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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.
The Giant's Craw
The Pennance Scillonian chamber, known locally as the "Giant's Craw" or "Giant's House," is an entrance grave situated near Zennor, Cornwall. This prehistoric monument rests in a field on the eastern slopes of the Penwith moors, between Zennor and Treen, and remains remarkably well-preserved. The mound measures approximately 8 metres in diameter and stands nearly 2 metres high, encircled by prominent granite kerbstones. The internal chamber, still covered by four large slabs, extends 4 metres in length and faces outward toward the southeast.
Entrance graves like Pennance are characteristic of the Neolithic period, distinguished by a passage leading into a burial chamber. Specifically, the Pennance tomb exemplifies the Scillonian style of cairn, unique to the Isles of Scilly and nearby parts of mainland Cornwall. Its chamber is notably elongated compared to similar monuments, typically reaching at least the radius of the mound or even its full diameter. This distinct architectural form is rare in England but shares similarities with certain sites in Scotland, Ireland, and the Isle of Man.
Historical records provide fascinating insights into Pennance's more recent past. In 1883, during a visit by the Penzance Natural History and Antiquarian Society, a local named Mr. Cornish recounted that the tomb had been repurposed as a calf shelter some decades earlier, noting remnants of this use still lingered. He also referenced three similar barrows at nearby Trereen (Treen), adapted for practical uses such as pig housing and fern storage. Later, in 1950, archaeologist Daniel classified Pennance as one of only four confirmed mainland entrance graves at that time.
Unlike many other local dolmens stripped of their mounds, Pennance retains much of its original cairn. The mound incorporates numerous exposed cairn stones, adjusted architecturally to suit its sloping south-to-north site. Southern kerbs appear larger than those at the northern edge, likely due to size grading toward the chamber entrance. Notably, several large, possibly displaced kerb stones lie atop the mound, especially towards the southeast, suggesting past structural alterations.
The chamber itself is 4 metres long, 1.4 metres wide, and approximately 0.75 metres high, categorised by archaeologists as a constant-width passage. Intriguingly, the chamber does not align centrally within the mound but is skewed significantly to the south, possibly influenced by the hillside's slope. Its dry-stone walls support five beam-like roofing slabs, gradually descending to create a wedge-shaped chamber end. Accessing the chamber today is challenging due to its low height, requiring visitors to crawl inside. Permission from Pennance Farm is required for close visits, but the site remains visible from the nearby B3306 road near Zennor.
Entrance graves like Pennance are characteristic of the Neolithic period, distinguished by a passage leading into a burial chamber. Specifically, the Pennance tomb exemplifies the Scillonian style of cairn, unique to the Isles of Scilly and nearby parts of mainland Cornwall. Its chamber is notably elongated compared to similar monuments, typically reaching at least the radius of the mound or even its full diameter. This distinct architectural form is rare in England but shares similarities with certain sites in Scotland, Ireland, and the Isle of Man.
Historical records provide fascinating insights into Pennance's more recent past. In 1883, during a visit by the Penzance Natural History and Antiquarian Society, a local named Mr. Cornish recounted that the tomb had been repurposed as a calf shelter some decades earlier, noting remnants of this use still lingered. He also referenced three similar barrows at nearby Trereen (Treen), adapted for practical uses such as pig housing and fern storage. Later, in 1950, archaeologist Daniel classified Pennance as one of only four confirmed mainland entrance graves at that time.
Unlike many other local dolmens stripped of their mounds, Pennance retains much of its original cairn. The mound incorporates numerous exposed cairn stones, adjusted architecturally to suit its sloping south-to-north site. Southern kerbs appear larger than those at the northern edge, likely due to size grading toward the chamber entrance. Notably, several large, possibly displaced kerb stones lie atop the mound, especially towards the southeast, suggesting past structural alterations.
The chamber itself is 4 metres long, 1.4 metres wide, and approximately 0.75 metres high, categorised by archaeologists as a constant-width passage. Intriguingly, the chamber does not align centrally within the mound but is skewed significantly to the south, possibly influenced by the hillside's slope. Its dry-stone walls support five beam-like roofing slabs, gradually descending to create a wedge-shaped chamber end. Accessing the chamber today is challenging due to its low height, requiring visitors to crawl inside. Permission from Pennance Farm is required for close visits, but the site remains visible from the nearby B3306 road near Zennor.
Condolden Barrow
Condolden Barrow is a striking prehistoric monument that sits high on a hill inland from Tintagel, commanding views of the surrounding coast and valleys. Its size and position suggest it was intended for someone of great significance. Thomas Hardy imagined it as the resting place of Queen Isolde in The Famous Tragedy of the Queen of Cornwall, a romantic tragedy based on the legendary lovers Tristan and Isolde. Others associate the barrow with Cador, a 6th-century King of Cornwall and reputed companion of King Arthur. In medieval literature, including The Dream of Rhonabwy and Geoffrey of Monmouth’s History of the Kings of Britain, Cador is portrayed as a trusted warrior, Arthur’s sword bearer, and guardian of Guinevere.
Physically, Condolden Barrow is a large bowl barrow, measuring 26 metres across and nearly 3 metres high. It stands on a ridge above tributaries of the River Camel, with a partially visible quarry ditch around its base from which the mound’s material was excavated. The presence of an Ordnance Survey triangulation pillar on top attests to its prominence in the landscape. Although the mound shows signs of early disturbance—likely from antiquarian digging or stone robbing—much of it remains intact. Archaeological investigations could still yield important information about prehistoric funerary rituals, landscape use, and the communities who built it.
Bowl barrows such as this one are some of the most widespread types of prehistoric burial mounds in Britain, dating from 2400 to 1500 BC. Though their appearance varies, they were typically built of earth or rubble and used to cover single or multiple burials. Some were reused or revered long after their original purpose had passed. Condolden Barrow, despite later associations with Arthurian legend, almost certainly belongs to this earlier period. Its enduring visibility in the landscape would have continued to attract stories and meanings through the ages, especially in a region as rich in myth as Tintagel.
Place-name evidence from the surrounding area adds another layer of intrigue. As early as 1298, the land was referred to as mora de Gondolvaen, meaning ‘moor of the holed stone’. The Cornish elements suggest the past presence of a dolmen or quoit—possibly a now-lost feature associated with the barrow itself, similar to the holed stone at Tolvan in Constantine. Although no such stone survives at Condolden today, the name points to a time when the landscape held other visible markers of prehistoric ritual or burial activity, now vanished but once important enough to give their name to the land.
In more recent history, the barrow served different roles. During the 18th and 19th centuries, it lay beside a well-used road between Trenale and Tintagel, visible on early maps and known locally as ‘Cadon Barrow’. By the 1800s, it had become a survey marker for Ordnance Survey mapping, and by the 1840s, the surrounding land was being enclosed and farmed. It also became a gathering place for open-air meetings of early Bible Christians—among them Abraham Bastard, a celebrated Cornish wrestler. Although its ancient origins are prehistoric, Condolden Barrow has continued to be a place of cultural and spiritual significance across many generations.
Physically, Condolden Barrow is a large bowl barrow, measuring 26 metres across and nearly 3 metres high. It stands on a ridge above tributaries of the River Camel, with a partially visible quarry ditch around its base from which the mound’s material was excavated. The presence of an Ordnance Survey triangulation pillar on top attests to its prominence in the landscape. Although the mound shows signs of early disturbance—likely from antiquarian digging or stone robbing—much of it remains intact. Archaeological investigations could still yield important information about prehistoric funerary rituals, landscape use, and the communities who built it.
Bowl barrows such as this one are some of the most widespread types of prehistoric burial mounds in Britain, dating from 2400 to 1500 BC. Though their appearance varies, they were typically built of earth or rubble and used to cover single or multiple burials. Some were reused or revered long after their original purpose had passed. Condolden Barrow, despite later associations with Arthurian legend, almost certainly belongs to this earlier period. Its enduring visibility in the landscape would have continued to attract stories and meanings through the ages, especially in a region as rich in myth as Tintagel.
