St Piran

Saint Piran is the patron saint of tin-miners. He is also generally regarded as the national saint of Cornwall. Saint Piran's Flag is a white cross on a black background. St Piran's Day is March 5th. No one can state for sure who St Piran was, we can only sift for clues in documents written many years after his time. In the past many writers have stated with confidence the facts of his ancestry. The Trust will not do this as our reasoning is that you should look at the clues and decide for yourself. Surely this is the magic of St Piran. We believe St Piran was born in Ireland. This decision is based on the ties with St Kieran of Saighir. This saint was born and raised on the island of Cape Clear off County Cork, by his father Lughaidh and mother Liedania. After studying scriptures in Rome he returned to Ireland and was made a bishop at his monastic settlement Saighir Kieran in County Ossary. There is no reference to his death and there is no shrine to his honour yet he is one of the twelve most revered saints in the Irish calendar. At this time St Piran lands on Perran beach and builds the tiny oratory. There is no written word attributing his pedigree. He and his followers build the oratory in the Irish style with the heads of a man, a woman and a beast around the arched doorway The priest's house is built inside the graveyard as in the Irish style. It is interesting that the three communities mentioned celebrate March 5^th as their Saints day thus making a strong Kieran-Piran connection. The trail continues with the clues from the old church of St Piran. An inventory taken in 1281 by the canons of Exeter, record a bone of St Brendon and a bone of St Martin both associates of St Kieran. The churches of Exeter and Kilkenny Ireland, who held the monasteries of St Piran and St Kieran respectively, regularly exchanged Deans and Bishops. One thing is certain, the suggestion that St Piran is St Kieran of Clonmacnoise does not stand as this saint it is recorded to have died at the age of 32 and is buried at his monastery. Many people have claimed many things but nothing is sure, we can only ponder on who was St Piran, where he came from, how he arrived on our shores. One thing is sure. St Piran lives on in the hearts and minds of the Cornish people here in Cornwall and around the world. Legend: The heathen Irish tied him to a mill-stone, rolled it over the edge of a cliff into a stormy sea, which immediately became calm, and the saint floated safely over the water to land upon the sandy beach of Perranzabuloe in Cornwall, where his first converts to Christianity were animals. Legend: St. Piran lit a fire on his black hearthstone, which was evidently a slab of tin-bearing ore. The heat caused smelting to take place and tin rose to the top in the form of a white cross (thus the image on the flag).
Poem by Tim Saunders
Log Pyran	Piran's Cell
Tywennow a’senz yn-kaeth tresor yntre tir ha’traeth: ydh holyis hynzi hiraeth a-dreus ann mor dhÿ’gas traeth, a serthalz vein Iwerdhon my a’varc’hogas yn-skôn hag omma y’gas gwolog my a’dhrec’hevys ow log rag ma y’kanner oferenn byz pan dheu ann byz dhy-benn: gwordhyanz rÿvo ha grassyanz dre’nn oesow y’m tyller sanz, gwordmeul rag ann un aberth, ewndal a’restoryas kerth: du ann sorn down y’nn kÿskeuz, gwynn ann ewynn war dyweuz.	Sand dunes hold a treasure captive between land and beach: I followed the paths of longing across the sea to your shore, from the mighty steep cliff of Ireland I rode quickly and here in sight of you all I built my oratory so that the communion service may be sung until the world comes to an end: let there be worship and thanksgiving throughout the ages in my holy place, praise for the one sacrifice, a reparation that paid the price of justice: Black the deep nook where the shadows meet, white the foam on sand.
Tywennow a’senz yn-kaeth tresor yntre tir ha’traeth: melynn ann medh a’seveyn, du ann meyn a’nn greith y’nn bryn, melyn ann flammow poethlan, kann ann nonnenn dromm dre’nn dan, melynn ann howlwynn ternos (hag yn peub penn, galarplos), melynn ann sorry n lagaz Pedhreug, ow cheredhyas maz, melynn ann folenn skrivys a’dhrÿ ow chwedhl yn oes vyz, melynn ann medh a’evas peub huni dhÿw chov prêst glas: du ann sorn down y’nn kÿskeuz, gwynn ann ewynn war dyweuz.	Sand dunes hold a treasure captive between land and beach: yellow the mead that we drank, black the stones from the scar in the hill, yellow the purifying flames, brilliant white the sudden streamlet through the fire, yellow the sunlight the next day (and every head hurting foully), yellow the anger in the eye of Petrok, who rebuked me well: Black the deep nook where the shadows meet, white the foam on sand.
Tywennow a’senz yn-kaeth tresor yntre tir ha’traeth: peub tyller ha’peub termynn rÿskrivas, yn du war wynn, gwir dhÿvydhyanz peub kÿvoeth - gwel glan, dorn hÿform, tan poeth, kÿzgan dhÿ vore kÿvar, nerth, nell, kÿnwerez chwar, ertaj rag fetha ankov, les gwerin peub pryz ann prov: byth na’veidhez ki bychan plosa agan nevez lan, na’dawez agan kÿzlev lemen dassÿni bÿz Nev: du ann sorn down y’nn kÿskeuz, gwynn ann ewynn war dyweuz.	Sand dunes hold a treasure captive between land and beach: every place and every time has written, in black and white, the true origin of all wealth – clear sight, trained hand, hot fire, voices joined in song on the early morning before the ploughing together, strength, energy, civilised mutual aid, a heritage to conquer oblivion, the proof lying in the good of the ordinary people: let no little dog dare to foul our holy sanctuary, let our joined voices never fall silent, but rather echo right up to Heaven: Black the deep nook where the shadows meet, white the foam on sand.