Gerrans

About Gerrans

Gerrans clings to Roseland’s coast, whispering of King Gerennius, who ruled in 552 AD. Legend says he sailed dead across Gerrans Bay in a golden boat, silver oars gleaming, to rest at Carne Beacon. No gold was found—only ash—but the tale haunts. St Gerendus’ spire, born of his era, guides sailors; Royal Standard pours pints in old stone. No nets tangle like Portloe, no tower ticks like Tregony—just myth’s glow, Roseland’s heart bared.

Today, Gerrans hums—fish shops bustle, Portscatho’s cove winks below. Smugglers once dodged cutters here, their scouts on hills. Stroll lanes, sip by the pub’s fire, feel the king’s shadow. No quay like St Mawes, no hall like Veryan—just life, woven with lore. Stay in village nooks, sketch the bay’s tide, let Gerennius’ boat steer your hand. Gerrans’ soul is its myth, Cornwall’s spark alive.