Place-name evidence from the surrounding area adds another layer of intrigue. As early as 1298, the land was referred to as mora de Gondolvaen, meaning ‘moor of the holed stone’. The Cornish elements suggest the past presence of a dolmen or quoit—possibly a now-lost feature associated with the barrow itself, similar to the holed stone at Tolvan in Constantine. Although no such stone survives at Condolden today, the name points to a time when the landscape held other visible markers of prehistoric ritual or burial activity, now vanished but once important enough to give their name to the land.
In more recent history, the barrow served different roles. During the 18th and 19th centuries, it lay beside a well-used road between Trenale and Tintagel, visible on early maps and known locally as ‘Cadon Barrow’. By the 1800s, it had become a survey marker for Ordnance Survey mapping, and by the 1840s, the surrounding land was being enclosed and farmed. It also became a gathering place for open-air meetings of early Bible Christians—among them Abraham Bastard, a celebrated Cornish wrestler. Although its ancient origins are prehistoric, Condolden Barrow has continued to be a place of cultural and spiritual significance across many generations.
Lower Boscaswell Fogou
The fogou at Lower Boscaswell is considered one of the most significant examples of its kind, having only been scientifically excavated in the mid-20th century, over a century after Copeland Borlase’s work at Chapel Euny. Historical references to the site begin with Buller in 1842, followed by Blight in 1864, though neither conducted formal excavations. Clark and Ford measured parts of the structure in the early 1950s, but it wasn't until 1954–55 that full excavations revealed the fogou’s extent. These efforts unearthed both the main gallery and side passage, along with an adjacent courtyard enclosure, offering vital clues to the structure's original use and layout.
Early descriptions by Buller suggest the site had long been part of local tradition, associated with legends of an “old castle” and even Roman coins. He mentions a subterranean chamber in a village garden, likely the same fogou, and observes that the village layout may preserve the plan of an ancient settlement. Blight, writing a few decades later, documented the fogou in greater detail, providing dimensions and speculating on its structure. He considered it a significant site in relation to Cornish and broader Celtic subterranean architecture, though some of the features he described were later lost or hidden until the modern excavations. While Robert Hunt does not directly mention the fogou in his Popular Romances of the West of England, he does record a striking piece of Christian superstition from Boscaswell, shared by Mr Blight: locals believed that those who disturbed ancient sacred places such as wells and chapels met with swift divine punishment. One man who altered a holy well, it was said, drowned the next day within sight of his house; another, who removed stones from an old chapel, supposedly had his home burn down that very night.
The excavations of 1954 revealed a fogou constructed of large granite slabs and squared stones, with evidence of a curved passage running east to west and connected to a larger prehistoric site. Only two of the original roof lintels remained in place, while modern walling had blocked key sections. A substantial wall facing the entrance suggested a former north entrance, and this, along with traces of similar construction seen at sites like Pendeen, implies that massive walls may have been a defining feature of fogou complexes, possibly with defensive or economic purposes still unclear to archaeologists. These architectural features—often misunderstood or overlooked—may have had practical as well as symbolic importance, especially in settlement contexts tied to Iron Age cultural practices.
Particularly notable was the eastern enclosure into which the fogou appeared to open. This courtyard building, likely built on ancient foundations, may be the only known example of a courtyard house directly connected to a fogou. Excavations in this area revealed carefully constructed stone walls, a stone step feature in the rab (floor), and a change from horizontal to vertical stonework that marked the point of entry into the courtyard structure. The wall dimensions and gradual elevation changes provided further evidence that this eastern section had once been roofed and functionally connected to the fogou's original layout. As the excavators removed layers of fill and rubble, they were able to reconstruct how the fogou had once emerged from beneath the landscape into a more formal structure above.
These excavations confirmed many of Blight’s early assumptions while correcting others, such as the length and function of the side passage, which terminated in a finely built doorway rather than extending toward the village as he had believed. The structure's complexity, along with the associated pottery sherds identified by Charles Thomas, places it firmly in the La Tène period. The fact that Buller referenced the fogou’s location in a “small garden” and that Hunt recorded tales of divine punishment at Boscaswell hints at a continued reverence for ancient places well into the Christian era. This mixture of pre-Christian architecture and Christian-era superstition makes the Boscaswell fogou not just archaeologically important, but culturally rich—one of the most revealing and sensitively excavated fogous in all of Penwith.
Early descriptions by Buller suggest the site had long been part of local tradition, associated with legends of an “old castle” and even Roman coins. He mentions a subterranean chamber in a village garden, likely the same fogou, and observes that the village layout may preserve the plan of an ancient settlement. Blight, writing a few decades later, documented the fogou in greater detail, providing dimensions and speculating on its structure. He considered it a significant site in relation to Cornish and broader Celtic subterranean architecture, though some of the features he described were later lost or hidden until the modern excavations. While Robert Hunt does not directly mention the fogou in his Popular Romances of the West of England, he does record a striking piece of Christian superstition from Boscaswell, shared by Mr Blight: locals believed that those who disturbed ancient sacred places such as wells and chapels met with swift divine punishment. One man who altered a holy well, it was said, drowned the next day within sight of his house; another, who removed stones from an old chapel, supposedly had his home burn down that very night.
The excavations of 1954 revealed a fogou constructed of large granite slabs and squared stones, with evidence of a curved passage running east to west and connected to a larger prehistoric site. Only two of the original roof lintels remained in place, while modern walling had blocked key sections. A substantial wall facing the entrance suggested a former north entrance, and this, along with traces of similar construction seen at sites like Pendeen, implies that massive walls may have been a defining feature of fogou complexes, possibly with defensive or economic purposes still unclear to archaeologists. These architectural features—often misunderstood or overlooked—may have had practical as well as symbolic importance, especially in settlement contexts tied to Iron Age cultural practices.
Particularly notable was the eastern enclosure into which the fogou appeared to open. This courtyard building, likely built on ancient foundations, may be the only known example of a courtyard house directly connected to a fogou. Excavations in this area revealed carefully constructed stone walls, a stone step feature in the rab (floor), and a change from horizontal to vertical stonework that marked the point of entry into the courtyard structure. The wall dimensions and gradual elevation changes provided further evidence that this eastern section had once been roofed and functionally connected to the fogou's original layout. As the excavators removed layers of fill and rubble, they were able to reconstruct how the fogou had once emerged from beneath the landscape into a more formal structure above.
These excavations confirmed many of Blight’s early assumptions while correcting others, such as the length and function of the side passage, which terminated in a finely built doorway rather than extending toward the village as he had believed. The structure's complexity, along with the associated pottery sherds identified by Charles Thomas, places it firmly in the La Tène period. The fact that Buller referenced the fogou’s location in a “small garden” and that Hunt recorded tales of divine punishment at Boscaswell hints at a continued reverence for ancient places well into the Christian era. This mixture of pre-Christian architecture and Christian-era superstition makes the Boscaswell fogou not just archaeologically important, but culturally rich—one of the most revealing and sensitively excavated fogous in all of Penwith.
The Seven Stones Reef
The Seven Stones reef, located between Land’s End and the Isles of Scilly, is both a notorious maritime hazard and the focus of one of Cornwall’s most enduring legends. Geologically, the reef is part of the Cornubian granite batholith, formed over 275 million years ago. It rises sharply from depths of around 110 metres and spans nearly two miles in length. Named formations such as Pollards Rock, Flemish Ledges and the ledge known as the Town are visible at low tide. But in Cornish folklore, these stones are all that remain of Lyonesse, or Lethowsow in Cornish, a once prosperous land said to have stretched between Cornwall and Scilly, now lost beneath the sea.
