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Avebury Stone Circle.

Wiltshire.

Ancient banks and ditches, almost a mile in circumference, encircle much of the tiny village of Avebury. On them stands Europe’s largest stone circle or, to be more precise, several stone circles, dating from between 4,000 and 2400BC. It is a place steeped in mystery, from which the gods that our ancestors worshiped, have never really departed.

In the 14th century – probably acting on the instructions of the church – the villagers began to topple the megaliths and bury them in deep pits. This zealous act of vandalism angered whatever spirits lurked within the stones and they exacted vengeance on at least one of their assailants. When the monoliths were re-discovered in 1938, several 14th century coins, and sundry other items, were found buried beneath one of them. The archaeologists had little problem identifying the last owner of the relics, because his grinning skull was leering back at them from beneath the massive stone! It would seem that a tragic accident had caused the colossus to topple onto the unfortunate man crushing him to death. The sheer weight of the mammoth, made removal impossible, and so his 14th century workmates had simply left him interred beneath it. Since the tools found alongside his bones, suggested he was a barber- surgeon, the murderous megalith became known as the “Barber Stone” and today stands proud and erect upon its original site.

Throughout the 18th and 19th centuries many of the surviving stones were broken up to be used in the construction of various buildings in the neighbourhood, and stories abound of close escapes from similar accidents. A cobbler, who had been working beneath one of the stones on the Sabbath, had only just walked away when it suddenly fell over, crashing onto the spot where he had just been sitting. A parish clerk who, having sheltered from a violent storm beneath one of the megaliths, was horrified when, as he headed for home, a bolt of lightning suddenly smashed into the stone and blew it to pieces. Evidently the guardians were still displeased! Today people talk of seeing strange, ghostly figures moving about the stones at night, or of hearing singing where no human forms are to be seen.

The stones still inspire feelings of wonder and dread and no one who gazes upon them for the first time, or arrives to find them rising ghost-like from a swirling mist on a crisp winters morning, can fail to be moved by their magic.

The Red Lion Inn
Avebury, Wiltshire
Tel: 01672 539266

Many is the landlord and landlady who tries to dream up a unique selling point that will tempt customers over their threshold and thus swell the coffers of their inn. The battle to proclaim theirs the oldest hostelry in England is a well-known ploy, as are the plethora of ghostly inhabitants said to lurk in the darker recesses of many an historic watering hole. None, however, can come close to matching that of The Red Lion, which can claim, without fear of contradiction, to be the only inn in the world that is located inside a prehistoric stone circle.

Avebury dates from between 4000 and 2400BC, and is actually made up of three stone circles. The whitewashed walls and dark, thatched roof of The Red Lion provide a strange contrast to the colossal stones that encircle it. The building dates back to the early 1600s, and was a farmhouse until 1802, when it acquired a licence and became a coaching inn. It has done sterling work ever since, attending to the needs of hungry and weary travellers and, of late, to those who venture to this legend-shrouded location to experience its aura of magic and mystery.

Several ghosts are known to reside both within and without the ancient property. Very occasionally a phantom carriage, drawn by ghostly horses, has been seen clattering across the inn' s courtyard. Successive landlords have preferred not to become acquainted with this spectral visitor, since it is a harbinger of tragedy, and means that a close relative is about to die.

Less traumatic, though equally alarming, is The Red Lion' s female phantom, Florrie. During the 17th-century English Civil War, Florrie' s husband is said to have returned unannounced from the conflict and caught his wife in the arms of another man. He shot her lover dead and slit his wife' s throat. He then dragged her body to the well (still to be seen in one of the pub's front rooms) and, having thrown her down it, sealed it with a huge boulder. Florrie's ghost has remained behind ever since, searching, it is said, for a man with a beard; although whether he represents her husband or her lover tends to vary with different versions of the story. She has been seen emerging from and disappearing into the old well, which is now glassed over to serve both as a curiosity and as a drinks table. Bearded customers do appear to attract her attention. On one occasion a chandelier in the restaurant suddenly began to spin round at an alarming speed. When the manager was summoned, he nodded knowingly when he saw that the man sitting directly underneath it sported a bushy beard.

Other parts of the 400-year-old building are also haunted. The ghosts of two children, whom several guests have seen cowering in a corner, haunt the Avenue bedroom. An equally ethereal woman who sits writing at the table, either oblivious to or unconcerned by their evident distress, often accompanies them. Only the walls know the truth about who they were and what domestic tragedy lies behind their manifestations - and they' re not telling.

