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Dive into the rich landscapes that shaped Cornwall’s folklore. From ancient sites steeped in mystery to dramatic coastlines whispered about in legends, our locations section brings these stories to life, connecting you to the heart of Cornwall’s enchanted past.
Brane Barrow
Tucked beside a quiet farm near Sancreed, Brane Barrow is one of the most exquisite and best preserved entrance graves in Cornwall. Once hailed by Borlase as 'the most perfect of its kind in the West of England', this diminutive monument is easy to mistake for a simple stone hut until you notice the scale of its megalithic stones. Its remarkable survival is owed, in part, to its usefulness: farmers once let it stand as a shelter for pigs and sheep.
The barrow is enclosed within a cairn of around 5 metres in diameter, edged with large kerb stones. A narrow entrance leads into a chamber built from huge upright and capping slabs, differing from the drystone wall construction found in similar tombs. Like other Penwith barrows, its chamber extends beyond the centre of the mound. Intriguingly, the passageway appears aligned with the midwinter sunrise, mirroring one of the chambers at nearby Carn Euny.
Brane Barrow required extensive restoration in the late 20th century after livestock erosion compromised the mound. While it is not entirely clear what repairs were undertaken, the barrow still closely resembles Borlase’s 19th century drawings, albeit a little less rotund. Though partially overgrown today, its roof slabs remain firmly in place, and the passage is clearly defined. Visitors should note: the site lies on private land, and permission is needed from Brane Farm before visiting.
Entrance graves like this one are unique to the Isles of Scilly and the Penwith peninsula. Built between 2500 and 1000 BC, they were ritual spaces as much as burial sites. Some housed cremated remains or urns, others reveal midden debris, animal bones and artefacts, suggesting ceremonial or even domestic offerings. Of the 93 known examples in England, only 14 survive on mainland Cornwall. The grave at Brane is not only one of the smallest, but also among the best preserved.
There are deeper theories too. Some believe chambered cairns like this were designed to hold light, aligned with solstices or lunar cycles to draw celestial energy into the earth. Others suggest they were built atop energy vortices or used for rites of passage, fertility or conscious dying. Whatever their purpose, Brane Barrow still carries a quiet presence, a space shaped by stone, time and mystery.
The barrow is enclosed within a cairn of around 5 metres in diameter, edged with large kerb stones. A narrow entrance leads into a chamber built from huge upright and capping slabs, differing from the drystone wall construction found in similar tombs. Like other Penwith barrows, its chamber extends beyond the centre of the mound. Intriguingly, the passageway appears aligned with the midwinter sunrise, mirroring one of the chambers at nearby Carn Euny.
Brane Barrow required extensive restoration in the late 20th century after livestock erosion compromised the mound. While it is not entirely clear what repairs were undertaken, the barrow still closely resembles Borlase’s 19th century drawings, albeit a little less rotund. Though partially overgrown today, its roof slabs remain firmly in place, and the passage is clearly defined. Visitors should note: the site lies on private land, and permission is needed from Brane Farm before visiting.
Entrance graves like this one are unique to the Isles of Scilly and the Penwith peninsula. Built between 2500 and 1000 BC, they were ritual spaces as much as burial sites. Some housed cremated remains or urns, others reveal midden debris, animal bones and artefacts, suggesting ceremonial or even domestic offerings. Of the 93 known examples in England, only 14 survive on mainland Cornwall. The grave at Brane is not only one of the smallest, but also among the best preserved.
There are deeper theories too. Some believe chambered cairns like this were designed to hold light, aligned with solstices or lunar cycles to draw celestial energy into the earth. Others suggest they were built atop energy vortices or used for rites of passage, fertility or conscious dying. Whatever their purpose, Brane Barrow still carries a quiet presence, a space shaped by stone, time and mystery.
Mên Scryfa
Mên Scryfa, meaning "stone with writing," is an inscribed standing stone located in a field near the Madron to Morvah road in Cornwall, just 300 metres north of the famous Mên an Tol stones. Standing at 1.7 metres tall and made of granite, it is rectangular in section and bears a Latin inscription on its northern face. Though part of the inscription is now buried, it has remained clearly legible and of considerable archaeological interest.
The inscription, carved in debased Roman capitals, reads RIALOBRANI CVNOVALI FILI, translating as "Rialobranus, son of Cunovalus." While Rialobran is not otherwise documented, it is believed he may have been a local tribal leader or petty king during the post Roman period. The name may derive from Cornish roots meaning “royal raven,” while Cunovalus could mean “famous leader” or “worthy hound.” The wording and style suggest the stone dates to the 5th to 8th centuries AD, although the stone itself may be prehistoric and later repurposed as a Christian memorial.
According to local tradition, a great battle was fought nearby in which Rialobran was slain while attempting to reclaim his father’s lands. The standing stone marks the place where he fell, and its length—over 1.8 metres—was once believed to match the height of the fallen warrior. The story connects Rialobran to Bran, the mythic Celtic chieftain mentioned in the Welsh Mabinogi, suggesting a blend of oral folklore and heroic memory embedded in the Cornish landscape.
Over the centuries, Mên Scryfa has suffered damage and disruption. Antiquarian William Borlase recorded it lying flat in 1769, and it was reerected in 1825 only to be toppled again by treasure hunters in 1849. It lay face down until around 1862, when it was raised once more, though with the lower part of the inscription remaining buried. Sadly, the site was vandalised again in June 2023, when the top of the stone was burned with petrol and a hole was dug around its base. The authorities and CASPN were informed.
Despite these setbacks, Mên Scryfa remains one of Cornwall’s finest examples of an early medieval memorial stone. Its inscription is rare for the period, offering valuable insight into local power structures and linguistic heritage in post Roman Britain. The presence of two incised crosses above the inscription suggests it was Christianised, perhaps deliberately marking a once pagan monument with sacred Christian symbols, a testament to a cultural transition in the Cornish spiritual landscape.
The inscription, carved in debased Roman capitals, reads RIALOBRANI CVNOVALI FILI, translating as "Rialobranus, son of Cunovalus." While Rialobran is not otherwise documented, it is believed he may have been a local tribal leader or petty king during the post Roman period. The name may derive from Cornish roots meaning “royal raven,” while Cunovalus could mean “famous leader” or “worthy hound.” The wording and style suggest the stone dates to the 5th to 8th centuries AD, although the stone itself may be prehistoric and later repurposed as a Christian memorial.
According to local tradition, a great battle was fought nearby in which Rialobran was slain while attempting to reclaim his father’s lands. The standing stone marks the place where he fell, and its length—over 1.8 metres—was once believed to match the height of the fallen warrior. The story connects Rialobran to Bran, the mythic Celtic chieftain mentioned in the Welsh Mabinogi, suggesting a blend of oral folklore and heroic memory embedded in the Cornish landscape.
Over the centuries, Mên Scryfa has suffered damage and disruption. Antiquarian William Borlase recorded it lying flat in 1769, and it was reerected in 1825 only to be toppled again by treasure hunters in 1849. It lay face down until around 1862, when it was raised once more, though with the lower part of the inscription remaining buried. Sadly, the site was vandalised again in June 2023, when the top of the stone was burned with petrol and a hole was dug around its base. The authorities and CASPN were informed.
Despite these setbacks, Mên Scryfa remains one of Cornwall’s finest examples of an early medieval memorial stone. Its inscription is rare for the period, offering valuable insight into local power structures and linguistic heritage in post Roman Britain. The presence of two incised crosses above the inscription suggests it was Christianised, perhaps deliberately marking a once pagan monument with sacred Christian symbols, a testament to a cultural transition in the Cornish spiritual landscape.
Daniel Gumb's Cave
Daniel Gumb’s cave is one of the more peculiar dwellings to be found on Bodmin Moor. Perched now on the edge of the old Cheesewring Quarry, the structure was not always in its current position. When it was originally built in the early 18th century, it stood on solid ground, but that ground was later carved away by quarrying activity. Fortunately, when the quarry expanded in the 19th century, workers preserved the dwelling by relocating its main stones. What remains today is a partial reconstruction of what was once a larger home, measuring around thirty feet in length and made up of three rooms beneath a massive granite slab.
Gumb, born in 1703 in Linkinhorne, was a stonecutter by trade, and he built the cave entirely by hand around 1735. Over time, he shared this austere home with three wives, each in turn, and nine children. It may not have been the most comfortable of homes, but it came with no rent and was crafted from the very rock he worked each day. Daniel was not only a skilled craftsman but also a self-taught mathematician and devoted astronomer. He spent many evenings studying Euclid under the stars, carving mathematical diagrams into the slabs of his home.
One such diagram, still visible today, is believed to be a proof of Pythagoras’s Theorem. Wilkie Collins, writing in Rambles Beyond Railways, described “the rock where he used to sit on calm summer evenings, absorbed over his tattered copy of Euclid.” Known as the Mountain Philosopher, Gumb’s reputation for intellect reached beyond the moor. Even William Cookworthy, who discovered China Clay in Cornwall, sought him out for conversation and study.
Daniel Gumb died in 1776 at the age of seventy-three. His cave would have been lost to the quarry if not for the foresight of those who preserved it. Though smaller now, it still carries traces of his work, including carved diagrams and initials. A survey he completed in 1768 is held in the County Record Office, and his gravestone speaks to his humour and humility:
"Here I lie by the churchyard door / Here I lie because I'm poor / The further in, the more you pay / But here lie I as warm as they."
In a land filled with myth, Daniel Gumb remains one of Cornwall’s most fascinating real-life legends.
Gumb, born in 1703 in Linkinhorne, was a stonecutter by trade, and he built the cave entirely by hand around 1735. Over time, he shared this austere home with three wives, each in turn, and nine children. It may not have been the most comfortable of homes, but it came with no rent and was crafted from the very rock he worked each day. Daniel was not only a skilled craftsman but also a self-taught mathematician and devoted astronomer. He spent many evenings studying Euclid under the stars, carving mathematical diagrams into the slabs of his home.
One such diagram, still visible today, is believed to be a proof of Pythagoras’s Theorem. Wilkie Collins, writing in Rambles Beyond Railways, described “the rock where he used to sit on calm summer evenings, absorbed over his tattered copy of Euclid.” Known as the Mountain Philosopher, Gumb’s reputation for intellect reached beyond the moor. Even William Cookworthy, who discovered China Clay in Cornwall, sought him out for conversation and study.
Daniel Gumb died in 1776 at the age of seventy-three. His cave would have been lost to the quarry if not for the foresight of those who preserved it. Though smaller now, it still carries traces of his work, including carved diagrams and initials. A survey he completed in 1768 is held in the County Record Office, and his gravestone speaks to his humour and humility:
"Here I lie by the churchyard door / Here I lie because I'm poor / The further in, the more you pay / But here lie I as warm as they."
In a land filled with myth, Daniel Gumb remains one of Cornwall’s most fascinating real-life legends.
Carrag-Luz
Carrag-Luz, often romantically mistranslated as “Love Rock,” actually derives from the Cornish carrag luz, meaning “grey rock.” This granite outcrop forms part of a dramatic geological boundary on the Lizard Peninsula. At Polurrian, this boundary marks a significant shift in Cornwall’s bedrock—from the slate formations of the north and west to the hornblende schist that defines the Lizard. The grey rock of Carrag-Luz, a granite dyke, cuts through surrounding metamorphic and sedimentary rocks, having been formed deep within the Earth’s mantle during the Devonian period, around 417 to 354 million years ago.
This dyke is strikingly different from the surrounding rock, which developed later from sediments deposited in ancient deep seas. Over time, the region’s softer slate has been steadily eroded by the sea, giving rise to the coves, caves, and jagged coastline that now characterise this part of Cornwall. Harder rock formations like Carrag-Luz have resisted this erosion, leaving distinctive headlands such as Hartriza Point, while the surrounding mudstones and breccias reveal a complex geological story shaped by ancient volcanic activity and tectonic forces.
In 1967, the landowner Mr. Peter Hadley discovered the remains of an Iron Age fort near Lankidden, perched atop the craggy cliffs of Carrag-Luz. The following year, excavations unearthed a wealth of prehistoric material—worked flint tools, pottery sherds, and traces of a roundhouse—within the small fields enclosed by ancient granite hedges. These field systems, remarkably preserved in this remote coastal area, provide a glimpse into a landscape that has changed little since prehistoric times, having escaped the widespread hedge removal of the Agricultural Revolution.
