Rhiannon

Robert M Heanley was told this version “by a native of Melksham, whose family has been settled thereabouts for at least three centuries, and has handed on the tradition from generation to generation:

When Stonehenge was builded, a goodish bit after Avebury, the devil was in a rare taking. ‘There’s getting a vast deal too much religion in these here parts,’ he says, ‘summat must be done.’ So he picks up his shovel, and cuts a slice out of Salisbury Plain, and sets off for to smother up Avebury. But the priests saw him coming and set to work with their charms and incusstations, and they fixed him while he was yet a nice way off, till at last he flings down his shovelful just where he was stood. And that’s Silbury.

Mr Heanley adds: ‘Only those who have seen Silbury can appreciate the size of that shovelful’.

Usually the Devil’s trying to flatten churches, but it sounds like he hates all religions equally?

This is from some correspondence in ‘Folklore’ volume 24, December 1913.

I don’t think it’s wholly stupid of me to think he was referring to this place?

The belief in fairies was once common all over the country. That interesting race seems to have died out in this part of the country. At least in all my wanderings I have never seen a fairy or spoken to any person who had seen one. Though I have conversed with one very old woman, who died about 40 years ago, upon the subject, and remember having listened with amusement, not unmixed with awe, to the wonderful tales she told us of encounters some of her early acquaintances had had with the green-coated fraternity.

But, if we have no fairies, we have still some of the relics of them. On the occasion of our late visit to Deskford, Mr Cramond pointed out to me a clump of trees, which contained a ‘fairy hillock.’ We did not stop to examine it; but, I suppose, it resembles those green round mounds, which are rather common in this part of the country, and of which I intend to have something to say on some future occasion.

He then goes on to tell a tale of fairies in a hillock in the ‘lonely range of Gromack’: I see Grumack Hill is also in Moray.
From the Banffshire Journal, 17th May 1887.

Interesting Incised Megalith.
We are indebted to Mr T.A. Matthews [for the particulars of] a very interesting incised megalith, which is to be seen at Owslow Farm, Carsington, about half-way between Ashbourne and Wirksworth. This relic (said by some authorities to be 3,000 to 4,000 years old) certainly has the appearance of considerable antiquity, and there are several stories related in connection with it.

One is to the effect that it was an altar used in the Druidical days; another states that it marks a burial place, while there is a local tradition that an erstwhile great man of Brassington kicked the stone from a neighbouring hill to its present position.

But the most interesting feature of the “stoup” is a deeply cut cross on its southern face. This cross is not readily noticeable, owing to the growth of moss. It measures about 6 inches by 2 inches, and the arms are not square to the shaft, the one to the right, or east, being considerably higher than the one to the left, or west.

The stone itself measures about 7 feet in vertical height above the ground, and about 7 feet 6 inches on the centre line. It is a matter for serious consideration whether the “stoup” should be restored to an upright position. It has fallen over to the south and west, and is probably still subsiding.

From the Ashbourne News Telegraph, 24th October 1913.

Wellington, under the Wrekin.
It has been usual for the people in this neighbourhood to assemble on the Wrekin hill, on the Sunday after May-day and the three successive Sundays, to drink a health ‘to all friends round the Wrekin;’ but as, on this annual festival, various scenes of drunkenness and other licentiousness were frequently exhibited, its celebration has, of late, been very properly discouraged by the magistracy, and is going deservedly to decay.
February, 1826. W.P.

Hone’s “Everyday Book and Tablebook,” (1837). I don’t think you’ll ever stop people getting drunk and misbehaving, sorry. And judging by the other (later) examples below, it didn’t stop any time soon.

This site features in Macpherson’s Ossian poems of the 18th century. Even at the time people thought they were Rather Imaginative. But given that all folklore’s imaginative, perhaps it doesn’t hurt to mention his take on the stones, and who knows, perhaps it was a real local story after all.

So it seems the legendary Fingal brought his dog Bran over to Scotland when he visited the local chief. And the Sutherland chief had his own dog, Phorp. But the dogs had an altercation, quite a bad one really, where Phorp got his heart ripped out. This is supposed to have been at ‘Leck na Con’ (the stone of the dogs) between Clyne and Wildonan. And Bran didn’t come off so well either and had to be buried in Glen Loth – which is why this place is called Carn Bran.

(Summarised from the summary in ‘The illustrated book of the dog’ by VK Shaw, 1881).

