A debrief over a pint, a fox like no other, and a golden veil

06 November 2025

Welcome to issue 13 of Tales from the Chase, a weekly newsletter for Cranborne Chase. Local events. Odd tales. Mildly strange goings-on. All delivered by email, free, and occasionally unhinged (in a charming way). Was this email forwarded to you? You can sign up for free by clicking below!

welcome back my friends

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The Chase holds its breath as winter edges closer. Shadows are gathering as the days get ever shorter, and there's something stirring that's older than the fields. This week, we follow one such story, about an unusual and ancient fox with a special talent. Elsewhere, we have post-expedition reflections from the Wraith’s Way walk and wander the Chase in the parish of Brewham, where Alfred’s Tower stands veiled in gold.

The Wraith's Way: Post-expedition reflections (notes from the pub)

Compiled a few days after the Wraith’s Way walk

Els’s report arrived at an ungodly hour, accompanied by a sketch map that appeared to move when I wasn’t looking. Her account (see last week's issue) paints a vivid picture of supernatural peril, though it’s worth remembering that it’s just one perspective. Once the dust (and the mist) had cleared, and the rest of the party had rediscovered their sense of humour, I wanted to hear their side of events.

So, a few evenings after their adventure on the Wraith's Way, we gathered at the Queen’s Head in Broad Chalke. Over several pints (strictly for research purposes), I collected their reflections on the experience.

My conclusion? Els’s account as published last week remains by far the most coherent, which is worrying in itself. As for Cedric’s mysterious early arrival back at the sentinel oaks, I can only assume he either walked faster, walked sideways, or briefly ceased to exist in normal space.

Here are a few extracts from my notes of the evening…

Maggie:​
​Having compared my notebook to Els’s account, I find that my handwriting deteriorates sharply around the point where the pool appeared. Possibly due to cold. Possibly due to ghosts. Also, whoever left biscuit crumbs in the specimen bag owes me a new compass.

Geoff:​
​Els insists she was on the path ahead of Cedric the entire time, which is curious, since Cedric returned a full two minutes before her, looking smug and slightly phosphorescent. I can’t explain it. Either the path folds space, or Cedric discovered a shortcut. Both seem equally likely, given the man.

Cedric:​
Being the newest member, I assumed hallucinations were part of the initiation. I remember following Els quite closely; and then she just wasn't there; and then I arrived at the end. I’ve checked my GPS log; it shows I walked in a small circle for 14 minutes.

Geoff:

It's against the rules to bring electronic gadgets on walks like this, they don't mix well with alternative dimensions.

Cedric:​
​In my defence, I only wanted to see what the coordinates of the afterlife looked like. And I'm not sure the unit's ok...yesterday it told me to proceed straight until the concept of time loses meaning.

Maggie:​
​Cedric reported “a minor detour.” Translation: he wandered off. Or, maybe the Wraith’s Way rearranges itself for each traveller. Frankly, he’s lucky to have come back at all.

Cedric:​
​For the record, I didn’t "wander off". I merely followed the glowing bits until the end. Yes, I may have explored a side route. Quite foggy it was, but when the mist cleared, I was standing by the sentinel oaks again. Perhaps the path branched for me alone. Or perhaps it just wanted rid of me.

Geoff:
​I note that each of us appears to have taken a slightly different route. I will be recommending a firm “no wandering” policy for future expeditions, particularly for members with a known fondness for pressing mysterious buttons or following unexplained lights.

Els:

As President, I would like to remind members that thinking is, in fact, encouraged within the FFS. Preferably before stepping off luminous trails into other dimensions. Cedric’s survival after leaving the marked path is either a triumph of intuition or dumb luck. I refrain from commenting on which.

Cedric: The fact that my watch stopped and my boots are now two different colours is purely coincidental. Also, I didn’t notice any scary apparitions. Possibly I was looking at the ground and walked straight past, or they couldn't be bothered to haunt me. Hard to say.

Maggie:

If you want my advice, avoid philosophical debates with luminous paths; they respond poorly to metaphysical arguments. As I know to my cost.

Geoff:

The FFS will be taking a brief hiatus from night walks until further notice. Or at least until the moon stops following me home. Meanwhile, we shall be confining our investigations to daylight hours or well-documented pubs.

