Rethinking How We Honour Cornwall’s Standing Stones
Cornwall is a land woven deeply with myth, history, and the unmistakable aura of the ancient. From rugged cliffs to secluded valleys, the landscape whispers secrets of ages past, and nowhere does this whisper become clearer or more poignant than amongst the silent guardians of its countryside—the standing stones.
For many years, these monuments—Pawton Quoit, Chûn Quoit, The Hurlers, Dry Tree, Mên an Tol, Carn Euny Fogou, Embla tumulus, and many more—have quietly called to me. Each has its own story, its own voice. They speak of the land, of the seasons, of people who came long before we trod this earth. They stand steadfast, as sentinels of history, grounding me in a world that’s increasingly distracted, fractured, and disconnected.
Yet recently, something has shifted. These ancient stones, once vibrant and powerful, seem changed. When I sit quietly at Pawton or wander thoughtfully among The Hurlers at sunset, I sense exhaustion, a weariness that wasn’t there before. It is a subtle yet persistent voice whispering of strain, of too many touches, too many visitors, and too many well-intended but ultimately harmful offerings.
Herein lies my quandary—a quiet struggle between sharing my love of these remarkable places and the responsibility I hold towards their preservation.
The Quiet Conversation
My visits to Kernow’s ancient sites have always felt deeply personal, even spiritual. Standing before Chûn Quoit as mist silently envelops the stones or quietly walking around The Merry Maidens as dusk settles, I’ve felt profoundly connected. It’s not simply an archaeological interest; it’s a living relationship with the landscape and the ancient energies that reside within these stones.
Before I approach any site, I always ask permission—whether aloud or in quiet thought—to commune with the stones. Sometimes, the answer is a resounding yes, an openness to share their energy and history. Other times, there’s a hesitation, a sense that they would rather be left undisturbed. It is in those moments that I step back, acknowledging that these ancient places are not simply there for our taking. They hold memories, wisdom, and an unspoken presence, and like any being, they have times when they need solitude.
In all my visits, I have instinctively refrained from physical contact with the stones. They have never required my touch or offerings. Merely standing respectfully and openly before them, allowing their presence to speak freely, felt sufficient—more communion than intrusion.
Yet, recently, my approach has been joined by countless others whose good intentions often manifest differently. With renewed interest comes increased visitation, and this has subtly shifted the energy of many well-known sites. More visitors mean more interactions, and this has, in my opinion, altered the stones themselves, physically and spiritually.
The Stones Feel the Strain
I believe the popular sites have begun to reflect this increased attention. Mên an Tol and, Boscawen-ûn and Lanyon Quoit, for instance, which once radiated a powerful hum, now resonate with quiet exhaustion. Visitors arriving daily by the busload, some touching the stones, leave behind invisible layers of energy—often unintentionally heavy, troubled, or even simply fatigued from their modern lives. Physical marks, too, accumulate: scorch marks from candles, wax stains, and crystals left as gifts yet unknowingly causing harm to ancient stone surfaces.
Yet, this is not universal. Sites such as Embla tumulus, Pendeen Fogou, and Pawton Quoit—those harder to reach, tucked away off beaten tracks or quietly situated on private land—tell a different story altogether. These hidden, less accessible monuments remain noticeably stronger, vibrant, and generous in their energetic presence. When I quietly approach Gûn Rith or sit by Park Vorn, I feel a warm and vivid energy that feels untouched and deeply replenishing.
The stark difference is compelling. The more secluded sites retain their vitality precisely because they remain largely unknown or rarely visited. Their remoteness shields them from the energetic toll of frequent visitation and the accumulation of physical damage and unwanted offerings. In contrast, their more famous counterparts increasingly appear drained, their quiet dignity suffering beneath good intentions and curious visitors.
As I reflect deeply on this contrast, an uncomfortable truth emerges: perhaps my own passion for promoting these remarkable sites, in sharing their stories and locations, has inadvertently contributed to the fatigue I now sense so clearly.
A New Way to Share Their Stories
Dark Cornwall’s mission has always been to honour and celebrate the folklore, history, and living presence of Kernow’s ancient places. But if the stones themselves are asking for space, how do we continue this work without contributing to their weariness?
The answer for us lies in shifting focus—not away from these sacred places, but towards the journey to them, the natural surroundings, the atmosphere they create along the way. Instead of capturing the stones themselves, we will capture the experience—what it feels like to walk the winding paths, to hear the wind whisper through the gorse, to watch the light shift as we approach a place of power.
And when we reach these sites? That is where the artists will take over.
Instead of documenting them directly, we will turn to archival images (with permission from photographers) and pass these along to a wide range of talented artists who will bring the sites to life in new and unexpected ways. Artists like Adam Lacey, who already has a deep connection to these places, will help us reimagine our "living stones" in a variety of artistic forms—sculpture, needlecraft, watercolours, digital drawings, even immersive recreations in Unreal Engine or Unity. By doing so, we ensure that our celebration of these sites is not simply reduced to a collection of pixels and megabytes, but rather a tangible, multi-dimensional tribute to their enduring presence.
This shift will also provide something invaluable—support for our artist community, which is in ever-growing need of alternative sources of financial input. By commissioning and showcasing their work, we not only honour the stones in a way that respects their quiet request for rest, but we also give back to the creative minds who keep Cornwall’s stories alive in the present.
Letting the Land Rest—In Our Own Way
In our contemporary culture, visibility often equates with value. Yet, the stones teach us something different. True value sometimes resides in allowing space—quiet space—for healing, rest, and regeneration. Perhaps, in this gentle withdrawal, the stones will find relief from their burdens, reconnecting deeply with the earth that sustains them.
Moving forward, I’ll honour this quieter relationship. I’ll still visit these sites—respectfully, gently, and privately—but my camera will remain at home. My interactions will be intimate and undemanding. In stepping back, I’m affirming my belief that protection sometimes requires silence, not amplification.
When I next quietly approach Embla tumulus or sit peacefully near Pawton Quoit, I’ll carry no offering but gratitude, no token but respectful presence. Perhaps, in this gentle, thoughtful silence, the stones will find the peace I believe they crave, their energies replenished by solitude and sunshine.
It is important to note that this approach is strictly our own. We are not attempting to impose an ideology on anyone else, nor do we expect others to follow our lead. This is simply how we at Dark Cornwall have chosen to honour these sites, in a way that feels right for us. For some, this perspective may seem too precious, too reverent, perhaps even unnecessary—and that’s perfectly fine. The right to disagree, to see things differently, and to engage with these places in one’s own way is what makes human experience so remarkable.
All we ask is that, whatever your approach, you take a moment to listen. To consider the weight of history beneath your feet. To recognise that, for thousands of years, these sites have been places of worship, reflection, and deep significance—not just to those who came before, but to many today.
And when the stones speak again—perhaps louder, clearer, stronger—we will know we honoured their quiet request. Until then, may they rest gently beneath Kernow’s moon and sun.
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