A right old racket in Penryn
It was the reign of James the First, an impressive Spanish warship prowled the coast along the English Channel and around Cornish coves, the huers had seen it first and news of it filled the villages. Everyone hoped the ship wouldn’t dock in their town. The Spaniards were spoiling for a fight after many days at sea. It had been raining in Penryn for days, a heavy rain that soaked you to the skin and more. But on this particular day, it wasn’t raining, it was a different kind of damp. A thick sea mist cloaked Penryn so you couldn’t see past your nose, you could taste it as it swirled down the streets. Now this mist was thicker than most, and the people of Penryn were huddled in the taverns and by their firesides. No one thought to go out to sea that day and nobody noticed when a huge black shadow passed through the harbour.
The ship sailed up the river, vast, gliding gulls wings, silent, with darting hungry eyes. On deck, the men busied themselves coiling ropes and steering the ship through Falmouth Docks and up the river. The sailors were hungry as they had feasted their way through most of their stores. ‘Bet there’s an orchard along this river,’ said one, munching the dregs of the ship’s biscuits. ‘Or one of those meat-filled pies with crimping round the edges,’ said another, miming munching a pasty. ‘Let’s get ourselves a miner’s pie,’ they chorused. The Spanish sailors had had a lot of liquor to swill about their empty stomachs and as well as searching for food, they were bruising for a fight. They were heavily armed, with swords and muskets and if the people of Penryn could have seen them approaching, they may well have been afraid.
As the ship edged forward through the Cornish fog, the Spaniards squinted to see if there was a town in sight. They pulled at long oily beards and fiddled with thick gold earrings, stamped their wet boots, and waited. The wind was in their favour and in no time, they came across Penryn. The Spanish ship glided to the side of the riverbank and out the crew jumped onto thick reeds and grasses. They gathered ranks, heavily armed a menacing army marched up into the town. They were in a foul mood due to being cold, wet, hungry and drunk and they had plans to pillage for everything they could find, then take a torch to what was left. The fog was still thick and an early dusk rolled down the hill through the streets of the town, the Spaniards were excited at the thought of a fight and they moved lithe as sea cats on into the main street, ready to take on the locals for the skirmish of their lives.
Suddenly, a shout was heard, followed by deafening drumming, and what sounded like a hundred trumpets followed by a thunder of running feet. The Spanish sailors looked at one another with wry surprise but as the noise rose to a deafening crescendo, it dawned on the visitors that they might be grossly outnumbered. Were these trumpet players with a troop of King’s men? Fear grew like an incoming tide rolling in along the towans, and the Spanish began to doubt themselves and to dread what they would encounter. ‘An army waits to ambush us,’ said one. ‘The King’s men?’ said another. ‘A miner’s army more like.’ ‘We can handle them,’ said the smallest gingerly. ‘I’m not staying to find out,’ said the tallest sternly. ‘Me neither, let’s back to Falmouth,’ and with that the Spaniards crept back down the hill and were away on their ship retreating the way they had come. They were out on the open sea as the sky cleared and the moon rose above Falmouth Bay.
What the Spaniards never knew and the people of Penryn never forgot, was the truth of the matter. The music that had so alarmed the visitors from the sea was from a troop of travelling players who were entertaining the people of Penryn; the trumpet was played by the ringmaster; the shout was one of laughter and the sound of boots were many eager feet tapping in time to their tune.