Rhiannon

On the Southern slopes of the Orme, overlooking the town of Llandudno, there is an area known as Pen Dinas, where are the remains of a prehistoric settlement. Close by, on the edge of a precipice, lies a large rectangular stone. It is known as the Rocking Stone and a metal plaque may be seen attached to the stone, to this effect. Legend tells us that the Druids used the Rocking Stone as a means of proving the guilt or innocence of criminals. The poor, trembling creature was made to stand on the stone. If the accused was able to make it rock, they were deemed to be innocent, but if the stone stood firm, the guilty wretch was thrown over the cliff to be broken on the rocks below. There are many sources for this story, some saying that the stone still rocks and others insisting that it will not move. Could it be that the stone still possesses the power to judge guilt or innocence?

From Eve Parry’s ‘Mysterious Mountain’ article
ldsts.co.uk/id145.htm

Marjorie Rowling’s book ‘The Folklore of the Lake District‘ (1976) includes a story by the Reverend Isaac Todd (born in Wreay in 1797). He gives ‘Caerthannoc’ as an alternative name for Maiden Castle, and explains that a tower was built there by a king to safeguard his daughter. He was a particularly protective parent because a wicked fairy had foretold (or promised?) the poor girl’s death by drowning one day. The king thought he’d cracked it as she’d grown up safe inside the tower, well away from Ullswater – but of course he hadn’t counted on the fact that teenage girls will always find a way to sneak out and see their boyfriends. One night she was climbing out of her window intending to elope with the young man once and for all – but she fell in an ungainly fashion upside down into a water butt, and drowned, just as the fairy had predicted. You can’t go cheating fate.

I feel that this cairn ought to be the mound referred to in this story, taken from ‘The Welsh Fairy Book’ by W. Jenkyn Thomas (1908) – online at the sacred-texts archive
sacred-texts.com/neu/celt/wfb/index.htm

There is no end of treasure hidden in the mountains of Wales, but if you are not the person for whom it is intended, you will probably not find it. Even if you do find it, you will not be able to secure it, unless it is destined for you.

There is a store of gold in a hillock near Arenig Lake, and Silvanus Lewis one day took his pickaxe and shovel to find it. No sooner had he commenced to dig in earnest than he heard a terrible, unearthly noise under his feet. The hillock began to rock like a cradle, and the sun clouded over until it became pitch dark. Lightning flashes began to shoot their forked streaks around him and pealing thunders to roar over his head. He dropped his pickaxe and hurried helter-skelter homewards to Cnythog. Before he reached there everything was beautifully calm and serene. But he was so frightened that he never returned to fetch his tools. Many another man has been prevented in the same way from continuing his search.

According to Berta Lawrence, in ‘Somerset Legends’ (1975), young people used to come to Arthur’s well to drink because it would ‘make their dreams come true’; and while they were about it they would carve their initials on the nearby trees. The water is particularly magical on St John’s Eve (that is, the midsummer solstice), because a true-hearted person who bathes their eyes in the well then might see the hill open up and glimpse Arthur and his men sleeping inside.

The book also mentions proof that the hill is indeed hollow – when the inside of the enclosure was cultivated, a barley stack near one of the entrances sank below the surface of the earth before it could be threshed. Very peculiar, apparently.

[Fairies] have been seen serenading round the West slope of Tara, dressed in ancient Irish costumes.. these races are warlike and given to making invasions. Long processions of them have been seen going round the King’s Chair (an earthwork on which the Kings of Tara are said to have been crowned) and they would appear like soldiers of ancient Ireland in review.

An anecdote from John Boylin, in ‘The fairy faith in Celtic Countries’ by W Y Evans Wentz (1911).

The Danes came from Northamptonshire, and they are reputed to have been told that they should come to see the Hoarstone (seven miles SSE of Rollrich) they would be lords of England. Hook norton, the entrenched position of the Saxons, was stormed by the Danes.. The Saxon defeat was very severe, but the battle seems to have checked the Danish advance.

p29 in ‘Our Ancient Monuments and the Land Around Them’ by Charles P Kains-Jackson, 1880.

Another story connected to the site:

“This,” said the narrator, [being a story about Gitto Bach] “made me more anxious than ever to see the fairies,” and his wish was gratified by a gipsy, who directed him to find a four-leaved clover, and put it with nine grains of wheat on the leaf of a book which she gave him. She then desired him to meet her next night by moonlight on the top of Craig y Dinis. She there washed his eyes with the contents of a phial which she had, and he instantly saw thousands of fairies, all in white, dancing to the sounds of numerous harps. They then placed themselves on the edge of the hill, and sitting down and putting their hands round their knees, they tumbled down one after another, rolling head-over-heels till they disappeared in the valley.

The next anecdote is told by another person present, about the Vale of Neath, so I feel sure this is the right Craig y Ddinas. From ‘The Fairy Mythology’ by Thomas Keightley
[1870], on line at the sacred texts archive.
sacred-texts.com/neu/celt/tfm/tfm163.htm

[to be replaced with the source]

The Castle Ditches are part of some Iron Age defensive earthworks on the coast near Llantwit Major – some of the enclosure has probably fallen into the sea.
Marie Trevelyan mentions them in ‘Folk lore and folk stories of Wales’ (1909):

Among the places in South Glamorgan where the latest Beltane fires were kindled [was..] Llantwit Major between 1837 and 1840. The following information with reference to the Beltane fires was given me in these words:

” The fire was done in this way: Nine men would turn their pockets inside out, and see that every piece of money and all metals were off their persons. Then the men went into the nearest woods, and collected sticks of nine different kinds of trees. These were carried to the spot where the fire had to be built. There a circle was cut in the sod, and the sticks were set crosswise. All around the circle the people stood and watched the proceedings. One of the men would then take two bits of oak, and rub them together until a flame was kindled. This was applied to the sticks, and soon a large fire was made. Sometimes two fires were set up side by side. These fires, whether one or two, were called coelcerth, or bonfire. Round cakes of oatmeal and brown meal were split in four, and placed in a small flour-bag, and everybody present had to pick out a portion. The last bit in the bag fell to the lot of the bag-holder. Each person who chanced to pick up a piece of brown-meal cake was compelled to leap three times over the flames, or to run thrice between the two fires, by which means the people thought they were sure of a plentiful harvest. Shouts and screams of those who had to face the ordeal could be heard over so far, and those who chanced to pick the oatmeal portions sang and danced and clapped their hands in approval, as the holders of the brown bits leaped three times over the flames, or ran three times between the two fires. As a rule, no danger attended these curious celebrations, but occasionally somebody’s clothes caught fire, which was quickly put out. The greatest fire of the year was the eve of May, or May 1, 2, or 3. The Midsummer Eve fire was more for the harvest. Very often a fire was built on the eve of November. The high ground near the Castle Ditches at Llantwit Major, in the Vale of Glamorgan, was a familiar spot for the Beltane on May 3 and on Midsummer Eve.