Known locally as Lankidden or Carrick Luz Fort, the site is classified as a promontory fort, using the natural protection of steep cliffs on three sides. Its inland boundary is marked by a 4-metre-high rampart and a buried ditch that cuts across the headland. First recorded by the antiquarian Thomas in 1851, the site stands as a powerful testament to early human settlement in Cornwall, where geology, folklore, and history intertwine atop these windswept rocks above Mullion Cove.
This dyke is strikingly different from the surrounding rock, which developed later from sediments deposited in ancient deep seas. Over time, the region’s softer slate has been steadily eroded by the sea, giving rise to the coves, caves, and jagged coastline that now characterise this part of Cornwall. Harder rock formations like Carrag-Luz have resisted this erosion, leaving distinctive headlands such as Hartriza Point, while the surrounding mudstones and breccias reveal a complex geological story shaped by ancient volcanic activity and tectonic forces.
In 1967, the landowner Mr. Peter Hadley discovered the remains of an Iron Age fort near Lankidden, perched atop the craggy cliffs of Carrag-Luz. The following year, excavations unearthed a wealth of prehistoric material—worked flint tools, pottery sherds, and traces of a roundhouse—within the small fields enclosed by ancient granite hedges. These field systems, remarkably preserved in this remote coastal area, provide a glimpse into a landscape that has changed little since prehistoric times, having escaped the widespread hedge removal of the Agricultural Revolution.
Known locally as Lankidden or Carrick Luz Fort, the site is classified as a promontory fort, using the natural protection of steep cliffs on three sides. Its inland boundary is marked by a 4-metre-high rampart and a buried ditch that cuts across the headland. First recorded by the antiquarian Thomas in 1851, the site stands as a powerful testament to early human settlement in Cornwall, where geology, folklore, and history intertwine atop these windswept rocks above Mullion Cove.
Chysauster Fogou
This vintage photograph shows the Chysauster fogou before it was sealed and access was blocked by English Heritage, who deemed the structure too dangerous to enter and too costly to restore. Like many fogous in Cornwall, this souterrain sits within a larger settlement, specifically the well preserved Iron Age and Romano British courtyard house complex at Chysauster, about a mile west of Castle an Dinas hillfort on the Land’s End peninsula. Sadly, the fogou is now in a heavily ruined state, with much of its structure collapsed or buried.
According to the 2002 reprint of the site’s guidebook, the fogou was partially excavated by William Borlase, who discovered that the original floor lay around six feet below the existing ground level. Most of the capstones had been removed by the time of his investigation, although two remain in place and a third has fallen. For safety reasons, the passage is now sealed with iron bars. An 1861 excavation recorded that the fogou may once have extended uphill for at least 50 feet. As of 1982, two roofing stones remained, and indications suggested the structure may have originally measured around 11 metres, possibly connected to a nearby courtyard house.
Earlier records by Henry Crozier in the mid 19th century referred to the structure as a voe or sepulchral chamber. Today, only part of a single roofing lintel, approximately 1.65 metres long, is visible. The passage below has been infilled, and the open approach trench has been backfilled and grassed over, forming a sloping bank beneath the remaining stonework. A second fogou was also recorded by Crozier near a hedge on the northwest edge of the site, marked by granite stiles and a sunken, partially paved trackway. However, it is more likely this was not a fogou but an old sunken approach road into the settlement.
According to the 2002 reprint of the site’s guidebook, the fogou was partially excavated by William Borlase, who discovered that the original floor lay around six feet below the existing ground level. Most of the capstones had been removed by the time of his investigation, although two remain in place and a third has fallen. For safety reasons, the passage is now sealed with iron bars. An 1861 excavation recorded that the fogou may once have extended uphill for at least 50 feet. As of 1982, two roofing stones remained, and indications suggested the structure may have originally measured around 11 metres, possibly connected to a nearby courtyard house.
Earlier records by Henry Crozier in the mid 19th century referred to the structure as a voe or sepulchral chamber. Today, only part of a single roofing lintel, approximately 1.65 metres long, is visible. The passage below has been infilled, and the open approach trench has been backfilled and grassed over, forming a sloping bank beneath the remaining stonework. A second fogou was also recorded by Crozier near a hedge on the northwest edge of the site, marked by granite stiles and a sunken, partially paved trackway. However, it is more likely this was not a fogou but an old sunken approach road into the settlement.
Duloe Stone Circle
Duloe Stone Circle, nestled in the small village of Duloe between Liskeard and Looe, stands as a unique ancient monument. Its eight white quartz stones form an oval measuring roughly 12 metres by 10 metres, with some stones weighing up to nine tons and reaching over 2.4 metres in height. The alternating pattern of large and small stones around the circle hints at a deliberate design and suggests that about 35 people would have been needed to move and raise the four largest stones.
Dating from around 2000 BCE, Duloe Stone Circle is thought to have served as a community gathering place for ceremonies and rituals, possibly involving astronomical observations or the veneration of ancestors. It sits on a ridge between two wooded valleys, a location likely chosen for its prominence in the landscape. Despite many theories, the precise purpose of such stone circles remains a mystery, adding to their enduring allure.
The site was first officially recorded in 1801, and in the 19th century, a hedge bisected the circle until its removal in 1858. During this work, three stones were re-erected and a Bronze Age urn containing cremated remains was discovered, suggesting that the circle may once have been associated with a barrow or burial mound. The discovery of this urn ties the site to funerary practices and reinforces its ceremonial significance.
Duloe Stone Circle's white quartz stones glisten in the sunlight, with veins of translucent quartz running down their lichen-covered surfaces. Its diminutive diameter and striking stones make it unique in Cornwall, where most stone circles are larger and less visually dramatic. Despite the encroachment of modern structures, the circle retains a strong sense of the ancient past and evokes a profound sense of wonder.
Visitors often find that Duloe Stone Circle’s small size and seclusion create an intimate experience. Standing within the circle, surrounded by these massive quartz stones, fosters a feeling of enclosure and reflection. Though modern roads and houses lie nearby, the circle remains a captivating window into Cornwall’s prehistoric world—a testament to the skill and vision of the ancient communities who built it.
Dating from around 2000 BCE, Duloe Stone Circle is thought to have served as a community gathering place for ceremonies and rituals, possibly involving astronomical observations or the veneration of ancestors. It sits on a ridge between two wooded valleys, a location likely chosen for its prominence in the landscape. Despite many theories, the precise purpose of such stone circles remains a mystery, adding to their enduring allure.
The site was first officially recorded in 1801, and in the 19th century, a hedge bisected the circle until its removal in 1858. During this work, three stones were re-erected and a Bronze Age urn containing cremated remains was discovered, suggesting that the circle may once have been associated with a barrow or burial mound. The discovery of this urn ties the site to funerary practices and reinforces its ceremonial significance.
Duloe Stone Circle's white quartz stones glisten in the sunlight, with veins of translucent quartz running down their lichen-covered surfaces. Its diminutive diameter and striking stones make it unique in Cornwall, where most stone circles are larger and less visually dramatic. Despite the encroachment of modern structures, the circle retains a strong sense of the ancient past and evokes a profound sense of wonder.
Visitors often find that Duloe Stone Circle’s small size and seclusion create an intimate experience. Standing within the circle, surrounded by these massive quartz stones, fosters a feeling of enclosure and reflection. Though modern roads and houses lie nearby, the circle remains a captivating window into Cornwall’s prehistoric world—a testament to the skill and vision of the ancient communities who built it.
St Hilary's Stones
The 5/6th century memorial stone in St Hilary's churchyard is an important historical artifact, still surviving well despite its past reuse as a foundation stone. The inscription on the stone is both clear and legible, making it a rare find from a period that typically lacks such historical references. The inscription is of particular importance as it provides insight into the early medieval period. The discovery and re-erection of the stone in the 19th century highlights the ongoing use of St Hilary's churchyard as a burial site, stretching from the Dark Ages to the present day.
Notably, the association of the stone with a cross slab is an unusual feature, adding to the monument's significance. The cross slab is a distinctive element, enhancing the archaeological value of the site. The presence of both a memorial stone and a cross slab in close proximity reflects a strong link to early Christian traditions, which were integral to Cornwall's religious landscape during the early medieval era.
The early Christian memorial stone itself is an upright granite shaft, measuring 1.9 meters high and 0.47 meters wide at the base, tapering slightly towards the top. At the base, the thickness measures 0.25 meters, tapering to 0.22 meters towards the top. The principal faces of the stone are oriented east-west. The west-facing face of the stone bears an inscription that is incised in an early medieval script derived from Roman capitals. The inscription, “N NOTI NOTI,” translates as “Notus son of Notus,” offering a glimpse into the social and religious landscape of the time.
The discovery of the stone in 1853, following a fire that destroyed the church of St Hilary, was a key moment in its preservation. The stone was found at the northwest corner of the chancel, 0.6 meters below the floor, likely having been used as a foundation stone. By 1858, the memorial stone had been moved to its current position in the churchyard, where it remains today, listed as a Grade II monument.
In addition to the memorial stone, the churchyard is home to a Roman milestone, which was found in 1854. This stone, dedicated to Constantine I, is 1.3 meters high and 0.5 meters wide at the base, tapering to 0.6 meters at the top. The milestone is well-preserved, and its inscription is clearly visible. Dating to 306-308 AD, it is believed to have originally marked a coastal route linking Mounts Bay to the Porthleven area. This discovery further enhances the historical importance of St Hilary's churchyard, linking it to both Roman and early Christian heritage.
Notably, the association of the stone with a cross slab is an unusual feature, adding to the monument's significance. The cross slab is a distinctive element, enhancing the archaeological value of the site. The presence of both a memorial stone and a cross slab in close proximity reflects a strong link to early Christian traditions, which were integral to Cornwall's religious landscape during the early medieval era.
The early Christian memorial stone itself is an upright granite shaft, measuring 1.9 meters high and 0.47 meters wide at the base, tapering slightly towards the top. At the base, the thickness measures 0.25 meters, tapering to 0.22 meters towards the top. The principal faces of the stone are oriented east-west. The west-facing face of the stone bears an inscription that is incised in an early medieval script derived from Roman capitals. The inscription, “N NOTI NOTI,” translates as “Notus son of Notus,” offering a glimpse into the social and religious landscape of the time.
The discovery of the stone in 1853, following a fire that destroyed the church of St Hilary, was a key moment in its preservation. The stone was found at the northwest corner of the chancel, 0.6 meters below the floor, likely having been used as a foundation stone. By 1858, the memorial stone had been moved to its current position in the churchyard, where it remains today, listed as a Grade II monument.
In addition to the memorial stone, the churchyard is home to a Roman milestone, which was found in 1854. This stone, dedicated to Constantine I, is 1.3 meters high and 0.5 meters wide at the base, tapering to 0.6 meters at the top. The milestone is well-preserved, and its inscription is clearly visible. Dating to 306-308 AD, it is believed to have originally marked a coastal route linking Mounts Bay to the Porthleven area. This discovery further enhances the historical importance of St Hilary's churchyard, linking it to both Roman and early Christian heritage.
Great White Sharks in Cornwall
The question of great white sharks in Cornwall has intrigued fishermen, scientists, and the public alike for decades. One of the most compelling accounts came in 1999, when the crew of the Blue Fox fishing vessel off Cambeak Head near Crackington Haven reported a close encounter with a large shark. Describing a creature around 15 feet long with a bright white belly, the seasoned crew—who were very familiar with local species like porbeagles, makos, and basking sharks—insisted it was none of these. Their captain, Mike Turner, who had spent years in South Africa and was well acquainted with great whites, was certain of the shark’s identity. Although no photographs were captured, the event was followed by another sighting the very next day: fishermen aboard another boat watched as a shark, estimated to be at least 17 feet long, bit two-thirds off a tope shark they were hauling in, just a stone’s throw from the Blue Fox’s encounter.
