Blisland

Blisland twinkles with piskies—Cornwall’s small folk. Knee-high, moss-clad, they dance on Bodmin Moor, leading travellers astray in De Lank’s mist or gifting luck to weary farmers. No scroll names them here, but Blisland’s lanes hum their tune—moor winds whisper of fairy rings by Lavethan Wood, where Stripple Stones guard secrets. Piskies trip you on Trehudreth Downs, giggling as you curse, or stack your hay by moonlight, asking naught but a pint. St Protus’ well sparkles with their mischief, its waters cold as their cheek.

Today, Blisland keeps their spark—village green buzzes, Blisland Inn spins tales over Keltek’s foam. Roam churchyard oaks, feel piskies’ eyes; tread moor paths, dodge their knots. No grim shadows here, just pranks—cows milked, boots misplaced. Stay where small folk play, from Green cottages to manor nooks. Blisland’s heart beats wild—grab a pasty, chase a flicker, and let piskies lead your dance.