timber gateways and towers, with rare double-portal gates comparable to those found only at Baginton and Brough on Humber. Inside, evidence was found for barrack blocks, a principia of unusual wide design, the praetorium, and an ablutions block near the south-east gateway. Finds included coins from the late Republic through to Vespasian, samian ware pottery dating from AD 50–80, and signs of silver-working.
The fort was too small to house a full auxiliary unit, suggesting that a detachment was stationed here, possibly tasked with overseeing lead and silver extraction in the surrounding area. The barracks were rectangular with no projecting officers’ quarters, though larger rooms were provided at their ends. The principia stood out for its wide proportions, containing long halls on either side of its courtyard, a recessed entrance and a portico. Excavations also uncovered trenches, hearths, and crucibles beneath one of the barrack rooms, confirming metalworking activity on site.
Nanstallon may also have had a wider role in the Roman control of the Cornish peninsula. While it directly overlooked the Camel crossing, the fort could not see the Fowey crossing to the south. It is possible that a signal station on nearby Bodmin Beacon allowed communication between the two rivers, creating a surveillance system across a key movement corridor. A 7th-century document known as the Ravenna Cosmography may refer to Nanstallon under the name Statio Deventiasteno, translated as “The Station at the Narrows of Deventia,” a title that fits its strategic location on the peninsula.
Though occupation of Nanstallon was relatively short, ending around AD 79 or soon after, the fort has produced an important body of archaeological evidence. Finds point to careful dismantling rather than violent abandonment, and flint tools from earlier periods show that the site was part of a much older landscape of human activity. Today, Nanstallon remains a rare example of Roman military presence in Cornwall, its earthworks and buried remains providing a crucial insight into Rome’s reach into Britain’s far south-west.
Excavations carried out between 1966 and 1969 revealed much about the structure and use of the site. The ramparts were formed from clay thrown up between turf revetments, enclosing a fort that measured 290 feet east–west by 330 feet north–south, covering just over two acres. The defences included six-posted timber gateways and towers, with rare double-portal gates comparable to those found only at Baginton and Brough on Humber. Inside, evidence was found for barrack blocks, a principia of unusual wide design, the praetorium, and an ablutions block near the south-east gateway. Finds included coins from the late Republic through to Vespasian, samian ware pottery dating from AD 50–80, and signs of silver-working.
The fort was too small to house a full auxiliary unit, suggesting that a detachment was stationed here, possibly tasked with overseeing lead and silver extraction in the surrounding area. The barracks were rectangular with no projecting officers’ quarters, though larger rooms were provided at their ends. The principia stood out for its wide proportions, containing long halls on either side of its courtyard, a recessed entrance and a portico. Excavations also uncovered trenches, hearths, and crucibles beneath one of the barrack rooms, confirming metalworking activity on site.
Nanstallon may also have had a wider role in the Roman control of the Cornish peninsula. While it directly overlooked the Camel crossing, the fort could not see the Fowey crossing to the south. It is possible that a signal station on nearby Bodmin Beacon allowed communication between the two rivers, creating a surveillance system across a key movement corridor. A 7th-century document known as the Ravenna Cosmography may refer to Nanstallon under the name Statio Deventiasteno, translated as “The Station at the Narrows of Deventia,” a title that fits its strategic location on the peninsula.
Though occupation of Nanstallon was relatively short, ending around AD 79 or soon after, the fort has produced an important body of archaeological evidence. Finds point to careful dismantling rather than violent abandonment, and flint tools from earlier periods show that the site was part of a much older landscape of human activity. Today, Nanstallon remains a rare example of Roman military presence in Cornwall, its earthworks and buried remains providing a crucial insight into Rome’s reach into Britain’s far south-west.
The Trenoweth Collar
West Cornwall is not especially rich in fine metalwork of the later Iron Age. Castle Gotha near St Austell, a hillfort occupied mainly in the first two centuries AD, has evidence for local bronze working and even a stone mould for casting penannular armlets. Aside from coins, Sir Cyril Fox could list only a handful of Cornish pieces with real artistic merit. Among them is a bronze collar about 15.2 centimetres in diameter, made on a lead core and set with clear and brown glass. First published in 1807 as a find from Trenoweth near Lelant, it was described in a letter from Reginald Pole Carew to Samuel Lysons, illustrated with a drawing by Frederick Nash.
Later research refined the find spot. In 1966 a Borlase manuscript in Truro came to light with a watercolour of the same collar and a note stating it was dug up in 1793 while streaming for tin at Trenoweth in St Stephen in Brannell. The piece was shown to the Society of Antiquaries in 1807, exhibited in Paris in 1867, and in Truro in 1868 by permission of its then owner, the Reverend Edward Duke, who had inherited it from Philip Rashleigh. The British Museum purchased it at Sotheby’s in 1895, but today the collar is back in Cornwall and forms part of the collection of the Royal Cornwall Museum & Art Gallery in Truro.
Laboratory analysis has shown its composite construction. The back plate is a tin bronze, the front plate a brass with zinc, lead and some tin, joined together with lead tin solder. There is no evidence of earlier gilding. The use of true brass with high zinc content points to technology available only after the Roman conquest. Decoration consists of four balanced panels of freehand incision and punching, each a palmette built from branching comma motifs with glass settings at their centres, and a ring of pendant triangles around the edge. Comparisons have been drawn with early Roman western pieces such as the bronze neck ring from Portland in Dorset and the hinged collar from Wraxall in Somerset.
Motifs on the Cornwall collar place it in a wider regional vocabulary. The pendant triangles echo the edge of the mirror from the female grave at Trelan Bahow, St Keverne. Pelta forms seen on the Portland ring recall decoration on mirrors from St Keverne and from Stamford Hill, Plymouth, which may reflect Augustan classical symmetry. Trumpet spirals, central to the design of all three south western rings, are related to the plastic versions seen on the Llyn Cerrig plaque. Though not a masterpiece, the Trenoweth collar shows the conservatism of later Celtic motifs in peripheral areas, what Hodson called “peripheral archaism,” and it fits an area of mineral wealth and skilled metalworkers.
A second Cornish neck ring underlines the point. In 2007 a public open day brought to light a neck ring and a small stone bowl found a decade earlier by Mike Salter at Pentire, Newquay, and donated to the Newquay Old Cornwall Society. British Museum specialists confirmed the piece as later Iron Age. Complete and fresh in condition, it is oval, made of two separately cast sections of leaded bronze joined by a rear hinge and a front push fit catch, and weighs about 540 grams. Its decorated terminals with criss cross and herringbone motifs, and a mortise and tenon hinge pinned with iron, place it firmly within a western tradition that favoured robust construction and conservative design.
Later research refined the find spot. In 1966 a Borlase manuscript in Truro came to light with a watercolour of the same collar and a note stating it was dug up in 1793 while streaming for tin at Trenoweth in St Stephen in Brannell. The piece was shown to the Society of Antiquaries in 1807, exhibited in Paris in 1867, and in Truro in 1868 by permission of its then owner, the Reverend Edward Duke, who had inherited it from Philip Rashleigh. The British Museum purchased it at Sotheby’s in 1895, but today the collar is back in Cornwall and forms part of the collection of the Royal Cornwall Museum & Art Gallery in Truro.
Laboratory analysis has shown its composite construction. The back plate is a tin bronze, the front plate a brass with zinc, lead and some tin, joined together with lead tin solder. There is no evidence of earlier gilding. The use of true brass with high zinc content points to technology available only after the Roman conquest. Decoration consists of four balanced panels of freehand incision and punching, each a palmette built from branching comma motifs with glass settings at their centres, and a ring of pendant triangles around the edge. Comparisons have been drawn with early Roman western pieces such as the bronze neck ring from Portland in Dorset and the hinged collar from Wraxall in Somerset.
Motifs on the Cornwall collar place it in a wider regional vocabulary. The pendant triangles echo the edge of the mirror from the female grave at Trelan Bahow, St Keverne. Pelta forms seen on the Portland ring recall decoration on mirrors from St Keverne and from Stamford Hill, Plymouth, which may reflect Augustan classical symmetry. Trumpet spirals, central to the design of all three south western rings, are related to the plastic versions seen on the Llyn Cerrig plaque. Though not a masterpiece, the Trenoweth collar shows the conservatism of later Celtic motifs in peripheral areas, what Hodson called “peripheral archaism,” and it fits an area of mineral wealth and skilled metalworkers.
A second Cornish neck ring underlines the point. In 2007 a public open day brought to light a neck ring and a small stone bowl found a decade earlier by Mike Salter at Pentire, Newquay, and donated to the Newquay Old Cornwall Society. British Museum specialists confirmed the piece as later Iron Age. Complete and fresh in condition, it is oval, made of two separately cast sections of leaded bronze joined by a rear hinge and a front push fit catch, and weighs about 540 grams. Its decorated terminals with criss cross and herringbone motifs, and a mortise and tenon hinge pinned with iron, place it firmly within a western tradition that favoured robust construction and conservative design.
The Harlyn Bay Iron Age Cemetary
Tucked behind the beach at Harlyn Bay lies one of Cornwall’s most remarkable and overlooked archaeological sites. Today it’s all surfboards and summer trade, but beneath the holiday buzz is a burial ground stretching back to the Iron Age, with finds that still shape our understanding of life and death on this coast. What began as a house foundation dig at the turn of the 20th century quickly turned into something far greater.
In 1900, a man named Reddie Mallett was digging behind the beach when he uncovered a stone lined grave containing human remains. The discovery drew the attention of the Royal Institution of Cornwall, who appointed a committee to oversee further work. Among them was the folklorist and clergyman Rev Sabine Baring Gould. Over the next five years, Mallett and local scholars excavated around 130 graves. A museum was built on the site and some of the artefacts were placed on display. Though the museum eventually closed in 1976, many of those remains and finds are now held by the Royal Cornwall Museum.
The discoveries included brooches, daggers, pins, loom weights and slate tools, but also more curious objects like a holed serpentine amulet. Two gold lunulae now in the Royal Cornwall Museum are thought to have come from this same site, though they were first unearthed back in 1866 when a workman, not knowing their significance, used them to tie up his trousers. They were later declared Treasure Trove by the Duke of Cornwall and handed to the museum “for the permanent gratification of public curiosity.” Later investigations also revealed a circular stone structure beneath the cemetery, thought to be a mortuary house or shrine, with a foundation burial nearby.
The story might have ended there, but thanks to a few surviving documents, especially a booklet written by Rev Robert Ashington Bullen, interest in the Harlyn cemetery endured into the 20th century. Copies of Bullen’s booklets were sold to visitors in the 1920s and 1930s, containing photos and diagrams of the skulls and graves. In recent years, researcher Alexis Jordan from the University of Wisconsin Milwaukee has taken this material and revisited the evidence using modern scientific techniques. With help from the Cornwall Archaeological Society, she arranged for radiocarbon dating on two skulls now housed in Padstow Museum.
