Hampshire and Isle of Wight Folk Tales

by Michael O'Leary

  ‘Sorry dear,’ said the corpse, and ordered the young man to fill the grave up again and replace the flagstones. Stumbling back out into the graveyard, she hissed in his ear again, ‘Bury me.’

  ‘Where – please – where?’

  ‘West Meon – St Nicholas’ Chapel,’ said she.

  Now, St Nicholas’ Chapel is long gone, though you can still see the ruins opposite Westbury Manor Farm. Maybe it was even a ruin in the time of the story, but who knows what can happen when you’re stumbling around the countryside with a corpse on your back and a fag-hook at your throat.

  Strangest thing, though. As they approached the church, a fizzling, crackling, wall of lightning seemed to surround it, and when the young man touched it with his spade, the spade was ripped from his hand and hurled up into the sky.

  ‘Bury me,’ hissed the corpse again.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The snowdrop church; Church of Our Lady – Warnford church.’

  And, once again, the young man was staggering through streams and thickets and copses; and there was the Church of Our Lady, and there were all the graves opening, and there were all the bodies poking their heads out of the graves – and all of them screeching, ‘Go away, go away, get buried in your own parish!’

  ‘Oh all right,’ said the old woman, ‘take me home.’

  ‘Where?’ whispered the young man, with barely any breath left in his body.

  ‘Corhampton,’ she said, ‘The church with no name.’

  And so, as the first grey light of dawn showed above the chalk hills, and the birds started to sing in the trees, they finally approached old Corhampton Church – and there was a freshly dug grave. And, sticking in the pile of earth next to it, at a crazy angle, was the spade – it must have been where it landed. The young man staggered towards the grave, and there, inside, was an open coffin, of a most luxurious construction.

  ‘Ooooh, very nice,’ said the corpse, and in a flash she was lying in the coffin, with her arms crossed, and the fag-hook in one hand.

  ‘Take the fag-hook then, and bury me,’ she said to the young man as he gawped into the hole in stupefaction. So he took the sickle, and fastened the coffin. He shovelled the earth back into the hole, and finally laid the sickle on the top of the grave. Well, after this he stumbled home, covered in cuts and bruises, with his clothes in shreds.

  I gather that he did marry the young woman, and that he was a responsible husband and father. Maybe, just maybe, he was a little bit of a disappointment to his new wife; she had, after all, fallen in love with the dashing young ne’er do well – but such a man doesn’t make a good husband. He never did want to go out at night again, though.

  So, if you ever visit Corhampton Church, and I recommend that you do, be careful when you cross the graveyard – just in case the corpse fancies moving again.

  OLD WINCHESTER HILL

  Old Winchester Hill, like Corhampton Church, is one of the wonders of Hampshire. The name is deceptive, because it is eleven miles from Winchester; it gazes across the Meon Valley towards Beacon Hill, one of the two Beacon Hills of Hampshire. When the Iron Age hill fort on the top had ramparts, with chalk sides which shone brilliant white in the sun, it must have been a commanding sight.

  One of the stories explaining the name of the hill says that the Romans wanted to build their regional capital, Winchester, on the top; but every night the stones were rolled down to the bottom. Finally the Romans gave up, building their city along the River Itchen, and ever after avoided the cursed Meon. It is interesting that in a county with a lot of Roman remains, there is very little evidence of Roman habitation along the Meon Valley.

  The view from the top is wondrous; on a clear day you can see for miles. Sometimes, though, on a misty day, you can see barely a few yards ahead, and the old thorn tree looms out of the mist like a guardian of the hill.

  There are many stories of ghosts and spectres on the top of the hill, and I’ve felt the presence of others when I thought I was alone; I have seen figures, and then lost them from sight. I tend to blame this on the workings of my imagination, but it’s not surprising that other people’s imaginations work in the same way on this singular hill.

