#Cornish tin mines

[maypoleman1]

7th June

St Meriasek’s Day / St Colman’s Day

Miners Enjoying “Croust Time”, East Pool Mine, 1893. Source: Mac Waters/ cornwallforever.co.uk

Today is the feast day of both St Meriasek and St Colman. Meriasek is the patron saint of tin miners and therefore historically a very significant figure in Cornwall. As late as the 1890s, clay images of the saint were put up at the mine’s entrance by the men for good luck. At the beginning of each shift the miners would intone Meriasek we pray thee to invoke his protection. Also, if the miners came across a snail during their work, they would drop some lantern wax on the creature “for luck”. What the snails thought of these encounters is not clear.

St Colman had a well dedicated to him at Cranfield Church, on the shore of Lough Neagh near Castletown in County Antrim. The well offered the usual curative remedies in return for coins. The well was cleaned in the 1970s and a fine collection of deposited coins was discovered. Allegedly, despite it being bad luck to steal the well’s offerings, one of the workmen helped himself to some. He was killed by a car on his way home.

[mycological-mariner]

Hmm… Cornish Western story… hm

[murshili-ii]

St. Piran’s Day Special: The Tommyknocker

~ ~

Our second Celtic Month piece celebrates St. Piran’s Day, on March 5th, the national day of Cornwall. Have some pasties! Mine some tin! Talk like a stereotypical movie pirate; but not if anybody Cornish can hear you.

Before you read what the piece means to me, share what it means to _you_. I’m just the artist; you’re the beholder.

Leave a comment.

~ ~

This was actually the first Spring Vignettes piece I created; and I think it remains the best, for its elegant minimalism and flawless composition.

I said in the last description that the Welsh are the survivors of the Celtic Britons; but they aren’t the only ones; because the Cornish still remain. The Cornish language went extinct in the 18th or 19th Century, but it’s currently being revived. Long may the Cornish language and people endure.

Cornwall is known for its tin-mining. During the Bronze Age, tin was one of the two ingredients of that era’s eponymous metal; and while copper could be found around the Mediterranean, traders needed to import tin from far afield to supply the great empires of the Near East. Cornwall has likely been one of those sources since very ancient times.

According to legend, St. Piran, patron saint of Cornwall and tin-miners, rediscovered tin-smelting when his black hearthstone put forth a pool of liquid metal that formed the shape of a cross. To this day, the flag of Cornwall is a silver cross on a black field.

Tin occurs in the form of a pitch-black ore, cassiterite, which forms distinctive rhombic crystals.

Cornish miners tell of a subterranean fairy-being, called a knocker or tommyknocker, that inhabits the deep and guards its precious ore. Provided they’re on friendly terms, tommyknockers can protect miners, lead them to veins of ore, and warn of collapses by knocking on the walls. On the other hand, if disrespected, they can steal tools, extinguish lights, or even collapse mines. It’s customary to toss the last bite of your pasty to the tommyknockers, to keep their good favor.

Cornish pasties, a savory hand-pie, are a cherished part of Cornish cuisine; usually filled with beef, potato, rutabaga, and lots of pepper. The parameters of an authentic Cornish pasty are heavily regulated by the Cornish Pasty Association. If you ever find carrots in a Cornish pasty, it is generally agreed that you should throw it back in the face of whoever gave you it; because carrots have no place in a Cornish pasty. They’re a savory food, and carrots are too sweet. If you find a pasty containing anything sweeter than carrots, you should probably stomp on it.

Fun fact: The style of speech now popularly associated with pirates is by origin a highly stylized version of a Cornish accent. Those in Cornwall who don’t delve in the mines likely sail on the sea; and the accent was well at home among salty sailors with many yarns to tell during the Age of Sail. Many rounds of iterated exaggeration eventually produced the absurd caricature recognizable throughout the English-speaking world today. Cornish English is rhotic, which is to say, R is pronounced even when it is not before a vowel; and while this feature is common in North American English, it stands out among the other dialects spoken in Southern England. I wouldn’t wonder if this was the reason for the greatly exaggerated Rs in the stylized imitations.

The interjection “arr” is actually known to be used in Cornwall, where it is synonymous with “aye”, “yea”, and “yes”.

[baddywronglegs]

England doesn’t have a North-South divide. But if it did have one, Cornwall would be in the North.

Now I’m not saying there isn’t a big geographical divide between like, Manchester and Canterbury, or that the country’s a homogeneous patchwork, what I’m saying is this divide isn’t north-south and thinking about it as such masks a lot of things.

Oh, and I am, for necessity of discussing this divide, going to be ignoring the Midlands. I hope you forgive me ignoring the deep cultural ties between Birmingham and Rutland.

Map Men made a video about the North-South divide in England (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ENeCYwms-Cc&ab_channel=JayForeman), which focused on the line determined by Danny Dorling in 2008.

… Which isn’t a north-south divide. It’s a northwest-southeast divide, going up at more than 45 degrees – it’s more an east-west divide than it is a north-south. It also includes Wales in “the North” but we’ll get to that.

But it was a north-south divide he set out to find, so a north-south divide he sort of drew, excluding exclaves and enclaves where the metrics he was looking at would make that not a north-south divide.

Notably, several would seem to put the west country peninsula in “the North”… So what’s up with that?

(Dorling's full paper is here, and I recommend looking through the whole thing to see how he arrived at the divide he eventually concluded: https://www.dannydorling.org/wp-content/files/dannydorling_publication_id2938.pdf)

Anyway. This is what’s up with that:

This is a geological map of Great Britain (and the Isle of Man, which isn’t actually part of the UK or any of its constituent countries but I guess it’s here anyway.)

Here again, in the boundary between Jurassic and Triassic geology, is that diagonal line from the Humber to the Severn, but continuing past both. For convenience, here are those two lines superimposed on one another.

With Danny Dorling’s line (frequently following county boundaries or other administrative boundaries) in blue, and the geological divide in red.

One line was drawn in 2008, the other has existed over 200 million years.

This isn’t a coincidence – it’s the reason for the divide.

What made “the North” is the industrial revolution. And one thing that drove the industrial revolution was the mines: coal, iron, silver, tin, the rocks beneath our feet and the people who dreamed they were worth more than the people they sent into the dark to bring it into the light.

Towns grew around mines, from Walker to South Crofty, and more than just the mines defining them, it was the mines closing that would cement the divide.

“Byker Hill and Walker Shore, collier lads forever more”

“Cornish lads are fishermen and Cornish lads are miners too”

- Two folk songs about regional identity’s roots in its industry, from opposite ends of this dividing line

In the West Midlands, the Black Country didn’t earn that name with caviar; it, like Manchester and Leeds, reinvented itself when the industry collapsed: cities built in the brick ruins of the temples built to the exploitation of the workers, blackened by the smokes of the cremation of its labour industry. When the light catches the steel and glass just right, you can still see the ghosts.

Even the country life outside the cities is shaped by this geology: the terrain north-west of this line doesn’t lend itself to large, flat expanses of land for arable farming, and the divide is visible again when looking at agriculture:

With the majority of land south of the Jurassic-Triassic line being arable, mixed and market gardening, with a fair amount of cattle in the Cotswolds and Chilterns and along the north side of the Thames, and the majority north-west of it being cattle and sheep – which are almost absent from the south side of the divide with the exception of the Isle of Wight and therefore, ironically, Cowes.

Not all farming is the same, the yearly flow of labour and of marketable goods between livestock and arable having little in common beyond being intensive work out-of-doors and taking huge amounts of land to accomplish.

But one thing that also goes hand in hand with this is that sheep aren’t mostly farmed for their meat but for their wool, and what drove industrialisation in the Pennines was the steam-loom: the mechanisation and mass-production of wool.

(Incidentally, on this map arable farming and market gardening also correlate with several types of English traditional dance: Molly, Border an East Midlands and East Riding plough dances, which began as a way for seasonal farmhands to make ends meet by busking with menaces in the winter off-season, but that’s for a later Morris ramble).

But hang on, that puts Hull on the same side of the divide as Kent, not, for example, Liverpool. So what gives there?

The East Riding isn’t built on mining - a kid with a bucket and spade could find the water table in most of the county.

Hull, and other ports of Yorkshire with it, was built on whaling – and not many industries have collapsed harder than whaling. For once, the geography of the land has little impact on this, but the geography of the sea does:

Between England and the European continent is a shallower stretch of sea called Dogger Bank – named for the Dutch cod-fishing boats known as Doggers which fished on it. But shallow water isn’t great for whales. So where is there water good for whales?

Well, whalers from Great Britain would venture as far as the Antarctic ocean in search of whales, and often hunted off Greenland – but there was water closer to home where whales did and still do frequent:

(There is still whaling in the North Sea. Around 500 minke whales are killed by Norwegian whalers each year “in objection to” the global ban on commercial whaling.)

Outside of this, there’s also a divide between port cities dealing primarily in cargo or primarily in passengers, something which is somewhat evening out by one means or another, but here’s a current map of UK passenger ports and their passenger numbers:

Or at least circles sized to correspond to their passenger numbers - source with stats: https://www.gov.uk/government/statistics/sea-passenger-statistics-all-routes-2021/sea-passenger-statistics-all-routes-2021

Compare this with a map of cargo ports by load:

Source with numbers: https://safety4sea.com/uk-ports-record-steady-performance-during-2018/

Generally showing passenger numbers getting lower the further you get from Dover, but not the same correlation with cargo (Plymouth and Holyhead both bucking this trend at a glance).

So, if not “The North” and “The South”, what name does make sense for this divide?

