Rhiannon

Beacon Hill is topped by a univallate hillfort – the only one of its type in Leicestershire. It probably dates from the late Bronze Age / early Iron Age. In 1858 a late Bronze Age founder’s hoard was discovered, including two spearheads and a socketed axe. An axe mould and a bronze bracelet were also found on the hill, which hasn’t been systematically excavated (info from the SMR on Magic).

Its name suggests it was once used for lighting signalling fires – or maybe, being the second highest hill in the county, it is a pretty conspicuous beacon in itself.

Janet and Colin Bord say in ‘Mysterious Britain’ that the fort is haunted by a monk accompanied by a dog. ‘Surely a dogwalker in a big coat,’ I hear you cynically mutter. However, the monk is said to have a ‘skeletal face’ – spooky.

Collinson also suggested:

“It undoubtedly is one of the noblest sepulchres of the kind in Great Britain; and probably contains the fragments of many brave chieftains, whome some fatal battle near the spot forbad to revisit their natal country.”

As so often, here is the pervasive idea that ‘foreigners’ built the tombs (and only foreigners could have built such tombs).

He also says:

“The field in which this barrow stands has from time immemorial been called the Fairy field; and the common people say that strange noises have been heard underneath the hill, and visions, portentous to children, have been seen waving in the thickets that crown its summit.”

Well, at least the inhabitants sound friendly.

The Reverend John Collinson mentions of the stones “it is an impiety to attempt reckoning their number.”

Blimey, can’t even count them without offending God, apparently. I suppose it’s because a good Christian shouldn’t associate him or herself with such superstitious nonsense.

‘History and Antiquities of the County of Somerset’ (c1780)

From ‘The History and Antiquities of the County of Somerset’ – three completely huge tomes forming a major achievement written by the Reverend John Collinson in the 1780s, before he died (exhausted, no doubt) in his early 30s.

“In the road lies an immense stone called Hautville’s Coit (a name that has sustained for many ages) and is by tradition reported to have been thrown hither by that gigantick champion Sir John Hautville, from Mays-Knolle-Hill [Maes Knoll] upwards of a mile distant, the place of his abode. The tump on that hill is also affirmed to have been the cleanings of the same man’s spade, and so confident are the common people of the reality of the manoevre, that a farmhouse erected of late years near the coit was distinguished by the title of Hautville’s Coit Farm, which doubtless it will preserve until records are no more.

“This stone was formerly of a vast magnitude, being computed to have weighed upwards of 30 tons; but the waggon loads of fragments that have been broken from it at different times, for the purpose of mending the roads, have diminished its consequence as to bulk and appearance, though not as to antiquity or the design of its erection, for it was part of a very remarkable monument of antiquity, which has distinguished the parish for many ages and has diverted the steps of many a traveller... [ie, the circles at Stanton Drew].”

So, even the Reverend thought the stone ought to have been bigger, much bigger, at one point. Was it really ever 30 tons? Is it just a tall story (like the legend?) – or does its proximity to the road mean it was used for roadmending? Or is the fact that the story connects Stanton Drew with the prehistorically occupied Maes Knoll (a prominent hill from the circles) the most important thing?

The stone at the east is called the ‘Stone of Sacrifice’ – how traditional this is is debatable (it does rather smack of Victorian ideas of druidism): certainly the other folklore associated with it is more upbeat in tone! It has a depression in it, and if you pop your newborn baby there for a few minutes (it has to be less than a month old, mind) then this will bring it excellent luck. Another custom is to sprinkle water from the dip around the threshold of your house – and this will protect your home from witches.

Mary Trevelyan also collected the story that a group of witches were holding their strange rituals at the circle one night. Suddenly ‘stern maledictions’ were heard from the Stone of Sacrifice. They were so scared two of them died and another went mad! Sometimes terrible cries were heard issuing from it, and frequently moanings, sobbings, and wailings could be heard above the wind on stormy nights. Maybe they still can.

She also has a version of the fatal incident with the Deity Stone:

A man from South Wales played cards with some friends beside this stone on a Sunday, and when the men returned to the village with cuts about their heads, the people knew the Deity Stone had smitten them, though they would not admit having had punishment. A notorious blasphemer who came from Merionethshire laughed to scorn the story of this stone. One night he went to the Druids’ Circle alone and at a very late hour, and shouted words of blasphemy so loud that his voice could be heard ringing down the Green Gorge. People shuddered as they heard him. The sounds ceased, and the listeners ran away in sheer fright. In the morning the blasphemer’s corpse was found in a terribly battered condition at the base of the Deity Stone.

