All the animals think the tiny castle a good place to shelter from the wind and the rain. Only trouble is Carn Brea Hill is the lair of a giant. John of Gaunt is sleeping on and off, he has a bad cough which rumbles through the land. Every time he gets comfortable another animal crawls into his lair. First mole shows her face,

‘John, move your arm. I need to find a space to have my tea.’

John shuffled over and mole began to eat a worm. John felt terribly peckish but he couldn’t eat mole, she was a good companion and he was all alone. John felt himself drifting off to sleep.

A rook flew in and perched on John’s huge hooked nose. ‘Caw-caw,' said the rook noisily. 'Wake up John, the rain has soaked my feathers.’

‘Rook, can you not find a place to dry them? I’m terribly peckish and have a stinking cold.’

Rook hopped from leg to leg. ‘Caw-caw, right here suits me. I’ll use your nose as a drying line.’

‘Be my guest Rook, be my guest,’ John growled.

John kept twitching his huge nose and sniffing, he could feel a cough coming. He was just going to sleep again when he felt rough fur cosying up to his arms and a rank smell wafting up his nose, John groaned, for the fox had brought in all her cubs, they cuddled up to their damp mother and to John’s bearded cheek, sheltering from the rain.

Giant John thought he would go rock hunting at dawn to build a bigger castle; it was foolish living in this dank hovel when he was the last of the Cornish giants and all the granite belonged to him. In the morning, John shooed away the fox and her cubs, and sneezed so hard the crow flew away to the trees, mole had dug her way down beneath the castle so he was sure to see her when night fell.

He wriggled his huge scraggly head and shoulders out of his castle, John felt soggy he knew he hadn’t wet himself but he felt a bit like it, he hadn’t quite managed to fit his body or his legs into the castle so he had bone dry hair and very wet trousers. John set out to find rocks, a huge pile of rocks to shelter in.

Giant John’s legs were longer than telegraph poles, he stretched them as far as he could all the way from Carn Brea to Tucking Mill Style. Here he found the best rocks. Giants love rocks and John was no different. He wished for the old days when he could play quoits and bob buttons with other giants, but he was all alone there was not much fun in rock throwing contests with the fox or the crow. John knew he would soon squash his friends.

He leaned down to get the rocks and lifted them carefully past his waist up to his shoulders and hurled them across Cornwall back to Carn Brea. John threw and threw until his long arms ached and his cough had worsened. He would build ramparts around Carn Brea to protect his neighbours the farmers and animals. Then he would set to work building a proper castle one that would keep him dry. He took one big stride back from Tucking Mill Style to Carn Brea. John sat himself down on his huge pile of rocks teetering one on top of the other. He was so tired he though he would leave the actual building for another day.

But what to eat? John had a few options, there was an apple orchard in the village or there was a field of cows. One cow or one fox cub wouldn’t go amiss, would it? John was a very hungry giant. He pointed his nose to the wind and smelt for the fox and her cubs. They would be close, close enough for an easy supper.

The giant had seen the fox cubs running in the meadow on the banks of Carn Brea. He had just to scoop one up by its tail and supper would have begun. John caught a fox cub in his huge hairy hands and opened his huge mouth to eat it. Just then he felt soft fur between his fingers and heard a tiny bark, he remembered this little cub cuddling up to his beard. He lifted the cub up above his nose and looked into its soft black eyes and grinned." You little cub are my companion," he crowed and he put it down very carefully next to its mother.

That night, John the Gaunt ate apples and turnips from the farmer’s vegetable garden and orchard, then he settled down for some kip.

‘You showed your soft spot today, John,’ giggled the mole.

‘I did?’

‘Fox cubs, I thought they were toast earlier then you loped off down the farm.’

‘I did.’

‘Got a terrible cold you have John; you need some nice broth.’

‘I’m not the best cook me, prefer raw stuff,’ said John munching a turnip.

That night a parliament of rooks flew in through the gaps in John’s ‘castle’ and settled on his nose. They wriggled and shuffled and made a din but John didn’t mind.

Deep in the dead of night, the fox slithered in; followed by her mate and all the cubs. The littlest cub wasted no time curling up against John’s beard and the others warmed his shoulders.

‘Thank you, dear John for sparing my cubs,’ said the vixen shyly.

‘Matter do ee,’ smiled John. For he might have been the last giant but he had all the rocks to build a better den and he had a motley crew of friends to keep him company until the end.

told by Anna Chorlton for Kresen Kernow, Redruth, 29/07/2025

from a tale recorded by Barbara Spooner