Rhiannon

The ‘Mysterious Britain Gazetteer’ says that the circle is associated with strange lights. This stone
themodernantiquarian.com/post/30255
is called the Fairy Stone – are the lights the work of fairies or are they ‘earthlights’? (some cynics would go for neither, of course.)

The caption to the MBG photograph suggests that the shape of the fairy stone deliberately matches that of Win Hill (SK186850) on the horizon.

mysteriousbritain.co.uk/england/derbyshire/derbyshire3.html

William Simmonds lived near Stroud and collected photographs and information about local rural life. An online exhibition is at the Museum of English Rural Life
ruralhistory.org/online_exhibitions/simmonds/cat_photo.html

“[He spoke to] George Hunt, a plasterer, from Far Oakridge
(A pencil note adds, ‘died 1937 aged 93’) “W.G.S.:Do you know Haresfield Beacon Mr Hunt. Cromwell is said to have watched his armies from there.
Mr H. : Oh yes and the story goes that he fired at the cathedral tower from there, and they put sacks round it to protect it. That’s how the story goes but I aint never been up there. ”

British History Online has the information that the earthworks at Haresfield Beacon were once known as Evesbury / Ezimbury.
british-history.ac.uk/report.asp?compid=15822

This is a massive quartz block 2m long, 1.2m wide and 1.65m high. The Somerset Historic Environment record says that the farmer of the land gives its local name as ‘The Devil’s Stone’ and that the Devil hurled it from Dunkery Beacon. The field name is “Hour stone” which sounds suspiciously like “Hoar stone” – another quite common name for lone standing stones in England. Apparently in local tradition it was also thought of as a boundary or path stone. It looks as though it’s on a direct (and old) path between two villages, and very near to where the path crosses a stream.
Despite all this hopeful folklore pointing at its importance in local consciousness, the record suggests it’s probably not prehistoric. I guess it’s just big. But you could go and look at it.

In his ‘Popular Romances of the West of England’ Hunt describes a rock in Looe that turns around 3 times when it hears a cock crow. He adds:

The topmost stone of that curious pile of rocks in the parish of St Cleer known as the Cheesewring is gifted in like manner. Even now the poultry-yards are very distant, but in ancient days the cocks must have crowed most lustily, to have produced vibrations on either the sensitive rock or the tympanum of man.

Online at the sacred texts archive sacred-texts.com/neu/eng/prwe/index.htm

The sarcastic Davis Gilbert said “With respect to the stones called the ‘Hurlers’ being once men, I will say.. ‘Did that the ball which these Hurlers used when flesh and blood appear directly over them, immovably pendant in the air, one might he apt to credit some little of the tale..‘

Hunt, who was quoting him in his ‘Popular Romances of the West of England’ retorted
May we not address Mr Bond, “O ye of little faith!“- A very small amount of which would have found the ball, fixed as a boulder of granite, not as it passed through the air, but as it rolled along the ground.

* ‘Popular Romances’ online at the sacred texts archive: sacred-texts.com/neu/eng/prwe/prwe071.htm

Tom White, of Post Bridge, was the favoured suitor of a girl from Huccaby, five miles away across the moor. After tea he’d walk over to see her, and late at night he’d walk back home. One summer night Tom had stayed considerably later than usual, and the stars were beginning to fade with that pre-dawn light. As he got nearer Bellever Tor he fancied he heard voices in the distance. He stopped to listen but came to the conclusion it was just the sighing of the wind. However as he got to the tor it was evident that a very merry party was somewhere close at hand. As he passed a huge granite block, he came upon a strange and bewildering sight.

On a small level piece of velvety turf, entirely surrounded by boulders, a throng of pixies were dancing in a ring, while others perched on rocks laughing and shouting. Before he could decide how to sneak off he was spotted, and the figures ran to form a ring around him, dancing and singing, spinning him round, round, round. He couldn’t help but be caught up with the pixies but he was terrified what would happen. Luckily for him the sun was at that moment about to peep over the ridge, and as its first rays hit the ground Tom found himself abandoned and exhausted.

It’s said that Tom couldn’t face going to see his girlfriend after that. I’ve heard some excuses... “Honestly, it’s not you, it’s me and it’s the pixies.”

An even more long-winded version of this is to be found in Tales of the Dartmoor Pixies, by William Crossing [1890] at
sacred-texts.com/neu/eng/tdp/tdp05.htm

From Tales of the Dartmoor Pixies by William Crossing [1890]. online at sacred-texts.com/neu/eng/tdp

The following was told me by old George Caunter, of Dartmeet (Uncle George)..