The reef’s danger to shipping is well documented. Over 200 wrecks are thought to lie in its waters, including the Primrose in 1656 and HMS Lizard in 1748, which sank with over 100 lives lost. At the same time, medieval chronicles and local tradition speak of a sunken world. Florence of Worcester recorded a great flood in 1099 that drowned towns and livestock. Later writers like Richard Carew described fishermen pulling up fragments of old doors and windows in their nets. The idea of a drowned land endures in these accounts, and the name Lethowsow itself, meaning “the milky ones,” refers to the constant churning white water around the reef.
In modern times, the most infamous event linked to the Seven Stones was the wreck of the supertanker Torrey Canyon in March 1967. The ship struck Pollards Rock, causing a vast oil spill that polluted 120 miles of Cornish coast and 50 miles of the Brittany shore. It was the first major oil pollution disaster of its kind and remains one of the worst in UK history. French fishing boats, often seen in the area collecting crab and lobster, were among the first to respond to the unfolding crisis. The scale of the incident brought international attention to the reef and its dangers.
To mark the location and reduce further accidents, a lightvessel was moored near the reef in 1841. Positioned 2.5 miles to the northeast in calmer water, the vessel has served as a warning for passing ships ever since. It has endured storms, collisions and even wartime attacks, including bombing raids during the Second World War. Since 1987, the lightship has been fully automated and now operates as an unmanned weather station. Despite these modern defences, the reef still carries a reputation that goes beyond the physical, a presence shaped as much by memory and myth as by charts and markers.
Accounts collected by antiquarians such as William Camden speak of locals who believed they could hear the bells of the drowned city ringing beneath the sea. In clear conditions, some claimed to see walls and field boundaries below the surface, particularly around the Sampson Flats. Whether these stories stem from folk memory, submerged postglacial landscapes, or something more symbolic, the legend of Lyonesse continues to haunt the reef.
The reef’s danger to shipping is well documented. Over 200 wrecks are thought to lie in its waters, including the Primrose in 1656 and HMS Lizard in 1748, which sank with over 100 lives lost. At the same time, medieval chronicles and local tradition speak of a sunken world. Florence of Worcester recorded a great flood in 1099 that drowned towns and livestock. Later writers like Richard Carew described fishermen pulling up fragments of old doors and windows in their nets. The idea of a drowned land endures in these accounts, and the name Lethowsow itself, meaning “the milky ones,” refers to the constant churning white water around the reef.
In modern times, the most infamous event linked to the Seven Stones was the wreck of the supertanker Torrey Canyon in March 1967. The ship struck Pollards Rock, causing a vast oil spill that polluted 120 miles of Cornish coast and 50 miles of the Brittany shore. It was the first major oil pollution disaster of its kind and remains one of the worst in UK history. French fishing boats, often seen in the area collecting crab and lobster, were among the first to respond to the unfolding crisis. The scale of the incident brought international attention to the reef and its dangers.
To mark the location and reduce further accidents, a lightvessel was moored near the reef in 1841. Positioned 2.5 miles to the northeast in calmer water, the vessel has served as a warning for passing ships ever since. It has endured storms, collisions and even wartime attacks, including bombing raids during the Second World War. Since 1987, the lightship has been fully automated and now operates as an unmanned weather station. Despite these modern defences, the reef still carries a reputation that goes beyond the physical, a presence shaped as much by memory and myth as by charts and markers.
Accounts collected by antiquarians such as William Camden speak of locals who believed they could hear the bells of the drowned city ringing beneath the sea. In clear conditions, some claimed to see walls and field boundaries below the surface, particularly around the Sampson Flats. Whether these stories stem from folk memory, submerged postglacial landscapes, or something more symbolic, the legend of Lyonesse continues to haunt the reef.
The Nag's Head Rock
On the island of St Agnes in the Isles of Scilly, there’s no shortage of strange and sculptural rock formations, but one in particular always seems to catch the eye: the Nag’s Head. Towering around 15 feet (4.5 metres) high, this weathered granite outcrop is so named because of the uncanny resemblance its upper portion bears to a horse’s head.
While the Nag’s Head is likely the result of natural weathering and erosion, it’s easy to imagine how people across the ages might have interpreted it differently. The Cornish antiquarian William Borlase once suggested that such a site could have been used by the Druids for ritual activity. Whether or not that’s true, it’s not hard to imagine this distinctive outcrop holding some spiritual or symbolic significance to those who lived or passed through here. In a landscape scattered with odd granite forms, the Nag’s Head still manages to feel uniquely charged.
Geologically, the formation is part of the broader granite batholith that underpins not only St Agnes but also stretches across Cornwall and the Isles of Scilly. This immense body of rock was formed around 290 million years ago, and over the millennia, wind, salt, and water have sculpted it into all manner of strange and seemingly sentient forms.
While the Nag’s Head is likely the result of natural weathering and erosion, it’s easy to imagine how people across the ages might have interpreted it differently. The Cornish antiquarian William Borlase once suggested that such a site could have been used by the Druids for ritual activity. Whether or not that’s true, it’s not hard to imagine this distinctive outcrop holding some spiritual or symbolic significance to those who lived or passed through here. In a landscape scattered with odd granite forms, the Nag’s Head still manages to feel uniquely charged.
Geologically, the formation is part of the broader granite batholith that underpins not only St Agnes but also stretches across Cornwall and the Isles of Scilly. This immense body of rock was formed around 290 million years ago, and over the millennia, wind, salt, and water have sculpted it into all manner of strange and seemingly sentient forms.
Lostwithiel's Medieval Grave Slab
A medieval grave slab stands south of St Bartholomew’s Church in Lostwithiel. This tapered, rectangular granite block measures about 1.26 metres high, 0.45 metres wide at the top (narrowing to 0.32 metres), and 0.17 metres thick. It is set upright in a modern granite base with its principal faces oriented north-south.
The north face is plain, while the south face has unusual relief decoration: a circle with three small circular bosses at the top and bottom, an additional boss above the circle, and a long limb extending down from its base. There is also a deep cupped depression at the top, similar to a mortar, which makes this design quite distinctive compared to more conventional medieval grave slabs.
The slab was discovered in the churchyard in 1850. Between 1857 and 1869, it served as a gravestone in the new cemetery before being brought back to the churchyard. It lay there until 1958 when it was finally set into its current granite base, which bears an inscription from the Lostwithiel Old Cornwall Society noting where it was found.
Although two small drill holes are modern additions, likely made for attaching a memorial tablet during its time as a gravestone, the slab itself is believed to have been the lid of a medieval grave belonging to a wealthy or important person, possibly a priest.
The north face is plain, while the south face has unusual relief decoration: a circle with three small circular bosses at the top and bottom, an additional boss above the circle, and a long limb extending down from its base. There is also a deep cupped depression at the top, similar to a mortar, which makes this design quite distinctive compared to more conventional medieval grave slabs.
The slab was discovered in the churchyard in 1850. Between 1857 and 1869, it served as a gravestone in the new cemetery before being brought back to the churchyard. It lay there until 1958 when it was finally set into its current granite base, which bears an inscription from the Lostwithiel Old Cornwall Society noting where it was found.
Although two small drill holes are modern additions, likely made for attaching a memorial tablet during its time as a gravestone, the slab itself is believed to have been the lid of a medieval grave belonging to a wealthy or important person, possibly a priest.
The Trelew Standing Stone
This imposing 3-metre standing stone, has inspired generations of curiosity and speculation. Early antiquarians described it in vivid terms: “very irregularly shaped” and “very bulky with a peculiar twisted appearance,” a monument that seems to resist simple categorisation. Though it was recorded by Blight in 1856, Edmonds later asserted that Halliwell was in fact the first to document it in print. The stone’s distinctive form, combined with its elevated position, ensured it could never be merely overlooked or mistaken for a stray boulder. When W.C. Borlase excavated the site in 1871—a particularly busy year for him—he discovered a small pit near the base containing cremated bone fragments, charred wood, baked clay and splintered flint. This compelling mix of materials offers clear evidence that the stone was woven into a ritual landscape far older than any surviving record.
