Latest Folklore

The site is called the Market Knowe because Longforgan’s market was held here, certainly as far back as 1633.

If you see a raven when you visit the Clumps, keep your eye on it. It’s said to be the guardian of a huge treasure, at a place called ‘The Money Pit’. But I expect it’ll be too wiley to give away the exact spot.

The poem tree that Riotgibbon mentions is a beech (the beech plantation clumps were created in the 1740s, by the Dunch family – hence the rather disrespectful name ‘Mother Dunch’s Buttocks’). As young vandals everywhere will recognise, beeches have ideally smooth bark for carving graffiti into, and it persists for years, becoming more and more distorted as the tree grows. Apparently the tree died in the 1990s but some of the trunk still stands. In 1994 a plaque was put up to commemorate the 150th anniversary of the poem, and it has on it a tracing of the poem that was taken in 1965, when it was a bit more legible. (see northmoortrust.co.uk/home/countryside/nature_reserve/past_land_use for more)

Further to what Rhiannon says below, Ulric was the commander-in-chief of a band of Viking raiders under Olaf Tryggvenson who were defeated by the Scots in a battle here in 968 CE. Legend has it Olaf is buried nearby under Dun Aula at Barbreck House, futher down Gleann Domhain.

A traveller was once lost on the Downs and was worried he wouldn’t get safely to a village or town before it got dark. He met some shepherds sitting on the mound and asked them the way to Lambourn. The first man said nothing but just nodded his head in a particular direction. The second went to the trouble of raising one finger (not like that – politely) and pointing in the same direction. The third shepherd stirred himself enough to vaguely wave a toe. And lo, the place was consequently named Idle Tump. Despite being a pretty ridiculous story it does include your classic ‘three times’ motif. And it could indeed have been a place where shepherds would have a bit of a kip.

This story is mentioned by Alfred Williams in his ‘Villages of the White Horse’ (1913).

Another tale claims the bushes and trees on the barrow are too lazy to grow properly. “About 1800 some trees were planted on it which would not grow on account of the bleak situation,” claimed Grinsell’s mysterious source in ‘Ancient Burial Mounds of England’ (1936). This seems a very dull explanation to me. You’ll have to go and look yourself to judge the truth of this one.

David Nash Ford has suggested here
https://www.berkshirehistory.com/legends/smithy02.html
that the ‘idle’ actually derives from the meaning ‘empty’, implying that the barrow was unsuccessfully dug into for treasure in the dim and distant past.

Also, as mentioned by wysefool below, the mound was known in Saxon times as Hawk’s Low, but also apparently as Wade’s Barrow (’Weardaes Beorh’): Wade being Wayland’s father. So it seems that the mythic landscape that included Wayland’s Smithy spread further out, and perhaps there were other local places that were part of the stories too.

Those wishing to squeeze some fairies into the equation (that’ll be me) will be able to get some mileage from this:

As many as a dozen or moor horses run, and they started from Idle’s Bush, which wur a vine owld tharnin’-tree in thay days – a very nice bush.

Because fairies do like a good thorn tree. From The Scouring of the White Horse, by Thomas Hughes (1859).

If the dodgy stonework isn’t enough to put you off entering the cairn, perhaps this story from Martin McCarthy’s Ancient Scotland site will be.

There is a tale of a visitor to this tomb who squeezed his way in with great effort, and then exitted with much greater speed and skill after--so he says--something kicked him in the kidneys. Yes, it’s a stupid superstitious story; but after visiting the tomb you can’t help but wonder....

Katy Jordan describes her spooky experiences on the Beckhampton to Devizes road in her book ‘The Haunted Landscape’:

At one time I used to travel this road quite often at night, and after passing the Beckhampton roundabout I would usually start to feel uneasy, as if there was something in the car behind me, and I would find myself looking in the mirror to check. This feeling of uneasiness would not lift until I crossed Wansdyke, and for some reason I always associated it with the round barrows in the area. Quite recently, and without knowing of my experience here, my friend Alison Borthwick told me that she often hears people calling to each other on just this section of road.

I’m posting this as folklore as much as to see if anyone can confirm the tale, else it’s in danger of becoming newly minted ‘folklore for the future’, at least in Tyneside.

During the great storm of 1987, when trees all over England were toppled by sudden great winds (the storm the Met Office didn’t predict), many of the trees surrounding Wayland’s Smithy were uprooted. However, none of them fell inwards, thus protecting the barrow from damage.

Is this true? and if so, is there a nice tidy rational explanation, possibly to do with air pressure or soil density, that doesn’t require the invocation of protective tree spirits?

