A faint sound of purring, fifteenth-century witch marks, and twenty-first-century spirits

27 August 2026

Welcome to issue 42 of Tales from the Chase, a fortnightly publication exploring the landscapes, folklore, hidden histories and strange corners of Cranborne Chase. Including odd tales. Mildly strange goings-on. Definitely strange, occasionally amusing, and always assembled with care — delivered straight to your inbox every other Thursday. Was this email forwarded to you? You can sign up for free by clicking below!

welcome Back, strange companions

This issue we have a special encounter with the eternal hunter, a small goddess draped in midnight fur. We sometimes think we still get a glimpse of her in the garden here at TFTC HQ.

Hubert has been to Fonthill Bishop, a small parish where only the foolish linger past dusk, unless they are attending the Ibiza dance event.

So settle in with a protective daisy or a generous splash of local gin and read on.

the eternal hunter

In the valleys of Cranborne Chase, where the high chalk downs look down on ancient meadows, there walked Loti.

In the summer twilight she passed as if woven of velvet darkness, her pelt as soft as silk drinking in the light, and her eyes were twin jewels of pale jade.

When the great heat of Midsummer threatened to scorch the Chase, drying the chalk springs and turning the lush green meadows and grasslands into straw, Loti would step forth and stalk through the grasses. She crouched amid them, and wove a subtle glamour of stealth and shadow. The grasses arched around her, their heads nodding to the shadow queen hidden in their midst.

And when the Autumn gales tore across the open downs Loti would leap, and with limbs outstretched and tail streaming behind, she seemed to swim through the winds. She was the eternal hunter, a shadow that ruled the land, feared by rat and mouse, vole and shrew.

On moonlit Winter nights she walked the frozen fields, her dark shape invisible against the shadows. Her pawprints appeared in the frost. And sometimes, when the frost lay thickest upon the ground, a single patch of grass would remain green where she had lain.

In Spring, when the first green returned to the land, Loti moved softly through the meadows, purring like the distant hum of the wind. Sometimes there was the sudden warmth of a small body against the leg, or the faint sound of purring from somewhere beneath the hawthorn.

So she rests through the turning seasons, a small goddess draped in midnight fur, framed by wild grasses, her pale green gaze forever watching over the place she knows.

Somewhere in the long twilight, Loti will be hunting still. But when dawn breaks over the Chase, Loti sits washing her paws in the morning sun, waiting to greet her friends with a soft purr.

A parish by parish tour of the Chase

fonthill bishop

FONTHILL BISHOP

Ah, Fonthill Bishop. One of those places that looks perfectly harmless until you start investigating it.

A small, respectable Wiltshire parish of around 93 folk, sitting astride the road from Salisbury to Hindon, running from the Nadder valley in the south up to the higher ground of Great Ridge Wood to the north, beyond the A303. The landscape changes rather nicely as you climb: valley, chalk slopes, dry valleys, farmland and woodland. There are even bits of greensand, which I mention only because geologists become excited about such things.

It's the sort of place where nothing untoward could possibly happen. Naturally, I checked this assumption.

It is one of two Fonthill parishes, the other being Fonthill Gifford. The two are thoroughly entangled via the Fonthill estate that sprawls across several parishes in the area, whether they have a Fonthill prefix or not.

So consider this to be half of a two-part story. The other half involves an abbey that collapsed under the weight of its own ambition, which seems only fair to save for next time when Fonthill Gifford can take the blame for it.

Notable for: The Fonthill Park landscape.

This was created and embellished by successive owners of the Fonthill estate and features in the southern part of the parish, spilling into the parishes next door. Most of the Park itself lies beyond the parish boundaries. Even Fonthill Lake mostly belongs to Tisbury, only its northern tip reaching into Fonthill Bishop.

Still, Fonthill Bishop got the magnificent entrance arch and lodges, the long decorative walls, an 18th-century water temple (or boathouse, depending on who you ask), and its associated bridge at the lake's north end. So Fonthill Bishop is, in architectural terms, rather like the person who lives next door to a spectacular mansion and has been left with the ornamental gate.

Also notable:

The woodlands at the northern border, Fonthill Bushes and High Park, are part of the Great Ridge Wood, one of the substantial woodlands of the Chase.

Fonthill Bushes is not, as the name might suggest, an especially enthusiastic collection of shrubs; it's a fully grown woodland. And therefore obliged, by ancient and unwritten statute, to harbour at least one ghost, a green man, and something that only comes out at dusk.

High Park may have been the site of a summer house, now long gone beneath the trees, built at the northern extremity of the Fonthill estate so that the landowner and visitors could sit comfortably and admire the designed landscape spread out below them.