Media excitement around these reports was short-lived but intense, stoked by the tantalising possibility of a predator more associated with far-off coasts. Despite the attention, the sightings remain unverified, with no physical evidence to support the fishermen’s credible claims. In the following years, further alleged sightings added fuel to the debate. In the early 2000s, a 14-year-old girl watching from a high vantage point near Baggy Point claimed to see a great white among a shoal of fish. Although her description was impressively detailed, no one else witnessed it, and shark biologists remain cautious about accepting her account without more substantial proof.
2007 saw a resurgence of “white shark fever” in Cornwall. A video emerged from a tourist in St Ives, showing a large shark breaching among dolphins off Porthmeor Beach. Media outlets jumped at the story, but the footage was grainy and experts eventually identified the animal as a basking shark, a frequent summer visitor to Cornish waters. Another apparent sighting surfaced shortly afterward: a photograph of a “spy-hopping” shark off Towan Head in Newquay, which was initially declared to be a great white. However, this image was later exposed as a hoax—taken not in Cornwall, but during a fishing trip in South Africa.
Cornwall’s rich marine life, particularly its thriving grey seal colonies, lends a certain plausibility to these reports. With plentiful prey and water temperatures within the white shark’s known range, it isn’t hard to imagine such a visitor in theory. But the lack of concrete evidence—no clear photographs, no definitive carcasses—leaves these sightings in the realm of maritime legend rather than confirmed fact. Interestingly, sightings of large sharks around the Cornish coast are not uncommon and are often of porbeagles or even Greenland sharks, which can both reach impressive sizes and might easily be mistaken for their more infamous cousin.
Adding an extra layer of folklore to these stories is the legend of Morgawr, the sea serpent said to haunt the waters of Falmouth Bay. Some locals half-jokingly suggest that Morgawr, with her penchant for consuming sharks, has simply gobbled up any great whites daring to enter Cornish seas—leaving only fleeting glimpses and tantalising accounts behind. In this swirl of rumour, misidentification, and occasional hoaxes, one thing is clear: while the Cornish coast remains ripe with mystery and possibility, great whites continue to elude capture or confirmation. Until the day a dorsal fin unmistakably cuts through the water—or perhaps a lost camera captures the defining moment—Cornwall’s white sharks will remain an enigma, sharing the depths and legends with Morgawr herself.
Media excitement around these reports was short-lived but intense, stoked by the tantalising possibility of a predator more associated with far-off coasts. Despite the attention, the sightings remain unverified, with no physical evidence to support the fishermen’s credible claims. In the following years, further alleged sightings added fuel to the debate. In the early 2000s, a 14-year-old girl watching from a high vantage point near Baggy Point claimed to see a great white among a shoal of fish. Although her description was impressively detailed, no one else witnessed it, and shark biologists remain cautious about accepting her account without more substantial proof.
2007 saw a resurgence of “white shark fever” in Cornwall. A video emerged from a tourist in St Ives, showing a large shark breaching among dolphins off Porthmeor Beach. Media outlets jumped at the story, but the footage was grainy and experts eventually identified the animal as a basking shark, a frequent summer visitor to Cornish waters. Another apparent sighting surfaced shortly afterward: a photograph of a “spy-hopping” shark off Towan Head in Newquay, which was initially declared to be a great white. However, this image was later exposed as a hoax—taken not in Cornwall, but during a fishing trip in South Africa.
Cornwall’s rich marine life, particularly its thriving grey seal colonies, lends a certain plausibility to these reports. With plentiful prey and water temperatures within the white shark’s known range, it isn’t hard to imagine such a visitor in theory. But the lack of concrete evidence—no clear photographs, no definitive carcasses—leaves these sightings in the realm of maritime legend rather than confirmed fact. Interestingly, sightings of large sharks around the Cornish coast are not uncommon and are often of porbeagles or even Greenland sharks, which can both reach impressive sizes and might easily be mistaken for their more infamous cousin.
Adding an extra layer of folklore to these stories is the legend of Morgawr, the sea serpent said to haunt the waters of Falmouth Bay. Some locals half-jokingly suggest that Morgawr, with her penchant for consuming sharks, has simply gobbled up any great whites daring to enter Cornish seas—leaving only fleeting glimpses and tantalising accounts behind. In this swirl of rumour, misidentification, and occasional hoaxes, one thing is clear: while the Cornish coast remains ripe with mystery and possibility, great whites continue to elude capture or confirmation. Until the day a dorsal fin unmistakably cuts through the water—or perhaps a lost camera captures the defining moment—Cornwall’s white sharks will remain an enigma, sharing the depths and legends with Morgawr herself.
Botallack Mine
Botallack Mine, perched dramatically on Cornwall’s rugged north coast, stands as a testament to the region’s long and storied relationship with the earth. This striking site, where the jagged cliffs plunge straight into the Atlantic, is renowned for its two iconic engine houses known as “The Crowns,” which cling to the rocks as if defying gravity itself. Mining here can be traced back to medieval times, with tantalising hints of even earlier Roman activity. Yet it was in the 19th century that Botallack truly flourished, becoming a bustling centre of mining innovation. Beneath the watchful gaze of the cliffs, miners dug ever deeper into the earth, driven by the promise of tin and copper hidden within the hard granite—unseen riches that stretched far beneath the pounding surf.
Grylls Bunny, an early opencast working within the Botallack complex, speaks to the resourcefulness and resilience of the miners who once laboured here. Partly masked by later mining spoil, it reveals an earlier phase of open-cast extraction, where shallow pits and adits chased the richest veins into the hillside. As demand grew and the best surface deposits were exhausted, miners turned to steam power, harnessing technology to work deeper shafts that ventured beneath the sea itself. These engine houses, built of dressed granite blocks, were not just architectural wonders but lifelines to an underground world. Their pumping engines and winding gear enabled the extraction of ore in ever greater volumes, while also offering a precarious passage for miners and even the occasional curious visitor who dared to descend.
Life at Botallack was defined by the rhythm of industry and the struggle against the elements. Ore, hard-won from narrow stopes deep underground, was hauled up the Boscawen diagonal shaft in iron boxes that rattled and groaned on their rails. Offshore sailors would often hear the miners’ voices rising in unison as they were lifted back to the light, a brief, haunting harmony that carried over the waves. Above, on the exposed clifftop terraces, bal maidens and children toiled to break the copper ore into fragments for shipment to distant smelters in south Wales. Today, these terraces lie silent and overgrown with withered thrift and purple knapweed, while the cries of jackdaws and the occasional kestrel offer a different sort of song to the sea.
The industrial clamour that once filled this place has faded, replaced by the quiet presence of nature reclaiming the land. The miner’s track that winds down to the shore still bears the footprints of those who walked it in search of a day’s wage. Yet the world they knew is gone, and the silence here is a powerful echo of all that was lost and won. In the nearby town of St Just, the 19th-century Wesleyan miners’ chapel—a Grade II*-listed building—still stands as a place of memory and hope. It was the last familiar sight for miners setting out to find work abroad, a final blessing of home before the uncertain promise of distant lands.
Today, Botallack Mine and The Crowns endure not just as relics of Cornwall’s industrial past but as symbols of a hard-fought legacy. The spectacular engine houses remain perched above the sea, while deep underground the Boscawen diagonal shaft still stretches out beneath the waves. Though the roaring of stamps and the hiss of steam are no more, the site’s atmosphere lingers—a potent mixture of human achievement and the raw power of nature. Visitors who stand among the ruins can feel the weight of history in every granite block, hear the distant roar of the ocean, and see how the land and its people have been forever shaped by the promise of the rocks beneath their feet.
Grylls Bunny, an early opencast working within the Botallack complex, speaks to the resourcefulness and resilience of the miners who once laboured here. Partly masked by later mining spoil, it reveals an earlier phase of open-cast extraction, where shallow pits and adits chased the richest veins into the hillside. As demand grew and the best surface deposits were exhausted, miners turned to steam power, harnessing technology to work deeper shafts that ventured beneath the sea itself. These engine houses, built of dressed granite blocks, were not just architectural wonders but lifelines to an underground world. Their pumping engines and winding gear enabled the extraction of ore in ever greater volumes, while also offering a precarious passage for miners and even the occasional curious visitor who dared to descend.
Life at Botallack was defined by the rhythm of industry and the struggle against the elements. Ore, hard-won from narrow stopes deep underground, was hauled up the Boscawen diagonal shaft in iron boxes that rattled and groaned on their rails. Offshore sailors would often hear the miners’ voices rising in unison as they were lifted back to the light, a brief, haunting harmony that carried over the waves. Above, on the exposed clifftop terraces, bal maidens and children toiled to break the copper ore into fragments for shipment to distant smelters in south Wales. Today, these terraces lie silent and overgrown with withered thrift and purple knapweed, while the cries of jackdaws and the occasional kestrel offer a different sort of song to the sea.
The industrial clamour that once filled this place has faded, replaced by the quiet presence of nature reclaiming the land. The miner’s track that winds down to the shore still bears the footprints of those who walked it in search of a day’s wage. Yet the world they knew is gone, and the silence here is a powerful echo of all that was lost and won. In the nearby town of St Just, the 19th-century Wesleyan miners’ chapel—a Grade II*-listed building—still stands as a place of memory and hope. It was the last familiar sight for miners setting out to find work abroad, a final blessing of home before the uncertain promise of distant lands.
Today, Botallack Mine and The Crowns endure not just as relics of Cornwall’s industrial past but as symbols of a hard-fought legacy. The spectacular engine houses remain perched above the sea, while deep underground the Boscawen diagonal shaft still stretches out beneath the waves. Though the roaring of stamps and the hiss of steam are no more, the site’s atmosphere lingers—a potent mixture of human achievement and the raw power of nature. Visitors who stand among the ruins can feel the weight of history in every granite block, hear the distant roar of the ocean, and see how the land and its people have been forever shaped by the promise of the rocks beneath their feet.
Treryn Dinas/Treen Castle
High on the granite headland of Treryn Dinas, folklore weaves an ancient and potent spell. The rocky fortress, also known as Treen Castle, was said to have been raised out of the sea by enchantment, its formidable ramparts the handiwork of the giant Dan Dynas. This legendary figure was believed to have built the walls himself, and local tradition warned that any soul who dared to remove a stone from this fortress would suffer terrible misfortune. Such beliefs gave the wild, windswept cliffs an otherworldly gravitas, where the natural grandeur of the site was magnified by the conviction that it had been shaped by supernatural hands.
One of the most captivating legends tied to Treryn Dinas is the story of the “key of the Castle,” an egg-shaped stone that lay hidden in a chasm known as The Gap. Merlin himself was said to have prophesied that if this key was ever removed, the castle would be swallowed by the sea and calamity would descend upon the land. The key could be turned within its rocky cradle, a movement believed to portend the seasons or future events, but few dared to disturb it for fear of fulfilling the prophecy. Eventually, in the 19th century, a group of sailors dislodged the key, casting it down among the waves and, in the eyes of many, confirming that some powers are not to be trifled with.
The Logan Rock, an 80-tonne boulder balanced on the edge of the headland, is itself a testament to the mystery of the place. Local folklore held that this stone, too, was tied to the ancient magic of Treryn Dinas, a natural marvel that defied explanation. When it was toppled by a naval lieutenant in 1824, outrage swept the community, and it was only after great effort – and considerable expense – that the rock was righted, as if to appease the spirits of the headland and restore the equilibrium that had been so thoughtlessly disturbed.
Archaeologically, Treryn Dinas is equally compelling. The headland is defined by three sets of defensive ramparts, the largest of which rises over six metres and stretches across hundreds of feet, a formidable testament to Iron Age engineering. Excavations have uncovered roundhouse platforms within the fort’s inner defences, alongside fragments of pottery, cremated bone, and charcoal that hint at ceremonial use or settlement. These finds suggest that Treryn Dinas was more than a military stronghold: it was a place of ritual and community, alive with the rhythms of ancient life.
Beyond the Iron Age fortifications, artefacts from earlier and later periods have emerged, revealing the headland’s enduring significance. Bronze Age cremation urns were found eroding from the cliffs, while flint tools and a rubbing stone have been recovered from the ground’s surface. Even a Roman coin and possible Roman glass hint at the headland’s long-standing connections across time. As the Atlantic winds scour the ramparts and the Logan Rock keeps its precarious watch, Treryn Dinas remains a layered landscape of myth and memory, a place where the whispers of giants, druids, and sea-swept centuries linger still.
