Contents
Cornwall……………………………………………………1
The History
of Cornish Culture……………………….……2
Cornish Ghost
Stories………………………………………4
Legends……………………………………………….……6
Cornish Folklore…………………………………………...7
Conclusion………………………………………………..10
Sources……………………………………………………11
Cornwall
... reaching into the Atlantic
Ocean is a land of history and tradition. Each coastline is spectacular in
quite different ways.
The north coast boasts its
surfing beaches and the premier resort, Newquay, with its extensive facilities.
A smaller but equally attractive resort is Bude, and Padstow, Boscastle and
Tintagel are good examples of why this coastline is recognised as an Area of
Outstanding Natural Beauty. Port Isaac, Perranporth and St Agnes should be all
visited and St Ives is a lively town, very popular with artists.
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The south coast offers Penzance, rich with tales of smugglers and pirates, and the tiny fishing village of Mousehole and Cornwall's largest fishing port, Newlyn. Penzance overlooks Mount's Bay and the dramatic outline of St Michael's Mount which can be visited by foot or by ferry, depending on the state of the tide. Head east to Helston and on to Falmouth, with its huge harbour guarded by Pendennis Castle. The next fishing port is colourful Mevagissey, then St Austell Bay and Fowey on its deeply wooded estuary, where you can take the ferry to Bodinnick and Looe. Or head inland through Liskeard and historic Launceston, with its castle, to Boscastle, in its tiny inlet on the north coast, and Tintagel, forever famous as the legendary birthplace of King Arthur.
The Cornish are Celtic
cousins of the Welsh and the Bretons; the Irish and Scots are second cousins.
The Cornish and Welsh people can rightly be called Britons; the English
originally were Saxon, Angle, and Jute peoples from what is now the Denmark
area of Europe that invaded Britain about the sixth century, occupied the flat,
fertile farmlands of east and south Britain, and drove the Welsh to the
mountains of Wales and the Cornish to the highlands of Cornwall. Wales in Saxon
means stranger and Cornwall in Saxon
means something like strange from the headlands or stranger from the highlands
Arthur, if there was
an historical figure behind the myth, was a Britain who mounted the last
successful fight against the Saxons at Badon Hill leading to a twenty-five year
peace until the Saxons finally secured their hold on the British plains.
Arthur, King of England, is a later fabrication of a man who was probably a
British warlord who fought the 'English' doggedly.
The Celts are
storytellers--oral storytellers--such as the Welsh and Breton bards and the
Cornish droll. The Celts
rarely wrote anything-- they relied on memory and recital to tell the
stories. In fact, Celtic religion forbade writing. What few Celtic books and
manuscripts there were in Ireland were mostly destroyed by Saint Patrick.
Celtic merchants did keep some accounts in Greek. It is difficult for us,
raised in a culture that reveres written material and distrusts oral, to fully
appreciate the Celtic viewpoint and total reliance on oral storytelling.
Welsh bards prepared
for their craft for over twenty years and memorized perhaps a thousand poems,
epics, and stories. Drolls were common storytellers; some had hundreds of
stories memorized; many were itinerant storytellers. These stories were often
told by firelight after supper at the hearthside--many are called hearthside tales for that
reason. Not only did the bard
or droll memorize his stories, but his audience knew them by heart as well and
asked for the storyteller for a specific tale. Woe to the storyteller who
mistold a story. Our culture thrives on new stories and many don't want to hear
the same story twice because they 'know it'. Celtic cultures are more
child-like in this respect and enjoyed hearing the same story again and again.
To us, the story is the plot. To the Celts, the story is the telling.
Welsh is still spoken
to this day, but the Cornish had lost its language by 1795--and with that loss,
the Cornish lost most of its culture. When English replaced Cornish as the
language of Cornwall, the drolls' stories began to die out as the Cornish
drolls died. Cornish drolls all spoke Cornish and their stories were recited in
Cornish. As a result, a fraction of Cornish culture has survived to today.
Even in the
mid-nineteen century, the stories were disappearing at a noticeable rate. These
stories, folklore, legend, myth, superstitions, uncanny stories, fairy tales,
tall tales, and hearthside stories of common folk are Cornish culture.
Cornwall has
been described as the most haunted place in the British Isles, and for good
reason! Stories of hauntings abound and most towns and villages have had more
than their fair share.