Ian McNeil offers a particularly evocative interpretation of menhirs, viewing them not simply as markers or territorial boundaries but as dynamic instruments of energy. In his conception, a menhir functions as an interface facilitator, bridging earth and sky like a cosmic lightning rod. The upright form, reminiscent of Hindu lingams, was intended to channel celestial forces—the “sperm,” in McNeil’s striking metaphor—into the receptive earth, the “egg.” By inserting this energy-conductor into an energy vortex, a concentrated and amplified field would arise, enabling the earth-sky connection to flourish. This perspective underscores why menhirs were never erected directly on mounds: the energies of the masculine pillar and the feminine cairn would cancel each other out. Yet they were often located in proximity, complementing each other from a respectful distance—examples being the cairns flanking the Nine Maidens stone circle or the combination of cairns and standing stones on nearby Watch Croft.
Menhirs across West Penwith are often found in carefully considered relationships with other features in the prehistoric landscape. Not far from this particular stone, cairns and barrows stand witness to the same transformative impulse that cleared the ancient woodlands and reshaped the land into a network of sacred alignments. Around 150 menhirs are known to have existed in this region alone, with 74 still surviving in the landscape. Most date to the Bronze Age between roughly 2500 and 1800 BCE, a time when communities invested enormous effort into quarrying, hauling, and erecting these hulking forms. As McNeil notes, the work was not merely mechanical. It demanded shared vision, leadership, surveying skills and a collective understanding that these stones created an enduring framework, both physical and psychological, that would last for generations. No stone existed in isolation. Each one was part of an interconnected web, anchoring alignments, rituals and a new relationship between people and place.
The excavation account from 1871 adds a final, haunting detail. Borlase’s team sank a pit on the northern side of the pillar. About three feet below the surface, they found a deposit of splintered bones, strongly cemented together, mingled with charred wood and fragments of flint subjected to intense heat. There was also a piece of rudely baked reddish clay, about two inches in diameter, shaped like a stopper or plug. The deposit was not protected by any covering slab or cist, simply set within the clay-rich soil at the foot of the menhir. One of the most curious aspects is that this stone appears to have been erected on its narrowest end, an unusual choice that must have held particular significance. Today, the stone remains set firmly in the landscape at SW 42172693, its wedge-shaped form measuring nearly a metre across at the base. Whether you see it as an axis mundi, an ancient energy conductor or simply a testament to prehistoric ingenuity, it is a stone of great importance.
Ian McNeil offers a particularly evocative interpretation of menhirs, viewing them not simply as markers or territorial boundaries but as dynamic instruments of energy. In his conception, a menhir functions as an interface facilitator, bridging earth and sky like a cosmic lightning rod. The upright form, reminiscent of Hindu lingams, was intended to channel celestial forces—the “sperm,” in McNeil’s striking metaphor—into the receptive earth, the “egg.” By inserting this energy-conductor into an energy vortex, a concentrated and amplified field would arise, enabling the earth-sky connection to flourish. This perspective underscores why menhirs were never erected directly on mounds: the energies of the masculine pillar and the feminine cairn would cancel each other out. Yet they were often located in proximity, complementing each other from a respectful distance—examples being the cairns flanking the Nine Maidens stone circle or the combination of cairns and standing stones on nearby Watch Croft.
Menhirs across West Penwith are often found in carefully considered relationships with other features in the prehistoric landscape. Not far from this particular stone, cairns and barrows stand witness to the same transformative impulse that cleared the ancient woodlands and reshaped the land into a network of sacred alignments. Around 150 menhirs are known to have existed in this region alone, with 74 still surviving in the landscape. Most date to the Bronze Age between roughly 2500 and 1800 BCE, a time when communities invested enormous effort into quarrying, hauling, and erecting these hulking forms. As McNeil notes, the work was not merely mechanical. It demanded shared vision, leadership, surveying skills and a collective understanding that these stones created an enduring framework, both physical and psychological, that would last for generations. No stone existed in isolation. Each one was part of an interconnected web, anchoring alignments, rituals and a new relationship between people and place.
The excavation account from 1871 adds a final, haunting detail. Borlase’s team sank a pit on the northern side of the pillar. About three feet below the surface, they found a deposit of splintered bones, strongly cemented together, mingled with charred wood and fragments of flint subjected to intense heat. There was also a piece of rudely baked reddish clay, about two inches in diameter, shaped like a stopper or plug. The deposit was not protected by any covering slab or cist, simply set within the clay-rich soil at the foot of the menhir. One of the most curious aspects is that this stone appears to have been erected on its narrowest end, an unusual choice that must have held particular significance. Today, the stone remains set firmly in the landscape at SW 42172693, its wedge-shaped form measuring nearly a metre across at the base. Whether you see it as an axis mundi, an ancient energy conductor or simply a testament to prehistoric ingenuity, it is a stone of great importance.
Fernacre Stone Circle
If you have ever wanted to feel like you have stepped right out of time, Fernacre Stone Circle is the place to do it. Even the name might come from the old word for 'faery', feren, which feels just right when you stand there with the wind in your ears and the empty moor all around you. Tucked away in one of the most desolate corners of Bodmin Moor, with Rough Tor looming like some ancient giant, this is one of Cornwall’s biggest and most mysterious circles. Getting here isn’t exactly a casual stroll. You will need sturdy boots, a map (and probably a backup map), and a good sense of humour about boggy ground and unpredictable weather. But when you finally stand among these weather-beaten stones, you realise you have reached a place that has been part of the landscape for thousands of years.
Fernacre is massive, over 70 stones originally, with about 40 still standing today, sunk deep into the peat. Even though they do not look especially tall now, back when they were first put up, they would have been seriously impressive. The whole ring measures around 46 metres across, and it is not perfectly round, more of a slightly squashed circle that somehow feels even more ancient for it. Some think the name means bracken land, but I have always preferred the fairy connection.
This place sits at the crossroads of some incredible prehistoric alignments. Rough Tor to the north, Brown Willy to the east, Garrow Tor to the south, Louden Hill to the west. If you stand in the middle, you are practically inside a natural compass of sacred peaks. People have even suggested that certain stones mark where the sun rises on the equinox or sets on old festival days. Whether you believe that or not, there is no denying how perfectly the circle seems to fit into the land.
Close by, there are traces of old hut circles and farmed fields. The ruins of Fernacre farm were first mentioned way back in 1327, and the surrounding ground shows signs of cultivation stretching back into prehistory. No bones have ever been found in the huts, just flints and old stones, but that somehow makes it all feel even older, as if the people who built this place left quietly without a trace. Some say Fernacre and its neighbour Stannon were built much earlier than other circles in Cornwall because they are so big and have so many stones.
If you do make the trek out here, be prepared for the quiet. Once you are there, you are really out in it, just you, the stones, and the wind. On a clear day, you can see for miles over the moor, and it is easy to imagine all the generations who walked the same ground, farming, burying their dead, and marking the passing of the seasons. It is not the easiest place to get to, but that is part of the magic. Standing there, with Rough Tor at your back and the empty land stretching out in every direction, you will feel like you have found something almost forgotten.
Fernacre is massive, over 70 stones originally, with about 40 still standing today, sunk deep into the peat. Even though they do not look especially tall now, back when they were first put up, they would have been seriously impressive. The whole ring measures around 46 metres across, and it is not perfectly round, more of a slightly squashed circle that somehow feels even more ancient for it. Some think the name means bracken land, but I have always preferred the fairy connection.
This place sits at the crossroads of some incredible prehistoric alignments. Rough Tor to the north, Brown Willy to the east, Garrow Tor to the south, Louden Hill to the west. If you stand in the middle, you are practically inside a natural compass of sacred peaks. People have even suggested that certain stones mark where the sun rises on the equinox or sets on old festival days. Whether you believe that or not, there is no denying how perfectly the circle seems to fit into the land.
