Cornish Thoughts
I am elbow-deep in research and writing about 18th-century Cornwall for the Serial Hour project. I find myself looking up odd words (‘wokki’ is a fabulous insult), going to odd places (a water-powered forge) and spending a fair amount of my writing time staring at maps.
It’s also made me realise how little most people know about Cornwall, even if it is the UK’s favourite holiday spot. In addition, many of you lovely readers are from America, which brings a whole new level of confusion when you try to explain the cultural variations in a country the same size as Oregon.
So, here’s my quick-start guide to Cornwall for Plotted Out. It’s relevant as we enter autumn and my weekend tales turn towards darker Cornish myths.
If you live in the UK
Cornwall has only been considered a glorified holiday park since the 1960s. Prior to that, it had a long history of mining, fishing, war, trade, and travel. Portsmouth remains a significant naval base, while Falmouth has the world’s largest natural harbour (the deepest in Europe).
Thanks to the harbours, Cornwall had massive and enduring links with the rest of the world until the age of air travel, with migrants, traders, fishermen and pirates dispersing to Europe and the Americas.
The Cornish coastline is dangerous. There’s a long history of shipwrecks and smugglers (sometimes combined) and even today, swimmers are lost to the sea. In 2023, the RNLI was called out 1,143 times and rescued 72 people.
King Arthur has strong links down here, partly because of Tintagel (his rumoured birthplace) but mainly because the Celtic tribes were pushed westwards by the Anglo-Saxons, taking their stories with them.
More people get “taken by fairies” when wandering home from the pub than they do when coming home from work. Oddly enough, a lot of fairy spots also have crappy phone reception.
Celtic Christianity thrived in Cornwall after the Romans left, but a lot of pagan beliefs stayed intact alongside it. Wishing wells, crossroads, knockermen, pixies, sirens, witches and mermaids make regular appearances here.
We have a lot of witches and Neolithic stone circles. The two might be connected. We’ve also got a lively pub scene that’s definitely connected.
We also have a lot of local festivals. It’s not summer unless you’ve gotten drunk in a field once and listened to the band who lives next door to your uncle’s girlfriend’s aunt.
We don’t mind tourists who watch where they are going and have normal self-preservation instincts. It’s the ones who ignore the lifeguards, try to climb cliffs in flip-flops, or wander into the road without looking that get on our last nerve.
If you live in the USA (or elsewhere)
Things that happened in Britain over a millennium ago still matter today. For example, take a look at this map of ancient British Kingdoms. When the Normans conquered England in 1066, they used the kingdoms and shires established by earlier rulers as administrative units. As the population grew, these boundaries shifted, but the area’s culture is still there today. Northern English still has words from Old Norse; the Midlands and East are proudly Anglo-Saxon, whilst Cornwall is, well, Kernow. You can discover which region people come from just by how they name a bread roll.
You are never further than 25 miles from the sea in Cornwall, with the county bound on three sides by water. Transport links are famous for being scarce. Cornwall has no motorways and one mainline train service in the south. This means the summer roads get clogged up by motorhome tourists driving slowly behind a tractor with its trailer. It’s a unique form of hell.
Cornwall is also famous for its beaches and surfing. If you weren’t born a local, you know you’ve become one when you acquire seasonal wetsuits and start wearing shorts in the rain. In winter.
Everyone knows everyone else or at least where to find them. Village fete feuds are a thing, and gossip is a digital currency.
There are wolves in Cornwall. They are better behaved than most of the humans.
The average house price in Cornwall is 10x the average wage (it’s 8.3 across the UK). This has fueled resentment of second-home owners, as many of the locals working in the tourist industry can’t afford a secure home.
UK pub culture is a world of its own. Most pubs act as the village hub for entertainment, sport events, local fundraising and club meetings.
If you have other questions about Cornwall, drop them in the comments below!
Notes from the Stack
The only thing that matters
…but not when your muse says this.
So you do one of these things instead.