[Tammy Norries, the cattle herd on Balmain] not only suffered instantaneous death, but by a supernatural influence his body was prevented receiving ordinary burial! For it is stated that, being found at his post and standing upright, it was found impossible (in accordance with announcement of the ghostly warder) to remove the body from the spot to which it appeared to be rooted!

With the inventive genius for which the natives of Scotland, and more particuarly the inhabitants of the district, are remarkable, an uncommon mode of burial to suit the uncommon obstinacy and unbending disposition of the subject was adopted, and a cairn of stones was erected round the body, which (namely a cairn of stones) undoubtedly remains until this day, and is known by the name of Norries’ Law.

The above ridiculous legend has laid claim to no small degree of credibility on the strength of an occurrence no farther back than sixty years ago! The farmer of the land on which Norries’ Law is situated having occasion for a quantity of stones to repair some fences, and actuated by the utilitarian principles which even then were spreading their poisonous scepticism through our land, took upon him to lay his sacrilegious hands upon the aforesaid mysterious cairn, and to make it available for his vile purpose. But, lo! a superior power steps in to put a stop to the impious act! Mr Durham’s steward appears, with anger on his countenance and a message from the laird on his lips, requesting the said farmer to desist from removing, and to restore the stones already removed to their places.

It was at this important epoch of this memorable history that the cairn was discovered to be not a solid mass of stones, but to have enclosed something, and what more likely than the body of a human being? The fact of a few bones and other substances being found there and thereabouts was looked upon by the simple natives as giving confirmation strong to the aforegoing romantic tale; and were this not an age of scoffers and sceptics, we would not have taken the trouble to refresh the minds of the public with a story which, although some may consider it stale, is as good as most others of the same sort.

Fife Herald, 21st December 1843.

This is a large cairn of stones at the top of Ballyheady Mountain which is about 3 miles to the west of Ballyconnell.
The following is a local legend connected and accounting for the cairn.
Once in Meath a chieftain committed some crime and drew the wrath of the people upon him. A crowd of women gathered to kill him. They filled their aprons with stones to stone him to death and they started for the place of his abode. But he heard of their coming and fled northwards. They pursued him, still taking stones with them in their Aprons. With his pursuers close at his heels the criminal was fording the River near Ballyconnell; now known as The Woodford River, and he got drowned. The women foiled of their prey, went to the nearby mountain and emptied out the stones from their Aprons at its top.
Such was the origin of the cairn.

From the 1930s Schools Collection of folklore at Duchas.ie.

I also found the following:

It is now, of course, quite impossible to discover the identities of the personages whose remains have rested in the Ballyheady cairn for three thousand years. History is silent on the matter, but there is a local tradition that this cairn marks the burialplace of Conall Cernach, the hero of the Tain Cycle. [...] Conall Cernach, who was the foster-brother of Cuchullain, was murdered by the desperadoes of Queen Medb at Ath na Mianna – the Ford of the Miners – in Breiffne. [...] It is generally accepted that Ath na Mianna was on the River Graine, now the Woodford River, and in the neighbourhood of the present town of Ballyconnell.

From the Breiffne Antiquarian Historical Society Journal for 1931-1933.

Less than 100 yards north of the fort was (is?) a spring. (I can see it on an 1867 map at SZ314970).

Buckland Spring.
Near Buckland, north of Lymington, there was a small spring to the north of the great earthwork which was for generations held in great estimation for its reputative curative properites in ophthalmic disorders.

In RC Hope’s ‘Legendary Lore of the Holy Wells of England’ (1893) – he’s quoting from the Hampshire Field Club v2, pt i., p.47.

A steep path leads down from Windsbatch to some springs (and a church) at the foot of the hill. I expect the “person with glasses” charged for their use, but that is not to take away from the ambience of the spot, I am sure.

Holy Wells.
I see in the April Antiquary that Mr Hope does not mention a spring or well at Upwey, a few miles from Weymouth – it is a wishing well. There is always a person near with glasses from which to drink the waters, wish, and throw the remainder over the shoulder. It is really the source of the Wey, a fine spring of clear water coming out of the ground, and flows on until it becomes the river at Weymouth. There is a church a few yards higher up.
George Bailey, Derby.

From ‘The Antiquary’ v21 (1890).

In the Clee Hills is St Milborough’s Well at Stoke St. Milborough (in Domesday Book, Godestoch). It is an unfailing spring, a little above the church, and at the foot of the steep bank leading up the Brown Clee Hill.