Prehistoric sites are often misattributed to the Romans (British history started with the Romans, didn’t it???) – and Figsbury Ring is one of those sites. It has been known as Chlorus’s Camp. Chlorus (the pale) was the nickname of Flavius Julius Constantius, who was sent over to sort out the unruly natives of Britain. It does seem rather an unlikely name for an ordinary person to think up, so I rather suspect it was the bright idea of some erudite middle-class antiquarian in the 18th or 19th century??

You know how when you pop past Stonehenge and you don’t want to pay, you stand there pressing your nose to the fence at the Heel Stone? Well, the recumbent stone you can also see between you and the main circle is known as the Slaughter Stone. Katy Jordan records this story in her book ‘The Haunted Landscape’. It was told to the folklorist Theo Brown by T C Lethbridge.

A vicar he knew accompanied a small party there for a couple of days. The first day they wandered round the stones till they came upon the so-called Slaughter Stone. Here they paused, until a small dog in the party sat down and howled dismally. The next day they returned to the same spot and the dog repeated its performance. Everyone was most impressed and told Mr Lethbridge about it later. ‘The dog knew,’ they said.

Lethbridge had been very amused by this tale, because the stone’s name is simply a piece of romantic supposition, and there is no evidence that the stone has ever had any sacrificial function. His interpretation of the event was that the dog had sensed the mood of the people as they looked at this ‘site of slaughter’ and had howled in response to their unease.

Naturally you would assume that once upon a time a great battle was fought here – that was certainly the current story recorded by Ella Noyes in 1913 (and quoted in Katy Jordan’s ‘The Haunted Landscape’ (2000)). There are indeed many camps around here, and battles have no doubt been fought (eg at Bratton) but Jordan supports the idea that the name originally came from the name Paettel – it’s the burh of Paettel or ‘Paettel’sburh’ – and has gradually been changed over the years.

Katy Jordan includes the following story in her ‘Haunted Landscape’ book. It’s rather like the story of St Dunstan, who pinches the devil’s nose with his red-hot blacksmith’s pincers. Remember, the line of the blacksmith goes back to the awesome way skilled people could create metal objects out of rocks. And don’t forget, if you’ve got a bit of iron in your pocket you’ll be safe from the fairies at the very least.

Many years ago there lived at St Edith’s Marsh, Bromham, a blacksmith whom the Devil was very anxious to convert for his purposes. The unfortunate thing was that all his envoys, the devilkins, could not win the blacksmith over. As a last resort the Devil called on the blacksmith at his forge in the shape of a very well-dressed gentleman. The blacksmith recognised him, however, and clapped the red-hot horseshoe he was making onto the heel of the Devil, causing him to jump into the air. Legend says that he landed on Roundway Hill, at the spot still known as the Devil’s Jump. As a result of this experience the Devil does not like the shape of the horseshoe and will always avoid it. Thus many people nail a horseshoe over the door of their house to keep this evil one away.

Gallibury Hump is the most conspicuous of the barrows on Brightstone Down – in fact, at three metres high it’s probably the biggest round barrow on the Isle of Wight. According to Dyer’s ‘Southern England’ it’s largely composed of flints.

Sir John Oglander described it in 1640 as being “where ye ffrench weare buried, being overcome theyre in a battayle” – hence neatly explaining its purpose and name in one.

Dyer however backs the explanation that a gallows probably stood on it.

From the Second Statistical Account:

“Close by the road leading from the church to Menzion House, there are the remains of a Druidical temple or Pictish court of justice. Only one stone is left of a number similar in appearance and size which stood together, and which have been removed for the purpose of dike- building, &c. It is called the Standing Stone, and is five feet above the surface of the earth. From behind it, a person of diminutive stature, known by the name of Little John, discharged an arrow at the head of a freebooter of formidable dimension who greatly annoyed the peaceful inhabitants, and who, though on the opposite side of the Tweed, was unable to elude the deadly stroke.”

The Down on which the barrow sits is called Julliberrie Down. Would it be beyond all likelihood that it’s got something to do with berries? Perhaps that’s far too simple.

It is said that it was here the Ancient Britons stood against the Tenth Legion and kicked their behinds so they had to return to the continent (as you can read at Peter Blanche’s ‘Kent Resources’ page at digiserve.com/peter/chilham.htm)

Another explanation is that the mound is the grave of a giant called Julaber (so says Grinsell in his 1936 ‘Ancient Burial Mounds of England’).

THE BALLAD OF THE WHITE HORSE.

“The owld White Horse wants zettin’ to rights;
And the squire hev promised good cheer,
Zo we’ll gee un a scrape to kip ‘un in shape,
And a’ll last for many a year.

A was made a long, long time ago,
Wi’ a dale o’ labour and pains,
By King Alfred the Great when he spwiled their consate,
And caddled thay wosberds the Danes.

The Bleawin Stwun, in days gone by,
Wur King Arthur’s bugle harn,
And the tharnin tree you med plainly zee,
As is called King Alfred’s tharn.