Jordan’s research confirmed that one skull, labelled TRURI: 2019.17, came from the Iron Age cemetery and dates to the 1st century BCE to 1st century CE. The other, TRURI: 2019.18, was recovered from a midden near Constantine Church and dates to the 5th to 7th centuries CE. Both belonged to women aged between 35 and 50 years old. These new findings show just how much there is still to learn. Over a century after Mallett’s first discovery, Harlyn Bay continues to offer fresh insights, not only into ancient Cornwall, but into the evolving story of how we interpret the past.
In 1900, a man named Reddie Mallett was digging behind the beach when he uncovered a stone lined grave containing human remains. The discovery drew the attention of the Royal Institution of Cornwall, who appointed a committee to oversee further work. Among them was the folklorist and clergyman Rev Sabine Baring Gould. Over the next five years, Mallett and local scholars excavated around 130 graves. A museum was built on the site and some of the artefacts were placed on display. Though the museum eventually closed in 1976, many of those remains and finds are now held by the Royal Cornwall Museum.
The discoveries included brooches, daggers, pins, loom weights and slate tools, but also more curious objects like a holed serpentine amulet. Two gold lunulae now in the Royal Cornwall Museum are thought to have come from this same site, though they were first unearthed back in 1866 when a workman, not knowing their significance, used them to tie up his trousers. They were later declared Treasure Trove by the Duke of Cornwall and handed to the museum “for the permanent gratification of public curiosity.” Later investigations also revealed a circular stone structure beneath the cemetery, thought to be a mortuary house or shrine, with a foundation burial nearby.
The story might have ended there, but thanks to a few surviving documents, especially a booklet written by Rev Robert Ashington Bullen, interest in the Harlyn cemetery endured into the 20th century. Copies of Bullen’s booklets were sold to visitors in the 1920s and 1930s, containing photos and diagrams of the skulls and graves. In recent years, researcher Alexis Jordan from the University of Wisconsin Milwaukee has taken this material and revisited the evidence using modern scientific techniques. With help from the Cornwall Archaeological Society, she arranged for radiocarbon dating on two skulls now housed in Padstow Museum.
Jordan’s research confirmed that one skull, labelled TRURI: 2019.17, came from the Iron Age cemetery and dates to the 1st century BCE to 1st century CE. The other, TRURI: 2019.18, was recovered from a midden near Constantine Church and dates to the 5th to 7th centuries CE. Both belonged to women aged between 35 and 50 years old. These new findings show just how much there is still to learn. Over a century after Mallett’s first discovery, Harlyn Bay continues to offer fresh insights, not only into ancient Cornwall, but into the evolving story of how we interpret the past.
The Wreck of the Schiedam
The wreck of the Schiedam lies just off Dollar Cove, on Cornwall’s storm-lashed Lizard Peninsula. Once a Dutch cargo ship or fluyt, she had an extraordinary career before meeting her end in 1684. Captured by Barbary pirates, then seized back by the Royal Navy, she became the Schiedam Prize and was pressed into service as a transport ship. Laden with people, horses, cannon and military stores from Tangier, she was separated from her convoy in a gale and driven onto the rocks at Gunwalloe Cove.
For more than 300 years the wreck remained hidden beneath sand and surf. It was first identified in 1971, when diver Anthony Randall located the site and began decades of archaeological work. Since then, over 150 artefacts have been recovered, many now housed at the Charlestown Shipwreck & Heritage Centre. More recently, divers Mark Milburn and David Gibbins of Cornwall Maritime Archaeology have revisited the site on behalf of Historic England, recording objects and assessing the wreck’s condition.
Among the most striking finds are hand grenades, cannons, and fragments of gun carriages, remnants of the military cargo Schiedam carried on her final voyage. Historian Robert Felce, who lives near Dollar Cove, has even discovered grenades washed ashore centuries later. At first glance, these encrusted relics looked like ordinary stones, until they broke open to reveal their explosive interiors. Safely defused by the British Army, they are a vivid reminder of the ship’s role in transporting war material.
The Schiedam site today is fragile and shifting. Much of the ship’s wooden structure has long since rotted away, but storms occasionally strip back the sand to expose cannons, iron fittings and other debris before burying them once more. Each new storm brings the chance of discovery, but also further damage. This cycle of exposure and erosion makes the wreck both a resource for archaeologists and a vulnerable piece of maritime heritage.
Historic England now protects the Schiedam as a designated wreck site, recognising its unusual history and importance. It tells not just the story of one shipwreck, but of the Tangier garrison’s return, of piracy and naval warfare, and of the perils of Cornwall’s Atlantic coast. From treasure seekers to television crews filming Poldark, the Schiedam continues to capture imaginations.
For more than 300 years the wreck remained hidden beneath sand and surf. It was first identified in 1971, when diver Anthony Randall located the site and began decades of archaeological work. Since then, over 150 artefacts have been recovered, many now housed at the Charlestown Shipwreck & Heritage Centre. More recently, divers Mark Milburn and David Gibbins of Cornwall Maritime Archaeology have revisited the site on behalf of Historic England, recording objects and assessing the wreck’s condition.
Among the most striking finds are hand grenades, cannons, and fragments of gun carriages, remnants of the military cargo Schiedam carried on her final voyage. Historian Robert Felce, who lives near Dollar Cove, has even discovered grenades washed ashore centuries later. At first glance, these encrusted relics looked like ordinary stones, until they broke open to reveal their explosive interiors. Safely defused by the British Army, they are a vivid reminder of the ship’s role in transporting war material.
The Schiedam site today is fragile and shifting. Much of the ship’s wooden structure has long since rotted away, but storms occasionally strip back the sand to expose cannons, iron fittings and other debris before burying them once more. Each new storm brings the chance of discovery, but also further damage. This cycle of exposure and erosion makes the wreck both a resource for archaeologists and a vulnerable piece of maritime heritage.
Historic England now protects the Schiedam as a designated wreck site, recognising its unusual history and importance. It tells not just the story of one shipwreck, but of the Tangier garrison’s return, of piracy and naval warfare, and of the perils of Cornwall’s Atlantic coast. From treasure seekers to television crews filming Poldark, the Schiedam continues to capture imaginations.
The Giant's Hedge
The Giant’s Hedge is a vast earthwork that stretches for nearly ten miles between Looe and Lerryn in southeast Cornwall. In places it still rises to twelve feet, though records from Victorian times suggest it once stood as high as sixteen feet. Where best preserved, the Hedge is faced with stone and bordered by a ditch. It is thought to have marked and defended the boundary of a Cornish kingdom, its line running between the waters of the River Fowey and the West Looe River, protecting the land in between.
Folklore, as always in Cornwall, has its own account. A fragment of an old rhyme survives, telling us: “Jack the Giant having nothing to do, built a hedge from Lerryn to Looe.” No one remembers Jack now, nor why he built it, but the tale lingers in the trees and hedgerows. Some say if you sit quietly by the Fowey at Lerryn, and listen with an open heart, the trees may whisper their own stories—of love, of long-forgotten lives, sheltered beneath their ancient canopy.
Historically, the monument falls into seven separate areas, covering about fifteen kilometres in total length. Around three kilometres have been lost, with 2.8 kilometres protected in varying degrees. In some places it survives as a ditch with a bank to the south; elsewhere only as a scarp, its ditch filled in. At its best, the bank measures 3.5 metres wide and two metres high, with the ditch alongside up to three metres across and nearly a metre deep. The course winds below hill crests, through four parishes, and was long thought by some antiquarians, like Borlase, to be a Roman road. Today, however, it is considered a pre-Norman boundary. A variant of the local rhyme even credits the Devil himself: “One day, the Devil, having nothing to do, built a great hedge from Lerryn to Looe.”
The route has also been called Cornwall’s oldest road, perhaps as much as four thousand years old. In places it cuts so deeply into the earth that bedrock is exposed, worn into channels by centuries of water flow. Fields sit high above its banks, making the term “hedge” seem almost misleading—these are earthworks of giant scale. This depth and scale is what inspired its name. Its presence also recalls other discoveries, such as the ancient cobbled track uncovered in 2013 near the Hurlers stone circles on Bodmin Moor, described at the time as Britain’s oldest pavement. The Giant’s Hedge, marked on Ordnance Survey maps, is no less remarkable, though parts of it remain hidden, far from paths and only witnessed by sheep and the occasional wanderer.
For archaeologists, the significance of the Giant’s Hedge lies not in folklore but in its connection to prehistoric landscapes. English Heritage note that the earthwork follows the line of an ancient track, running past Bronze Age barrows, suggesting it may have originated in that period. Over the centuries, sections have disappeared, while others have been absorbed into lanes and field boundaries. Yet where it survives, the Hedge still carves its course across the land, a visible reminder of Cornwall’s deep past. Whether seen as a kingdom’s defence, a Bronze Age track, or the work of a bored giant, the Giant’s Hedge remains one of the great mysteries stitched into Cornwall’s landscape.
Folklore, as always in Cornwall, has its own account. A fragment of an old rhyme survives, telling us: “Jack the Giant having nothing to do, built a hedge from Lerryn to Looe.” No one remembers Jack now, nor why he built it, but the tale lingers in the trees and hedgerows. Some say if you sit quietly by the Fowey at Lerryn, and listen with an open heart, the trees may whisper their own stories—of love, of long-forgotten lives, sheltered beneath their ancient canopy.
Historically, the monument falls into seven separate areas, covering about fifteen kilometres in total length. Around three kilometres have been lost, with 2.8 kilometres protected in varying degrees. In some places it survives as a ditch with a bank to the south; elsewhere only as a scarp, its ditch filled in. At its best, the bank measures 3.5 metres wide and two metres high, with the ditch alongside up to three metres across and nearly a metre deep. The course winds below hill crests, through four parishes, and was long thought by some antiquarians, like Borlase, to be a Roman road. Today, however, it is considered a pre-Norman boundary. A variant of the local rhyme even credits the Devil himself: “One day, the Devil, having nothing to do, built a great hedge from Lerryn to Looe.”
The route has also been called Cornwall’s oldest road, perhaps as much as four thousand years old. In places it cuts so deeply into the earth that bedrock is exposed, worn into channels by centuries of water flow. Fields sit high above its banks, making the term “hedge” seem almost misleading—these are earthworks of giant scale. This depth and scale is what inspired its name. Its presence also recalls other discoveries, such as the ancient cobbled track uncovered in 2013 near the Hurlers stone circles on Bodmin Moor, described at the time as Britain’s oldest pavement. The Giant’s Hedge, marked on Ordnance Survey maps, is no less remarkable, though parts of it remain hidden, far from paths and only witnessed by sheep and the occasional wanderer.
