Hampshire and Isle of Wight Folk Tales

by Michael O'Leary

  ‘NO, IT IS NOT YET TIME, SLEEP THOU ON.’

  Slowly, their eyes shut and they lay back down again, whilst the young man legged it down the passageway and out into the sunshine on the side of the hill.

  ‘I’m rich, I’m rich!’ he shouted, dancing in delight, and then, turning to the old woman, he gave her two of the smallest coins he had.

  She muttered and mumbled and went stamping off to her shack in the marshes – but the young man didn’t care, he was rich.

  He went back to Winchester and bought himself friends. There was drinking and gambling and loose living! He thought of going to London, but then, wasn’t Winchester grander than London? And wasn’t it the rightful capital of England? Soon the money was all gone – but so what? Wasn’t there plenty more where that came from?

  Firstly, he went to the old woman’s hut. But he didn’t go to see the old woman – he waited until she was out. In those days, the poor didn’t lock their doors – partly because they couldn’t afford locks, and partly because there was usually nothing to steal. The young man ransacked the shack and he did find something to steal, for there, under a pile of rags, was the little flute.

  He stole the flute, and off he went to Sleepers Hill. One – two – three times round the hill he went, then up to the top. There was no hazel tree, and he didn’t know how to play a pipe, but when he lifted it to his lips it seemed to play itself; it made the sound of distant thunder over the downs. There was the hazel tree, and once again he dug and dug. Once again there was the stone, and once again there was the dark tunnel. Holding the lantern high, down he went into the dark, dark tunnel.

  There was the bell – he was very careful not to touch that – there was the cold bluey-green flame, and there were the warriors, lying in a circle. In the circle there was still plenty of gold, and there was all the silver. This time, the young man had brought with him a big sack, so he loaded the sack with treasure and stumbled towards the passageway. It’s hard carrying a sack of treasure, though, and the lantern was bumping against his arm and burning it – and he stumbled against the bell. Crystal clear, it rang out across the cavern.

  ‘Is it time?’ said Arthur.

  ‘Is it time?’ said Galahad.

  Then they were all roaring, as they sat upright, their eyes shining like lanterns in the darkness.

  ‘IS IT TIME? IS IT TIME?’

  ‘Oh God, I know what to say,’ thought the panic-stricken young man – but sometimes something just goes right out of your head. This is worse, of course, if you’re a bit nervous – and he wasn’t a bit nervous, he was terrified. Just then, there was a screaming, and a neighing, and a whinnying, and there was the great white head of a horse with a black star on its forehead. There was no body and no legs (though there was the sound of clattering hooves) – just the head.

  Then the knights started to whirl in a circle – faster and faster – whirling around the cavern. Arthur himself stepped out of the whirling circle, drew his great, shining sword Excalibur, and started to beat the young man with the flat of the sword. Rough hands grabbed hold of him, and he was hurled against one side of the cave, and then the other, backwards and forwards, till, bones broken and unconscious, he was hurled out onto the hillside.

  When he came to, and looked around, there was no sign of any cave, no hazel tree, no flute (he’d left that in the cave), and no treasure.

  Now, some of the old books in the Hampshire Records Office in Winchester tell a story of how, in Tudor times, a man dressed in rags and tatters used to walk round and round Sleepers Hill, babbling some strange story about sleeping warriors and buried treasure, and I reckon that must have been the young man.

  If you ever go to Sleepers Hill, you might stand at the top looking out over old Winchester – though it is advisable not to stand in the middle of the B3040, because you might get run over by a lorry. If, however, instead of looking out over Winchester you look down at your feet, there, still, way down below you, are sleeping warriors and buried treasure.

  On the side of the hill is Winchester University, formerly King Alfred’s Teacher Training College. There are some great teachers coming out of this place, and I’ve told this story there. I do hope that some of those teachers tell the story to their pupils, because a told story beats an interactive whiteboard any day!

  ORFEO AND THE KING UNDER TWYFORD DOWN

  Winchester is a very royal sort of a place; and, what with Arthur and Alfred, it does like its kings. At one time it had a king called Orfeo – at least, it did so according to an anonymous Middle English narrative poem, a poem that merged aspects of Greek mythology with English folklore, and then entered into the oral tradition.