I propose “the South” be known as Lloegyr.

These names still exist: Domnonea still exists in Brittany both as a name for that same region from which Brittonic settlers came to Brittany and an area of Brittany named for them, and in Welsh, yr Alban is Scotland, Cymru is Wales and Lloegr is England.

Wales isn’t part of “the North”. “The North” is part of Wales.

[lesbiansandgayssupporttheminers]

So, why do people care so much about Cornish identity? Cornwall’s just a part of England right? Another county with some distinct foods and a funny accent, and they moan about the tourists- when they should be grateful for the money.

Except it’s not.

Whilst the rest of England was forming with a character influenced by Germanic and Norse cultures, Cornwall was holding itself separate as an independent Celtic kingdom, with strong links with Wales, Ireland and Brittany- as well as trading with the wider Mediterranean. For a long time, this kingdom included parts of Devon, but eventually the Celtic people were forced back past the Tamar, and at some point started referring to the land as Kernow, rather than Dumnonia (probably).

Even after the Norman conquest, in part because Cornwall came under the control of the Duke of Brittany, Cornwall retained elements of its unique culture, and certainly its language. There are existing works of literature written in the Cornish language (also called Kernewek) during the medieval period. Due to the active tin mining industry and the Stannary courts, they even had a separate legal system.

All of this continued until the start of the Tudor period, when Henry VII, desperate for money for his wars with Scotland, suspended the operation of the Cornish Stannaries, and imposed greater taxes. This ultimately led to the Cornish Rebellion of 1497. An army of as many as 15000 rebels marched towards Somerset, and ultimately to London, where the rebels met with Henry VII’s armies. Unfortunately, the Cornish lost the ensuing battle, and the rebel leaders were captured, killed and quartered, with their quarters being displayed in Cornwall and Devon. From 1497 to 1508, Cornwall was punished with monetary penalties, impoverishing the people, and land was given to the king’s (English) allies.

However, this wasn’t the death of Cornish culture or dreams of independence from England. Until 1548, Glasney college was still producing literature in Cornish- when it was destroyed in the dissolution of the monasteries, during the English reformation. The following year, 1549, the Cornish rose again- this time to demand a prayer book in their own language, which was still the first (and often only) language of most people in the region. The rebellion was also about the ordinary people vs the landowners, as shown by their slogan “kill all the gentlemen”.

Unfortunately, this rebellion failed too, and this time, it wasn’t just the leaders who were killed, but up to 5,500 Cornishmen- which would have been a significant proportion of the adult male population at the time. These factors combined are widely thought to have contributed to the decline of the Cornish language- although it was still widely in use centuries later.

Despite the failings of these rebellions, the Cornish retained a distinct language and their own culture, folklore and festivals. Mining, farming and fishing meant that the region itself wasn’t economically impoverished, as it was today. Even towards the end of the 1700s, there were still people who spoke Cornish fluently as a first language (including Dolly Pentreath, who definitely wasn’t the last Cornish speaker).

However, over time, the tin mines became less profitable, and Cornwall’s economy started to suffer. Especially in the latter part of the 19th century, many Cornish began to emigrate, especially to places like Australia, New Zealand (or Aotearoa), Canada and South America. Cornish miners were skilled, and were able to send pay back home, and along with the Welsh, influenced culture and sport in many of these places. Many mining terms also have their roots in Cornish language and dialect.

Throughout the 20th Century, Cornwall went through an economic decline- to the point where, when the UK was an EU member, Cornwall was receiving funding intended for only the most deprived regions in Europe. It was one of very few places in the UK to receive this funding- due to the levels of poverty and lack of infrastructure.

Part of the decline was also linked to the decline of historic fish stocks, such as mackerel. In the 70s and 80s, there was a mackerel boom- and large fishing trawlers came from as far away as Scandinavia (as well as Scotland and the north of England) to fish in Cornish waters. The traditional way of fishing in Cornwall used small boats and line fishing. The local fishermen couldn’t compete, and ultimately stocks were decimated by the trawlers. Many more families had to give up their traditional way of life. One could draw parallels here with worldwide indigenous struggles over fishing rights.

Despite this, Cornish communities retained their traditional folklore and festivals, many of which are still celebrated to this day. And throughout the 20th Century, efforts were made to preserve the Cornish language. Although there may not be any first language Cornish speakers left, it is now believed that community knowledge of the language was never truly lost.

Cornwall has since become a popular tourist destination. This brings its own problems- many people want to stay in self-catering accommodation and, more recently, air bnbs. This, alongside second homes, has gutted many Cornish communities. The gap between house prices and average wages is one of the largest in the country. Land has become extremely expensive, which hurts already struggling farmers. Roads can’t cope with the level of traffic. The one (1) major hospital can’t cope with the population in the summer. All of last winter, most Cornish households faced a “hosepipe ban” due to lack of water- yet in the summer, campsites and hotels can fill their swimming pools and hot tubs for the benefit of tourists.

Does this benefit Cornwall? Only about 13% of Cornwall’s GDP comes from tourism. The jobs associated with tourism are often poorly paid and may only offer employment for part of the year. People who stay in Air BnBs may not spend that much money in the community, and the money they pay for accommodation often goes to landlords who live upcountry and aren’t Cornish. Many major hotels and caravan sites are also owned by companies that aren’t Cornish, taking money out of the local economy.

Match this with a housing crisis where it’s increasingly difficult to rent properties long term, and buying a flat or house in Cornwall is out of reach of someone on the average salary and it’s easy to see why people are having to leave communities where their family lived for generations. This damages the local culture, and means centuries-old traditions can come under threat.

All of this feeds into the current situation; it feels like middle class families from London see Cornwall as their playground, and moan about tractors on the road, or the lack of services when they visit. People talk about theme park Cornwall- a place that’s built for entertainment of outsiders, not functionality for those who live here. More widely, a lot of people around the UK have never heard of the Cornish language, or view it as something that’s “extinct” or not worth preserving.

The Cornish are one of Britain’s indigenous cultures, alongside Welsh, Gaelic, Scots, Manx and others. And it’s a culture that’s increasingly under threat economically and culturally. We’ve been clinging on to our homes for a long time, and even now it still feels like we might be forced from them (indeed some of us are). So yes, Cornish people can seem excessively defensive about our identity and our culture- but there’s good reason for it!

[pers-books]

Doctor Who - The Stuff of Legend LIVE!

Paul McGann and India Fisher to star in special one-off live recording of a brand-new Eighth Doctor adventure.

To celebrate the 25th anniversary of licensed Doctor Who audio dramas, Big Finish Theatre, in partnership with BBC Studios, Fourth Wall Live and AEG, is proud to announce a unique full-cast live recording event, taking place at Cadogan Hall, London on Saturday 14 September 2024. 

For the very first time, Doctor Who fans will be able to watch an all-star cast take to the stage to perform a brand-new audio play, The Stuff of Legend, by Robert Valentine. 

Leading the cast is Paul McGann as the Eighth Doctor and India Fisher as his indomitable companion Charley Pollard. They’ll be joined onstage by Alex Macqueen as the Master alongside Nicholas Briggs, who voices the Doctor’s unstoppable arch-enemy, the Daleks. 

Something is afoot in the lonely Cornish village of Merrymaid Bay. Rumours of dead men working in the tin mines have sent a chill through the community, and it's up to the Doctor and Charley to get to the bottom of the mystery.  

Can the legends of the Bucca that haunts the mines be true? And just what awesome power do the Doctor’s greatest enemies – the Daleks! – threaten to unleash upon the universe? 

Tickets will be available to order at www.doctorwhoaudiolive.com from 10:00 (UK time) on Friday 05 July, with prices beginning at £18.00. 

Big Finish executive producer Jason Haigh-Ellery said: “25 years? It feels like 25 seconds! Producing the audio adventures of Doctor Who has been such a joy that two and a half decades has flown by – almost as if we have all been in the time vortex with the Doctor. 

“We’ve enjoyed ourselves so much producing thousands of hours of audio drama adventures – and now we have the chance to show fans of the series how the audio productions are made, with a new live performance – the first time Doctor Who has been performed live on stage since 1989.” 

Dominic Walker, Global Business Director at BBC Studios, added: “After 25 years of working with Big Finish on the Doctor Who audio adventures, BBC Studios is excited to now be bringing a live version to the stage. The Stuff of Legend is a fitting celebration and I am delighted that fans will be able to witness the recording of such a momentous anniversary story up close and personal.” 

Please note: Cadogan Hall has limited capacity so fans are advised to book quickly to avoid disappointment.  

Simultaneous to the live stage show, a full-cast studio production of Doctor Who: The Stuff of Legend will be released on 14 September 2024. Big Finish listeners can pre-order this adventure now for just £15.99 (collector’s edition double CD + download) or £12.99 (download only) exclusively here. This will also be available to purchase as a collector’s edition CD at the event. 

All the above prices include the special pre-order discount and are subject to change after general release. 

Please note that Big Finish is currently operating a digital-first release schedule. The mail-out of collector’s edition CDs may be delayed due to factors beyond our control, but all purchases of this release unlock a digital copy that can be immediately downloaded or played on the Big Finish app from the release date.

[haveyouseenthishorrormovie]

SUMMARY: An American and his daughter arrive in England with the hopes of reviving the tin mining industry. However, when the plan turns to action, falling rocks trap men in a haunted Cornish mine.

[stephensmithuk]

The Devil's Foot

Originally published in 1910 and part of His Last Bow.

Poldhu, which means "black pool" in the Cornish language is located on the Lizard Peninsula, the southernmost tip of Great Britain.

