From at least the 1400s, until they were covered over by the Royal Citadel in the 1600s, there were images of giants on Plymouth Hoe, and after they were destroyed, residents have often dreamed of bringing them back. In 2007, Jacqueline Ball wrote a stage play, Gogmagog: A Lost Tale Retold, which her Stiltskin Theatre Company (comprising her and her partner Iain) performed in many schools in Plymouth and the South West, and in Plymouth Museum, over the next five years. This led to ‘a number of residencies in schools with books, scripts, and productions, sculptures’, giant figures for the procession of Plymouth’s Lord Mayor, and on 17 April 2008, they worked with children from St Andrew’s Primary School, Plymouth, to recreate a giant figure of Gogmagog on the Hoe, outlined in white pebbles, based on the decent parts of the Cerne Abbas giant and Long Man of Wilmington. The giant was photographed from the air, but its white pebbles were not permanent.
In 2021, Jacqueline wrote and illustrated Gogmagog: Chief of all Giants (Stiltskin Arts, 2021), a children’s story retelling the giants’ story from their point of view. She leads a group of children out of modern Plymouth up onto Dartmoor, where the mists of time reveal one of the ancient, stone-built Bronze Age villages that really are on the moor, but inhabited by Gogmagog and his giants – huge, smelly, warty and deeply connected to the rocky landscape and twisted oak woods that gave them birth. They are the somewhat diminished descendants (following the Medieval Dez Grantz Geanz) of the ‘demons and murderesses who named this land Albion’, whose bodies are the very hills of Dartmoor and bones are the bare stone tors. Their leader is Gogmagog, the tallest and strongest of his race: ‘his rugged hair is the colour of chestnuts, adorned with beads, it is knotted and matted to a point, so he seems taller still’. Gogmagog hears on the whispering wind of the arrival of Brutus at Totnes: in this version, there are already people in Britain, who work tin and trade with the giants, and there is even a castle at Totnes. Here Brutus, who in this version is not a noble refugee guided by the gods but a man who is simply ‘arrogant and seeks power and fame’, is making merry with his men, and making occasional forays up to Dartmoor to smash the ancient bones of the long-dead Giant ancestors and push over standing stones to make hearths for fires.
Despite a prophetic dream of tumbling into the sea, Gogmagog declares the Trojans’ incursions into his ancient land ‘enough’ and summons his people to take back that which is not the Trojans’ to possess. Carnyxes – ancient battle horns – are blown and the giants march to Totnes, where in unconscious emulation of the Siege of Troy they creep up the castle mound whilst the Trojans within carouse, and burst in through the gates ‘leaving giant shaped holes behind them’. Brutus’s men form a shield wall, and then fight back with their bronze weapons: first javelins then swords cutting at the giants’ legs.
Brutus versus Gogmagog, illustration by Jacqueline Ball for her children’s story Gogmagog: Chief of all Giants ((C) Stiltskin Arts)
Gogmagog and Brutus encounter each other on the field: ‘I will slay thee here, Brutus, in this cauldron of mud, and this is where you will lie, far from home!’ They battle long, Gogmagog almost crushing Brutus with the uprooted tree-trunk that is his staff, but eventually Brutus stabs him in the leg and the giant collapses. The giants rally round and carry Gogmagog to the moors, where they hide him in a bog, but Brutus comes with his fierce hunting dogs and finds him, close to death. Gogmagog is dragged to Plymouth, where Brutus’s ‘cousin’ Corineus has just landed, fresh from exploits further west where he has learned to wrestle from the people of what would become Cornwall.
Brutus’ physicians nurse Gogmagog back to health so that he can wrestle with Corineus, to settle once and for all whether giants or Trojans should possess Britain. The fight commences: Corineus uses his lesser stature to the advantage by ‘getting between Gogmagog’s legs, wrapping his own legs around them and tripping him up’. Gogmagog seizes Corineus and cracks three of his ribs, and nearly loses, but in a rush of adrenaline he pushes the giant towards the cliff edge, and Gogmagog tumbles down. ‘A massive wave surges up, catches his body within its frothy grasp and plunged him deep beneath the waves’, and a few moments later ‘a dash of blood-red-froth swills across the rocks below, then washes away’. Abjectly, the defeated giants begin to dig out the turf of the Hoe to create their fallen leader’s image, so he would never be forgotten, and ‘maybe, from far out at sea, if he raises his magnificent head, he might see the beaming white rock showing him the way and he might return home’. The novel ends with the giants dwindling and returning ‘to the earth from whence they came. You may still see their faces in the rocks and trees…’ and the hope that Gogmagog’s lost figure may one day ‘be re-cut into the Hoe, based on the children’s drawings with a festival of giants to celebrate’. This beautifully illustrated book is a memorable addition to the canon of Trojan mythology.
