Latest Folklore

On Caynham Camp, is the site of an ancient Castle, noticed by Leland, who says of it, “Kainsham, or Kensham Castle, clene down, stood within two miles of Ludloe, on a hill top.” “It belonged,” says Camden,“to the Mortimers, and the Church to Wigmore Abbey.” Two fields on the east side are yet called the Castle fields; and immediately below is another in which a deep and wide entrenchment occupies the principal part. Tradition says that this latter was a depository for horses and military stores during the siege of Ludlow Castle, by Cromwell.

On top of the hill, is a bank covered with trees and underwood, and encircling an open space, consisting of six or seven acres. Around this there is a walk, with benches, opposite to which are openings, commanding most delightful prospects, not only of the local beauties of the neighbourhood of Ludlow, but of Malvern Hill, the Black Mountains in Brecknockshire, and other distant objects.

In ‘The history and antiquities of the town of Ludlow and its ancient castle’ by Thomas Wright, 1822.

Whilst visiting this stone I was lucky enough to meet a local lady walking her dog. She came from nearby Pepperhillock and told me two local myths.

The Ford.

This stone was used a marker to lead to another standing stone down on the banks of the River Dee. The stone pointed to a place were the Dee could be crossed. Unfortunately the stone was taken down years ago.

Marriage.

The standing stone at Standingstones farm is known locally as the husband. Slightly to the west is smaller stone known as the wife. It is said that as long as they stand together then the local residents will enjoy many happy days especially if they are married.

(It is aligned to Bennachie.)

So sacred are these stones that, “it is generally averred hereabouts,” writes Aubrey, “that pieces of them putt into their Wells, doe drive away the Toades, with which their wells are much infested, and this course they use still. It is also averred that no Magpye, Toade, or Snake was ever seen here.”

Aubrey quoted in ‘Jottings on some of the objects of interest in the Stonehenge Excursion’ by Edward Stevens (1882), but I will find out the original source.

A ‘fairy-woman’ lived at the Chair of Kildare. Well, she wasn’t actually a fairy, but something like an intermediary who also dealt in herbal medicine, a bit of veterinarianism, seeing the future, that sort of thing. In fact, for once, it wouldn’t seem like new age woo to claim she was a bit like a shaman. Not only could a fairy-woman or man “hold some mysterious sort of communication with the denizens of moats or raths” but they’d been over the Other Side: “In some cases it was rumoured that they had been changelings originally.” Changelings were fairy children who were sickly who had been swapped for your own, obviously bouncing and healthy, baby. With a bit of intervention from someone who knew what they were doing, your child could sometimes be brought back. In truth this would have looked like distancing yourself from your sickly child and leaving it out on a dungheap to die, but in a socially acceptable sort of fashion.

“..as they usually lived a solitary and retired life, no ordinary sare of mystery shrouded their motions. [They] professed a familiar acquaintance with all secrets – past, present and future: the cure of most diseases affecting man and beasts; the discovery and restoration of lost goods; a description and detection of the thief if property had been stolen; fortune-telling, and a knowledge regarding all matters of personal concern; causing cream to produce butter in greater abundance: whilst they often took care to impress.. an opinion that their friendship would be desirable to prevent the certain evil effects of fairy resentment.”

“Within the present century, one of these fairy-women, who was named Moll Anthony, lived near the Red Hills at the Chair of Kildare ... Her reputation as a posessor of supernatural knowledge and divination drew crowds of distant visitors to her daily, and from the most remote parts of Ireland. In various instances they were furnished with a bottle containing some supposed curative liquid, and directed to return homewards without falling asleep on their journey. This bottle was filled with water, darkly coloured by a decoction of herbs, gathered with certain incantations near a rath that afforded the customary materia medica of fairy-doctors for the cure of a special disease on which consultation was required.”

The author is unimpressed: “The most accomplished and skilful member of the medical faculty seldom received a more remunerative fee for his services on behalf of a patient than the wise woman of the Red Hills pocketed from her credulous dupes.” (I doubt it).