One of the most captivating legends tied to Treryn Dinas is the story of the “key of the Castle,” an egg-shaped stone that lay hidden in a chasm known as The Gap. Merlin himself was said to have prophesied that if this key was ever removed, the castle would be swallowed by the sea and calamity would descend upon the land. The key could be turned within its rocky cradle, a movement believed to portend the seasons or future events, but few dared to disturb it for fear of fulfilling the prophecy. Eventually, in the 19th century, a group of sailors dislodged the key, casting it down among the waves and, in the eyes of many, confirming that some powers are not to be trifled with.
The Logan Rock, an 80-tonne boulder balanced on the edge of the headland, is itself a testament to the mystery of the place. Local folklore held that this stone, too, was tied to the ancient magic of Treryn Dinas, a natural marvel that defied explanation. When it was toppled by a naval lieutenant in 1824, outrage swept the community, and it was only after great effort – and considerable expense – that the rock was righted, as if to appease the spirits of the headland and restore the equilibrium that had been so thoughtlessly disturbed.
Archaeologically, Treryn Dinas is equally compelling. The headland is defined by three sets of defensive ramparts, the largest of which rises over six metres and stretches across hundreds of feet, a formidable testament to Iron Age engineering. Excavations have uncovered roundhouse platforms within the fort’s inner defences, alongside fragments of pottery, cremated bone, and charcoal that hint at ceremonial use or settlement. These finds suggest that Treryn Dinas was more than a military stronghold: it was a place of ritual and community, alive with the rhythms of ancient life.
Beyond the Iron Age fortifications, artefacts from earlier and later periods have emerged, revealing the headland’s enduring significance. Bronze Age cremation urns were found eroding from the cliffs, while flint tools and a rubbing stone have been recovered from the ground’s surface. Even a Roman coin and possible Roman glass hint at the headland’s long-standing connections across time. As the Atlantic winds scour the ramparts and the Logan Rock keeps its precarious watch, Treryn Dinas remains a layered landscape of myth and memory, a place where the whispers of giants, druids, and sea-swept centuries linger still.
The Triganeeris Sisters/Drift Stones
Also known as the Triganeeris Sisters, or simply ‘The Sisters’, the Drift Stones are an impressive pair of Bronze Age standing stones located in a field just off the A30, a few miles west of Penzance near the hamlet of Higher Drift. Standing at 2.7 and 2.3 metres tall and spaced about 5.5 metres apart, they are visible from the roadside and command broad views across farmland to the east and toward St Buryan church tower to the southwest. A convenient lay-by along the A30 offers a good vantage point and easy parking for visitors.
The larger of the two stones, which stands farther from the road, is said to resemble an old woman draped in a cloak—an observation that has inspired local legend. As with many megalithic sites in Cornwall, tales of petrification surround the stones, suggesting they were once living beings turned to stone as punishment or by supernatural means. These kinds of stories often emerged as a way of morally reframing pre-Christian sacred spaces.
Though there is no official public right of way to the stones, they are less than 100 metres from the gate and can usually be approached on foot, depending on the time of year and the growth of crops. The field is private land, so care and respect should be taken when visiting. Even so, the stones can be easily admired from the roadside for those who wish to keep a respectful distance.
The Drift Stones are well worth a visit, especially given their proximity to the ritual landscape of Boscawen-un. They possess a presence all their own—two silent figures keeping watch over the land. And yes, from certain angles, the cloak-like shape of the larger stone is truly uncanny. In a landscape rich with stories, these two are quiet, weathered characters who continue to inspire.
The larger of the two stones, which stands farther from the road, is said to resemble an old woman draped in a cloak—an observation that has inspired local legend. As with many megalithic sites in Cornwall, tales of petrification surround the stones, suggesting they were once living beings turned to stone as punishment or by supernatural means. These kinds of stories often emerged as a way of morally reframing pre-Christian sacred spaces.
Though there is no official public right of way to the stones, they are less than 100 metres from the gate and can usually be approached on foot, depending on the time of year and the growth of crops. The field is private land, so care and respect should be taken when visiting. Even so, the stones can be easily admired from the roadside for those who wish to keep a respectful distance.
The Drift Stones are well worth a visit, especially given their proximity to the ritual landscape of Boscawen-un. They possess a presence all their own—two silent figures keeping watch over the land. And yes, from certain angles, the cloak-like shape of the larger stone is truly uncanny. In a landscape rich with stories, these two are quiet, weathered characters who continue to inspire.
Sunken Causeway between Cornwall & The Isles of Scilly
Long before the end of the last Ice Age, the Isles of Scilly were part of a much larger landmass. As glaciers melted and sea levels rose, that land was gradually swallowed by the sea—leaving behind both the archipelago we know today and a tide of legends. Among them are tales of sunken cities and lost causeways. An 18th-century report described a paved causeway visible under just eight feet of water. Even in the 3rd century AD, the Roman writer Solinus referred to Scilly in the singular—insulam Siluram—as though it were still one island.
In 1927, O.G.S. Crawford, the Ordnance Survey’s first Archaeology Officer and founder of Antiquity, speculated on the Scillies once being a single landmass. He linked them to the legendary land of Lyonesse—a drowned kingdom often said to lie between Cornwall and the open sea.
Some writers have also connected the Scillies with the Cassiterides—the Isles of Tin—mentioned by Pliny the Elder. While no tin has been found on the islands today, it’s possible that ore deposits were once exposed before the ocean rose. If so, the technology needed to mine them may not yet have existed when the sea reclaimed the land.
More recently, divers from the Cornwall and Isles of Scilly Maritime Archaeology Society, alongside Seaways Diving and Isles of Scilly Dive Charters, discovered a curious granite feature on the seabed—strikingly similar to a paved causeway. It may be natural, but it reignites old questions. Even Russian scientist Viatcheslav Koudriavtsev believed Atlantis lay on the Celtic Shelf near here, beneath the waters off Little Sole Bank. He obtained permission to explore the area, but the funding never came. The mystery, like the land, remains submerged.
In 1927, O.G.S. Crawford, the Ordnance Survey’s first Archaeology Officer and founder of Antiquity, speculated on the Scillies once being a single landmass. He linked them to the legendary land of Lyonesse—a drowned kingdom often said to lie between Cornwall and the open sea.
Some writers have also connected the Scillies with the Cassiterides—the Isles of Tin—mentioned by Pliny the Elder. While no tin has been found on the islands today, it’s possible that ore deposits were once exposed before the ocean rose. If so, the technology needed to mine them may not yet have existed when the sea reclaimed the land.
More recently, divers from the Cornwall and Isles of Scilly Maritime Archaeology Society, alongside Seaways Diving and Isles of Scilly Dive Charters, discovered a curious granite feature on the seabed—strikingly similar to a paved causeway. It may be natural, but it reignites old questions. Even Russian scientist Viatcheslav Koudriavtsev believed Atlantis lay on the Celtic Shelf near here, beneath the waters off Little Sole Bank. He obtained permission to explore the area, but the funding never came. The mystery, like the land, remains submerged.
Trenuggo Longstone (a.k.a. The Blind Fiddler Stone)
Standing over 10 feet high and visible from the A30 on the way to Land’s End, the Blind Fiddler is one of Cornwall’s most striking menhirs. Like many ancient stones across the region, its name is rooted in Christian-era folklore—likely a parable meant to dissuade people from engaging with older, Pagan rites. According to local legend, this stone was once a musician who chose to play on the Sabbath rather than honour his religious duties. As punishment, he was turned to stone—eternally frozen in his moment of defiance.
Also known as the Tregonebris or Trenuggo Longstone, the Blind Fiddler has a distinctive triangular shape, standing 3.3 metres high, 1.9 metres wide, and just 0.4 metres thick. From the side, its smooth, slim profile makes it seem almost blade-like. The granite is laced with quartz bands, adding to its otherworldly presence. The stone sits just off a public footpath near Catchall, to the north of the A30, on the slope of a ridge bordered by two valleys—an evocative position that may once have marked a prehistoric route.
In fact, the nearby path that runs southeast from Sancreed through Kerris to the coast near Mousehole may preserve the line of an ancient trackway. This raises the possibility that the stone once served as a waymarker—a sacred signpost for those navigating the land in ritual or daily life. Its prominent location on a watershed ridge would have made it highly visible to those journeying across this corner of Penwith.
The stone’s deeper mystery emerged in 1872, when a local labourer dug beneath it in search of treasure. He found no gold—but he did uncover something just as valuable to archaeology: a deposit of cremated bone and ash. This discovery suggests that the stone may have been part of a ritual or funerary landscape, possibly linked to the nearby ceremonial site of Boscawen-un. However, the burial appears to have post-dated the stone’s erection, indicating that the Blind Fiddler was already ancient by the time the remains were laid to rest beside it.
Like many Cornish legends, the tale of the fiddler turned to stone echoes across multiple sites—moral warnings where musicians and dancers are petrified for revelry on the Sabbath. Why this one is specifically known as the blind fiddler remains unclear. But its presence endures: silent, weathered, and humming faintly with the memory of footsteps, music, and forgotten roads.
Also known as the Tregonebris or Trenuggo Longstone, the Blind Fiddler has a distinctive triangular shape, standing 3.3 metres high, 1.9 metres wide, and just 0.4 metres thick. From the side, its smooth, slim profile makes it seem almost blade-like. The granite is laced with quartz bands, adding to its otherworldly presence. The stone sits just off a public footpath near Catchall, to the north of the A30, on the slope of a ridge bordered by two valleys—an evocative position that may once have marked a prehistoric route.
In fact, the nearby path that runs southeast from Sancreed through Kerris to the coast near Mousehole may preserve the line of an ancient trackway. This raises the possibility that the stone once served as a waymarker—a sacred signpost for those navigating the land in ritual or daily life. Its prominent location on a watershed ridge would have made it highly visible to those journeying across this corner of Penwith.
The stone’s deeper mystery emerged in 1872, when a local labourer dug beneath it in search of treasure. He found no gold—but he did uncover something just as valuable to archaeology: a deposit of cremated bone and ash. This discovery suggests that the stone may have been part of a ritual or funerary landscape, possibly linked to the nearby ceremonial site of Boscawen-un. However, the burial appears to have post-dated the stone’s erection, indicating that the Blind Fiddler was already ancient by the time the remains were laid to rest beside it.
Like many Cornish legends, the tale of the fiddler turned to stone echoes across multiple sites—moral warnings where musicians and dancers are petrified for revelry on the Sabbath. Why this one is specifically known as the blind fiddler remains unclear. But its presence endures: silent, weathered, and humming faintly with the memory of footsteps, music, and forgotten roads.
The Trippet Stones
Situated on the windswept plateau of Manor Common in Bodmin Moor, the Trippet Stones form one of Cornwall’s most striking prehistoric circles. Measuring just under 33 metres in diameter, the site currently consists of eight upright granite stones and four fallen ones, though it is believed the original circle contained up to twenty-six or even twenty-eight menhirs. These stones are generally uniform in height, between 1.2 and 1.6 metres, with the exception of a central, modern boundary marker. The circle stands silently between two rocky tors, Carbilly Tor and Hawk’s Tor. To the right of the latter, one can just spot the Stripple Stone Circle about half a mile away, while the distant summit of Rough Tor rises dramatically behind. The name ‘Trippet’ reflects the enduring folklore of dancers turned to stone for their Sabbath defiance—echoes of tales also attached to the Merry Maidens and the Nine Maidens.
The first written account of the Trippet Stones was recorded in 1858 by J. T. Blight, who noted nine standing stones, though he failed to recognise two prostrate stones that formed part of the circle. In the following decades, the site drew interest from a number of antiquarians including Reverend Lukis and W. C. Borlase. A more detailed survey was conducted by Harold St. George Gray in the early 20th century, who produced an accurate plan and concluded that the stones once formed a perfect circle with consistent spacing, suggesting an original total of twenty-six. By Gray’s time, only twelve stones remained—eight upright and four fallen. The rest, it seems, had been robbed over the centuries for use in buildings or boundary walls.