A picture of Plymouth Hoe bereft of any giants in Paul Newman’s Lost Gods of Albion inspired artist Charles Newington to create images of them himself, and try to put them back. Back in 2018 I helped him create giant canvas templates of his imaginings of Gogmagog and Corineus, in the Kent Downs. In 2021 – Covid having got in the way – these templates were finally unfurled on Plymouth Hoe, and briefly the giants were back. The effort was organized by Charles and his assistant Colleen Dunn in conjunction with Plymouth historian Chris Robinson, M.B.E., and the Plymouth Waterfront Partnership to show the powers-that-be in Plymouth the potential of their idea. The powers-that-be were slow in granting their permissions and it was only on the morning when the figures were due to be put that the last permission was received. It was a last-minute effort and too short notice for me to go, which was a great shame. However, in spring 2025 Charles, Colleen and Chris made a further effort, and on Midsummer’s Eve, as we sat in our garden watching the magical evening light fall across the Herefordshire countryside, I received a telephone call from the mellifluously voiced Charles tell me that the giants could go back up three days later, and this time, there would be a proper event to celebrate, and would we like to go?
We drove to Plymouth on Friday 27 June, checked into the New Continental Hotel and walked through a mixture of sun shine and Cornish mist over the Hoe towards the citadel, admiring for the first time the great sweep of Plymouth Sound, with the western end of Cornwall to the right and the western coast of Devonshire to the left, with Drake’s Island and Mount Batten in the foreground, the latter being where, in ancient times, merchants from the Mediterranean really did come to trade for West Country tin. Round the corner we went and there on the steep turf was half of Gogmagog’s canvas template roughly in place, though his left arm did not look quite right, and the rest of him was still folded up.
The start had been delayed, we found out later, because although the parks department had very kindly cut the grass on this section of the Hoe, they had not made it short enough, so the morning had been spent cutting it all shorter and then raking away the mowings. There at the giant’s foot was Charles, looking a little worn by the illness which has dogged him these past few years, but busily surrounded by his pictures of Trojans, and scale diagrams to help him direct the work, and Chris, whom I had never met before. On the steep slope was Colleen and her husband, Dillon; Charles’s wife Shing and a handful of Plymouthian helpers, whom we joined.
The next few hours, punctuated by ice creams from a nearby van, were spent scrambling about on the very steep turf, tugging and pinning the canvas template to make the curves and joins right – a task made harder by the lively breeze, and the need to pin the canvas down – which then made it more difficult to move a section even a few inches one way or the other. But in the end, Gogmagog was finished and we all had a much-needed rest.
The following day, after an evening spent in the very lively Barbican, the old town and fishing harbour of Plymouth, re-rejoined Charles and his team who were busy putting up Corineus – which went much more smoothly. The next job was to paint while outlines round the canvas templates: there had been a mis-ordering of paint, and there was not nearly enough, so I completed a section of Gogmagog’s legs in white aerosol.
Plymouth Sound, with part of Charles Newington’s drawing of the arrival of Brutus and battle with the Giants in the foreground.
Me with the canvas template of Corineus, on which I had helped to work in 2018, on Plymouth Hoe.
As there was no more paint for the rest of the painting it was decided to leave the white canvas templates where they were, and this in fact gave the images greater effect. All the while, Scott and other volunteers were at the foot of the Giants with Charles, handing out leaflets to passers by and explaining what was going on. Most people were very interested, only a few were indifferent. One tourist bus went past, and at the back of the open topped deck sat two teenage boys, so intent on their phones that they went past the two huge Giant images without being even remotely aware of what they had missed.
Procession of Gogmagog and the Trojans
By two o’clock all was ready. Out of the nearby Corinthian Club (which is roughly below the giants’ feet, with a fine terrace looking out towards Mount Batten) sallied an army of tiny Trojans, local school children led by Jacqueline and Iain Ball, each with leather jerkins and helmets, toy weapons and silky banners. Jacqueline herself had a big drum to lead them, and there was a colossal Gogmagog made of papier-mâché, operated by Iain, their son, and two friends. Members of the different organisations who had sponsored the event – the Plymouth Barbican Trust, the Hirschfield Foundation, Plymouth Albion, 29 Commando and the Hoe Neighbourhood Forum – appeared. Some civic officials made an appearance, long enough to have their photograph taken in front of the puppet giant (as opposed to the newly created images) and then scuttled off without speaking to any of the participants. Unperturbed, our formidable assemblage of Trojans and giant marched up and down the road below the feet of Gogmagog and Corineus. Then, Seth Lakeman, the popular folk singer and sometime member of ‘The Levelers’, produced his fiddle and sang a specially composed song (whose words he kindly allowed me to repeat here but they are (C) Seth Lakeman):
Good people come and hear our tale.
