July 8 Celtic connections
Trevose Head
St. Piran, the patron saint of tin miners, if not of Cornwall itself, was an Irishman: a follower of St. Patrick, the patron saint of Ireland. He, of course, was a Welshman. The father of the Celtic church in Scotland was St. Columba, from Donegal. Did these differences mean much at the time? I suspect not. They were all just Celts, speaking more or less the same language, united in opposition to the Norsemen and Saxons advancing ever further from North and East. Many of the Breton saints have strong links with both Cornwall and Ireland, although the flow does seem to have been predominantly north to south. On the spur of the moment, I can think of no originally Cornish saint who made any sort of mark elsewhere, although that may simply be because the Irish and the Bretons were very much more assiduous in preserving their historical records than the Cornish.
Anyway, in common with virtually all the myriad of Cornish “saints”, Piran was essentially a missionary, who set up his ‘llan’ – a religious settlement – alongside a little stream a mile or so inland from what is now Penhale Bay. In around 550, he built an Oratory, which was overwhelmed by the shifting sands maybe a thousand years ago. By a curious coincidence, it was rediscovered at around the same time – the turn of the 19th century - that the church that was
built to replace it was similarly having to be abandoned.
St. Piran, the patron saint of tin miners, if not of Cornwall itself, was an Irishman: a follower of St. Patrick, the patron saint of Ireland. He, of course, was a Welshman. The father of the Celtic church in Scotland was St. Columba, from Donegal. Did these differences mean much at the time? I suspect not. They were all just Celts, speaking more or less the same language, united in opposition to the Norsemen and Saxons advancing ever further from North and East. Many of the Breton saints have strong links with both Cornwall and Ireland, although the flow does seem to have been predominantly north to south. On the spur of the moment, I can think of no originally Cornish saint who made any sort of mark elsewhere, although that may simply be because the Irish and the Bretons were very much more assiduous in preserving their historical records than the Cornish.
Anyway, in common with virtually all the myriad of Cornish “saints”, Piran was essentially a missionary, who set up his ‘llan’ – a religious settlement – alongside a little stream a mile or so inland from what is now Penhale Bay. In around 550, he built an Oratory, which was overwhelmed by the shifting sands maybe a thousand years ago. By a curious coincidence, it was rediscovered at around the same time – the turn of the 19th century - that the church that was
built to replace it was similarly having to be abandoned. St. Piran's Oratory, re-buried in the sands
This being Cornwall, with its fine disregard for antiquity and beauty, the Oratory had no sooner been disinterred than it was ransacked. Eventually, in the early years of the 20th century, they encased it in concrete, giving it the appearance of a particularly ugly roadside garage. So ugly, in fact, that – this being Cornwall – they decided thirty years later it would be better off buried again!
Despite all of that, St. Piran’s Oratory remains a place of pilgrimage, not to be missed by any self-respecting Celtic Odysseus. So yesterday, I cycled the six miles from St. Agnes Beacon to Perranporth, and slogged the last three miles along the beach and up through the mighty towans, to pay my respects. It was a grey, windy, gloomy afternoon, which would have been a disappointment in mid-November, let alone in early July, and my left knee was killing me. But I was glad I made the effort. It is an atmospheric spot. In Ireland, it would be crawling with tourists. In Cornwall, I had it all to myself.
I made another pilgrimage this morning – to Knill’s Monument, over-looking St. Ives, where we scattered my father’s ashes in 1997. I don’t know what the old boy would have made of his eldest son touring Cornwall in what he would no doubt have described dismissively as “a motorised caravan”; although come to think of it, I do - it would have been “Tcha!” But St. Ives was just about his favourite place in all the world, and all of his four children – myself, Chippy, Adam and Felicity – were taught the rituals to be followed when visiting Knill’s Monument. I may have got this wrong – in which case, father, forgive me – but I think the drill is to walk three times around the pediment of the granite steeple, pausing after each circuit to intone: “Old John Knill pray work my will” and make a wish. Or then again, it could be that you have to walk around it three times and then call upon the old boy to grant a single wish. I opted for the f
ormer, but kept the wishes modest, just in case I’d got it wrong!
This being Cornwall, with its fine disregard for antiquity and beauty, the Oratory had no sooner been disinterred than it was ransacked. Eventually, in the early years of the 20th century, they encased it in concrete, giving it the appearance of a particularly ugly roadside garage. So ugly, in fact, that – this being Cornwall – they decided thirty years later it would be better off buried again!
Despite all of that, St. Piran’s Oratory remains a place of pilgrimage, not to be missed by any self-respecting Celtic Odysseus. So yesterday, I cycled the six miles from St. Agnes Beacon to Perranporth, and slogged the last three miles along the beach and up through the mighty towans, to pay my respects. It was a grey, windy, gloomy afternoon, which would have been a disappointment in mid-November, let alone in early July, and my left knee was killing me. But I was glad I made the effort. It is an atmospheric spot. In Ireland, it would be crawling with tourists. In Cornwall, I had it all to myself.
I made another pilgrimage this morning – to Knill’s Monument, over-looking St. Ives, where we scattered my father’s ashes in 1997. I don’t know what the old boy would have made of his eldest son touring Cornwall in what he would no doubt have described dismissively as “a motorised caravan”; although come to think of it, I do - it would have been “Tcha!” But St. Ives was just about his favourite place in all the world, and all of his four children – myself, Chippy, Adam and Felicity – were taught the rituals to be followed when visiting Knill’s Monument. I may have got this wrong – in which case, father, forgive me – but I think the drill is to walk three times around the pediment of the granite steeple, pausing after each circuit to intone: “Old John Knill pray work my will” and make a wish. Or then again, it could be that you have to walk around it three times and then call upon the old boy to grant a single wish. I opted for the f
ormer, but kept the wishes modest, just in case I’d got it wrong! Knill's Monument
I am installed now not far from Knill’s steeple, at Trevalgan Holiday Park, about two miles west of St. Ives. Looking north from the earthwork (modern, I fear) in front of Carmen’s bonnet, I can see the top of Godrevy lighthouse and even make out (with binoculars) the campsite where I stayed last night on St. Agnes Beacon, 15 miles north up the stupendous North Cornwall coast.
And you’ll never guess what happened this afternoon…. The sun came out! So I tucked my plancha di agua under my arm, packed my wetsuit and swimming trunks into my rucksack, and set off across the fields to Porthmeor Beach and my first surf of the entire trip. It wasn’t exactly historic. The waves were as messy and unsatisfactory as a Gordon Brown compromise (and that’s the polite simile!), but it was unquestionably a surf.
As I write, we are being engulfed by yet another storm from the West. I am comforted by John Knill’s splendid motto, which appears on his monument:
NIL DESPERANDUM!
I am installed now not far from Knill’s steeple, at Trevalgan Holiday Park, about two miles west of St. Ives. Looking north from the earthwork (modern, I fear) in front of Carmen’s bonnet, I can see the top of Godrevy lighthouse and even make out (with binoculars) the campsite where I stayed last night on St. Agnes Beacon, 15 miles north up the stupendous North Cornwall coast.
And you’ll never guess what happened this afternoon…. The sun came out! So I tucked my plancha di agua under my arm, packed my wetsuit and swimming trunks into my rucksack, and set off across the fields to Porthmeor Beach and my first surf of the entire trip. It wasn’t exactly historic. The waves were as messy and unsatisfactory as a Gordon Brown compromise (and that’s the polite simile!), but it was unquestionably a surf.
As I write, we are being engulfed by yet another storm from the West. I am comforted by John Knill’s splendid motto, which appears on his monument:
NIL DESPERANDUM!
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