Cornwall has historically been popular for smugglers. Another common pasttime due to the frequency of shipwrecks was "wrecking" i.e. locals taking the cargo from the vessels dashed against the shore, which is legally considered theft. In 2007, a damaged cargo ship was run aground on the Devon coast to avoid an environmental disaster and the locals started looting the cargo, including a bunch of BMW motorbikes. The police eventually closed the beach and told people to contact the Receiver of Wreck - those who did were allowed to keep the bikes or sell them back to BMW for a £3,000 reward.

The Cornish language was pretty much extinct in terms of actual speakers by 1897, but there has been a revival movement since then.

Church of England vicars are generally, but not always, given a stipend instead of a regular wage along with use of the vicarage to live in; they can supplement their income by things like going on satirical news shows (Richard Coles) or writing tales about sentient steam locomotives (Wilbert Awdry).

Helston had a workhouse with an infirmary - it was a hospital until the 1990s. The main Cornwall asylum was in Bodmin and closed in 2002; "going Bodmin" became a local term for going crazy.

Lodgers are not the same as sub-letters, as the latter have exclusive use of part of the property. The former tend to be a lot more acceptable to social housing authorities than the latter.

There was a common belief that traders from Phoenica (mostly modern-day Lebanon) had visited Cornwall, but there is no archaeological evidence to back this up.

Cornwall had a tin-mining industry from c.2000 BC until the last mine closed in 1998; a number of former mines are now museums. The Poldark series of books, along with the TV adaptations, revolve a lot around it. There is now a lithium carbonate mine.

Dr. Sterndale would probably have to wait a couple of weeks for another ship to Africa.

"Cool motive, still murder".

The Ubangi River, a tributary of the Congo, today forms part of border of the Democratic Republic of the Congo with the Republic of the Congo and the Central African Republic.

[racefortheironthrone]

If I'm an English peasant during the Wars of the Roses, do I know that the Yorks and Lancasters are fighting (before they pillage my farm) and why?

Surprisingly, yes!

The lower classes were actually mobilized a fair bit during the political and military struggles between York and Lancaster:

the Kingmaker's popularity with the City of London due to his (frankly criminal) actions as the Captain of Calais had major political and military implications. It led to Suffolk's death in 1450, it prevented Margaret from holding pro-Lancastrian Parliaments in London, and when the real fighting started, Margaret had significant trouble controlling the capital.

Similarly, one of Edward IV's main political strengths was his enormous popularity among the commons of London, which allowed him to easily proclaim himself as King after Mortimer's Cross, and then again in returning from exile.

Jack Cade's rebellion in 1450 was a clear Yorkist/anti-Lancastrian effort to the point where it probably had some Yorkist backing behind the scenes.

The Kingmaker was really good at organizing peasant rebellions against his enemies: Robin of Redesdale's (also known as "Robin Mend-all") Rebellion of 1469 was a rebellion against Edward IV that used the imagery of Robin Hood to stir people up against taxes and "abuses of power," but was led by retainers of Richard Neville, and the Lincolnshire Rebellion of 1470 was sponsored by the Kingmaker and George of Clarence against Edward IV.

On the other hand, Robin of Holderness' rebellion in 1469 was a pro-Lancastrian rebellion against a "corn tax" (i.e, a tax on grain) and in favor of restoring the Percy family (one of the most powerful Lancastrian Houses and mortal enemies of the Nevilles) to the Earldom of Northumberland.

Finally, you have the Cornish Rebellions of 1497, which combined economic motivations (Henry VII has raised taxes for a war against Scotland, and had damaged Cornwall's economy by banning tin-mining) with support for Perkin Warbeck, the impostor Richard of York who tried to overthrow Henry Tudor.

So yeah, English peasants had Views on the Wars of the Roses, often depending on whether they came from the North or the South.

[keaalu]

Pendennis Castle (and friends)

I feel like I've been adopted by the spirit of Pendennis Castle. (Perhaps I lived there, in a former life, firing cannons for King Henry?)

Point being, the very first time I caught the Riviera Sleeper to Cornwall in 2017, the diesel loco that pulled the train was Pendennis Castle - and ever since then, the name keeps. Coming. Up. So I think I have slightly adopted it.

This holiday, I went to Falmouth and explored Pendennis Castle itself (“Castle On The Hill Castle”, haha). But more excitingly, look what I encountered in Didcot!

Pendennis Castle! (And holy moly she is a big beastie. And constantly LOUD, her chimney roaring away like a massive kettle you forgot to take off the boil.)

Granted, standing on the station next to her, she's obviously huge - I was STILL not as tall as her. But it’s only when you’re at ground level right alongside, staring up at at this towering piece of noisy engineering and realising that the top of your head doesn’t even come to the top of its wheel, that you realise what absolutely monumental vehicles these actually were. I had to stand on tiptoe to look into her cab.

She's at the coal stage here (above), about to have her tender refilled. The camera was on my eyeline. Even in these photos you can't really grasp how thunderingly enormous this old lady is. 120 tonnes! And even when she was not doing anything at all (her crew weren't even aboard), she was noisy.

Here's an even bigger one! This is King Edward II, who escaped the scrapyard by about 30 minutes and (I think) was in such a state it took longer to restore than it was in service. (I asked the tour guide and it's slightly shorter than the Flying Scotsman but heavier, at 135 tonnes, and more powerful. Apparently there was a bit of a pissing competition between GWR and LNER over who had the better engine, which resulted in these behemoths being designed. They had to do lots of weird things with it because otherwise it wouldn't have fitted through tunnels/alongside platforms/etc.)

Yeah. These are big beasts. (Even the dinky little tank engine they had outside weighed in at almost 23 tonnes.) If I get anywhere with this thing I'm noodling away at, I really want to try and carry that off.

It's quite sad, in a way, seeing them preserved and just sitting there - getting lots of love and polish, granted, but I wanted to see them escape onto the mainline and really run. Watching Pendennis Castle shuffle up and down her 750m of line was a bit like watching a racehorse pace around in a paddock.

Of course I was busy taking notes. (I didn't quite get brave enough to ask the volunteers "so if you were in the middle of nowhere, just an engine and crew, and you'd stopped for some reason, and the driver then had a heart attack, how would you get help?")

(Something something someone runs down the tracks to a lineside phone to call the signalmen to put a stop on the line, and the engine sits whistling the hell out of an SOS because he's not quite got the steam pressure back up to run, until a policeman comes along to help.)

In a final turn for the weird, this holiday, I was just getting ready to leave my hotel on the final day, and heard the toot of a steam train. That can't be a steam train, I said, it's a mainline railway station next door. But I hurried away anyway, and look what was sat in Bristol Temple Meads station! (I left the people in for scale. Even here, the loco is lighter than Pendennis - 72 tons vs 81 tons.)

She left literally not even a minute after I got to the platform, so that was a huge touch of luck. It's a special one-off service running on the mainline up to Shrewsbury. So this is on my list for next year!

(If there isn't already a character in TTTE called Dennis, WELL THERE SHOULD BE. Who used to work the tin mines and speaks Cornish so no-one fucking understands him.)

(The sleeper is my favourite way to travel on holiday. Go to sleep in London, wake up 250 miles away in Penzance!)

[writinginaforrest]

Moving on. 

(7th Sept 2024)

“Kernow Bys Vyken” is something I could say with my whole chest. It means “Cornwall Eternally” in Kernewek, the language of the Cornish people. I am Cornish. I was born here, and I come from a Long line of Cornish Farmers, Miners and Labourers. I speak very little of the language, but the phonetics of it creep through in the way I speak. My generic Southern English accent (which, for those who are not from the UK, is the one you hear in most Non-British media) is often tinged with the same roughness and rhoticity that makes my Grandfather unintelligible to non-native speakers. I take pride in it. I take pride in my celtic heritage and I reject the label of English to pay homage to my colonised forefathers and the nation they lost. 

That being said, Kernow is a shit hole. This small part right at the end of the British Mainland Is known for it’s picturesque scenery. Abandoned wheelhouses from our tin mining days stand triumphantly on grassy knolls and tell stories of our past as an exporter of precious metals and agriculture. Our beaches are unique, nestled in between rugged cliff faces or  at the mouths of Rivers that built towns in their stead. It’s a place to relax. To feel connected to the earth. To marvel at what nature has to offer in its rawest form and to appreciate the ways it has provided for us. This is code for: Our economy is now built on tourism. Our mines are visitor attractions. Our cliff sides are caravan parks. We’re rammed with English tourists in the summer who have no respect for our beaches or our countryside or the people who live and work here. To them, Cornwall is a Holiday spot. One big play park. A gentrified, miserable play park with no money to provide infrastructure that could possibly support its residents. Many venues close their doors for the bitter winter months, and we Cornish people are left floundering with fuckall to do and a nasty headcold. 

I’d be the last to admit my life has not been particularly easy. But, it hasn’t. I grew up Dirt poor to an abusive father and a teen mother who had to learn to grow up alongside her children. There’s a wall decoration in my kitchen, placed by my mother with love. It reads “This Home is a Happy Place” in thick black letters. I can’t say that’s true. Home holds weight to me. It’s not just the place but also everything I experienced here. Home is not just my culture but how I exist within it. I was groomed here. I had my first kiss here. I was thrown across a room by my father here. I met my best friends here. I remember the way the carpet in my primary school felt under my trainers. I remember the smell of seawater on Lemon Quay as the tide came in and the boats rose with it in my Port Hometown. I remember spending time at Crantock beach in the early hours of that whole summer that felt like a day, and nursing my blistering sunburn and developing scarring and freckles on my shoulders and upper back that I still have to this day. I remember the way my mother smacked me across the back of the head with a smug grin on her face, and I remember the way my own face crumpled into tears because she was supposed to be the safe one. I remember how much I longed to exit my childhood when I was in it, thinking i’d be in control when I was a grown up, and that feeling echoes in my grown up heart now, the heart of a man who has no control and mourns for a childhood he never had. 