THE RED FOX

Sleek, sharp-eyed, and self-assured, the red fox (Vulpes vulpes) pads through both field and suburb with the same ease. It’s a creature equally at home in fields and woods or behind a wheelie bin. You’ll glimpse it slipping through a hedge at dusk, pausing in a clearing, or trotting along a field track as if it owns the place.

Often considered vermin, hunted and scorned, they’re opportunists feeding on beetles, berries, rodents, birds, and the occasional stolen sandwich. They mark their territories with care and communicate in an eerie range of yips, barks, and screams that, on a misty night, can sound unsettlingly human.

They pair intelligence with mischief and always seem to know more than they should. Maybe that’s why they’ve inspired so much folklore: tricksters in Europe, spirits in Japan, guides in Celtic legend. The fox is forever crossing boundaries; between field and wood, night and dawn, wild and tame, truth and trickery.

Fox tales

Folklore is thick with foxes: the shape-shifting kitsune of Japan, the cunning Reynard of medieval Europe, the spectral Black Fox said to bring fortune or ruin. But here in the Chase, there’s a specific and unusual legend.

Intrigued by rumours of a story about a fox “with a mirror eye,” I sought out Rufus Penn, a local folk ecologist. We arranged to meet one evening near Melbury Wood, the chalk paths glowing faintly in the dusk and the air smelling of earth and rain.

The Fox with the Mirror Eye

The light was draining fast when Rufus appeared, his outline soft against the last smear of orange in the west.

“You’re after Faelen” he said before I could speak. “The Fox with the Mirror Eye.”

He said the name softly, like it wasn’t meant to be spoken too loudly.

“He’s a fox like no other. Fur the colour of burnt embers, his tail a plume of smoke, and his eyes, one amber, the other… a mirror. One sees the world we know…one sees the other”.

I asked him what “the other” meant. He gave a small, knowing smile. “You’ll see,” he said. “Faelen sees the old roads buried beneath the grass, the ghosts that drift in the hollows in the woods, the promises left unkept. And things older, things darker.”

He told me the legend as we walked the edge of the wood. “Long ago, the story goes, when the Chase was wilder and the line between worlds was thinner, a fox was born under a blood moon. Born from the first fire ever lit on the Chase, from the flame and the spirit of the smoke. A guardian, a trickster, and something in between. The earth gifted him sight in two worlds: one eye to see the living, one to see the unseen.”

Others say he got the mirror eye after he stared too long into a pool on a moonless night; or that he was born from a shard of the shattered moon itself and the eye is this fragment. Whatever its origin, that mirrored eye, Rufus said, turns away what the dark sends.

“None of them can bear their own reflection. The Mirror Eye catches their gaze, turns them inside out, and sends them stumbling through the dark till first light. When the sun rises, they lose their shape, burned away with the shadows that birthed them.”

He smiled, and stopped, gazing out over the fields, searching for something unseen. “Old poachers used to carry a bit of mirror in their pockets. Not for luck. For Faelen. To show respect, and to keep what’s worse than the keeper off their backs.”

Without a word, he motioned for silence and pointed. A fox, slim, elegant, its coat both darkened by shadow and sparkled with dew in the moonlight, was watching us from the treeline.

One eye caught the moonlight and glowed deep amber; the other glinted bright silver, like a reflection of the moon itself.

Rufus leaned close. “Don’t stare too long,” he warned. “That eye doesn’t just turn away evil. Some say it also reveals the truth of a person, or the life they might have lived if they’d taken another path, or their future. It’s not something to look into unprepared.”

The fox lifted its head, meeting my gaze for an instant. For that heartbeat, I felt a sense of being measured, or perhaps remembered. Then the creature moved away, mirror eye flashing as it turned, and vanishied silently into the wood, tail brushing the air like a closing curtain.

“And what have you seen, Rufus? Have you ever seen anything in the mirror?” I asked.

He hesitated, a flicker of unease crossing his face. “Once, long ago” he said quietly, “I looked into that eye and saw a stranger standing here, in this spot, asking me about Faelen. That’s how I knew where to come. So when you contacted me, I almost didn’t answer. But you can’t outrun a moment the fox has already shown you.”

Rufus let out a slow breath. “When you next hear the fox cry at night,” he said, “don’t think it’s only calling to its kin. Sometimes it’s Faelen; warning what walks in the dark to turn back. When evil walks the Chase, Faelen walks to meet it, the mirror eye reflecting the darkness back upon itself. Stopping it from straying beyond the shadows where it belongs.”