For archaeologists, the significance of the Giant’s Hedge lies not in folklore but in its connection to prehistoric landscapes. English Heritage note that the earthwork follows the line of an ancient track, running past Bronze Age barrows, suggesting it may have originated in that period. Over the centuries, sections have disappeared, while others have been absorbed into lanes and field boundaries. Yet where it survives, the Hedge still carves its course across the land, a visible reminder of Cornwall’s deep past. Whether seen as a kingdom’s defence, a Bronze Age track, or the work of a bored giant, the Giant’s Hedge remains one of the great mysteries stitched into Cornwall’s landscape.
Looe Island/Lammana
Looe Island is a nine hectare marine nature reserve off the Cornish coast, managed by Cornwall Wildlife Trust since 2004. It provides a sanctuary for a wide range of wildlife, including seals, dolphins, and seabirds, across its diverse habitats of woodland, grassland, and rocky reefs. Access is carefully managed to protect its fragile environment, with visitors only able to land via organised boat trips from spring to autumn, climbing from the boat onto a portable trolley to reach the shore. Beyond its natural beauty, the island holds a rich history that stretches back through centuries of legend, trade, and faith.
On the northern side of the island stands a solitary stone, believed by some to date from prehistoric times. Archaeological discoveries in the surrounding waters and on the land have added weight to the island’s ancient significance. A large bronze ingot was recovered by divers south of the island, leading some to suggest that Looe Island could have been the fabled Ictis, the tin trading centre described by Pytheas in the fourth century BC and later by Diodorus Siculus. While most scholars believe Ictis refers to St Michael’s Mount, the finds near Looe show it was certainly connected to trade in late prehistoric and Romano British times.
Classical accounts describe how the people of Belerion worked the rocky ground to extract and smelt tin, casting it into ingots shaped like knucklebones before transporting them by wagon across dry ground at low tide to Ictis. Merchants from distant lands would then purchase the metal. Whether or not Looe Island was Ictis, the discovery of tin ingots and imported amphora fragments from the Aegean link the island firmly to long distance trade in both the late Roman and post Roman periods. Its later name, Lammana, contains Cornish place name elements meaning an early Christian enclosure or monastery, marking the island’s shift from commerce to faith.
The first firm record of Lammana dates to 1144, when Pope Lucius II confirmed it as belonging to Glastonbury Abbey, a right reaffirmed in 1163 by Pope Alexander III. By around 1200, a small priory stood on the island, home to two monks. Their chapel was dedicated to St Michael and served both as a place of worship and as a site of pilgrimage. Glastonbury monks held small properties on the mainland and carried out baptisms and other religious duties for the people of Portlooe, despite such pastoral work being unusual for Benedictines. At some point, the chapel was transferred to the mainland, partly due to the dangers faced by pilgrims attempting the crossing on stormy seas.
By 1289 Glastonbury had withdrawn entirely, selling the island’s chapel and its holdings to Walter of Treverbyn, lord of Portlooe. From then, Lammana became a secular benefice under the parish of Talland. The chapel continued in use into the sixteenth century, though its income was modest and services were limited. By 1546 records note that worship on the island had ceased, and in 1548 the Crown dissolved the benefice and sold the island and its chapel into private hands. Later travellers such as John Leland made no mention of a chapel, marking the end of Lammana’s long role as a religious centre. What remains today is a place where nature thrives, layered with echoes of trade, devotion, and legend.
On the northern side of the island stands a solitary stone, believed by some to date from prehistoric times. Archaeological discoveries in the surrounding waters and on the land have added weight to the island’s ancient significance. A large bronze ingot was recovered by divers south of the island, leading some to suggest that Looe Island could have been the fabled Ictis, the tin trading centre described by Pytheas in the fourth century BC and later by Diodorus Siculus. While most scholars believe Ictis refers to St Michael’s Mount, the finds near Looe show it was certainly connected to trade in late prehistoric and Romano British times.
Classical accounts describe how the people of Belerion worked the rocky ground to extract and smelt tin, casting it into ingots shaped like knucklebones before transporting them by wagon across dry ground at low tide to Ictis. Merchants from distant lands would then purchase the metal. Whether or not Looe Island was Ictis, the discovery of tin ingots and imported amphora fragments from the Aegean link the island firmly to long distance trade in both the late Roman and post Roman periods. Its later name, Lammana, contains Cornish place name elements meaning an early Christian enclosure or monastery, marking the island’s shift from commerce to faith.
The first firm record of Lammana dates to 1144, when Pope Lucius II confirmed it as belonging to Glastonbury Abbey, a right reaffirmed in 1163 by Pope Alexander III. By around 1200, a small priory stood on the island, home to two monks. Their chapel was dedicated to St Michael and served both as a place of worship and as a site of pilgrimage. Glastonbury monks held small properties on the mainland and carried out baptisms and other religious duties for the people of Portlooe, despite such pastoral work being unusual for Benedictines. At some point, the chapel was transferred to the mainland, partly due to the dangers faced by pilgrims attempting the crossing on stormy seas.
By 1289 Glastonbury had withdrawn entirely, selling the island’s chapel and its holdings to Walter of Treverbyn, lord of Portlooe. From then, Lammana became a secular benefice under the parish of Talland. The chapel continued in use into the sixteenth century, though its income was modest and services were limited. By 1546 records note that worship on the island had ceased, and in 1548 the Crown dissolved the benefice and sold the island and its chapel into private hands. Later travellers such as John Leland made no mention of a chapel, marking the end of Lammana’s long role as a religious centre. What remains today is a place where nature thrives, layered with echoes of trade, devotion, and legend.
Gwallon Menhir
The Gwallon Longstone, rumoured to be the tallest in Cornwall outside of Penwith, stands within the grounds of Penrice Community College on Porthpean Road, close to the centre of St Austell. Despite its location in the midst of the town’s expansion, this granite monolith has endured as a striking relic of the ancient landscape.
At around 12 feet tall, the stone is an imposing survivor, remarkable for its preservation given its position amid modern development. Once associated with a now vanished barrow cemetery, the longstone is best visited during school holidays or by prior arrangement. Access is possible via a footpath leading from Porthpean Road.
Known also as the Giant’s Staff, the longstone has long inspired local legend. It is said to be the lost walking stick of the fearsome Tregeagle, a tale that was noted by John Murray in his Handbook for Travellers in Devon and Cornwall (1865). This blending of folklore with physical monument reflects the way such stones have captured the imagination across centuries.
Beyond the legend, the stone is often referred to as Gwallon Menhir. Canon Hammond once described it as a ‘rude obelisk’ and suggested it may have marked the site of a battle or burial. He also noted the frequent mention of ‘Wallen’ in early records, identifying the area as comprising 46 acres of waste during the reign of Edward I, further rooting the stone within the historical fabric of the land.
At around 12 feet tall, the stone is an imposing survivor, remarkable for its preservation given its position amid modern development. Once associated with a now vanished barrow cemetery, the longstone is best visited during school holidays or by prior arrangement. Access is possible via a footpath leading from Porthpean Road.
Known also as the Giant’s Staff, the longstone has long inspired local legend. It is said to be the lost walking stick of the fearsome Tregeagle, a tale that was noted by John Murray in his Handbook for Travellers in Devon and Cornwall (1865). This blending of folklore with physical monument reflects the way such stones have captured the imagination across centuries.
Beyond the legend, the stone is often referred to as Gwallon Menhir. Canon Hammond once described it as a ‘rude obelisk’ and suggested it may have marked the site of a battle or burial. He also noted the frequent mention of ‘Wallen’ in early records, identifying the area as comprising 46 acres of waste during the reign of Edward I, further rooting the stone within the historical fabric of the land.
The Armed Knight
The rocks known as the Armed Knight rise from the blue-green waters off the Cornish coast at Land’s End, standing sentinel against the restless Atlantic. Looking outward from Carn Greeb, the formation points the eye toward Longships Lighthouse and the horizon beyond, a place where myth, memory, and sea blend together. Today, visitors see only the jagged islet, but four centuries ago the westernmost tip of this headland was marked by another striking feature, a natural tower known as Spire Rock, or in Cornish, Careg an Pell – the distant rock.
Careg an Pell was no ordinary landmark. According to local tradition, it stood tall and formidable until 1648, when a great storm thundered in from the Atlantic and shattered it into the sea. The collapse of this spire was seen by many as a portent, and when King Charles I was executed the following year, the destruction of the rock was remembered as a sign of calamity foretold. The very name “The Peal,” still used in later times, may well echo this lost pinnacle.
Legends grew around the Spire Rock. Some said it had once been crowned with an iron rod or spire, placed there by the Romans or even by King Athelstan himself. Though the truth of such claims is doubtful, the associations with conquest and guardianship seem to have shaped the name “Armed Knight.” When the Spire Rock finally fell, the title was transferred to the rocky island just offshore – the formation that still bears the name today, jutting from the sea like a knight in armour holding fast against the waves.
The antiquarian William Camden, writing in the 16th century, described a watchtower at Land’s End, used by mariners as a guide. Whether this referred to the Spire Rock or another structure is uncertain, but his words preserve an image of the headland as a place of both warning and welcome, where land met ocean in stark drama. Camden also suggested that this western promontory had once extended much farther out, hinting at land now lost beneath the waves.
Here we meet the legend of Lyonesse, the drowned land said to lie beneath the seas between Land’s End and the Isles of Scilly. The story tells of churches whose bells still toll beneath the surf, and of fertile fields swept away by a sudden flood. Spire Rock and the Armed Knight, with their tales of collapse and survival, echo this deeper mythology of loss and warning. To stand on the cliffs at Land’s End and gaze out across the waters is to look upon not just sea and stone, but the layered history of Cornwall’s edge, where storm, legend, and memory converge.
Careg an Pell was no ordinary landmark. According to local tradition, it stood tall and formidable until 1648, when a great storm thundered in from the Atlantic and shattered it into the sea. The collapse of this spire was seen by many as a portent, and when King Charles I was executed the following year, the destruction of the rock was remembered as a sign of calamity foretold. The very name “The Peal,” still used in later times, may well echo this lost pinnacle.
Legends grew around the Spire Rock. Some said it had once been crowned with an iron rod or spire, placed there by the Romans or even by King Athelstan himself. Though the truth of such claims is doubtful, the associations with conquest and guardianship seem to have shaped the name “Armed Knight.” When the Spire Rock finally fell, the title was transferred to the rocky island just offshore – the formation that still bears the name today, jutting from the sea like a knight in armour holding fast against the waves.
The antiquarian William Camden, writing in the 16th century, described a watchtower at Land’s End, used by mariners as a guide. Whether this referred to the Spire Rock or another structure is uncertain, but his words preserve an image of the headland as a place of both warning and welcome, where land met ocean in stark drama. Camden also suggested that this western promontory had once extended much farther out, hinting at land now lost beneath the waves.