Restoration efforts were undertaken between 1999 and 2006 to stabilise the remaining stones. Livestock had contributed to serious erosion by using the stones as rubbing posts, creating deep moats of water around them in the soft moorland peat. Work included infilling the eroded pits with loose stone and turf, and re-erecting a fallen stone on the western edge of the circle. During this conservation effort, a flint blade was found beneath one of the stones, helping to affirm the site’s Neolithic or early Bronze Age origin. Today, the stones still stand in silence, bearing witness to thousands of years of weather, wear, and worship.
Astronomical alignments have long fascinated researchers. Sir Norman Lockyer visited in 1907 and proposed the stones were erected in 1700 BC, based on their alignment with Arcturus rising over Rough Tor. Earthly alignments are equally compelling: if you stand within the circle at midsummer, the sun sets directly over Carbilly Tor, atop which lies a cairn believed to be contemporaneous with the circle. These alignments between ancient sites are common across Bodmin Moor—Rough Tor, in particular, is a recurring focal point, visible from many monuments, from large cairns to the smallest burial cists. As writer Philip Marsden observed after a summer of wandering the moor, “By sheer weight of numbers the alignments had won me over.”
Whether built for ritual, celestial tracking, or storytelling, the Trippet Stones continue to stir both scholarly curiosity and folkloric imagination. Some, like Aubrey Burl, have dismissed specific star alignments in favour of broader interpretations of ritual landscape. Others, like Marsden, argue that experience of place—the lines of intervisibility, the solitude of the moor—is the key to understanding such sites. And then, of course, there is folklore: tales of young girls turned to stone for dancing on the Sabbath. “This circle, the Trippet or Dancing Stones,” Burl wrote, “is one of many megalithic sites in Cornwall whose name stems from a puritan condemnation of sabbatical dances.” Whether you’re tracing the lines of ancient stars or listening for the echo of distant footsteps, the Trippet Stones remain a place of mystery, memory, and meaning.
The first written account of the Trippet Stones was recorded in 1858 by J. T. Blight, who noted nine standing stones, though he failed to recognise two prostrate stones that formed part of the circle. In the following decades, the site drew interest from a number of antiquarians including Reverend Lukis and W. C. Borlase. A more detailed survey was conducted by Harold St. George Gray in the early 20th century, who produced an accurate plan and concluded that the stones once formed a perfect circle with consistent spacing, suggesting an original total of twenty-six. By Gray’s time, only twelve stones remained—eight upright and four fallen. The rest, it seems, had been robbed over the centuries for use in buildings or boundary walls.
Restoration efforts were undertaken between 1999 and 2006 to stabilise the remaining stones. Livestock had contributed to serious erosion by using the stones as rubbing posts, creating deep moats of water around them in the soft moorland peat. Work included infilling the eroded pits with loose stone and turf, and re-erecting a fallen stone on the western edge of the circle. During this conservation effort, a flint blade was found beneath one of the stones, helping to affirm the site’s Neolithic or early Bronze Age origin. Today, the stones still stand in silence, bearing witness to thousands of years of weather, wear, and worship.
Astronomical alignments have long fascinated researchers. Sir Norman Lockyer visited in 1907 and proposed the stones were erected in 1700 BC, based on their alignment with Arcturus rising over Rough Tor. Earthly alignments are equally compelling: if you stand within the circle at midsummer, the sun sets directly over Carbilly Tor, atop which lies a cairn believed to be contemporaneous with the circle. These alignments between ancient sites are common across Bodmin Moor—Rough Tor, in particular, is a recurring focal point, visible from many monuments, from large cairns to the smallest burial cists. As writer Philip Marsden observed after a summer of wandering the moor, “By sheer weight of numbers the alignments had won me over.”
Whether built for ritual, celestial tracking, or storytelling, the Trippet Stones continue to stir both scholarly curiosity and folkloric imagination. Some, like Aubrey Burl, have dismissed specific star alignments in favour of broader interpretations of ritual landscape. Others, like Marsden, argue that experience of place—the lines of intervisibility, the solitude of the moor—is the key to understanding such sites. And then, of course, there is folklore: tales of young girls turned to stone for dancing on the Sabbath. “This circle, the Trippet or Dancing Stones,” Burl wrote, “is one of many megalithic sites in Cornwall whose name stems from a puritan condemnation of sabbatical dances.” Whether you’re tracing the lines of ancient stars or listening for the echo of distant footsteps, the Trippet Stones remain a place of mystery, memory, and meaning.
'Froggy' Skewes
John Henry Skewes, born in 1910, was a Cornish bus driver turned haulier who became known for a far more unusual pursuit—frog collecting. From his lodgings at the Countryman Pub in Piece, near Redruth, he developed what began as a hobby into a booming trade. Fascinated by frogs, he collected them from local ponds and ditches, amassing thousands of specimens in tanks at his haulier’s yard. Hospitals and universities became regular customers, using the amphibians for medical research. A sign on his gate boldly proclaimed: “England’s Largest Frog Dealer. Skewes the Froggeries!”
John’s reputation grew alongside demand. He advertised frogs at 2 shillings and 6 pence per dozen and encouraged local children to help with the catching—though he insisted on only the finest specimens. In 1949, this passion led to an eccentric legal dispute when he agreed to sell a motorbike to his neighbour, Albert Shortman, for the curious sum of 2,500 frogs—equivalent, in John's view, to £25. The deal soured when John claimed that Albert only provided a fraction of the agreed frog-payment, triggering a highly unusual court case in Redruth.
At the hearing, John’s estranged wife testified that only 1,000 frogs had been delivered, leaving a shortfall of 1,500. Judge Scobell Armstrong, bemused by the proceedings, remarked on the frogs’ inconvenient mobility and the absurdity of frog-based currency. Nonetheless, he ruled in John’s favour, ordering Albert to pay the remaining frogs. In a final note of exasperation, he asked John’s counsel whether he preferred to receive his legal costs in money—or more frogs.
Skewes remained devoted to his amphibians for the rest of his life, though his interests eventually extended to snails, dogs and pigeons. He was frequently injured during his frog-hunting escapades, including multiple tumbles into streams and even the same quarry twice. During the war, he contributed to the food effort by sending thousands of frogs to London and Scotland to aid cultivation. He also supplied adders and vipers for scientific study. Yet, despite blackout restrictions hampering his night-time frog catching, Skewes endured—eccentric, determined, and always deeply amphibian-minded.
John’s reputation grew alongside demand. He advertised frogs at 2 shillings and 6 pence per dozen and encouraged local children to help with the catching—though he insisted on only the finest specimens. In 1949, this passion led to an eccentric legal dispute when he agreed to sell a motorbike to his neighbour, Albert Shortman, for the curious sum of 2,500 frogs—equivalent, in John's view, to £25. The deal soured when John claimed that Albert only provided a fraction of the agreed frog-payment, triggering a highly unusual court case in Redruth.
At the hearing, John’s estranged wife testified that only 1,000 frogs had been delivered, leaving a shortfall of 1,500. Judge Scobell Armstrong, bemused by the proceedings, remarked on the frogs’ inconvenient mobility and the absurdity of frog-based currency. Nonetheless, he ruled in John’s favour, ordering Albert to pay the remaining frogs. In a final note of exasperation, he asked John’s counsel whether he preferred to receive his legal costs in money—or more frogs.
Skewes remained devoted to his amphibians for the rest of his life, though his interests eventually extended to snails, dogs and pigeons. He was frequently injured during his frog-hunting escapades, including multiple tumbles into streams and even the same quarry twice. During the war, he contributed to the food effort by sending thousands of frogs to London and Scotland to aid cultivation. He also supplied adders and vipers for scientific study. Yet, despite blackout restrictions hampering his night-time frog catching, Skewes endured—eccentric, determined, and always deeply amphibian-minded.
Liskeard Stronghold
Perched above the historic town of Liskeard, the site known today as Castle Park once held a fortified manor house built in the early 13th century by Richard, Earl of Cornwall. Though commonly referred to as a castle, it was less a military stronghold and more a symbol of manorial authority—complete with a great hall, chambers, chapel, and enclosing walls. From its elevated position, it overlooked a growing medieval settlement that, for a time, was the second largest in Cornwall after Bodmin.
Liskeard’s significance blossomed in the medieval period, especially after being granted borough status in 1240 and later named one of Cornwall’s five Stannary towns in 1307. The manor likely played a role in administering tin trade and court affairs. However, over the centuries, the site gradually fell into disrepair. By the mid-1500s, visitors reported the “castle” as little more than fragments and heaps of stone, and by the 17th century, the remaining buildings were adapted into a schoolhouse and local court venue.
Despite its decay, the site continued to serve the town in surprising ways. A grammar school operated here until the 19th century, after which the building was converted into a prison and police residence. By the early 20th century, Castle Park was landscaped with trees and walkways, transforming the area into a public green space. In the decades that followed, the site bore witness to yet more layers of history: a Royal Observer Corps post was built during WWII, followed by a Cold War-era nuclear monitoring bunker.
Today, little survives of the original medieval manor above ground, yet the land still holds echoes of its layered past. The shape of the grounds, old boundary walls, and the positioning of nearby streets hint at what once stood there. Subtle changes in elevation and fragments of stone whisper of buried foundations beneath the soil. What was once a seat of power is now a quiet park framed by 20th-century houses, but the imprint of centuries remains just beneath the surface.
Castle Park is more than just open space—it is a living document of Cornish history. From medieval court hall to wartime lookout, it reflects the evolving needs and identities of the town it watches over. Though the stones may have crumbled, the legacy of Liskeard’s “castle” endures in the stories, soil, and soul of the land.
Liskeard’s significance blossomed in the medieval period, especially after being granted borough status in 1240 and later named one of Cornwall’s five Stannary towns in 1307. The manor likely played a role in administering tin trade and court affairs. However, over the centuries, the site gradually fell into disrepair. By the mid-1500s, visitors reported the “castle” as little more than fragments and heaps of stone, and by the 17th century, the remaining buildings were adapted into a schoolhouse and local court venue.
Despite its decay, the site continued to serve the town in surprising ways. A grammar school operated here until the 19th century, after which the building was converted into a prison and police residence. By the early 20th century, Castle Park was landscaped with trees and walkways, transforming the area into a public green space. In the decades that followed, the site bore witness to yet more layers of history: a Royal Observer Corps post was built during WWII, followed by a Cold War-era nuclear monitoring bunker.
Today, little survives of the original medieval manor above ground, yet the land still holds echoes of its layered past. The shape of the grounds, old boundary walls, and the positioning of nearby streets hint at what once stood there. Subtle changes in elevation and fragments of stone whisper of buried foundations beneath the soil. What was once a seat of power is now a quiet park framed by 20th-century houses, but the imprint of centuries remains just beneath the surface.
Castle Park is more than just open space—it is a living document of Cornish history. From medieval court hall to wartime lookout, it reflects the evolving needs and identities of the town it watches over. Though the stones may have crumbled, the legacy of Liskeard’s “castle” endures in the stories, soil, and soul of the land.
Lewannick Sculptured Stone
The early Christian memorial stones at Lewannick are remarkable relics of the early medieval period, dating from approximately the fifth to the eighth centuries. These inscribed stones, erect, roughly dressed slabs of granite, bear witness to the spread of Christianity, literacy, and cultural identity in regions that retained strong Celtic traditions. Typically, they carry Latin inscriptions, often simple in content, naming the deceased and their kin, though occasionally they include longer funerary phrases such as hic iacet (“here lies”). Decorative elements are rare but may include a Chi Rho monogram or a cross, lending further insight into the spiritual beliefs of the time. These stones are concentrated in areas like Cornwall and Wales, offering a geographically distinct record of early Christian communities on the fringes of post Roman Britain.
Among the most significant of these are the two memorial stones found in the churchyard and church of Lewannick. The first, a weathered granite shaft now standing near the lych gate, bears an inscription in both Latin and ogham. Though worn, the Latin appears to read INGENVI MEMORIA — “the monument of Incenvus.” Along the edge of the stone, ogham script also records the same name. The survival of both scripts side by side is exceptionally rare, with only six known examples in southwest England. The ogham, an Irish script composed of short lines incised along an edge, was used here to mirror the Latin inscription, suggesting a bilingual and bicultural community at Lewannick during the early Christian period.
