by Bob Curran
“They were really quite sorry in their way for the lonely,
unpopular old fellow whom everybody shunned and at whom all
the dogs barked singularly.”
—H.P. Lovecraft, The Terrible Old Man
Can the reported eccentricities of one individual contribute in some way to the “creepiness” of a particular location? Perhaps not on their own, but as a part of the geography, the history, and the overall “atmosphere” of a place, they can certainly evoke certain disturbing associations within us. Naturally, remote locations lend themselves to such feelings and seem to accentuate and add to the tales of certain strange individuals who have once lived there. Deep forests, bare mountains, or desolate moorland can often add to the feeling of unease, which we feel when listening to the tales concerning such people.
Bodmin Moor in Cornwall is such a desolate place. Here, stretches of bleak moorland are punctuated only by wreathes of mist that come and go along the lonely roads, which connect the scattered moorland communities, many of which are no more than small villages that have existed there for centuries. Because of the remoteness of their location, many of these villages exist in their own small worlds, each with their own histories and curiosities. This, of course, can be viewed by the traveler through the region as “quaint” and “charming”—and so it is—but sometimes there is a slightly darker edge to such traditions, and they have been tinged by some stranger individuals who have left their mark on local history.
The tiny village of Warleggan has existed out on the Moor for centuries with a church that is said to date back to Norman times. Up until 1818, it was one of the very few moorland churches with a spire, but it was struck by lightning and was never rebuilt. Although it has grown in recent years, Warleggan still remains a small place and is easily missed by those keeping to the main roads across the Moor. It is sometimes described as “the loneliest village on Bodmin.” Presently dedicated to St. Bartholomew, it may have been built upon an old Celtic site (the outline of the graveyard follows a circular Celtic pattern) and the establishment of the place of worship there dates back to Norman times.
The church first appears in historical records around 1328 when the new priest there, John de Tremur, refused to live in the appointed clerical house on the grounds that he was a scholar (and therefore of a goodly and substantial background) and because his predecessors had allowed the house to fall into disrepair to the extent that it was almost a ruin. There was also a passing reference to certain beliefs and practices carried on in the locality against which the new priest seems to have taken a dim view and refused to be associated. No specification is given as to what these beliefs might be. Three years later, however, in 1331, de Tremur was expelled from his living and was excommunicated from the Church following an assault on one of the members of his congregation. There seems to have been something that infuriated the priest to the point where he almost killed the parishioner. He was succeeded by his nephew, Ralph de Tremur, who once again refused to come to Warleggan, but preferred to stay in Oxford where he was a scholar. Ralph de Tremur was an extremely learned man, being fluent in Cornish, Latin, French, and English. He did visit the church from time to time, but didn’t seem to spend a lot of time there. In 1334, something happened, and the new churchman resigned and became a wandering cleric, traveling across Cornwall, openly denouncing all sorts of practices that he considered to be idolatrous and heathen. He was openly denounced as a heretic and a witch across Cornwall. But he was not done with Warleggan, for he returned to the village, robbed the priest there, and tried to burn down his house. He was arrested and taken to Exeter where he was placed before Bishop Grandisson. The outraged Bishop threatened to bring the matter to the attention of the Pope, but in the end did not do so. However, he denounced de Tremur from the pulpit—“O detestable tongue, more poisonous than that of a mad dog, which ought to be cut out by the surgeons of the Church and Crown and be chopped up and thrown to the pigs.”
Evidences of older, more superstitious practices were evident in the church—for example, a “Devil’s Door,” through which the Infernal One could come and go (and be driven out), especially at times of baptisms, certainly existed in the North Wall during the 14th century, and there were whispers that rites and festivals that were not strictly Christian were carried on within its precincts even as late at the 17th century.
It was around 1434 when the building was first associated with St. Barnabas, but there were still hints that strange rituals were being carried on there, although nothing specific is actually stated. However, the church now entered a period of relative stability with the rise of the Beare family—prominent landlords and mine-owners in the area. They built extensions to the church and added a decorated elvan baptismal font. Even so, the strange tales about the region continued. The church at Warleggan (like the neighbouring one at Temple) was also unusual in that it would allow marriages without either licence or banns being called. Consequently, couples who needed a speedy marriage for whatever reason often made their way there and the Bodmin phrase “sent to the moors” often means a hasty marriage.
Despite more stable ecclesiastical conditions, the relations between the rectors of Warleggan and their congregations were still sometimes difficult. In 1706, for instance, a French Huguenot named Daniel Baudris became rector and built a brew-house where strong drink was made—some locals greatly disapproved of this and of Baudris’s firebrand sermons, which seemed to be at odds with his style of living. However, he made some important extensions to the church. Several subsequent rectors were also great exorcists and cast devils out from the surrounding countryside. This was a time when supernatural prowess was attributed to may of the clergy in parts of Cornwall, most notably the celebrated Parson Polkinghorn of St. Ives, made famous by the folklorist William Botterell. Many of their names have been lost, although one may have been Parson Samuel Gurney, who succeeded Baudris, but who did not live in Warleggan—he had several livings in order to maintain his large and ever-expanding family. It is said that Gurney (if it was indeed he) cast out a number of ghosts that were tormenting people in the area and that some of the clergy were greatly feared because of their supernatural powers. However, generally speaking, the Rectors and people “rubbed along” together across the passing centuries.
