Where Tides Left Ghosts!
Tregony lingers on Roseland’s inland, where the Fal’s tides once bore merchants’ wool and tin. A medieval port, its market buzzed till rivers silted, leaving a village by the 1700s. Now the clock tower ticks over quiet lanes, Kings Arms pours pints in 1700s stone, and St Cuby’s spire guards old dust. No boats bob like Portloe, no hall hums like Veryan—just echoes of trade, Roseland’s ghost kept close.
Today, Tregony breathes soft—pub quizzes spark, Londis hums, locals nod to their tower’s chime. Stroll its crossroads, sip by the fire, feel time drift. No quay like St Mawes, no nets like Portloe—just life, weathered and warm. Stay in village nooks, sketch the tower’s shadow, let merchants’ whispers guide your hand. Tregony’s soul is its past, Cornwall’s heart laid bare.
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