Giant Rill

On the summit of Rill headland between Mullion and The Lizard can still be found stones called the Apron Strings. Here once stood Giant Rill. He was immensely tall, almost as a redwood but skinny as a thorn, his beard hung in scraggly curls and his head was bald as winter. Always scheming and conniving he was never short of a ruse and terrorised the Lizard. Rill enjoyed sitting by campfires trading and plotting with his favourite companions; smugglers, and vagabonds. The smugglers were having a particularly difficult time, the sea was rough as rats and the rain smoked the horizon, it was almost always wet on the headland and along the coves. The smugglers took out their boats regardless and battled toward France but Rill’s friends were often lost at sea or captured on the way home. Rill waited for them on the headland, he was always hungry for raucous merrymaking and mischief making and he loved to roar his huge belly laugh until it ricocheted across the Lizard. 

Now, Rill was known to be an evil spirited giant, he often snacked on passing farm labourers and worse their children playing in the fields or headlands. But he wasn’t entirely cold hearted, no, Rill also had a helpful side to him. On this night, he had sat with his vast legs crossed drinking smugglers’ ale and listening to smugglers’ tales, when he had an idea. Rill was tall; he could take Cornwall with a stride; he could see the shores of Brittany as he stretched his neck above the clouds and he thought he would help the tiny smugglers out. His tool apron was made of coarse sacking, Rill had sewn it himself and he had an extra pocket in the front he usually kept for snacks. It was a bit smelly in the pocket and a bit bloody for giving smugglers a lift but Rill had a plan. 

Giant Rill filled the apron pocket with rough stones found strewn all over Cornwall. He had his apron pocket full and he staggered back to his regular headland near Kynance Cove. Looking out to sea, he imagined a bridge, Rill’s Bridge, far out and easy to cross, it would be much longer than the Giant Cormoran’s measly causeway. Rill’s Bridge would lead to Brittany. He threw the first rock like a Frisbee all the way to the beach on the other side of the channel. Another one and it sunk beneath the waves. He realised he needed vast rocks to make his bridge and short of ripping up the very land, he took the stones from the Devil’s Quoit in the dead of night leaving the capstone for later. His apron was heavy, it sagged and swung. When he got to the headland, his apron strings snapped and the huge boulders fell onto Rill’s feet, the smaller stones piled beside him- Giant Rill was trapped. 

News soon spread of the evil giant’s plight, and crowds hastened up to see him, they carried rotten cabbages; rotten fruit and veg, jugs of pig’s swill and buckets of slops. Everything imaginable was thrown at Giant Rill and the families stuck pins into his shins and tickled his thighs with tree branches. Rill knew they couldn’t really reach his face as he waited high above the clouds but he felt ashamed for the first time in his long life. He shouldn’t have eaten the farmer’s brother; he shouldn’t have eaten the farmer’s kids. No one would help him to escape and as he tried to lean down to his feet he pulled and pulled at the boulders but they were stuck fast. Rill knew he had only to kick them away but this was where he lived, this was his place and never had he felt so unwelcome and hated as now. 

A lone smuggler’s boy walked up the headland. ‘Giant Rill,’ he shouted. ‘That would be me,’ said Rill. ‘Were you trying to help out?’ called the boy in his tiny voice. Rill leant down so his huge head lolled in front of the boy. His huge nose could smell lunch and his wonky teeth gnashed in the strain not to eat him. ‘This boy is my friend,’ thought Rill. ‘He is a smuggler.’

‘Might have been,’ said Rill carefully. ‘Come and sup with us this horrible night and eat turnip stew instead of my friends.’ ‘I’m stuck,’ barked Rill. The boy folded his arms and looked up at Rill. He didn’t show his fear. ‘You’re fibbing, Rill’ said the smuggler’s boy. ‘I’m stuck!’ repeated Rill. ‘Look at my feet.’ ‘I bet you are a little tempted to come for turnip stew?’ Rill looked sheepish; he hated turnip stew but this boy was showing him kindness. ‘I’ve been trying to help out,’ admitted Rill bending down from a great height and carefully removing the rocks from his feet. ‘We noticed your rock throwing. Think your bridge just may have sunk?’ laughed the boy. And for a moment a great rage filled Rill, like a gale with spitting hail. ‘You’re mocking me,’ he growled. The boy turned to run, then he realised Rill could reach him all the way home. ‘Are we friends, Rill?’ he asked with a brave smile. ‘Might be,’ snapped Rill. ‘I won’t tell anyone you could move the rocks,’ said the boy.’ ‘No one?’ said Rill. ‘Not even father, he said solemnly, ‘I’ll say another giant helped you out.’ ‘Hmm,’ mused Rill. ‘And it’s the thought that counts about the bridge.’ ‘Thanking you,’ said Rill and he grinned foolishly and followed the smuggler’s boy down to camp for turnip soup.