The piece also says: “After the death of Moll Anthony, her daughter followed the same profession, but never enjoyed a like celebrity.”

From ‘The Gentleman’s Magazine Library: English Traditional Lore’ 1868.

While speaking of English stories, I may relate one told to myself and my friend, Mr. J. J. Foster, at Cearne in Dorsetshire. We were questioning a labourer as to the giant figure cut in the turf at that place. He assured us that it was supposed to be the representation of a Danish giant who led an invasion of this coast, and lay on the side of the hill to sleep; while asleep the peasantry tied him down to the ground and cut off his head, and the outline in the turf represents the place where the giant lay. Upon being asked how long ago this was supposed to be, the answer was, “About a hundred years.”

From ‘The Gentleman’s Magazine Library: English Traditional Lore’ 1868.

“THIS point is situated in the parish of Perranuthnoe; the parish, it will be remembered, into which Trelawney escaped, aided by the fleetness of his horse, from the deluge which buried the lands between this and the Scilly Isles.

At the low-water of spring-tides, the children from all the neighbourhood flock to the sands around this point, in the hope of finding treasure, which they believe is buried in the sands beneath the sea, and which is, it is said, occasionally discovered. Amongst other things, an especial search is made for a silver table, which was lost by a very wealthy lord, by some said to be the old Lord Pengerswick, who enriched himself by grinding down the poor. On one occasion, when the calmness of summer, the clearness of the skies, and the tranquillity of the waters invited the luxurious to the enjoyments of the sea, this magnate, with a party of gay and thoughtless friends, was floating in a beautiful boat lazily with the tide, and feasting from numerous luxuries spread on a silver table. Suddenly – no one lived to tell the cause – the boat sank in the calm, transparent waters; and, long after the event, the fishermen would tell of sounds of revelry heard from beneath the waters, and some have said they have seen these wicked ones still seated around the silver table.”

From Popular Romances of the West of England collected and edited by Robert Hunt, p.213 1st Edition 1865

A slightly different version, from Ruth Tongue’s ‘Somerset Folklore’, and heard from a gardener in Corfe. The ‘Digital Digging’ website confirms that the site is known as ‘Castle Rache’ locally, with the topmost bit being ‘the Beacon’.

There was a vast treasure hidden on Castle Rach, and it was guarded by devils; but the men of Corfe were both valiant and poor and they determined to dig it up. They went to the priest and he promised to come with them, bringing some salt and holy water. The church bells were rung to drive away the devils and the digging began. It was highly successful. So vast a treasure did their spades uncover that one man swore in sheer surprise. At once the chest sank out of sight, the devils came back and every man, including the priest, died within a year.

Roby concocts a complicated story in ‘Popular Traditions of Lancashire‘ (1843). You can’t help thinking you’d be better off waiting for the film version. But I’ll try to summarise.

The story starts off with three rich men out riding with their servants. One of them is a Pilkington, from Rivington Hall. An awful storm blew up, and they decided to shelter / watch it from the tower on Rivington Pike. Amidst the eldritch thunder and lightning they heard a bang on the door – all the dogs cowered but one of the men, Norton, opened the door (cue creaky hinge noises). Outside was revealed the silhouette of a gigantic dark-dressed figure wearing a low browed hat, sat on a horse. Everyone else was scared to death, but Norton seemed to recognise the stranger – ‘it’s my uncle, who disappeared twelve years this very night’. Whaat? Everyone else looked on in confusion as he galloped off with the terrifying figure.

Pilkington was weighing up whether to follow his friend, but one of the servants warned against it.. the Spectre Horseman.. it must be ten, no, twelve years since my father encountered him.. he went out poaching, it was the same night as tonight, St. Bartlemy’s Eve. The dogs came back without him, they stank. I went out to look for him, I was terrified he’d got stuck in a bog. I had no luck, I returned for the dogs, but then my father turned up at the house in a right state – ‘I’ve seen th’ ould one’.. A man on a black horse had stopped him on the moor – “Can’st thou show me to the Two Lads?” he said. ‘My father began to wonder what this unlikely thing could want there at the Two Lads, which as you know is on the highest and ugliest part of the whole commoning; a place which is always said to have a bad name sticking to it.‘