As Elderford hints, perhaps this stone is a bit young. The coflein record doesn’t commit itself to any period but does admit the stone is on the line of an allegedly Roman road. Still, the romans had to put their roads somewhere. Marie Trevelyan calls the stone ‘Maen yr Ast’, contracted to ‘Mannest’ – or ‘The Bitch Stone’, presumably alluding, like a number of other names, to greyhounds (and perhaps Ceridwen taking the form of a greyhound?)
On Coflein its alternative name is the Peterstone; Peterstone Court lies across the road.

(M. Trevelyan, ‘Folk lore and Folk Stories of Wales’, 1909)

Halfway up the Garth Mountain, near Cardiff, a woman robed in green used to appear. She beckoned to men who passed, but they did not heed her. Two men at last ventured to listen to what she said, which was that she guarded hoards of gold, and could not move, but she wished to be released. They should have the treasure if they set her free. If they did not release her then, there would not be a man born for the next hundred years who could set her free. The men whispered to each other, wondering if her tale were true. One of the men, looking down at her feet, said “True enough. Her slippers are covered with gold-dust.” The woman suddenly vanished, but for a long time her sobs and wailings were heard.

Marie Trevelyan, ‘Folk lore and Folk stories of Wales’ (1909).

The Coflein record says that “A single massive rampart crowns a visually distinctive, flat-topped hill, creating a roughly triangular enclosure, about 300m east-west by 180m.” Visually distinctive eh, catching the eye of those folk and their stories. Marie Trevelyan tells us:

Merlin’s Cave is in Merlin’s Hill, above the secluded village of Abergwilli, near Carmarthen. Old stories state that Merlin is held there in bonds of enchantment by Nimue-Vivien, and it was firmly believed in the eighteenth century that the celebrated magician could be heard at certain seasons of the year bewailing his folly in allowing a woman to learn his secret spell.

Folk stories and Folk lore of Wales (1909).

A strange mix of symbolism in this story.

Arthur’s Quoit, at Lligwy, near Moelfre, in Anglesea, is one of the stones of a cromlech once very important, and to it curious stories were formerly attached. A fisherman going down to the sea was overtaken by a storm, and halted to shelter beside Arthur’s Quoit. When the rain was over, he looked towards the sea, and felt sure that somebody was struggling in the water. He hastened to the shore, and then discovered that a woman with very long dark hair was endeavouring to swim to land; but the ground swell was very strong, and each attempt proved unavailing.

The fisherman, fearless of the sea*, sprang in, and bore the swimmer to the shore, only just to escape a dangerous roller. The man observed that the woman was beautifully robed in white, and had jewelled bracelets on her arms. After squeezing the water out of her garments, she asked him to assist her to the “huge stone”, meaning Arthur’s Quoit. He did so, and while she sat to rest against the stone he noticed she was very beautiful and youthful. The man was about to ask her how she came to be in such peril, but she anticipated his question with a harsh voice, by no means in keeping with her beauty.

“Ha ha!” she cried. “If I had been swimming in my usual raiment, you would have allowed me to sink. I am a witch, and was thrown off a ship in Lligwy Bay; but I disguised myself, and was rescued.”

The man shrank back in terror, fearing the woman would bewitch him. “Don’t be frightened,” said the witch; “one good turn deserves another. Here, take this.” In the palm of her hand she held a small ball. “It is for you,” she said, “and as long as you keep it concealed in a secret place where nobody can find it, good luck will be yours. Once a year you must take it out of hiding and dip it in the sea, then safely return it to its place of concealment. But remember, if it is lost, misfortune will follow.”

The fisherman took the ball and thanked the witch, who gravely said: “That ball contains a snake-skin.” Then she vanished mysteriously. But an hour later he saw her leaping from rock to rock in Lligwy Bay, where a boat was waiting for her, and in it she sailed away. Returning to Arthur’s Quoit, the fisherman thought he could do no better than conceal the ball in a deep hole which he dug close beside the great stone which was reputed to be haunted, and accordingly avoided. He did this, and once a year he took it from concealment and dipped it in the sea. The ball was carefully preserved, and the family had remarkable runs of luck. But one evening when the fisherman went to look for the ball, it was nowhere to be found. He searched for many days, but without avail, and at last gave up his search as hopeless. Somebody evidently discovered his secret, and had stolen the precious ball.

Several years passed, during which time misfortune pursued the fisherman. At the end of that period a dying neighbour confessed to the theft of the ball, and restored it to its lawful owner. Good luck was at once restored to the family. When the fisherman died, he bequeathed it to his eldest son, who carefully preserved it. In the first half of the nineteenth century the fisherman’s eldest son, accompanied by his only brother, started for Australia, where they eventually made large fortunes. A descendant in the female line of the old fisherman considered the ball one of her most precious treasures, and carefully preserved it in her far-away home in India. It was last heard of about forty years ago.

From Marie Trevelyan’s “Folk lore and Folk Stories of Wales” (1909).

*surely not something a fisherman would be. In fact, many could not swim??

Another source – ‘Cambrian Superstitions’ by William Howell (1831) suggests that the robber actually stole the church bells (quite a feat).

Dr Stukeley tells a tale of a repentant Vandal, who having carried off one of the biggest stones to help make a bridge, saw a vision – and, being smitten with remorse, returned the stone to its original group.

Yes, but what did he See? Leave out the interesting bit why don’t you. Perhaps there’s more in the original, if anyone knows it.