Close by, there are traces of old hut circles and farmed fields. The ruins of Fernacre farm were first mentioned way back in 1327, and the surrounding ground shows signs of cultivation stretching back into prehistory. No bones have ever been found in the huts, just flints and old stones, but that somehow makes it all feel even older, as if the people who built this place left quietly without a trace. Some say Fernacre and its neighbour Stannon were built much earlier than other circles in Cornwall because they are so big and have so many stones.
If you do make the trek out here, be prepared for the quiet. Once you are there, you are really out in it, just you, the stones, and the wind. On a clear day, you can see for miles over the moor, and it is easy to imagine all the generations who walked the same ground, farming, burying their dead, and marking the passing of the seasons. It is not the easiest place to get to, but that is part of the magic. Standing there, with Rough Tor at your back and the empty land stretching out in every direction, you will feel like you have found something almost forgotten.
Goodaver Stone Circle
The Goodaver Stone Circle stands on a broad ridge at the southwest edge of Goodaver Downs, overlooking the upper River Fowey valley on southern Bodmin Moor. The circle is laid out as a near circular ring of twenty three granite slabs, measuring about 31.5 metres east to west and 32.7 metres north to south. The stones range in height from 0.8 to 1.3 metres and are graded so that the tallest stand in the southeast while the smallest are in the west and northwest. The plan of the circle is slightly flattened along the eastern side, a feature seen in other Bodmin Moor monuments.
This 32.3 metre (106 foot) ring originally consisted of twenty eight stones, spaced approximately 3.7 metres (12 feet) apart, a pattern characteristic of the large circles in the region. Today, twenty three stones remain standing and one recumbent has disappeared over the last century. Typically, these rectangular stones are between 0.6 metres (2 feet) and 1.6 metres (5.2 feet) tall and about 0.44 metres (1.45 feet) wide. Gaps in the circle indicate the positions of at least seven missing stones, including a large slab that was recorded as fallen until 1979.
Reverend A. H. Malan rediscovered the circle in 1906 when only three stones remained upright. With assistance from local farmers, the fallen stones were re-erected, though evidence suggests that several were placed upside down, with reversed faces, or slightly out of their original positions. Close inspection shows that while the smooth sides of the stones would usually face inward, in this reconstruction some were turned the wrong way around. Even so, their arrangement was broadly faithful to the original plan.
Nearby archaeological features reveal a wider Bronze Age landscape. About 80 metres (260 feet) southwest of the circle lies a large cairn, measuring roughly 19.5 metres (64 feet) in diameter and 0.7 metres (2.3 feet) high. This mound, covered in turf and lacking any surviving kerb or cist, has been damaged on its northern side, likely from the removal of stones for nearby walls. Additionally, traces of ancient hut circles and field systems are visible, suggesting a settled community engaged in farming alongside ritual practices.
Despite the early 20th century reconstruction, the Goodaver Stone Circle has survived in reasonably good condition and remains an important example of prehistoric ceremonial architecture. Its distinctive features, the graduated heights of the slabs, the slightly flattened eastern edge, and the consistent stone spacing, demonstrate close parallels with the six other large regular circles on Bodmin Moor. The monument’s setting among cairns, settlement remains, and field systems reflects the close connections between ritual, burial, and everyday life during the Bronze Age.
This 32.3 metre (106 foot) ring originally consisted of twenty eight stones, spaced approximately 3.7 metres (12 feet) apart, a pattern characteristic of the large circles in the region. Today, twenty three stones remain standing and one recumbent has disappeared over the last century. Typically, these rectangular stones are between 0.6 metres (2 feet) and 1.6 metres (5.2 feet) tall and about 0.44 metres (1.45 feet) wide. Gaps in the circle indicate the positions of at least seven missing stones, including a large slab that was recorded as fallen until 1979.
Reverend A. H. Malan rediscovered the circle in 1906 when only three stones remained upright. With assistance from local farmers, the fallen stones were re-erected, though evidence suggests that several were placed upside down, with reversed faces, or slightly out of their original positions. Close inspection shows that while the smooth sides of the stones would usually face inward, in this reconstruction some were turned the wrong way around. Even so, their arrangement was broadly faithful to the original plan.
Nearby archaeological features reveal a wider Bronze Age landscape. About 80 metres (260 feet) southwest of the circle lies a large cairn, measuring roughly 19.5 metres (64 feet) in diameter and 0.7 metres (2.3 feet) high. This mound, covered in turf and lacking any surviving kerb or cist, has been damaged on its northern side, likely from the removal of stones for nearby walls. Additionally, traces of ancient hut circles and field systems are visible, suggesting a settled community engaged in farming alongside ritual practices.
Despite the early 20th century reconstruction, the Goodaver Stone Circle has survived in reasonably good condition and remains an important example of prehistoric ceremonial architecture. Its distinctive features, the graduated heights of the slabs, the slightly flattened eastern edge, and the consistent stone spacing, demonstrate close parallels with the six other large regular circles on Bodmin Moor. The monument’s setting among cairns, settlement remains, and field systems reflects the close connections between ritual, burial, and everyday life during the Bronze Age.
Bosporthennis Quoit
Edmunds first described Bosporthennis Quoit in 1848 as a small dismounted quoit. In 1872, WC Borlase excavated the site and recorded finding an urn and sherds of pottery along with calcined bones within the chamber. He also recounted a story of a miller who attempted to trim the corner of the capstone to make a millstone but later abandoned the idea. Daniel, writing in 1950, suggested the site should be classed more accurately as a large surface cist rather than a true quoit. The chamber itself measures about 1.2 metres high, 0.9 metres wide and 1.5 metres long, and the nearly circular capstone is 1.5 metres in diameter and about 0.15 metres thick.
The structure has several notable features. The slab on the south-west side measures 1.8 metres long, while the supporting stone opposite is missing, leaving the cover stone lying prostrate on that side. The north-west end is formed by a single upright stone, and the south-east end by two stones. Around these remains lies a heap of earth and stones, which appear to be the remnants of a barrow that once covered the chamber. The Ordnance Survey mapped the site in 1961 and confirmed most of Edmonds’ description, although they noted that the single side stone was on the south side rather than the south-west. The large western stone and the side stone are upright and rest against each other, while several smaller stones at the eastern end are almost certainly no longer in their original positions.
In 1971, Russell listed the remains of the cist and the displaced capstone, and the Ordnance Survey revisited the site in 1975 and recorded no significant changes since their earlier survey. Weatherhill in 1977 suggested that Bosporthennis represents a transitional monument, too small to be a Penwith chamber tomb but too large to be considered a simple cist. The CCRA planned the site at a scale of 1 to 50 in 1983, noting the south-east end stone appeared displaced and that clearance stones had been dumped on the capstone. They observed that the cist lies slightly south of the centre of the mound.
Bosporthennis Quoit stands in a small rectangular field enclosed by massive, high walls. The orthostats are still deeply embedded in an ovoid barrow of stone and earth measuring 6.7 by 5.8 metres and reaching a height of 0.8 metres, with the scant remains of a kerb visible. In 1961, the Ordnance Survey recorded a larger barrow mound extending south from the chamber but never higher than 0.1 metre, nearly ploughed out over time. Later surveys confirmed this observation, and further planning in 1983 measured the mound overall as 6.7 by 6.1 metres. If the kerb continued in a complete circle, the mound would have been approximately 5.5 metres in diameter.
Pronounced B’zprennis, the monument is now thought to be the remains of a Bronze Age entrance grave. The capstone was trimmed into a circular shape, likely intended for use as a millstone but never removed from the site. Unlike many other quoits in Cornwall, Bosporthennis retains much of its surrounding mound. Four uprights of the chamber remain along with the fallen capstone. Nearby, at the eastern foot of Hannibal’s Carn, lies a scattered settlement of at least three Late Iron Age courtyard houses, including one with walls up to 1.5 metres high and another containing a medieval cowhouse. Within the settlement is the Bosporthennis Beehive Hut, sometimes identified as an above-ground fogou, though this interpretation is considered doubtful. Excavations in 2009 confirmed that Bosporthennis Quoit was likely oval in plan with a possible northern entrance, later blocked in the early medieval period, suggesting it may have been either a large cist or a small entrance grave comparable to examples at Bosiliack and Brane.