At the famous
old coaching hostelry Jamaica Inn (made famous by Daphne Du Maurier's Novel) at
Bolventor, near Bodmin, the ghost of a murdered sailor returning to finish his
last drink has been seen by many visitors sitting on a wall outside.
Customers at The
Dolphin Inn at Penzance have witnessed the sight, and in recent years, the
sound of an old sea captain dressed in tricorn hat and laced ruffles paying
them an unwelcome visit. It is believed he may have been a victim of Judge
Jeffries (1648-89), the famous "Hanging Judge" who is reputed to have
held an Assizes in what is now the dining room of the inn, or possibly an old
smuggler returning to claim the casks of brandy recently found hidden away in
the cellar during renovations.
From the Punch
Bowl Inn at Lanreath, near Lostwithiel, comes the tale of a demonic black
cockerel believed to have been the angry sole of an old rector of the parish
who fell to his death down the stairs to his cellar whilst fetching a bottle of
wine. His guest for dinner that night was the new young curate who had fallen
in love with the rector's young and beautiful wife. Did he fall or was he
pushed? We'll never know, but the very next day a large black cockerel suddenly
appeared and began attacking everyone in sight. Eventually the bird flew in
through the window of The Punch Bowl Inn and straight into an old earthenware
oven. A quick thinking kitchen maid imprisoned him inside it and a mason was
duly called to cement it up for all eternity.
The Wellington
Hotel, Boscastle's famous old coaching inn, has more than it's fair share of
ghostly inhabitants. Some years ago the Hotel's owner, Victor Tobutt, was
working at the reception desk when the figure of a man drifted silently past
him. Looking up, he was surprised to see that the man wore leather gaiters and
boots, a frock coat and a frilled shirt, such as might have been worn by an
18th century coachman, and his hair tied back in the old fashioned style.
"There was nothing insubstantial about him", Victor told, "he
looked remarkably solid. "To his shock, the apparition disappeared through
the wall, but when he began to describe what he had seen to one of his
employees, the man completed the description for him. Apparently he too had
seen the ghostly visitor on more than one occasion.
Another employee
at The Wellington Hotel, retired policeman Bill Searle has twice witnessed a
misty shape wearing what appears to be a cloak drift across the landing and
disappear through the wall of a guest room. It is thought to be the spirit of a
young girl who, crossed in love, flung herself in despair from the ramparts of
the hotel's tower. Victor also believes that another part of the building is
haunted by a murdered man, and there is also an "animal friendl "
spirit, which was eagerly pursued by the small dog belonging to the writer of
ghost stories who stayed in the hotel. Ironically, the writer himself didn't
see it, but his wife witnessed a shape move across the room, followed by the
dog excitedly wagging his tail!
Several of the
staff and customers have also witnessed a dark shape float down the stairs and
disappear into the cellar late at night. Curiously, the two oldest hostelries
in Boscastle bear the names of two of history's most famous adversaries. At the
top of Boscastle's steep "corkscre " hill, high above The Wellington
Hotel stands The Napoleon Inn. It is said that the inn served as a recruiting
office in the Napoleonic Wars, but the sympathies and interests of many Cornish
smugglers lay more with their French suppliers than with King and Country.
Legend has it that
The Napoleon Inn was so named because it was
actually used to recruit volunteers for the enemy!
The Ghost of
Charlotte Dymond
One of
Cornwall's most celebrated ghosts is that of Charlotte Dymond, who was found
murdered on the slopes of Roughtor, near Camelford on Sunday 14th April 1844.
Her lover, a crippled farmhand called Matthew Weeks was later hanged at Bodmin
Goal for the crime, though it is doubtful that he committed it. Since that
time, and especially on the anniversary of her death, Charlotte has been seen
walking in the area, clad in a gown, a red shawl and a silk bonnet. Sentries of
the Old Volunteers stationed in Roughtor were very reluctant to stand duty
there, so convinced were they of her ghostly presence. A memorial stone marks
the site of her murder, and the story has been immortalised too in "The Ballad
of Charlotte Dymond", by Cornish poet Charles Causley.
