Cornish Folk Tales of Place: Traditional Stories from Mid and West Cornwall E-Book

Anna Chorlton

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 277

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Step onto the shores of Cornwall's enchanted land and delve deep into a seam of windswept stories. High up on the cliffs lurk lovesick giants, playful piskies and hungry dragons. Below on the sands, beware hissing spriggans, merrymaids and restless ghosts. In granite villages meet dashing devils and wise women. Among mines, moors and seascapes swirling with folklore, inhale the true spirit of Cornwall and let your imagination run free with the legends of this wonderful place. Capturing the magic of Mid and West Cornwall, folklore writer Anna Chorlton retells its tales, illustrated by local children and artists.

Leseprobe

First published 2025

The History Press

97 St George’s Place, Cheltenham,

Gloucestershire, GL50 3QB

www.thehistorypress.co.uk

© Anna Chorlton, 2025

The right of Anna Chorlton to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the Publishers.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978 1 80399-657-8

Typesetting and origination by The History Press.

Printed and bound in Great Britain by TJ Books Limited, Padstow, Cornwall.

eBook converted by Geethik Technologies

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

The Illustrations

Preface

Introduction

PENZANCE AND PAUL

1. Penzance and Newlyn

The Smuggler and the Spriggans

The Giant of St Michael’s Mount

Cormoran and Trecrobben

Cormoran and the Pellar of Pengerswick

Robert Hunt

Bucca

2. Mousehole

Dolly Pentreath

Tom Bawcock

WEST PENWITH

3. Lamorna

The Magic Ointment

The Devil and the Cobbler

Duffy and the Devil

Merry Maidens

4. St Buryan

The Fairy Cow

Nelly Wearne

The Spectral Bridegroom

The Giant of Castle Treen

5. St Levan

William Bottrell

St Levan Fairies

Madgy Figgy the Wrecker

6. Sennen and St Just

Smugglers of Penrose

The Changeling of Brae Vean

The Miner who Met his Match

The Wrecker and the Death Ship

The Fairy Master or Bob o’ the Carn

7. Zennor

The Mermaid of Zennor

The Seaman’s Ghost

The Witch of Kerrowe

Betty Stogg’s Baby

The Phantom Ship

8. Hayle

The Woman who Turned her Shift

Piskey Towans

The Giant Wrath

LIZARD TALES

9. Helston

St Michael and the Devil

The Helston Dragon

The White Witch of Helston

10. Lizard Peninsula

The Lugger of Croft Pascoe Pool

The Crowza Stones

The Old Man of Cury

Wheal Vor Mine

The Veil

MID CORNWALL

11. Redruth to Falmouth

Red Ruth

The Lost Boy of St Allen

The Wrassler and the Demon

The Spaniards of Penryn

12. St Austell

The Giant’s Hat

Piskies in the Cellar

13. Heathlands

Nine Maidens

The Little Cake Bird

Tregeagle

The Piskey Shoemaker

14. Perranporth

The Mermaid’s Vengeance

St Piran Celebrates Tin

The Teeny Tiny

15. St Agnes

Bolster

The Dragon of Porthtowan

Illustrators

References

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thank you to Nicola Guy, a commissioning editor at The History Press, for publishing this book and your encouragement and enthusiasm for Cornish literature.

Most of the stories here I have retold from the books of the folklorists Robert Hunt and William Bottrell, a vast thanks through time go to them for collecting and preserving the traditional tales of Cornwall.

A huge thanks to my writing partner, Sue Field, lead of Mazed Tales, www.mazedtales.org, who researched all these stories and talked me through writing this book every step of the way. Sue also spent countless hours editing. Thank you, Mum, for all your incredible and inspirational input, without you this book would not have happened.

Sue is also credited and thanked for the production and collation of the illustrations. The children’s illustrations were drawn as part of the Feast-funded Mazed children’s folklore podcast, Cornish Tales for Kids. Please do listen in on Spotify.

Thank you to Ron James for writing the foreword to this book and for being such an encouraging and positive fellow folklorist.

Thank you to Alicia Breakspear, Libby Quick, John Roberts and Sue Field and to the pupils of St Buryan, Sennen, St Dennis and Perranporth primary schools for their generosity in contributing incredible illustrations.