  King Orfeo had a wife called Heurodis. One drowsy summer’s day, she fell asleep under an apple tree; maybe it was the Apple Tree Man himself. She was surrounded by the buzzing of bees and the droning of insects, and her mind filled with the soft, heavy, juicy, cidery vapours of the apple tree. (The apples that were to grow on the tree in the autumn were proper, juicy, sweet, Hampshire apples, as this was long before Hampshire was invaded by supermarkets and Golden Delicious apples that taste of cardboard.)

  In her languid sleep, she dreamed that the King under the Hill came riding up to her on his goat, and the eyes of both king and goat were glittering. He instructed her to sleep under the tree on the following day. The next day, she was drawn back to the tree, but she took a group of armed knights to guard her. Armed knights are no use, though, against the King under the Hill, and though no one saw her disappear, disappear she did.

  Orfeo was distraught, and, taking only his harp, he left the court at Winchester to search for his beloved Heurodis. He wandered the greenwood and the high downs; his hair and beard grew long and straggly, and he became a mad, feral, green king, like Nebuchadnezzar before him, sleeping amidst the ferns and bracken, living on roots and bark and mushrooms and berries.

  Seven years passed, till, one day, as Orfeo slept in the greenwood near Ovington, in between the River Itchen and Lovington Lane, he was awoken by silvery voices. Peeping from between the leaves, he saw a host of fairy ladies riding by the river, and at their head was Heurodis, a great hawk upon her glove. Picking up his harp, Orfeo followed them as they rode past Avington and Itchen Abbas, Couch Green and Martyr Worthy, until they reached the flank of Twyford Down, close by Winchester. As they rode up the slope they sank into it, and, as Orfeo followed them, he too sank into the slope, and there he was in the kingdom under the hill, the otherworld. There was no sign of the fairy host, but ahead of him was a wondrous crystal castle, and there was the gatekeeper.

  ‘Hold,’ said the gatekeeper, ‘who are you?’

  ‘Orfeo, king of the greenwood, walker of the high downs, eater of berries and roots, cousin to the wild boar and the badger.’

  ‘Then you are expected.’

  Orfeo entered the castle, and there, all around him, were the bodies of all those who had died and he had known in life. Some were burned, some were wet from drowning, and some were without their heads. Then Orfeo saw Heurodis amongst the bodies, lying as if still asleep under the apple tree.

  ‘You trespass,’ said the King under the Hill, sitting astride his goat.

  ‘I seek my queen,’ replied Orfeo, ‘and I bring my harp.’

  ‘Then play for me,’ said the King under the Hill, who could never resist a good tune.

  Orfeo played, and as he played the songs of the woods and the wind in the trees, the songs of the larks and the wind over the high downs, the King under the Hill was enraptured.

  ‘Never have I heard such music,’ he said, ‘choose anything for a reward.’

  Orfeo, of course, chose Heurodis, and, as the King under the Hill had given his word, there was nothing he could do about it. So Orfeo and the now fully awake Heurodis returned to Winchester.

  To Winchester he is y-come,

  That was his owhen cité,

  Ach no man knewe that it was he.

  Orfeo was unrecognisable, with
his ragged clothes and unkempt hair and beard. Leaving Heurodis at a lodging house, he made his way to the Great Hall. On his way, he was insulted and abused by many of the puffed up and pretentious citizens of Winchester, who had no time for raggedy beggars. However, when he arrived at the Great Hall, his old steward recognised the harp. The steward didn’t recognise Orfeo, and when he questioned him about the harp, Orfeo tested the steward’s loyalty by telling him that he had found the harp next to the mutilated corpse of a man gored to death by a wild boar. The steward collapsed in grief and distress, and so Orfeo began to play the harp, and at once the old steward knew who it was.

  Well, after this, Heurodis came to the Great Hall, and the king and queen resumed their reign. So – all well and good – all living happily ever after. Until, that is, 1993–94, when a huge gash was cut through Twyford Down to make way for the M3. In 1992, protesters calling themselves Dongas had occupied the site, but in December they were violently evicted by Group 4 security guards. This day has since been known as Yellow Wednesday, on account of the hi-viz jackets of the guards.