Duporth Manor
The ancient manor house at Duporth was
said to have been haunted by the ghost of a nun known affectionately as
"Flo". A century ago she could be heard striking matches in adjoining
rooms and at the same time almost every night someone - or something? - would
click open the lock on the cabinet in the drawing rooms. The manor has now been
demolished and the sight has become Duporth Holiday Village, but according to a
night security guard "Flo" hasn't gone away. Many strange happenings
have been witnessed in recent years. The roundabout in the children's
playground has been seen to turn by itself, first one way then the next without
a breath of wind in the air. A kettle boiled itself in a locked an unattended
room and a sewing machine which whirred into life without human assistance
abruptly stopped when a member of staff said "no thanks Flo -I don't need
you today". People claim to be aware of an invisible presence near the old
Farm house. An elderly lady staying at the village with her 5 year old
granddaughter heard the child talking to someone on the landing one afternoon.
On investigating the grandmother could see no one, and when questioned the
child said she had been chatting to a nice old lady in a black dress!
The Phantom Coach
A lonely drive
through quiet country lanes one wet November afternoon led to an extraordinary
encounter for Mr Cliff Hockin of Mevagissey.
He was driving
from Mevagissey to Truro to visit his wife in hospital when, to his shock and
amazement he rounded a round bend and without warning was suddenly confronted
with an old fashioned stagecoach thundering along the road towards him, drawn
by four horses galloping at full speed. At the reigns sat a coachman in a greatcoat
with wide blue lapels, whipping the horses into a frenzy of speed. Beside the
driver blowing a posthorn sat the guard, clad in a scarlet coat and black hat.
Horrified, Mr Hocking stamped on his brakes, stalling the car and throwing his
hands up over his face. As the mysterious coach bore down on him, the
thundering wheels, galloping hooves and urgent blast of the horn rising to a
crescendo, he sat helplessly awaiting the imminent collision. Nothing happened.
Instead, the terrifying sounds of the coach ceased abruptly and all was quiet
again. When he looked up it had literally disappeared into thin air.The road
was empty.
The phenomenon
of phantom coaches drawn by ghostly horses is not an uncommon one, especially
in the uncommonly haunted county of Cornwall, but to Mr Hocking this vision was
a very real one. He remembers quite clearly that the coach was painted bright
red, low bodied with small doors and windows and a sloping rear. Such a coach
would once have carried the mail to towns and villages in the vicinity - some
two hundred years ago. Why was the driver in such a hurry? Well perhaps he was
late with the post - or maybe he had a rendezvous to meet. After all, Walter
Cross - the Mevagissey man who had introduced the stagecoach service into
Cornwall in 1796 was, among other things, a smuggler. Was it him at the reigns.
"The
place is pre-eminently the region of dream and mystery" wrote the great
Victorian novelist and poet Thomas Hardy in 1870, describing his first
experience of Cornwall. Even today this mystical land continues to exert a
strange influence over those who come to visit its secret and sacred places, to
marvel at the breathtakingly beautiful coastline or simply to bask on its
sun-drenched beaches. You are never more than 20 miles from the sea in Cornwall
- and never more than a short walk from antiquity.
Giant Bolster
Giants loom
large in the folklore of Cornwall, and legend tells us that once upon a time
the Penwith area was plagued with them. Of the two most famous, Cormoran, the
wicked Giant of St. Michael's Mount was eventually dispatched by Jack the Giant
Killer, but Giant Bolster is said to have succumbed to the wiles of a saintly
woman!
Bolster must
have been a truly enormous figure, since he could plant one foot on Carn Brea
(the high hill just outside Camborne) and the other on the cliffs outside St.
Agnes - some six miles away as the crow flies-he must have been about 12 miles
high.
Bolster was a
bad tempered and violent brute who terrorised the countryside and struck fear
into the hearts of ordinary folk, but he met his match in the pious and chaste
St. Agnes. He fell in love with her and pursued him relentlessly, but St. Agnes
wanted none of it.
Sick of his
constant attentions, St.Agnes told him to prove his love for her by filling up
a hole in the cliff at Chapel Porth with his own blood. To Bolster that was an
easy task. After all, he'd never miss a few gallons - but St. Agnes knew that
the hole was bottomless and led into the sea below!
He stretched out
his arm,plunged a knife into it and lay down to wait for the hole to fill up.
It never did, of course and eventually Bolster lost so much blood he died.
Thus, St.Agnes was rid of his unwanted attentions but he left his mark behind.
The cliffs at Chapel Porth to this day still bear a red stain, said to be from
where his blood ran down into the sea.
