Latest Posts — Folklore

The Dog.

Mrs Pembro, of Bridgnorth, remembers her mother telling her a story about Titterstone Clee. Her mother was born on Titterstone Clee and one day, when she was a child of about eight or nine, she was walking, with her sister, to her uncle's house, which was about five or six miles from her home. On their journey back home it was dark. They met a huge black dog. The thing they most remembered about it was the beautiful red and green collar with jewels on it which it was wearing. They thought about approaching the dog but it would not let them go near it. Then, suddenly, it disappeared.

They mentioned the dog to their family but nothing else was said about the incident until the children were grown up. Their father then revealed that someone had been murdered at that spot and other people had seen the dog.

So far as I can make out, for I have been unable to refer to the original, Hollinshed in his Chronicle came to the conclusion that these stones were erected as memorials to the Scots who fell in a skirmish with the two Percies and their followers at Grindonmarsh in the year 1558; and this rather strange opinion has been copied from one book to another, down almost to the present time; though how those useful persons who compile county histories, and so forth, have been able to reconcile the deep weathering to which these stones have been subjected with so comparatively recent a date as 1558 (to say nothing of the further anomaly of funeral monoliths in Tudor times) it is difficulty to see. The probability is, however, that these good people have never seen the stones in question, for even Kelly's Directory of Northumberland for 1902 seems to be unaware of the existence of the fifth stone in this group.

Tradition, however, gives an even more interesting origin for the Duddo cromlech. Among the field workers on the neighbouring farm of Grindon it is, or used recently to be, told that these stones are five men who not so very long ago - for tradition pays no regard to such trifles as a matter of centuries, and, as Chesterton says, it is the essence of a legend to be vague - brought down divine vengeance on themselves by godless behaviour which had culminated one day in going out into the fields and singling, or thinning out, a crop of turnips on the Sabbath.

Not merely were they turned into stones as they stood together on the top of the little eminence in the field where they were working, becoming a memorial for all time, somewhat after the manner of Lot's wife, but the ringleader in this desecration was knocked flat on his back, where he lies to the present day. And if you don't believe it, go and look for yourself and you'll see the cording of their trousers running in stripes down the stones!

At Grievestead farm, alongside Grindon, this tale is told too; but there they were sheep shearers who were turned into stone for working Sunday.

Pembrokeshire - in common with several other districts in Great Britain and Ireland - possesses a good phantom coach legend, localised in the southern part of the county, at a place where four roads meet, called Sampson Cross.

In old days, the belated farmer, driving home in his gig from market, was apt to cast a nervous glance over his shoulder as his pony slowly climbed the last steep pitch leading up to the Cross. For he remembered the story connected with that dark bit of road, that told how every night a certain Lady Z. (who lived in the seventeenth century, and whose monument is in the church close by) drives over from Tenby, ten miles distant, in a coach drawn by headless horses, guided by a headless coachman. She also has no head; and arriving by midnight at Sampson Cross, the whole equipage is said to disappear in a flame of fire, with a loud noise of explosion.

A clergyman living in the immediate neighbourhood, who told me the story, said that some people believed the ghostly traveller had been safely "laid" many years ago, in the waters of a lake not far distant. He added, however that might be, it was an odd fact that his sedate and elderly cob, when driven past the Cross after nightfall, would invariably start as if frightened there, a thing which never happened by daylight.

There is one institution connected with Dartmoor that must not be passed over - Bellever Day. When hare-hunting is over in the low country, then, some week or two after Easter, the packs that surround Dartmoor assemble on it, and a week is given up to hare-hunting. On the last day, Friday, there is a grand gathering on Bellever Tor.

All the towns and villages neighbouring on Dartmoor send out carriages, traps, carts, riders; the roads are full of men and women, ay, and children hurrying to Bellever.

Little girls with their baskets stuffed with saffron cake for lunch desert school and trudge to the tor. Ladies go out with champagne luncheons ready. Whether a hare be found and coursed that day matters little. It is given up to merriment in the fresh air and sparkling sun.

And the roads that lead from Bellever in the afternon are careered over by riders, whose horses are so exhilerated that they race, and the riders have a difficulty in keeping their seats. Their faces are red, not those of the horses, but their riders - from the sun and air - and they are so averse to leave the moor, that they sometimes desert their saddles to roll on the soft and springy turf.

... Craigshowe cave was at length reached. Some recent visitors assured us that the cave had no end, and that they had been told that it took a turn and came out at Loch Lundy on the other side of the hill.

Going in as far as we could without stooping, the rock dipped downward, and there seemed nothing but black darkness beyond; and over us came a creepy feeling lest we should be disturbing some sleeping goblin or fairy within its depths. However, doubling ourselves until our heads and knees almost met, a few yards' crawling enabled us to pass the turn and stand once more, while behind us was the light trying to pierce the gloom. A matchbox proved a handy companion, but, do what we could, the matches would not burn, but flickered and died out almost immediately, and even the attempts to obtain light by igniting the matchbox failed, so damp was the atmosphere. We managed, however, to see that we were at the end of the cave, and that the water was trickling very slowly from the rocky ceiling.

Returning to the beach, we inspected the well at the mouth of the cave, into which the water is said to fall at the rate of one drop a minute. This well is also stated to possess virtues which are said to have been proved by visitors who suffer from deafness, and instances are given where the observance of the rites have resulted in an absolute relief to the victims of this most trying complaint. One must visit the well at midnight; and, having secured a mussel shell, hold it to the drop until it has been filled, thereafter pouring it into the ear, and - well, faith does the rest.

A few paces from the cave there stands the Wishing Tree, a very flourishing and luxuriant rose tree bristling with thorns. Each visitor to this shrine of hope and fear, if desirous of obtaining some good or ill omen, ties a rag upon one of its branches, and the wish is said to be thereupon granted. It is indeed a curious sight to see the many coloured ribbons fluttering in the breeze, some of them having maybe stood the storm and sunshine more bravely than has done the faint heart that fluttered like a frightened bird as the trembling hands tied firmly to the thorny tree the little bit of gay ribbon that a minute before may have adorned the hair of a fair vision, and who may have come there to charm away the evil spirits, because -'My fause lover pa'd the rose; And, ah, he's left the thorn wi' me.'

Then, if it is felt that the tree has not yielded the desired fruit, there remaineth the wishing well, just behind, in a recess of the rock, into which one must drop a penny in order to tempt the fairies to give the donors what they sigh for. Someone must reap the benefit of this simple faith, as the clear depths of the well did not show that even the latest copper had been allowed to rust in fairyland.

Then beside the well there is a large stone, on which are distinctly marked red spots, which are said to be the indelible traces of the blood of a child that was cruelly murdered by its mother.