The structure has several notable features. The slab on the south-west side measures 1.8 metres long, while the supporting stone opposite is missing, leaving the cover stone lying prostrate on that side. The north-west end is formed by a single upright stone, and the south-east end by two stones. Around these remains lies a heap of earth and stones, which appear to be the remnants of a barrow that once covered the chamber. The Ordnance Survey mapped the site in 1961 and confirmed most of Edmonds’ description, although they noted that the single side stone was on the south side rather than the south-west. The large western stone and the side stone are upright and rest against each other, while several smaller stones at the eastern end are almost certainly no longer in their original positions.
In 1971, Russell listed the remains of the cist and the displaced capstone, and the Ordnance Survey revisited the site in 1975 and recorded no significant changes since their earlier survey. Weatherhill in 1977 suggested that Bosporthennis represents a transitional monument, too small to be a Penwith chamber tomb but too large to be considered a simple cist. The CCRA planned the site at a scale of 1 to 50 in 1983, noting the south-east end stone appeared displaced and that clearance stones had been dumped on the capstone. They observed that the cist lies slightly south of the centre of the mound.
Bosporthennis Quoit stands in a small rectangular field enclosed by massive, high walls. The orthostats are still deeply embedded in an ovoid barrow of stone and earth measuring 6.7 by 5.8 metres and reaching a height of 0.8 metres, with the scant remains of a kerb visible. In 1961, the Ordnance Survey recorded a larger barrow mound extending south from the chamber but never higher than 0.1 metre, nearly ploughed out over time. Later surveys confirmed this observation, and further planning in 1983 measured the mound overall as 6.7 by 6.1 metres. If the kerb continued in a complete circle, the mound would have been approximately 5.5 metres in diameter.
Pronounced B’zprennis, the monument is now thought to be the remains of a Bronze Age entrance grave. The capstone was trimmed into a circular shape, likely intended for use as a millstone but never removed from the site. Unlike many other quoits in Cornwall, Bosporthennis retains much of its surrounding mound. Four uprights of the chamber remain along with the fallen capstone. Nearby, at the eastern foot of Hannibal’s Carn, lies a scattered settlement of at least three Late Iron Age courtyard houses, including one with walls up to 1.5 metres high and another containing a medieval cowhouse. Within the settlement is the Bosporthennis Beehive Hut, sometimes identified as an above-ground fogou, though this interpretation is considered doubtful. Excavations in 2009 confirmed that Bosporthennis Quoit was likely oval in plan with a possible northern entrance, later blocked in the early medieval period, suggesting it may have been either a large cist or a small entrance grave comparable to examples at Bosiliack and Brane.
Rillaton Barrow
This round cairn stands 500 metres north northeast of The Hurlers stone circles, on a rise of land known as Rillaton Moor, in an area rich with prehistoric remains. Round barrows, cairns, standing stones and natural rock features dot the surrounding landscape, forming a remarkable ceremonial landscape on Bodmin Moor. The cairn itself is a mound of stone and earth over 35 metres in diameter and rising more than 2.5 metres high, though it has suffered a large crater in its top due to stone robbers in search of building material.
Of particular interest is the slab lined cist exposed on the eastern side of the cairn. Aligned north to south and measuring around 2 metres in length and 1 metre in both width and height, it was discovered in 1837 by labourers quarrying stone. Inside lay a skeleton, a bronze dagger, faience beads, and a decorated ceramic pot. Within this pot was the most extraordinary object of all: a corrugated gold cup with a riveted handle. The discovery, later named the Rillaton Cup, dates to between 2000 and 1500 BC and was initially presented as treasure trove to the Crown.
The cup itself is a masterpiece of early Bronze Age metalwork, beaten from a single sheet of gold and decorated with horizontal concentric corrugations that end in a central boss. Around the rim are small areas of pontillé decoration, while the handle, a flat, separate piece riveted on with six lozenge shaped washers, features five grooves along its length. Its craftsmanship is so refined that only seven other examples of similar gold cups have been identified across Northern Europe. The Rillaton Cup remained unique in Britain until a comparable example was uncovered at Ringlemere in Kent in 2001.
Following its discovery, the cup embarked on a curious journey through royal hands. Presented first to William IV, it was later displayed in Queen Victoria’s private museum at Osborne House before moving to Marlborough House and eventually Buckingham Palace. King George V is said to have kept it in his dressing room for holding collar studs. After his death, Queen Mary advised Edward VIII to transfer the cup to the British Museum, where it remains on long term loan today.
The mound itself stands up to 3.4 metres high and has been extensively damaged by early excavations. Survey records describe it as a turf covered cairn, approximately 34 metres across, with a large pit occupying much of its flattened top. The cist, rebuilt around 1900, is remarkably intact despite past disturbance and measures about 2.2 metres by 1.1 metres internally. The Rillaton Barrow, together with its spectacular gold cup, stands as a striking testament to the wealth, craftsmanship and ceremonial practices of Bronze Age Cornwall. We hope that one day the cup will find its way back to Cornwall and take its rightful place in the Cornwall Museum, replacing the replica that stands there now.
Of particular interest is the slab lined cist exposed on the eastern side of the cairn. Aligned north to south and measuring around 2 metres in length and 1 metre in both width and height, it was discovered in 1837 by labourers quarrying stone. Inside lay a skeleton, a bronze dagger, faience beads, and a decorated ceramic pot. Within this pot was the most extraordinary object of all: a corrugated gold cup with a riveted handle. The discovery, later named the Rillaton Cup, dates to between 2000 and 1500 BC and was initially presented as treasure trove to the Crown.
The cup itself is a masterpiece of early Bronze Age metalwork, beaten from a single sheet of gold and decorated with horizontal concentric corrugations that end in a central boss. Around the rim are small areas of pontillé decoration, while the handle, a flat, separate piece riveted on with six lozenge shaped washers, features five grooves along its length. Its craftsmanship is so refined that only seven other examples of similar gold cups have been identified across Northern Europe. The Rillaton Cup remained unique in Britain until a comparable example was uncovered at Ringlemere in Kent in 2001.
Following its discovery, the cup embarked on a curious journey through royal hands. Presented first to William IV, it was later displayed in Queen Victoria’s private museum at Osborne House before moving to Marlborough House and eventually Buckingham Palace. King George V is said to have kept it in his dressing room for holding collar studs. After his death, Queen Mary advised Edward VIII to transfer the cup to the British Museum, where it remains on long term loan today.
The mound itself stands up to 3.4 metres high and has been extensively damaged by early excavations. Survey records describe it as a turf covered cairn, approximately 34 metres across, with a large pit occupying much of its flattened top. The cist, rebuilt around 1900, is remarkably intact despite past disturbance and measures about 2.2 metres by 1.1 metres internally. The Rillaton Barrow, together with its spectacular gold cup, stands as a striking testament to the wealth, craftsmanship and ceremonial practices of Bronze Age Cornwall. We hope that one day the cup will find its way back to Cornwall and take its rightful place in the Cornwall Museum, replacing the replica that stands there now.
The Watchmaker Healer of St Austell
Alan Nance, often remembered as the Watchmaker Healer of St Austell, led a life that blended the everyday with the extraordinary. Born on St Mary’s in the Isles of Scilly, he grew up surrounded by the Methodist traditions of chapel and Sunday School, before venturing out to sea as a boy of just fourteen. During the First World War, he served with the Duke of Cornwall’s Light Infantry and was severely injured by German artillery near Passchendaele, a trauma that stayed with him all his life.