Having got there, he was about to leave, but the strange man asked him to stay – ‘Now, lift up that big heap of stones there, and I’ll tell you what to do with them.’ ‘Sir,’ says my father, ‘You are in jest.’ But not a bit of it – the other smacked them with his horse switch, and up they jumped like crows from a corn-field. The dogs started howling and turned for home, and father was left with the Spectre Horseman that was always said to ramble about these hills, sometimes in the air, sometimes on the ground, without ever a footprint. Where the stones had been there was a great gaping hole, and horribly, a great long black arm came thrusting out of it. ‘Take what he gives you!’ came a voice like thunder. But father couldn’t move. ‘Hurry or I shall miss my time!‘

But suddenly there were the sound of steps through the heather and the horseman looked more cheerful – ‘Go, fool, here is one better than thee’, and he kicked the poor man out of the way.

To cut this excessively long story short, Pilkington and the others decided to head up to the Two Lads to see if they could save their friend. They found him in a terrible condition but alive. Norton explained how when the mysterious horseman had turned up, he’d felt under the influence of a dream, convinced that the figure was that of his uncle, who had gone missing long before. The story gets a bit vampirey or bodysnatchers or something, as though the Fiend has to find himself a new body every twelve years. But somehow Norton manages to resist, and the Spectre Horseman appears no more. So you should be safe up there.

But the book suggests that the story’s not entirely newly made up – that The tradition prevalent in the south of Lancashire ... was that a dark gigantic rider, upon a steed of vast dimensions, was wont to traverse in stormy nights the hills of Horwich Moor, and the usual spot of his disappearance [was] one of those monuments which we call Druidical, for want of a better name.

Btw, it seems that St Bartholomew’s day was the day that autumn began. So that’s probably why the devil was in a hurry. But he shouldn’t have left everything to the last minute, should he.
There’s a link at the Darlington and Stockton Times that’s quite interesting.

Strange goings-on (well possibly), at the hillfort, as related by Bamboo at the Fortean Times Message Board.

A long time ago, a band of Scottish raiders arrived in Tanum, and travelled into the Bullarebygden.
On their way back to the shore, they were attacked several times, the first time around the church of Tanum. The survivors fled to the coast, and at Prästmyren, one of the chiefs were buried in Valbrets Grav. The last fight was here at Greby, where the rest of the raiders were killed and buried.

I wonder if these stones (which you can read the details of at Canmore ) have any markings on them. Or perhaps the stone in the story is the nearby Clach A Cholumain. There seem to be plenty of candidates, judging by the photos on Mark Stevens‘ “>‘Scenes and Legends of the North of Scotland’ (1860). It goes on a bit. But it describes this very strange bit of river, which is in a chasm, but the sound of it gets funneled up. The banks were somewhere where ‘no one would choose to walk alone’ – but the lady of the house of Balconie used to walk with her maid there. Though the maid thought she was a bit weird to be honest. One night she freaked the girl out by trying to make her go near the edge. ‘No nearer, ma’am’ squeaked the terrified girl, ‘Strange sights have been seen in the gully after nightfall.. I shall swoon with terror and fall over.‘

But the lady gets really nasty and shrieks ‘Nay wretch there is no escape!’ and drags her towards the chasm.. suddenly there’s a ‘strong masculine voice’ and a dark-looking man in green appears, saying ‘let me accompany you – your surety must be a willing one’. The maid escapes and the lady lets herself be led miserably to the edge.

“She turned round on reaching the precipice, and, untying from her belt a bunch of household keys, flung them up the bank towards the girl; and then, taking what seemed to be a farewell look of the setting sun.. she disappeared with her companion behind the nearer edge of the gulf. The keys struck, in falling, against a huge granitic boulder, and sinking into it as if it were a mass of melted wax, left an impression which is still pointed out to the curious visitor.”

Ten years later a man walked up the stream and found a cave in which he met the lady of Balconie.. but you could read that bit for yourself.