Beta readers Liz Berg and Clare Dwyer, thank you for all your valuable time and work.

Thank you to my family, Stuart and Elowen, for driving me and travelling with me all over Cornwall, at times through challenging weather when camping and terrible traffic. But the new road opened and our many great memories are shared in the place writing.

‘The Veil’ previously appeared in the literary zine Salt Mirrors and Cats, thank you to Joana Veranda and Signe Maene.

‘The Merry Maidens’ was originally recorded as part of the audio drama The Silver Ball. Thank you to Chris Gregory of Alternative Stories.

And thank you to all the people of Cornwall I met along my way for telling me about the places in which you live. Chatting was one of the things I really enjoyed about researching place.

THE ILLUSTRATIONS

There’s a hoggan (miner’s bag) of illustrations in this book. Drawings by schoolchildren of the tales of their towns and villages, botanical prints straight from the plants that grow on the cliffs and moors, shadow cuts of the mythical creatures lurking on the shores and fields, and story blankets of mines and mermaids illustrate the folk tales and their places.

The artists all took part in Mazed West, a project to re-collect the folk tales of West Cornwall, reconnect them with their places, and tell them in ways old and new: www.mazedtales.org.

Schoolchildren from Perranporth, St Buryan, St Dennis and Sennen told their local tales on the podcast Cornish Tales for Kids, available on Spotify.

PuppetCraft, www.puppetcraft.co.uk, made glove puppets of tale collectors Robert Hunt and William Bottrell, which star in a suitcase puppet show of Cornish tales, The Piskey Path.

John Roberts and Libby Quick from PuppetCraft cut shadow illustrations for this book.

Mazed lead and textile artist Sue Field told their stories to the schoolchildren, and clothed the puppets. She has sewn woolly appliqué pictures of stories.

Printmaker Alicia Breakspear, Mazed photographer, has made beautiful botanical monoprints of native Cornish plants, capturing the feel of nature at work in this wild county: aliciabreakspear.com.

Katherine Soutar for the stunning cover illustration of Porthtowan.

PREFACE

With this volume of delightful retellings of Cornish stories, Anna Chorlton complements her earlier effort, which dealt with the north and east of Cornwall. Here, we visit the wilds of the west and the neighbouring moors and dales in the middle of the peninsula. This region has long been the focus of folklorists. This is where the Cornish language lingered longest, inspiring collectors to seek the oldest treasures.

As it turns out, no part of Cornwall can boast of having the best folklore. It is rich and varied throughout. Still, the early attention resulted in a rich body of recorded stories from Mid and West Cornwall. Texts from the nineteenth century are a cherished legacy, making Cornwall exemplary when it comes to preserved British folklore. The magnificent old volumes sit on the shelf, documenting traditions as they once were.

Given the importance of the early compendiums, famously presented by William Bottrell, Robert Hunt and others, it is possible to ask why retellings are needed. Besides the library shelf, what is the proper role of these traditions in the twenty-first century? The simple answer is that all possibilities are appropriate and to be encouraged. Indeed, Cornish enthusiasts have found many ways to reconsider and enjoy their rich cultural heritage. Stories have always been a vibrant part of Cornwall, and their proper place is, frankly, everywhere.

With its performances, Mazed offers diverse programming that incorporates many older stories, an expression of the possibilities. Chorlton’s lovely exploration of these narratives is another. The folk tales and legends that inspired Bottrell and Hunt continue to inspire. They were never meant to be abandoned as curated fossils.

Now, with this second volume, Chorlton celebrates the traditions of another part of Cornwall. Her retellings breathe with all the vitality of life, but this was not a matter of resuscitation. Cornish folklore never faded away. Nearly two centuries after these traditions first captured the attention of Bottrell and Hunt, Chorlton, with her skill as poet, writer and artist, reminds us that the narratives remain very much alive. This is not the final statement when it comes to these stories. It is a challenge for everyone to find their own ways to celebrate this treasured aspect of what it is to be Cornish.