A man named Hannaford, together with his wife, once lived at Lough Tor Hole*, which is situated on the East Dart, at no great distance below Bellaford Bridge. The few dwellers in the neighbourhood had often heard them speak of their children, but no one, when chancing to call at the house, had ever seen anything of them there. Sometimes as they approached it a troop of ragged little imps would appear for a moment to their view, and immediately vanish among the bracken as if by magic. Occasionally a farmer or a moor-man seeking his cattle near the place, would see several little forms scrambling among the boulders of granite, but on the slightest attempt to get near them they disappeared.

At length it was hinted among the people round about that what Hannaford and his wife called their children were nothing more nor less than a troop of pixies, for they disappeared in the same extraordinary fashion, on the approach of anyone, that those little elves were said to do. This belief continued to grow, and in a short time there were none who doubted that Hannaford and his wife were connected in some mysterious manner with that tribe of little goblins, and folks began to shun passing that way.

But of witchery there was none, for, as Uncle George explained, Lough Tor Hole is a very out-of-the-way place, and those who visited it but few, and the young children being accustomed to see scarce anyone but their parents became frightened on the approach of a stranger, and hid themselves with all speed, keeping out of the way until they had departed.

* I am not sure as to the correct mode of spelling the name of this place. The tor above it is sometimes rendered Laugh Tor, and sometimes Lough Tor. The old spelling of the name is Lafter Hole, and it is often so pronounced at present on the moor, though more frequently spoken of as Larter Hall

What, now Dartmoor people don’t know the difference between a child and a pixie? Give me a break.

There are other curious traditionary notices of the Rhymer in Aberdeenshire; one thus introduced in a View of the Diocese of Aberdeen, written about 1732.

’ On Aiky brae here [in Old Deer parish] are certain stones called the Cummin’s Craig, where ‘tis said one of the Cummins, Earls of Buchan, by a fall from his horse at hunting, dashed out his brains. The prediction goes that this earl (who lived under Alexander III.) had called Thomas the Rhymer by the name of Thomas the Lyar, to show how much he slighted his predictions, whereupon that famous fortune-teller denounced his impending fate in these word, which, ‘tis added, were all literally fulfilled:-

Tho’ Thomas the Lyar thou call’st me,
A sooth tale I shall tell to thee:
By Aikyside
Thy horse shall ride,
He shall stumble, and thou shalt fa’,
Thy neck bane shall break in twa,
And dogs shall thy banes gnaw,
And, maugre all thy kin and thee,
Thy own belt thy bier shall be.‘

So maybe not exactly the Aiky Brae stones. Though it seems to good a landmark to miss if you’re going to dash your brains out. From p21 of ‘Select Writings of Robert Chambers: popular rhymes of Scotland’ 3rd edition, 1847. Online at Google Books.

A very short distance away at SS497899 there is a holy well. According to Marie Trevelyan’s “Folk-lore and folk-stories of Wales” (1909) it is “a spring which is said to flow with the ebb and flow of the tide. It is called Ffyn[n]on Fair, or Our Lady’s Well. The water therefrom was lifted in the palm of the hand while the person who drank it wished.”
The site is not miles from the sea in any direction, as it is on the Gower peninsular, but it’s still hardly close, so its alleged ebb and flow would make it rather special.

I have later found out that Camden mentioned this in his ‘Britannica’:

They are to be seen upon a jutting at the north west of Cefn Bryn, the most noted hill in Gower; their fashion and posture is this, There is a vast unwrought stone, probably about 20 tons weight, supported by six or seven others that are not above four feet high, and these are set in a circle, some on one end, and some edgewise or sidelong, to bear the great one up. The great one is much diminished of what ithas been in bulk, as having five tons or more by report, broke off it to make millstones, so that I guess the stone originally to have been between twenty-five and thrity tons in weight.
The common people call it Arthur’s Stone; under it is a well, which, as the neighbours tell me, has a flux and reflux with the sea.”

Could it be true about the millstones? Or would it be unnecessary bother?

Standing stones supposed to be of Druidical or memorial origin are seen in Glamorgan near Cottrell, the seat of Mrs. Macintosh, wife of the Macintosh of Macintosh. The story about these stones is that some women had sworn falsely against an innocent man, who was put to death on the gallows on Bryn Owen Mountain, subsequently known as the Stallingdown. These women were turned into stones on their way home.