Quote from ‘Our Ancient Monuments and the Land Around Them’ by CP Kains-Jackson (1880).

Time travel at the Den?

Some years ago, when many of the roads in the east of Fife were still used but by few, a visitor to the district.. resolved to make a detour to visit [Dunino Church]. A somewhat rough track leads down to a bridge.. and a broad and well-made path , cut in the hillside [climbs] among the trees to the kirk and the manse. Leaving this for the moment he continued on the level track round the flank of the hill, and saw before him on thefarther side of the stream a picturesque hamlet. Some of the cottages were thatched, some tiled; but all were covered in roses and creepers.. At the east end.. a smithy closed the prospect, save for the trees that shut out the further windings of the Den.

No sound broke the stillness of the summer noon but the flow of the burn. At one or two of the doors there stood an old man in knee-breeches and broad bonnet, or a woman in a white mutch and a stuff gown, while in the entrance to the forge the smith leant motionless on his hammer... Half in a dream he turned and climbed to the church.. No sense of the abnormal had occurred to the intruder..

A year elapsed ere the wanderer came thither again.. This time he was accompanied by a companion to whom he had told the story of his glimpse of ‘the most old-world hamlet in Fife’... they prepared to sketch the Arcady to be revealed. The cottages were gone. The burn flowed through the Den as when last he saw it, but its farther bank was bare...

.. The author is informed on excellent authority that there were at one time at least three or four cottages and a blacksmith’s shop at the place described. It is said these were taken down “some time last century.”

Edited from Wilkie’s 1931 ‘Bygone Fife’, quoted in K Briggs’ ‘British Folktales and Legends’ (1977).

Just recently an officer told me quite seriously that he could vouch for the fact that on certain nights a phantom Roman army marches along Bindon Hill to their camp on King’s Hill. The thud of the trampling of horses and men is plainly heard and their indistinct forms seen as the fog drifts. On those nights no rabbits run and no dog can be induced to go near... one wonders if at any time an army lost its bearings in the fog and went over the very abrupt cliff which borders this hill...

Quote from ‘Dorset, up along and down along’, ed. Marianne R Dacombe (1935), p113.

More on Purejoy’s pool:

Beside Trent Barrow near Sherborne is an old pit full of water and so deep that no one has ever been able to measure its depth and it is called the ‘bottomless pit’. One dark and stormy night a coach, horses, driver and passengers plunged into the pit and disappeared, leaving no trace behind. But passersby along the road may still hear, in stormy weather, the sound of galloping horses and wailing voices borne by them on the wind.

(From ‘Dorset, up along and down along’, ed. M R Dacombe (1935)).

Poundbury used to be stocked on May Day (this being the commoners’ rights). “Dorchester folk were wont in olden time, it is said, to go forth to its flowery and airy sward a-maying and to drink syllybub of fresh milk.”

Ah the rural idyll.

Quote from ‘Dorsetshire Folklore’ by John Symonds Udal (1922).

According to the information on Magic, this roughly circular univallate hillfort overlooks Poole harbour (though how the coastline differed in prehistory I can’t say). One end of it is now built on with farm buildings.

From Dorset Folk-Lore, by J. J. Foster, in The Folk-Lore Journal, Vol. 6, No. 2. (1888), pp. 115-119.:

Some years a go several metal objects were found in a Keltic earthwork. Among them was a curious little grotesque bull, with a quaint tail curled up, which makes it somewhat like a dog. My friend heard that these things were in the hands of a certain old woman, and offered to buy them. “Han’t got ‘em – used to’t – but there, ‘twere loike this yer. My poor buoy, he wer terble bad, and he pined like a’ter they wold things. And ther – I thought myself how thick brass dog a noul’d ouver door’d do en a power o’ good.” And ‘noul’d ouver door’ it was found.

This remarkable find.. is fully described in Archaeologia v48, where the objects are figured... it’s use as recently as 1881 as a prophylactic is surely an interesting fact to students of folk-lore.

Ah yes those Victorians middleclass intellectuals loved to imitate a quaint rural accent.

A golden coffin is buried somewhere on the Downs at Bowerchalke. It was stolen from one of the Britons’ Barrows. The theft was discovered, and the coffin had to be hidden. At certain seasons seven men may be seen dragging the coffin over the Downs.

From Olivier/Edwards’ “Moonrakings” (c1920) – a story they collected from a local WI member.

There are seven round barrows on the hill, and other earthworks, no doubt some of which are visible from the village below.

Two similar versions of the story, from Edith Olivier / Margaret Edwards’ “Moonrakings – A Little Book of Wiltshire Stories” (c1920).

“Some time, before the memory of living man can definitely fix, a suicide was buried [here].. Legend has it that a girl from Bowerchalke, finding life too sad, drowned herself in a well near the churchyard.,” the lane by the well being called ‘Skit’s Lane’.
“No bird is ever heard to sing there [at Kit’s Grave].”
This version, told by Mrs John Butler, seemed confused as to whether the girl was buried there because she was a suicide and required unconsecrated ground, or whether it was because no parish would claim her (even though she’d specifically mentioned Bowerchalke!) so she was buried where three parishes met. Whatever, the theme of the weird nature of ‘boundaries’ clearly comes through.

The second version (p74) tells that “An old gypsy woman who used to frequent the Chalke valley was found in a well near Bowerchalke church. It was thought she had committed suicide, so she was taken and buried at the crossroads at night, with a stake through her heart. An avenue of trees leads to the spot, and no bird is ever heard to sing there. (This is indeed a very weird, eerie spot).”

Rather extreme measures (stakes through the heart at midnight) but I suppose you can’t have these dead people wandering. I wonder whether there is any significance in the well being near the church: is it too much to read into it that it was a holy well? An inconsiderate and strange place to pick to kill yourself in.

On Palm Sunday, it was the custom, some years ago, for everyone in the village to visit Martinsell which is within easy walking distance. Here a Fair was held. Recruiting was also carried on at this Fair, at the last of which a local lad ‘joined up’ and afterwards served in the Russian War, taking part in the siege of Sebastapol. This fair was stopped about the year 1860. Since then religious services have been held on Martinsell on Palm Sunday. A Feast Day was always made of the Monday following Trinity Sunday, when a fair was held; but now for more than 20 years this has not been observed.