Strange orbs of light hovering in the darkness, weird shadows flickering across walls; and cold spots that have been known to chill the marrow of even the most hardened sceptic, are just some of the other phenomena experienced at this genuinely atmospheric old inn. Several guests have been so disturbed by their experiences that they have refused to stay another night. The majority, however, fall under the spell of its ancient corridors and creaking floorboards and, like the pub' s manager, Richard Bounds, find it a tranquil and calming place. "Outside the stone circle," says Richard, I can't sleep at night. But in here I sleep like a log."
 

Parsonage Wood.

Above Castle Coombe, Wiltshire.

Massive trees rise majestically above the sleepy village of Castle Coombe, cradling its honey-stone cottages in a protective embrace that keeps the contemporary world firmly at bay. In summer, the twittering of the birds and the babbling waters of the Bybrook, lend the area an aura of timeless tranquillity and to stroll beneath the leafy boughs of Parsonage wood, on a warm August evening, is to feel centuries removed from the pressures of the modern age. But when the dark cloak of a winter’s night descends across the wood, only the extremely brave or exceedingly foolhardy are to be found upon its muddy paths. Many people have been alarmed by the sudden sound of disembodied voices, chattering excitedly in the darkness around them. As they reach a fevered crescendo, the voices are joined by the groans of someone apparently suffering intense pain. Suddenly a loud scream rends the air and then all goes quiet. No–one knows for sure what lies behind the strange phenomena, but few who experience it, ever venture into Parsonage Wood again.

Standing an impressive 180 feet tall, the club-wielding Cerne Abbas giant is the most detailed of all Britain’s hill-figures resplendent with eyes, nose, mouth, breasts, ribs and genitalia of such awesome proportions, that they can only be truly appreciated from the air. Indeed, such is his proud and unabashed stance that he has long been regarded as a fertility symbol whose assistance has been eagerly sought by courting and married couples alike - many of whom, it is rumoured, have consummated their relationships between his massive chalk thighs.

His origins, however, are lost in a swirling haze of folklore and speculation. Most prominent is the theory that he depicts the Greek-Roman god Hercules and was carved into the chalk hillside during the reign of the Emperor Commodus (AD180-AD193) who, believing himself to be a reincarnation of Hercules, revived his cult. Legend asserts that the figure represents an invading giant who, having rampaged inland from the coast fell asleep on the hillside and was decapitated by the local people, who then carved his outline into the chalk hillside as a warning to other marauders. A third hypothesis points to the fact that his thirty-foot phallus is directly aligned to the rising sun on the 1st of May. This oupled with the fact that, until the early years of the 20th century, Mayday celebrations were held atop the hill above the giant’s head seems to suggest that he may well have been linked to some form of ancient fertility ritual.

One curiosity of the surroundings is the proximity of a medieval monastic foundation to what is a blatantly pagan symbol. It is possible that this Abbey was deliberately sited in order to either exorcise the giant’s power. It has even been suggested that he was created in about 1535 by the monks in order to embarrass their Abbot, Thomas Corton, whom they accused of keeping concubines in a cellar of the abbey, lavishing gifts on his illegitimate son and allowing lewd women to hang around the monastery all day long.

The theories as to his origins go on and on, as do arguments over his explicitness. In 1980 Devonshire artist, Kenneth Evans-Loude sought permission to create a giant figure of Marilyn Monroe in her famous skirt fluttering pose from The Seven Year Itch on the hillside opposite. Sadly his scheme failed to win Arts Council funding causing The Times to comment wryly that “Some Like It Not”. Local dignitary the Hon. Ophelia Pashley-Cumming was not impressed by their decision. “I have never felt affronted by the Cerne Giant” she fulminated “and have no time for the simpering old ladies who cluck-cluck every time they pass it. The only residents I sympathize with are the elderly males or tired Dorchester businessmen who are constantly reminded by their wives and mistresses en passant of how far short they fall of the splendid male vigour displayed before them.”

The Rufus Stone.

 Nr Minstead Hampshire.

The New Forest was a favourite hunting ground with William the Conqueror whose treasury was at nearby Winchester. It encompasses 90,000 acres of peaceful forest, heaths that glint golden with gorse or turn purple with heather, depending on the season; deep ponds, stretches of bog and delightful clearings in which graze the famed New Forest ponies.

In one such clearing near Minstead stands the Rufus Stone marking the site where William Rufus, the second son of William the Conqueror, met his untimely death. Crowned William 11 in 1087 he was not particularly popular with his nobles who within twelve months had begun a revolt intended to secure the throne of England for his elder brother, Robert. Offering a relaxation of the hated Forest Laws and an end to the crippling and unpopular taxations that the Conquest had foisted on them, Rufus appealed to his English subjects to support him. With their help, he was able to see off the threat and then promptly went back on his word once the danger had passed.