Here we meet the legend of Lyonesse, the drowned land said to lie beneath the seas between Land’s End and the Isles of Scilly. The story tells of churches whose bells still toll beneath the surf, and of fertile fields swept away by a sudden flood. Spire Rock and the Armed Knight, with their tales of collapse and survival, echo this deeper mythology of loss and warning. To stand on the cliffs at Land’s End and gaze out across the waters is to look upon not just sea and stone, but the layered history of Cornwall’s edge, where storm, legend, and memory converge.
Giant’s Holt Fogou
The settlement at Higher Bodinnar, near Sancreed, preserves the fragmentary but evocative remains of a once substantial Iron Age and Romano British community. Scattered across the south facing slopes, between 180m and 205m above sea level, are the ruined traces of courtyard houses, hut circles, a fogou, and a field system that once extended across at least 12 hectares. Antiquarians such as Thomas Tonkin and William Borlase recorded the site in the eighteenth century, noting the presence of at least three major courtyard houses, one of which appeared to incorporate a fogou. By the nineteenth century the settlement, known locally as “The Crellar,” had fallen into ruin, though Borlase’s 1872 sketch plan was pioneering in placing the surviving structures within their broader landscape setting.
The fogou, remembered in tradition as the “Giant’s Holt,” once formed a striking feature of the site. Borlase described entering the underground passage in 1738, noting its stone lined walls, capstones, and branching side passage, though already collapsed in places. By the mid nineteenth century the fogou had largely been destroyed, its stones carried away for hedge building, leaving only a shallow depression visible today. Local folklore tells that the Giant’s Holt was dreaded as the abode of spriggans who guarded hidden treasure, and that its dark passages were used to frighten unruly children into good behaviour. Such stories reflect both the mysterious presence of subterranean structures in the Cornish landscape and the lasting cultural memory of fogous as liminal, uncanny places.
Several rounds and enclosures also survive around Higher Bodinnar, visible as curving earthworks in the fields and captured more clearly through aerial photography and Lidar survey. At SW41503220, a substantial curvilinear boundary 2.2m high is likely the trace of a round, while at SW41663231 a 43m wide enclosure, partly fossilised into later field boundaries, suggests another Iron Age or Romano British round. A further enclosure, at SW41663205, measures 31 by 38m with an entrance facing south, and is again likely to have been part of the settlement complex. Together, these enclosures reveal a clustered community, set within a wider agricultural system of fields and trackways, typical of Cornish upland settlement during the later prehistoric and Roman periods.
Chance finds over the centuries have reinforced the impression that Higher Bodinnar was a site of long and important occupation. Roman coins, pottery, a mortarium, a socketed stone, and a quern have all been unearthed here between the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The recovery of two Roman coin hoards in particular suggests a settlement not only of local subsistence but of wider economic connections during the Roman period. Earlier still, the landscape preserves the remains of at least two Bronze Age cists, one uncovered in the 1830s when a mound of stones was removed to reveal concentric stone walls and deposits of ash. These earlier burials emphasise the longevity of the site as a focus of human activity, long before the courtyard houses were constructed.
Although today the remains are slight, low earthworks, overgrown stone spreads, and faint depressions, the combination of rounds, enclosures, courtyard houses, fogou, cists, and a field system mark Higher Bodinnar as a significant node of settlement in the prehistoric and Romano British landscape of West Cornwall. The work of antiquarians, surveyors, and modern aerial and Lidar recording allows us to piece together its former scale and complexity, even as the material traces fade back into the fields. Folklore, too, plays its part, preserving the memory of the Giant’s Holt and its guardian spriggans, a reminder that archaeology and oral tradition together shape our understanding of Cornwall’s ancient sites.Giant’s Holt
The fogou, remembered in tradition as the “Giant’s Holt,” once formed a striking feature of the site. Borlase described entering the underground passage in 1738, noting its stone lined walls, capstones, and branching side passage, though already collapsed in places. By the mid nineteenth century the fogou had largely been destroyed, its stones carried away for hedge building, leaving only a shallow depression visible today. Local folklore tells that the Giant’s Holt was dreaded as the abode of spriggans who guarded hidden treasure, and that its dark passages were used to frighten unruly children into good behaviour. Such stories reflect both the mysterious presence of subterranean structures in the Cornish landscape and the lasting cultural memory of fogous as liminal, uncanny places.
Several rounds and enclosures also survive around Higher Bodinnar, visible as curving earthworks in the fields and captured more clearly through aerial photography and Lidar survey. At SW41503220, a substantial curvilinear boundary 2.2m high is likely the trace of a round, while at SW41663231 a 43m wide enclosure, partly fossilised into later field boundaries, suggests another Iron Age or Romano British round. A further enclosure, at SW41663205, measures 31 by 38m with an entrance facing south, and is again likely to have been part of the settlement complex. Together, these enclosures reveal a clustered community, set within a wider agricultural system of fields and trackways, typical of Cornish upland settlement during the later prehistoric and Roman periods.
Chance finds over the centuries have reinforced the impression that Higher Bodinnar was a site of long and important occupation. Roman coins, pottery, a mortarium, a socketed stone, and a quern have all been unearthed here between the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The recovery of two Roman coin hoards in particular suggests a settlement not only of local subsistence but of wider economic connections during the Roman period. Earlier still, the landscape preserves the remains of at least two Bronze Age cists, one uncovered in the 1830s when a mound of stones was removed to reveal concentric stone walls and deposits of ash. These earlier burials emphasise the longevity of the site as a focus of human activity, long before the courtyard houses were constructed.
Although today the remains are slight, low earthworks, overgrown stone spreads, and faint depressions, the combination of rounds, enclosures, courtyard houses, fogou, cists, and a field system mark Higher Bodinnar as a significant node of settlement in the prehistoric and Romano British landscape of West Cornwall. The work of antiquarians, surveyors, and modern aerial and Lidar recording allows us to piece together its former scale and complexity, even as the material traces fade back into the fields. Folklore, too, plays its part, preserving the memory of the Giant’s Holt and its guardian spriggans, a reminder that archaeology and oral tradition together shape our understanding of Cornwall’s ancient sites.Giant’s Holt
Treveneague Fogou
In 1866, the ploughing of a field at Treveneague revealed the entrance to a fogou that opened into the eastern ditch of what is now recognised as a round. The ditch itself was some nine feet deep and could be traced on three sides, with the northern edge destroyed by earlier quarrying and the bank levelled before discovery. The structure was first excavated soon after its uncovering, but it was Henderson’s investigations between 1914 and 1917 that provided the most detailed account of its position and condition. He recorded the blocked-up entrance at about SW 54783301, forty yards from the southern and eastern hedges of the field, and noted that the division of the land had changed since the time of earlier attempts to locate the site.
Architecturally, the fogou shared features with those at Chapel Euny and Pendeen Vau, particularly the presence of an arched chamber rather than a corbelled construction. This chamber had been cut directly into solid clay, making it a robust subterranean feature. The passage floor contained a thick, greasy layer of mould in which numerous finds were made, including charcoal, animal and bird bones, a granite saddle quern, and an iron bill-hook of La Tène type. There was also mention of possible human remains within this layer, though the evidence was never conclusive.
Pottery finds added to the significance of the site. A bowl of black polished ware was reconstructed from sherds recovered within the fogou, its style bearing close resemblance to Glastonbury ware of the Iron Age. Similar sherds were also discovered in the surrounding ditch. Henderson’s excavation yielded seventeen different pottery types alongside flint implements, two querns, and further pieces of iron. Intriguingly, later disturbance of the site also produced fragments of medieval pottery, indicating re-use or continued activity in the area long after the fogou’s original construction.
The site attracted renewed archaeological interest in 1995, when the Channel 4 programme Time Team carried out a geophysical survey and excavation under the direction of Tim Taylor. Their work successfully relocated the fogou, confirming it as an Iron Age feature. Initial gradiometry had failed to pick up clear responses, but a second survey detected anomalies that matched the expected size and orientation of the fogou described in earlier records. Surprisingly, it was found to lie about 160 metres southwest of its previously documented position, underscoring the difficulty of reconciling antiquarian reports with modern survey techniques.
The surveys also revealed broader landscape features associated with the fogou. A curving ditch anomaly suggested that the fogou lay within part of a larger enclosure, consistent with other Cornish rounds. In addition, unusual anomalies adjoining the main ditch corresponded closely with the form and orientation of the fogou itself. While some weaker signals detected may have been of natural origin, the main results align strongly with Henderson’s early 20th century account. Taken together, the findings at Treveneague present an important case study of how fogous were situated within wider settlement landscapes and how archaeological interpretation has shifted from antiquarian excavation to modern geophysical science.
Architecturally, the fogou shared features with those at Chapel Euny and Pendeen Vau, particularly the presence of an arched chamber rather than a corbelled construction. This chamber had been cut directly into solid clay, making it a robust subterranean feature. The passage floor contained a thick, greasy layer of mould in which numerous finds were made, including charcoal, animal and bird bones, a granite saddle quern, and an iron bill-hook of La Tène type. There was also mention of possible human remains within this layer, though the evidence was never conclusive.
Pottery finds added to the significance of the site. A bowl of black polished ware was reconstructed from sherds recovered within the fogou, its style bearing close resemblance to Glastonbury ware of the Iron Age. Similar sherds were also discovered in the surrounding ditch. Henderson’s excavation yielded seventeen different pottery types alongside flint implements, two querns, and further pieces of iron. Intriguingly, later disturbance of the site also produced fragments of medieval pottery, indicating re-use or continued activity in the area long after the fogou’s original construction.
The site attracted renewed archaeological interest in 1995, when the Channel 4 programme Time Team carried out a geophysical survey and excavation under the direction of Tim Taylor. Their work successfully relocated the fogou, confirming it as an Iron Age feature. Initial gradiometry had failed to pick up clear responses, but a second survey detected anomalies that matched the expected size and orientation of the fogou described in earlier records. Surprisingly, it was found to lie about 160 metres southwest of its previously documented position, underscoring the difficulty of reconciling antiquarian reports with modern survey techniques.
The surveys also revealed broader landscape features associated with the fogou. A curving ditch anomaly suggested that the fogou lay within part of a larger enclosure, consistent with other Cornish rounds. In addition, unusual anomalies adjoining the main ditch corresponded closely with the form and orientation of the fogou itself. While some weaker signals detected may have been of natural origin, the main results align strongly with Henderson’s early 20th century account. Taken together, the findings at Treveneague present an important case study of how fogous were situated within wider settlement landscapes and how archaeological interpretation has shifted from antiquarian excavation to modern geophysical science.