Jack the Giant Killer
According to
Cornish legend,Jack was a farmer's son who lived near Land's End in the days of
King Arthur. The folk of the area were being terrorised by Cormoran, the Giant
of St. Michael's Mount, who stole cattle and carried them away either on his
back or dangling from his belt. A reward was offered to anyone who would slay
the fearsome giant, and Jack took up the challenge. He dug a huge pit near
Morvah and covered it with sticks and straw. Then he lured the Giant away from
the Mount by blowing his horn. The angry Giant rushed down the Mount and fell
into the pit. Jack then struck him a mortal blow with his pick- axe and filled
the pit with earth. For his brave deed he was given a magnificent sword and
belt embroidered "Who slew the Giant Cormoran”.
Famed for his
bravery Jack The Giant Killer became something of a super hero, killing wolves
and breaking the skulls of pirates in addition to being on hand to deal with other
troublesome giants. Later he travelled on to Wales to slay more of them and
further embroidered his legend, and, to mark his slaying of Cormoran there
stands to this day near Morvah Church a huge stone which is said to mark the
Giant's Grave. It is also said that sometimes voices can be heard coming from
beneath it!
Ralph's Cupboard
Legends of
fierce giants abound in Cornwall, but surely one of the fiercest and most
wicked was the giant known as Wrath of Portreath. Wrath lived in a huge cavern,
known as his "cupboard" where he would lie in wait for passing ships,
wade out into the sea and attack them, killing the sailors with a single blow
from his huge fingers. Then he would carefully select the better specimens for
supper and, tying the ships up to his belt he would tow his booty back to his
cave. Even those who warily sailed by at what they thought was a safe distance
were in danger. Wrath would fling huge rocks onto them from high up on the
cliff and these are still visible today when the tide is low, forming a deadly
reef that stretches from Godrevy Head. St.Ives sailors avoided the
"cupboard" at all costs, swearing that nothing that went into it ever
came out again. Some years ago it lost it's roof and became an open
gorge with the
sea flowing into it at high tide, but Ralph's Cupboard,as it is now known, is
still one of the more spectacular - if no longer terrifying-sights along the
cliffs at Portreath.
Piskies,
Faeries, Knockers and the Small People.
The
Cornish folklore
In olden days,
Cornish country people believed that they shared their lovely land with
another, more elusive population of piskies. The Cornish piskey, of course, is legend, but much less is generally
known about those other faery people,
the spriggans, knockers and Small People, whose activities, like his, were
closely interwoven with those of the ordinary mortal folk among whom they
lived.
Not so many
years ago,one could ask any really old soul whose days had been spent in
Cornwall and get a sure description of any of these little creatures and what
they got up to. First there were the prankish, teasing, laughing, heel-kicking
piskies who,some declare, came with the saints from Ireland, while others say
that they are the souls of virtuous pagans from times yet deeper in the past.
There are those, too, who believe the piskies were once the gods of
pre-Christian Cornwall, giant-like in stature, but who, in the face of the new
religion - some say they were scattered with holy water-shrank in size, an
unfortunate fate which will continue until they vanish entirely from the earth.
Whatever their origins, the piskies - or Piskey as he is called, for he usually
works alone - are as good a people as they are mischievous, helping the aged
and infirm in their household tasks, threshing the corn on a moonlit night,
plaiting the pony's mane for stirrups and riding it wildly the night through.
And, of course, many people of old were piskey-led when benighted, losing all
sense of time and place and wandering helplessly in what appeared to be a strange
landscape, until they dropped down into an exhausted sleep.
If these
friendly little creatures were the good spirits of old Cornwall, then the
spriggans were the bad. Hordes of them, hissing, spitting and grinning
maliciously, protected every cliff top or granite cairn where treasure might be
buried, for they were appointed to protect it.In the same way, they haunted the
hundreds of ancient burial mounds, as well as the giant pre- historic tombs
known as dolmens,which are found in Cornwall, particularly in the far west.
Beneath these, it was thought, treasure lay beside the remains of pagan peoples
who walked the Cornish moorlands thousands of years ago. The spriggans were
ugly, and much feared, wizened and shrivelled old men with large heads like those
of children upon their puny little shoulders. They were able to raise sudden
whirlwinds and storms to terrify the lonely traveller. They could summon rain
and hail to lay the corn. Worse, they stole children from their cradles. So
too, it might be said, did the piskies but whereas the latter chose neglected
babes which their parents soon found again, well cared for and cherished, the
spriggans selected bonny babes, leaving in their stead their own large-headed,
wizened and ugly brats.