The second stone, now housed inside the church, adds even more nuance. This stone, broken in two and formerly embedded in the north porch wall, displays a clearer pairing of Latin and ogham inscriptions. Interestingly, the ogham was carved twice, first incorrectly, then corrected in a second column. The Latin name VLCAGNI is echoed in the ogham as ULCAGNI, with the erroneous version UDSAGQI also still visible. This mistake and its correction are highly instructive. They reveal a stonemason who was not only familiar with ogham but also aware enough to recognise and rectify errors, implying that ogham literacy persisted well into the Christian era and was not confined solely to Irish speaking regions.
What conclusions can we draw from the coexistence of ogham and Latin on these stones? First, it indicates a cultural overlap, a transitional period where pre Christian Irish influenced identities and Christianised Roman traditions coexisted. The use of Latin reflects ecclesiastical influence and a desire to align with Christian orthodoxy, while ogham marks local continuity and perhaps the personal or familial identity of the deceased. These bilingual stones suggest that the communities of early medieval Cornwall were not isolated but were engaging with both indigenous and imported systems of literacy, status, and belief. It also raises the possibility that Christianisation was a gradual process, one that incorporated and adapted existing cultural expressions rather than erasing them entirely.
The survival and placement of these stones, one re erected in the 19th century near its original burial site, the other preserved indoors, also speaks to a long continuity of reverence. Their inscriptions, even when partially lost to weathering, continue to mark the presence of named individuals from over a millennium ago. As such, they are not just archaeological artefacts but powerful symbols of memory, belief, and cultural fusion. They remind us that early medieval Cornwall was a place where languages, scripts, and faiths intertwined, leaving their mark in stone for us to decipher.
Among the most significant of these are the two memorial stones found in the churchyard and church of Lewannick. The first, a weathered granite shaft now standing near the lych gate, bears an inscription in both Latin and ogham. Though worn, the Latin appears to read INGENVI MEMORIA — “the monument of Incenvus.” Along the edge of the stone, ogham script also records the same name. The survival of both scripts side by side is exceptionally rare, with only six known examples in southwest England. The ogham, an Irish script composed of short lines incised along an edge, was used here to mirror the Latin inscription, suggesting a bilingual and bicultural community at Lewannick during the early Christian period.
The second stone, now housed inside the church, adds even more nuance. This stone, broken in two and formerly embedded in the north porch wall, displays a clearer pairing of Latin and ogham inscriptions. Interestingly, the ogham was carved twice, first incorrectly, then corrected in a second column. The Latin name VLCAGNI is echoed in the ogham as ULCAGNI, with the erroneous version UDSAGQI also still visible. This mistake and its correction are highly instructive. They reveal a stonemason who was not only familiar with ogham but also aware enough to recognise and rectify errors, implying that ogham literacy persisted well into the Christian era and was not confined solely to Irish speaking regions.
What conclusions can we draw from the coexistence of ogham and Latin on these stones? First, it indicates a cultural overlap, a transitional period where pre Christian Irish influenced identities and Christianised Roman traditions coexisted. The use of Latin reflects ecclesiastical influence and a desire to align with Christian orthodoxy, while ogham marks local continuity and perhaps the personal or familial identity of the deceased. These bilingual stones suggest that the communities of early medieval Cornwall were not isolated but were engaging with both indigenous and imported systems of literacy, status, and belief. It also raises the possibility that Christianisation was a gradual process, one that incorporated and adapted existing cultural expressions rather than erasing them entirely.
The survival and placement of these stones, one re erected in the 19th century near its original burial site, the other preserved indoors, also speaks to a long continuity of reverence. Their inscriptions, even when partially lost to weathering, continue to mark the presence of named individuals from over a millennium ago. As such, they are not just archaeological artefacts but powerful symbols of memory, belief, and cultural fusion. They remind us that early medieval Cornwall was a place where languages, scripts, and faiths intertwined, leaving their mark in stone for us to decipher.
The Old Man of Gugh
At the foot of Kittern Hill on the Island of Gugh stands the Old Man of Gugh, a 2.7 metre tall granite menhir believed to date from the Bronze Age, around 3,500 years ago. Slender, jagged, and leaning slightly eastward, this striking standing stone has long captured the imagination of visitors. Though first recorded in 1756, it was not excavated until 1900 by George Bosnor, who found nothing of note beneath it. Despite the lack of artefacts, the Old Man holds the distinction of being the only standing stone in the Isles of Scilly to have undergone archaeological investigation. Its silhouette looms over the sea cliffs, a sentinel of prehistoric time and island memory.
The landscape surrounding the Old Man is one of Cornwall’s richest prehistoric terrains. Kittern Hill itself is littered with ancient features: five entrance graves, including the evocatively named Obadiah’s Grave excavated in 1901, as well as over thirty Bronze Age cairns. These are linked by remnants of prehistoric field systems, evidence of early land use and ritual activity. Gugh may be a small tidal island, connected to St Agnes by a narrow tombolo of sand and shingle, but its archaeological density rivals that of far larger sites. The island’s long occupation is reflected not only in its ancient graves but in later traces like kelp pits, used for burning seaweed to extract soda for glassmaking, showing human adaptation through the centuries.
Reaching Gugh requires intention. Travellers must ferry from Penzance to St Mary’s, the largest of the Isles of Scilly, then take a local boat to St Agnes. At low tide, one can walk across the tombolo to Gugh and follow the main footpath east toward the menhir, which stands close to the cliff edge. Once there, it’s hard not to feel a shift in time. F. Gibson noted that the Old Man of Gugh occupies the southernmost point of the British Isles, mirroring a similar menhir in Shetland to the north. Though not under official care like the monuments on St Mary’s, Gugh’s ancient structures lie scattered among bracken and bramble, quietly enduring.
Writers such as Dixe Wills have described visiting the Old Man as stepping into a broken time machine. Long grooves etched into the stone have led some to speculate about its original purpose, perhaps a territorial marker, perhaps a memorial. Ley line enthusiasts claim that over a dozen lines radiate from the site. Beyond the Bronze Age, the island offers glimpses into more recent history, including the Carn of Works Civil War Battery, built by Royalist forces. Incredibly, an ancient entrance grave was repurposed as a magazine, an act Wills calls near sacrilege. On Gugh, time collapses. Megalithic stone, military defences, and seabird cries all coexist in haunting, tangled layers.
The landscape surrounding the Old Man is one of Cornwall’s richest prehistoric terrains. Kittern Hill itself is littered with ancient features: five entrance graves, including the evocatively named Obadiah’s Grave excavated in 1901, as well as over thirty Bronze Age cairns. These are linked by remnants of prehistoric field systems, evidence of early land use and ritual activity. Gugh may be a small tidal island, connected to St Agnes by a narrow tombolo of sand and shingle, but its archaeological density rivals that of far larger sites. The island’s long occupation is reflected not only in its ancient graves but in later traces like kelp pits, used for burning seaweed to extract soda for glassmaking, showing human adaptation through the centuries.
Reaching Gugh requires intention. Travellers must ferry from Penzance to St Mary’s, the largest of the Isles of Scilly, then take a local boat to St Agnes. At low tide, one can walk across the tombolo to Gugh and follow the main footpath east toward the menhir, which stands close to the cliff edge. Once there, it’s hard not to feel a shift in time. F. Gibson noted that the Old Man of Gugh occupies the southernmost point of the British Isles, mirroring a similar menhir in Shetland to the north. Though not under official care like the monuments on St Mary’s, Gugh’s ancient structures lie scattered among bracken and bramble, quietly enduring.
Writers such as Dixe Wills have described visiting the Old Man as stepping into a broken time machine. Long grooves etched into the stone have led some to speculate about its original purpose, perhaps a territorial marker, perhaps a memorial. Ley line enthusiasts claim that over a dozen lines radiate from the site. Beyond the Bronze Age, the island offers glimpses into more recent history, including the Carn of Works Civil War Battery, built by Royalist forces. Incredibly, an ancient entrance grave was repurposed as a magazine, an act Wills calls near sacrilege. On Gugh, time collapses. Megalithic stone, military defences, and seabird cries all coexist in haunting, tangled layers.
Madgy Figgy’s Chair
Not all stories begin in cottages or castles. Some begin on the edge of a cliff, where granite rises like broken teeth above the sea.
Tolpedden Penwith, near St Levan, is home to one of the most dramatic sea cliffs in all of Cornwall. The formation known as the Chair Ladder stacks great cubical stones like a titan’s staircase. At the top, one stone curves into the shape of a seat, as if made for someone who commands wind and tide. That someone, local legend says, was Madgy Figgy. No mere healer or hedge witch, Figgy was a feared practitioner of darker arts. When storms brewed and ships strained against the horizon, she would be seen perched on the Chair, swaying back and forth, calling to the winds. Ragwort beneath her, cloak snapping, she led other witches across the sea to Wales or Spain, leaving curses in her wake.
Her cottage near Raftra was no less notorious than her presence on the cliffs. Madgy and her band were known wreckers, masters of drawing ships into peril. Their most infamous act was the destruction of a Portuguese Indiaman. In a night thick with magic and malice, the ship was drawn into Perloe Cove and dashed against the rocks. Not a single passenger survived. The bodies were stripped of valuables and buried hastily in the green hollow above the shore. Among them lay a woman clad in gold, her dress stitched with gems, her fingers heavy with rings. But something about her unsettled Figgy. She claimed the woman bore a mark of doom. No one was to touch her treasure. It was all locked inside a chest and hidden beneath nets and sailcloth in Madgy’s hut.
That very night, a strange light rose from the woman’s grave. It drifted slowly along the cliffs, paused upon the granite seat above the sea, then returned to hover over the chest. It came again the next night. And the next. For three long months, the light made its ritual journey from grave to chair to chest. No one dared disturb it. The villagers whispered of restless spirits and old curses, but Madgy Figgy showed no fear. She claimed she knew what the light wanted, and that things would resolve when the time was right.
One day, a stranger appeared. His clothing was foreign, his manner silent, his grief unmistakeable. Though he spoke no English, he asked to see the graves. But when he reached the hollow, he needed no guidance. He walked straight to the lady’s resting place, knelt beside it, and stayed there until nightfall. That evening, the light shone brighter than ever, cutting a path through the dusk. The stranger returned to the hut, swept aside the coverings, and opened the chest. He took only the belongings of the woman. The rest he left untouched. In thanks, he offered gifts of rare beauty and worth, then vanished without a word. No one ever learned his name. No one saw where he went.
Madgy only smiled and said, one witch knows another, dead or living. Her power, it seemed, extended beyond the veil.
To this day, some claim to see the light at Tolpedden Penwith when storms roll in from the Atlantic. They say it pauses at the Chair, as if waiting. As if listening. As if Madgy never truly left her seat.
Tolpedden Penwith, near St Levan, is home to one of the most dramatic sea cliffs in all of Cornwall. The formation known as the Chair Ladder stacks great cubical stones like a titan’s staircase. At the top, one stone curves into the shape of a seat, as if made for someone who commands wind and tide. That someone, local legend says, was Madgy Figgy. No mere healer or hedge witch, Figgy was a feared practitioner of darker arts. When storms brewed and ships strained against the horizon, she would be seen perched on the Chair, swaying back and forth, calling to the winds. Ragwort beneath her, cloak snapping, she led other witches across the sea to Wales or Spain, leaving curses in her wake.
Her cottage near Raftra was no less notorious than her presence on the cliffs. Madgy and her band were known wreckers, masters of drawing ships into peril. Their most infamous act was the destruction of a Portuguese Indiaman. In a night thick with magic and malice, the ship was drawn into Perloe Cove and dashed against the rocks. Not a single passenger survived. The bodies were stripped of valuables and buried hastily in the green hollow above the shore. Among them lay a woman clad in gold, her dress stitched with gems, her fingers heavy with rings. But something about her unsettled Figgy. She claimed the woman bore a mark of doom. No one was to touch her treasure. It was all locked inside a chest and hidden beneath nets and sailcloth in Madgy’s hut.