Trewardreva Fogou/Piskey's Hall
Trewardreva Fogou is located about 0.5m north of Constantine, just southeast of a minor road opposite the gates to Trewardreva Hall. What sets this fogou apart from the majority found in Cornwall is its location—unlike most examples which are concentrated in West Penwith, Trewardreva sits further east, making it one of the few known fogous outside that core region. Another unusual feature is that it isn’t entirely subterranean. Instead, the passage lies beneath a prominent hump in the landscape. While the original entrance has been lost to time, it was likely a narrow creepway similar to other better-preserved sites. Today, access is via the southwest end, where a depression leads to a roofstone-framed entry flanked by two upright portal stones—modern additions that once supported a metal gate, remnants of which can still be seen.
Inside, the chamber runs roughly 8 metres in a straight line and ends at a low northeast opening, now partially blocked with later stonework. Unlike the typical trapezoidal fogou design—where walls taper inward to reduce the span of the roof—Trewardreva’s passage has nearly vertical walls. As a result, extremely large roofstones were required, particularly at each end. There are nine main roof slabs, with some gaps bridged by secondary slabs. Near the northeast end, three lighter-coloured stones appear to be modern replacements. The side walls are largely made of dry-laid small stones, interspersed with several upright orthostats at ground level, giving it a distinctive and unusually robust construction.
Locally known as “Piskey’s Hall” (or “Pixies Hall” on OS maps), the site is steeped in folklore. A tale tells of farmhands who fled the field in terror after hearing strange noises from within the fogou—convinced they’d heard the furious voices of piskeys, Cornwall’s folkloric little folk. This ties into broader Cornish traditions that associate fogous with otherworldly presences. A similar account appears in Evans-Wentz’s The Fairy-Faith in Celtic Countries (1911), where two men ran from a fogou near Bosahan after hearing what they believed were piskies. It’s possible that this tale also refers to Trewardreva, which lies between Bosahan Farm and Quarry.
Historically, the fogou may have been part of a larger fortified settlement known as Pixies Hall or Piskey-Hall. Though the fort is now largely destroyed, traces of walls and an earthen fosse are said to survive to the east. Earlier antiquarians such as Henderson speculated about a branching side passage that may once have led from the northeast end, possibly forming the original entrance. This theory remains unconfirmed, but early maps from 1649 name the surrounding field Park-an-Pascoes, possibly from the Cornish pasg (feeding/fattening), which may have been later confused with the word “piskey” in local dialect.
The fogou is remarkably well-preserved. The southwest end remains open and accessible, while the northeast is sealed. There are signs of unroofed extensions at both ends. The chamber measures 8 metres long, 2 metres wide, and about 1.5 metres high. Archaeological finds include a pit filled with ashes at one end, and a piece of iron slag, now housed in Truro Museum. Though the fogou appears to align with the midsummer sunrise when viewed from the southwest entrance, the practicality of such an alignment is questionable given the narrow, constricted design typical of these ancient structures. Trewardreva remains a rare and architecturally distinctive example in a part of Cornwall not commonly associated with fogous.
Inside, the chamber runs roughly 8 metres in a straight line and ends at a low northeast opening, now partially blocked with later stonework. Unlike the typical trapezoidal fogou design—where walls taper inward to reduce the span of the roof—Trewardreva’s passage has nearly vertical walls. As a result, extremely large roofstones were required, particularly at each end. There are nine main roof slabs, with some gaps bridged by secondary slabs. Near the northeast end, three lighter-coloured stones appear to be modern replacements. The side walls are largely made of dry-laid small stones, interspersed with several upright orthostats at ground level, giving it a distinctive and unusually robust construction.
Locally known as “Piskey’s Hall” (or “Pixies Hall” on OS maps), the site is steeped in folklore. A tale tells of farmhands who fled the field in terror after hearing strange noises from within the fogou—convinced they’d heard the furious voices of piskeys, Cornwall’s folkloric little folk. This ties into broader Cornish traditions that associate fogous with otherworldly presences. A similar account appears in Evans-Wentz’s The Fairy-Faith in Celtic Countries (1911), where two men ran from a fogou near Bosahan after hearing what they believed were piskies. It’s possible that this tale also refers to Trewardreva, which lies between Bosahan Farm and Quarry.
Historically, the fogou may have been part of a larger fortified settlement known as Pixies Hall or Piskey-Hall. Though the fort is now largely destroyed, traces of walls and an earthen fosse are said to survive to the east. Earlier antiquarians such as Henderson speculated about a branching side passage that may once have led from the northeast end, possibly forming the original entrance. This theory remains unconfirmed, but early maps from 1649 name the surrounding field Park-an-Pascoes, possibly from the Cornish pasg (feeding/fattening), which may have been later confused with the word “piskey” in local dialect.
The fogou is remarkably well-preserved. The southwest end remains open and accessible, while the northeast is sealed. There are signs of unroofed extensions at both ends. The chamber measures 8 metres long, 2 metres wide, and about 1.5 metres high. Archaeological finds include a pit filled with ashes at one end, and a piece of iron slag, now housed in Truro Museum. Though the fogou appears to align with the midsummer sunrise when viewed from the southwest entrance, the practicality of such an alignment is questionable given the narrow, constricted design typical of these ancient structures. Trewardreva remains a rare and architecturally distinctive example in a part of Cornwall not commonly associated with fogous.
Table-mên
At the small hamlet of Mayon, or Mên, just east of Sennen church, stands the granite block known as Table-mên. Measuring some seven or eight feet in length and three feet in height, it is little more than an unshaped boulder to the eye, yet tradition has long set it apart as a place of kings and prophecy. Local lore insists that either three or seven Saxon monarchs, including Ethelbert of Kent, Cissa of the South Saxons, and others, dined at this table around the year 600 when visiting the Land’s End. Later stories tied it to Arthur and his allies, who supposedly celebrated victory over the Danes at the stone, pledging each other in the water of St Sennen’s well before returning thanks at the chapel. The prophecy of Merlin was soon woven in: that a larger number of crowned heads would one day gather at the rock before some catastrophe, or the end of the world itself.
The antiquarian Hals, quoting Samuel Daniel, gave a strikingly specific list of the supposed feasting kings, naming seven rulers from Kent, Wessex, Sussex, Essex, Northumbria, Mercia, and East Anglia. Yet the tradition refuses to stay fixed, for the same tale was told of other granite tables across West Penwith – at Bosavern in St Just, or on the boundary stone where four parishes meet. This fluidity suggests that what mattered was not so much the location as the idea of ancient rulers dining together at the edge of Britain, their presence sanctifying the stones and connecting them with political and spiritual authority. In Arthurian retellings, Merlin himself appears at the feast, linking the Table-mên with myth, prophecy, and a vision of fate looming over Cornwall’s far western shore.
Arthurian tradition adds further colour to the story. Arthur is said to have held his victory feast after the battle of Vellan-druchar, a mile east of St Buryan, and after destroying the invaders’ ships at Gwenver. The kings who aided him gathered at the Table-mên, where Merlin intoned one of his characteristic prophecies: when that battle is re-enacted, humanity has reached its end. The legend is not entirely beyond the bounds of history. Saxon pirates based in the Loire estuary are recorded as having raided Ireland twice in the later fifth century, and their passage around Land’s End en route would have been inevitable. A clash in the far west is therefore not implausible, though the mythic overlay has long since buried whatever kernel of truth may lie beneath.
The Mayon Table also belongs to a wider tradition of granite slabs known as Garrack Zans. These unhewn stones, often raised in village centres, served as communal meeting places and were long regarded as sacred. In Escols, within memory of living people in the nineteenth century, one such Garrack Zans stood as the hub of village life: midsummer bonfires were kindled upon it, young people danced hand in hand around it, and folk rituals of luck and protection were practised there. Offenders might even be tested by ordeal with firebrands taken from its blaze. The Mayon stone, remembered by older Sennen residents as a Garrack Zans, may well have been invested with similar communal or ritual functions before antiquarians and storytellers fixed upon its royal and Arthurian associations.
Beyond legend, there are tantalising hints of a deeper antiquity to the site. The naturalist William Borlase recorded in 1716 that a farmer of the village of Mên removed a flat stone, seven feet long and six wide, and uncovered beneath it a cavity. At each end stood upright stones, with longer stones on either side, forming a crude chamber. Within lay an urn full of black earth, surrounded by very large human bones, not in natural order but heaped together. The discovery strongly suggests that beneath these stones were once prehistoric burial remains, later forgotten and overwritten by medieval and early modern tradition. Thus, beneath the Saxon kings and Arthurian feasts may lie the far older story of the dead who were interred in Cornwall’s granite chambers.
Taken together, the folklore and archaeology of the Mayon Table illustrate how stones in the Cornish landscape gather layer upon layer of meaning. A prehistoric burial may have seeded the reverence, later reframed as a Garrack Zans for village life, then elaborated into tales of kings and prophecies by antiquarians and droll-tellers. Today, the Table-mên remains a modest granite block beside a cottage at Mayon, yet it holds within it a thousand years of shifting memory. Each generation has reinterpreted it – as a royal dining table, an Arthurian relic, a prophetic altar, or a prehistoric tomb – leaving us with a palimpsest of story and stone at the very edge of the Celtic Isles.
The antiquarian Hals, quoting Samuel Daniel, gave a strikingly specific list of the supposed feasting kings, naming seven rulers from Kent, Wessex, Sussex, Essex, Northumbria, Mercia, and East Anglia. Yet the tradition refuses to stay fixed, for the same tale was told of other granite tables across West Penwith – at Bosavern in St Just, or on the boundary stone where four parishes meet. This fluidity suggests that what mattered was not so much the location as the idea of ancient rulers dining together at the edge of Britain, their presence sanctifying the stones and connecting them with political and spiritual authority. In Arthurian retellings, Merlin himself appears at the feast, linking the Table-mên with myth, prophecy, and a vision of fate looming over Cornwall’s far western shore.
Arthurian tradition adds further colour to the story. Arthur is said to have held his victory feast after the battle of Vellan-druchar, a mile east of St Buryan, and after destroying the invaders’ ships at Gwenver. The kings who aided him gathered at the Table-mên, where Merlin intoned one of his characteristic prophecies: when that battle is re-enacted, humanity has reached its end. The legend is not entirely beyond the bounds of history. Saxon pirates based in the Loire estuary are recorded as having raided Ireland twice in the later fifth century, and their passage around Land’s End en route would have been inevitable. A clash in the far west is therefore not implausible, though the mythic overlay has long since buried whatever kernel of truth may lie beneath.
The Mayon Table also belongs to a wider tradition of granite slabs known as Garrack Zans. These unhewn stones, often raised in village centres, served as communal meeting places and were long regarded as sacred. In Escols, within memory of living people in the nineteenth century, one such Garrack Zans stood as the hub of village life: midsummer bonfires were kindled upon it, young people danced hand in hand around it, and folk rituals of luck and protection were practised there. Offenders might even be tested by ordeal with firebrands taken from its blaze. The Mayon stone, remembered by older Sennen residents as a Garrack Zans, may well have been invested with similar communal or ritual functions before antiquarians and storytellers fixed upon its royal and Arthurian associations.