Between the wars, he lived quietly, working as a watchmaker in Plymouth and later on the Scillies. But everything changed when he spent time in Australia, where he met Bill Austen, an ex-editor of Psychic News, and began exploring the philosophy and practice of spiritual healing. These ideas took root deeply enough that, by 1956, he was quietly experimenting on himself, seeking relief from severe pain in his eye. When his trouble vanished overnight after prayer and laying on of hands, he felt he had discovered something that could not be ignored.
Soon after, he settled in Cornwall, feeling drawn back to St Austell—a place he’d known decades before. On Trevarthian Road, he opened a small shop, part watch repair business and part healing sanctuary. There, dressed in a grey suit and red tie, he greeted people from all walks of life. To a casual passer-by, he looked every inch a quiet tradesman. But in the back room, Alan Nance laid his hands on the sick and suffering, never taking a penny in return, believing himself simply a channel for a greater force of love and spirit.
Patients shared stories that blurred the line between the possible and impossible. A young woman, lying unconscious after a car crash, opened her eyes for the first time in days after his visit. A man with advanced lymphosarcoma found his tumours shrinking against all medical logic. A boy named Danny, born with a hole in his heart and too frail to play outside, was transformed in just two months—suddenly able to run, swim, and live as other children did. To Nance, these were not miracles but reminders of the immense power that flowed through all life, waiting to be called upon.
Despite the scepticism of many doctors, he never wavered. He insisted there was no conflict between spiritual healing and conventional medicine—only different ways to help those in need. He described death itself as “only a door opening” and believed that the healing power he channelled was simply proof that spirit, survival, and love endure beyond this material world.
Story source: Michael Williams, Supernatural in Cornwall (1974).
Between the wars, he lived quietly, working as a watchmaker in Plymouth and later on the Scillies. But everything changed when he spent time in Australia, where he met Bill Austen, an ex-editor of Psychic News, and began exploring the philosophy and practice of spiritual healing. These ideas took root deeply enough that, by 1956, he was quietly experimenting on himself, seeking relief from severe pain in his eye. When his trouble vanished overnight after prayer and laying on of hands, he felt he had discovered something that could not be ignored.
Soon after, he settled in Cornwall, feeling drawn back to St Austell—a place he’d known decades before. On Trevarthian Road, he opened a small shop, part watch repair business and part healing sanctuary. There, dressed in a grey suit and red tie, he greeted people from all walks of life. To a casual passer-by, he looked every inch a quiet tradesman. But in the back room, Alan Nance laid his hands on the sick and suffering, never taking a penny in return, believing himself simply a channel for a greater force of love and spirit.
Patients shared stories that blurred the line between the possible and impossible. A young woman, lying unconscious after a car crash, opened her eyes for the first time in days after his visit. A man with advanced lymphosarcoma found his tumours shrinking against all medical logic. A boy named Danny, born with a hole in his heart and too frail to play outside, was transformed in just two months—suddenly able to run, swim, and live as other children did. To Nance, these were not miracles but reminders of the immense power that flowed through all life, waiting to be called upon.
Despite the scepticism of many doctors, he never wavered. He insisted there was no conflict between spiritual healing and conventional medicine—only different ways to help those in need. He described death itself as “only a door opening” and believed that the healing power he channelled was simply proof that spirit, survival, and love endure beyond this material world.
Story source: Michael Williams, Supernatural in Cornwall (1974).
Stannon Stone Circle
Stannon stone circle takes its name from the neighbouring farm and lies between two streams on the gentle slopes of Dinnever Hill, about two and a half miles southeast of Camelford. The circle occupies a remote position that is part of its enduring charm, where only the wild creatures of the moor are likely to accompany visitors. However, it is overlooked on one side by the massive workings of the Stannon china clay quarry, whose industrial scarring long blighted the surrounding landscape. Today, much of this quarry has been reclaimed and transformed into a grassed-over reservoir, softening its impact somewhat.
This remarkable circle comprises between seventy and eighty granite blocks, forty of which remain upright within an irregular ring measuring roughly 43 by 39 metres. The stones vary in size from 30 centimetres to over 1.2 metres in height, with some set closely together so that they almost touch, while others stand further apart. Like many of Bodmin Moor’s prehistoric rings, the stones at Stannon are notable for their distinct triangular profiles, pointing sharply skyward. The largest and most prominent examples of these triangular uprights tend to cluster toward the west and southwest, creating a striking silhouette against the open landscape. Notably, the northern arc of the circle is flattened, creating a near-straight line of stones, a feature that recalls the layout of Long Meg and her Daughters in Cumbria.
Archaeological investigations by R. J. Mercer in the late 1960s uncovered evidence of substantial settlement activity on Stannon Down. Excavations revealed at least eight unenclosed roundhouses, suggesting a community of over twenty such structures spread across an area measuring 150 by 100 metres. These roundhouses, likely accommodating around one hundred people, were constructed of timber posts supporting thatched roofs, with partitioned interiors, paved floors, and drainage systems. Pottery, flint tools, and a whetstone implying the use of metal blades were found, dating the settlement to the Middle Bronze Age, somewhat later than the presumed construction of the circle itself.
Alignments at Stannon have long attracted scholarly attention. When viewed from the circle’s centre, Rough Tor rises on the horizon between twenty-two and twenty-eight degrees north of east, corresponding to the position of the sunrise at certain times of year. Researchers including Matthew Gregory Lewis and Andy M. Jones have proposed that this suggests a deliberate astronomical or ceremonial orientation. Jones even described Stannon as a "Ceremonial Complex," highlighting its potential role in ritual or calendrical practices linked to the surrounding hills. The triangular stones themselves may have been chosen or shaped to emphasise a symbolic connection between earth and sky.
Approximately 80 metres to the northwest of the circle lies a curious line of four stones, believed to be part of a mostly destroyed stone row once extending for at least 140 metres. This row, probably dating to the middle of the Bronze Age, seems not to align directly with the circle but instead skirts its western edge, implying that it may be a later and unrelated addition to the site. Stone circle expert Aubrey Burl has compared Stannon and the similar Fernacre circle to the great rings of Cumbria, suggesting their size, flattened arcs, and the repeated use of triangular uprights could indicate a Neolithic origin rather than a purely Bronze Age one. Whether the distinctive shape of these stones held symbolic meaning is uncertain, but their prevalence across Bodmin Moor’s circles reinforces the impression that these were not merely functional markers but elements of a carefully conceived design that set such places apart from the everyday world.
This remarkable circle comprises between seventy and eighty granite blocks, forty of which remain upright within an irregular ring measuring roughly 43 by 39 metres. The stones vary in size from 30 centimetres to over 1.2 metres in height, with some set closely together so that they almost touch, while others stand further apart. Like many of Bodmin Moor’s prehistoric rings, the stones at Stannon are notable for their distinct triangular profiles, pointing sharply skyward. The largest and most prominent examples of these triangular uprights tend to cluster toward the west and southwest, creating a striking silhouette against the open landscape. Notably, the northern arc of the circle is flattened, creating a near-straight line of stones, a feature that recalls the layout of Long Meg and her Daughters in Cumbria.
Archaeological investigations by R. J. Mercer in the late 1960s uncovered evidence of substantial settlement activity on Stannon Down. Excavations revealed at least eight unenclosed roundhouses, suggesting a community of over twenty such structures spread across an area measuring 150 by 100 metres. These roundhouses, likely accommodating around one hundred people, were constructed of timber posts supporting thatched roofs, with partitioned interiors, paved floors, and drainage systems. Pottery, flint tools, and a whetstone implying the use of metal blades were found, dating the settlement to the Middle Bronze Age, somewhat later than the presumed construction of the circle itself.
Alignments at Stannon have long attracted scholarly attention. When viewed from the circle’s centre, Rough Tor rises on the horizon between twenty-two and twenty-eight degrees north of east, corresponding to the position of the sunrise at certain times of year. Researchers including Matthew Gregory Lewis and Andy M. Jones have proposed that this suggests a deliberate astronomical or ceremonial orientation. Jones even described Stannon as a "Ceremonial Complex," highlighting its potential role in ritual or calendrical practices linked to the surrounding hills. The triangular stones themselves may have been chosen or shaped to emphasise a symbolic connection between earth and sky.
