Rhiannon

Leslie Grinsell recorded that this chambered cairn was a spot where St Marnock (or Marnoch) used to retire to for a bit of devotion, fasting and penance.

(’Folklore of Prehistoric Sites in Britain’ 1976)

You can read a rather long story called ‘Roger Meyrick’s Ride at red4.co.uk/Folklore/trevelyan/snow2sea/rogermeyrick.htm
in which he finds himself riding a very strange and swift “horse”*, with the monumental and rationalising cop-out that it was all down to the effects of the local beer.
The story is part of ‘From Snowdon to the sea’ by Marie Trevelyan (1894).

*which turns out to be the cromlech.

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.