  Besides cutting through two Sites of Special Scientific Interest, two Scheduled Ancient Monuments and an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty, the motorway also cut through the kingdom of the King under the Hill. Since then, it has been claimed that, every so often, a car just disappears from the M3 whilst passing through the Twyford Down cutting; but, as I’ve never counted them in and counted them out, I can’t vouch for the truth of this.

  TALES OF ST SWITHUN

  And if any church fell down, or was in decay, S. Swithun would anon amend it at his own cost. Or if any church were not hallowed, he would thither afoot and hallow it. For he loved no pride, ne to ride on gay horses, ne to be praised ne flattered of the people…

  So states The Golden Legend, a medieval book of saints’ stories. We know little, historically, of St Swithun, except that he was made Bishop of Winchester in 852. He has entered folklore, however, as a generous and otherworldly saint, living in a time of great turbulence, and the stories about him are homely and humble. The turbulent times were described by the thirteenth-century historian Roger de Hoveden:

  Nothing was deemed disgraceful except piety, while innocence was considered most deserving of a violent death. In consequence, the Lord Almighty, sent down upon them, like swarms of bees, most bloodthirsty nations, who spared neither age nor sex, such as the Danes and Goths, the Norwegians and Swedes, the Vandals and the Frisians.

  This hideous crew of North Europeans laid the country to waste, and when a force of Saxons defeated the Danes at Southampton, the Danes took their revenge a few years later. Refreshing, then, to find a saint who is constructive – and Swithun was; he was a bridge builder. Prayer and meditation are worthwhile activities, but a bit of engineering always separates the practical saints from the rest.

  Swithun and the Eggs

  Swithun was building a bridge over the River Itchen, at the bottom of Winchester High Street. One day, he was down at the bridge; some stories say he was preaching there, others that he was blessing the bridge, but I prefer to think that he was carrying out a health and safety inspection. A large crowd gathered – workmen and passers-by – and they had the manners and lack of care of people living in a violent time. An old woman passed by, carrying a basket of eggs, and this was all the food she had in the world. The old soul was jostled by the uncaring crowd, and the basket fell to the ground, smashing all the eggs. The distressed old woman tried to retrieve her basket, but the crowd continued to jostle her.

  On the bridge, Swithun let out a roar: ‘SILENCE!’ and the crowd was stilled. He strode through the mass of people and up to the old woman. Then he knelt down in front of her and began to pick up the eggshells; as he did so the eggs were miraculously restored, and it was a basket of whole eggs that he returned to the old woman.

  This is a little miracle (though maybe not to the old woman), but it represents an act of humanity in an inhumane time. It is a small story, but an important one. This is one of the two stories about St Swithun that have been uncovered as wall paintings in Corhampton Church, and that little church seems almost more appropriate to Swithun than the mighty Winchester Cathedral. There is, however, a church dedicated to St Swithun above Winchester’s Kingsgate. It seems rather apt that the church incorporates a bridge.

  Swithun and the Weather

  Most of the stories about miracles associated with Swithun seem to take place after his death. Before he died, Swithun made it clear that he didn’t want to be buried in the cathedral, but outside, where his body would be subject to the feet of passers-by and the raindrops that fell from on high. Some years later, it was decided to move the body inside, and the saint marked his displeasure by summoning up a downpour which soaked everyone to the skin. He has been forever after associated with the rain and weather.

  St Swithun’s day if thou dost rain

  For forty days it will remain

  St Swithun’s day if thou be fair

  For forty days ‘twill rain nae mare

  St Swithun’s Day is 15 July and would have been important in the agricultural calendar; the state of the weather for forty days after this date would have a great impact on the harvest.

  Swithun and the Wild Women

  Now we come to the other story about St Swithun that is pictured on the wall of Corhampton Church: a young man came to Winchester from the countryside; he was innocent and unused to the ways of the wicked city. As he crossed Swithun’s Bridge at the bottom of the High Street, two wild women approached him (something still quite likely to happen nowadays). In terror – and I know how he feels – the young man fell back against the parapet. The wild women continued to approach him, screaming obscenities and waving their undergarments – and the young man toppled into the river and was drowned. The body was dragged from the Itchen and carried to the shrine of St Swithun. Swithun felt sorry for the poor yokel, and he was restored to life. The young man returned to his village, bearing tales of loose women and miraculous restorations to life; he was probably never short of a free drink after that.

