A basin of bog—also once a lake—exists at Redmire, and near it is a small circle of upright stones.
I was as near lost as might be in this bog in 1891.
The Ordnance Survey Office had sent down an
official to go over and correct the map of this
district, and I was with him. When dusk set in we
started for Five Lanes, and lost our way. We both
got into Redmire, and had to trip along warily from
one apparently firm spot to another. The winter
and summer had been unusually wet, and the marsh
was brimming with water. Six bullocks had already
been lost in it that year.
All at once I sank above my waist, and was being sucked further down. I cried to my companion, but in the darkness he could not see me, and had he seen me he could have done nothing for me. The water finally reached my armpits. Happily I had a stout bamboo, some six feet long, and I placed this athwart the surface and held it with my arms as far expanded as possible. By jerks I gradually succeeded in lifting myself and throwing my body forward, till finally I was able to cast myself full length on the surface. The suction had been so great as to tear the leather gaiters I wore off my legs. I lay full length gasping for nearly a quarter of an hour before I had breath and strength to advance, and then wormed myself along on my breast till I reached dry land.
Some of the Cornish bogs are far worse than those on Dartmoor. Crowdy is particularly ugly and dangerous. In a dry summer they may, however, be traversed, as the surface becomes caked.
