Where Glass Glows with Trust!
St Neot’s stained glass gleams—saints, creation, hope. Forged in the 1480s, its panes tell of Noah, St George, and Neot himself, glowing like moorland sun. Come the Civil War, with Puritan pikes smashing idols, lore says villagers—barely a thousand strong—took them down. Hid in barns or buried by the holy well, they shielded their church’s soul from chaos, trusting peace would dawn. No scroll proves it, but St Neot’s Royalist heart, oak-crowned each May, swears by their grit—glass saved for eyes unborn.
Today, those windows shine—church hums with quiet reverence, Keltek flows at The London Inn. Walk Church Lane, where lichen clings to stone, and feel villagers’ faith in every step. Roam Warleggan’s moors, trace the edge of Bodmin, and glimpse hope’s spark in wind-tossed grasses. No war’s shadow lingers—just light through centuries-old glass, crosses that stand firm, and stories that outlived the storm. From Trewarne’s granite spine to Pantersbridge’s humble arch, the land remembers.
Stay where trust triumphed—down cobbled paths, in moss-draped nooks, and moor-edge cottages. St Neot’s heart endures. Grab a pasty, rest awhile, and gaze through glowing panes. Let tomorrow’s light guide you, as it did them.
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