From ‘Moonrakings’ by E. Olivier and M. Edwards (c1920), p65.

The story of the ghostly knight at Wandlebury is told by Gervase of Tilbury, who was born c1150.

“Osbert, a bold and powerful baron, visited a noble family in the vicinity of Wandelbury, in the bishopric of Ely. Among other stories related in the social circle of his friends, who, according to custom, amused each other by repeating ancient tales and traditions, he was informed, that if any knight, unattended, entered an adjacent plain by moonlight, and challenged an adversary to appear, he would be immediately encountered by a spirit in the form of a knight. Osbert resolved to make the experiment, and set out, attended by a single squire, whom he ordered to remain without the limits of the plain, which was surrounded by an ancient entrenchment. On repeating the challenge, he was instantly assailed by an adversary, whom he quickly unhorsed, and seized the reins of his steed. During this operation, his ghostly opponent sprung up, and, darting his spear, like a javelin, at Osbert, wounded him in the thigh. Osbert returned in triumph with the horse, which he committed to the care of his servants. The horse was of a sable colour, as well as his whole accoutrements, and apparently of great beauty and vigour. He remained with his keeper till cockcrowing, when, with eyes flashing fire, he reared, spurned the ground, and vanished. On disarming himself, Osbert perceived that he was wounded, and that one of his steel boots was full of blood. Gervase adds, that as long as he lived, the scar of his wound opened afresh on the anniversary of the eve on which he encountered the spirit.”

I haven’t found the original but this is a retelling by Sir Walter Scott in ‘Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border’ , on line at the Tam Lin website.
tam-lin.org/texts/scott.html

Well I don’t know how good your Middle Scottish is, but this is the tale of Gyre Carling, a giant witch /earth mother /that sort of thing. It’s not for the delicate minded.

In Tyberius tyme, the trew imperatour,
Quhen Tynto hills fra skraiping of tour-henis was keipit,
Thair dwelt ane grit Gyre Carling in awld Betokis bour,
That levit upoun Christiane menis flesche, and rewheids unleipit ;
Thair wynit ane hir by, on the west syde, callit Blasour,
For luve of hir Iauchane lippis he walit and he weipit ;
He gadderit ane menzie of modwartis to warp doun the tour;
The Carling with ane yren club, quhen yat Blasour sleipit,
Behind the heil scho hat him sic ane blaw,
Quhil Blasour bled ane quart
Off milk pottage inwart,
The Carling luche, and lut fart
North Berwik Law.

.. from which I gather her neighbour fancied her and sent some moles to undermine her house – but she bashed him over the head and laughed so much she farted out North Berwick Law. Ahem.

The rest of the anonymous poem is written in the ‘Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border’ by Sir Walter Scott, online at the Tam Lin pages:
tam-lin.org/texts/scott.html

According to Berta Lawrence in her ‘Somerset Legends’ (1973) during the civil war there was a man called Jan Swayne who lived in Moorlinch. Found to be a ‘rebel’ he was dragged from his bed to be taken to Bridgwater where he was to be hanged. Somehow he persuaded the troopers who came for him to untie him to show his crying children a last entertainment of how far he could leap (the ‘police’ are always stupid in films today too, so no change). Naturally he took three immense leaps – a hop, skip and a jump – which took him into the impenetrable and swampy Loxley Woods where he could hide safely.

The site of his leaps is known as ‘Swayne’s Jumps’ or ‘Swayne’s Leaps’ and you may find four (or even five) small stones in a line. The Somerset Historic Environment Record mentions them being in the SMR records, but I don’t see a mention on Magic. Perhaps they’re old, perhaps not? In the distant past perhaps this area would have been even boggier. Take your wellingtons and have a look. Apparently an old sign designates the place ‘Jan Swaynes Jumps’.

The folklore is similar to that attached to other pairs or lines of stones (eg the Deerleap Stones).

One night during one of their last incursions, the Danes raided and burnt Watchet, and then they streamed inland plundering and burning as they went. The Saxons managed to ambush them at what is now known as Battlegore – many were killed though some escaped back to their ships. The mound at the site has long been called the burial place of the Danes.

According to Berta Lawrence, in ‘Somerset Legends’ (1973).

More local stories about the Pixies’ Mound, from Berta Lawrence’s 1973 ‘Somerset Legends’.

The hill was excavated in 1907 but local workmen were not keen to help. Some of those that did lend a hand experienced bad luck or illness – just as many people had predicted – and their wives persuaded them not to return to the work. After dark strange pixy music had been heard, and a circular wall of stones was discovered inside the mound – surely proof of the pixies’ house?

When work was interrupted, some people said King Edward VII himself had stopped it because the excavation was so unlucky. The digging turned up ‘a stone sword as long as a man’s arm’ and ‘a wonderful bronze flagon’ (somewhat exaggerated descriptions of the flint knife and pottery beaker that were found). A crouched skeleton was removed to Taunton museum. Was it Hubba himself (see the folklore at nearby Cynwit Castle)?

I saw this wooded hill fort from the road; although it doesn’t seem there is access over it, paths do lead around its base.

According to Berta Lawrence in ‘Somerset Legends’ (1973) it was “not many years ago” that people referred to this fort as “the place where they came from Athelney to fight.”

Athelney (not so far away, the opposite side of Bridgwater) is where King Alfred was recuperating after coming off worst with the Danes. And now they were back. Odda spotted their ships from Longstone Hill on the Quantocks and set a beacon fire. He led his men (and one assumes, those from Athelney) to Cynwit Castle, meeting the Danish soldiers at the bottom of the hill, before nipping up into the safety of the camp to think.

When the pagans saw the stronghold unprepared and unguarded except for defenses built after our manner, they did not venture to storm it because from the nature of the ground the place was very secure on every side except on the east, as I myself have seen; instead they began to besiege it, thinking that those men would quickly be forced to surrender because of hunger and thirst, for there was no water near. But it did not turn out as they expected. For the Christians, before they suffered any such straits, prompted by God to believe it much better to win either death or victory, at dawn made an unexpected sortie upon the pagans, and shortly slew most of them, together with their king, only a few escaping to the boats.

