Gerrans

About Gerrans

Gerrans clings to Roseland’s coast, whispering of King Gerennius, said to have ruled in 552 AD. Legend tells that when he died, he was sailed across Gerrans Bay in a golden boat with silver oars, his final voyage ending at Carne Beacon. No gold was ever found—just ash—but the tale lingers in the sea air. St Gerendus’ spire, born of that ancient time, still guides sailors past the cliffs. The Royal Standard stands in old stone, a witness to centuries.

Unlike Portloe’s working harbour or Tregony’s ticking tower, Gerrans moves quieter—myth carried on sea breeze, not tide. Today, it hums gently with life. Fish shops bustle, and nearby Portscatho’s cove offers a glimpse of salt and sail. Once, smugglers slipped through these hills, scouts keeping watch from hidden lanes. Now, walkers and seekers stroll the paths instead.

Pause here. Sip something warm by a fire. Sketch the shifting tide. Feel Gerennius’ shadow glide across the bay and into your thoughts. There’s no quay like St Mawes or hall like Veryan, but Gerrans offers something else—something older. Its soul is its story, still told by waves and wind. In Gerrans, Cornwall’s myth still breathes.