Ronald M. JamesAuthor of The Folklore of Cornwall:The Oral History of a Celtic Nation (2018)

INTRODUCTION

This book celebrates the landscape, people, culture and traditional tales of west and mid Cornwall. West Cornwall is a land of granite and tin-mine-strewn moors, of wind-blasted cliffs and safe southern harbours, bustling with ships, fishing boats, gigs and industry. The beaches are flecked with caramel sands, manes of rising surf crash in with the tide, stunning caves and rock formations can be found, there is a sea lido and a theatre beside the ocean. Along the cliffs lurk playful giants, hissing spiggans, seducing sea spirits and restless ghosts. Mid Cornwall is Clay Country, known as the Cornish Alps, mine slag heaps seen for miles rising out of the moorland. Alongside the mines are granite towns and farms growing cauliflowers, cabbages and cattle. The moors and dales are filled with exquisite orchids, marshes, bracken and birdsong. In the towns and villages live wise healers, dragons, adventurous maids and curious children, strong wrestlers and fearless hurlers.

In Cornwall, the tales were told by droll tellers, who wandered from place to place exchanging a droll for an evening meal, a bed and a place by the fireside. Cornwall’s droll tellers kept the traditional folk tales alive for centuries, until they were collected and written down in books by folklore collectors such as William Bottrell, Robert Hunt, Margaret Courtney and Enys Tregarthen. West Cornwall tales are different to east Cornwall tales in the beings found within them and the very close proximity of their setting in the coast, sea and moorland, and the sea-wind-swept villages. The tales are made incredible by devious devils, salty sea ghouls, both friendly and dangerous giants, shapeshifting witches and spriggans. The spriggans are ugly in form and intent; these swarms of Cornish fairies are found only in the west of the county. West Cornwall’s mermaids are kinder and less vengeful than the mermaids of the east. These tales are chosen for a variety of ages, both young and old, in the hopes of sharing the magic of Cornish storytelling across generations. Whilst all tales are aimed for children age 8 and above, please review the individual tales to ensure that it is age appropriate first.

I live in south-east Cornwall on the edge of Bodmin Moor and have travelled down to west Cornwall throughout the year in which the A30 has been rebuilt, which meant a lot of slow journeys. I went on each story adventure with my husband and daughter. My husband enjoys discovering new places to fly his drone and my daughter loves the sea and running on the moors. Some of the places in which the stories are set have been hard to find, the stones have been moved or the moor has been built over, but armed with a lot of maps, an excellent map-reading mum on the phone, and some great conversations with all the fantastic people we met along the way, I found almost all the places in which the traditional folk tales are set and have written about them in situ. The place writing is followed by a retelling of the folk tales of place. I hope the mix of folklore and place writing will immerse you in Cornish language, landscape and culture.

This is a sister book to Cornish Folk Tales of Place: Traditional Tales of East and North Cornwall which originated from the Cornish folklore project Mazed Tales: www.mazedtales.org. Mazed is a project collecting and retelling the traditional tales of Cornwall. Mazed has retold the folk tales as twelve animations, Cornishibai illustrated street storytelling, and most recently, a storytelling puppet show, The Piskey Path, and a children’s Cornish folklore podcast, Cornish Tales for Kids. Mazed also has four puppets of the Cornish folklore collectors and droll tellers and tours the towns and villages with storytelling for all ages. Sue Field, Mazed lead, can be contacted via the website. There are many more traditional tales of Cornwall; I didn’t manage to cover all of them. If you know one, you can let us know and we will add it to the Mazed website.

PENZANCE AND PAUL

1

PENZANCE AND NEWLYN

Penzance boys up in a tree

Looking as wisht as wisht can be,

Newlyn buccas as strong as oak,

Knocking them down at every poke.

This corner of Cornwall is built around the sea and her industry. Penzance is a vibrant town with a seawater pool, Jubilee Pool, Cornwall’s only promenade and an excellent bookshop, The Edge of the World Books. The stories are of fishermen and women, smugglers and Bucca (who can be mermen). The land is the playground of giants.