(from Bishop Asser’s ‘Life of King Alfred’, quoted at the Medieval Sourcebook.
fordham.edu/halsall/source/asser.html

Lawrence says that 1200 Danes were slaughtered, and were buried together where the modern quarry is now. She adds the ghastly detail that the quarrying left skeletons protruding from the soil and that they were ‘quite a familiar sight to blackberry pickers’! (ugh)

Perhaps this idea of bones comes from a shrine/cemetery on the hill dating possibly from Roman times – see the story about the ‘child of Cannington’ on the Cannington Web Pages here:
members.aol.com/dhatherley/religion/general.htm
It seems that areas of the hill have been quarried into regardless of the fact that they are a  scheduled monument, and the Somerset Historic Env. Record says that the EH boundary markers appear to have been moved. Tsk. What has been lost? The hill has obviously been of great importance over a very long period of time, and finds have been made of pre Iron-Age objects. It’s possible (according to the Cannington web pages) that the quarry may be reopened.

Lawrence adds in her book that the few Danes remaining buried their chief, Hubba, in a mound of his own. Near Chippenham there is Hubbaslow – Chippenham being the site of an earlier battle – but she suggests that everyone knows his burial mound is the one at Wick, next to Hinkley Point power station. (Of course we can say that both mounds are prehistoric and nothing to do with the Danes, though they might have been reused).

Dowsborough hill is replete with all sorts of strange names that beg for explanation: Great Bear, Robin Upright’s Hill, Knacker’s Hole.. One of them (mentioned below), ‘Dead Woman’s Ditch’ is supposed to refer to the murdered wife of John Walford. The place he was left to hang in irons is now called ‘Walford’s Gibbet’. Ruth Tongue collected a little tale about the site from a farmer’s daughter in Cannington.

Arter Walford were ‘anged up there to Dowsburgh, there was a lot o’ talk down to the Castle o’ Comfort Inn, and they got to talking, and then they got to drinking zider and then one vellow getting a bit over-merry, they dared ‘en to go up to Walford’s Gibbet. Well, ‘twere getting late at night, and being over full o’ zider, ‘e said ‘e would, and off ‘e goes. Well no sooner be ‘e out o’ front door than a couple o’ rascals gets out by back door, and straight up over the ‘ill. Laughing to themselves, they come up through the barn and the bushes like, till they come to the foot o’ the gibbet, and they ‘ided in bushes. And bye and bye they ‘ears bootses coming up ‘ill, getting a bit slower like, as they comes nearer to where gibbet was, and they chuckles to theirselves, and then boots comes a bit slower, like, and then, out o’ the air above ‘em comes a voice – “Oh! Idn’t it cold up ‘ere! Be yew cold too?”
Well by the time the vellow with the boots, and they two got down to Castle o’ Comfort, they weren’t cold no more.

You can still visit the Castle of Comfort today, it’s marked ‘hotel’ on the map. But perhaps you’ll only want to walk up to the Walford’s Gibbet during the daylight.

Story copied from ‘English Folktales’ by Briggs and Tongue, 1965.

This is what happened after the episode at the Whit stones. It was some time later, after the Devil had dried out a bit, but he was still feeling embarrassed and angry. He and the Giant met up on the hill above West Quantoxhead for the next round of their throwing competition. He had his eyes to the ground to find a suitable stone when before he could react, the giant had picked his up and thrown it right over to Battlegore, six miles away. “It’ll be your turn now,” the giant said.

Well Old Nick was dancing with rage because he’d missed his chance to cheat. And perhaps his temper made his hand shake becuase when he’d thrown his stone, the giant’s was further off. “Now,” says the giant, “It’s your promise to go away from round here, and never come back no more. But as no one don’t trust you, I’ll make sure.” And he picked up the devil by his tail again and waded out into the Severn Channel until he was up to his armpits. Then he gave him a good swing, three times round his head, and let go. He probably hit the water somewhere near the West Indies – wherever, he had a good long swim back. He’s back now of course, but you won’t see him in Somerset because he doesn’t want to bump into the giant.

(retold from Ruth Tongue’s version heard in Minehead in the 50s, in ‘Folktales of England’ Briggs/Tongue 1965)

The Giant of Grabbist and the Devil had had quite enough of each other. Exmoor wasn’t big enough for the both of them. They decided to have a competition and whoever lost would have to leave the place for good.

They met up on Bossington Beacon; it was to be a throwing contest, and they’d each throw a big stone over to Porlock Common, about four miles away. The devil went first. His stone sailed up through the air and landed -douf- on the common, pointing up to the sky. Then it was the giant’s turn. Just as he was about to release his stone- “A-HEM,” the devil coughed. The stone still flew through the air to the common, but landed about three feet short of Old Nick’s.

Well it was obvious: the giant would have to leave. Like heck he was – he gave the devil a shove and sat down on top of him. The devil was squirming and crying, but the giant just took out his pipe and calmly began smoking. When he’d finished he tapped his pipe out on the devil’s head, picked him up by the tail, and said “I don’t think that was a fair throw. We’ll throw from Quantock later on. In the meantime you go and cool your head.” He tossed the devil up in the air and batted him out into Porlock Bay.

(retold from a version by Ruth Tongue, who heard it locally in the 1940/50s; Tongue and Briggs, ‘Folktales of England’ 1965)

Stuart McHardy, in his 2005 ‘On the Trail of Scotland’s Myths and Legends’, says that the Lang Man was a “weel-kennt and successful horse trader who regularly visited the annual fair held in the glen.” He cut an imposing tall figure but “one of the great delights of the fair was [to have] a dram with the Lang Man.”

One year the Lang Man disappeared and when the fair finished, his tent was still there with his horse tethered up next to it. No one knew what had happened to him and people felt scared and suspicious. Was it witchcraft? No-one wanted to take down the tent and gradually it deteriorated over the years in the wind and rain. “The tale began to spread that he had been murdered for his poke o gowd and buried beneath the great stone lying by the road.”

The stone has been treated with reverence: “for many years the roadmen cleaned the small gravel bed surrounding it.” McHardy says “perhaps we will never know if anyone lies in the Lang Man’s Grave, but its proximity to Dunsinane and the reverence shown to the stone have led to suggestions that this is where the original Stone of Destiny was buried when it was taken away from Scone at the approach of the English army in 1296.”

