My spooky stay at Cornwall’s most haunted inn

Nestled on the moors of Bodmin is a location that looks like you’ve stepped back in time, to a period where smugglers and horse-drawn carriages would have frequented and superstitions ran amok.

The place I speak of is the Jamaica Inn, in Launceston. Built in 1776, the inn is situated between the towns of Launceston and Bodmin and was the perfect stopping point for rum smugglers due to the lack of law enforcement in the region.

I had the opportunity to take a few days to myself and headed down to North Cornwall. As a folk practitioner with an interest in the paranormal, I decided to stay at Jamaica Inn for a few nights, seeing as it was a central location to where I needed to be for my stay. However, my stay turned into an experience that I wouldn’t be forgetting anytime soon.

The Jamaica Inn has a deep, rich history when it comes to smugglers, trade routes, and travellers’ rest. In more modern times, it became famous due to Daphne Du Maurier’s bestselling novel named ‘Jamaica Inn’. It is also a location that not only attracts a lot of passing tourism but also avid paranormal investigators. And yes, you’d be right in thinking that this spot is known for its hauntings.

On arrival at the Inn, I was greeted by a lovely receptionist who gave me a short tour of the hotel and showed me to my room. I had checked into Room 7; for a single room, it is generously spaced with everything needed and a view of the courtyard that seemed very fitting for my visit.

My first evening, I went down to the restaurant and enjoyed my meal. Everything seemed calm, nothing untoward. But as I was sitting sipping my tea after eating, I heard a female voice right behind me asking, “How was your meal?” I answered all was good as I turned around, but no one was standing there. In fact, there were no waitresses around or nearby. I took a moment but then shrugged this off and headed back towards my room.

Whether or not you believe in the paranormal or spirits, if something was there and wanted to communicate, I am open and inviting. After all, there is a lot that we do not know about the afterlife.

Curling up in the window space of my room, with the window ajar and curtains open to enjoy the fresh Cornish air, I pulled out my journal and began to jot down a few thoughts from that day.

As I was doing this, I had an overwhelming feeling that someone was stroking the right-hand side of my head, stroking my hair to be exact. Any other person would have likely jumped up and run, but I’m not any other person, so I rolled with it. This is something that carried on throughout the night; I would wake up to the sensation that my hair was being stroked and only on the right-hand side of my head. I didn’t feel anything uninviting or off about this; in fact, it felt like I was being comforted for some weird reason.

I was situated in room 7 of the Jamaica Inn, which is part of the original building. Outside the bedroom door is a hallway door that would bang through the day due to people walking through, which is fine. However, around 10:30 pm, I went out to the hallway to wedge the swinging door open as the noise would interrupt my sleep. As I walked out into the corridor and opened that specific door, a black cat randomly appeared a few feet in front of me and ran down the hallway.

Now, being me, I followed because the door to the stairwell was closed, and the cat wasn’t going to be able to leave. I walked along the corridor, and no other doors were open, the windows were closed, and that black cat I had seen a few minutes before had disappeared. It bewildered me for a minute, but again, I walked up the corridor to make sure it wasn’t stuck anywhere, and yet there was no cat to be found.

Once I was sure that there was no physical cat there, I went back to my room and brushed it off. Around midnight, I woke up to someone gently knocking at my bedroom door, but no one was there. The knocking happened again just after 3 am and again the following night near enough around the same times as the previous night.

In the morning, I woke up early and headed off to Tintagel and then later visited Boscastle to visit the Museum of Witchcraft and Magic. This is where things started to get interesting.

Walking along the river Valency, I came across an older gentleman who was fundraising for a local charity. I walked past him and wished him well, and he tipped his hat and gave me a warming smile. I spent around an hour and a half in the museum and, upon leaving, walked back up along the river. Approaching the charity collector, my attention was elsewhere, but I took some change out of my bag and headed towards him to donate what I had.

As I looked up, the man wasn’t there but an older lady now. She stood around 5’4″, slim elongated face, prominent cheekbones, a slightly long nose, and her hair was jaw-length grey and effortlessly messy, definitely wasn’t the 6ft man that I had previously seen. I was stood a good 7 meters away but looked at her for a few seconds, and she gave me a warm smile. I walked over quickly, dropped my change into the box, and as I looked up, the grey-haired lady had vanished, and the older gentleman was there. I was taken aback; he again tipped his hat at me and wished me farewell.

I had gone down to Cornwall to reenergize myself and to recenter myself. When daily life becomes stressful, which it has been for many since 2020, it’s important to take the much-needed you time, and this is what my trip was about. A time out for me and to reconnect with not only myself but my folk practice.

On my way back from Boscastle, I stopped at a quiet cove and stood in the sea, taking everything in and letting go of what I needed to. Water is renewing, connecting, cleansing, healing, and ironically, it’s also a grounding force. Then I headed back to the Jamaica Inn, driving myself along the coast, down the country lanes and across the moors. Really, you are only a 20-minute drive from the sandy beaches of north Cornwall.

I had been out for the whole day from 7:30 am until 4:30 pm, and I was needing a coffee to give me a little kick. Heading into the bar of the Jamaica Inn, I was greeted by a young tall dark-haired man, and I asked for a coffee. After a few minutes, my coffee was handed to me at the counter, and I looked up from taking my purse out of my bag. My heart stopped! I saw the same grey-haired lady that I had seen in Boscastle; again, she was smiling at me warmly.

With that, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, only to hear the barman ask if I was okay. Opening my eyes, the lady had vanished, and I was back to facing the young gentleman who was serving me. I told him I was good, just tired, took my coffee outside to the courtyard, and relaxed. I couldn’t place who this older grey-haired lady was; I didn’t recognise her, and even now thinking back, I still couldn’t place who she was.

As the evening set in, so did a storm. I got myself comfortable in my room, left the bedroom curtains open but had the net curtains drawn shut. I fell asleep early but woke up around 11 pm to use the toilet. As I came out of the bathroom, I noticed that the net curtains, which were closed when I went to bed, were wide open when I had woken up, and I couldn’t work out a rational reason why that would be; the windows were closed. I went to look out the window, and a dense thick fog had descended. I couldn’t see further than 4ft past my window. It was an eerie night but somewhat peaceful (despite the random door knocking).

In folklore, it was believed that come sunset, you would stay within your homes and light your hearths for protection, as the fog rolled in across the moors, so did the wild hunt, and you didn’t want to be caught outside in the wild hunt for fear of what could happen to you. I closed the net curtains and went back to bed. These net curtains stayed firmly shut for the rest of my stay.

On my third night, it was still stormy weather, but the rain had come to a stop by evening. Around 9 pm, I went out to my car to get something, but as I walked around the corner of the Inn and into the car park, I saw a woman standing on the grass verge that looked over the rolling hills. She wasn’t in modern-day clothing. If I was to put a period of dress on her, it would be the 1930s. She had stopped me in my tracks. I walked closer, or I tried to, but the moment my attention diverted to a car driving by, the apparition of the lady had vanished.

The next morning, I got myself ready, packed my bags, said my farewell to the Jamaica Inn, and started on my 4-hour drive home.

I’d like to think that I am a rational thinker, and I can usually find an explanation for certain experiences that I have had, but at the Jamaica Inn my experiences left me with more questions than answers.

Something tells me that I will be repaying the Jamaica Inn a visit, very soon.

@Josephine_Witch