A Giant in Cornwall

I recently wrote about the Cerne Abbas giant in southern England, and for my next post, I’m going to remain in Britain.  This time, we head southwest from the Cerne Abbas figure and continue until we get to the most westerly area of the British Isles: Cornwall.

Cornwall is a land saturated with mythology, and so, not surprisingly, it boasts at least one legend about a giant.  The tale’s first written source is from the pen (or should that be quill?) of medieval chronicler Geoffrey of Monmouth, who, in about 1136, wrote of the founding of Britain.   Following the city-state of Troy’s sacking by the Greeks and their giant wooden horse, a group of Trojan exiles make their way to the British Isles. 

Among the putative new Britons was a companion of Brutus known as Corineus.  He was strong and loved to wrestle.  One day, Corineus and his comrades were attacked by a twelve foot giant known as Gogmagog (or Geomagog/Geomagot), along with twenty other giants.  Many of the Trojans were killed; the survivors fought back and, in turn, slew all the giants – except Gogmagog.

A wrestling match was set up between Corineus and Gogmagog.  When the fearless warrior Corineus sustained three broken ribs at the hands of his mammoth adversary, he was understandably enraged, and he grabbed Gogmagog.  With remarkable strength, Corineus threw the remaining giant from the cliff and into the sea.

To this day, the area is known as the Giant’s Leap, although leap is rather an inaccurate designation for what happened to Gogmagog.

No less a luminary than John Milton wrote about the legend in his own ‘History of Britain’.  It is well to remind ourselves that up to the seventeenth century, myth and legend were woven into the fabric of historical narrative and accepted as ‘true’.

On a related note, the Lord Mayor’s parade in the City of London features two figures known as Gog and Magog: they are seen as protectors of the metropolis.  And the names Gog and Magog feature in ancient Jewish, Christian and Islamic texts.

Back in English West Country, the great hero Corineus had vanquished a giant foe, and gave his name to Cornwall.

The Fertility Giant

If you happen to travel in the beautiful county of Dorset in Southern England, you are likely to hear of the Cerne Abbas giant.

No less than 180 feet (55 metres) high, and thought to date from the seventeenth century, this giant is carved into the hillside from the chalk underneath, and is a compelling figure, not least because he wields two things: a huge club, and an astounding representation of his manhood!

Because of his remarkable endowment, young women who wished to conceive slept on his outline overnight, and couples wishing to have children made love on his contours.  Understandably, one of his nicknames was ‘the Rude Giant’.  Furthermore, in July 2010, the Daily Telegraph reported that the area around the giant was reporting around double the national birthrate!

There is speculation that the giant’s left arm once held some kind of cloak that has been eroded over time.  If so, then the figure’s identification with the Greek hero Heracles, who used a club to great effect, and who also sported a cloak, is given validation.  Alternatively, the Independent newspaper in 1994 cited a study that suggested that the giant’s free arm had in fact held a severed head; his cloak flew from his shoulders.

In contrast to the identification with Heracles, there is a legend that the outline was created by drawing around the dead body of an invading Danish giant.

The prudish Victorians did not like such a colossal and public display of genitalia, and so allowed shrubs to grow over the giant’s nether regions.  That foliage has certainly not endured.  Nevertheless, so distinct is the Cerne Abbas hillside giant that during World War 2, he was disguised from aerial view in order to hinder any German Luftwaffe planes from using him as a reference point in their navigation over England.

The story I find most intriguing in the explanations of the giant’s origins is that he was a living creator – the invader from Denmark – who met his fate on an English countryside, but was then re-created in chalk.  Giants can be fearsome and deadly, but as in the case of the Cerne Abbas figure, they can also be vital symbols of life.

Among the Barbarians

One of the great books in Western literature is ‘Gulliver’s Travels’ by Jonathan Swift.  Many know it from reading it during childhood, although most children will be unaware that the version they encounter is an abbreviation of Swift’s work.

Much is excised from the original.  Most significant, perhaps, is the omission of the superior, snobby horses in Book Four, titled ‘A Voyage to the Country of the Houyhnhnms’.  The horses are overlords of the uncouth Yahoos, whom, we realise, epitomise the true nature of mankind for Gulliver (although not necessarily for Swift).

What a child will remember are the travels in the lands of the Lilliputians – that tiny race who fascinate Lemuel Gulliver – and their literal and metaphorical counterparts in Book Two: the Brobdingnagians.  These folks are, of course, giants.

Not surprisingly, Gulliver is terrified by what he sees in Brobdingnag.  Upon first encountering the huge creatures, he reports: “as human creatures are observed to be more savage and cruel in proportion to their bulk, what could I expect but to be a morsel in the mouth of the first among these enormous barbarians that should happen to seize me?”

Happily, he is not eaten.  Indeed, the Brobdingnagians find him a novelty, and in time, Gulliver ends up in the royal court, and acts as a valiant defender of his mother country, England.

Being so dwarfed by the giants, Gulliver is certainly afforded unusual sights, and Swift uses his protagonist’s singular viewpoint to reflect satirically on his own eighteenth century society.  One example occurs as Gulliver watches a nursing mother.  The monstrous size of the mother’s breast, and the imperfections of her skin, lead our narrator to this conclusion: “This made me reflect upon the fair skins of our English ladies, who appear so beautiful to us, only because they are of our own size, and their defects not to be seen but through a magnifying glass...”

The giants of Brobdingnag are, in a way, crazy mirrors of our own civilisation.  The Brobdingnagians’ flaws are ours, but written large.

There’s a lovely set of illustrations from a nineteenth century edition of Swift’s masterpiece, and you can take a look here: http://special.lib.gla.ac.uk/exhibns/month/jan2006.html