(the other stone is possibly the one at Redland Park). From Marie Trevelyan’s “Folk-lore and folk-stories of Wales”, published in 1909 and online at V Wales:
red4.co.uk/Folklore/trevelyan.htm

[A] stone on Orme’s Head is known as Cryd Tudno, or Tudno’s Cradle. It is supposed to have been a rocking-stone, but has long since been dismounted. People said two centuries ago that if any mothers wanted their children to learn to walk quickly, they should put their babes to crawl three times in succession once a week around the cradle of Tudno.

From Marie Trevelyan’s “Folk-lore and folk-stories of Wales”, published in 1909 and online at V Wales:
red4.co.uk/Folklore/trevelyan.htm

She mentions another stone linked to the saint, otherwise known as ‘Hogalen Tudno’:

The whetstone of St. Tudno, near the ancient oratory on Great Orme’s Head, was included among the thirteen curiosities of the Isle of Britain. It was said that if the sword of a brave man were sharpened on it, anybody wounded thereby would surely die; but if the sword of a coward were sharpened on it, the blade would hurt, and not kill.

Is this a handy confusion with the whetstone of Tudwal Tudclud? which is mentioned as being one of the thirteen precious things in the basket of Gwyddneu Garanhir (see Lady’s Guest’s Mabinogion notes at sacred-texts.com/neu/celt/mab/mab17.htm)

Bleary Pate is a round barrow 6+ft high, crowned by a tree and a pesky trig point. It is called ‘Bleary Pate’ on the modern OS map – but old maps have it as ‘Bloody Pate’. Leslie Grinsell collected the grisly rhyme that “the blood ran down the hill from Bloody Pate up to the second straddle of the gates”, and says the name change was a euphemism of the prim Victorians, who didn’t quite get it. Bleary pate doesn’t even make sense. Pate is a word for ‘head’ – so what’s the full story? Were people allegedly having their heads chopped off on the mound? Is it another story connected with giants? More research required.

Somerset Historic Environment Record:
webapp1.somerset.gov.uk/her/details.asp?layer=smr&PRN=34182

It’s thought that there were once two cairns in the middle of the circle (about 9 ft high?) – mentioned by Burl in his ‘Great Stone Circles’, who feels it is unlikely they were just the product of field clearance or suchlike. Bainbridge, writing in c1600, said “Ther are within the compasse of these stones two great heapes of small stones under the wiche, they say, that the dead bodies were buried ther.” Stukeley, even more gruesomely, thought the stoney patches that remained in his day were the place where sacrifices had been burnt.

The late Col. Lacy, it is said, conceived the idea of removing Long Meg and her daughters by blasting. Whilst the work was being proceeded with under his orders, the slumbering powers of Druidism rose in arms against this violation of their sanctuary; and such heavy rain and hail ensued, as the fell-side never before witnessed. The labourers fled for their lives, vowing never more to meddle with Long Meg.. ..All lovers of antiquity must be thankful for the providential throwing of cold water on so wicked a design.

I’m not quite sure who Burl is quoting here, but it’s in his ‘Great Stone Circles’ book. Lt-Col Lacy, owner of Salkeld Hall and Long Meg in the late 18th century, consequently tidied the site up by removing the fence that crossed it E-W. He must have been quite ruffled..

Before this in 1725 Stukeley mentioned that the northern half of the site was planted with crops, and the south side a common. “Many [stones] are standing, but more fallen, and several carried away; but lately they have destroyed some by blasting, as they call it, ie blowing them in pieces with gunpowder; others they have sawed for millstones.”

A giant once lived at Carn Galva. (I’m warning you. This is another one of those depressing Cornish stories about giants. Don’t read it if you’re feeling delicate).

A giant once lived at Carn Galva, and he was a nice chap. He had a human friend from Choone, who used to take a turn over to the carn every now and then, just to see how the giant was getting on and to cheer him up a bit, or play a game. One afternoon they’d been playing quoits and when it was time for his friend to leave, the giant patted him on the head. “Same time tomorrow then?” But unfortunately the young man dropped down dead. The giant’s fingers had gone right through his skull. He tried to plug up the fingerholes, but it was a bit late.
“Oh, my son, why didn’t they make the shell of thy noddle stronger? A es as plum as a pie-crust, doughbaked, and made too thin by half. How shall I ever pass my time without thee to play bob and mop-and-heede?” And the poor giant was never happy after that. He pined away and died seven years later (probably the blink of an eye to a giant).