Ham Hill has a feature called the ‘Frying Pan’ which was thought to have been a Roman amphitheatre at one time – but it’s really a bit small. According to an informant from Stoke under Ham in 1908, every girl or woman who visits must sit down and slide from top to bottom of the bowl – ‘it’s lucky’. Ruth Tongue adds: “Surely here is a relic of pagan rites such as those embodied in the game of Trundles and others.” Well, maybe and maybe not. And what is this game of Trundles anyway? The word must come from OE trendle = a circle; there are other round Trundles you can visit at ancient sites.

from ‘Somerset Folklore’ by Ruth Tongue, 1965.

Miss Acland told me.. in 1902 the Horner [village] churchgoers would not go to evensong in the winter at Luccombe because [the Exmoor forest demon] waited for them at Dunkery foot by the ruined chapel, as a stag or ram. The Reverend Acland therefore used to hold the service in the afternoon.

What a dilemma. Shun the locals’ superstitious fears or end up with no congregation. The reverend obviously didn’t want to end up talking to himself. Or perhaps he wasn’t that keen on the dark either.

The ruined chapel referred to is a funny place for the demon to wait, as it used to be a particularly feared spot for such creatures. St Dubricius of Dunkery built the chapel (he lived 150 years in Porlock, don’t you know, and officiated at King Arthur and Guinevere’s wedding). At the sound of the chapel’s bell the hideous forest fiends and dragons went deeper into the moor, and even the devil found things to do somewhere else. Under its altar St D. buried a chest full of gold, which was to be spent on keeping the bell(s) in order and for giving to anyone who had to cross the ‘dreadful waste’ on their own in order to get to market. You can see the site of the chapel “but nobody can find the gold.” This was told to Ruth Tongue in 1950 by Jane Rudd, then 11.

Quote from ‘Forgotten Folktales of the English Counties’ (1970) and info from ‘Somerset Folklore’ (1965), both by Ruth Tongue.

There is more than one Bronze Age cairn on the top of the mountain here, and flint arrowheads have been found in the area in the past. Perhaps these things helped contribute to the development of the following story, told by Wirt Sikes in ‘British Goblins’ (1880):

There is a tradition among the Glamorgan peasantry of a fairy battle fought on the mountain between Merthyr and Aberdare, in which the pygmy combatants were on horseback. There appeared to be two armies, one of which was mounted on milk-white steeds, and the other on horses of jet-black. They rode at each other with the utmost fury, and their swords could be seen flashing in the air like so many penknife blades. The army on the white horses won the day, and drove the black-mounted force from the field. The whole scene then disappeared in a light mist.

Unusual to have fairies with steel blades – perhaps they were flint really. Flint arrowheads have been widely interpreted as ‘elf shot’. A spring is very close to one of the cairns; it is called ‘Ffynnon y Gro’ (spring of gravel? – or perhaps it was ‘Croyw’ in the past, which would mean fresh/sweet water?).

Kathleen Wiltshire’s story below apparently harks back to when General Pitt Rivers excavated a round barrow here. Winkelbury was his first full season of serious, well-recorded excavations of enclosures and settlement sites, in winter 1881-2. He removed a dead yew tree, known locally as a ‘scrag’ from the round barrow. ‘The villagers were troubled by his disturbance of the dead and removal of the ancient tree which they believed protected them from malign influences; they were only placated when another dead yew was ‘planted’ with all due ceremony some time later.‘

From Martin Green’s book ‘A landscape revealed – 10,000 years on a chalkland farm’ (2000).

Yews and hawthorn obviously figure prominently in people’s lists of important trees. The idea of a dead tree being protective seems quite strange? but maybe it’s not uncommon. It reminded me of the anecdote connected with Big Tree longbarrow in Somerset.

This narrow fort on a promontory above Pontneddfechan is fantastically well defended by its sheer cliffs. There’s a car park conveniently at the bottom, and a bridleway makes its way up to the top.
Wirt Sikes has this to say:

Especially does a certain steep and rugged crag [in the Vale of Neath] called Craig y Ddinas, bear a distinctly awful reputation as a stronghold of the fairy tribe. Its caves and crevices have been their favourite haunt for many centuries, and upon this rock was held the court of the last fairies who have ever appeared in Wales*. Needless to say there are men still living who remember the visits of the fairies to Craig y Ddinas, although they aver the little folk are no longer seen there. It is a common remark that the Methodists drove them away, indeed there are numberless stories which show the fairies to have been animated, when they were still numerous in Wales, by a cordial antipathy for all dissenting preachers. In this antipathy, it may be here observed, teetotalers were included.

*Don’t take this to heart as it is an obvious lie. Quote from Sykes’s ‘British Goblins’, 1880.

Edwin Sidney Hartland, in ‘The Science of Fairy Tales’ (1891) explains the Arthurian connection of the site:

A Welshman, it was said, walking over London Bridge with a hazel staff in his hand, was met by an Englishman, who told him that the stick he carried grew on a spot under which were hidden vast treasures, and if the Welshman remembered the place arid would show it to him he would put him in possession of those treasures.

After some demur the Welshman consented, and took the Englishman (who was in fact a wizard) to the Craig-y-Ddinas and showed him the spot. They dug up the hazel tree on which the staff grew and found under it a broad flat stone. This covered the entrance to a cavern in which thousands of warriors lay in a circle sleeping on their arms. In the centre of the entrance hung a bell which the conjurer begged the Welshman to beware of touching. But if at any time he did touch it and any of the warriors should ask if it were day, he was to answer without hesitation “No; sleep thou on.”

The warriors’ arms were so brightly polished that they illumined the whole cavern; and one of them had arms that outshone the rest, and a crown of gold lay by his side. This was Arthur; and when the Welshman had taken as much as he could carry of the gold which lay in a heap amid the warriors, both men passed out; not, however, without the Welsh-man’s accidentally touching the bell. It rang; but when the inquiry: “Is it day?” came from one of the warriors, he was prompt with the reply: “No; sleep thou on.”