The end result of this is not me returning to the sun-lit glow of a childhood that was not mine to miss, but rather me in a place that I do not recognize. A place where the signs do not have their Kernewek translations proudly stated underneath. A place where the water is dirty and contaminated with industrialism. A place where my father cannot reach me with his violent hands. A place where no one knows my old name. A place where I can live by my own rules, as my own man, emboldened and unafraid, but at the forfeit of every bit of comfort. Everything I knew to be true. 

But that’s the letting go. Cornwall is a Sinking ship, and I am not its captain. I can love it. I can mourn the idea of it, and I can understand when It’s time to move on. I can make peace with the fact that I will never be a child again. And I can grieve for the person I may have been if I was not weighed down by the immense burden of my trauma. Time is fleeting, and my past is so much pain. I have to keep moving, onward and onward. Go where my instincts take me and remember my home with pride, knowing full well that this will never be my home again. It’s all I can do. 

Kernow bys Vyken

[mycological-mariner]

Dude dude dude. Wdym you know lots about Cornish history. Please share. I want this info dump. I want to know more. I will beg on my knees if necessary.

!!!!

I guess it depends on which period of Cornish history you wanna know about! I admit I don’t know a great deal about say Dunmonia or the really properly ancient culture in Cornwall. I take more of an interest in the social and industrial side of Cornish history. But I can give you a run-down of some parts of Cornish history you’ll never shut me up about!

The Cornish Jacobites and their rebellion in 1715! It actually had an impact on the 1745 rebellion, as well, as one of the Cornish Jacobite leaders’ (who was tossed in Newgate prison) family were suspected of harbouring Prince Charles Stuart, though it’s unlikely this did in fact occur. Actually this whole period is really interesting!

Cornwall during the French Rev wars!! So actually. In Cornwall, the ideas of Liberté, égalité, fraternité we’re quite popular. So popular in that in St. Just which was on the Tin Coast, a group of men planted a Liberty Tree. There was also a great deal of economic struggle (Cornwall has always been one of the poorest regions in the UK, however it was particularly drastic at this time, so much so that if you were a working family, you’d likely not be able to afford wheat for bread as it was extraordinarily highly priced). In fact, the officials of the area feared an uprising. I don’t have the number off the top of my head, but the reason they feared an uprising in Cornwall so much was because they’d be extremely outnumbered. Like I said, don’t have the precise number but it would’ve been a blood bath. Though luckily enough, the wars would very soon come to an end. Until the Napoleonic Wars kicked off.

Cornwall during the Napoleonic Wars is just. I could write a book or a very, very long essay. It’s also a very important time for industry. However Cornwall also held a unique position, being so close to France. French refugees trying to flee the war would be snuck across the channel and into Cornwall. They would also be given English names and set up with work. Not official, by the way. This wasn’t exactly a government approved activity. However there were also a few prisoner of war camps in Cornwall, a notable one in Roskrow. Detectorists must have a blast there… I’m also extremely emotional about one Captain James Quick, a St. Ives merchant captain who was taken a prisoner of war after setting sail from Falmouth and his ship, the Hopewell, becoming extremely damaged, losing all sails and being driven to the French coast and grounded in November 1810. He married his wife in just September. I actually have read the letters he wrote to his wife Harriett during this time and Christ. It’s a hell of a thing. He eventually made it home in 1814.

Industry in Cornwall is something I’ve touched on already a bit. But mining, fishing and farming were the biggest. And there’s the technology developed for it. One day I’ll need to talk in depth about the submarine mines, specifically Levant Mine (though it is a truly horrific story). Levant was actually 600 meters deep and before the “man engine” men and boys would have to climb around 80 sets of ladders up and down every single day, twice a day, in extremely hot mines that, at their longest stretched a mile beneath the sea floor. It wasn’t uncommon for men to just pass out from exhaustion on the ladders. A beam engine was introduced, which is still there. The only one in Cornwall.

By WWI, Cornwall has been pretty well established as a major entryway for trade into and out of the UK. Falmouth was THE port of call for ages. However, there was something called spy mania. Officials were worried German spies may use Cornwall to get into the country. This led to mass incarcerations of “spies” (many of whom were proven innocent) and subsequent executions. However even if you weren’t a spy, people coming into the country could be detained, thrown into a jail/workhouse and then drafted against their will into the war. It would have been a horrifying time to try and come into the country. On the topic of world wars and Cornwall, there are some places — one, I actually believe around Falmouth — where coastal defences managed to sink German uboats and at low tide you can even walk out to them (or at least they become exposed enough you can clearly make them out).

Once the tin and copper dried up, many Cornish miners were told they could have free land in places like Australia (and if this sounds a bit like what the US government told labourers in the mid 19thc, well it’s a theme). Besides Australia, many MANY miners also went to North America. In Mexico there’s even a town called Real de Monte, sometimes called “Little Cornwall” for its Cornish heritage there. Some Cornish miners also went as far West into America as California — again, which has a number of Cornish names about — and into the Appalachians and all along the east coast. The Hoosac Tunnel Disaster in 1853 was heavily being worked by Cornish immigrants and took over 20 years to complete.

I’ve not even touched on the language and the rebuilding thereof, nor cultural history or festivals. Or the smuggling!!! Or the civil war!!! Or it’s number of rebellions!! As I say, it really depends on which era and what aspect of Cornish history you’d be interested in learning about! I just kinda did a quick play by play, highlights! I highly recommend going to Kresen Kernow’s website (archives in Redruth) as well as the Royal Cornwall Museum which has quite a few digitised records in their online archives. Bodmin War Museum and the Falmouth Maritime Museum are also very useful! And if you ever go to Cornwall, PLEASE go to the local museum! You won’t believe the kind of things the volunteers will tell you or the absolute wild history of some of the objects. I can also recommend some reading, too.

[hellhoundmaggie]

Nanscough: A Gothic Scarlet Hollow AU

Nanscough (Cornish: Scarlet Valley) is a village and civil parish in Cornwall. The local tin mine, owned by the prominent Cough (pronounced ko) family, was once prosperous and drew many to the area. A few Afro-Caribbean families even settled in Nanscough a century ago and are now assimilated into local life. But the tin trade began to decline earlier in the century following a collapse in Nanscough Mines, and the town’s fortunes fell along with it. The parish is also home to the Seven Maids, local megaliths said to be a group of girls turned to stone for dancing on the Sabbath. Lately the area has been plagued by reports of creatures from Cornish lore – giants, pixies, Tommyknockers, phantom cats, and even the Devil’s Dandy Dogs. Nanscough will not give up its secrets easily….

Mr./Miss/Mx. MC Cough: MC grew up in genteel poverty with their mother, the late Vivian Cough, who fled her ancestral home under mysterious circumstances. They are visiting Nanscough for the first time in their life to attend the funeral of their aunt, Mrs. Anne Cough.

Miss Tabitha Cough: Iron-fisted manager of Nanscough Mines and mistress of Nanscough Hall. Cousin to MC.

Dustin: A badger living in a dresser in the Hall. Son to Dustin Mam. Speaks broken English with a strong Cornish accent.

Dustin Mam: Another badger living in a dresser in the Hall. Mother of Dustin. Also speaks broken English with a strong Cornish accent.

Frou-Frou: Nanscough Hall cat. Speaks with a French accent.

Miss Stella Trelawney: Former lady’s companion to Miss Cough, current lady reporter investigating stories of the Devil’s Dandy Dogs. Owner of Gretchen. Friend to Cora and Rhys.

Gretchen: Stella’s lapdog. Speaks the Queen’s English.

Miss Cora Forsyth: Afro-Caribbean shopkeeper, aspiring naturalist, and lover of Gothic tales and penny dreadfuls. Friend to Stella and Rhys. Sister of Miles and daughter of Sybil.

Mrs. Sybil Forsyth: Town midwife, herbalist, and shop owner. Mother to Cora and Miles. A fixture of Nanscough.

Master Miles Forsyth: Indifferent Afro-Caribbean youth. Lover of boy’s adventure tales and little else. Son of Sybil and brother of Cora.

Mx. Avery Bell: Afro-Caribbean barkeep at the Bell, Nanscough’s only public house. Nibling to Winifred. Liked by all, but close to no one.

Mrs. Winifred Bell: Widowed Afro-Caribbean landlady of the Bell. Aunt to Avery. Makes the best pasties. Another town fixture.

Mr. “Duke” Calloway: Local farmer. Claims to be descended from British royalty, hence the nickname. Father to Beau. Distant cousin to Julius.

Mr. Beau Calloway: Local farmer. Large adult son to Duke. Distant cousin to Julius.

Mr. Julius Tremaine: Local farmer. Scoffs at his family’s claim to royal blood. Distant cousin to Duke and Beau.

The Miners: Come from all over Cornwall and even parts beyond.

Mr. Oscar Gutierrez: British-born Spaniard schoolmaster. Father to Rosalina.

Miss Rosalina Gutierrez: British-born Spaniard girl. Daughter to Oscar. Friend to Alexis, Miles, Rebecca, and Zane.

Morsel: The Gutierrez’s cat. Speaks broken English.