(In ‘Folklore and Folkstories from Wales’ 1909 – available online at red4.co.uk/Folklore/trevelyan.htm)

Some more modern weirdness around Carreg-y-Bwci (which means, in English, Stone of the Goblin / Weird Welsh Supernatural Thing. The english Puck may well be (etymologically) related to the Bwci? – see the forum posts).

I found a webpage by Karen Martel, who grew up nearby to the Goblin Stone. She hints at some curious goings on at
tellmeabout.co.uk/stuff/Paranormal/Secrets-in-the-stones.asp

She says she knew the site as ‘Rhiannon’s Navel’ – I’m assuming this is a genuine local name? I only mention my doubts because she ‘runs her own psychic business’ in Canada and goddesses are popular new-age fare: I haven’t seen the name mentioned elsewhere, that’s all.

“During my teenage years.. I would ride to the top of the ridge where the Cairn was. It’s a prominent landmark that marks the valley for miles around.. I ventured up there one day with my horse but we didn’t stay long. Foaming at the mouth my horse galloped to the edge of the cliff at the head of the valley stopping just short of a sheer drop. The Carreg Y Bwci seemed to be haunted. That was the general consensus in the village and not many villagers would go up there.

“[She was coming back from Lampeter once – though it strikes me as a very weird way back? and] it was the solstice. Driving past in my friends Dad’s car, we stopped for a brief second to watch the sunset go down. I didn’t know that a stone circle existed below the Cairn. But the megalith stretched out before us had the sun set behind it. Elongating the sun into a long strip. Perhaps a trick of the light, or the heat of the stone. It had been hot that day. The air was also very clear and clean up in the mountains. It could have been any number of things.

“Most [villagers] didn’t want to talk about the cairn, or the stone circle, most told me it was haunted and had bad vibes. Some villagers who went up there, would topple the stones that were piled on top of each other. But most warned me not to go up to the stone circle or cairn during the summer months.”

“The Goblin Stone of Cynwyl Gaio occupied a spot which few people cared to pass at night. In the seventeenth century a young man who had gone far in search of work came in the twilight to a large stone surrounded with grass. The place looked tempting for a night’s resting-place. After making a good but simple supper, the traveller placed his bundle containing clothes on the grass in shelter of the stone. For a time he slept soundly, but about midnight he was awakened by somebody pinching his arms and ears and pricking his nose. He got up, and, looking around in the starlight, saw a goblin sitting on the stone, with many others around him. The man tried to run away, but the master goblin would not permit him, and at his command his minions interlaced their grotesque arms around him and prevented him moving. They tweaked his ears and nose, pinched him, gave him pokes in his ribs, and tormented him all through the night in every conceivable manner. He sat down to rest and wait for the dawn, and in the meantime the goblins screamed and laughed and shrieked in his ears until he was nearly mad. When the first streak of morning light appeared, the goblins vanished. The stranger got up in the dawn, and when he went onward he met some workmen, to whom he related his adventure. They said he had slept under the Goblin Stone.”

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

Eric Dauncey Tongue (doubtless a relation to Ruth, below) had an unpleasant experience at these barrows in 1908. He saw ‘a crouching form like a rock with matted hair all over it and pale flat eyes’ – ‘the most terrifying thing he had ever seen.’ When he spoke of the experience twenty years on he still emphasised its terrifying nature, although by this time he must have had some moments as he had become a District Commissioner and big game hunter in East Africa. He believed that what he had seen was a ‘barrow guardian’.

In ‘Somerset Folklore’ by Ruth Tongue (!965).

This weird story is described in ‘The Secret Country’ by J and C Bord.

One evening in September 1974, Michael Byatt (a registered gliding instructor and senior NCO in the Air Training Corps) was driving his car up over Eggardon. Suddenly the engine began to lose power, and the headlights dimmed. He and his passenger became intensely cold and ‘felt an eerie presence’. In the sky they saw a yellow-blue [sic] light ‘in the form of an eclipse’ [sic – an elipse?]. It moved slowly backwards and forwards and ‘had a sort of glow about it’.