  There is a story that, on a misty day, a line of warriors on horseback can be seen trooping across the hill – silently out of the mist before being swallowed up again – and that their faces are ancient and care-worn. I was told that this apparition related to the story of a king who had feasted under the hill. I was never given a name of this king, but I came across a nearly identical story that was set in some non-geographical space, a never-never land, and that the name of the king was Herla. To me, being a literal sort of a person, there is no inner landscape without outer landscape – so I can only assume that the story took place on Old Winchester Hill!

  Once upon a time, when all of Hampshire was deeply wooded, when all the fragments we have now – the New Forest, Corhampton Forest, the Forest of Bere, Alice Holt Forest, Lordswood, Southleigh Forest, Harewood Forest, Pamber Forest and the rest – were part of the wildwood, there was a king called Herla. One day, Herla was riding upon the hill; he was hunting the deer, or maybe it was the wild boar. As he ascended the ramparts of Old Winchester Hill, a little man with a beard that was longer than he was himself approached, riding on a goat.

  ‘You are a great king, and an even better hunter,’ said the little man (this was a compliment), ‘and if I can come to your wedding, you can come to mine.’

  ‘Right you are,’ said the king. The little man promptly sank into the hill.

  Not long afterwards, the king took a wife. She was a radiant beauty, nearly as beautiful as Betty Mundy. At the wedding feast, the little man came into the great hall, riding on a goat. Behind him was a whole host of little people, bearing wondrous gifts: cups and drinking horns, roast hogs on spits, pies so delicious that the eating of them made your toes curl, and barrels of the most delicious ale.

  ‘I’ll have a drop of this,’ said Herla.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ said the little man, ‘but don’t forget you’re coming to my bash too.’

  ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ said the king.

  The next year, the king received word that the little man was about to get hitched, so he took his most faithful warriors and rode off to Old Winchester Hill. When he was on the top, a mist rolled in from the sea, up the valley, and over the hill – and Herla and his warriors found themselves sinking into the ground, into a mighty feasting hall. The King under the Hill was there with his fairy bride, and there were tables laden with pies and cheeses, and pork with crackling, and cider and beer that was so good it made your eyes roll up in your head and the belches come bursting forth in a fashion most royal.

  So they feasted and drank for three days and three nights. Before they left, the King under the Hill gave Herla the gift of a bloodhound, and told him not to dismount from his horse until the bloodhound jumped to the ground. The king rode out onto the hill and the forests were gone. There was a yew wood and a beech wood; the king rode between them. There were fields in the valley and the strange sound of tolling bells. King Herla rode down the valley and all seemed strange. He approached an old man with a flock of sheep, and the king asked, ‘Where is my kingdom, the Kingdom of Herla?’

  The old man spoke to him in a fractured version of his own tongue. He told him that the Kingdom of Herla was the stuff of legends, and that since that alleged time the Jutes had rowed up the river, and a canting saint called Wilfrid had come to the valley at the head of a rich entourage during a time of hunger, and churches had been built and the forest cut down. One of the king’s men then tried to dismount – but as his feet touched the ground, he crumbled into dust. Since then, King Herla has ridden Old Winchester Hill waiting for the day that the bloodhound leaps to the ground – but that day is still to come.

  Six

  WINCHESTER

  Once upon a time, I was due to tell some stories in Winchester City Museum. Before doing so,
I tried to imagine myself in medieval Winchester. I found this quite difficult; Winchester is a tidy and prosperous town, average earnings there are nearly twice as much as those on the western edge of Southampton, and it was difficult for me to translate this into a teeming medieval city.

  That year, I went to a wedding in Amritsar, capital of the Indian Punjab. Amritsar is the centre of Sikhism; it contains the sacred and wondrous Golden Temple. As my companions and I walked through the narrow streets and alleys of old Amritsar, we felt ourselves drawing closer to the holy temple. The sound of the kirtan chanted out from the temple grew louder, the crowds of people increased, and the sound and feeling of approaching somewhere special almost seemed to vibrate through our feet from the ground. Then we rounded the corner and there was the Golden Temple – and my heart missed a beat. Crowds were streaming in and out, there were guards and holy men, hawkers and vendors, worshippers and pilgrims, and above all of this was the sound of devotional chanting. I felt that I was at the centre of something vast.