We walked back in quiet, the path pale beneath the moon, the wind stirring through the beech leaves. We stopped at the sound of a single, sharp bark nearby, and I thought of Faelen’s mirrored eye, not just a trick of the light, but a reflection that protects the living from what would follow them home.

Later that night, at home, I stood at the back door looking out at the moonlit fields of the Chase. I thought I heard the faint bark of a fox in the distance; has something just been warned away? I closed the door softly, the latch clicking home, and felt just a little safer, and not just because of the door closed against the night.

A parish by parish tour of the Chase

This week, the first of the Somerset Chase parishes, Brewham. Only a part of it though, it's on the edge and the Chase boundary covers only the very eastern part

brewham (part of)

The Somerset parish of Brewham contains of two villages, North and South Brewham, tucked in the Brue Valley, and has a population of around 440 in the villages and the numerous farms and individual dwellings scattered throughout the parish.​​​​‌ ‍ ​‍​‍‌‍ ‌ ​‍‌‍‍‌‌‍‌ ‌‍‍‌‌‍ ‍​‍​‍​ ‍‍​‍​‍‌ ​ ‌‍​‌‌‍ ‍‌‍‍‌‌ ‌​‌ ‍‌​‍ ‍‌‍‍‌‌‍ ​‍​‍​‍ ​​‍​‍‌‍‍​‌ ​‍‌‍‌‌‌‍‌‍​‍​‍​ ‍‍​‍​‍‌‍‍​‌ ‌​‌ ‌​‌ ​​​ ‍‍​‍ ​‍ ‌‍ ​‌‍ ‌‍​ ‌‍​‌‌‍ ​‌‍‍​‌‍ ‌ ​ ‌ ‌​​ ‍‍​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​‍ ‌‍‍‌‌‍ ‍‌ ‌​‌‍‌‌‌‍ ‍‌ ‌​​‍ ‌‍‌‌‌‍‌​‌‍‍‌‌ ‌​​‍ ‌‍ ‌‌‍ ‌‍‌​‌‍‌‌​ ‌‌ ​​‌ ​‍‌‍‌‌‌ ​ ‌‍‌‌‌‍ ‍‌ ‌​‌‍​‌‌ ‌​‌‍‍‌‌‍ ‌‍ ‍​ ‍ ‌‍‍‌‌‍‌​​ ‌‌ ‌‍‌‍‍‌‌‍ ​‌‍ ​‌‍​‌‌‍‌ ‌‍‌‌​ ‍ ‌ ‌​‌ ‍‌‌ ​​‌‍‌‌​ ‌‌ ‌‍‌‍‍‌‌‍ ​‌‍ ​‌‍​‌‌‍‌ ‌‍‌‌​ ‍ ‌ ​​‌‍​‌‌ ‌​‌‍‍​​ ‌‌‍‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍​‌‌ ‌​‌ ‌‌‌ ​‍‌‍‌‌‌ ​ ​‍‌‌​ ‌‌‌​​‍‌‌ ‌‍‍ ‌‍‌‌‌ ‍‌​‍‌‌​ ​ ‌​‌​​‍‌‌​ ​ ‌​‌​​‍‌‌​ ​‍​ ​‍​ ‌​​ ‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍​‌‌‍​‌‌‍​‌​ ​ ​ ​‍‌‍​‌‌‍‌​‌‍‌‌​ ​‌​‍‌‌​ ​‍​ ​‍​‍‌‌​ ‌‌‌​‌​​‍ ‍‌‍‌​‌‍‌‌‌ ​ ‌‍​ ‌ ​‍‌‍‍‌‌ ​​‌ ‌​‌‍‍‌‌‍ ‌‍ ‍​‍‌‌​ ‌‌‌​​‍‌‌ ‌‍‍ ‌‍‌‌‌ ‍‌​‍‌‌​ ​ ‌​‌​​‍‌‌​ ​ ‌​‌​​‍‌‌​ ​‍​ ​‍‌‍‌​‌‍‌‍‌‍​‍​ ‌‌‌‍‌‌‌‍​‍​ ​ ‌‍​‍​ ‌‌​ ​‍​ ‍​​ ​‌​‍‌‌​ ​‍​

‌The map below shows the area of the parish that's in the Chase, mostly woodland on the Greensand escarpment, and very few buildings at all.

Alfred's Tower is one of the few buildings in Brewham's bit of the Chase, and is located in a clearing in the woods at the top of the escarpment.