Sheriff Hammet: Affable town sheriff. Suitor of the Widow Bell.

Deputy Teague: Overly-serious sheriff’s deputy. Owner of the Lord Mayor.

Deputy Penrose: Calm sheriff’s deputy. Takes ninepins far too seriously.

Jimmy: Deputy Teague’s dog. Affectionately known as the Lord Mayor. Speaks with a slight accent.

Scraps and Daisy: Local dogs and leaders of the Dog Militia. Speak with accents.

Vicar Daniel: Local vicar with sparsely attended sermons. Strange and off-putting. Husband to Mrs. Jane, father to Flora.

Mrs. Jane: Vicar Daniel’s wife, mother of Flora, keeper of sheep. Forces weekly social calls on Tabitha.

Miss Flora: Daughter of Vicar Daniel and Mrs. Jane. Claims to have befriended pixies at the Seven Maids.

Dr. Joan Kelly: One of Britain’s first female licensed doctors. Formerly of London by way of Ireland. Claims to be the widow of a sea captain who died during a transatlantic voyage. Mother to Rhys.

Mr. Rhys Kelly: “Consumptive” artist. Bought to Cornwall by his doctor mother to “recover his strength” in country air. Extremely Byronic. Son to Dr. Kelly. Friend to Stella and Cora.

The other youths: Miss Rebecca, Miss Alexis, Master Zane. Friends to Miles and Rosalina. Probably up to no good.

Mrs. Nancy: An ill-tempered and entitled miner’s wife. Mother to Miss Rebecca.

Mr. Samuel Wayne: Nanscough Hall groundskeeper, currently neglecting his duties. Probably not the host of an inhuman consciousness.

[headcanonsandmore]

Once and Future, Chapter One

Summary: Is disguising yourself as a young man a sure-fire way to get a job in the big city? Tegan, a young person from Cornwall, is about to find out. Only the big city is Camelot and she's becoming less concerned about the gender thing by the day. Oh, and this cute handmaiden called Nyssa keeps flirting with her? Anyway, all in a days work for Camelot's newest apprentice.

(Arthurian!AU with some fantasy elements mixed with distinctly Terry Pratchett-esque themes)

Tagging: @squirius @serenbex and @lonely-space-ace

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                           Read on FFN.                        Read on AO3. 

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It was about the socks, Tegan decided.

The way boys could stalk forward, the way they walked with a weird swing to their torso and limbs. Tegan had wondered for years why they felt the need to. It was definitely the socks jammed down the front of the trousers.

Tegan laced up her old boots, and gave herself one last look in the mirror.

The short haircut hadn’t been much of a change, to be honest. She had never liked having long hair, after all. In fact, she enjoyed the feeling of air on her neck. She had been a bit more concerned about flattening her chest but, somewhat to her annoyance, that hadn’t been much of an issue either.

Well, regardless, she glared at her reflection in the wonky glass, looking to all the world like a young man.

She had left a note to her parents, of course. Nothing that gave much detail; only that she was leaving to find a job and would send them almost all the money she earned.

The farm had not been doing well for years. The trade had really declined since the Romans had left Southern Britannia, even if the extent of their empire had never really much impacted on Cornwall. There hadn’t been large scale battles or lots of new cities. Just far more trade than previously; after all, the Romans liked their tin, and Cornwall was known for it.

Tegan picked up her bag, hoisted it over her shoulders, and set out through the door. Both her parents were out working in the fields, and wouldn’t return until lunch.

She sighed, and continued up the path.

The walk to the coast took her a good hour and a half. As her legs carried along the well-worn stone path, she could see fae creatures hiding just out of sight in the trees and fields. They didn’t bother her; Tegan knew better than to offend the fae. There was deep magic there that she did not want to cross. Every Cornish child was taught to be wary but courteous to the fae people, and with good reason.

As the time passed, the fields began to slope slowly downwards, and Tegan could make out little glimpses of the sparkling sea. She had been to the village before to help her parents sell what little extra crop they could grow. But she had never been on her own; she just hoped that no-one would recognise her.

Tegan’s boots stumbled beneath her as she arrived over the crest of the last hill.

The Celtic Sea glistened below her, with houses clutching the shoreline, boats bobbing on the waters of the port. Sunshine beat down from the immense sky. The strong winds ruffled through her short locks, and Tegan took a deep breath, savouring the taste of the Cornish air. She wouldn’t taste it again for a long time, she suspected.

‘Well,’ she said, softly, to herself. ‘Off we go, then.’

She set off down the hill and joined the road, dodging out of the way of carts weighed down with Tin from the mines heading to the harbour. The village was a lively place, full of trade and commerce. Some ships came from as far away as Hispania and Sicily, bringing goods and money in exchange for tin and other raw materials mined in Britannia.

‘Careful, lad!’ one old man declared, as Tegan dashed out of the way of another cart.

Tegan smiled and waved in greeting. If even people from the local area didn’t recognise her, then maybe she could fool the folks at her destination too.

The villages streets were even busier, full of loud voices and the bargaining of farmers and merchants from all over. Tegan could smell tin and fish on the wind, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood up as the weight of where she was going finally settled in her mind.

Good grief, she would likely not be back in Cornwall -her homeland- for a very long time. The thought left her strangely tense, and she almost wanted to turn back. But it was too late; she had made her decision. Regardless, her parents farm needed the money, and she wasn’t going to make much staying at home.

There was a crash from nearby, and Tegan startled. Her mouth falling open, she noticed a short burst of flame rising into the air from a small courtyard away from the road.

Walking towards it, Tegan could hear the sounds of scrabbling feet upon the ground. As she entered the courtyard, she could see several cast-iron pens erected in the centre. An immensely tall woman, wearing a leather apron, was stood nearby the nearest one.

‘Sorry, young lad,’ she said, speaking with a cheerful and slightly posh accent. ‘Didn’t mean to scare you; Chubby does like his coal.’

‘Chubby?’

‘Here,’ the lady said, gesturing to the pen.

Tegan approached, cautiously. Inside the pen was a small reptilian creature covered in scales, with a long tail and large wings. It wasn’t much bigger than a dog.

‘Is… is that a dragon?’ Tegan gasped.

‘Well, swamp dragon,’ replied the lady. ‘Drakonis Vulgaris, to give the technical term.’

Tegan stared. The creature called Chubby stared up at her, mouth widening in a sort of smile to reveal sooty fangs. Once you got past the initial shock, the effect was actually rather cute.

‘Rescued him in a blacksmiths workshop on the continent,’ said the lady, frowning slightly at the memory. ‘Poor bugger wasn’t being treated well. I thought to myself; Sybil, you can’t leave this little chap here.’

‘You… you rescue dragons?’

‘Only the swamp dragons.’

‘There are more than these?’

‘Oh, yes,’ replied the lady known as Sybil, grinning. Tegan had a vague sense that she had been waiting to be asked this question. ‘You see, it’s theorised that dragons all originate from Drakonis Lunaris-that’s moon dragons to you and me- but Drakonis Nobilis are the most widely recognised. Sadly, they get hunted quite a lot nowadays and so stay away from populated areas. Swamp dragons are bit more friendly to people, though, although I suspect that humans stay away from them.’

Tegan stared down at the seemingly harmless creature in the pen.

‘What, are they dangerous?’ she asked, baffled.

‘To themselves more than anyone else, I’m afraid,’ said Sybil, sighing. She pointed down at Chubby’s stomach, which was gurgling away. ‘Swamp dragons aren’t really designed like their Nobile and Moon forebears. You see that stomach? They eat virtually anything, because they need to convert it into flames. But, well, one small bit of indigestion and… bye bye dragon.’

Tegan goggled. Now that she thought about it, she had heard tales of dragons blowing themselves up by mistake. She supposed that, if most people only heard about these types of dragons, it was little wonder that a lot of the awe for the species had disappeared. You certainly wouldn’t expect them to be taking maidens prisoner, that was for sure.

A species made exclusively out of runts of the litter, with stomachs like badly-run chemical factories. Poor buggers.

Tegan scratched Chubby behind the ears. The dragon gave a little burp.

‘He likes you,’ Sybil said, cheerfully.

Tegan felt rather pleased about this.

‘You seem rather good with dragons,’ said Sybil. ‘You wouldn’t like to help me with loading the pens up, would you? We’re heading for Hibernia.’

‘Sorry,’ Tegan said. ‘I’ve got another ship to catch.

‘Oh, nevermind then,’-Sybil shook Tegan’s hand-‘You sure I can’t tempt you? We’re always looking for young lads at the Sunshine Sanctuary.’

‘Unless you pay well, afraid not.’

‘Ah, money,’ Sybil said, nodding in understanding. ‘I see your point, Master… I’m sorry, I don’t believe I caught your name?’

‘Tegan,’ said Tegan, giving Chubby one last scratch behind the ears. ‘Thanks for the offer.’

With a final wave, Tegan headed out of the courtyard. Her ship wouldn’t be leaving for another hour, so Tegan decided to head to the village pub. She didn’t drink, but she could rest for a minute and take her mind off of things.

However, as she entered the pub through the side entrance (just in case anyone did recognise her), she could begin to hear the sounds of argument. Several men, by the sounds of it, and none too happy. Tegan froze in front of an open doorway, and peered round.

A young woman, of similar age to Tegan, was being accosted by several angry men.

‘You can’t break someone’s beer mug without paying for it!’

The woman stammered, seemingly terrified.

Without thinking, Tegan darted forward into the room.

‘Run!’