It was reputed to be good for sore eyes, and was also much used for ‘bucking’ clothes, which were rinsed in the well-water and beaten on a flat stone at the well’s mouth: but some ten years ago it was covered in, and altered, and I am told is now in a ruinous and unsightly condition.

The legend still current in the village, relates that St Milburga was a very holy and beautiful woman, who, nevertheless, had so many enemies that she was obliged to live in hiding. Her retreat, however, became known, and she took to flight, mounted on a white horse, and pursued by her foes with a pack of bloodhounds, and a gang of rough men on horseback. After two days and two nights’ hard riding she reached the spot where the well now is, and fell fainting from her horse, striking her head upon a stone. Blood flowed from the wound, and the stain it caused upon the stone remained there plainly visible, and has been seen by many persons now living.

On the opposite side of the road, some men were sowing barley in a field called the Plock, and they ran to help the Saint. Water was wanted, but none was at hand. The horse, at St. Milburga’s bidding, struck his hoof into the rock and at once a spring of water gushed out. ‘Holy water, henceforth and for ever flow freely,’ said the Saint. Then, stretching out her hands, she commanded the barley the men had just sown to spring up, and instantly the green blades appeared.

Turning to the men, she told them that her pursuers were close at hand, and would presently ask them, ‘When did the lady on the white horse pass this way?’ to which they were to answer, ‘When we were sowing this barley.’ She then remounted her horse, and bidding them prepare their sickles, for in the evening they should cut their barley, she went on her way.

And it came to pass as the Saint had foretold. In the evening the barley was ready for the sickle, and while the men were busy reaping, St Milburga’s enemies came up, and asked for news of her. The men replied that she had stayed there at the time of the sowing of the barley, and they went away baffled. But when they came to hear that the barley was sown in the morning, ripened at mid-day, and was reaped in the evening, they owned that it was in vain to fight against God.

Medieval hagiologists relate the flight of St Milburga from the too violent suit of a neighbouring prince, whose pursuit was checked by the River Corve, which, as soon as she had passed it, swelled from an insignificant brook to a might flood which effectually barred his progress. They also tell how when the wild geese ate the new-sown grain from the Saint’s fields, she commanded them to be gone, and forbade any of their race to trespass on ‘St Milburga’s Land’ from that time forth; how, when the veil fell from St Milburga’s head in the early morning sunshine, it remained suspended in the air until replaced; and how a mystic flame enveloped her as she prostrated herself beside the dead body of a certain poor widow’s son, who was restored to life by her prayers.

St Milburga’s Day is the 23rd of February, and thus falls at the period of ‘Lent-tillin’’ or spring wheat-sowing. It is very evident from these traditions, both ancient and modern, that in the minds of the still half-heathen people among whom she dwelt, she took the place of one of their ancient rustic goddesses, coming forth in the morning sunlight, and swiftly journeying in the spring time among the hills and valleys, making the waters flow and the corn spring up as she went.

From ‘Shropshire Folklore’, edited by C.S. Burne, from the collections of G.F. Jackson (1886).

It doesn’t look that ‘ruinous and unsightly’ in Time Prevett’s video on Youtube, it looks rather nice. And it’s certainly a very pagan-tinged story. I think it might be worth a visit. I guess you can argue it’s a mile or two away from the top of the hill, but certainly in its foothills.

This is a bit feeble really.

Haughmond Hill. A reason for the name of this hill is given in the following legend – While the battle of Shrewsbury was being fought, the Queen was looking on from a cluster of trees on the top of the hill. (The legend says that it was Queen Anne, and that she gave the name of Queen Anne’s bower to the place where she was standing; while history shows that she was not Queen at that date.) When she saw that the Royalists were winning she exclaimed, “Amen! the battle is won”! and thus the hill received its name. It was called Amen Hill, later Hamon, which ultimately passed into Haughmond.

From ‘Shropshire Traditions’ in the Wellington Journal, 31st October 1903.

Picturesque Llanblethian.

Descending Llanblethian-hill, the path to Cowbridge passes over very rocky ground, some of the rocks curiously marked – one forms a fancied resemblance to the impression that would be made by a foot and knee in kneeling, is set down as having been made by the devil, who, in carrying a load, was obliged to rest there. May not the legend have taken its rise in monkish times?

