The Devil was angry at the conversion of Sussex, one of the last counties to be converted from Paganism, and especially at the way churches were being built in every Sussex village. So he decided to dig right through the South Downs, a range of hills along the south of Britain. He swore that he would dig all the way through the hills to let the sea flood Sussex in a single night and drown the new Christians. He started inland near the village of Poynings and dug furiously sending huge clods of earth everywhere. One became Chanctonbury hill, another Cissbury hill, another Rackham Hill and yet another Mount Caburn.
Towards midnight, the noise he was making disturbed an old woman, who looked out to see what was happening. When she realized what the Devil was doing, she lit a candle and set it on her windowsill, holding up a metal sieve in front of it to create a dimly glowing globe. The Devil could barely believe that the sun had already risen, but the old woman had woken her rooster who let out a loud crowing and Satan fled believing that the morning had already come. Some say, that as he fled out over the English Channel, a great lump of earth fell from his cloven hoof, and that became the Isle of Wight; others say that he bounded northwards into Surrey, where his heavy landing formed the hollow called the Devil's Punch Bowl.
Some of the ancient hill-top sites of Southern England are named in this poem by Rudyard Kipling:
"The Run of the Downs"
The Weald is good, the Downs are best -
I'll give you the run of 'em, East to West.
Beachy Head and Winddoor Hill,
They were once and they are still. Firle, Mount Caburn and Mount Harry
Go back as far as sums'll carry. Ditchling Beacon and Chanctonbury Ring,
They have looked on many a thing;
And what those two have missed between 'em
I reckon Truleigh Hill has seen 'em. Highden, Bignor and Duncton Down
Knew Old England before the Crown.
Linch Down, Treyford and Sunwood
Knew Old England before the Flood.
And when you end on the Hampshire side - Butser's old as Time and Tide.
The Downs are sheep, the Weald is corn,
You be glad you are Sussex born!
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Wolstonbury (Ancient Village / Settlement / Misc. Earthwork) — Miscellaneous
A group of students, working through the night on the Sussex Downs, north of Brighton, have cut a 200ft reclining figure of a woman in the chalk face of Wolstonbury Hill, which overlooks the main London to Brighton road. The students used shovels, picks and garden tools to cut the figure in the turf.
One of them said today :"The famous Long Man of Wilmington, near Eastbourne, was getting lonely so we thought it time to provide him with a mate."
The students hold their annual rag day at Brighton on Saturday.
In the same district, near to what must be the most delightfully situated racecourse in the land is the Trundle Hill, Goodwood, which takes its name from an ancient British earthwork on the summit, where is buried Aaron's golden calf, upon which His Satanic Majesty keeps a paternal eye. To quote Clare Jerrold:
"People know very well where it is - I could show you the place any day."
"Why don't you dig it up then?"
"Oh, that is not allowed; He would not let me."
"Well, has any one ever tried?"
"Oh, yes: but it is never there when you look; He moves it away."
Hastings and St Leonard's Observer, 1st August 1936.
Naturally the Ring is haunted. Even on bright summer days there is an uncanny sense of some unseen presence, which seems to follow you about. If you enter the dark wood alone you are conscious of Something behind you. When you stop, It stops; when you go on, It follows. However swiftly you turn round to look behind, you are not quite quick enough to catch sight of It, whatever It is. If you stand stock-still and listen, even on the most tranquil day when no breath of air stirs the leaves, you can hear a whispering somewhere above you. No birds live in this sombre wood but a single pair of yaffles, and occasionally the silence is broken by a loud, mocking laugh. Only once have we been so bold as to enter the Ring on a dark night. My wife and I went there alone. We never shall repeat the visit. Some things are best forgotten if they can be, and certainly not set down in a book.
From 'Go To The Country' by Philip Gosse (1935). He loves Chanctonbury though and could see it from his house. "The great hill was once a guiding beacon for the benighted wandered, when the Weald was one vast marshy forest of oak, and it is still a friend to welcome home the returned traveller - a friend which never fails and never changes in a changing world."
As Carl says, there's not a great deal to see here as the interior of the fort has been used for farming for centuries and any trace of earthworks at the Northern end near the pub have all but disappeared. No other earthworks were necessary as when this fort first came into being it would have been surrounded on three sides by either the sea or the flood plains of the River Arun. Indeed the Arun and one of it's tributaries still surround it. Later on it was a Saxon Burh and now just adjoined to a quaint little Sussex village, though worthy of being bombed by the Luftwaffe in WW2 apparently.