Hubert's guide to this part of Brewham is below. All views expressed are Hubert's own, and are not necessarily shared by Tales from the Chase.

BREWHAM (PART OF)

Ah, finally; a bit of parish that actually tries to be scenic. Yes, Brewham creeps up over the edge of the Chase, and yes, it’s maddening that hills and hedgerows don’t care for administrative borders. But what can a Hubert do? Complain, loudly, and with style.

Notable for: Alfred’s Tower

Perched like a massive Toblerone standing on end on a hill right at the edge of Brewham parish (and yes, just kissing the Somerset‑Wiltshire border), stands Alfred’s Tower. 49 meters of architectural “look at me” completed in 1772.

Why it exists (because there’s a reason, apparently):​
Built by banker‑turned‑landscape‑nerd Henry Hoare II to celebrate the end of the Seven Years’ War and the accession of King George III. Conveniently, it’s near where Saxon heroics might have happened back in Alfred's day, so voilà: suddenly it’s “Alfred’s Tower.” Follies: proof humans like big pointless things with plaques.

Features that might make you grunt in awe (or just from climbing):

Spiral staircase tucked into a corner. 205 steps. Thighs will burn. Eyes will roll. But the view across the Brue Valley? Pretty decent, so grudgingly worth it. Not always open, so you might be lucky enough to turn up when it's locked, and therefore not be able to climb it. Shame.

There's a statue and an inscription, because someone thought we needed a reminder that Alfred was, in fact, very great. He deserves it, the poor man.

Proximity to a “contender” for Egbert’s Stone, where Alfred rallied his troops in May 878 before going full Dane‑whipping at Ethandun.

Visiting tips (from someone who’s seen it all and sighed):

The National Trust has thoughtfully provided car parks, trails, and the Stourhead estate, so you can wander, grumble, and admire without actually having to fight anyone. Stand by the tower, picture the marching men, the shield walls, the grim Danes… then head to Stourhead Gardens (not in Brewham) and reward yourself with tea. Or a scone. Definitely a scone.

Also featuring:

Woods, steep inclines, paths, for those who like to pretend they’re fitness enthusiasts. Plenty of scenery to make you forget about Alfred and the Danes. Enough steep inclines to make you question your life choices while walking.

In short: a monumental folly, spectacular views, history‐ish relevance, and exercise punishment, all in one tidy package. Hubert-approved.

Context: Battle of Ethandun

The battle didn't happen in Brewham, let’s get that straight, but it’s relevant if you want to pretend the tower has actual historic links to Alfred.

In 878 AD, Alfred spent some quality time wallowing in a marsh in Somerset. Likely grumbling about soggy socks, poorly behaved Danes, and the general unfairness of life. Eventually, in 879, he rallied his troops at Egbert’s Stone (possibly near the tower, but probably somewhere else) and marched off to Ethandun (Edington), and proceeded to thoroughly defeat Guthrum and his crew.

The aftermath? Peace treaties, mass Christian conversions, and basically the start of the early shaping of England as we know it. And Brewham? Well, it got a fancy triangular tower centuries later and everyone can look at it and remember that yes, Alfred showed up and saved the day.

NEXT WEEK: BRIXTON DEVERILL

Prepare to be utterly underwhelmed.

​

Whilst researching Brewham and the tower, I came across this little snippet of story:

The Golden Veil of Alfred’s Tower

Long after the great king had gone to dust, when his name was spoken only in story, a tower was raised and named in his honour. A ruler who lit the dark, a voice of calm in the storm. They named it not to summon him back, but to hold the space he had left, a memory on a green hill.

But memory is a living thing. And some say that when autumn returns, and the forest blazes gold, the spirit of remembrance stirs. The trees gather their branches around the tower, their leaves turning to shards of gold. Thus is woven The Golden Veil, a living curtain of gold through which the tower rises. The tower seems less like brick and stone and more like a dream taking shape again.

Each year, the veil glows, a bridge between what was and what endures. And when the last leaf drifts down, the tower stands cold once more, its memory sleeping again.

But every autumn, without fail, the leaves burn gold, and those who have seen the veil sometimes hear a voice that says:

"The king still keeps watch over his land."

Alfred’s Tower looms, the Mirror‑Eye Fox vanishes just when you think you’ve caught it, the paths we’ve wandered fade behind us. Other tracks call. Follow them when you can, watch the skies, and maybe keep an eye out for foxes.

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