Entering the field from the hill, the pathway winds at the head of three or four strong springs in the field corner. That nearest the hill used to be considered good for diseases of the eye, and cures were wrought there – nothing is now heard of its restorative powers.

Further on, by the hedge-side is a spring protected by a low square of masonry, with an orifice on one side for the overflow. In this are some fragments of an oaken box (nearly perfect a few years ago), where children and others used to go and wish, dropping a pin into the box at the time. Ill-luck was to attend those who took any of the pins out of the box, nevertheless the pins were often cleared out. Either at this well, or the Bomin (Bowman’s) well in the next field, children used to flock on a certain day in the year, All-Hallow’s-tide, I fancy, taking with them drinking vessels and sugar, mixing the sugar with the waters of the spring, and drinking them.

Some years ago a half-crazed fellow began searching for treasures within the precincts of the old castle. After wasting some time therein he gave it up as a bad job. In a drawing of the place as it stood in 1740 the ruins appear of much greater extent than at present, as well as those of Castell Llychad (or Llychod), which is introduced in the back ground. Much of the old castle was taken down 40 years ago to build St. Quentin’s Cottage [...] between here and the castle, on the top of Llanblethian-hill, Castell Llychod, a subterranean passage is said to exist. As there is nothing to indicate such a means of communication, the tradition must be taken upon its own merits.

‘Cadrawd’ writing in the Cardiff Times, 1st July 1893.

I had a look at the old maps and “The Devil’s Foot and Knee” is marked up until the 1960s, at SS986743, on a footpath, so might well be findable. The eye well is at SS987744 and Bowmen’s well at SS988745.

At a point 352 yards S.S.E. from the farmsteading, the O.M. records the position of a monolith as the “supposed remains of a Stone Circle.” Information obtained on the land was to the effect that the Stone had been long ago removed, and was on the point of being built into a wall, when the tenant became “troubled” – the precise symptoms not discoverable – and he thereupon caused the Stone to be replaced “as nearly as he could remember” on its original site. This happens to be on the distinctly steep westward slope of the field, an unlikely place, as it seems to me, for a Circle. The drawing (fig. 5) shows the Stone as seen from the south-east, looking down into the water of Livet. It is an irregularly prism-sided, tall, block of, I think, quartziferous schist, 5 feet 6 inches in height, and with a girth of about 4 feet 5 inches.

From ‘Report on Stone Circles Surveyed in the North-East of Scotland (Banffshire and Moray)..’ by Fred R Coles, in the Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland (February 11th 1907).

Should you be here, not half a mile down the hill from this stone (at SN064383) there is said to be a special well:

A rocky outcrop nearby is called Carn Cwn (Cairn of Dogs). Beneath an overhanging rock is a wishing well. The water is said to rise and fall with the tide and people used to throw pins into it to cure their warts.

Mentioned by Chris Barber in ‘Mysterious Wales’ (1982).

The Bully Hills, Tathwell.
These artificial mounds consist of a group of six, lying in close contiguity to one another, and of a detached one removed a few hundred yards from the others, now surrounded by a tuft of trees. They are from 8 to 10 feet in height, and being conspicuously situated on the brow of one of the higher Wold hills, near the village of Tathwell, have long attracted considerable attention, particularly as the remains of two small circular earthworks on an adjoining elevation (consisting of six slightly-raised concentric rings about 180 feet in diameter, usually assigned to the Danish period), in conjunction with these tumuli, have naturally led to the supposition that some conflict between the Saxons and the Danes occurred here, the entrenchments indicating the position of the defendants – the tumuli the graves of the chiefs who fell in the contest.

Other reports have also long been floating about in the vicinity respecting these hills, as retailed by nursery-maids, to the great delight of their juvenile charges, and of course all are connected with hidden treasure. The following reason, for instance, why these mounds are termed “Bully Hills” is really too good to remain unrecorded, although we fear it will not satisfy the doubting mind of every ethnologist and archaeolgian who may come to examine these remarkable earthworks, enquiring what race found them, and when?

It had ever been believed that they covered an immense treasure, and at length a certain farmer, probably by the aid of a judicious dream, was led to dig into one of them, when, after much toil, deep below the surface he found a vast chest, which from its great weight clearly contained some very heavy substance – probably gold! To drag this from its long entombment the said farmer borrowed all the bulls of the district, and yoking them to an iron chain nearly half a mile in length urged them on. The bulls began to pull; but alas! alas! the chain broke – the animals were scattered in the greatest confusion over the hill side – in fact there was a regular “bouleversement” of them, and the mysterious chest sank into the earth deeper than ever, leaving only a reminiscence of this transaction in the term the mounds still bear of “Bully Hills!”