You can see how big the giant was, because his logan stone was just at the right height to sit on, with his feet comfortably on the turf below.

(story from William Bottrell’s ‘Tales and Hearthside Traditions of West Cornwall’ (c 1870?)quoted in Katherine Briggs’ ‘Folklore and legends of Britain’)

Women can be cruel. But you expect better from a saint.

There lived then in that part of the country a famous Wrath or Giant, by name Bolster, of that ilk. He got hold of the saint [Saint Agnes], and obliged her to gather up the stones on his domain; she carried them in three apron-fulls to the top of the hill, and made with them three great heaps, from which the hill is now called, sometime Carne Breanich, sometimes St. Agnes’ Beacon.

At last this Giant or Wrath, attempted to seduce her; she pretended to yield, provided he would fill a hole which she showed him with his blood: he agreed to this, not knowing that the hole opened into the sea; she thus cunningly bled him to death, and then tumbled him over the cliff. This they still call the Wrath’s Hole. It is on the top of the cliff, not far from St. Agnes’ chapel and well; and, enlarging as it goes downward, opens into a cave fretted-in by the sea, and, from the nature of the stone, streaked all over with bright red streaks like blood.

After this she lived some time here, and then died, having first built her chapel and her well. The water of this well is excellent; and the pavement, they tell you, is coloured with her own blood, and the more you rub it, the more it shows, = such being, indeed, the nature of the stone.

She likewise left the mark of her foot on a rock, not far from it, still called St. Agnes’ foot, which they tell you will fit a foot of any size; and indeed it is large enough to do so. These monkish stories caused great resort here in former days, and many cures are pretended to have been done by the water of this well, so blest by her miraculous blood.” Polwhele’s History of Cornwall, i, 176-7

Found in the ‘Poetical Works of Robert Southey’ v1, 1843 – on Google Books.

One evening the Laird of Balmachie was riding home from Dundee, to see his wife who was ill in bed. It was getting dark, and he took a short cut off the road, riding across the knolls called the Cur-hills, near Carlungy. He suddenly came across a troop of fairies, who were apparently carrying a human being on a kind of litter. As he got nearer he drew his sword, and bravely demanded “In the name of God, release your captive.” The fairies disappeared, and he found it was his wife they had been carrying. He put her on his horse and they rode the short distance home.

Arriving at his house, a servant hurried to attend to his wife, and he went upstairs to help prepare the bedroom. To his amazement, his wife appeared to be still in her bed, complaining away at being neglected by him. Pretending to be most concerned, the Laird told her she should sit by the fire while he had her bed changed. She claimed she couldn’t get up – but he picked her up and shoved her on the fire! “She bounced like a sky-rocket, went through the ceiling, and out through the roof of the house, leaving a hole among the slates.” (They could never satisfactorily fix this hole, either: once a year the mended slate would come off). His poor real wife explained that some time after sunset a multitude of elves had come in at the window, thronging like bees from a hive. They filled the room, lifted her from the bed and carried her out the window, after which point she remembered nothing until she saw her husband at the Cur-hills.

Story in Gibbings’ ‘Folklore and Legends, Scotland’, quoted in Katherine Briggs’ ‘Folklore and legends of Britain’.
See https://www.gutenberg.org/files/17071/17071-h/17071-h.htm (page 57).

It’s interesting it should have the motif of fairies as bees – also see Twmbarlwm in Wales.

So watch it at the Cur-hills – they are only on the opposite side of the road from Carlungie. The Carlungie souterrains would seem the inspiration for a fairy story – but they were only discovered (or discovered by archaeologists, at least) during ploughing in the 1940s. So I figured there must be older tales to account for the area’s strange reputation, and found this in the

Near the 8th milestone, E. from Dundee, there is a ridge of small hills, called the Cur-hills, where within these 14 years several stone coffins have been found. In the vicinity of the same place, were found upward of 6 feet below the surface of the earth, several trees, oak, fir and birch. There were also found urns, covered with broad stones, below which were ashes, supposed to have been human bodies reduced to that state by burning. To the south of the Cur-hills were found several heads of deer, and horns of a very large size, among marl, about 9 feet below the surface.