The minister who really set his seal on Warleggan and who is forever is associated with the village arrived in 1931. Sixty-one-year-old Frederick Densham was unknown to anyone in the village or to the Parish Council, and he immediately aroused suspicions. The great Rectory of 13 rooms had stood empty for a time and a Methodist chapel was now thriving in the village—the Methodist faith, as the congregation were to find out, was one with which Densham had some sympathies. Indeed, he was the son of a Methodist minister (how and why he had become a minister in the Church of England is unknown) and had worked for a while in Whitechapel, London in a boys’ home before travelling to Natal, Africa, in 1921 where he had championed the rights of “colored people” for a time, but to no great effect. However, it appears that while in Africa, he had espoused the teachings of Ghandi and may have become interested in Eastern mysticism. It is thought he applied to become a missionary in India, but was turned down, and giving up on any foreign work, returned to England to take over the parish at Warleggan.
From the outset, it was clear that Densham had never worked in a country parish and that he had few interpersonal skills. A deeply spiritual and aesthetic man, he was nonetheless dealing with stolid Cornish farmers—who had very dour dispositions—and a community which was very tightly knit and set in its ways. And he made no attempt to meet that community “halfway.” There is no doubt that Frederick Densham was a highly educated and well-read man, but to the villagers, he appeared austere and self-important, treating them with an air bordering on disdain. And for all his grand learning, many on the church council thought that there was something suspicious about him. When he met with the officers of the parochial church council—a number of whom
had held that position for many years—he made several suggestions, and when the others were slow to respond, he told them that his proposals were carried. And dissention was beaten down in a most high-handed manner. Following a number of contentious meetings, a number of members refused to attend the Council, Densham simply had their names struck from the Parish electoral rolls.
He then annoyed his neighbors by buying a litter of puppies, which he proceeded to raise at the Rectory. This totally disregarded the wishes of his parishioners, many of whom were sheep farmers and for whom dogs were a constant source of menace. The Rector said that he wanted the animals for company in the lonely Rectory and overrode all objections. The pups grew and became large and muscular dogs, which Densham claimed he needed for his own protection—thus implying that his congregation were not to be trusted. A couple of them seemed particularly fierce, including the Rector’s favorite, which he named Ghandi. As the dogs grew, they seemed to become more aggressive, and it was not long until the sheep of certain farmers were savaged by the pack of dogs. The local story was that this was led by the Rector’s dog Ghandi. A group of local farmers met with Densham, but the Rector airily brushed their protestations aside saying that his dogs would not be involved in such activities. The meeting marked a kind of turning point in relations between Densham and at least some of his congregation, and many of the farmers subsequently stayed away from the church. But there were other things that made the congregation slightly uneasy about the Rector.
Densham owned a large collection of books, some of which (as mentioned by those who had seen them) were not the sort of texts that an Anglican clergyman should be reading. The Rector had openly expressed a great interest in Eastern religions and some of his sermons reflected this, much to the discomfort of his listeners who had come to listen to an Anglican message. There were also hints that he had other works on pagan and folk religions—some of which might have been connected to Black Magic—and it was known that from these he copied pages of copious notes. Perhaps in some high academic circles, such things might have passed without remark, but in a small rural place such as Warleggan, his congregation felt distinctly uneasy.
In the meantime, the sheep worrying on the Moor continued and a deputation of farmers again met with the Rector. This time Densham, mindful of his dwindling congregation, was not quite so dismissive of their concerns. He offered them a compromise. Although not admitting that it was his dogs that were savaging sheep, he would build a perimeter fence all around the extensive Rectory grounds (which covered three and a half acres) to keep the hounds in. The congregation remained unmoved and so Densham began the work himself. This took a number of months, and at the end of it, more than 600 yards of barbed wire, more than 8 feet high, surrounded the property, keeping everything in and everyone out. The place now resembled a prison camp. Behind this Frederick Densham continued to study his dubious books and make his notes.
By now, his congregation had diminished quite considerably and in an effort to bring them back, Densham began to paint the church. The colors he chose were rather strange—reds and blues so deep that they had an almost medieval feel to them. As usual, he hadn’t asked the church council for their approval (which would almost certainly have been denied), and proceeded to do the painting at night when his congregation was asleep. The following Sunday, one of the remaining members stood up and told the Rector that he had desecrated the Lord’s House and walked out, taking some others with him. This had no effect on Densham, who painted over the Church windows so thickly that little light could penetrate. His remaining parishioners asked for light in the building and in response, the Rector brought one candle. It must indeed have been an eerie sight to see the gloomy church lit by only a single light with Densham preaching to a handful of the faithful.