Sing Oh for the Giants of long ago,
From far and wide these Trojans sail,
Sing Oh for the Giants so strong.
Brutus came for Albion Old,
Sing Oh for the Giants of long ago,
Corineus was his brightest hope,
Sing Oh for the Giants so strong.
As the waves crash down,
You can hear the sound,
Of a mighty battle
On ancient ground.
Hear them clash with every blow
Those Giants of Plymouth Hoe.
They wrestled on for days and nights,
Sing Oh for the Giants of long ago,
The two fought hard and held on tight,
Sing Oh for the Giants so strong.
Gogmagog he cracked three ribs,
Sing Oh for the Giants of long ago,
He swung his Challenger across the ridge,
Sing Oh for the Giants so strong.
Corineus held his rival high,
Sing Oh for the Giants of long ago,
From Lam Bay Hill, let out a cry,
Sing Oh for the Giants so strong.
Now Brutus claimed the victory,
Sing Oh for the Giants of long ago,
He’d earned his place as Britain’s king,
Sing Oh for the Giants so strong.
As the waves crash down,
You can hear the sound,
Of a mighty battle
On ancient ground.
Hear them clash with every blow
Those Giants of Plymouth Hoe.
Seth Lakeman playing the Gogmagog Song on his fiddle. Chris Robinson M.B.E. is to the right in blue and a Panama hat.
We then repaired to the Corinthian Club for drinks and sandwiches. Seth sang his song again, and I was invited to give a short talk explaining the background of the giants, after which Chris gave his own view of the giants’ origin. His view is that the images were created to celebrate Plymouth’s acquisition of a Town Charter in 1439 (which is entirely possible, but whilst the earliest references are from the 1480s, one would hardly expect there to be earlier mentions even if they were there, as Medieval records tend not to focus too much on antiquities – we have agreed to differ on that). Charles thanked all those who had helped him, and expressed his hope that one day his reimagining of Gogmagog and Corineus might be made permanent in stone.
Charles and Shing Newington in front of Gogmagog
What a whirlwind of two days. As we left, we saw Dillon, Shing and their helpers taking down the canvas templates, prior to the painted outlines being filled in with solid white on Monday morning. They do not plan to use the templates again: the next time, if there is one, if the images are to be made permanently in stone, they can be created afresh using a grid (or, maybe, by then, some fancier laser technology). We enjoyed a further evening in the lively Barbican district, eating completely fresh fish, and the following morning paid a visit to the quiet green oasis of Saltram House, on the opposite side of the Plym, before an enjoyable journey home engrossed in Jacqueline Ball’s book. The painted images will remain on the Hoe until the rain washes them away – and then: only Gogmagog himself, watching from beneath the waves, perhaps, knows what the future holds.
Gogmagog and Corineus on Plymouth Hoe
This is the brief talk I gave at the Corinthian Club, Plymouth, on 28 June 2025:
I have written two books on this subject, Brutus of Troy, and the Quest for the Ancestry of the British and In Search of Aeneas, Classical Myth or Bronze Age Hero? and this is a Giant subject, but I will try to keep this as short and sweet as possible.
It is over three thousand years now since Paris ran off with Helen and precipitated the Trojan War. The war was such a momentous event in the history of Bronze Age Greece that it started spawning mythology, mythology that caught up and preserved a vast quantity of much older stories and beliefs from ancient Greece and ancient Turkey, and which passed down into the robust oral tradition of epic poetry, down to the time of Homer in, roughly, the 700s BC. Homer’s Iliad is the first recorded piece of Western literature and stands its head: it is about the rage of Achilles against Agamemnon but it includes the story of the Trojan prince Aeneas, son of Aphrodite, and Homer puts into Poseidon’s mouth the prophecy that Aeneas ‘is destined to survive’.
That was a loose thread that the Romans took up when they were looking for an origin myth to root themselves in the Golden mythology of the Classical world, and by the 200 BC they were claiming cheerfully that they were the heirs of the Trojans, with the Caesar family in particular claiming direct descent from Aeneas himself. Julius Caesar believed in this implacably and I believe it was this that gave him the self-confidence he needed to achieve all that he did, including making a first attempt at invading our island of Britain. His great nephew Augustus then commissioned the poet Virgil to enshrine Aeneas’s story, including his journey from Troy to Rome, in the Aeneid, that stands only one step below the Iliad in our Western literary tradition. Because Rome conquered much of western Europe, their Trojan mythology spread here and after the Empire collapsed, when the western states wanted their own origin myths, they laid claim to Trojan origins too.
