Long ago, in the days of smugglers and pirates, there was a legend among the Cornish folk 芒?? the legend of the Crusty Juggler. In the pubs and inns across the county, sailors would tell tale of a man in rags atop the treacherous rocks of the coastline, juggling lengths of flaming driftwood with his salt-encrusted hands. Accounts varied but all agreed on one thing: once you saw the Juggler, you were hell-bound for the rocks!
But despite what many thought, the Juggler wasn芒??t out for blood, nor was he interested in gold, what he craved lay in barrels deep in the belly of the ships that he wrecked: the finest rum slowly-aged, smuggled from the Caribbean.
Over the years, the stories faded into legend, the legend faded into myth. But among a select few the spirit of the Crusty Juggler lives on. Some say that even now, on a stormy night when the fog rolls in and conditions are just right, you can still see his flaming driftwood rising and falling in the dark, atop the jagged rocks芒?娄
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