Kernow Kev, Hobbling Haunted & Mysterious Cornwall – Kennall Vale

As you drive through the village of Ponsanooth with another destination in mind, you’d be forgiven for not noticing that this absolute behemoth of Cornish industry, history, and tragedy even existed. In fact, as you turn onto Park Lane and follow it around to Cot Hill, the Vale still manages to conceal its secrets in a mysterious cloak of leafy green.

Upon finding Cornwall Wildlife Trust’s ‘Kennall Vale Nature Reserve’ wall plaque to the right-hand side of the road (as you look up Cot Hill), you head along a narrow track, and almost instantly into an ominous gloom. Even your perception of sound seems to alter under the dense canopy of beech trees, becoming muffled, distorted. The heavy rushing waters of the River Kennall and its various arteries boom and reverberate from the valley’s thalweg, crawling up the precipitous incline to meet you at the footpath. With the river’s battlement-like bed of large granite boulders, you’ll want to ensure you remain surefooted. If I could offer you one piece of potentially life-saving advice here, it would probably be… don’t be a Kev! Knuckey, that is; Keegan, if you’re reading this, as I’m sure you are, I mean you no offence, ya big perm-sporting legend.

So, you’ve stayed alive so far, largely thanks to me… you’re welcome. Back to the task at hand. What can you expect to feast your hungry eyes upon at Kennall Vale? Well, it’s a nature reserve, so nature of course. It has dippers (apparently, though I’ve never seen them); pipistrelle bats (which I have seen. Somewhere else, admittedly); a battalion of trees; a carpet of moss and ferns; and dead man’s fingers fungi, clawing from the grave like the cast of a George A. Romero film. Plus, I heard a wood pigeon. Whoop whoop!

And spirits. Wait… what’s that? Kev’s gone pipistrelle bat-shit! Okay, so you don’t believe me. Sceptics. Then perhaps you need to explain the next image to me, the haunting apparition that’s watching, waiting for me to turn and run. Ha! The joke’s on you, spectre. With my motor and sensory neuropathy, running is something I can only accomplish in my delirious dreams!

All around the Vale, birdsong fills the cloying, claustrophobic air, deceiving you with a hopeless hopefulness, tricking you into thinking everything is rosy. Their euphoric warbles echo from the sheer granite face of the old, disused quarry, its copper-red façade plummeting to nauseating body of blackened water. How deep is this diseased, oily pool, its glassy surface resembling an inescapable tar pit? Like I know! I’ve been called stupid, and I’ve never really been arsed to dispute those claims; nevertheless, my stupidity ends before I set foot in that black hole. And what secrets lie unrevealed, living or deceased, in that watery wasteland? I’ll let y’all use your imaginations for that, as I’m saving my frightful theories for a rainy day.

What I can tell you may seem a little mundane. The granite hewn from this quarry, from as early as the 19th century, was used to build many of the ramshackle structures you can see dotted throughout the valley. Their once dominant forms are being slowly eaten by time and raised to the ground by tenacious tendrils of ivy and other clinging creepers. These glorious buildings from another age once worked together to form one of the most productive and prosperous gunpowder factories in the whole country. Perfectly situated around the raucous River Kennall, the forces of nature powered great waterwheels to numerous mills through an intricate network of leat systems, many remnants of which can still be viewed today, enjoying a hard-earned rest after slogging away constantly through the rigours of industry. The mass of trees was ideal – yet more were planted with safety in mind – for absorbing any blast should the unthinkable happen.

By the mid 1800’s, the Kennall Gunpowder Company employed around 50 people. However, it was in 1838 that the unthinkable did indeed strike. At just after 8 o’clock on a Monday morning, the village of Ponsanooth (and the dwellers within several surrounding miles of the site), were disturbed by a series of thunderous booms. Catastrophe had stuck the picturesque valley. No fewer than 5 mill buildings exploded in quick succession.

So many workers, so many blasts. The death toll must have been cataclysmic, right?... Wrong! Incredibly, miraculously, the body count was almost the extreme antithesis. In fact, pick any number between 1 and infinity and divide it by itself. It’s not too taxing, but there’s your answer. William Dunstan was his name. His wife and 10 kids were in bits… What? Too soon? William was inside the building that sparked the deadly chain reaction. No trace of the man was left in the crumbled remains of the mill, but soon after the explosion, William’s leg was found in the surrounding foliage. His other remains were discovered later, under a bank on the farther side of the road. William was bombed out on gunpowder.

So, if you spy a shadowy figure lurking in the woods, or your camera captures some inexplicable phenomenon – as mine did, and yes, I stand by that preposterous claim – then it could be the eternally lost soul of William Dunstan, concussed and wondering what the bleddy hell that racket was.

A closing note for drivers: parking is not permitted on Cot Hill. If you avoid busy times, i.e., weekends and holidays, there is roadside parking in the nearby residential areas, Kennall Vale and Kennall Park, but please be respectful; don’t obstruct driveways or pavements. And a note for all: obviously, this wonderous place is screaming out for a new macabre tale to be told. I’m working on it, so pretty please with a severed finger on top, don’t beat me to it.

Yeghes da!