It may be considered presumptuous, perhaps, to doubt the correctness of any part of the above charming bit of local folk lore; otherwise, we might have ventured to suggest that, as several bubbling springs are termed “Bully” springs from the French “bouillant” or boiling, so these hills may have received their appellation from “boule” or “boulet” (a ball), indicative of the rotundity of their outline.

I really don’t think his statements about Saxons and Danes are any better than the pronouncements of “nursery maids” but there we are. From the ‘Stamford Mercury’, 17th July 1857.

The cairns are numerous, but are rapidly disappearing before the advance of improving agriculture, and are only to be found intact on the unreclaimed land. The first we will notice is a ruined one, in a field on Burnside of Rathven, a few hundred yards west of the farm house of Conage, on the road from Fochabers to Cullen. When complete it must have been of considerable dimensions, and probably marks the last resting place of some chief of Celtic or Scandinavian type. The centre portion has been reduced to the level of the surrounding field. It measures 133 feet from east to west, and 50 from north to south; and varies in height from 5 feet 3 inches to 8 feet 6 inches.

The local name is “Tarry Clearick,” which some translate as “Priest’s Cairn;” but this interpretation does not agree with the apparent antiquity of the cairn. Tradition says that it occupies the site of a battle between the Danes and Picts, and that the cairn itself is the grave of the chief who fell in the engagement.

Thomas D Wallace, writing in the Banffshire Advertiser, 24th May 1883.

Someone getting a bit of mileage out of the local folklore:

A Singular Legend.

Those prone to superstition, no less than students of folklore, will have a special interest in the finding of the body of the young man who is accused of having murdered his sweetheart on the lofty Cornish hill of Castle an Dinas. The ancient and ruined fortress stands in the parish of Ludgvan; and of the saint after whom it was named there has long been told in the district a singular legend.

Saint Ludgvan, the alleged founder of the church there, was an Irish missionary; and it is said of him that he brought a stream of water under the church stile for the purpose of bestowing on it certain miraculous qualities, one of which was that no person baptised with it should ever expiate any of his crimes through medium of a halter.

Consequently it has been accustomed to be believed that no man of Ludgvan ever suffers this disgrace; and the popular belief in the legend is certain to be strengthened by the fact that now a peculiarly cruel murder has been perpetrated at Castle an Dinas, suicide, to use the old phrase, has “cheated the gallows.”

The belief, it may be added, is so strong in the district that the inhabitants of neighbouring parishes have been known to carry away the water of Ludgvan for baptismal purposes; but proof of its efficacy when thus removed is wanting.

From the (geographically surprising) ‘East of Fife Record’, 24th June 1904. It’s a slightly peculiar interpretation that St Ludgvan would be complicit in people getting away with terrible crimes, perhaps he intended that the local people would actually turn out very good and not do anything meriting hanging. But there we are. The poor victim found in the ditches at Castle-an-Dinas was Jessie Rickard, shot by Charles Berryman.

Fonaby Top is now a farm, immaculate and clearly highly organised. This place is also the resting-place of the Fonaby stone sack, whose sinister history clings close. It nestles in a hedge bottom, untouched and, while not immovable, unmoved.

Mr Peter Cole, who farms here, treats it with the respect due to its hideous reputation. Would he move it, I asked? “By hell I wouldn’t,” he replied swiftly and decisively. And you wouldn’t think to look at him that the stalwart Mr Cole was a man to be easily moved by old wives’ tales. But that’s Lincolnshire!

From ‘Grimsby Daily Telegraph’, 17th September 1986.

This is from ‘The Antiquities of Warwickshire‘ by William Dugdale (1656).

Southwards from Haseler (but within the same Parish) is a Coppice wood, and in it a notable Hill, which is of such a steep and equall ascent from every side, as if it had been artificially made, so that it is a very eminent mark over all that part of the Country, and by the common people called Alcocks Arbour. Towards the foot whereof is a hole, now almost filled up, having been the entrance into a Cave, as the Inhabitants report: of which Cave there is an old wives story, that passes for current amongst the people of the adjacent Towns;

viz. that one Alcock, a great Robber, used to lodge therein, and having got much mony by that course of life, hid it in an iron-bound Chest, whereunto were three Keys; which Chest, they say, is still there, but guarded by a Cock that continually sits upon it: And that on a time, an Oxford-Schollar came thither, with a Key that opened two of the Locks; but as he was attempting to open the third, the Cock seized on him. To all which they adde, that if one Bone of the partie, who set the Cock there, could be brought, he would yield up the Chest.

