
Before the Railway: How Perran's Iron Ore Reached the Sea
Gravel Hill’s ore had the Atlantic at its feet. Reaching a ship still meant going up a cliff, along a road and into somebody else’s working day.
What I’m thinking about while I’m actually making things.

Gravel Hill’s ore had the Atlantic at its feet. Reaching a ship still meant going up a cliff, along a road and into somebody else’s working day.

Behind the beach were people managing water, grinding grain and moving heavy loads. Follow their work through a landscape that kept changing jobs.

The car-park name remembers a copper mine. A carpenter’s workshop, a chapel commission and changing mineral fortunes help put people back into the town around it.

The lost church on Perran Sands turns out to be two buried religious sites—and a centuries-long argument with a moving landscape.

Seven churches, a corrupt city and three days of divine weather: Langarrow is a magnificent legend, rooted in a landscape that really did disappear beneath sand.

Seven churches, seven churchyards and a real religious community: how much of Crantock’s most persistent story can we put back on the ground?

A floating millstone is an excellent entrance. The harder question is how much we can recover of the man behind Cornwall’s most enduring saint story.

A farmer’s wife, a sacred stone and four communities meeting inland from the coast: the lost chapel with an unusually practical afterlife.

I grew up walking this coast with a surfboard. A Victorian railway and harbour scheme makes me wonder whether I might have caught the train instead—and what would have been waiting when I got there.