Tegan grabbed the young woman’s hand, and pulled her away, dashing through a doorway opposite and up a set of stairs.

Thinking quickly, Tegan elbowed through another door, and across to a window. Through it, she could see a large haystack below.

With one hand, Tegan pushed open the window.

She then turned to the woman, and her stomach seemed to turn over.

A pair of large, blue-grey eyes stared out of a pale, delicate face. A few tufts of curly light-brown hair were slipping loose from the hair-covering the woman was wearing. The hand clasped around Tegan’s own was achingly soft against her skin. A perfume of some kind hung around her, delicate and strong at the same time. There was an aura of deep, inquisitive intelligence mixed with deep compassion in the blue-grey orbs, through which Tegan could now see herself reflected. Tegan’s entire world seemed to alter on its axis as her eyes took in the young woman.

Beautiful.

‘Er…’ Tegan said, her brain frantically trying to form coherent sentences. ‘Jump?’

The woman nodded, squeezing Tegan’s hand.

‘Oy!’ came an angry voice from behind them.

The men were standing in the doorway. Tegan pulled a few coins from her pocket, and threw them across the room.

‘Have a drink on me,’ she cheeked.

Tegan and the woman jumped, without looking back.

The two landed in the haystack. Spitting bits of the stuff out of her mouth, Tegan helped the woman to her feet, and the two of them hurried away, hearing the sounds of yelling from the first floor of the building they had just escaped. The cobblestones clattered under the soles of Tegan’s feet. And here she was hoping not to attract attention…

‘Thank you,’ said the woman, as they hurried along. ‘I wandered off from my travelling companions, and got lost.’

‘Easy to do, if you don’t know the place,’ Tegan replied. ‘Are you waiting for a ship?’

‘Yes, I was hoping to reach-’

The two of them stopped, as the back alley they had hurried along had come to an end, running out into a busy street.

‘Oh, there is my physician,’ the woman said, pointing to a blonde man dressed in light-coloured clothing. She then turned to Tegan, squeezing her hand.

Tegan’s stomach flipped over.

‘Thank you for rescuing me,’ the woman smiled, cheeks dimpling.

‘N-no problem,’ Tegan stammered.

‘Er, what is your name-’

‘Sorry; have to go!’

Feeling her face burn, Tegan reluctantly dropped the woman’s hand and hurried away, running full-pelt down the road towards the harbour. Her heart was hammering in her chest. The young woman’s face -pretty and kind- was still firmly planted in her minds eye. Tegan’s stomach flipped over as she ran, the feel of soft skin still remembered on her hand.

What on earth was that?

                                                          *

 Sure enough, the boat Tegan had been hoping for was anchored at the dock. She sprinted aboard, tossing a few coins to the person waiting on deck.

‘Heading to Albion?’ the boy, barely a few years younger than herself.

‘Yep; when are we setting sail?’

‘Probably another half hour,’ the boy replied, scratching his ear with a dirty fingernail. ‘Waiting for some nobles of some sort-’

‘Yes; they’re on their way,’ came a voice from behind Tegan.

A knight had climbed aboard. He was tall, with short, well-groomed hair that matched the beard he wore. He wasn’t wearing standard armour, but instead durable, tough clothing. A scabbard, sword included, hung at his waist. A huge shield was strapped across his back.

‘Sir… Dynadan, was it, sire?’

‘Indeed, lad,’ replied the knight. Tegan now noticed that he spoke with the same Cornish accent as she did; sunny and true. ‘The nobles are currently in the village, but they request that we wait a few more minutes for them.’

At this point, he turned to Tegan.

‘Lad, I take it you are travelling to the citadel as well?’

‘Yes.’

‘A pleasure to meet you, er…’

‘Tegan.’

‘Good name. Er… Master Tegan?’

‘Yes,’ Tegan said, quickly. ‘What of it?’

‘Nothing,’ said the knight, cheerfully. ‘I just like to know what you’d preferred to be called. Politeness and all that.’

‘You two best head below deck,’ said the young boy.

‘Right,’ Tegan said. ‘I’ll just…’

‘I’ll join you, lad,’ said Sir Dynadan, clapping Tegan cheerfully on the shoulder. They crossed the deck, and climbed down the ladder into the area below it. The two of them then headed to a corner.

‘The nobles will probably stay in the posh rooms at the back of the ship,’ Dynadan said.

‘Shouldn’t you stay with them?’

‘I’m not their security,’ he replied, shrugging. ‘Besides, I like to keep my ear to the ground.’

Now, Tegan could hear the sounds of posh people speaking to the crew above, before the footsteps headed towards the back of the ship.

In time, the ship pulled out from the harbour, and into the waters of the Celtic sea, heading roughly north. To what, Tegan wasn’t entirely sure, but she knew it would be very different from the land she had grown up in.

                                                            *

 ‘So, Master Tegan,’ Dynadan said, leaning back against the wall. It was several hours later. ‘I take it you are also heading to the citadel?’

Tegan nodded. She was conscious that she probably shouldn’t reveal too much of her background, just in case she accidentally said something incriminating.

‘I’m hoping to find work,’ she said. ‘My parents farm need the money.’

Dynadan nodded, sympathetically.

‘There is work for young people like yourself,’ he said. ‘A knights squire, perhaps?’

‘Does it pay decently?’

‘Certainly more than you would get in Cornwall,’ said the knight. ‘There is far more wealth with the court.’

‘I’ll see what I can get,’ Tegan said. ‘Can’t imagine many knights would want some kid from Cornwall as their squire.’

‘Some may not, but they are neither here nor there. A knight is an admirable profession,’ Dynadan said. ‘Although I am biased.’

Tegan chuckled.

‘I’m not much of a fighter.’

‘Neither was I at your age; being a knight is about being scared but acting regardless.’

‘You fight for the love of courtly ladies?’

Dynadan let out a bark of laughter.

‘No; I leave that to my fellow knights,’ he said, grinning. ‘Fighting for sport is not for me, as is the whole prospect of courtly love.’

‘Are you sure you’re a knight?’

Dynadan laughed again, and Tegan found herself blushing; she had spoken without thinking. Damn it! Why could she not keep her opinions to herself?

‘A smart knight, Master Tegan,’ he laughed. ‘A smart knight who uses his wits and intellect, not simply just his muscles.’

The face of the woman she had rescued earlier that day blossomed in Tegan’s mind, and she found her face flushing once again.

‘I… do not have a lady.’

‘That makes two of us,’ Dynadan said. ‘Although, unlike yours, my position is by choice, judging from your face?’

Tegan let out a groan, feeling her face already flushing scarlet.

‘No matter, Master Tegan,’ he continued, kindly. ‘There are many admirable women your age.’

‘Do… do you prefer men?’

Dynadan chuckled.

‘I prefer no-one,’ he said. ‘Romantic love has never been my interest; my friends and my comrades are who I protect. There are many forms of love, after all.’

Tegan nodded, as the knight cheerfully grinned.

After a hearty meal of meat sandwiches, Tegan and Dynadan eased back in their stools. Night was already drawing in.

‘I think you best get some rest, Master Tegan,’ Dynadan said, cheerfully. ‘We will arrive at our destination tomorrow, and I imagine you will need all your wits when we arrive.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I have experience with this. Take my word for it, as a Cornishman.’

Tegan eased her boots off, and climbed into the hammock nearby. It would take a little while to get used to, but she wasn’t used to an especially comfortable sleep at home anyway (good beds were hard to come by in Cornwall these days).

After a while of ruminating on the events of the day, Tegan drifted off to sleep, feeling the ship sway to and fro in the waves.

                                                               *

 Tegan was woken up by the calls of the crew on the deck above. Grimacing, she awkwardly climbed out of her hammock. Dynadan was already washing at a basin nearby.

Tegan made her way to a small cupboard at the side, and got changed into a fresh set of clothes. They weren’t anything impressive, but she felt better wearing clothes that she hadn’t slept in. She wanted to make a good first impression when she arrived, after all. She hadn’t slept especially well, possibly due to a combination of the nerves and the novelty of sleeping on a ship for the first time. Whatever it was, she was glad to feel refreshed and renewed.

After re-emerging, she joined Dynadan in a few more sandwiches to break their fast. She made sure to belch a few times. Boys seemed to enjoy belching a lot, although Dynadan did not. Perhaps it wasn’t something knights were allowed to do.

Once they had finished eating, the two of them headed onto the deck.

Sure enough, they had arrived at the ships final destination. A bustling port, with warehouses lining the harbour. Tegan could already hear the calls of many people, crying for lines to be brought in, baskets to be carried, and boxes to be moved. She could even make out the snorts and grunts of animals of all descriptions.

‘Shouldn’t be more than a few hours walk to the citadel,’ Dynadan said, pointing inland. ‘It’s been a few months since I was last there, but I know the way well.’

Tegan nodded, feeling a sudden spike in nerves.

‘You’ll be fine,’ the knight said, somehow noticing this. ‘Just stick by me, keep your nose clean and don’t say anything rude.’

‘You give my control of what my mouth says far too much credit, sir,’ Tegan mumbled.

Dynadan laughed, patting her companionably on the shoulder.

‘I’m sure you’ll be excellent,’ he chuckled. ‘C’mon; time we were heading off. Need to get off the ship before those nobles wake up.’

After stepping off the ship, the two of them set off through the harbour, heading through the sea of people and eventually up the steep slopes of the hill. Even compared to Cornwall, this was a pretty tough climb, and Tegan was glad of the durable boots she was wearing.