LONG ROCK AND LONG BEACH

There is a sea wind and little turquoise waves crashing in. A flat sandy beach, easy to bring a boat in. Beyond the sand are pebbles in white, black, tan and orange, all smooth as apples slung ashore by the sea. Looking towards the sea, Penzance is on the right and St Michael’s Mount and Market Jew or Marazion to the left. The train runs alongside the hidden beach, a coastal path leads through what was once Eastern Fairy Green. Fairy Green lies beneath Sainsburys on the edge of Penzance, and Eastern Green Heliport is named after it. The Fairy Green of this first tale may have been built over but the pebbles are still there for the Spriggans to skim.

THE SMUGGLER AND THE SPRIGGANS

Long ago, when fairies danced on Eastern Green, fisherman Tom Warren of Paul brought his boat ashore along Long Rock and his men began to unload. They had a boat full of smuggled goods: brandy, tobacco and tea. A smuggler’s catch, no fish today. Tom was well known to be the bravest and boldest smuggler along the coast, and he loved the free-trading life. That night, the men split up to deal with the load. Two men set out to Market Jew (Marazion) where waited their best customers, another went to look after the horses. Tom thought he would take a nap; he lay down amongst the soft grass which grew all along Eastern Green in those days.

He was not long snoring and dreaming of the sea, when he was awoken by a clanging and clinking, a strumming and a tinkling, as little pipes and little fiddles played, as drums bounced and tambourines tapped. Tom was lying right in the middle of the fairy green. As he opened just one eye to look about him, he saw the moon high in the sky sending a mysterious hue across the sea and the green. It was then Tom saw the little people dancing about him. They wore green jackets and red hats. ‘I can deal with the little people,’ Tom thought to himself. ‘I’m the boldest and bravest smuggler along these Cornish shores.’ Tom watched them for a time and laughed out loud at their long, scraggly beards, falling almost to their toes.

‘Have a shave, have a shave, old red-caps!’ Tom taunted.

Tom started to chant at the little men, ‘Shave! Shave! Shave!’

Then, as he was grinning to himself, he suddenly felt a little afeard, for all the men were armed. Little bows and arrows pointed at his eyes and slight slings aimed at his thighs. He saw tiny spears glinting in the moonlight. Tom watched as the spriggans grew bigger and bigger until he could see the snarls on their faces, feel the anger on their breath. These were no mischievous piskies, these were vicious spriggans and Tom had been foolish enough to anger them right here on Eastern Fairy Green.

All at once, the spriggans charged at Tom, who turned on his heel and ran as fast as he could back to his boat. It took Tom a little while to get any speed, as he first had to untangle the ropes he hadn’t yet tidied away. The spriggans hurled a rain of pebbles after the smuggling boat but Tom knew one thing: these angry beings hated salt water, they would never try to follow him into the sea.

‘Shave! Shave! Shave!’ Tom called out.

But, as he squinted to see their angry little faces, he realised they had all disappeared, and in their place stood his fellow smugglers. They were all laughing at Tom for rowing the boat out in terror, when there was nothing pursuing him from the shore.

From that night on, Tom enjoyed telling the tale of how an army of spriggans chased him out to sea. But even though he often thought of them as he napped on the beach, Tom never again heard the little drums, nor has anyone since seen the fairies on Eastern Green.

ST MICHAEL’S MOUNT

Walking along the causeway, a hum of laughter and conversation. A cormorant glides by and a bee, far out on the horizon a fleet of boats racing in the National Sailing Contest, bladderwrack on the rocks and green weeds on the cobbles. The tide is way out and the Chapel Rock stands huge on the sands, revealing the scale of the giantess who in one version of the legends lies buried beneath it. I had imagined a small green rock, but Cornelian’s rock is vast and sprawling with little pathways cut into the surface. Someone asks me to take their photograph with the backdrop of the Mount and I snap, wondering what the giantess would have thought of the swarm of visitors marching towards her home. A submerged forest lies beneath the waves at Mount’s Bay, on a low spring tide tree stumps are visible in the sands. St Michael’s Mount is called Karrek loos yn Kos (Grey Rock in the Wood).

I arrive imagining a huge gleaming giant’s castle, but the evidence is to the contrary. Despite this, I amuse myself looking for traces of the giant’s rule. From the gardens we look across the sea to fields, and houses cladding the coast, sea in swathes of azure and turquoise, rugged stones on the beaches and fields empty of cattle. The Mount is managed by the St Aubyn family and the National Trust, they sell us ice cream and coffee. As we climb, I look out for lichen in pale greens and whites on Giant Cormoran’s boulders. We climb higher and find, on the approach to the castle, the granite is flocked with silver white lichen and channels of creamy white quartz crystal, these are huge slabs of granite that can only have been moved here by giants.