A couple of years earlier three cars climbing the hill at night had simultaneously stopped suddenly; they had no power and no lights, but these returned after a short time. Ooh sounds like your typical UFO incident.. or dodgy alternators.

Just to elaborate on Pure Joy’s story, (more details of which are given in J+C Bord’s ‘Secret Country’). A warning so you don’t go wasting your time the same way. Perhaps we can put events down to the activities of the fairies mentioned before.

There was once a rich local man who decided he was going to have the treasure hidden in one of these barrows. He was probably rich enough already – but he was greedy. Besides, he could afford to pay some poor people to dig for him – and it would be worth the outlay. The hired workmen began early in the morning, but after a hard day’s slog of digging trenches and carting the soil away, it seemed the barrow was no smaller. Feeling confused, they put some stakes in the ground to mark where they’d got to, and hurried off home for the night.
The next morning they returned and were bemused to find no trace of the previous day’s labour. Were they in the right place? They couldn’t find the trenches or piles of earth they’d made anywhere. Gorse and grass grew over the mound as before. The workmen had had enough of this weirdness – they chucked their tools down and headed for home. The rich man reluctantly decided he’d have to start digging for himself. After all, if you want a job doing properly – those superstitious paupers couldn’t even dig a simple hole. Rolling up his shirtsleeves he set about digging. He was unused to the exertion but concentrated on the task in hand, seeing nothing but the shovelfuls of earth he carried – thinking of the treasure kept him pretty motivated. At last he decided it was time for a break and downing his spade mopped his sweaty face with his handkerchief. As he took the handkerchief away from his eyes – he could hardly believe it. Where he’d been working – no hole existed at all. The grass and daisies waved in the breeze mockingly. He realised here was nothing he could do but angrily admit defeat as he stomped off back down the hill.

Castle Neroche’s outer defences are thought to be Iron Age – later on a Norman castle was built here too. It is traditionally said to be hollow and bursting with treasure. Unsurprisingly there have been various attempts to find this legendary hoard.
The following was written by a Reverend F Warre in 1854 (’Proceedings v5’) and quoted by J&C Bord in their ‘Secret Country’. To his credit! he seems to welcome superstitious / unchristian? thought if it’ll protect ancient sites:

“About a hundred years ago a number of labouring men, urged on by the love of filthy lucre and not have the fear of archaeological societies before their eyes... with sacrilegious spade and pick axe violated the sanctity of this mysterious hill. But before they had found a single coin they were seized with a panic fear, renounced their presumptious enterprise, and wonderful and awful to relate, within one month of the commencement of their enterprise, some by accident, some by sudden death and some by violent fevers, all paid with their lives the penalty of their covetous and most presumptious attempt. Oh! that this most veracious legend were universally published as a warning to all wanton mutilators of ancient earthworks.”

You expect to stir up a thunderstorm if you mess with any barrow – but what if you start digging into Silbury Hill? You’re surely asking for it. Perhaps that’s why EH won’t touch it – they’re scared of the consequences.

The following is a description of what happened during the 1849 dig (I don’t know who wrote it.. could it be Lukis mentioned below? it is quoted in ‘The Secret Country’ by J&C Bord).

“As a finale to the excavations, the night following work in unfavourable weather, a dramatic high Gothick thunderstorm set the seal on [Dean] Merewether’s Wiltshire sojourn. This event was much to the satisfaction.. of the rustics, whose notions respecting the examination of Silbury and the opening of the barrows were not divested of superstitious dread. It must have been a spectacular affair. The Dean described it as ‘one of the most grand and tremendous thunder-storms I ever recollect to have witnessed.’ It made the hills reecho to the crashing peals, and Silbury itself, as the men asserted who were working in its centre, to tremble to its base.”

Robert Hunt (in his ‘Popular Romances of the West of England’, 1881) wrote:

This stone must have been venerated for the saint’s sake when the church was built, or it would certainly have been employed for the building. It is more than fifty years since I first made acquaintance, as a child, with the St Leven Stone, and it may be a satisfaction’ to many to know that the progress of separation is an exceedingly slow one. I cannot detect the slightest difference in the width of the fissure now and then. At the present slow rate of opening, the pack-horse and panniers will not be able to pass through the rock for many thousands of years to come. We need not, therefore, place much reliance on those prophecies which give but a limited duration to this planet.