After an hour of walking, a large forest loomed ahead of them. It was the sort of place that made someone hesitant to stray from the path, and Tegan was glad that they did not. She could hear sounds of animals in the trees, and even the tell-tale signs of the fae people. Keeping her eyes firmly on the path ahead, Tegan followed Dynadan in stony silence, although the knight himself did not seem to mind Tegan’s lack of conversation. Perhaps, as a Cornishman, he could also sense the magic around them. It wasn’t necessarily evil in nature, but it was certainly not completely benevolent either.

The forest was a massive place, and it took them another hour for the trees to begin thinning around them, small gaps of sun illuminating little clearings. The path turned a corner, and the two of them emerged from the forest. The sunlight hit Tegan’s eyes, temporarily blinding her. As she shielded her eyes with a hand, Tegan was aware that they had arrived in a valley, filled with dotted farmlands and villages.

And above them all stood-

Tegan’s mouth fell open.

An immense castle and city stood high above, on a huge hill that dominated the surrounding valleys. High walls stood, behind which were the tops towers and buildings, too numerous to count. The walls were so high that those guarding them seemed like ants at the top of a mountain. Birds seemed barely able to fly up that high. Multiple flags blew from atop each building, catching in the strong winds. Tegan could hear the noise of hundreds of people working, talking, laughing and living within, even from this distance.

The heart of the kingdom of Albion; Camelot.

‘Oh, my…’

‘Impressed, lad?’

Tegan turned. Dynadan was standing next to her, his eyes glinting as he stared up at the castle.

‘Er… yes.’

‘Still gets me every time,’ he said. ‘How could it not? You’d have to be pretty cynical not to marvel at it.’

‘I… I didn’t imagine it to be so grand.’

‘Bit of a change from that tiny place King Mark calls his palace back home, eh.’

Tegan nodded. She had never been to Tintagel but, from what she had heard, King Mark’s stronghold there didn’t have quite the same majesty as the enormous structure above her.

‘Come on,’ Dynadan said, clapping Tegan on the arm. ‘Time waits for no-one, after all.’

As they slowly made their way up the hill towards the citadel, Tegan was struck by how many people were also heading the same way. Presumably, the way Dynadan had suggested was something of a short cut, as the path leaning up the castle headed back along the other end of the valley, cutting round the forest in a loop.

‘Dynadan, my friend!’

A cheerful knight stood at the side of the main gate. He was wearing a full suit of armour, and had a weather-beaten kind face.

‘Percival!’ exclaimed Dynadan, shaking the man by the hand. ‘Good to see you; how goes it in the city?’

‘Oh, about as can be expected,’ Sir Percival replied, shrugging and making his armour jangle. ‘I believe the new physician is due to arrive today.’

‘We may have travelled on the same ship as him; this young lad Tegan is wishing for employment.’

Percival smiled kindly at Tegan, who was standing awkwardly to the side.

‘A pleasure to have you, Master Tegan,’ the knight replied, grinning.

As Tegan followed Dynadan into the citadel, she was unable to stop her mouth from hanging open in amazement. The place was absolutely packed with people of every description; Cornish merchants, travellers from across Albion, tribesman from the land west that the Romans had called Hibernia, merchants and traders from Gaul, even a few men in blue warrior-paint from the lands to the far north. Accents and languages of all descriptions were on every mouth, buffeting Tegan’s ears with their exotic and exciting tones. People were yelling across the streets out of windows above, houses packed in close to the streets, so that they blocked out some of the dazzling sunlight beating down from above. The cobbles beneath Tegan’s feet were surprisingly clean and well-maintained, as if the fae folk themselves were keeping them scrubbed. Garlands and streamers hung across the road from the houses on each side, many of the ground floor stories being used for shops selling everything from baked goods to fine pottery. There were the smells and noises from a market just out of side, and Tegan could only imagine the types of animals kept here for the court of such a wealthy and prosperous land.

Eventually, Dynadan led her up toward another gate, and Tegan’s mouth open again at the castle that rose behind it, covered with turrets and flags. It seemed almost supernaturally impressive, so much so that Tegan began to suspect the work of the fae folk once again. But she didn’t say anything, mainly because of the awe rising within her once again.

Dynadan nodded cheerfully to the knight at the gate, who smiled in return and let them both pass.

The central courtyard was enormous. Bunting stretched from the windows of one side to those on the other, and everywhere were large banners, illustrating the various knights of the round table. Men and women of the court were clapping, as musicians entertained them.

‘Dynadan!’ called several of the knights, and the Cornish knight grinned, waving a hand.

‘Hello, my friends!’ he exclaimed. ‘It is most welcoming to be back in Camelot; I’m glad to see that you have not accidentally dissected each other whilst jousting in the intervening time!’

Laughter erupted from the knights and onlookers.

‘Oh, before I forget,’ Dynadan declared. ‘Does anyone wish to have a young lad to be apprenticed to their household?’

The other knights shook their heads.

‘Very well,’ Dynadan replied, turning to Tegan. ‘Master Tegan, I would be honoured to apprentice you within my household.’

‘B-but,’ Tegan stammered. ‘A-are you sure-’

‘I’ve seen you’ve got something to prove, and you have a quick mind,’ Dynadan grinned. ‘A perfect fit for my household. We are few, but you will be well-cared-for and paid well.’

Tegan bowed quickly, stammering her thanks.

‘I am very happy to have you in my household,’ Dynadan said, formally shaking Tegan’s hand. ‘Don’t worry; I’ll teach you everything you need to know.’

‘Except for finding a lady of affection!’ a knight in the crowd called.

‘No matter,’ Dynadan said, without a pause  as he turned to address them all. ‘Master Tegan will just have to avoid what you do, Lancelot, and he will be fine.’

There was an outbreak of laughter from the assembled knights, including Lancelot himself. There was clearly a lot of affection between them all.

A door opened at the side of the courtyard, and two people emerged. A man and a woman, both wearing rich clothing and crowns. The people of the court went very silent. Tegan found herself stood next to Dynadan in a spot in the second row of people.

King Arthur and Queen Guinevere arranged themselves on the two thrones, raised from the floor on a small dais in front of an old tree that was losing its leaves. Their clothing was not especially practical, Tegan observed. It seemed more designed to be looked at than to wear. She supposed it come with the job. Hopefully, she wouldn’t have to wear anything like that as part of her new role.

‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen,’ Arthur said. He was an older man, with specks of grey in his beard. He spoke with an accent that was at home in the land of Albion. ‘Thank you all for coming. Let the court session commence.’

Guinevere turned to her husband, and whispered in his ear. Nodding, the bearded man continued.

‘And we have a newcomer. I present to the court Nyssa of Traken, the newest handmaiden of Queen Guinevere.’

A woman stepped forward out of the crowd, curtsying to the two people sat on the thrones. She was pretty, with a few tufts of curly hair slipping out of the hair-covering she was wearing.

Tegan’s heart stuttered.

It was the woman she had met earlier in the village. Everything from the bright, kind eyes to the curl of brown hair slipping out from the head covering was exactly the same.

‘A pleasure to meet you,’ Queen Guinevere said, smiling. ‘Tell me, how is the kingdom of Traken at present?’

‘Much the same as ever, your highness,’ said Nyssa of Traken. ‘Peaceful and full of intellect.’

‘A good ally to have,’ Arthur nodded, approvingly. ‘We are touched that your father finds Albion such a worthy place for his only child.’

‘And I have honoured to be welcomed here.’

The young woman’s eyes swept through the assembled onlookers, and settled for a second on Tegan. Their eyes met, and Tegan felt a swooping sensation in her stomach.

Oh, no.

                                                          *

  Well, Tegan thought, as she followed Dynadan through the corridors of the castle, that was terrifying.

Nyssa of Traken had definitely recognised her. Well, hopefully, Tegan wouldn’t be interacting with her much anyway; she doubted a random apprentice with Sir Dynadan’s household would be called upon to help the Queen’s handmaiden.

Weirdly enough, the thought didn’t cheer Tegan up.

‘I think we best have you checked over by the court physician,’ Dynadan said, looking over his shoulder at Tegan.

‘W-what?’

‘Oh, nothing extreme,’ Dynadan said, quickly. ‘Take your temperature, a few physical tests for your strength, etc.’

‘O-okay,’ Tegan said.

Dynadan pushed open a door. There was immediately a chorus of people calling his name.

Tegan followed him in.

The room was fairly large, with long columns at regular intervals. There were huge bookcases stacked against one wall, with various desks dotted around, each covered in medical paraphernalia. It was the platonic ideal of a physicians laboratory, which was presumably why the place was so messy and so very busy. By the huge windows, Tegan could see various star charts and telescopes. Was… was that a sketch of Moon Dragons?

A crowd of people were stood around Dynadan, all taking turns to shake his hands.

‘Tegan, this is Quinque, our newest physician,’ Dynadan said, turning and gesturing to a man dressed in cream-coloured robes made of a pinstripe material. A light hat adorned his head, under which was a tidy mop of blonde hair. He had the air of a quietly bemused father.  

Tegan bowed quickly.

‘Oh, don’t stand on ceremony,’ the physician said, cheerfully. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Master Tegan.’

He pulled a thermometer from his pocket and handed it to Tegan.

‘Put this in your mouth, please,’ he continued, before dashing over to a table and grabbing a book and a pencil. ‘Now; Tegan, your age?’

‘Er…’ Tegan said, the thermometer bobbing awkwardly around in her mouth. ‘I’m eighteen, sir.’

The physician nodded, scribbling this down.

‘Any prior illnesses, medical maladies or history of disease?’

‘No.’