Beyond legend, there are tantalising hints of a deeper antiquity to the site. The naturalist William Borlase recorded in 1716 that a farmer of the village of Mên removed a flat stone, seven feet long and six wide, and uncovered beneath it a cavity. At each end stood upright stones, with longer stones on either side, forming a crude chamber. Within lay an urn full of black earth, surrounded by very large human bones, not in natural order but heaped together. The discovery strongly suggests that beneath these stones were once prehistoric burial remains, later forgotten and overwritten by medieval and early modern tradition. Thus, beneath the Saxon kings and Arthurian feasts may lie the far older story of the dead who were interred in Cornwall’s granite chambers.
Taken together, the folklore and archaeology of the Mayon Table illustrate how stones in the Cornish landscape gather layer upon layer of meaning. A prehistoric burial may have seeded the reverence, later reframed as a Garrack Zans for village life, then elaborated into tales of kings and prophecies by antiquarians and droll-tellers. Today, the Table-mên remains a modest granite block beside a cottage at Mayon, yet it holds within it a thousand years of shifting memory. Each generation has reinterpreted it – as a royal dining table, an Arthurian relic, a prophetic altar, or a prehistoric tomb – leaving us with a palimpsest of story and stone at the very edge of the Celtic Isles.
Kynance Gate
Kynance Gate is a stone hut circle settlement with an associated irregular aggregate field system, positioned around a rocky spur on the north western side of the steep valley leading to Kynance Cove. It survives as two distinct groups of stone hut circles with small adjoining fields defined by stone walls.
The north eastern group contains at least seven circular or slightly oval hut circles, each averaging 9 metres in diameter and enclosed by walls up to 0.4 metres high. Several of these have attached enclosures. The south western group consists of at least nine circular or oval hut circles built with thick double-faced walls, all connected by boundaries to form at least three enclosures. Every building in this southern group stands on a raised, terraced platform.
The site was first recorded by the Ordnance Survey around 1880. In 1896, a heath fire revealed more of the settlement, leading to the partial excavation of one hut by members of the Royal Institution of Cornwall. Between 1952 and 1963, Ivor Thomas led a series of excavations with the Lizard Field Club. These mainly focused on the southern group of huts and their immediate surroundings, with one excavation in the northern group carried out in 1954.
The digs produced over 2,000 sherds of Middle Bronze Age pottery, along with stone artefacts, flints, and fragments of clay moulds for casting bronze axes. Archaeologists also found layers of occupation debris, post holes, paving and hearths, which helped to date the earliest phase of the settlement. After an apparent period of abandonment, the site was reoccupied and expanded in two phases during the Iron Age. This continued into the Romano-British period, when oval-shaped buildings were added.
Today, a project is underway to reassess and publish the results of these excavations. This work is supported by the Farming in Protected Landscape (FiPL) scheme and the Tanner Phoenix Trust, with assistance from the Monumental Improvement project and Natural England.
The north eastern group contains at least seven circular or slightly oval hut circles, each averaging 9 metres in diameter and enclosed by walls up to 0.4 metres high. Several of these have attached enclosures. The south western group consists of at least nine circular or oval hut circles built with thick double-faced walls, all connected by boundaries to form at least three enclosures. Every building in this southern group stands on a raised, terraced platform.
The site was first recorded by the Ordnance Survey around 1880. In 1896, a heath fire revealed more of the settlement, leading to the partial excavation of one hut by members of the Royal Institution of Cornwall. Between 1952 and 1963, Ivor Thomas led a series of excavations with the Lizard Field Club. These mainly focused on the southern group of huts and their immediate surroundings, with one excavation in the northern group carried out in 1954.
The digs produced over 2,000 sherds of Middle Bronze Age pottery, along with stone artefacts, flints, and fragments of clay moulds for casting bronze axes. Archaeologists also found layers of occupation debris, post holes, paving and hearths, which helped to date the earliest phase of the settlement. After an apparent period of abandonment, the site was reoccupied and expanded in two phases during the Iron Age. This continued into the Romano-British period, when oval-shaped buildings were added.
Today, a project is underway to reassess and publish the results of these excavations. This work is supported by the Farming in Protected Landscape (FiPL) scheme and the Tanner Phoenix Trust, with assistance from the Monumental Improvement project and Natural England.
The Giant's Craw
The Pennance Scillonian chamber, known locally as the "Giant's Craw" or "Giant's House," is an entrance grave situated near Zennor, Cornwall. This prehistoric monument rests in a field on the eastern slopes of the Penwith moors, between Zennor and Treen, and remains remarkably well-preserved. The mound measures approximately 8 metres in diameter and stands nearly 2 metres high, encircled by prominent granite kerbstones. The internal chamber, still covered by four large slabs, extends 4 metres in length and faces outward toward the southeast.
Entrance graves like Pennance are characteristic of the Neolithic period, distinguished by a passage leading into a burial chamber. Specifically, the Pennance tomb exemplifies the Scillonian style of cairn, unique to the Isles of Scilly and nearby parts of mainland Cornwall. Its chamber is notably elongated compared to similar monuments, typically reaching at least the radius of the mound or even its full diameter. This distinct architectural form is rare in England but shares similarities with certain sites in Scotland, Ireland, and the Isle of Man.
Historical records provide fascinating insights into Pennance's more recent past. In 1883, during a visit by the Penzance Natural History and Antiquarian Society, a local named Mr. Cornish recounted that the tomb had been repurposed as a calf shelter some decades earlier, noting remnants of this use still lingered. He also referenced three similar barrows at nearby Trereen (Treen), adapted for practical uses such as pig housing and fern storage. Later, in 1950, archaeologist Daniel classified Pennance as one of only four confirmed mainland entrance graves at that time.
Unlike many other local dolmens stripped of their mounds, Pennance retains much of its original cairn. The mound incorporates numerous exposed cairn stones, adjusted architecturally to suit its sloping south-to-north site. Southern kerbs appear larger than those at the northern edge, likely due to size grading toward the chamber entrance. Notably, several large, possibly displaced kerb stones lie atop the mound, especially towards the southeast, suggesting past structural alterations.
The chamber itself is 4 metres long, 1.4 metres wide, and approximately 0.75 metres high, categorised by archaeologists as a constant-width passage. Intriguingly, the chamber does not align centrally within the mound but is skewed significantly to the south, possibly influenced by the hillside's slope. Its dry-stone walls support five beam-like roofing slabs, gradually descending to create a wedge-shaped chamber end. Accessing the chamber today is challenging due to its low height, requiring visitors to crawl inside. Permission from Pennance Farm is required for close visits, but the site remains visible from the nearby B3306 road near Zennor.
Entrance graves like Pennance are characteristic of the Neolithic period, distinguished by a passage leading into a burial chamber. Specifically, the Pennance tomb exemplifies the Scillonian style of cairn, unique to the Isles of Scilly and nearby parts of mainland Cornwall. Its chamber is notably elongated compared to similar monuments, typically reaching at least the radius of the mound or even its full diameter. This distinct architectural form is rare in England but shares similarities with certain sites in Scotland, Ireland, and the Isle of Man.
Historical records provide fascinating insights into Pennance's more recent past. In 1883, during a visit by the Penzance Natural History and Antiquarian Society, a local named Mr. Cornish recounted that the tomb had been repurposed as a calf shelter some decades earlier, noting remnants of this use still lingered. He also referenced three similar barrows at nearby Trereen (Treen), adapted for practical uses such as pig housing and fern storage. Later, in 1950, archaeologist Daniel classified Pennance as one of only four confirmed mainland entrance graves at that time.
Unlike many other local dolmens stripped of their mounds, Pennance retains much of its original cairn. The mound incorporates numerous exposed cairn stones, adjusted architecturally to suit its sloping south-to-north site. Southern kerbs appear larger than those at the northern edge, likely due to size grading toward the chamber entrance. Notably, several large, possibly displaced kerb stones lie atop the mound, especially towards the southeast, suggesting past structural alterations.
The chamber itself is 4 metres long, 1.4 metres wide, and approximately 0.75 metres high, categorised by archaeologists as a constant-width passage. Intriguingly, the chamber does not align centrally within the mound but is skewed significantly to the south, possibly influenced by the hillside's slope. Its dry-stone walls support five beam-like roofing slabs, gradually descending to create a wedge-shaped chamber end. Accessing the chamber today is challenging due to its low height, requiring visitors to crawl inside. Permission from Pennance Farm is required for close visits, but the site remains visible from the nearby B3306 road near Zennor.
Condolden Barrow
Condolden Barrow is a striking prehistoric monument that sits high on a hill inland from Tintagel, commanding views of the surrounding coast and valleys. Its size and position suggest it was intended for someone of great significance. Thomas Hardy imagined it as the resting place of Queen Isolde in The Famous Tragedy of the Queen of Cornwall, a romantic tragedy based on the legendary lovers Tristan and Isolde. Others associate the barrow with Cador, a 6th-century King of Cornwall and reputed companion of King Arthur. In medieval literature, including The Dream of Rhonabwy and Geoffrey of Monmouth’s History of the Kings of Britain, Cador is portrayed as a trusted warrior, Arthur’s sword bearer, and guardian of Guinevere.
Physically, Condolden Barrow is a large bowl barrow, measuring 26 metres across and nearly 3 metres high. It stands on a ridge above tributaries of the River Camel, with a partially visible quarry ditch around its base from which the mound’s material was excavated. The presence of an Ordnance Survey triangulation pillar on top attests to its prominence in the landscape. Although the mound shows signs of early disturbance—likely from antiquarian digging or stone robbing—much of it remains intact. Archaeological investigations could still yield important information about prehistoric funerary rituals, landscape use, and the communities who built it.
Bowl barrows such as this one are some of the most widespread types of prehistoric burial mounds in Britain, dating from 2400 to 1500 BC. Though their appearance varies, they were typically built of earth or rubble and used to cover single or multiple burials. Some were reused or revered long after their original purpose had passed. Condolden Barrow, despite later associations with Arthurian legend, almost certainly belongs to this earlier period. Its enduring visibility in the landscape would have continued to attract stories and meanings through the ages, especially in a region as rich in myth as Tintagel.
Place-name evidence from the surrounding area adds another layer of intrigue. As early as 1298, the land was referred to as mora de Gondolvaen, meaning ‘moor of the holed stone’. The Cornish elements suggest the past presence of a dolmen or quoit—possibly a now-lost feature associated with the barrow itself, similar to the holed stone at Tolvan in Constantine. Although no such stone survives at Condolden today, the name points to a time when the landscape held other visible markers of prehistoric ritual or burial activity, now vanished but once important enough to give their name to the land.
