St. Ives, Cornwall

Negative Ritual | April 2025

The sky over St. Ives split in layers—slate grey clouds bruised with violet, shifting like smoke over the sea. I arrived beneath a low tide and a higher pull. This town isn’t just light and coastline. There’s something else humming beneath the cobbles and behind the salt-stained walls.

As I stepped onto Porthmeor Beach, I felt the drag in my gut—a familiar weight, like being watched by the sea itself. The wind carried whispers that weren’t wind. I walked to the far rocks, the ones tourists avoid. There, I found circles of broken shells, almost deliberate, like offerings. The sand was cold even under the midday sun. I pressed my hand to the surface, and it was like touching the skin of something dreaming beneath.

Later, I wandered to the back alleys near the old fisherman’s chapel. That’s where it got strange. My camera wouldn’t focus properly. Blurs formed in the corners—misty figures that evaporated when I turned. I wasn’t scared. It felt like a welcome, in the way only the old dead can welcome. I shot three rolls of black and white, each image taken with breath held. I haven’t developed them yet. I’m not sure I want to know what shows up.

One place pulled the hardest: the overgrown path behind the Barbara Hepworth garden. There's a stone there. Not listed on any map. Smooth, dark, warm to the touch. A pivot point. I stayed there until dusk, just listening.

The energy in St. Ives isn’t loud. It’s subtle. A slow tide, ancient and humming low. It finds you when you’re still. It asks questions in a language you don’t know you understand. I left with salt on my skin, sand in my boots, and a dozen unanswered invitations echoing behind my eyes.

I’ll be back. Something buried still wants to be seen.

— Negative Ritual