Another version of the stone’s origins:

There is a farm near Wrington called Hailstones Farm, but some folk say it should really be Hurlerstone Farm, on account of the Devil picking up a great rock lying there and throwing it right over the Mendips to hit Cranmore Church. Of course, he missed, but it was a tidy throw even for “the Old Boy”.

Some say it was a giant dropped it or made a bad shot of it. Anyhow, the rock lies on the edge of a cliff in the woods and they call them Hurdlestone Woods. And there is a Giant’s Grave there too.

From Ruth L. Tongue’s 1965 ‘Somerset Folklore’. She heard it in Frome and Cranmore in 1945.

There’s a bridge over the river at the foot of this fort. The following pretty muddled story kind of suggests the fort and the bridge (and a big stone somewhere here too) are all the Devil’s Work:

There were once a curious cat over to Spire, a proper mischievous nuisance that cat were, always poking into anything new. [..] One day he went for a walk and he found Mounsey Castle. “Now who dropped this little lot?” says he. “I must go and see.” Then in the wood-side he come on a gurt stone, twelve foot or more, just dropped there, and he knew he were getting nearer. Then he heard yells of rage, and off he scuttles to see what ‘twas and it were the Devil and Parson, one on each side of the Barle and a new stone bridge atween ‘n. “I’ll have a look-see at that,” says Cat, and downhill he goes.

Says Parson to Devil, “You shan’t have none of my souls be first steps on your bridge. They bain’t going’ Somewhere Else’.”
“You old black crow,” yells Devil.
“If I be a crow,” says Parson, “I bain’t so black as yew!”
And just then puss walk out over on to Tarr Steps, to look it over, no matter if he’d been invited or no. The Devil pounced on ‘n like a lightning flash – and poor Cat goed Somewhere Else quicker than you could think!

The Tarr Steps are some way away, and they’re not really a ‘bridge’ as such (although yeah they’re probably the devil’s work), so they don’t need to be dragged into the story really, when there’s a bridge at hand at Mounsey Castle. The story’s like the one at the Devil’s Bridge near Aberystwyth – but there the Parson tricks the Devil into taking an animal rather than his parishoners: here the animal’s stupid enough to trap himself.

From Ruth Tongue’s ‘Folktales of England’, collected 1963.

The Magic map shows about 15 round barrows in this area. Surely they add to its weirdness and contribute to it featuring in this story:

..the following story [was] taken down by me verbatim from an old woman in the parish of Luffincott in North Devon. I will give it in her own words:--

“There was an old woman lived in Bridgerule parish, and she had a very handsome daughter. One evening a carriage and four drove to the door, and a gentleman stepped out. He was a fine-looking man, and he made some excuse to stay in the cottage talking, and he made love to the maiden, and she was rather taken with him. Then he drove away, but next evening he came again, and it was just the same thing; and he axed the maid if on the third night she would go in the coach with him, and be married. She said Yes; and he made her swear that she would.

“Well, the old mother did not think that all was quite right, so she went to the pars’n of Bridgerule and axed he about it. ‘My dear,’ said he, ‘I reckon it’s the Old Un. Now look y’ here. Take this ‘ere candle, and ax that gen’leman next time he comes to let your Polly alone till this ‘ere candle be burnt out. Then take it, blow it out, and rin along on all your legs to me.‘

“So the old woman took the candle.

“Next night the gen’leman came in his carriage and four, and he went into the cottage and axed the maid to come wi’ he, as she’d sworn and promised. She said, ‘I will, but you must give me a bit o’ time to dress myself.’ He said, ‘I’ll give you till thickey candle be burnt out.‘

“Now, when he had said this, the old woman blew the candle out and rinned away as fast as she could, right on end to Bridgerule, and the pars’n he tooked the can’l and walled it up in the side o’ the church; you can see where it be to this day (it is the rood loft staircase upper door, now walled up). Well, when the gen’leman saw he was done, he got into his carriage and drove away, and he drove till he comed to Affaland Moor, and then all to wance down went the carriage and horses and all into a sort o bog there, and blue flames came up all round where they went down.”