‘Jolly good,’ Quinque said, noting this all down as well. ‘In this case, I’ll pass you over to my colleague Tredecim for your physical checks.’

He turned, calling over the room.

‘Tredecim?’

There was a sound of recognition, and a blonde person poked their head out of a cupboard. They were wearing a long, pale cloak with a hood, and seemed to be wearing a pair of trousers held up with braces.

‘Heya!’ they said, darting forward and shaking a startled Tegan by the hand. ‘Nice to meet you; you need a medical? Me ‘n Yaz will sort it out-’

‘Easy,’ said a young woman, who darted across the room and promptly eased the blonde away from Tegan.  ‘Stop scaring ‘em.’

The younger woman turned to Tegan, shaking her hand in a far more calm manner.

‘My name is Yasmin; Yaz, to my friends.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ Tegan replied, as Tredecim was handed the notes that Quinque had already collected.

Yasmin led Tegan by the hand into a small alcove at the side of the room, and Tredecim closed the dividing curtain behind them.

‘If you could just take your top off,’ Yasmin asked, already pulling out measuring tapes. ‘We can check your vitals and make sure you’re healthy. Can’t be too careful with a citadel with this many people. Since the Romans left, diseases have started to spread a lot quicker.’

‘T-take my top off?’ Tegan stammered, pulse shooting up. ‘I… er…’

‘Oh, just the top layer,’ Yaz elaborated, smiling. ‘No need to be embarrassed.’

‘R-right…’

Tegan took off her shirt, revealing her shift underneath. If either Yasmin or Tredecim noticed anything, they didn’t comment on it. Yasmin placed an ear trumpet to her own ear before placing the other end to Tegan’s chest, listening to her heartbeat.

‘All seems fine,’ she said, as Tredecim noted this down in Tegan’s notes. The young woman removed the ear trumpet and picked up a wooden instrument instead. ‘Tegan, please open your mouth.’

As Tegan did so, Yasmin put the short wooden digit into her waiting mouth, and pressed down on her tongue.

‘Say ahhh…’

Tegan obliged, feeling a little embarrassed.

‘Looks healthy,’ Yasmin said. Tredecim was bent over the ledger, continuing to write down notes with a quill. ‘No inflammation, teeth are all accounted for, gums are fine…’

She removed the digit, and Tegan closed her mouth.

‘I’d say that gives you a medical pass, Tegan,’ Yasmin grinned. ‘Just let us know if anything else crops up.’

‘Okay,’ Tegan said, still a little overwhelmed. ‘Thank you.’

‘Our pleasure!’ said Tredecim, grinning widely and throwing an arm around Yasmin’s shoulders. ‘Happy to help!’

Yasmin chuckled, and pulled the curtain back. Tegan then crossed the room to where Quinque was standing, and Tredecim duly handed the blonde man the ledger.

‘Sorry this is a little ad-hoc,’ he said, speaking to Tegan again. ‘But I do need to check on the tree.’

‘Er… tree?’

The blond man turned to Dynadan, shooting him a quizzical look.

‘Have you not explained our current predicament yet?’

Dynadan sighed, as he gestured to Tegan to follow him and Dynadan out of the room. Tegan gave a quick smile to Yasmin and Tredecim, who replied in kind.

As they headed through the labyrinthian halls, Dynadan turned to Tegan.

‘I was rather hoping we could discuss this later on today,’ he said. ‘But I suppose that this is as good a time as any. And you will probably hear it from someone regardless in the next few days.’

‘Er… what is it?’

‘I’ll be frank with you, Tegan; Camelot’s magic is dying.’

Tegan stumbled, her boot slipping on the stone floor beneath her feet.

‘D-dying?’

‘Yes,’ Dynadan said, and here Quinque let out a heavy sigh. ‘It’s… well, it’s probably best to show you…’

They had emerged into the main courtyard once again, but the crowds had gone. It was silent, except for a couple of other apprentices playing with one of the castle dogs.

Tegan followed the two men towards the raised dais, darting around it to stand in front of the old tree. Tegan hadn’t spared much thought to it earlier, but… did it look even older now? She could have sworn that it had more leaves even barely one hour earlier.

‘The tree of Camelot,’ Dynadan said, sadly gesturing to the withering branches.

Quinque sighed, hands on hips as he stared at the leaves littering the ground.

‘The tree is dying,’ he said, quietly. ‘It cannot keep going with only Lady Fay’s magic supplying it. It needs the other half of the two sorcerers as well.’

‘Merlin,’ Dynadan elaborated, for Tegan’s benefit.

Quinque nodded.

‘They’ve been missing for months,’ the physician said, now pulling various instruments from his pockets. He set to work, measuring the girth of the tree and the strength of the branches. ‘I estimate… maybe a few weeks more, at most. The leaves are slowly turning brown and dropping off; the more of them die, the worse the decay gets. Already, Camelot’s magic has depleted by half since Merlin first went missing.’

‘You suspect Mordred?’

Tegan looked between the two men.

‘Who is Mordred?’

‘My son.’

Tegan swung around. An older woman was standing nearby. She was tall, with commanding, strong eyes and a shock of bright red hair. The resemblance to the king was uncanny; this must surely be-

‘Lady Fay,’ Tegan said, bowing quickly.

‘A pleasure to meet you, Master Tegan,’ she said, smiling kindly. ‘And, yes, I am sad to say that this whole sorry state of affairs has likely been caused by my own son.’

A herald arrived, calling for Dynadan, who duly followed them away.

‘Mordred… well, he used to be a knight of Camelot, but his mind has been warped by jealousy and pride,’ Lady Fay elaborated. ‘He considers himself the true heir of Camelot, and wishes nothing but to kill Arthur and seize the kingdom from him.’

‘I am Arthur’s twin sister, you see,’ she elaborated, seeing Tegan’s confusion. ‘Arthur was the oldest by a few minutes, but Mordred has it in his head that I was the oldest and therefore the crown should fall for me and my heirs… therefore, Mordred believes the crown to be rightfully his. Unfortunately, during his youth, before his traitorhood became known, he studied under Merlin; he knows magic, but he went searching for more in dark places…’

Tegan didn’t say anything, but listened as the older woman continued.

‘I wish I knew where Merlin was,’ Morgan said, her eyes anxious. ‘I miss them so. Even with my magic, I have no way of ascertaining where they are. For all I know, Mordred could have captured them, tortured them, or… or…’

The grand lady looked away, her eyes twinkling with tears.

Quinque placed a supportive hand on her arm.

‘Merlin can handle anything,’ he said, earnestly. ‘I’m sure they’ll find a way to make it back to Camelot.’

‘I hope so.’

‘Master Tegan!’

Tegan turned. Dynadan had stepped back into the courtyard and was now walking across to where Tegan was stood with the Lady Fay and Quinque.

‘Congratulations, Master Tegan,’ he said, grinning as he came to a stop in front of her. ‘You are promoted; having been recommended as an apprentice squire to me.’

‘A… a squire?’ Tegan repeated, dumbstruck. ‘But… who would…’

‘The handmaiden to the Queen gave her own personal recommendation as to your abilities,’ Dynadan continued, a rather knowing look in his eye. ‘Stating that you rescued her from a band of dangerous men, and led her to safety.’

‘H-handmaiden?’

Dynadan stepped to the side, revealing a young woman stood behind him, and Tegan’s heart seemed to fail.

It was Nyssa.

‘Master Tegan; meet Nyssa of Traken.’

Nyssa smiled, curtsying prettily.

After a pause, in which Tegan goggled at the woman, she quickly did a bow, her face already turning red. Oh, by the gods, this was not good. The last thing she needed was a crush on a handmaiden of the queen-

‘A pleasure to meet you again,’ Nyssa said, her face dimpling. ‘Er… Master Tegan, was it?’

Oh, no, Tegan thought. Her stomach seemed to drop several inches.

Oh, no.

~~~~~~~~~~

Thanks for reading, everyone; hope you enjoyed the first chapter! This series has been a long time coming, so I’m really glad to finally start publishing it! 

[master-john-uk]

5th March - Lowen Dydh sen Pyran! Happy Saint Piran's Day - Patron Saint of Tinners (tin miners), and the most famous of the Patron Saints of Cornwall.

St Piran was an Irish bishop who was alive at the beginning of the 6th Century. It is said that he performed several miracles in Ireland including raising soldiers from the dead. He was very evangelical. It seems his over-zealous preaching brought him into disfavour with the pagan Kings of Ireland, who expelled him.

When I say he was expelled from Ireland, St Pirin had a millstone tied to his neck and was tossed into the sea! Miraculously he survived and was washed up on the beach at Perranporth near Newquay. Cornwall.

He built a small chapel on Perran beach, the ruins of which can still be seen partially submerged in the sand. Legend has it that his first "converts" in Cornwall were a badger, a fox and a boar, after which people flocked to Perranforth to hear his inspiring oratory of the Christian gospels.

It is said that St Pirin accidentally discovered tin. He chose a large black rock as a fireplace stone. When the fire was burning, a white liquid started oozing from the rock... molten tin. He shared this with locals, and this was the beginning of Cornwall's tin mining industry. It is thought the black ore and the white of the hot tin was the inspiration for the St Piran Flag, which has been adopted as the Cornish flag.

Following the discovery of tin the locals threw a party for St Pirin, to thank him for releasing them from poverty. After many toasts in his honour, St Pirin found himself rather inebriated... or wibbly-wobbly, as my Cornish friend Jerry used to say. This is the origin of the saying "Drunk as a Perraner", which was a phrase commonly used in England during the 19th Century.

I will drink to that!