There’ll be backsword play and climmin the powl,
And a race for a pig and a cheese;
And us thinks as hisn’s a dummel sowl
As dwoan’t care for zich spwoarts as these.”

from Thomas Hughes’s 1859 book ‘The Scouring of the White Horse’.

Celia Hadon suggests that the stones at this barrow may be ‘running stones’:

This is no 14 in Old Stones of the Cotswolds by D.P. Sullivan (Reardon). These may be the hoar stones of which it is said that they run round the field when they hear the nearby church clock strike the hour.

Celia Hadon describes the Long Stone at Staunton on her web site and recounts a legend about the stone:

Tradition says that if it is pricked by a pin on the dot of midnight, it bleeds.

Not the most original folk tale, but interesting none the less. [An older citing is Alfred Watkins’ classic ‘Old Straight Track’ of 1925].

Tales recorded in the 19th century, but possibly of much older origin, mention the “dwarf-like inhabitants of the darker recesses of the hill”.

These entities are known collectively as the ‘Duergar’, a term which is allegedly confined to Simonside. The Duegar apparently were serious tricksters, with a penchant for leading the unwary over precipices in the mist.

See references to the writings of D.D. Dixon in Paul Frodsham’s ‘Archaeology in the Northumberland National Park’ CBA, 2004.
ISBN 1-902771-38-9

This site is where the last witch in Scotland was burnt according to local legend. The nearby village of Spott was notorious for its witches in the 17th and early 18th centuries and this stone is placed near the spot where Marion Lillie, the Ringwoodie Witch, was burnt about 1698.

Legend has it that St. Triduana was one of a group of holy nuns who accompanied St. Regulas to Scotland from Constantinople as early as 337 AD. They brought with them relics of St. Andrew. Her beauty, and especially her exquisite eyes attracted the attention of the Pictish King Nectan. Triduana wasn’t keen on the attention and asked Nectan what is was about her that he loved. On being told it was her eyes she gouged them out and presented them to Nectan on a thorn. Nice!

Wychbury was one of those places you dared not visit after dark if you were brought up round there. The Yew trees are some of the most impressive I have ever seen and we were told (as kids) that they were associated with some tremendous battle on or near the fort. The nearby site of St Kenelm’s is well worth a visit. There is some evidence that the flat topped hill at the end of the Clent range (which is above the spring and well) is a Lammas hill. There was an autumn fayre held right on the top of it until the end of the 19thc, always taking place on the first weekend of August.

Beacon Hill is topped by a univallate hillfort – the only one of its type in Leicestershire. It probably dates from the late Bronze Age / early Iron Age. In 1858 a late Bronze Age founder’s hoard was discovered, including two spearheads and a socketed axe. An axe mould and a bronze bracelet were also found on the hill, which hasn’t been systematically excavated (info from the SMR on Magic).

Its name suggests it was once used for lighting signalling fires – or maybe, being the second highest hill in the county, it is a pretty conspicuous beacon in itself.

Janet and Colin Bord say in ‘Mysterious Britain’ that the fort is haunted by a monk accompanied by a dog. ‘Surely a dogwalker in a big coat,’ I hear you cynically mutter. However, the monk is said to have a ‘skeletal face’ – spooky.

The Gaelic form of Dundee is Dùn Dèagh – ‘the fort of Daig’. Daig was a fairly uncommon Irish name meaning fire. However, Conall Corc, the legendary King of Munster, was exiled in Scotland in the 5th century, and one of his sons was named Daig.

Local folklore tells this tale; The farmer decided to remove the stones and, one summer’s day, set out to do just that. The sky was clear as he drove his tractor to the field. As he neared the stones, however, clouds were beginning to gather, but he carried on, intent on his task. By the time he had hooked up the chains it was quite dark. Climbing up into his tractor, he reached for the ignition key, at which point the storm broke overhead, and a bolt of lightning struck the stone. Taking the hint, the farmer quickly undid the chains and took off for home. Nobody has tried to move the stones since. The product of fertile local imagination? Maybe, but this story is told in hushed tones, and does show the sense of mystery that this circle imbues on us simple, country folk.

Collinson also suggested:

“It undoubtedly is one of the noblest sepulchres of the kind in Great Britain; and probably contains the fragments of many brave chieftains, whome some fatal battle near the spot forbad to revisit their natal country.”

As so often, here is the pervasive idea that ‘foreigners’ built the tombs (and only foreigners could have built such tombs).

He also says:

“The field in which this barrow stands has from time immemorial been called the Fairy field; and the common people say that strange noises have been heard underneath the hill, and visions, portentous to children, have been seen waving in the thickets that crown its summit.”

Well, at least the inhabitants sound friendly.