Approximately 80 metres to the northwest of the circle lies a curious line of four stones, believed to be part of a mostly destroyed stone row once extending for at least 140 metres. This row, probably dating to the middle of the Bronze Age, seems not to align directly with the circle but instead skirts its western edge, implying that it may be a later and unrelated addition to the site. Stone circle expert Aubrey Burl has compared Stannon and the similar Fernacre circle to the great rings of Cumbria, suggesting their size, flattened arcs, and the repeated use of triangular uprights could indicate a Neolithic origin rather than a purely Bronze Age one. Whether the distinctive shape of these stones held symbolic meaning is uncertain, but their prevalence across Bodmin Moor’s circles reinforces the impression that these were not merely functional markers but elements of a carefully conceived design that set such places apart from the everyday world.
St Warna's Sacred Well
St Warna’s Well is remarkably well preserved and stands out as the only surviving ritual well, Christian or otherwise, on the Isles of Scilly. Unlike the many secular wells once dug for drinking water, this one retains its full structural form and the memory of all the customs that once surrounded it. The well itself is a small, subcircular chamber cut into the bedrock, about 0.9 metres across and a metre deep, with a large flat slab forming the roof. Three narrow stone steps rise up through a channel lined with roughly built granite walls, all partly hidden by turf and vegetation. Around the chamber is a rare setting of upright stones, creating a kind of ring, the largest slabs still showing above the grass. It is a modest monument in scale, but incredibly rare to find so intact and with such a strong sense of place.
Set on the western fringe of Wingletang Down, beside a craggy little cove on St Agnes’ southern shore, St Warna’s Well sits quietly under its grassy mound, almost hidden if you did not know it was there. It was built over a natural spring, a feature that in ancient times was often seen as a doorway to the underworld. Springs were places of offerings, ceremonies, and deep rooted superstition. When Christianity reached these shores in the 5th or 6th century, many of these sacred sites were rededicated to saints, though they kept older beliefs woven through their rituals.
The well takes its name from St Warna, a figure shrouded in mystery. Her story has survived mainly in legend. It is said she came over from Ireland in a coracle of wicker covered in hide and settled by the spring. Some thought she was simply a pious wanderer who brought her holiness to the place. Others believed she was closer to an echo of some older Celtic sea goddess, later given a Christian name to fit the times. No one really knows, but the tales of her arrival and her connection to shipwrecks have endured.
One of the most striking customs attached to St Warna’s Well involved throwing pins into the water. A straight pin was meant to earn her help in guiding ships safely past the reefs and rocks that still haunt the western edges of the islands. But there was also a darker twist. Bent pins were thrown in to coax ships onto the rocks so they would be wrecked and their cargo could be salvaged by the locals. For a while, wrecked goods made up an important part of island life, a harsh reality of living on a remote coast.
These days, the well is more a place of quiet curiosity than active devotion. Now and again, someone still tosses in a coin for luck, and the spring continues to give up water through most of the year. Even so, there is something about standing there, under the mound, by the edge of the sea, that feels very close to the old beliefs. It is a rare glimpse of how these ritual sites once met the islanders’ spiritual and practical needs, blending old reverence for nature with the hopes and fears of later centuries.
Set on the western fringe of Wingletang Down, beside a craggy little cove on St Agnes’ southern shore, St Warna’s Well sits quietly under its grassy mound, almost hidden if you did not know it was there. It was built over a natural spring, a feature that in ancient times was often seen as a doorway to the underworld. Springs were places of offerings, ceremonies, and deep rooted superstition. When Christianity reached these shores in the 5th or 6th century, many of these sacred sites were rededicated to saints, though they kept older beliefs woven through their rituals.
The well takes its name from St Warna, a figure shrouded in mystery. Her story has survived mainly in legend. It is said she came over from Ireland in a coracle of wicker covered in hide and settled by the spring. Some thought she was simply a pious wanderer who brought her holiness to the place. Others believed she was closer to an echo of some older Celtic sea goddess, later given a Christian name to fit the times. No one really knows, but the tales of her arrival and her connection to shipwrecks have endured.
One of the most striking customs attached to St Warna’s Well involved throwing pins into the water. A straight pin was meant to earn her help in guiding ships safely past the reefs and rocks that still haunt the western edges of the islands. But there was also a darker twist. Bent pins were thrown in to coax ships onto the rocks so they would be wrecked and their cargo could be salvaged by the locals. For a while, wrecked goods made up an important part of island life, a harsh reality of living on a remote coast.
These days, the well is more a place of quiet curiosity than active devotion. Now and again, someone still tosses in a coin for luck, and the spring continues to give up water through most of the year. Even so, there is something about standing there, under the mound, by the edge of the sea, that feels very close to the old beliefs. It is a rare glimpse of how these ritual sites once met the islanders’ spiritual and practical needs, blending old reverence for nature with the hopes and fears of later centuries.
Carfury Menhir
This tall, shapely 3 metre (10ft) high stone stands in a low hedge on uncleared, steeply sloping ground, with panoramic views across Chyandour valley towards St Michael’s Mount, the top of which is just visible. There are no relevant field names in the vicinity. It seems that Carfury menhir remained unrecorded until the early part of the 20th century, when Charles Henderson described it as a “magnificent stone... a remarkably well-chosen monolith on account of its slenderness and length.”
The site was excavated by Peter Pool and Vivien Russell between 31 December 1957 and 3 January 1958. The menhir, known locally as the Cuckoo Rock, was considered by the two excavators to be one of the most elegant in West Penwith and had probably been shaped by flaking, although no tool marks were visible. The ground was cleared down to the rab about 1.24 metres (4ft) around the base of the stone. It was found that the standing stone had been erected in an oval pit measuring 1.24 by 1.08 metres (4ft by 3ft 6in) cut into the rab. The shape of this pit suggested that the stone had been slid downhill until its base was over the pit, then tipped upright and wedged in place with five small stones.
During the excavation, steel guy ropes had to be placed around the stone to support it. Unfortunately, the work did not produce any finds whatsoever, and in view of this negative result it was decided not to publish the draft report. Russell also noted how she had found a 3.95 metre (12ft 9in) long stone lying downhill by the same hedge. It lay next to the block of stone from which it had been detached, yet showed no signs of drill marks or other rock-splitting methods and, if trimmed slightly, “would make a monument very similar to the Cuckoo Rock.”
The stone was designated a Scheduled Monument in June 1968. It is within sight of Ding Dong Mine. Little else was found, but Russell’s observation of the potential sister stone adds another layer of mystery to this striking site.
The site was excavated by Peter Pool and Vivien Russell between 31 December 1957 and 3 January 1958. The menhir, known locally as the Cuckoo Rock, was considered by the two excavators to be one of the most elegant in West Penwith and had probably been shaped by flaking, although no tool marks were visible. The ground was cleared down to the rab about 1.24 metres (4ft) around the base of the stone. It was found that the standing stone had been erected in an oval pit measuring 1.24 by 1.08 metres (4ft by 3ft 6in) cut into the rab. The shape of this pit suggested that the stone had been slid downhill until its base was over the pit, then tipped upright and wedged in place with five small stones.
During the excavation, steel guy ropes had to be placed around the stone to support it. Unfortunately, the work did not produce any finds whatsoever, and in view of this negative result it was decided not to publish the draft report. Russell also noted how she had found a 3.95 metre (12ft 9in) long stone lying downhill by the same hedge. It lay next to the block of stone from which it had been detached, yet showed no signs of drill marks or other rock-splitting methods and, if trimmed slightly, “would make a monument very similar to the Cuckoo Rock.”
The stone was designated a Scheduled Monument in June 1968. It is within sight of Ding Dong Mine. Little else was found, but Russell’s observation of the potential sister stone adds another layer of mystery to this striking site.
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.
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