The conjurer afterwards told him that the company he had seen lay asleep ready for the dawn of the day when the Black Eagle and the Golden Eagle should go to war, the clamour of which would make the earth tremble so much that the bell would ring loudly and the warriors would start up, seize their arms, and destroy the enemies of the Cymry, who should then repossess the island of Britain and be governed from Caerlleon with justice and peace so long as the world endured.

When the Welshman’s treasure was all spent he went back to the cavern and helped himself still more liberally than before. On his way out he touched the bell again: again it rang. But this time he was not so ready with his answer, and some of the warriors rose up, took the gold from him, beat him and cast him out of the cave. He never recovered the effects of that beating, but remained a cripple and a pauper to the end of his days; and he never could find the entrance to the cavern again.

Both books are online at the Internet Sacred Texts Archive at
sacred-texts.com/index.htm

In the Reverend John Collinson’s ‘History and Antiquities of the County of Somerset’ (from the 1780s) he spoke of “an immense tumulus at the extremity of the parish [of Wellow]“. I initially assumed he was talking about Stoney Littleton but actually he was writing about the hamlet of Woodborough – where this barrow lies. It was “said to be the burial place of Saxon chieftains slain in a bloody battle.”

Camerton was the Roman town that it became part of – although the site is open fields now. The round barrow has interestingly survived through everything. If you know a local name please tell me! It is still an impressive 6m high, crowned with trees and easily visible from the road. There are the remains of another round barrow in the field apparently, and archaeological work has found traces from the Neolithic too.

The field in which the barrows lie is called ‘Tump Ground’. A large oak formerly stood on top of the larger barrow (the Roundhill) but was removed in the 1930s. Local people claimed that if you attempted to cut or damage the tree, blood would run from the wound.

Wedlake (in ‘Excavations at Camerton 1926-56’ 1958) also writes that “Local legend still has it that the mound contains the remains of soldiers killed in a battle when a town which extended from Wellow to Paulton was attacked.” (This idea of the town seems quite weird, but could it be recognition of the lost Roman settlement in the area?)

The Reverend Skinner excavated the mound in September 1815 (it was a busy time for him, see the Priddy Nine Barrows). He used an interesting and unusual technique, hiring local coalminers to drive a tunnel in from the side (rather like at Silbury, I suppose). When they got to the middle they found someone had sunk a shaft from top to bottom in the past anyway.

[A tradition is] connected with that remarkable line of tall stones near Fishguard marked on the ordnance map as Parc y Marw, or field of the dead, to avoid which the peasants after night make an enormous detour to the left as one goes through Newport.. the story of the Lady in White haunting these mysterious relics, although firmly believed, may be a comparatively later addition to an earlier superstition.

From Proc. Som. Arch. Soc. 1875 (v21).

From Proc Som Arch Soc 21 for 1875:

Prebendary Clutterbuck, the vicar of the parish, stated that after digging at the foot of the larger stone, to a distance equal to its height above the ground, the labourers were unable to reach the bottom of it, so that the actual length of it is not known, nor is it worth ascertaining at the risk of overthrowing it.

This was told to a group of antiquarian daytrippers. One wonders if it was told ‘as folklore’ and the poor old souls got the wrong end of the stick. Or perhaps Preb. Clutterbuck was just trying to put them off digging? The stones had possibly only recently been dug up, as v57 has the following information:

Mr F Clarke (head gardener at Orchardleigh house) says that when a schoolboy at Buckland Down he went with other excavations on this site about 1872. He distinctly recollects three holes. He does not know if anything was found, but he says there was the common tradition about a gold coffin being buried on Murtry Hill.

Volume 57 (early 1920s) also describes the contemporary excavation of the stones. They found a lot, including other largish buried stones. The book has a photo of the site laid bare. “Our excavations.. told a very different tale [to Clutterbuck], and showed how necessary it is to check the statements made by antiquaries of the middle of last century.” The stones only go down about 1 1/2 ft below the surface, quite boringly. So they are about 11.5 and 7.75ft tall. The excavator described a tradition from 1875 (v21): “a modern tradition [is] that these stones are not ancient at all but were erected by a former owner of the estate.” So perhaps – although they are clearly ancient – maybe they lay prostrate for a long time, but were erected.

Also from the 1875 journal:

The natives of the district to this day have a dread of passing near the stones except in broad daylight, as if there were still remaining the notion that they marked a place of burial, or perhaps of Pagan rites, in which Satan may have taken an active part.

The Berrow Flats are the huge expanse of sand that abuts Brean Down. I read this folklore in Ruth Tongue’s ‘Forgotten Folk Tales of the English Counties’ (1970) and it also reminded me of the fishermen’s lore associated with Worlebury, the next headland north.

“My father used to tell us that there was a big fish of Berrow Sands and it had a huge mouth. It used to swallow all the fish and the sailors too, and what it didn’t finish, the conger eels did. They used to bark at those times and people knew the big fish was hungry and the fishermen were in danger. Well, there was a bold fisherman who went out in his little boat and the big fish opened his great mouth to take him and he cast his anchor down its throat and the cold iron finished it.”
Told to RT by Brean WI members.

You will notice the mention of ‘cold iron’ – always good against the fairies too – the power of metalworking! And the conger eel, which is also mentioned in the folklore of Wookey Hole.

The road goes right past the stones here, and they say you will rarely see hill ponies grazing around them after dusk. Horses being ridden refuse to go along the lane. The spectre that haunts the area is of a horse, and people tell of hooves clattering hollowly along the hard surface of the road when no horse is there.

Mentioned by S Toulson in her ‘Moors of the Southwest, v1.’ 1983.

According to Shirley Toulson’s book ‘The Moors of the Southwest v1’ (1983) these two barrows by the road on Twitchen Ridge are haunted by a guardian – “a spirit more fearsome than the black dog of the Wambarrows.” Keep on driving, I suggest.

The Coflein record recognises five round barrows here, pretty much along the line of the road.