That very night, a strange light rose from the woman’s grave. It drifted slowly along the cliffs, paused upon the granite seat above the sea, then returned to hover over the chest. It came again the next night. And the next. For three long months, the light made its ritual journey from grave to chair to chest. No one dared disturb it. The villagers whispered of restless spirits and old curses, but Madgy Figgy showed no fear. She claimed she knew what the light wanted, and that things would resolve when the time was right.
One day, a stranger appeared. His clothing was foreign, his manner silent, his grief unmistakeable. Though he spoke no English, he asked to see the graves. But when he reached the hollow, he needed no guidance. He walked straight to the lady’s resting place, knelt beside it, and stayed there until nightfall. That evening, the light shone brighter than ever, cutting a path through the dusk. The stranger returned to the hut, swept aside the coverings, and opened the chest. He took only the belongings of the woman. The rest he left untouched. In thanks, he offered gifts of rare beauty and worth, then vanished without a word. No one ever learned his name. No one saw where he went.
Madgy only smiled and said, one witch knows another, dead or living. Her power, it seemed, extended beyond the veil.
To this day, some claim to see the light at Tolpedden Penwith when storms roll in from the Atlantic. They say it pauses at the Chair, as if waiting. As if listening. As if Madgy never truly left her seat.
Helman Tor
Helman Tor, covering over 700 acres, is the largest nature reserve in the region—a vast, untamed mosaic of heathland, bog, ancient and wet woodland, scrubland, and acid grassland. At its heart stands the granite-crowned tor itself, offering panoramic views of Cornwall’s coasts on clear days. This dramatic rise in the landscape is more than a natural spectacle; it holds Scheduled Ancient Monument status due to its rich archaeological features, including a Neolithic tor enclosure and traces of Bronze Age field systems.
The tor’s earliest known human activity began between 4500BC and 2200BC, lasting for roughly 300 years. Excavations have revealed stone querns, greenstone axeheads, flint tools, and pottery—traces of a once-thriving community. Like Carn Brea and Trencrom to the south, Helman was likely chosen not only for its defensive advantages but also its ceremonial power. Its elevated position and commanding views made it ideal for early settlement and spiritual significance. Excavated walls display orthostatic construction and findings such as worked flints and Neolithic ceramics suggest parallels to other key tor enclosures in Cornwall.
Today, Helman Tor is more than a historic relic—it’s a vital refuge for rare species and threatened habitats. The Wilderness Trail winds through rare heathlands, which have declined globally by 85% in the last 150 years. Here, you may hear the call of a cuckoo or glimpse a grasshopper warbler flitting through the scrub. The adder, Britain’s only venomous snake, also thrives here—though its secretive nature and natural camouflage mean it is rarely seen.
Further into the reserve, wet woodlands create a shadowy, almost mythical atmosphere. Mosses, ferns, and lichens thrive in the damp, dappled light. It is here that the elusive willow tit makes its home—one of Britain’s rarest birds. The drier woods nearby are home to dormice in the warmer months, sharing the space with carpets of bluebells, violets, and yellow archangel. The reserve is also a haven for the endangered marsh fritillary butterfly, which finds sanctuary in the damp grasslands that are actively managed to support its recovery.
Thanks to the dedication of supporters, the Rewilding Helman Tor Project is now in full swing. This ambitious effort seeks to restore natural processes, giving the land freedom to regenerate. Ancient structures, such as the Neolithic wall systems, remain largely intact, with finds dating between 3970–2700 BC. Together, the wild beauty and deep past of Helman Tor remind us that Cornwall’s future and its prehistory are bound in the same soil—both deserving of our care, curiosity, and reverence.
The tor’s earliest known human activity began between 4500BC and 2200BC, lasting for roughly 300 years. Excavations have revealed stone querns, greenstone axeheads, flint tools, and pottery—traces of a once-thriving community. Like Carn Brea and Trencrom to the south, Helman was likely chosen not only for its defensive advantages but also its ceremonial power. Its elevated position and commanding views made it ideal for early settlement and spiritual significance. Excavated walls display orthostatic construction and findings such as worked flints and Neolithic ceramics suggest parallels to other key tor enclosures in Cornwall.
Today, Helman Tor is more than a historic relic—it’s a vital refuge for rare species and threatened habitats. The Wilderness Trail winds through rare heathlands, which have declined globally by 85% in the last 150 years. Here, you may hear the call of a cuckoo or glimpse a grasshopper warbler flitting through the scrub. The adder, Britain’s only venomous snake, also thrives here—though its secretive nature and natural camouflage mean it is rarely seen.
Further into the reserve, wet woodlands create a shadowy, almost mythical atmosphere. Mosses, ferns, and lichens thrive in the damp, dappled light. It is here that the elusive willow tit makes its home—one of Britain’s rarest birds. The drier woods nearby are home to dormice in the warmer months, sharing the space with carpets of bluebells, violets, and yellow archangel. The reserve is also a haven for the endangered marsh fritillary butterfly, which finds sanctuary in the damp grasslands that are actively managed to support its recovery.
Thanks to the dedication of supporters, the Rewilding Helman Tor Project is now in full swing. This ambitious effort seeks to restore natural processes, giving the land freedom to regenerate. Ancient structures, such as the Neolithic wall systems, remain largely intact, with finds dating between 3970–2700 BC. Together, the wild beauty and deep past of Helman Tor remind us that Cornwall’s future and its prehistory are bound in the same soil—both deserving of our care, curiosity, and reverence.
The Three Brothers of Grugith
On a prominent ridge of Crousa Common stand two enigmatic stones: one upright, the other fallen. The upright stone, roughly square in section and standing 1.6 metres tall, is marked at its base by an Ordnance Survey trigger stone. The recumbent stone nearby measures 2.9 metres in length. Though modest in scale, these stones form part of a wider complex of prehistoric interest, with low surrounding mounds and additional archaeological remains scheduled nearby.
Further upslope, near the summit overlooking Goonhilly Downs, lies a striking dolmen known locally as The Three Brothers of Grugith. Comprising two upright orthostats and a capstone, the structure forms a small chamber. The capstone is marked with faint depressions—possibly prehistoric cup-marks, though their origin remains debated. This chamber measures approximately 4 by 2 metres and stands about a metre high. It was first excavated in 1872 by William Copeland Borlase, who discovered a pit beneath the capstone and a single flint flake, but no other artefacts.
The monument is half-natural and half-man-made. A large earthfast boulder, flat and low on one end, rises at the other to nearly a metre. This stone forms one side of the chamber. Set 2 feet away from it is another upright slab, and across the two lies the capstone. Together, they create a kist-vaen or stone coffin, open at either end. The chamber’s construction suggests ritual or funerary use, though no human remains have been found. Borlase also noted a previous pit below the chamber—possibly an earlier grave, long disturbed or emptied.
Today, the site is largely clear of surface debris, though it sits amid a wider area of naturally scattered stones. A few arcs of stones further out may hint at a larger ceremonial complex—perhaps kerbstones, a stone circle, or remnants of a cairn. Interpretations vary, and ongoing investigation continues to reveal new possibilities. Archaeologist James Gossip, from Cornwall Council’s Historic Environment Service, has begun mapping the uncovered stones, helping to shape our understanding of the site’s layout and meaning.
Work is ongoing to distinguish natural features from intentional construction. As more scrub is cleared and further surveys are undertaken, the hope is that a clearer picture of the monument’s original purpose will emerge. Updates and findings are expected to appear in future editions of the Cornwall Archaeology Society newsletter, offering fresh insights into one of the most mysterious sites in St Keverne parish—a place where stone, story, and speculation still meet on the edge of the Downs.
Further upslope, near the summit overlooking Goonhilly Downs, lies a striking dolmen known locally as The Three Brothers of Grugith. Comprising two upright orthostats and a capstone, the structure forms a small chamber. The capstone is marked with faint depressions—possibly prehistoric cup-marks, though their origin remains debated. This chamber measures approximately 4 by 2 metres and stands about a metre high. It was first excavated in 1872 by William Copeland Borlase, who discovered a pit beneath the capstone and a single flint flake, but no other artefacts.
The monument is half-natural and half-man-made. A large earthfast boulder, flat and low on one end, rises at the other to nearly a metre. This stone forms one side of the chamber. Set 2 feet away from it is another upright slab, and across the two lies the capstone. Together, they create a kist-vaen or stone coffin, open at either end. The chamber’s construction suggests ritual or funerary use, though no human remains have been found. Borlase also noted a previous pit below the chamber—possibly an earlier grave, long disturbed or emptied.
Today, the site is largely clear of surface debris, though it sits amid a wider area of naturally scattered stones. A few arcs of stones further out may hint at a larger ceremonial complex—perhaps kerbstones, a stone circle, or remnants of a cairn. Interpretations vary, and ongoing investigation continues to reveal new possibilities. Archaeologist James Gossip, from Cornwall Council’s Historic Environment Service, has begun mapping the uncovered stones, helping to shape our understanding of the site’s layout and meaning.
Work is ongoing to distinguish natural features from intentional construction. As more scrub is cleared and further surveys are undertaken, the hope is that a clearer picture of the monument’s original purpose will emerge. Updates and findings are expected to appear in future editions of the Cornwall Archaeology Society newsletter, offering fresh insights into one of the most mysterious sites in St Keverne parish—a place where stone, story, and speculation still meet on the edge of the Downs.
Castle Dore
Castle Dore, located near Golant in Cornwall, is a significant Iron Age hillfort that was likely occupied from the 5th or 4th centuries BC until the 1st century BC. Its structure includes two defensive ditches forming a roughly circular enclosure about 79 metres in diameter. The inner and outer ramparts were constructed from earth excavated from the ditches and later heightened. Archaeologist CA Ralegh Radford led important excavations here in the 1930s, making Castle Dore one of the most extensively studied Iron Age hillforts in Cornwall. Radford investigated not only the defences but also the interior, uncovering postholes that revealed at least two phases of occupation and about twenty roundhouses.
Initially, Radford believed the fort had been reoccupied during the 5th and 6th centuries AD, identifying a timber hall structure he attributed to King Mark of Cornwall, a figure from Arthurian legend. However, later archaeological reinterpretation, supported by broader post-Roman studies and radiocarbon dating, concluded that Castle Dore’s occupation was confined to the Iron Age. Pottery evidence indicated construction in the 5th–4th centuries BC, followed by a period of abandonment, and later remodelling of the entrance—likely during the 4th–3rd centuries BC. While some oval structures might hint at Romano-British presence, the general archaeological consensus suggests the site was largely abandoned before the Roman period.
Castle Dore also holds historical significance for its role in the English Civil War. In August 1644, the Earl of Essex’s Parliamentarian forces, pursued by Royalist armies, retreated into the ancient earthworks of Castle Dore. Despite efforts to hold the position, the Parliamentarians were surrounded, demoralised, and eventually forced to surrender. This event, part of the wider Battle of Lostwithiel campaign, led to the fort's designation as a registered battlefield. The Royalist victory marked one of the last major triumphs for King Charles I, and the site’s reuse as a defensive stronghold illustrates its enduring strategic value.
Today, Castle Dore remains a scheduled monument accessible via a short walk from a lay-by along the B3269 road, though care is advised due to traffic. The site is privately owned, and access is permitted but informal. The surrounding area, rich with legend and history, also features associations with the Tristan Stone and King Mark, adding a layer of mythic resonance to its archaeological and military heritage. Castle Dore continues to offer insight into Cornwall's Iron Age past and its later re-emergence in moments of national conflict.
Initially, Radford believed the fort had been reoccupied during the 5th and 6th centuries AD, identifying a timber hall structure he attributed to King Mark of Cornwall, a figure from Arthurian legend. However, later archaeological reinterpretation, supported by broader post-Roman studies and radiocarbon dating, concluded that Castle Dore’s occupation was confined to the Iron Age. Pottery evidence indicated construction in the 5th–4th centuries BC, followed by a period of abandonment, and later remodelling of the entrance—likely during the 4th–3rd centuries BC. While some oval structures might hint at Romano-British presence, the general archaeological consensus suggests the site was largely abandoned before the Roman period.