  Then it occurred to me – here was medieval Winchester. People from the country winding their way through narrow streets, many of them having never seen buildings on the scale of those found in the city. Then, as pilgrims to the shrine of St Swithun approached the cathedral, they might have heard the monks reciting the liturgy of the hours, or singing vespers and then, rounding a corner in an alleyway, there, looming above them, the vast, wondrous cathedral. Nowadays the cathedral is a wondrous sight – how much more so to medieval eyes? So this city – Alfred’s capital, capital of Wessex, original capital of the ancient Kingdom of England – is stuffed full of stories, and the border between myth and history can become very blurred.

  King Alfred is forever associated with Winchester – as his statue, dominating the eastern end of The Broadway, insists on reminding us. Alfred, whilst being an historical figure, has morphed into legend, as has William Rufus. Once upon a time, everyone knew the story of Alfred and the burnt cakes, though I’m not sure that they do now.

  The king who is always associated with myth and legend, however, is Arthur; and Arthur is also associated with Winchester. Winchester is one of the several places given as the site of Camelot. To me, searching for the actual site of Camelot is a futile activity, as is searching for an actual Arthur. To do so is to misunderstand the way stories morph and merge, and the way one legendary figure can represent many historical figures, and many things.

  Winchester also lays claim to Arthur’s round table, and the table top is a spectacular sight, hanging in Winchester’s Great Hall. The table was actually created for Edward I in the late thirteenth century, and painted in its present way for Henry VIII in the sixteenth century – all kings wanted to give themselves an Arthurian pedigree. It is significant, though, that the table is located in Winchester, and not London.

  And then there is Sleepers Hill. All over the country there are said to be warriors and other worlds located under hills – something we have already encountered under Old Winchester Hill. The story of Arthur under the hill is claimed by Craig y Dinas in Gwynedd, Alderney Edge in Cheshire, and many more. Indeed, there are sleeping warriors under many hills in many countries; I even encountered one in Gran Canaria, where a Guanchero chieftain is said to sleep under El Roque Nublo!

  I only know of one hill, though, that takes its name from the legend, and that is Sleepers Hill in Winchester. I therefore make no apology for including the legend of …

  SLEEPERS HILL

  It looks rather expensive now – a private road, large houses – very Winchester; but it wasn’t always so. It used to be outside the city, a city which nestles in a dip in the hills around the River Itchen. Down by the river there are water meadows, and at one time there was marshland beyond the meadows. No one lived there because there were insects that could give you agues and fevers: well, not exactly no one – there was one person. This was an old woman who lived in a rickety-rackety wooden hut; some people called her a wise woman and some people called her a witch. The people who called her a wise woman were the people who lived thereabouts, and they treated her like a doctor. If their rheumatism was playing them up they’d visit her for some lotions or potions, or if the baby was ill they’d visit her for some herbs or tinctures. The people who called her a witch, however – well, usually they were the richer people, and they were the people who wanted something. Maybe they wanted a love potion to make someone fall in love with them, or maybe they wanted a spell to make them even richer than they already were.

  There was a young man like that, and he was already rich. Well, strictly speaking he wasn’t rich, his father was. His father was a Winchester merchant and landowner, and he kept his son in great style. The young man had servants, fine food and drink, and an allowance that he could gamble away – but the father knew that the son was foolish with money, so he wasn’t getting his hands on the family fortune. The son didn’t like that; ‘It’s not fair’ was his refrain. So he thought he’d go and see the wise old woman of the marshes.

  The moon was rising up into the sky when he trudged out to the rickety-rackety wooden hut. He knocked on the door. There was a grumbling and shuffling from inside, the door creaked open, and there was the old woman.

  ‘What do you want?’ she demanded, her expression hostile.

  ‘I want a spell, witch.’

  ‘Oh, do you indeed? Well, come inside.’

  He went inside and sat down by the fire. ‘I want a…’ he began.