On August 2nd 1100 William joined a hunting party in the New Forest and, at some stage found himself alone with Sir Walter Tyrrell. According to the inscription upon the stone an arrow fired by Tyrrell at a stag, glanced off an oak tree and struck Rufus “on the breast of which he instantly died”.

Whether the killing was accidental or deliberate is one of histories most abiding mysteries. Tyrrell, perhaps wisely, fled abroad pausing, it is said, to wash the blood from his hands at a pond in nearby Castle Malwood which subsequently was said to turn crimson each year on the anniversary! William’s younger brother Henry headed for Winchester to seize the treasury and have himself proclaimed King, whilst the other members of the hunting party made haste to secure their own estates under the new regime.

Meanwhile the Kings lifeless body was placed onto the cart of a charcoal burner named Purkiss and transported to Winchester for burial. As the cart bounced and jolted over the rough forest paths it is said to have left in its wake a trail of blood which the ghost of Rufus follows each year on the anniversary of his sudden demise.

In 1538 a toad is said to have incubated a cocks egg in the cellars of Wherwell Priory, which when it hatched loosed upon the district a fearful, winged creature that the nuns instantly recognised as a cockatrice. This legendary beast was believed throughout the Middle Ages to have the head of a cockerel, the wings of a fowl and the tale of a dragon, ending in a hook. Such was the power of its gaze that it could kill people simply by looking at them or, as Chaucer wrote “ it sleeth folk by the venim of his sighte.”

True to its dreadful reputation, the serpent was soon killing people all over the district and, in desperation the powers that be offered a reward of four acres of land to anyone that could slay the beast. Many tried but all died in the attempt. But then a servant by the name of Green had a flash of inspiration. He lowered a sheet of burnished metal into the lair of the cockatrice. Seeing its own reflection appear before it, the creature lashed out in an attempt to kill the intruder and continued to do so for several days before falling exhausted to the ground. Green promptly leapt into its den and killed it with a spear.

The deed is commemorated at several locations around the area. In nearby Harwewood forest there is a plot of land known as “Green Acres”, supposedly named for its’ being the reward given to the man who ridded the district of its dreadful scourge. Whilst in Andover Museum can be seen the cockatrice weather vane that once sat atop the church of St Peter and the Holy Cross in Wherwell, and which remembers the hideous creature that once rampaged about the district spreading fear and death in it chilling wake.

In the reign of Elizabeth 1st, Sir Walter Ralegh (1552 –1618) was en route from London to Plymouth, when he spied the soaring walls of Sherborne Castle and, literally, fell head over heels in love with it. According to Sir John Harrington in his Nugae Antiquae, as Sir Walter was exploring the castle grounds, and plotting how he might possess them, his horse suddenly stumbled and Ralegh’s “ very face, which was then thought a very good face, ploughed up the earth where he fell”.

The castle had been built in the 12th century by one of the great fighting bishops of the age, Roger of Sarum. By the time Ralegh began casting covetous eyes upon its hallowed walls, it was still owned by his successors in the See of Salisbury. Unperturbed by a curse placed on the property by a former Bishop of Salisbury, St Osmund, that threatened destruction to anyone who removed the castle ecclesiastical hands, Sir Walter began dropping hints to the Queen that she might like to reward his services with the gift of his dream home. His persistence paid off and, in January 1592, he was awarded a ninety-nine year lease on Sherborne Castle.

Almost immediately the dark shadow of St Osmund’s curse fell upon him. Unbeknown to the Queen, Sir Walter had secretly married Elizabeth Throckmorton; one of her cherished and jealously guarded maids of honour. On 29th March 1592, Bess gave birth to a son, and shortly afterwards court gossip brought their indiscretion to the Queen’s attention. She was, according to a courtier, “most fiercely incensed and threatens the most bitter punishment to both offenders”. Having incurred the infamous royal wrath, the proud parents were soon languishing in the Tower of London, where such was Ralegh’s despondency, that he attempted suicide, and was only saved by the timely intervention of an official who wrenched the dagger from his grip.

Ralegh was released from captivity in September, when he was called upon to quell riotous looting amongst sailors at Dartmouth. But once his mission had been accomplished, he was returned to The Tower, where he and Bess remained until their release just before Christmas, 1592.

The couple returned to Sherborne where, now in disgrace, Ralegh began embellishing their rural retreat. But the cost of modernising the old castle proved exorbitant, and so the family abandoned it and built, instead, a suitably impressive home in Sherborne’s old deer park. It was here, as he enjoyed a pipe of tobacco beneath the spreading branches of a great oak, that one of Ralegh’s servants is said to have doused him with a pitcher of beer in the mistaken belief that his masters’ beard was on fire.