Castle Dore also holds historical significance for its role in the English Civil War. In August 1644, the Earl of Essex’s Parliamentarian forces, pursued by Royalist armies, retreated into the ancient earthworks of Castle Dore. Despite efforts to hold the position, the Parliamentarians were surrounded, demoralised, and eventually forced to surrender. This event, part of the wider Battle of Lostwithiel campaign, led to the fort's designation as a registered battlefield. The Royalist victory marked one of the last major triumphs for King Charles I, and the site’s reuse as a defensive stronghold illustrates its enduring strategic value.
Today, Castle Dore remains a scheduled monument accessible via a short walk from a lay-by along the B3269 road, though care is advised due to traffic. The site is privately owned, and access is permitted but informal. The surrounding area, rich with legend and history, also features associations with the Tristan Stone and King Mark, adding a layer of mythic resonance to its archaeological and military heritage. Castle Dore continues to offer insight into Cornwall's Iron Age past and its later re-emergence in moments of national conflict.
The Wreck of the St Chamond
On 30 April 1918, the French steamship St Chamond was torpedoed and sunk by German U-boat U60 in the Bristol Channel, approximately 1.5 miles north of Clodgy Point, near St Ives. Commanded by Oberleutnant Schuster, the submarine had already claimed 40 vessels before targeting the 2,866-ton freighter. The St Chamond, built in 1913 by W. Gray and Co. in West Hartlepool, was en route from Glasgow to St Nazaire carrying general cargo and five standard gauge 2-8-0 British steam locomotives, each weighing 75 tons. These engines—bearing serial numbers 140.337 to 140.340, 140.368, and 140.369—were vital replacements intended for use on the Western Front, where the British Army was struggling to overcome a severe shortage of reliable rolling stock behind the lines. The cargo also included vast quantities of steel pipe, motor components, and munitions.
Today, the wreck of the St Chamond lies in 27 metres of water, roughly 1.75 miles north of St Ives Head. It rises approximately 6 metres above the seabed at its highest point—the tops of the upright boilers. Officially charted as the St Chamond, its position has been recorded at 50°14.50’N, 005°29.54’W, with Decca (SW Chain) Green A 44.72 and Purple C 69.4488. Though wartime records list five locomotives, divers have since found at least six, and possibly seven. These include locomotives lying upright or on their sides, some broken from their bogeys, interspersed among the remains of the ship's collapsed hull, exposed propeller shaft, and triple-expansion engine. The ship’s boilers—one standing upright, the other potentially rolled away or lost to storms—are among the most prominent features.
Salvage records over the years have confirmed the recovery of various components, including valves, electric motor parts, 40x20 mm shells, and water sight glass tubes. Notably, two locomotives were rediscovered in recent dives and identified as the only known surviving examples of their type. A sounding weight was once reported from the wreck (Droit A/318), and artefacts have been logged under Droit A/1566 and A/4555. These finds further illuminate the historical value of the St Chamond, not only as a wartime casualty but also as a rare undersea museum of early 20th-century transport and engineering. The wreckage sprawls across a pebbled seabed, gradually fading out at the stern where the remains of the rudder and steel propeller lie partly buried.
The sinking of the St Chamond is not just a story of naval warfare—it’s also a poignant reflection on the immense logistical efforts of World War One. The decision to transport entire steam engines across the sea highlights the scale of British military planning and the strain on continental infrastructure. Built for endurance, the vessel had a 250-horsepower screw-driven triple-expansion engine and was constructed with a 22-foot poop deck, 78-foot bridge, and 27-foot forecastle. Despite these features, it stood no chance against the stealth of U60. The engines meant for the trenches now rest beneath the waves, silent and corroding. Yet each dive reveals more of their story, each artefact a relic of a supply chain derailed by war.
Today, the wreck of the St Chamond lies in 27 metres of water, roughly 1.75 miles north of St Ives Head. It rises approximately 6 metres above the seabed at its highest point—the tops of the upright boilers. Officially charted as the St Chamond, its position has been recorded at 50°14.50’N, 005°29.54’W, with Decca (SW Chain) Green A 44.72 and Purple C 69.4488. Though wartime records list five locomotives, divers have since found at least six, and possibly seven. These include locomotives lying upright or on their sides, some broken from their bogeys, interspersed among the remains of the ship's collapsed hull, exposed propeller shaft, and triple-expansion engine. The ship’s boilers—one standing upright, the other potentially rolled away or lost to storms—are among the most prominent features.
Salvage records over the years have confirmed the recovery of various components, including valves, electric motor parts, 40x20 mm shells, and water sight glass tubes. Notably, two locomotives were rediscovered in recent dives and identified as the only known surviving examples of their type. A sounding weight was once reported from the wreck (Droit A/318), and artefacts have been logged under Droit A/1566 and A/4555. These finds further illuminate the historical value of the St Chamond, not only as a wartime casualty but also as a rare undersea museum of early 20th-century transport and engineering. The wreckage sprawls across a pebbled seabed, gradually fading out at the stern where the remains of the rudder and steel propeller lie partly buried.
The sinking of the St Chamond is not just a story of naval warfare—it’s also a poignant reflection on the immense logistical efforts of World War One. The decision to transport entire steam engines across the sea highlights the scale of British military planning and the strain on continental infrastructure. Built for endurance, the vessel had a 250-horsepower screw-driven triple-expansion engine and was constructed with a 22-foot poop deck, 78-foot bridge, and 27-foot forecastle. Despite these features, it stood no chance against the stealth of U60. The engines meant for the trenches now rest beneath the waves, silent and corroding. Yet each dive reveals more of their story, each artefact a relic of a supply chain derailed by war.
Dry Tree Menhir
On the southern edge of the Goonhilly Downs Earth Station, a short walk along a clearly marked footpath, stands the ancient Dry Tree Menhir. Dating back to around 1000 B.C., this Bronze Age standing stone once marked the meeting place of five or six parish boundaries and sits beside a nearby barrow or burial mound, located at the highest point of the downs. The stone is made of gabbro, a type of rock not native to its exact location, suggesting it was transported from St Keverne parish, two miles away. Today, the site provides a striking contrast between the ancient and the modern, as the tall, weathered stone rises before the towering satellite dishes of Goonhilly.
The Dry Tree Menhir has experienced its share of indignities over the centuries. Like many other standing stones across Cornwall, it was toppled in pursuit of legend—local folklore insisted that treasure lay buried beneath such monoliths. During World War I, the stone suffered further damage when soldiers removed a metre-long section from its top for use in road construction. These events left the stone broken and displaced, until efforts were made to restore its former stature.
In June 1927, Colonel Serecold and Colonel Sir Courtney Vyvyan of Trelowarren led a restoration effort, commissioning a team of quarrymen from Porthoustock to re-erect the stone. The Dry Tree Menhir was finally raised again in 1928 in its present location, just outside the fencing of the Goonhilly Earth Station. Although the menhir now stands shorter than its original height—measuring approximately 3.2 metres—it remains an impressive sight, deeply rooted in the landscape and history of the Lizard Peninsula.
Visitors today can reach the menhir via well-maintained paths from the nearby nature reserve car park. As you walk around the monument, the shape of the stone appears to shift—an optical quirk not commonly seen in other megaliths. While the proximity of modern technology may impact the site’s atmosphere, the Dry Tree Menhir still holds a powerful presence. Whether you're drawn by the legend, the landscape, or the sheer mystery of it, the stone continues to invite reflection and awe.
The Dry Tree Menhir has experienced its share of indignities over the centuries. Like many other standing stones across Cornwall, it was toppled in pursuit of legend—local folklore insisted that treasure lay buried beneath such monoliths. During World War I, the stone suffered further damage when soldiers removed a metre-long section from its top for use in road construction. These events left the stone broken and displaced, until efforts were made to restore its former stature.
In June 1927, Colonel Serecold and Colonel Sir Courtney Vyvyan of Trelowarren led a restoration effort, commissioning a team of quarrymen from Porthoustock to re-erect the stone. The Dry Tree Menhir was finally raised again in 1928 in its present location, just outside the fencing of the Goonhilly Earth Station. Although the menhir now stands shorter than its original height—measuring approximately 3.2 metres—it remains an impressive sight, deeply rooted in the landscape and history of the Lizard Peninsula.
Visitors today can reach the menhir via well-maintained paths from the nearby nature reserve car park. As you walk around the monument, the shape of the stone appears to shift—an optical quirk not commonly seen in other megaliths. While the proximity of modern technology may impact the site’s atmosphere, the Dry Tree Menhir still holds a powerful presence. Whether you're drawn by the legend, the landscape, or the sheer mystery of it, the stone continues to invite reflection and awe.
The White Witch of Helston
Tamsin Blight, also known as Tammy Blee or Tamson, was born in Redruth, Cornwall in 1798. Little is known of her early life, but she later rose to prominence as a *pellar*—a Cornish term for a wise woman or white witch. She was believed to be descended from the famed pellar Matthew Lutey of Cury, and by the 1830s had begun practising as a cunning-woman. Tamsin became renowned across Cornwall for her healing skills, her power to lift curses, and her knowledge of charms and herb-based remedies. Her work often included predicting the future, communing with spirits, and crafting charms for protection or love.
In 1835, Tamsin married James (Jemmy) Thomas, a copper miner and self-styled pellar. The two moved to Helston and were often sought out by clients—fishermen, farmers, and young women in particular—for magical guidance and healing. However, while Tamsin gained a strong reputation for her abilities, Thomas became notorious for unsavoury behaviour. He was accused of using his magical services to obtain sexual favours and was described in the press as a disgraceful drunk. When a warrant was issued for his arrest following a proposed homosexual act in St Ives, Thomas fled Cornwall. Tamsin publicly distanced herself from him, ending their partnership.
Despite the scandal, Tamsin’s popularity only grew. She was widely respected as the greatest of the 19th-century Cornish conjurors. People travelled from across Cornwall and even the Scilly Isles to consult her for charms, healing, and protection from ill-wishing. According to folklorist William Bottrell, even when she was bedridden toward the end of her life, clients would be carried in on stretchers to receive her care. She was credited with uncanny success in healing sick animals, foretelling marriage prospects, and even raising spirits. One dramatic tale from Stythians tells of her summoning the ghost of a recently deceased woman to help a relative locate hidden money.
Blight’s influence lingered long after her death on 6 October 1856. Some say she may have reconciled with Thomas, as she had a son who may have inherited her powers. Tamsin’s legacy as the “White Witch of Helston” endures in Cornish folklore, remembered for her formidable gifts in healing, divination, and the mystical arts. Meanwhile, her estranged husband reappeared years later and died in 1874, with one obituary describing him—perhaps generously—as a wizard of great ability and repute.
In 1835, Tamsin married James (Jemmy) Thomas, a copper miner and self-styled pellar. The two moved to Helston and were often sought out by clients—fishermen, farmers, and young women in particular—for magical guidance and healing. However, while Tamsin gained a strong reputation for her abilities, Thomas became notorious for unsavoury behaviour. He was accused of using his magical services to obtain sexual favours and was described in the press as a disgraceful drunk. When a warrant was issued for his arrest following a proposed homosexual act in St Ives, Thomas fled Cornwall. Tamsin publicly distanced herself from him, ending their partnership.
Despite the scandal, Tamsin’s popularity only grew. She was widely respected as the greatest of the 19th-century Cornish conjurors. People travelled from across Cornwall and even the Scilly Isles to consult her for charms, healing, and protection from ill-wishing. According to folklorist William Bottrell, even when she was bedridden toward the end of her life, clients would be carried in on stretchers to receive her care. She was credited with uncanny success in healing sick animals, foretelling marriage prospects, and even raising spirits. One dramatic tale from Stythians tells of her summoning the ghost of a recently deceased woman to help a relative locate hidden money.
Blight’s influence lingered long after her death on 6 October 1856. Some say she may have reconciled with Thomas, as she had a son who may have inherited her powers. Tamsin’s legacy as the “White Witch of Helston” endures in Cornish folklore, remembered for her formidable gifts in healing, divination, and the mystical arts. Meanwhile, her estranged husband reappeared years later and died in 1874, with one obituary describing him—perhaps generously—as a wizard of great ability and repute.
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