I think I’ll still be keeping an eye on it.

Treryn fort is mentioned in ‘Popular Romances of the West of England’ by the Victorian Robert Hunt.

The giant’s castle at Treryn, remarkable as a grand example of truly British Cyclopean architecture, was built by the power of enchantment. The giant to whom all the rest of his race were indebted for this stronghold was in every way a remarkable mortal. He was stronger than any other giant, and he was a mighty necromancer. He sat on the promontory of Treryn, and by the power of his will he compelled the castle to rise out of the sea. It is only kept in its present position by virtue of a magic key. This key the giant placed in a holed rock, known as the Giant’s lock, and whenever this key, a large round stone, can be taken out of the lock, the promontory of Treryn and its castle will disappear beneath the waters. There are not many people who obtain even a sight of this wonderful key. You must pass at low tide along a granite ledge, scarcely wide enough for a goat to stand on. If you happen to make a false step, you must be dashed to pieces on the rocks below. Well, having got over safely, you come to a pointed rock with a hole in it; this is the castle lock. Put your hand deep in the hole, and you will find at the bottom a large egg-shapped stone, which can be easily moved in any direction. You will feel certain that you can take it out,--but try! Try as you may, you will find that it will not pass through the hole; yet no one can doubt that it once went in.

He also recorded the following:

Treryn Castle, an ancient British fortress, the Cyclopean walls of which, and its outer earthwork, can still be traced, was the dwelling of a famous giant and his wife. I have heard it said that he gave his name to this place, but that is, of course, doubtful. This giant was chief of a numerous band, and by his daring he held possession, against the giants of the Mount, of all the lands west of Penzance. Amongst the hosts who owned allegiance to him, was a remarkable fine young fellow, who had his abode in a cave, in the pile of rocks upon which the Logan Rock stands. This young giant grew too fond of the giantess, and it would appear that the lady was not unfavourably inclined towards him. Of their love passes, however, we know nothing. Tradition has only told us that the giantess was one day reclining on the rock still known as the Giant Lady’s Chair, while the good old giant was dosing in the Giant’s Chair which stands near it, when the young and wicked lover stole behind his chief and stabbed him in the belly with a knife. The giant fell over the rocks to the level ridge below, and there he lay, rapidly pouring out his life-blood. From this spot the young murderer kicked him into the sea, ere yet his life was quite extinct, and he perished in the waters.

The guilty pair took possession of Treryn Castle, and, we are told, lived happily for many years.

Robert Hunt’s book is available online at sacred-texts.com/

The Bords (in ‘The Secret Country’) advise that you don’t fall asleep at Tinkinswood on any of the three ‘spirit nights’ of May Day eve, St John’s eve (23rd June) or Midwinter eve. Not unless you’re prepared for one of the following to happen: you will either die, go mad, or become a poet. Not very good odds for a positive outcome.

Marie Trevelyan (’Folklore and Folkstories of Wales’ – 1909) describes how the site is haunted by the spirits of druids – and that they are particularly unkind to drunkards, not to mention other wicked people. One victim said that

“they beat him first, then whirled him up into the sky, from which he looked down and saw the moon and stars thousands of miles below him. They held him suspended by his hair in the midheaven until the first peep of day, and then let him drop down to the Dyffryn woods, where he was found in a great oak by farm labourers.”

Which rather makes you wonder what his drink had been spiked with.

A Mr R Cousins of Wold Newton told Leslie Grinsell that Throwl Egg used to be played here on Shrove Tuesdays.

“Men and youths used to have hard-boiled eggs, which they ‘throwled’ (rolled) on the grass. The eggs were dyed, and he whose egg rolled the farthest, or longest, was the winner.”

(John Nicholson, Folklore of East Yorkshire, 1890; quoted by Grinsell in ‘Ancient Burial Mounds of England’ 1936).

From ‘The Witchcraft and Folklore of Dartmoor’ by Ruth E St Leger-Gordon (1965?):

“The circle has.. acquired the reputation of being in some way eerie. I know several people who say that they are unable to ride their horses along the old track that winds right through it. Their mounts become restive and evince such unwillingness to pass inside the circumference that a detour has to be made, and the track regained on the farther side.”