Short story moment…churchyard meeting
Loris had picked the perfect time. 2pm on a weekday afternoon in light rain. The church was closed and no one would want to visit a grave on a day like today. It's location helped - set back from the road behind an overgrown hedge with kissing gate, only visible if you were looking for it. Most people drove by, intent on getting to the pub, three doors down.
There's no way he'd be caught. The hardest bit was carrying the spade from the car park, further down the lane. He checked he the gravestone and thrust the spade into the soggy ground.
"Wotcha doing?" a friendly voice asked from under the yew tree. Loris dropped the handle in fright and cursed when it hit his ankles.
"Er, nothing." he muttered.
"Looks like you were digging up ole Anne" the voice went on. "Stupid thing to do, if you ask me. She's been there for twenty years. You should go for the grave at the far end. Mr Miles was only buried yesterday. Nice fresh earth and he's barely started to rot." It sounded like a middle-aged woman, the sort who could organise a charity raffle or raise a mob with equal efficiency. Loris squinted. He couldn't see it's owner. Just a shadow shifting under the branches.
"Who are you?" he quavered.
"Oh, just a bride, waiting for my husband," the voice said cheerfully. There was a click of the tongue and one of the branches snapped. "I'm Patience," she went on.
Loris stepped back. The voice sounded a little crazy.
"I-I don't want to disturb her," he said. The burn was starting in his stomach again. He would need another hit soon. "Just want her necklace. I'm family, you see."
"Huh," the voice said reflectively. "To keep or to sell?"
Loris thought fast. What would keep him out of trouble with the police and the voice?
"Oh, keep," he said, sounding affronted. "My mum's mind is going and it will bring her comfort. I said I would get it for her."
A silence followed, with a slight sucking and chewing sound. Loris crept closer to the yew tree, when she spoke again reflectively.
"If I give you what you want, will I get what I want?"
"Huh?"
"Nothing's free, little man."
"What do you want?" Loris asked, bewildered.
"My husband."
"Oh. Well - I guess so?"
A breeze shifted the tree branches and the rain got heavier.
"Go home, little man," she said. "Leave the dead be, an you'll get your necklace. I'll come looking for you in a day or so."
Loris opened and shut his mouth a few times. He needed the cash today! But the rain was soaking through his jacket now and maybe his neighbour, Pip, would have a spare pill. Or something rlse he could hawk since Loris was banned from the local shops as a known thief.
Pip didn't have any pills, he did have weed which took the edge off. Then, when Loris staggered across the hallway to his bedsit there was the most wonderful thing on his pillowcase: a shining chain of diamond and pearls, just as mum told him. Loris was still high, so he clutched the necklace, giggling as he drifted off to sleep.
It was a sturdy chain. Long enough to thread beneath his fingers. Long enough to fit into his dreams. He was there again, in the churchyard. In his dream, the yew tree was split open, sap glistening around the edges.
"Husband," she whispered.
Loris woke up with a start. He must've hurt himself whilst high; there was a long scratch on his arm, next to the necklace. He'd looped the jewellery twice around his wrist.
The scratch was easily dealt with, but he couldn't get the necklace off. When he went to the jewellers, they confessed themselves baffled. Cutting it off would need heavy-duty clippers. They might hit a vein. "Try soap" the third shop advised. "Or see if the hospital will help."
Loris sulked. So much for easy money.
He went home to his spartan bedsit and poked through the cupboard for something to eat. The burn was getting to him. He'd need to get a fix soon.
"Husband," something whispered. Loris grabbed a can of beans and whirled around. It wasn't a big room and he was definitely alone. Except for that smell - the one of fresh earth and wood resin.
He decided to go out.
"Evening," Pip grunted as he shoved past him at the door. "Yeah, evening, wassock," Loris grunted back. On reflection, they were not the best last words he could've spoken.
The police never found Loris' body. He's still registered as a missing person today.
A few months after the disappearance, the church warden did find the necklace, hanging from the yew tree.
*
See you all next week.
I’m so excited to learn more about Cornwall! A podcast I listened to did a whole episode on it a few months ago and I realized how little I know about the world we live in, and I was captivated by the Cornish lore.
Useful guide for someone like me who is unfamiliar with the place