  Swithun and the Nine Plough Shares

  St Swithun could be called on to help when necessary. In the eleventh century, he helped Queen Emma out of a very awkward situation. Emma had married her second husband, the hideous Cnut, in order to consolidate and make safe the kingdom. They produced a son called Edward, who became king after the death of Cnut, though not directly so. As always, lots of plotting and politicking was going on. Robert, Archbishop of Canterbury, poisoned the ears of the king. Forty-eight years after the death of her first husband, and fifteen years after the death of Cnut, Robert whispered into the ears of the king that Emma, his mother, had been having a fling with Aelfwine, Bishop of Winchester. She is ‘a wild thing, not a woman’, he hissed. Oh dear me – she would have to walk the nine burning plough shares. This meant that nine plough shares would be heated till red hot and placed in the nave of Winchester Cathedral – and the queen was to walk them.

  A throng of people flocked to the cathedral to goggle and ogle; the queen was stripped of her shoes and stockings, she lay aside her mantle, put off her veil, drew her garments about her, and in between two bishops she was brought to the plough shares. The queen kept her head held high, but the two bishops wept, ‘Oh, St Swithun, St Swithun, help her,’ and there, seen only to the eyes of the queen and walking ahead of her, was St Swithun, as impatient as he always was with fools and power-hungry plotters. She walked the nine plough shares, and not a single burn did she receive.

  Edward cast himself at his mother’s feet and most justly received a good whacking from both his mum and the Bishop of Winchester. As for the Archbishop of Canterbury, he’d fled to Normandy before they could lay hands on him.

  STRAIGHTFORWARD WORK

  There may be lots of medieval folklore surrounding Winchester Cathedral, but a more recent event has been so singular that it has passed into legend. This event is the long, drawn-out labours of William Wal
ker, something that Walker himself described as ‘…not difficult. It was straightforward work, but had to be carefully done’. William Walker was a diver, and he saved the cathedral from sinking into the ground.

  The cathedral was built on peat, and was always in danger of collapse – indeed, the tower fell down in either 1101 or 1107, something that was always blamed on Rufus the Red, because his wicked bones had been buried there. In the early twentieth century, the cathedral was slowly sinking into the peat, and in order to make it possible for bricklayers to build supporting walls, the groundwater had to be lowered – under normal circumstances this would cause the cathedral to collapse. Someone had to submerge themselves under the peaty water, and, working in pitch darkness, shore up the walls.

  This was William Walker, who had started his diving career in the murky waters of Portsmouth Dockyard. From 1906 until 1911 he worked six hours a day, and at weekends cycled 150 miles home to Croydon and back, to see his family. During this time, he used more than 25,000 bags of concrete, 115,000 concrete blocks, and 900,000 bricks. He saved the cathedral. When his work was done, the groundwater was pumped out and the bricklayers could do their work.

  In 1912, to celebrate the completion of the task, a thanksgiving service was held in the cathedral (which remained standing). King George V presented Walker with a rose bowl. This was the second time they had met, because it was William Walker who had taught George how to dive when the future king was a naval cadet.

  This is history; stuff that definitely happened. Sometimes, though, history is also folklore. This is because William Walker, diver, is a legend.

  Seven

  THE TEST VALLEY

  As Winchester has its magnificent cathedral, so Romsey has its magnificent abbey. This grew from a religious community originally established in 907 at Rum’s Eg. Rum’s Eg means a raised piece of land in the marshes, the marshes of the River Test, and this became shortened to Romsey. Romsey lies at the southern end of the Test Valley, and south of Romsey the River Test flows down to Southampton Water, where, with the River Itchen, it creates the Southampton peninsula. The community at Romsey had built an abbey, which was burnt down by another ghastly group of Danish Vikings. The current great abbey was built around the year 1000.