There’s been a lot of talk recently about flags, especially English ones. The start of the Women’s Rugby World Cup – a good excuse to bring out the bunting – has coincided with a renewed interest in proclaiming national identity. Some might see it as an outpouring of patriotic pride, while others view it as a far-right provocation. But whether it’s ‘Operation Raise the Colours’ or roundabouts painted red and white (although some bright spark in Birmingham managed to paint a Danish flag by mistake), if the sight of a cross of St George sends you into a panic, I have a suggestion: head to Cornwall.
If my recent experience is anything to go by, you’ll be lucky to see a single English flag. You will, however, see many Cornish ones, otherwise known as St Piran’s flag, after their patron saint. In fact, I don’t know anywhere else in England where people display such pride in their identity. And I don’t just mean bumper stickers or flags hung from windows, either. We’re talking flagpoles in the manicured gardens of seriously posh gaffes. The white cross on a black background even flies from public buildings.
You may see the odd Union flag, or, more likely, a Cornwall Ensign, a Union Jack tucked neatly into the corner of a St Piran’s cross. But English flags? Nada, zilch, zero.
Because Cornwall, it seems, isn’t part of England any more. I mean, technically it is, but on visiting you might think otherwise. In fact, Cornwall Council recently passed a motion calling on the government to recognise it formally as the UK’s fifth nation. The council, whose motto is ‘One and all’ (‘Onen hag oll’) – very Alexandre Dumas – will begin cross-party engagement with MPs to build support for their demand. But a petition started after the vote has so far gathered fewer than 20,000 signatures – hardly a nationalist groundswell.
Time was when Cornish nationalism was considered the preserve of bearded, pipe-smoking cranks, not unlike the Wessex Regionalists, a political party founded by the late and very eccentric Alexander Thynn, 7th Marquess of Bath. Mebyon Kernow, Cornwall’s nationalist party, was treated with amused disdain.
But since devolution, the idea of Cornwall as a separate entity has seemed less bonkers. Cornwall was, after all, once an independent Celtic nation with its own institutions and language, before being absorbed into England in the mid-9th century. However, it only became an administrative county in 1889 and still retains a distinct identity.
The last native Cornish speaker, Dolly Pentreath, died in 1777. But efforts to revive the language mean that, according to the Cornish Language Office, there are an estimated 2,000-5,000 people who speak it conversationally, with around 400 being advanced speakers. You’re even greeted in the old tongue when you enter Cornwall, by a sign saying ‘Welcome to Cornwall’ (‘Kernow a’gas dynergh’).
Cornwall, it seems, isn’t part of England any more. I mean, technically it is, but on visiting you might think otherwise
Street names are increasingly in both English and Cornish – much to the irritation of some business leaders who deem it a waste of money. Even some Asda stores in Cornwall have bilingual English and Cornish signage. When I was in the Truro Tesco recently, the bloke in front of me at the till was in a tizzy because some grockle had mistaken him for an Englishman. ‘I’m bloody Cornish!’ he fumed to the sympathetic cashier.
I must admit that I’m not really the flag-waving type. Despite having totemic power, bypassing the rational mind and plugging straight into your emotions, the national colours have never left me wobbly-lipped. I do, however, have a soft spot for all things Celtic. Especially since a DNA kit told me I practically am a Celt.
Nationalism, however, often smacks of a romantic ideal about a prelapsarian world before industrialisation and pesky foreigners ruined everything. The reality, of course, is that the imagined sylvan idyll was anything but idyllic. Even if you made it to adulthood, you’d likely die in battle, in childbirth, or from some pestilence that left you covered in suppurating sores.
But Cornish nationalism seems harmless enough to me. I’ve never heard of a Cornish paramilitary, and I don’t think any second homes have been burnt out – unlike in Wales during the 1980s. So, if prancing around draped in an English flag, imagining you’re at Agincourt, isn’t your thing, then, instead of ‘Cry God for Harry, England and St George!’, why not try ‘Cry God for Dungarth, Cornwall and St Piran!’ instead? Or, as one of the 400 fluent Cornish speakers people might say: ‘Garmdh Dhuw rag Dungarth, Kernow, ha Sen Pirran!‘ (or something like that).
In setting out the case for changing Cornwall’s status, council leader Leigh Frost said: ‘A nation isn’t just a border or a flag. It’s a people. It’s a voice. It’s shared history and a shared purpose.’ No matter how batty you think the idea of Cornish nationhood is, the councillor’s words should be heeded by those scurrying around in the dead of night with tins of red and white emulsion: flags don’t make a nation! A national story, on the other hand, is vital for creating a sense of cohesion and shared values. That story, defining who we are, is currently being bitterly contested in the media and on our streets. Whoever wins that battle, if it’s ever won, will dictate how people see us and how we see ourselves, possibly for generations to come.
If that thought terrifies you, then head south over the Tamar Bridge and claim asylum. But remember: as any self-respecting Cornishman will tell you, when ordering a cream tea, make sure to put the jam on the scone before the cream. Otherwise, you might find your application is rejected.
Yeghes da!
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