Linton Hill is a outlier of the Cheviot hills. In the 12th century it was the home of the Linton Worm. You might think that the slight earthworks here are the remains of a fort – but actually they are where the Linton Worm squeezed the hill. With its bad habits of breathing fire and poisoning cattle with its breath – not to mention the latest development of it growing wings, local people were getting a bit fed up of the worm. Its reputation reached a man called Somerville, and he travelled north to see it in person. He went to the ‘Worm’s Lair’ – the hollow on the NE side of the hill where the worm liked to hang out. The worm looked up, stared him straight in the face, opened its mouth, and.. went back indoors. You or I would then have left the creature to get on with its life, but Somerville decided he was going to kill it. Ooh so brave. He rigged up a lance with some burning peat and galloped at the worm, sticking the lance down its throat. As the poor animal writhed its death throes it squeezed the hill. For this act of animal cruelty the cad Somerville was given a knighthood, made Royal Falconer and Baron of Lintoune.

(details from JF Leishman’s ‘Linton Leaves’ quoted in ‘British Folktales and Legends’ by Katherine Briggs)

To the south of the fort are a number of cairns, and to the east, a little clump of trees called ‘Poky Knowe’ – surely the haunt of the local fairies?

Dowsborough is a hillfort in the Quantocks. It’s covered in oaks, but perhaps there are some places you can look out and see the views along the coast. Inside the bank and ditch is a round barrow from the Bronze Age (possibly later reused as a beacon mound) – so this prominent hill wasn’t ignored in times before the fort.

To the south on the curiously named ‘Robin Upright’s Hill’ is a spring called Lady’s Fountain; to the south of this a prehistoric dyke known as Dead Woman’s Ditch. One theory has it that the dead woman was a woodcutter’s wife – he was hanged for her murder in the 1780s. But the info on ‘MaGIc’ says that a map exists with this name on it from before this date – maybe an insight into how folklore gets updated over time.

As the wood continues north of Dowsborough it becomes Shervage Wood, and this was the home of the infamous Gurt Vurm – a dragon who used to eat six or seven ponies and sheep at one sitting before settling down for a nap curled around the hills. He was as fat round as two or three great oak trees. Things were fine for a while, but then local people started noticing that their livestock was disappearing. A few went up the hill to see what was going on. They didn’t come back. Everyone else was a bit loathe to go up there after that.
Every year there was a fair, the Triscombe Revel, and one old lady made all her money for the year by selling wort (bilberry?) tarts there. This year she was getting rather anxious as she couldn’t go up to check on the berries, and no one was daft enough to volunteer. Eventually a woodsman from Stogumber came by looking for work. She convinced him that he should go up to the wood and packed him off with some sarnies and some cider. After the steep climb he sat down for his lunch, on a comfy looking log. He’d just got nicely started when the log started squirming under him. “Hold a bit!” he said, picking up his axe. “Thee do movey, do thee? Take that, then.” And he hit the ‘log’ so hard, it was cut in two. One end ran off in one direction, the other the opposite way. The two ends couldn’t find each other – so the poor gurt vurm died.
The woodman made his way back to the old woman, carrying a hatful of worts. “There were a dragon there fust go off,” he said, thoughtfully. The woman tried to look innocent – didn’t he realise? hadn’t anyone told him? “Her were a Crowcombe woman,” he said later. (Can this whole story just be and excuse to have a dig at another village?!)

Story derived from version by Tongue in ‘Somerset Folklore‘

The Taunton Community Action website has yet another tale:
”The wood also has other legends and may have been always had a reputation of being otherworldly. A pool known as Wayland’s Pool is traditionally where the smith god cooled the horseshoes he made to shoe the horses of the Wild Hunt, Odin’s nocturnal ride across the skies to search for the souls of the damned. Horses are said to be wary of this area, perhaps not wishing to join their spectral companions!”
can-taunton.com/somersetlegends.php

I can’t see this pool on the map – but perhaps you may know it? This is mentioned by Tongue as well (see above). If you had the courage to leave your pony and not look back he might shoe it for nothing. ‘It is a strange thing’ (said a farmer to Ruth Tongue) ‘how still a horse will stand at Wayland’s Pool. Why you can dismount and walk away, and they won’t move.‘

Local Traditions of the Quantocks , by C. W. Whistler, in Folklore, Vol. 19, No. 1. (Mar. 30, 1908), pp. 31-51, says that ‘Wayland’s Pond’ stands ‘at the intersection of four ancient boundaries’. Which of course must make it an even spookier spot.

The StonePages link below mentions two apparently standard folklore tales connected with Maen Llia. But are they more complex than at first sight?