  ‘BE QUIET!’ she shrieked – and he had to sit there for what seemed an age, gazing into the flames. From within the flames there were warning pictures of treasure and death. Eventually, the woman spoke: ‘Well, what is it? What do you want?’

  ‘I want a spell to make me rich, and I’ll pay you well for it.’ Well, he’d be able to if he was rich!

  ‘Ah, do you? Do you know Sleepers Hill?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘Do you know the stories? About Arthur and the sleeping warriors?’

  ‘Stories – a lot of old nonsense, for children. I hate children; horrible smelly things.’

  ‘Oh, indeed. Well, I’ll tell you. Underneath that hill there is treasure – gold and silver for the taking.’

  He was listening now, because she had said ‘treasure’.

  ‘Come back tomorrow morning and bring with you a lantern and a strong spade.’

  The next morning, at the crack of dawn (he’d never got up so early in his life before), he was back with a strong spade. Up they went to Sleepers Hill; they walked three times round the hill, and then up to the top.

  ‘Can you see it?’ she asked, ‘Can you see a hazel tree?’

  No – there was nothing.

  ‘Wait now’, she said, ‘and I’ll play a tune on my magic pipe.’ She produced a strange little wooden flute from one of her many pockets, and played a tune that was either tuneless or tuneful; a tune that sounded like the wind in the grass on the chalk downs. There, in front of them, was a hazel tree. It hadn’t appeared in a puff of smoke; it was as if it had always been there, but something had gone from their eyes and allowed them to see.

  ‘Take the spade,’ she ordered, ‘and dig it up.’

  So he took the spade and dug and dug. This was hard, because there’s always a tap root that goes down further than the others, and he was not used to hard work. Eventually, he dragged the tree out of the ground, and there, underneath, was a rock.

  ‘Shift it,’ the woman said.

  So the young man heaved and hoed and eventually shifted it to one side. There was a dark tunnel, leading deep into the hill. Lifting the lantern, and with the old woman behind him, down he went into the tunnel. The first thing he saw, hanging from the roof of the tunnel, was a bell.

  ‘Don’t touch that bell,’ she hissed, ‘if you do, you’ll waken the sleeping warriors. Now, if by some terrible mischance you do waken the sleeping warriors, they will say, “Is it time?” If this happens, you must say, “No, it is not yet time, sleep thou on”
.’

  But the young man wasn’t listening, because all he wanted was treasure, and already he was further down the tunnel. The next thing he saw was a cold bluey-green flame. There were some logs, but the logs weren’t burning. The flame flickered above them and gave off a little bit of light, but no warmth. Then he was in a huge, round cavern with a vaulted ceiling, and there was a terrible sight. Lying on the ground was Arthur, dressed in a full suit of armour, with the visor pulled back from his face – and his face was as pale as death itself. Around him, lying in a circle, were all the knights of the round table: Galahad, Lancelot, Gawaine, Percival, Lyonell, Trystram, Gareth, Bedivere, Blioberis, Lacotemale, Lucane, Palomedes, Lamorak, Bors, Saphar, Pellinore, Kay, Ector, Dagonet, Degore, Brunar, Guinglain, Alymore and Mordred. Quite what Mordred, the cause of Arthur’s downfall, was doing there, I don’t know – but I can only go by the knights on the Winchester Round Table!

  There, in the middle of the terrible circle, was treasure: a pile of gold and a pile of silver. ‘Money – money – money,’ thought the young man, his eyes gleaming. He regretted now not having a sack, but he stuffed as much gold as he could down his clothes. Staggering out of the cave, with the weight of the gold, he couldn’t walk straight – and, oh dear me, he hit the bell. It rang out, clear and loud. Slowly – slowly – Arthur sat up, his eyes opening and shining in the darkness.

  ‘Is it time? Is it time?’ he rasped.

  Then, all the other knights started to sit up – ‘Is it time? IS IT TIME? IS IT TIME?’

  ‘Help, old woman, what do I say?’ screeched the young man.

  ‘You say, “No, it is not yet time, sleep thou on.”’