The conversion of a dead lover into the devil is obviously a Christianised modification of a very ancient belief, that the dead do come and claim female companions. In all likelihood there lingered on a tradition of some gentleman having been engulfed in the morass of Affaland.

From his ‘Book of Folklore’ by the excellent Sabine Baring-Gould (1913).

Between [Mullion] and the Lizard is a fine headland, the Rill, and on its summit are a number of loose, rough stones, known as the Apron String, which the country people say were brought here by an evil spirit, who intended to build with them a bridge across to France for the convenience of smugglers. He was hastening along with his load, which he carried in his apron, when one of its strings broke, and in despair he gave up the idea.

From ‘Cornish Folk-Lore’ by M A Courtney, in the Folk-Lore Journal, v5 n1 (1887).

The Statistical Account of 1793 is quite sure that this stone commemorates where the leader of the Danes, Camus, was killed. The writer called upon George Buchanan’s history of Scotland to back him up. That was written in the late 16th century. I decided to look it up and the relevant chapter, about Malcolm II (the Eighty Third king of Scotland, no less) is really quite grippingly written, different armies dashing about, Malcolm being Wounded in the Head, people being discouraged and crest-fallen, but then things turning about and the Danes “flying to the Mountains towards Murray, before [Camus] had gone two miles, was overtaken by the Pursuers, and he and all his Men cut off. There are monuments extant of this Victory, in an Obeliske, and a Neighbouring Village, which as yet retains the Memorable Name of Camus.” There’s some ghastly stuff about Malcolm’s eventual end as well, but I will resist quoting it.

I’m not convinced though, that it particularly refers to this location in Buchanan’s book. But the story is no doubt the same whichever Camus stone you’re at (and there are / were a number of them).

The Fairy Music

THE evil influence of the fairy glance does not kill, but it throws the object into a death-like trance, in which the real body is carried off to some fairy mansion, while a log of wood, or some ugly, deformed creature is left in its place, clothed with the shadow of the stolen form.
Young women, remarkable for beauty, young men, and handsome children, are the chief victims of the fairy stroke. The girls are wedded to fairy chiefs, and the young men to fairy queens; and if the mortal children do not turn out well, they are sent back, and others carried off in their place.
It is sometimes possible, by the spells of a powerful fairy-man, to bring back a living being from Fairy-land. But they are never quite the same after. They have always a spirit-look, especially if they have listened to the fairy music. For the fairy music is soft and low and plaintive, with a fatal charm for mortal ears.

Ancient Legends, Mystic Charms, and Superstitions of Ireland By Lady Francesca Speranza Wilde

A huge collection of folklore and folk-magic from Oscar Wildes’ mother.

View online at Google Books, Sacred-texts Com, or download this collection for your iPhone or iPod.

from A Description of Malvern and its Concomitants – Mary Southall (1882)

Upon the summit of the North Hill, there appears an immense grave, part of which is entire. The narrow part appears to have fallen in. The old inhabitants of Malvern call it the Giant’s Grave. It has a very peculiar appearance. By the side, is the form of a cross...Upon the Table Hill you will perceive the figure of a large table, whence the name is derived. In the centre is a cross, of the same size as that by the Giant’s Grave, upon North Hill.

In ‘Early British Trackways, Moats, Mounds, Camps, and Sites‘ Alfred Watkins states that North Hill is the beginning of a ley line to Pen-y-Beacon via Mathon Church, Moat at Birchend, Stretton Grandison Church, Shucknell Hill, White Stone Chapel, Burcot Pool, Ten Houses Pond and Sugwas Park.

Watkins also believed that the nearby St Ann’s Well was the start of a ley line that passes along the ridge of the Malvern Hills through several wells including the Holy Well, Walms Well and St. Pewtress Well.

The following is taken from Britarch May/June 2010, its parts of a  letter from Lethbridge to the editor of The Times 12/6/36, and he mentions a book written by Bishop Hall in the 18th century.
Its about the giant of course and definitely folklore but he seems to have existed.
Lethbridge also mentions another giant at Oxford.....
All very curious, considering its fairly flat round Cambridge and Oxford not many stones to chuck around.