We in Britain developed our own Trojan origin myth in the 600s AD: Britain is called Britain so its founder must have been called Britto, or Britus in Latin, but Brutus sounded better so we invented Brutus of Troy, a great grandson of Aeneas, and then started developing a story for him. This mythologising led to Geoffrey of Monmouth’s monumental History of the Kings of Britain, written in the 1100s, which starts with Brutus landing just east along the coast from here at Totnes, being attacked by giants, and Brutus’s side-kick Corineus defeating the giant king Gogmagog and flinging him into the sea. In part, this was a dramatic device: Brutus could have just turned up and taken possession of Britain, but that would not make for a very exciting story, so a war with the giants made for a much more exciting tale.
The Trojan myth continued to grow after Geoffrey, with different places claiming a part in the story: Totnes affirmed its status as the birthplace of Britain, for instance, and Oxford University claimed to have been founded by Greek scholars brought here by Brutus. Your ancestors here in Plymouth claimed that this was the place where Corineus defeated Gogmagog: if we’d been standing here in Trojan times, we’d have seen the body of Gogmagog flying right over our heads as he was hurled down into the sea out there. This claim of Plymouth’s was first recorded by John Rous in the 1480s, and it was developed in many subsequent histories of Plymouth. By the 1480s, there were also images of two giants here on the Hoe: we know that because there are records of your ancestors having to pay for their upkeep.
Now, back in the Bronze Age, Britain had no Trojan myths, and we don’t know what they thought of their origins because they were not written down, but I’m pretty confident that whatever stories they had involved giants. I say this with some conviction because wherever you go in the West Country you can’t move for stories of giants creating the landscape: the tors up on Dartmoor were piles of stones piled up ready for the giants to lob at each other; St Michael’s Mount was a great big rock that was dropped out of a giantess’s apron, and so on. We know that some British hill figures are extremely old: the White Horse of Uffington dates back for sure to the Bronze Age. So it is possible that the images of giants here on the Hoe were extremely ancient too. And that poses a question: were the giant images here so old that they helped inspire Geoffrey of Monmouth’s story of Corineus defeating Gogmagog here, or, were the images actually made in the 1400s, inspired by Geoffrey’s story? We simply do not know, but we can say for sure that the Trojan myth, and the West Country stories of giants, fed into each other symbiotically and nourished the further growth of the Brutus myth.
And the myth has continued to grow. In each century new writers have added to the story: Edmund Spencer wrote about Brutus in his Faerie Queene, for example, Alexander Pope planned an epic poem in the subject, and William Blake wrote wonderful poetry about the Trojans landing ‘in firm array upon the shores of Albion’ and so on right down to this century. Only last year, I went to see the Brutus Mummers’ Play put on by Dartington Morris in Totnes and heard them singing their Brutus Song, and I told them that they were very much part of the living tradition of Trojan mythology that goes right the way back through Blake and Virgil to Homer himself. And now I can say to you, Charles Newington and your team, and Chris Robinson and all of you people of Plymouth who have been involved with creating and putting up those Plymouth giants that we can see through the window there; and you Seth Lakeman, singing your wonderful new Plymouth Giants song, and Jacqueline Ball with your children’s book about Gogmagog, who masterminded the procession today, and all you little children who played the part of the Trojans so finely: you are all part of the living tradition of this wonderful, ancient myth of Brutus of Troy, Corineus, and the Giant Gogmagog.
Press coverage
The story was covered in the Plymouth press. The Plymouth Chronicle reported the event in included the following; “A reception held at the former Corinthian Yacht Club provided further context. Anthony Adolph, a genealogist and historian, discussed the figure of Brutus within British mythology, suggesting its influence on early literature. He highlighted how the story of Brutus, including his defeat of the ‘Wessex Giants’ in Plymouth, was appropriated by later writers such as Geoffrey of Monmouth, who posited Brutus as the first king of Albion (later Britain). Adolph noted that the ancient tale may have been set in Plymouth due to the city’s historical significance as a tin trading hub”.
None of those sentences are accurate representations of what I actually said, but to be fair on the journalist, Louis Chadwick, it is a complicated subject to come in on afresh and understand correctly the first time – hence my book, Brutus of Troy.