In more recent history, the barrow served different roles. During the 18th and 19th centuries, it lay beside a well-used road between Trenale and Tintagel, visible on early maps and known locally as ‘Cadon Barrow’. By the 1800s, it had become a survey marker for Ordnance Survey mapping, and by the 1840s, the surrounding land was being enclosed and farmed. It also became a gathering place for open-air meetings of early Bible Christians—among them Abraham Bastard, a celebrated Cornish wrestler. Although its ancient origins are prehistoric, Condolden Barrow has continued to be a place of cultural and spiritual significance across many generations.
Physically, Condolden Barrow is a large bowl barrow, measuring 26 metres across and nearly 3 metres high. It stands on a ridge above tributaries of the River Camel, with a partially visible quarry ditch around its base from which the mound’s material was excavated. The presence of an Ordnance Survey triangulation pillar on top attests to its prominence in the landscape. Although the mound shows signs of early disturbance—likely from antiquarian digging or stone robbing—much of it remains intact. Archaeological investigations could still yield important information about prehistoric funerary rituals, landscape use, and the communities who built it.
Bowl barrows such as this one are some of the most widespread types of prehistoric burial mounds in Britain, dating from 2400 to 1500 BC. Though their appearance varies, they were typically built of earth or rubble and used to cover single or multiple burials. Some were reused or revered long after their original purpose had passed. Condolden Barrow, despite later associations with Arthurian legend, almost certainly belongs to this earlier period. Its enduring visibility in the landscape would have continued to attract stories and meanings through the ages, especially in a region as rich in myth as Tintagel.
Place-name evidence from the surrounding area adds another layer of intrigue. As early as 1298, the land was referred to as mora de Gondolvaen, meaning ‘moor of the holed stone’. The Cornish elements suggest the past presence of a dolmen or quoit—possibly a now-lost feature associated with the barrow itself, similar to the holed stone at Tolvan in Constantine. Although no such stone survives at Condolden today, the name points to a time when the landscape held other visible markers of prehistoric ritual or burial activity, now vanished but once important enough to give their name to the land.
In more recent history, the barrow served different roles. During the 18th and 19th centuries, it lay beside a well-used road between Trenale and Tintagel, visible on early maps and known locally as ‘Cadon Barrow’. By the 1800s, it had become a survey marker for Ordnance Survey mapping, and by the 1840s, the surrounding land was being enclosed and farmed. It also became a gathering place for open-air meetings of early Bible Christians—among them Abraham Bastard, a celebrated Cornish wrestler. Although its ancient origins are prehistoric, Condolden Barrow has continued to be a place of cultural and spiritual significance across many generations.
Lower Boscaswell Fogou
The fogou at Lower Boscaswell is considered one of the most significant examples of its kind, having only been scientifically excavated in the mid-20th century, over a century after Copeland Borlase’s work at Chapel Euny. Historical references to the site begin with Buller in 1842, followed by Blight in 1864, though neither conducted formal excavations. Clark and Ford measured parts of the structure in the early 1950s, but it wasn't until 1954–55 that full excavations revealed the fogou’s extent. These efforts unearthed both the main gallery and side passage, along with an adjacent courtyard enclosure, offering vital clues to the structure's original use and layout.
Early descriptions by Buller suggest the site had long been part of local tradition, associated with legends of an “old castle” and even Roman coins. He mentions a subterranean chamber in a village garden, likely the same fogou, and observes that the village layout may preserve the plan of an ancient settlement. Blight, writing a few decades later, documented the fogou in greater detail, providing dimensions and speculating on its structure. He considered it a significant site in relation to Cornish and broader Celtic subterranean architecture, though some of the features he described were later lost or hidden until the modern excavations. While Robert Hunt does not directly mention the fogou in his Popular Romances of the West of England, he does record a striking piece of Christian superstition from Boscaswell, shared by Mr Blight: locals believed that those who disturbed ancient sacred places such as wells and chapels met with swift divine punishment. One man who altered a holy well, it was said, drowned the next day within sight of his house; another, who removed stones from an old chapel, supposedly had his home burn down that very night.
The excavations of 1954 revealed a fogou constructed of large granite slabs and squared stones, with evidence of a curved passage running east to west and connected to a larger prehistoric site. Only two of the original roof lintels remained in place, while modern walling had blocked key sections. A substantial wall facing the entrance suggested a former north entrance, and this, along with traces of similar construction seen at sites like Pendeen, implies that massive walls may have been a defining feature of fogou complexes, possibly with defensive or economic purposes still unclear to archaeologists. These architectural features—often misunderstood or overlooked—may have had practical as well as symbolic importance, especially in settlement contexts tied to Iron Age cultural practices.
Particularly notable was the eastern enclosure into which the fogou appeared to open. This courtyard building, likely built on ancient foundations, may be the only known example of a courtyard house directly connected to a fogou. Excavations in this area revealed carefully constructed stone walls, a stone step feature in the rab (floor), and a change from horizontal to vertical stonework that marked the point of entry into the courtyard structure. The wall dimensions and gradual elevation changes provided further evidence that this eastern section had once been roofed and functionally connected to the fogou's original layout. As the excavators removed layers of fill and rubble, they were able to reconstruct how the fogou had once emerged from beneath the landscape into a more formal structure above.
These excavations confirmed many of Blight’s early assumptions while correcting others, such as the length and function of the side passage, which terminated in a finely built doorway rather than extending toward the village as he had believed. The structure's complexity, along with the associated pottery sherds identified by Charles Thomas, places it firmly in the La Tène period. The fact that Buller referenced the fogou’s location in a “small garden” and that Hunt recorded tales of divine punishment at Boscaswell hints at a continued reverence for ancient places well into the Christian era. This mixture of pre-Christian architecture and Christian-era superstition makes the Boscaswell fogou not just archaeologically important, but culturally rich—one of the most revealing and sensitively excavated fogous in all of Penwith.
Early descriptions by Buller suggest the site had long been part of local tradition, associated with legends of an “old castle” and even Roman coins. He mentions a subterranean chamber in a village garden, likely the same fogou, and observes that the village layout may preserve the plan of an ancient settlement. Blight, writing a few decades later, documented the fogou in greater detail, providing dimensions and speculating on its structure. He considered it a significant site in relation to Cornish and broader Celtic subterranean architecture, though some of the features he described were later lost or hidden until the modern excavations. While Robert Hunt does not directly mention the fogou in his Popular Romances of the West of England, he does record a striking piece of Christian superstition from Boscaswell, shared by Mr Blight: locals believed that those who disturbed ancient sacred places such as wells and chapels met with swift divine punishment. One man who altered a holy well, it was said, drowned the next day within sight of his house; another, who removed stones from an old chapel, supposedly had his home burn down that very night.
The excavations of 1954 revealed a fogou constructed of large granite slabs and squared stones, with evidence of a curved passage running east to west and connected to a larger prehistoric site. Only two of the original roof lintels remained in place, while modern walling had blocked key sections. A substantial wall facing the entrance suggested a former north entrance, and this, along with traces of similar construction seen at sites like Pendeen, implies that massive walls may have been a defining feature of fogou complexes, possibly with defensive or economic purposes still unclear to archaeologists. These architectural features—often misunderstood or overlooked—may have had practical as well as symbolic importance, especially in settlement contexts tied to Iron Age cultural practices.
Particularly notable was the eastern enclosure into which the fogou appeared to open. This courtyard building, likely built on ancient foundations, may be the only known example of a courtyard house directly connected to a fogou. Excavations in this area revealed carefully constructed stone walls, a stone step feature in the rab (floor), and a change from horizontal to vertical stonework that marked the point of entry into the courtyard structure. The wall dimensions and gradual elevation changes provided further evidence that this eastern section had once been roofed and functionally connected to the fogou's original layout. As the excavators removed layers of fill and rubble, they were able to reconstruct how the fogou had once emerged from beneath the landscape into a more formal structure above.
These excavations confirmed many of Blight’s early assumptions while correcting others, such as the length and function of the side passage, which terminated in a finely built doorway rather than extending toward the village as he had believed. The structure's complexity, along with the associated pottery sherds identified by Charles Thomas, places it firmly in the La Tène period. The fact that Buller referenced the fogou’s location in a “small garden” and that Hunt recorded tales of divine punishment at Boscaswell hints at a continued reverence for ancient places well into the Christian era. This mixture of pre-Christian architecture and Christian-era superstition makes the Boscaswell fogou not just archaeologically important, but culturally rich—one of the most revealing and sensitively excavated fogous in all of Penwith.
The Seven Stones Reef
The Seven Stones reef, located between Land’s End and the Isles of Scilly, is both a notorious maritime hazard and the focus of one of Cornwall’s most enduring legends. Geologically, the reef is part of the Cornubian granite batholith, formed over 275 million years ago. It rises sharply from depths of around 110 metres and spans nearly two miles in length. Named formations such as Pollards Rock, Flemish Ledges and the ledge known as the Town are visible at low tide. But in Cornish folklore, these stones are all that remain of Lyonesse, or Lethowsow in Cornish, a once prosperous land said to have stretched between Cornwall and Scilly, now lost beneath the sea.
The reef’s danger to shipping is well documented. Over 200 wrecks are thought to lie in its waters, including the Primrose in 1656 and HMS Lizard in 1748, which sank with over 100 lives lost. At the same time, medieval chronicles and local tradition speak of a sunken world. Florence of Worcester recorded a great flood in 1099 that drowned towns and livestock. Later writers like Richard Carew described fishermen pulling up fragments of old doors and windows in their nets. The idea of a drowned land endures in these accounts, and the name Lethowsow itself, meaning “the milky ones,” refers to the constant churning white water around the reef.
In modern times, the most infamous event linked to the Seven Stones was the wreck of the supertanker Torrey Canyon in March 1967. The ship struck Pollards Rock, causing a vast oil spill that polluted 120 miles of Cornish coast and 50 miles of the Brittany shore. It was the first major oil pollution disaster of its kind and remains one of the worst in UK history. French fishing boats, often seen in the area collecting crab and lobster, were among the first to respond to the unfolding crisis. The scale of the incident brought international attention to the reef and its dangers.
To mark the location and reduce further accidents, a lightvessel was moored near the reef in 1841. Positioned 2.5 miles to the northeast in calmer water, the vessel has served as a warning for passing ships ever since. It has endured storms, collisions and even wartime attacks, including bombing raids during the Second World War. Since 1987, the lightship has been fully automated and now operates as an unmanned weather station. Despite these modern defences, the reef still carries a reputation that goes beyond the physical, a presence shaped as much by memory and myth as by charts and markers.
Accounts collected by antiquarians such as William Camden speak of locals who believed they could hear the bells of the drowned city ringing beneath the sea. In clear conditions, some claimed to see walls and field boundaries below the surface, particularly around the Sampson Flats. Whether these stories stem from folk memory, submerged postglacial landscapes, or something more symbolic, the legend of Lyonesse continues to haunt the reef.