The castle has a little door with a black wooden frame just the right height for me, an impossible entrance for a giant. The chapel was built in 1135. In 1535, Henry VIII decided to keep the church on the Mount, it was spared his purge. Instead, he provided funding to fortify the island.

The island is home to Lord and Lady St Levan of the St Aubyn family. The Chevy Chase, the refectory of the priory, is the oldest part of the building. It houses a vast wooden table and carved chairs, and here the St Aubyn family still gather for occasional meals. I can imagine Christmas dinner on the Mount with the wind rattling the little windows would be an experience.

The chapel has a stained-glass window, I sit and look up into it for a long while, dreading the slope. It feels as if this place belongs to the past and the elements or something greater, as if it is reproached by the stream of people taking a bite at its obscurity. We sink into benches at the base with ice cream or coffee and dream of partaking in the cream tea.

THE GIANT OF ST MICHAEL’S MOUNT

There was once a forest stretching across Mount’s Bay, and scattered beneath the tall trees were boulders of granite, shimmering white with quartz and lichen. Cormoran the giant lived there, and he loved rocks. Cornish giants enjoyed playing games with rocks and stones. Cormoran loved to play quoits with large flat stones and bob-button with huge boulders. He was always playing games with his friend, the giant of Trencrom Hill, and he loved hunting for the best bits of granite to play with. In time, the woodland giant decided he would like a home for himself and his wife, a home from which he could look far out to sea, but also above the trees in case any enemy giants were approaching. An island rose out of the sea, he thought he could build a sturdy house on top of it.

Cormoran could have built his home out of logs, but they would get soggy and rotten and blown over by sea storms. Cormoran needed something stronger, and he had just the very thing lying about: huge great slabs of granite to be found right where he had thrown them.

Giant Cormoran also liked to stomp over Cornwall and beyond, he had great long legs which made wandering far and wide easy enough. Off he stomped to Bodmin Moor, where he met the giant who lived at Trethevy. The Trethevy giant’s house was built with stunning granite boulders covered in white crystal quartz. ‘I like it,’ thought Cormoran to himself, ‘I’d like a house built out of white rock that sparkles in the sun.’ He hunted in the forest and he hunted on the moors for flat boulders glittering with white quartz and lichen. Cormoran began to build his castle with the whitest boulders he could find. The quartz gleamed in rhythm with the summer sun glinting on the waves. When he had spent a whole day building, Cormoran stood back and admired his work; he needed a lot more boulders, and quickly. He walked for miles seeking the very best, remembering vaguely where they had landed as he and Giant Trecrobben played, but still he needed more rocks, so he called his wife to help.

‘Cornelian, my beauty, come and help me find some rocks.’

‘Yes, my ’ansome,’ said Cornelian. ‘Any rocks?’

‘Only the white ones,’ Cormoran grumbled. ‘The really white ones, mind, nothing dull grey or green.’

‘Bit exact, isn’t it?’ she said, smiling wryly.

‘Look at our house, my lovely,’ said Cormoran proudly. ‘No other giant has built anything like this.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ said Cornelian, and she began to search in the woods for rocks. However, Cormoran had already sourced a great amount of rock from the surrounding forest and Cornelian had to walk many miles before she found some small white rocks. She placed them in her apron and carried them slowly to her husband’s rock pile. When she arrived back, she found Cormoran lying sprawled out on the forest floor, snoring loudly. Cornelian emptied out her apron of rocks into a neat pile. She was tired and hungry and didn’t fancy traipsing all over Cornwall looking for more white rocks.

‘White rocks indeed,’ laughed Cornelian to herself. ‘Cormoran has already gathered all the white rocks.’ As she looked about her, she noticed there were plenty of green rocks which were the perfect size to build with. ‘These will do,’ she thought. ‘I must say, it is very silly to insist on a colour, surely it’s the size and shape that are important for building materials.’ Cornelian busied herself filling her apron with the plentiful green rocks and she didn’t notice until too late a huge shadow looming over her.