Although Sir Walter Ralegh would later win his way back into Elizabeth 1st’s favour, the curse struck again when her successor, James 1st, ascended the throne. In July 1603, Ralegh was implicated in a plot, instigated by Lord Cobham, to replace James with his cousin, Lady Arabella Stewart. Shortly afterwards, he was again confined to the Tower of London, although this time the charge was the far more high treason. Found guilty at his subsequent trial, Ralegh was sentenced to death, and although his life was spared, remained behind the grim walls of the forbidding fortress for the next thirteen years, and his beloved estate at Sherborne was given to James’s favourite, Robert Carr, Earl of Somerset.

No sooner had he moved in, than St Osmund’s curse blighted the new owner of Sherborn Castle. Robert Carr had fallen in love with the beautiful Frances Howard, the child bride of Robert Devereux, the Earl of Essex. Wishing to save herself for Carr, Frances Howard consulted a quack astrologer who provided drugs that would render her husband impotent. For three years the unfortunate Devereux struggled to consummate his marriage, before his inability to so led to divorce and, in 1613, following the Kings intervention, Frances Howard was at last free to marry Robert Carr. But Carr’s mentor, Sir Thomas Overbury, made no secret of his dislike for this Frances and her ambitious family, and urged his protégé to reconsider. He had, however, underestimated the influence that Frances and, more particularly her uncle, Henry Howard, wielded at court and, following another intervention by James 1st, Sir Thomas was sent to The Tower of London. Here, Frances Howard, assisted by a compliant gaoler, Gervase Elwys, began supplying him with delectable nibbles, such as jellies and tarts, each one lovingly mixed by her own hand, and all loathingly laced with poison. Sir Thomas died in excruciating pain.

The Howard’s managed to keep secret their involvement in his death for almost a year. But then, with rumours gaining ever-wider circulation, Elwys panicked and confessed everything. The subsequent scandal severely discredited the court of James 1st, and he quickly withdrew his favouritism from Robert Carr who, not only lost Sherborn Castle, but also - as if re-iterating the power of St Osmund’s curse – found himself incarcerated in Ralegh’s newly vacated apartments at the Tower of London. Fortunately for him, his social standing and previous place in James’s affections meant that he was spared the ignominy of execution.

Ralegh had been released just a week earlier, having persuaded James to send him on a voyage to bring back treasure from Guiana. Following almost a year of preparation, Ralegh set sail in 1617. The escapade was a disaster, marred throughout by illness and crew mutinies, and ending in a catastrophic clash with the Spanish, during which Ralegh’s own son, Walter, was killed when he disobeyed the Kings orders, and led a charge against the citadel at St Thome. (Ed. there should be an accent over the e. Auth). Ordered back to England by a furious James 1st, Ralegh was once more imprisoned in the Tower of London from where he was taken for trial and, on 28th October 1618, was informed that he was to be beheaded the next morning.

Ralegh went to his death bravely. As he stood on the scaffold he asked to see the axe and, running his finger along its blade, pronounced it “a sharp medicine, but.. a sure cure for all diseases”. As he knelt at the block, someone asked him if he would prefer to face eastwards, looking towards the Promised Land. “So the heart be right” he replied “it is no matter which way the head lieth”. He refused a blindfold, observing stoically “Think you I fear the shadow of the axe when I fear not the axe itself?” Having prayed for a minute, Ralegh gave the signal for the axe to fall. But the executioner was unable to move. Again the signal was given, but still the axe-man remained motionless. “What dost thou fear?” cried Ralegh. “Strike, man, strike!” At this the executioner finally struck, but took two blows to remove Ralegh’s head. Holding it aloft by its blood drenched silver hair, the executioner attempted to pronounce the traditional denunciation, “Behold the head of a traitor”. But the words wouldn’t come, and it was left to an anonymous voice from the crowd to express the sentiments of most present, “we have not another such head to be cut off!”

By the time of his execution, Ralegh’s beloved Sherborn estate had been sold to Sir John Digby (1580-1653), whose descendents still own it. During the Civil War the original 12th century stronghold of the Bishop’s of Salisbury was reduced to a ruin, and the nearby lodge, built by Ralegh in 1594, assumed the title of Sherborne Castle. Today, the crumbling walls of Sherborne Old Castle provide a sharp contrast to the stately grandeur of what is now the family home of the Wingfield Digby’s. It is to the grounds hereabouts that the proud spirit of Sir Walter Ralegh makes an annual pilgrimage on St Michael’s Eve (September 29th), to roam once more the place where, despite his being in disgrace, he spent some of his happiest and most settled years.