Most mysterious
of the elfin creatures of Cornwall were the knockers or knackers of the mines.
These were, it is said, the spirits of old miners, perhaps those Jewish miners
who worked underground in Cornwall a long time past. Those who have seen these
sprites are few, but their descriptions of them tally; of ugly ,thin limbed
creatures no higher than the smallest human dwarf, with large hooked noses -
perhaps indeed they were the ghosts of Jews - slit mouths from ear to ear,and a
great liking for making dreadful faces.
Knockers, of
course, were a product of the imagination of a past race of Cornish miners,
people of a naturally mystical and superstitious nature, which was enhanced by
their working in the darkness of narrow, rock-hewn depths where the only light
was shed by glimmering candles.
There were
others in Cornwall who connected the name of these "underground
piskies" with the "knocking" or "knacking" of a mine,
that is, its closing or abandonment. Some popular beliefs had it that the
appearance of knockers in a mine presaged its closing or that their arrival was
otherwise an ill omen. It is said that in the hundreds of Cornwall's
"knackt bals",or abandoned mines, that they live there still, keeping
everlasting watch, awaiting the day when they can, as of old, guide miners
towards the wealthy lodes which they themselves are aware of.
In mines abroad,
it is interesting to note, similar spirits were to be found. Small elf-like
beings haunted the lead and silver mines of the Hartz Mountains in Germany, for
example, and their behaviour and characteristics were very similar to the
knockers of the Cornish mines. Again the Cardiganshire mines in Wales, had
their knockers, little men already at work in the new mines before the men even
found the ore for which they were searching, little men who worked while the
miners worked, stopped when the miners stopped - as might an echo.
The most
faery-like of Cornwall's elfin folk were undoubtedly the Small People, gentle,
harmless, always beautiful. Like Piskey, they would come into the homes of the
sick, the old and the poor, bringing wild flowers and entertaining with songs,
lively dancing or light hearted pranks. More usually however, they were seen by
some lucky person while holding their fairs and markets in woodland dells, in
faery gardens filled with perfume and music, perhaps among the sea-pinks that
found hold along the cliff ledges, or in the shelter of moorland cairns.
Unfortunately, such sights were a rare privilege for human eyes, and those that
trespassed on faery ground immediately became one of their number.
Descriptions of
the Small People vary but they are unanimous in depicting a vivacious, graceful
and slender folk, barely knee high. Invariabely they were fleet of foot,
although not averse to riding a hare when in a particular hurry. Always they
were elegantly and richly dressed, in lace, satin or velvet, with jewels of
silver, diamonds and gold. The ladies are described as crinolined, with curled
and powdered hair piled high beneath tall and pointed hats. Their menfolk were
sometimes dressed as soldiers or huntsmen but the majority wore pale blue
jerkins and green breeches, with elegant tricornes trimmed with lace and silver
bells, upon their heads. Like their ladies, they had large, dark,luminous eyes
but whereas the former had pale and delicate complexions, the faces of the men
were dark- skinned.
Times have
changed in Cornwall, for better or worse. Few who live in the county today have
cause to be out and about in the countryside alone whenever or wherever her
elfin people may be abroad. Even lesser numbers work underground in search of
rich ores the knockers were so expert in finding. In many ways the little
people of Cornwall therefore have their haunts to themselves more than ever
before, rarely disturbed by a gatherer of samphire or gull's eggs on the cliff
ledges, by a lone traveller on a dark moorland track after
"day-down", or by miners working at the end of a level. The spread of
education, of course, has caused most people to be sceptical even about their
existence but in Cornwall, where belief in such things dies hard, such outright
scepticism is less noticeable. And the fact remains that, just because you
don't believe in these enchanting creatures, they don't cease to exist as a
result.
After
finding some articles about Cornwall, and especially about Cornish culture, I
found that Cornish folklore is interesting, charming, and delightful on its own
merits.
I
believe that if you read some of these stories, that you will agree with me
that the Cornish have a peculiar slant to life that is charming and refreshing,
with a dash of devilishness to add spice, so as to avoid a bland
one-dimensionality to their culture. The Cornish had their Celtic saints, but
the devil had a role to play out in Cornwall as well.
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