‘Green rocks? Green rocks? Are you mocking me?’ her husband roared, and Cormoran reached out a giant boot and kicked Cornelian on the behind.

‘Oh my,’ she cried, and as she whirled round to face him, her apron string snapped and the green rocks tumbled out in a pile on the path.

‘Sorry, love,’ said Cormoran, instantly remorseful at his appalling behaviour.

‘I like the green rocks,’ she said and walked off through the trees.

The giant’s castle still stands proudly in the sea a little way off Marazion, with a causeway of stones linking the Mount with the shore. It has been known since the time of the saints as St Michael’s Mount. Of the green rocks the giant’s wife dropped from her apron, one still stands between the Mount and the mainland, called the Chapel Rock.

CORMORAN AND TRECROBBEN

Giant friends Cormoran and Trecrobben of Trencrom Hill spent a lot of time together, and Trecrobben often gave Cormoran spriggan gold he had hidden heaped in the depths of his hill. In return, Cornelian would bake him delicious stews and heavy cake which Trecrobben wolfed down.

‘You make splann heavy cake, my lovely,’ Trecrobben grinned at Cornelian.

‘Thanking you, Trecrobben,’ she smiled.

‘I’ll have a piece of that cake and all,’ said Cormoran, tucking in.

They sat on the Mount, looking out to sea after a tiring but immensely enjoyable day of rock-throwing contests. Their favourite game was bob-button, a game which involved throwing boulders at each other. They used the Mount as the ‘bob’ on which large flat stones were placed as buttons. They also loved playing quoits, lifting the gigantic capstones off the quoits, and throwing them. They pinched the capstones from Lanyon, Mufra and Trethevy, but they put them back again after their game. The giants also thought it was a lot of fun to throw their cobbing hammer from one hill to another. Trecrobben would stand on Trencrom Hill and Cormoran would stand on the Mount, and they would lob the hammer at each other, letting it spin through the air.

One fateful day, the sky was full of moody dark clouds threatening a storm. The wind was terribly high, and it blew with a stirring arm across the coast and whipped inland. The whist hounds howled as they raced up and down the coast. The Mount felt quite a precarious place to be living as the sea rose angrily all about it. All the same, Cormoran was bored with chipping at rocks trying to find gems, and he thought he would throw his hammer over the land to Trencrom Hill. Trecrobben was always on the lookout for the hammer and he caught it easily enough. He threw it straight back, and so the game began. But what neither giant had noticed was that Giantess Cornelian had crossed the causeway and was out buying provisions for her cakes and stews. Because of the wind and mist and the poor visibility, Trecrobben’s cobbing hammer did not quite take its usual trajectory. Someone stood in the path of the cobbing hammer, someone unsuspecting. Cornelian thought she heard a bird swishing towards her, and as she turned to watch it, the cobbing hammer caught her in the eye.

‘Oh my,’ she said weakly and fell to the ground.

At this terrible moment, Cormoran wailed helplessly, a vast wail filling every crevasse of Cornwall. How had he not caught the hammer? Why had it not flown all the way to the Mount?

‘Trecrobben,’ he yelled.

Trecrobben came lumbering over from the other side of the coast, and seeing what had happened, he fell to his knees and gathered Cornelian up in his arms.

‘You’ll be alright, my lovely,’ he said as he passed her to Cormoran.

But she was not alright and the two of them sat a long time with Cormoran hugging his dead wife and Trecrobben stroking her hair. The two giants had both loved her in their own way and they were equally heartbroken at her death and destroyed by the undeniable fact that she had died as a result of their game.

CORMORAN AND THE PELLAR OF PENGERSWICK

Lord Pengerswick was a pellar of the most magnificent powers ever known along Cornish shores. He was finely dressed in green robes, and he wore his long hair beneath a silver hood to shelter him against the wind and the rain. Pellars work white magic for the good of all in their neighbourhood, but very occasionally they use their charms against evil spells and to bring tyrants under control.

