Never eat a bucca’s fish
As limpets stud a rocky shore, so the cottages of Newlyn cluster at the edge of Mount’s Bay. Day in and day out, red-sailed luggers ply the blue waters of the bay, watched closely by the Bucca, a capricious sea-spirit who dwells deep beneath the waves. On calm days, when the boats return laden with mackerel, herring, or pilchards that silver the quay with their scales, the Newlyn fisher-folk thank Bucca Gwidden, always setting aside a share of the catch for him to feast upon, for it is the bountiful Bucca Gwidden who guides the shoals to their nets and their boats safely into the harbour. But when the Bucca is angered, he becomes Bucca Dhu, who lashes his great tail and summons up a southerly gale, rising the white-caps and darkening the sky with thunderclouds. On these days the people shelter indoors and pray for the souls of those at sea.
Once a travelling thatcher arrived in Newlyn looking for work and hearing the local talk of the Bucca’s power to conjure the wind, he thought up a plan. The thatcher went to down to the shore and found the fish set aside for Bucca Gwidden, and he took that fish and cooked himself a fine stew and ate it for his supper. The Bucca howled with rage at this insult and transformed into Bucca Dhu, whipping up a great storm wind that shredded the surface of the sea and ripped and tore at the thatched roofs of the cottages. The storm lasted for many days, and despite the fact there was now more work than he could have wished for, the thatcher made the villagers pay steeply to have their homes repaired.
The fishermen’s families grew hungry, for no boats could go out in such foul weather. But the thatcher’s pockets grew heavy with coin, and he took himself down to the harbour inn where he merrily downed ale after ale. The night was black when he staggered out, and underfoot the cobbles lay slick with seaweed tossed there by the storm. When the man slipped from the harbour wall only Bucca Dhu heard the splash and opened wide his jaws.
By the following day the wind had dropped to a gentle breeze, the sun rose over a shining sea and the waters of Mount’s Bay welcomed back the fishermen who afterwards declared their boats had never been so full, bringing home the finest haul anyone could remember. Of course a generous share was laid out for Bucca Gwidden. And since then, over the years following that great storm, the thatched roofs of all the cottages in Newlyn have been replaced with slate. Every single one.