Matters came to a head in 1933 when the Rector closed the Sunday School. Locals assumed this was due to his “Eastern principles” and perhaps his pagan sympathies. He began to change the times of services in the Church in order to correspond with a “more natural order of things” (something which they took as being connected to paganism) and when he held a service at 3 a.m. on a Sunday morning, it was too much for the remainder of the congregation. They petitioned the Bishop, Dr. Walter Frere to have Densham removed. The Bishop, for some reason, took the step of meeting the congregation and Rector together. They met in the darkened church lit once again by only a solitary candle. Densham was accused of a number of things, including the closure of the Sunday School; that he had refused to hold services at convenient times; that he had converted Church property to his own use without any form of reference to the Church Committee; that he had threatened to sell the Church organ, which was a local memorial to several families who had fought in World War I; and that he had erected the now notorious barbed-wire fence around the Rectory. No mention was made of alleged witchcraft practices although the Secretary to the Church Council showed a letter in which Densham had threatened to kill him “by holy magic.” Densham explained that this was a “misunderstanding”; that he was under no obligation to keep the Sunday School open and that the barbed-wire fence was only to restrain his dogs as the congregation had asked. The meeting ended with the Rector and the secretary shaking hands. The Bishop explained to the congregation that he could not remove Densham, as the Rector had broken no ecclesiastical law. He might be a bit eccentric and hold services at odd times, but he held a service every Sunday and fulfilled pastoral duties as he was required to do. Nevertheless, the vitriol of the congregation had shaken the Bishop and he suspected certain things about Densham, but couldn’t prove them. He urged everyone to make a fresh start. The parishioners, however, had no intention of doing so and the last of the congregation left the Church and did not return for the duration of the Densham’s Rectorship.
The Rector retreated behind his barbed wire, unwilling to meet his congregation. Some argued that he had been terribly hurt by the meeting. For centuries, Warleggan had been governed by three local landowners, but by the 1930s, their estates had been broken up and there was no real “squire” worth the name. It is argued that Densham thought that he, as Rector, should have filled the void left by the great estates, and that his congregation should simply accept his word as their new master. When they didn’t, he ceased to have anything to do with them. He refused to visit the local shop and even had a Bodmin grocery roundsman call fortnightly to leave a box containing such items as cheese oats and butter at the Rectory gates. In accordance with his Eastern principles, he refused to eat meat, poultry, or fish, and he always ate only one meal a day, usually porridge. He grew a large rhododendron bank, which cut off his view of the village and became something of a recluse.
That is not to say, however, that Densham didn’t have his supporters in the village. Some people tried to call upon him—Densham had a large oil drum placed at the Rectory gate which the delivery man would bang with a stick when he was delivering groceries—and some of the villagers banged on that to attract him down, but he seldom came. Some of those in the village wouldn’t hear a bad word said against him—he was lonely and confused. They kept their eye on the one solitary chimney that could be seen above the rhododendrons and when they saw “the Rector’s smoke” issuing from it, they knew he was well. He welcomed strangers to the Rectory, but for a great deal of the time, he wouldn’t let any locals cross his threshold. A visiting clergyman from a nearby parish who called on him found him to be “cheerful and bright… a very solid man. A bit odd in his ways but quite pleasant.” Densham now began to exhibit several odd characteristics. For example, he shunned the local wells and washed himself only in rainwater. And he refused to talk to people who had the smell of cigarette smoke on their breath. He began to paint each of the rooms in the Rectory with esoteric Biblical scenes—mainly from the book of Revelation, but featuring the drunkenness of Noah and the supernatural translation of Enoch. And he wrote more and more, accumulating great files of material.
By then, the Rectory was in a rath
er dangerous condition and this was not helped by Densham’s attempts at do-it-yourself modernization. Damp and decay were now creeping all through the house and from his small stipend, Densham could not afford to make repairs. He wrote numerous letters to the District Council complaining about the rates and received a reply suggesting that if he found them too high, he should take in lodgers. He attempted to do this, but the Rectory was in such a dilapidated state and was filled with Densham’s garish paintings that most prospective lodgers took one look and quickly decided against staying there. The fact that there was no electric light or running water in the place dissuaded some even from coming to view it. Gradually, the Rectory fell into even greater disrepair and the extensive grounds became badly overgrown. The branches of the trees on either side of the drive grew so long that they actually met and formed a barrier to any access, and the rhododendrons were now so prolific that they provided obstacles on their own.
As damp and decay took over the rooms, causing plaster to crack, Densham once again tried to get somebody to live with him. Suggesting that he get an organist to move into the Rectory, he wrote to a choir school in the Midlands and asked them to send an organist who would reside at the Rectory and train the church choir—which no longer existed. A young man was sent down and was taken aback at the wilderness which was the Warleggan Rectory. He found Densham extremely strange, and the conversations between the two hinged on things that the young man found unwholesome—such as human sacrifice and pagan worship. At night, when he retired to a room in which nobody had slept for years, he was locked in with a heavy bolt across the door. There seems little doubt that Densham was prepared to keep him a prisoner in the Rectory, but he relented and begged for forgiveness. Realizing that there was no choir to train and indeed no congregation to which he could play, the young man hurriedly left the following day, despite Densham’s pleading to stay.