Giant Cormoran hadn’t lived a happy life since the death of his wife. She had always been the one who found the food and cooked for the two of them. He had given up playing games after the death of his friend Trecrobben, and he mourned the two giants he’d loved in an irascible and angry way. Instead of finding out how to get healthy foods, Cormoran had got a taste for raw meat, specifically cattle. Although he was rich, as every giant was, he waded across to Market Jew and stole cows from the local farms. He carried cows back along the causeway or through the sea, slung over his huge shoulders. The local people were terrified of Cormoran, for he towered above the tallest trees and his hands were as big as hay wagons.

Market Jew’s cows were getting thin on the ground. Cormoran had eaten all the fat healthy ones, and he didn’t fancy the last scrawny heifer left lonely in the field. The Giant had heard that the very best cattle were to be found grazing in the grounds of Pengerswick Estate. He had also heard that the pellar who owned them was away, which meant he could nip along the coast and pinch a cow. Although he knew taking one of the pellar’s cows was incredibly risky, after a few more days without raw meat Cormoran was terribly hungry. He pulled on his waders and set off down the coast to Pengerswick Cove. Unfortunately for Cormoran, the pellar had returned that very day and was out and about seeing to his tired horse, when he spied the giant strolling amongst his cows. Pengerswick immediately began conjuring his spells.

A swirling of mist rolled across the ground, shrouding the cows. The giant couldn’t see far enough to snatch a cow; added to this, Cormoran had lost all sense of direction and purpose, he couldn’t remember where he was or why he was there, the giant was properly mazed. But in amongst all the confusion, his giant belly rumbled and roared. He reached out wildly for a calf skipping by his feet, and caught it. Cormoran slung the puny calf over his shoulders and stomped out of the estate. He would have some supper after all.

Pengerswick had other ideas. As Cormoran walked across the wet sands at the edge of Pengerswick Cove, he came to a black rock. The rock was enchanted and pulled the giant toward it. Without wanting to, the giant put his great long arms about the rock. Strong chains appeared from within the mists, wrapping themselves tightly around him. Cormoran had been captured by the powerful pellar and there was no way he could free himself. The giant struggled against the chains but all his giant strength was not enough to be released from the enchantment. All night the giant stood chained to the rock, the calf still hanging about his shoulders.

The sea hissed and crashed against his toes. It rose a lithe serpent, expanding with the tide and whipping his thighs; then his belly, then his beard. Cormoran was more frightened than ever before, the sea was the one thing bigger than him, and Pengerswick the Pellar was the one being more powerful. The giant began to feel very sorry for himself. He regretted coming to Pengerswick Cove and he very much regretted thinking he could outwit Lord Pengerswick.

‘I’ll not take a cow again,’ he bellowed above the rising waves.

‘Is that so?’ asked Pengerswick, who had ridden down to the cove.

‘I promise, Lord Pengerswick. I’m most terribly sorry for stealing your calf.’ Cormoran bent his huge head so he could look Pengerswick in the eye.

‘Well then, I shall believe you, Giant Cormoran. For you never have had the courtesy to look another in the eye. You can take the calf, it will be your last. You will have to work out another way to feed your huge belly rather than stealing from the poor farmers of Market Jew.’ With a swish of his long green cloak, he strode away across the cove.

Cormoran waded home with none of the bluster with which he had arrived. He put one boot in front of the other, he didn’t want to go home to the lonely Mount, and he didn’t want to stay anywhere near Pengerswick Cove.

In the days that followed, Cormoran chewed at old bones and his tummy rumbled louder and louder. So loud it could be heard right across Cornwall. It was especially deafening in the parish of Gulval, where the Giant Tom of Lelant was staying with his aunt. ‘This is no good,’ thought Tom. ‘Yes, the giant has stopped stealing the cattle, but no one can stand the sound of his rumbling belly, and no one really wants him to die of starvation.’

‘Please, aunt, will you look after the giant and sell him some of your best butter and eggs?’ he said.

‘That I will,’ said the aunt bravely. She waited until the tide went out and the causeway appeared, then walked across to the Mount and up the steps to the giant’s white house.

‘Giant Cormoran,’ she called. ‘I have some butter and eggs for you.’

‘I don’t eat butter and eggs,’ shouted Cormoran.

The brave aunt began to shake with fear as a huge ugly head appeared around the side of the house. If he was that hungry, surely, he would eat her next.