Commons
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By Amy Tryphena
I cycle to the byway, one of the access points to Carrine Common, to find the gate locked.
I see intrepid travellers before me have worn an alternative path over the hedged bank. I heave my bike up, and out onto the northern end of the common.
I have never ventured onto this part of the heathland. It is wild scrubland, criss-crossed by old, forgotten pathways, where no foot or wheel has travelled for some time. The path is overgrown with grasses, long and coarse with purple tinged blades. Prickly gorse encroaches onto the path, its roots push through the ground. Broken stones litter the old ruts.
I push my bike up the old path awkwardly, my tyres catching on grass tussocks. I decide to ditch it under a young oak tree. I carry on walking until I reach a good vantage point to survey the area.
The heath is blanketed with an impenetrable mass of pink and white common heathers. Fighting it out for space with the barbarous green gorse bushes. Spring yellows, courtesy of the creeping birdsfoot trefoil, splash through.
The boundaries of Carrine Common are marked by adolescent oaks, rowan and laurel trees. Marooned amongst the heather, a lone, intrepid hawthorn sits squat, seizing some space from the ground cover.
Deadwood skeletal remains of trees, once devoured by fire, sit within the heathland. They mark a recent history of gorse fires.
Long grass encroaches upon the path, I am aware my ankles are exposed and this is tick season. I am also in adder country, so I keep my eyes down.
The birds and the grasshoppers provide a soundtrack. The piercing shriek of a bird of prey overlays the songbirds chattering. The grasshoppers, rubbing out their tune with their legs, provide the rhythm section.
Iron grey, humid skies, press close. Clammy, I appreciate the breeze that wicks my sweat away. I press on, with gorse thorns snatching at my ankles and roots tripping my feet.
I intend to walk as far as I can without being obstructed by arbitrary borders of common and private ownership.
The open heathland of Carrine Common was owned by Viscount Falmouth’s Tregothnan estate, and kept as private land. In 2001 it was recorded as open access land, giving the public the right to traverse it. With the help of the Open Spaces Society, it was claimed as common land in 2012.
As uncultivated, open, unoccupied land, it fit the criteria to be reclaimed for common use. The Tregothnan estate, not content with owning approximately 42,000 acres of land in Cornwall, contested the claim, and lost. The site is now protected from development, designated a site of special scientific interest (SSSI) and a special area of conservation.
Up to and including medieval times, this land was used by commoners to subsist a living. To graze animals, grow crops and gather firewood. It is unclear exactly when, but the land was seized and annexed by the lord of the estate, the people evicted to starve, work in the local mines, or enter the workhouse. This probably took place during the Enclosure Acts of the 18th and 19th centuries. Enclosure of common land in England and Wales started in the 1600s and ended in the early 20th century. 28,000 square kilometres of land was stolen from common use by the aristocracy.
Eventually my path collapses into a heap of tangled undergrowth and hard core. An unofficial way of saying ‘You are not welcome beyond this point.’ Demarking the common land from the private.
I had planned to trespass today, to reclaim ground that was once all of ours, but find my way barred. I know from the definitive map, and historic Ordnance Survey maps, that there are paths on the ground that lead from the common to the valley below. This is also uncultivated land, with old mine shafts scattered amongst gorse and bracken. Calenick Stream meanders through the valley seeking the creek that spills it out into the Fal river. I know from older residents of the area that there is a historic pathway that runs parallel to the railway line. Now also blocked by landowners, unaware, or dispassionate to the ancient highways.
The maxim, ‘Once a highway, always a highway,’ drives my resolution.
I can see the remnants of the old path on the ground, on the other side of the undergrowth. There is a small gap between two gorse bushes. I take the opportunity to brush between them, thorns snagging my ankles. I’m in a small copse of adolescent oaks, competing with holly and hazel for sunlight. The older path continues for fifty yards, but is soon obscured, lost to the vegetation. I cannot find a way through.
The original thrill of civil disobedience, transgressing the boundaries of private possession, is replaced with frustration. My path is blocked. There is no way through this enclosure of holly and brambles.
Allowing these ancient highways to become overgrown, and impassable, ensures they fall out of use. Many ancient pathways were abandoned after the Enclosure Acts, as the folk who travelled them were forced off the land and into urban industrialised employment. To legally restore a right of way, you must prove the route has been in use for at least twenty years.
After the National Parks Act of 1949, our rights of way were enshrined in law with the creation of definitive maps. Local councils surveyed and recorded pathways as bridleways, byways and footpaths. However, not all ancient routes were recorded correctly. Many went unrecorded due to landowner objections and a subsequent lack of funding for revisions.
If an ancient pathway is not recorded on the definitive map, it can still be a right of way. There may be evidence for rights that have been accrued by historic usage. If you can prove the route has been in use for over twenty years, gather historical map evidence and user statements, you can submit a definitive map modification order (DMMO) to your local council. However, this is a very long process, requiring research, mountains of bureaucracy, knowledge of local history, and rights of way legislation. The British Horse Society, and the Ramblers Association, are two organisations championing this process, arming members of the public with the knowledge needed to attempt a DMMO submission. This is particularly urgent in the face of a January 2031 cut off point for these ancient routes to be recorded and enshrined in law as rights of way. After this deadline these pathways will be extinguished, lost to the public forever, sequestered by private landowners.
Public access to the countryside is a pernicious issue in England. Half the land belongs to just 1% of the population. Our official rights of way comprise 144,000 miles of paths (half that of a hundred years ago), which accounts for just 0.3% of the landmass. It is estimated around a quarter of our rights of way are currently blocked by landowners. Underfunded councils are struggling to commit the resources to hold the obstructors to account.
Unlike Scotland, here in England we only have the right to roam, the right to open access, on 8% of our land. Many only have access to narrow delineated routes - some not even that. Left to explore our countryside in narrow lines, behind fences and barbed wire. Where is the adventure in that? How can people truly experience the land and build a meaningful relationship with it under such restrictions?
It is vital that we become active protectors of our rights of way, ancient pathways and common land. To maintain and open access to the countryside. To uphold the human right to immerse ourselves in nature and walk in the steps of our ancestors. We cannot let this become a pastime only for the privileged few. Historically we have seen our natural rights eroded, our country annexed off from us. If we are caught sleeping on this, we will wake to a trapped, sick and ailing society. Access to nature is essential for our health and wellbeing.
I return to the common land, frustrated but grateful. I have access to rights of way and open spaces. I can sit and watch the birds of prey circling over the heathland. I can fill my lungs with fresh, clean air. I can name the trees and shrubs with familiarity. I can cherish solitude in a wild space. All within cycling distance from my home. I am privileged. Many in England do not have these opportunities.
Despite the dead end to my roaming, I have achieved something today. These ancient pathways, once open to all, can be claimed and annexed by private concerns if they are not regularly traversed by common foot, hoof or wheel. I stake our claim with my presence.
Amy Tryphena is a Cornish writer, living in west Cornwall. She is currently studying for a BA in creative writing with Falmouth University. Previously published in Literally Stories, she enjoys writing short fiction, as well as nature and place non-fiction. Amy also has a mental health blog. She can be found on X at @RealKernow and @bipolarroughguide on Instagram.