“A Giant called All Paunch, who was of an incredible Height of Body, not like him whose Picture the Schollers of Cambridge goe to see at Hogmagog Hills, but rather like him that ought the two Aple Teeth which were digged out of a well in Cambridge, that were little less than a man’s head. When I was a boy, about 1724, I remember my father or mother as it happened I went with one or other of them to Cambridge......always used to stop and show me and my brother and sisters the figure of the giant carved on the Turf; concerning whom there were then many traditions, now worn away. What became of the two said teeth I never heard”.

Lethbridge goes on to write that there is an Elizabethan tradition of calling “Knight to Knight come forth” and a giant will come forth and fight you. And it is possible that at this time certain festivities were stopped i.e. fertility rites performed at this figure......

Even people who’ve known the hill all their lives can find it has a strange and unpleasant atmosphere sometimes. Harry Poole’s account is at the Dorset Books website. There’s plenty of reading between the lines that needs to be done.

I thought I knew the Hill and all its moods after half a lifetime of toiling on its steep sides but this was a new facet, one that I had not come across before. The chilly atmosphere had become oppressive and there was something different, something strange, something which took my concentration for a moment. It came between me and the job I was doing and I cannot account for it try as I will. It’s no good saying you should be more careful. I’ve been using edge tools for over fifty years and apart from an accident with a circular saw which was my own fault, nothing like this has happened before...

There are many of his stories on the website about the area. It’s rather nice that you can’t always tell the line between fact, memory and imagination.

In the Cornish language these stones are called ‘Dons Mein’ which mean Dancing Stones or Dance Stones. About 600 yards to the north there are two standing stones about 200 yards from each other, and to the north-west, about 100 yards distant, another stone 8 feet to 10 feet high above ground.

According to an old tale told by the peasants, the two first-mentioned stones whistle, the third plays, and the 19 dance when they hear the cock crow.

From the Swedish ‘industrial spy’ R R Angerstein’s illustrated travel diary 1753-55’ (readable on Google Books).

Morgan’s Hill is so named after a Mr. Morgan of Heddington who murdered his uncle. For this he not only hung but his body was left hanging on the hill top gibbet.

Gibbeting was common law punishment, which a judge could impose in addition to execution. This practice was regularised in England by the Murder Act 1752, which empowered judges to impose this for murder. It was most often used for traitors, murderers, highwaymen, pirates, and sheep-stealers, and was intended to discourage others from committing similar offences.

As was the case with murderers, he was not given a Christian burial in a church yard but what was left of his remains were placed face down and covered with stones. In Morgan’s case, this was somewhere on the parish boundary between Heddington and Bishop Cannings, probably just over the road from Smallgrain Plantation. It would appear that the spot contains several bodies of highwaymen too, but none of the infamous Cherhill Gang who robbed the stagecoaches naked, for none was ever caught.

This tale told to me by the late Mr. Atwell of the motor museum who was shown the very spot while out horse riding “on the same day they buried Winston Churchill”.

The Black Legend

The black legend is the tale of forbidden love, a femme fatale, exposed passion and a multiple murder.
Crafted by a Hollywood icon into a 1940’s silent black and white movie, the story told by a young John Schlesinger and Alan Cooke contains the same sinful mix of ingredients found in such film noir classics like The postman always knocks twice.
Unlike the pulp fiction penned by Raymond Chandler, this eternal triangle of temptation, lust and homicide, was not played out on the backstreets of some depression hit U.S. city, but on top of the highest and most sacred hill on the Wiltshire Berkshire border.

After 333 years of damnation, have the murdered or murderers’ found peace in this ancient landscape?

As with any tale that has become legend, sorting fact from fiction is not straight forward. Many variations on the same theme have grown up and with the script writers hand at work, aspects may have been lost in the mix, added to or completely created. The tale I will now tell may not be the whole story but I shall attempt to be as honest and direct as can be construed.