I was reading about a Gwyllgi – a supernatural black dog – in Wirt Sikes’s 1880 ‘British Goblins’, and it doesn’t seem unreasonable to suppose it is associate with these barrows, as they are frequently paired with barrows in other districts. He says:

The lane leading from Mousiad to Lisworney-Crossways [this must mean Moorshead to Llyswyrny and Crossways] is reported to have been haunted by a Gwyllgi of the most terrible aspect. Mr Jenkin, a worthy farmer living near there, was one night returning from market on a young mare, when suddenly the animal shied, reared, tumbled the farmer off, and bolted for home. Old Anthony the farm servant found her standing trembling by the barn-door, and well knowing the lane she had come through suspected she had seen the Gwyllgi. He and the other servants of the farm all went down the road and there in the haunted lane they found the farmer, on his back in the mud. Being question the farmer protested it was the Gwyllgi and nothing less, that had made all this trouble, and his nerves were so shaken by the shock that he had to be supported on either side to get him home, slipping and staggering in the mud in truly dreadful fashion all the way.

It is the usual experience of people who meet the Gwyllgi that they are so overcome with terror by its unearthly howl, or by the glare of its fiery eyes, that they fall senseless. Old Anthony however, used to say that he had met the Gwyllgi without this result. As he was coming home from courting[..] late one Sunday night[..] he encountered in the haunted lane two large shining eyes, which drew nearer and nearer to him. He was dimly able to discern.. what seemed the form of a human shape above, but with the body and limbs of a large spotted dog.

He threw his hat at the terrible eyes, and the hat went whisking right through them, falling in the road beyond. However, the spectre disappeared, and the brave Anthony hurried home as fast as his shaking legs would carry him.

From Wirt Sikes’s ‘British Goblins’ (1880):

The ‘Herald Cymraeg’ [newspaper] of September 25, 1874, gave an account of some excavations made at Pant-y-Saer cromlech, Anglesea, by the instigation of John Jones of Llandudno, ‘a brother of Isaac Jones, the present tenant of Pant-y-Saer’, at the time on a visit to the latter. The immediately exciting cause of the digging was a dream in which the dreamer was told that there was a pot of treasure buried within the cromlech’s precincts. The result was the revelation of a large number of human bones, among them five lower jaws with the teeth sound; but no crochan aur (pitcher of gold) turned up, and the digging was abandoned in disgust.

From Wirt Sikes’s ‘British Goblins’ (1880):

There is a remarkable cromlech near the hamlet of St Nicholas, Glamorganshire, on the estate of the family whose house has the honour of being haunted by the ghost of an admiral. This cromlech is called, by children in that neighbourhood, ‘Castle Correg’. A Cardiff gentleman who asked some children who were playing round the cromlech, what they termed it, was struck by the name, which recalled to him the Breton fairies thus designated. The korreds and korregs of Brittany closely resemble the Welsh fairies in numberless details. The korreds are supposed to live in the cromlechs, of which they are believed to have been the builders. They dance around them at night, and woe betide the unhappy peasant who joins them in their roundels.

This is where Hautville’s Quoit was thrown from, by Sir John Haut(e)ville (you can read more about this on the Hautville’s Quoit page). He was just rehearsing for a throwing match with the Devil, which he ended up winning by throwing a rock from Shute Shelve to Compton Bishop (about a mile and a half) – the Devil threw 3 furlongs shorter. (from Grinsell’s folklore book I think).

Sir John is apparently bured in Chew Magna church, where there’s an oak effigy of him.

This gentleman was remarkable for prodigious strength, as the Irish oak is probably intended to denote. Vulgar tradition informs us, that Edward the First having requested Sir John to shew him a specimen of his abilities, the knight undertook to convey three of the stoutest men in England to the top of Norton Tower [Norton Malreward is at the foot of Maes Knoll], situated in a neighbouring parish. Accordingly, taking one under each arm, and a third in his teeth, he proceeded on his task. The two in his arms, making some resistance, were squeezed to death, but the other was carried up without sustaining the smallest injury.

From ‘The Beauties of England’ by John Britton. Vol 13 pt 2, p628.

A folktale in ‘Welsh Fairy Stories’ by W. Jenkyn Thomas (1907) relates to the stones on top of Garn Bentyrch (or Pentyrch, as he calls it) – online at V Wales
https://www.red4.co.uk/Folklore/fairytales/gutobach.htm
It’s about a boy who goes to play with the fairies on the hills above Llangybi. His parents warn him against it but he will keep going back, and one day doesn’t return for two years (though he looks the same age on his return). There are rumours about a hoard of gold hidden under a big rock on the mountain but even the strongest men in the village shoving together can’t shift it. His parents are down to their last can of beans due to an ill-advised investment, but Guto knows the fairies will help them out. He goes to ask nicely if they can have the gold, and when he tries to move the rock (sword-in-the-stone style) it bounces off down the hill with no effort at all. Pays to be civil to the fairies, see.

They are mentioned elsewhere in Rhys’s ‘Celtic Folklore Welsh and Manx‘
https://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/cfwm/cf107.htm
which is online at the Sacred Texts archive.

When I was staying at Pwlltheli the same summer, I went out to the neighbouring village of Four Crosses, and found a native of the place, who had heard a great many curious things from his mother. His name was Lewis Jones: he was at the time over eighty, and he had formerly been a saddler. Among other things, his mother often told him that her grandmother had frequently been with the fairies, when the latter was a child. She lived at Plas Du, and once she happened to be up near Carn Bentyrch when she saw them. She found them resembling little children, and playing in a brook that she had to cross. She was so delighted with them, and stayed so long with them, that a search was made for her, when she was found in the company of the fairies.

Sabine Baring-Gould mentions that On the hill above [the spring] is Cadair Gybi, his [Saint Cybi’s] chair, a naturally-formed boulder bearing a striking resemblance to an arm-chair.

Phil Quinn (Third Stone 26) mentions that fairies used to live here at Cadbury. But they couldn’t stand the noise from the new church bells – they buried their gold and left (perhaps too heavy to take with them?).

The folklore mentioned by Purejoy below is included by Ruth Tongue in her 1965 ‘Somerset Folklore’ – she also says that the local people (unsurprisingly) called the camp ‘Camelot’.

Ruth Tongue was told in 1944 by a Person from Porlock that people used to climb to the top of Dunkery Beacon to see the sun rise on Easter Sunday, ‘for good luck’.

(Somerset Folklore, 1965)