One legend has it that whenever a cock crows, the stone goes to drink in the River Nedd. Look at the map and you will find this is rather perverse, because the stream that runs right near the stone isn’t the Nedd Fechan at all. It would require a strenous walk up over the hill Fan Nedd, and then down the other side.

According to another story, the stone visits the River Mellte for a swim on Midsummer morning. The Mellte runs through the village of Ystradfellte to the south – it’s the same watercourse as that near the stone, but up there it is surely called Afon Llia? So does the stone wander all the way down to Ystradfellte? I have read that the stone is actually visible from there. Besides, it’s probably worth the trek – it’s a pretty strange river. The whole area is full of caves and shake holes, and the river actually disappears into a cave (Porth yr Ogof) – to flow underground for 300 yards before reappearing at the surface in the mysterious Blue Pool!

When ‘discovered’ in 1811 by the Rev. John Skinner, the site lay in a field. By 1880 it had been incorporated into the grounds of Druid Stoke House, and around this time was apparently used as a place of annual assembly by a sect of Druids. In 1904 the grounds were divided up and sold, and the present house was built in 1907. The (by then unfashionable?) druidic connection was incorporated into the houses and streets that were built: the Druid Stoke suburb grew in the 1930s with Druid Road, Druid Stoke Avenue, and Druid Hill.

The stones were probably part of a longbarrow with a false front entrance, and chambers along the sides. As they are ‘dolomitic conglomerate’ it’s thought they may have come from Henbury or Kingsweston Hill. Although it’s difficult to imagine now, the barrow is on a western spur of Durdham Down, and overlooked a stream. This origin fits nicely with the folklore Skinner collected from a local farmer. He was told that two giants had fought – one being at the Rock at Henbury, the other at St Vincent Rocks, Clifton. The Henbury giant threw a stone at his rival, but it fell short – and that’s the capstone at Druid Stoke. His name was Goram, or Gorm, and he’s also associated with the Giant’s Grave longbarrow at Holcombe, Maes Knoll, and Wansdyke. You can visit ‘Goram’s Chair’ at Henbury, and the cave of the other giant, Vincent, beneath the fort at Clifton.

(info from the 1979 volume (97) of Bristol + Glouc. Arch. Soc. Trans.)

This round barrow still stands about 2.5m high, perched on top of the hill. Today it apparently sports a triangulation pillar.

Grinsell and O’Neil’s research for the 1960 ‘Gloucestershire Barrows’ found that it was considered to be the grave of a famous highwayman from Westcote village. Perhaps you know more?

Further to RiotGibbon’s post, I found this in Peter Ackroyd’s “London the Biography”:

In the records of St Paul’s Cathedral the adjacent buildings are known as ‘Camera Dianae’. A 15th century chronicler recalled a time when ‘London worships Diana’. She was the goddess of the hunt, so perhaps linking with the ceremony “that took place at St Paul’s as late as the 16th century: a stag’s head was impaled on a spear and carried about the church; it was then received upon the steps of the church by priests wearing garlands of flowers upon their heads.”

The Iron-Age fort at Castle How has fairly unusual rock cut defensive ditches, and the top of the knoll is artificially levelled too – surely no small task. The top is known as ‘the fairy glen’, and – you’ve guessed it – is the haunt of the little people.

The Bords describe two anecdotes about the site in ‘Secret Country’. The first is about a man who was climbing up to the top of the fort. He stumbled, and in doing so overturned a rock. Clambering on, he happened to look back, and there was a man dressed in green sitting on the same stone. When shortly he turned to look again, the figure was gone.

Secondly, they tell of some children who (no doubt searching for treasure) were spending the day digging on the fort. They found a hut with a slate roof. Returning to the spot after their lunch they could not find the hut, though the spades appeared to be in the same place they’d left them nearby. A few days later the children’s father was walking his dog on top of the hill, when he saw two tiny figures dressed in green. In a rather unfriendly gesture he set his dog on them, but the poor animal stopped in its tracks before it reached them, and returned nervously. The man then saw the figures ‘step into the ground’.

From Mathews’ “Tales of the Blackdown Borderland”, 1923.

Many years ago when passing by the spot I was told that an old couple, who got their living by making brooms from the heather so plentiful hereabout, actually dug themselves a big cave in one of the barrows, and used it for a dwelling place for some years.

They obviously weren’t afraid of the ghosts – he also mentions how “A great battle took place there long ago and hundreds of Cromwell’s soldiers are buried there” and that “a tradition of ghostly possession persists” with children (and faint-hearted adults) not daring to pass the mounds at night.