Travel back in time to a cold winters day in the year 1676, the 23rd of February 1676 to be precise. The place is Winchester Assizes where a farm labourer named George Bromham and a widow named Dorothy Newman are standing trial for murder. The record of the trial is to be found in the Western Circuit Gaol Book for the period XXII-XXIX Charles II, the exact chapter XXVIII Ch.II, is retained in Winchester Library. George Bromham was a farm labourer living in the tiny village of Combe, just below Walbury Hillfort on the edge of Berkshire. He was married to Mrs. Martha Bromham and had a young son, Robert. It would appear that George Bromham had formed some kind of illicit association with the widow Dorothy Newman who lived in the larger village of Inkpen, a few miles over the other side of Walbury Hillfort, in the valley below.

It is not stated how long this relationship had been formed or what brought the two together or even if the relationship was “village gossip”. What is clear is that one dark day in the weeks leading up to the trial, Martha and her son Robert were walking the ancient Wigmoreash Drove which connects Inkpen and Woodhay to the top of Inkpen Beacon and Combe. Either George or both George and Dorothy were lying in wait, and beat Martha and Robert to death with a “staffe”. Whether both committed murder or not, the beaten bodies of Martha and Robert were dumped into the dew pond known as Wigmoreash Pond or as it became known “Murders’ pool”.

The tale now twists with the addition of a character called “Mad Thomas”. Thomas is said to have been the village idiot and either deaf , dumb or both. It was Thomas who is said to have witnessed the dastardly deed and altered the authorities to the bodies and the culprit(s). Indeed Thomas is said to have been called as a witness at the Assizes. Whether this was fact or fiction is unclear, it may have been written into the film’s script for convenience, the guilty party(s) may have been brought down by other factors such as tracks in the snow or mud, the murder weapon(s), blood stained clothing, village gossip or a guilty confession.

Whatever or whoever it was that pointed the finger of suspicion at George Bromham and Dorothy Newman, both were haled off to the Assizes at Winchester, both stood trial for the murder of Martha and her son Robert, both were convicted and found guilty of murder and both were ordered to be hanged “in chaynes near the place of the murder”. Their public hanging took place on 3rd March 1676 in Winchester.

Records suggest that some dispute arose as to who would be liable for the cost of the “hanging in chaynes”, which would involve the building and erection of a considerable sized double gibbet, together with two sets of iron “chaynes”. As the crime was neither committed, or planned in either the parish of Combe or Inkpen, but on their borders. This was settled by the cost being equally split between both parishes and the place that neither parish had claim to as the boundary stopped at the side ditches, the Long Barrow itself. Records indicate that the two dead bodies were then brought back to Inkpen and laid out in the barn at the back of the Crown and Garter Inn, where they were measured up by the local blacksmith and fitted in their chaynes. This barn is reputed to have became a tourist attraction, probably initiated by the landlord, and was renamed ‘Gibbet Barn’. It would appear that the final hanging of the bodies of George and Dorothy, now bound in their chaynes, took place each side of their double gibbet on the 6th day of March 1676.

The original gibbet lasted an unknown length of time, but the second gibbet was erected in 1850 to replace the rotted original. This was struck by lightning, and was replaced by number three in 1949. It is unclear if this was a `prop’ used in the film. However, that one lasted only one year, and number four was erected in 1950. Since then the gibbet has been sawn down by vandals on two occasions, in 1965 and 1969, both events believed to have been in protest against hanging. The fourth gibbet blew down in gales during the winter of 1977-78, where the stump had rotted away. The current gibbet was re-erected on May Day, Beltane, 1st May 1979.

There are several prehistoric round barrows on Inkpen Hill, which are supposed to contain buried treasure, including a coffin made either of solid gold or of silver. One particular barrow, on Saddler’s Farm, is said to be haunted by a headless ghost; it is also said that nineteenth century archaeologists who tried to open it up were driven away by violent thunder and lightning.

Westwood and Simpson (’Lore of the Land’, 2005), apparently drawing on Grinsell’s Folklore of Prehistoric Sites, and 3rd Stone magazine v47.