The reef’s danger to shipping is well documented. Over 200 wrecks are thought to lie in its waters, including the Primrose in 1656 and HMS Lizard in 1748, which sank with over 100 lives lost. At the same time, medieval chronicles and local tradition speak of a sunken world. Florence of Worcester recorded a great flood in 1099 that drowned towns and livestock. Later writers like Richard Carew described fishermen pulling up fragments of old doors and windows in their nets. The idea of a drowned land endures in these accounts, and the name Lethowsow itself, meaning “the milky ones,” refers to the constant churning white water around the reef.
In modern times, the most infamous event linked to the Seven Stones was the wreck of the supertanker Torrey Canyon in March 1967. The ship struck Pollards Rock, causing a vast oil spill that polluted 120 miles of Cornish coast and 50 miles of the Brittany shore. It was the first major oil pollution disaster of its kind and remains one of the worst in UK history. French fishing boats, often seen in the area collecting crab and lobster, were among the first to respond to the unfolding crisis. The scale of the incident brought international attention to the reef and its dangers.
To mark the location and reduce further accidents, a lightvessel was moored near the reef in 1841. Positioned 2.5 miles to the northeast in calmer water, the vessel has served as a warning for passing ships ever since. It has endured storms, collisions and even wartime attacks, including bombing raids during the Second World War. Since 1987, the lightship has been fully automated and now operates as an unmanned weather station. Despite these modern defences, the reef still carries a reputation that goes beyond the physical, a presence shaped as much by memory and myth as by charts and markers.
Accounts collected by antiquarians such as William Camden speak of locals who believed they could hear the bells of the drowned city ringing beneath the sea. In clear conditions, some claimed to see walls and field boundaries below the surface, particularly around the Sampson Flats. Whether these stories stem from folk memory, submerged postglacial landscapes, or something more symbolic, the legend of Lyonesse continues to haunt the reef.
The Nag's Head Rock
On the island of St Agnes in the Isles of Scilly, there’s no shortage of strange and sculptural rock formations, but one in particular always seems to catch the eye: the Nag’s Head. Towering around 15 feet (4.5 metres) high, this weathered granite outcrop is so named because of the uncanny resemblance its upper portion bears to a horse’s head.
While the Nag’s Head is likely the result of natural weathering and erosion, it’s easy to imagine how people across the ages might have interpreted it differently. The Cornish antiquarian William Borlase once suggested that such a site could have been used by the Druids for ritual activity. Whether or not that’s true, it’s not hard to imagine this distinctive outcrop holding some spiritual or symbolic significance to those who lived or passed through here. In a landscape scattered with odd granite forms, the Nag’s Head still manages to feel uniquely charged.
Geologically, the formation is part of the broader granite batholith that underpins not only St Agnes but also stretches across Cornwall and the Isles of Scilly. This immense body of rock was formed around 290 million years ago, and over the millennia, wind, salt, and water have sculpted it into all manner of strange and seemingly sentient forms.
While the Nag’s Head is likely the result of natural weathering and erosion, it’s easy to imagine how people across the ages might have interpreted it differently. The Cornish antiquarian William Borlase once suggested that such a site could have been used by the Druids for ritual activity. Whether or not that’s true, it’s not hard to imagine this distinctive outcrop holding some spiritual or symbolic significance to those who lived or passed through here. In a landscape scattered with odd granite forms, the Nag’s Head still manages to feel uniquely charged.
Geologically, the formation is part of the broader granite batholith that underpins not only St Agnes but also stretches across Cornwall and the Isles of Scilly. This immense body of rock was formed around 290 million years ago, and over the millennia, wind, salt, and water have sculpted it into all manner of strange and seemingly sentient forms.
Lostwithiel's Medieval Grave Slab
A medieval grave slab stands south of St Bartholomew’s Church in Lostwithiel. This tapered, rectangular granite block measures about 1.26 metres high, 0.45 metres wide at the top (narrowing to 0.32 metres), and 0.17 metres thick. It is set upright in a modern granite base with its principal faces oriented north-south.
The north face is plain, while the south face has unusual relief decoration: a circle with three small circular bosses at the top and bottom, an additional boss above the circle, and a long limb extending down from its base. There is also a deep cupped depression at the top, similar to a mortar, which makes this design quite distinctive compared to more conventional medieval grave slabs.
The slab was discovered in the churchyard in 1850. Between 1857 and 1869, it served as a gravestone in the new cemetery before being brought back to the churchyard. It lay there until 1958 when it was finally set into its current granite base, which bears an inscription from the Lostwithiel Old Cornwall Society noting where it was found.
Although two small drill holes are modern additions, likely made for attaching a memorial tablet during its time as a gravestone, the slab itself is believed to have been the lid of a medieval grave belonging to a wealthy or important person, possibly a priest.
The north face is plain, while the south face has unusual relief decoration: a circle with three small circular bosses at the top and bottom, an additional boss above the circle, and a long limb extending down from its base. There is also a deep cupped depression at the top, similar to a mortar, which makes this design quite distinctive compared to more conventional medieval grave slabs.
The slab was discovered in the churchyard in 1850. Between 1857 and 1869, it served as a gravestone in the new cemetery before being brought back to the churchyard. It lay there until 1958 when it was finally set into its current granite base, which bears an inscription from the Lostwithiel Old Cornwall Society noting where it was found.
Although two small drill holes are modern additions, likely made for attaching a memorial tablet during its time as a gravestone, the slab itself is believed to have been the lid of a medieval grave belonging to a wealthy or important person, possibly a priest.
The Trelew Standing Stone
This imposing 3-metre standing stone, has inspired generations of curiosity and speculation. Early antiquarians described it in vivid terms: “very irregularly shaped” and “very bulky with a peculiar twisted appearance,” a monument that seems to resist simple categorisation. Though it was recorded by Blight in 1856, Edmonds later asserted that Halliwell was in fact the first to document it in print. The stone’s distinctive form, combined with its elevated position, ensured it could never be merely overlooked or mistaken for a stray boulder. When W.C. Borlase excavated the site in 1871—a particularly busy year for him—he discovered a small pit near the base containing cremated bone fragments, charred wood, baked clay and splintered flint. This compelling mix of materials offers clear evidence that the stone was woven into a ritual landscape far older than any surviving record.
Ian McNeil offers a particularly evocative interpretation of menhirs, viewing them not simply as markers or territorial boundaries but as dynamic instruments of energy. In his conception, a menhir functions as an interface facilitator, bridging earth and sky like a cosmic lightning rod. The upright form, reminiscent of Hindu lingams, was intended to channel celestial forces—the “sperm,” in McNeil’s striking metaphor—into the receptive earth, the “egg.” By inserting this energy-conductor into an energy vortex, a concentrated and amplified field would arise, enabling the earth-sky connection to flourish. This perspective underscores why menhirs were never erected directly on mounds: the energies of the masculine pillar and the feminine cairn would cancel each other out. Yet they were often located in proximity, complementing each other from a respectful distance—examples being the cairns flanking the Nine Maidens stone circle or the combination of cairns and standing stones on nearby Watch Croft.
Menhirs across West Penwith are often found in carefully considered relationships with other features in the prehistoric landscape. Not far from this particular stone, cairns and barrows stand witness to the same transformative impulse that cleared the ancient woodlands and reshaped the land into a network of sacred alignments. Around 150 menhirs are known to have existed in this region alone, with 74 still surviving in the landscape. Most date to the Bronze Age between roughly 2500 and 1800 BCE, a time when communities invested enormous effort into quarrying, hauling, and erecting these hulking forms. As McNeil notes, the work was not merely mechanical. It demanded shared vision, leadership, surveying skills and a collective understanding that these stones created an enduring framework, both physical and psychological, that would last for generations. No stone existed in isolation. Each one was part of an interconnected web, anchoring alignments, rituals and a new relationship between people and place.
The excavation account from 1871 adds a final, haunting detail. Borlase’s team sank a pit on the northern side of the pillar. About three feet below the surface, they found a deposit of splintered bones, strongly cemented together, mingled with charred wood and fragments of flint subjected to intense heat. There was also a piece of rudely baked reddish clay, about two inches in diameter, shaped like a stopper or plug. The deposit was not protected by any covering slab or cist, simply set within the clay-rich soil at the foot of the menhir. One of the most curious aspects is that this stone appears to have been erected on its narrowest end, an unusual choice that must have held particular significance. Today, the stone remains set firmly in the landscape at SW 42172693, its wedge-shaped form measuring nearly a metre across at the base. Whether you see it as an axis mundi, an ancient energy conductor or simply a testament to prehistoric ingenuity, it is a stone of great importance.
Ian McNeil offers a particularly evocative interpretation of menhirs, viewing them not simply as markers or territorial boundaries but as dynamic instruments of energy. In his conception, a menhir functions as an interface facilitator, bridging earth and sky like a cosmic lightning rod. The upright form, reminiscent of Hindu lingams, was intended to channel celestial forces—the “sperm,” in McNeil’s striking metaphor—into the receptive earth, the “egg.” By inserting this energy-conductor into an energy vortex, a concentrated and amplified field would arise, enabling the earth-sky connection to flourish. This perspective underscores why menhirs were never erected directly on mounds: the energies of the masculine pillar and the feminine cairn would cancel each other out. Yet they were often located in proximity, complementing each other from a respectful distance—examples being the cairns flanking the Nine Maidens stone circle or the combination of cairns and standing stones on nearby Watch Croft.
Menhirs across West Penwith are often found in carefully considered relationships with other features in the prehistoric landscape. Not far from this particular stone, cairns and barrows stand witness to the same transformative impulse that cleared the ancient woodlands and reshaped the land into a network of sacred alignments. Around 150 menhirs are known to have existed in this region alone, with 74 still surviving in the landscape. Most date to the Bronze Age between roughly 2500 and 1800 BCE, a time when communities invested enormous effort into quarrying, hauling, and erecting these hulking forms. As McNeil notes, the work was not merely mechanical. It demanded shared vision, leadership, surveying skills and a collective understanding that these stones created an enduring framework, both physical and psychological, that would last for generations. No stone existed in isolation. Each one was part of an interconnected web, anchoring alignments, rituals and a new relationship between people and place.
The excavation account from 1871 adds a final, haunting detail. Borlase’s team sank a pit on the northern side of the pillar. About three feet below the surface, they found a deposit of splintered bones, strongly cemented together, mingled with charred wood and fragments of flint subjected to intense heat. There was also a piece of rudely baked reddish clay, about two inches in diameter, shaped like a stopper or plug. The deposit was not protected by any covering slab or cist, simply set within the clay-rich soil at the foot of the menhir. One of the most curious aspects is that this stone appears to have been erected on its narrowest end, an unusual choice that must have held particular significance. Today, the stone remains set firmly in the landscape at SW 42172693, its wedge-shaped form measuring nearly a metre across at the base. Whether you see it as an axis mundi, an ancient energy conductor or simply a testament to prehistoric ingenuity, it is a stone of great importance.
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