There’s another strange small hill not a few hundred metres down the road, and this is called ‘The Night Cap’ on modern maps.

The other hill has been known as either the “Devil’s Bag of Nuts” or “the Devil’s Night-cap.” The former name is part of a well-known group of legends clustering round September 21st, the devil’s nutting day. And in the local form it ran somewhat thus.

The Blessed Virgin Mary took shelter beneath a hazel bush, somewhere near this spot, and the bush spread a thick shelter over her so that she was not the least inconvenienced by the rain. She accordingly blessed the bush, so that it should bear specially good nuts. Now the devil was anxious, as usual, to undo any good that might be done, so he came nutting this way, but was very soon detected. In order to escape he flung down the troublesome bag of nuts, which grew into this hill.

In the ‘Stratford upon Avon Herald’, 4th July 1913.

Rumours of underground tunnels always count as folklore don’t they. (It reminded me of that at Fiddler’s Hill in Norfolk).

Arbury Hill is an ancient encampment. The great earthwork was thrown up by the Romans and the whole was surrounded by a wide ditch 20 feet deep enclosing about 10 acres. There are subterranean passages which were discovered a few years ago when a dog disappeared after a rabbit, in, it was thought, a rabbit hole. The dog was called, but never came back, though it was heard barking under the ground a long distance away. Digging operations revealed an underground passage with foul air in it. The dog was never recovered.

From the ‘Northampton Mercury’, 20th October 1933.

Also (I have not read it) John Walbridge’s article in ‘Mercian Mysteries’ (1991) suggests Arbury Hill is the ‘omphalos of England’ being further from the sea than anywhere else in the country. Which could be a fun fact.

Bygone Ashwell. Interesting lecture by Mr H.W. Bowman.

{...} The next object to arrest attention was Pancake Hill upon Highly Hill, the legendary voice of the old woman therein rewarding with a pancake all those who could complete the circuit of this old mound three times without drawing breath {sic ...}

Herts and Cambs Reporter, 27th March 1914.

The Supposed Tumulus In Parliament Hill Fields.
Nothing has come of the excavations undertaken by the County Council on the supposed tumulus in Parliament-hill fields. The result is exactly what many persons expected, for the legend connecting the British warrior queen with the mound is of the vaguest possible character. There are not wanting old inhabitants of the neighbourhood who assert that this particular mound has only attained to notoriety as “Boadicea’s Grave” within their own time, and that it was so christened by some practical joker who wished to impose upon the learned. Others of an antiquarian turn believe that genuine tumuli exist in the higher regions of Hampstead, bordering the Mansfield estates, but certainly not in Parliament-hill fields, which were in old times the dumping grounds for all sorts of rubbish. Anyhow the digging of the authorities has come to nought.

London Daily Chronicle, 5th November 1894.

Last week The Bedfordshire Times published a picture of Marston Church and with it a story of certain alleged exploits of the Evil One. Mr F.W. Marsom, of Northill, has some more stories to tell about the athletic prowess of Mephistopheles round and about Northill:

In Northill two versions of the story of the jumping powers of the devil are told, and both in connexion with Marston. The first is the same as that told before, but with the addition that when he took his leap he landed on Moxhill near Northill in a field called Hopper’s Hole.

The other version is that the devil took a hop, step, and a jump from Marston. His hop brought him to Hopper’s Hole, he stepped across Northill parish to Caesar’s Camp, Sandy, and from here he jumped and disappeared.

( Mr Marson then goes on to connect the story to leylines, an idea Alfred Watkins had in the early 1920s. ...) Applying these theories to the one-inch ordnance survey map we find that a straight line from Moat Farm, Marston, passes through the moat of Manor Farm, Cotton End, across Moxhill, Northill, to Caesar’s Camp, Sandy, which is the site of a prehistoric camp. This seems to fit the trackway theory, but the trouble is that so many lines can be found that the map soon begins to look like a spider’s web gone crazy.

Well I’m sold anyway :) From the Bedfordshire Times and Independent, 18th September 1936.

No. hang on. They’re not in a straight line at all.