Both these woodlands are associated with c4,000 year old bowl barrows, one now beneath the trees at High Park, the other in the field a short distance south of Fonthill Bushes. We may therefore take it as read that the dead have been minding the place for considerably longer than the Fonthill estate has existed.

Grims Ditch runs through the woodland and forms the northern parish boundary, an ancient linear earthwork of which nobody knows the true purpose.

There are the usual sensible explanations involving prehistoric boundaries, land division, and defensive works. Then there are the less sensible explanations, which are generally more interesting.

The name Grim is old and uncomfortable. In Anglo-Saxon tradition, Grim could be associated with Odin/Woden, while elsewhere the name came to be attached to the Devil, ghosts and things that were best not encountered after sunset.

These days, Grim's Ditch is not particularly dramatic, just a bit of a linear ridge and hollow covered with undergrowth, trees and fallen branches. Still there are those who say to beware footsteps that stop when yours do, a shape in the trees that resolves into nothing on a second look, and the persistent local habit of not naming what it was that Grim was keeping out (or in).

Sensible people cross it without comment. Less sensible people cross it without comment either, but rather more quickly. Those with no sense at all hang about at dusk and wonder why the wood has gone so quiet. It is not, as it turns out, waiting for them to leave.

The Bishop in the name really was a bishop. Domesday records Fonthill Bishop as being held by the Bishop of Winchester, with ten hides, a mill, meadow, pasture and woodland, making the parish an old fragment of what was effectively the bishop's landed empire.

The connection proved remarkably durable. It survived the Reformation, the Civil War and Cromwell's best efforts to make everybody miserable, all of which managed to disrupt rather larger things without dislodging the Bishop of Winchester's hold on Fonthill.

In the end, though, the manor fell to the one adversary against which history offers no defence: Victorian administration.

The Ecclesiastical Commissioners sold the land, bringing almost a thousand years of ownership to an end.

So Fonthill Bishop was finally liberated from its medieval overlords by a bunch of administrators in the name of "efficiency", “rationalisation”, or the like. One suspects some bishops might have preferred being dispossessed by Cromwell.

Christopher Wren's dad was rector of Fonthill Bishop from 1620. He married Mary Cox, daughter of a local landowner, and in 1623 acquired the additional living of East Knoyle, nearby.

It was at East Knoyle in 1632 that his son, the future Sir Christopher Wren, was born (see issue 37).

Locals will say that Fonthill Bishop has a perfectly legitimate connection to the man who rebuilt St Paul's Cathedral, as it's where his mum was from and where his parents were married. Others say that this is stretching things beyond breaking point. And no one is impressed anyway.

Witchmark Distillery is located in the village and takes its name from protective marks found in the converted barns that house the distillery, the shop and visitor centre, specifically the six-petalled daisy wheel, or hexafoil.

These were supposedly apotropaic marks or "witch marks", intended to turn away evil, misfortune and unwanted supernatural visitors. Or geometric doodles done for fun. Some prefer the first option. As far as I know, no one has ever thought to quiz the things that attempt to cross Grim's Ditch in the dark about this.

What began with gin and vodka has now expanded into whisky production, although this is a work in progress and the first batch of the finished product is all casked up and is expected to be on sale next year (2027).

The old witch marks were intended to keep unwanted spirits out; these new spirits, presumably, are totally unaffected.

So Fonthill Bishop has managed to combine ancient anti-witchcraft symbolism with a modern distillery. Tours are available, although I would choose your companions carefully. It might be embarrassing to discover that some of them are unable to cross the threshold.

Also available; stone carving classes. You too can create your own witch mark and take it home with you. Handy. You never know when a medieval protection spell might come in useful.

The Riverbarn Kitchen and B&B occupies what was once the village post office, which was apparently also, at different times, a tea room, a restaurant, and just a dwelling, although not necessarily in that order. Buildings in villages tend to accumulate purposes in this way.

It now serves breakfast, brunch, coffee ,tea, cake, and so forth, between the hours of 9.00 and 15.00, but only Wednesday to Sunday, so check before setting off unless you particularly enjoy standing outside closed buildings wondering where you went wrong.

There are also special events. This month, for example, there is tapas and live music on 22nd August, and Ibiza dance plus barbecue on 29th. I understand that drag bingo will occur in the coming months.

I shall not be attending any of these. I have nothing against tapas, barbecues or music in principle. I simply see no compelling reason to combine these with the possibility of someone saying “Everybody up!”.

And finally

If you have explored all the above and failed to encounter anything even slightly odd, congratulations. The whisky isn't ready yet, so there is no need to linger. Leave the parish and don't look back, particularly if it's after dark and you're on foot. And if something follows you out, technically it is no longer Fonthill Bishop's problem. A hexafoil by the front door might help. Failing that, try a bottle of Witchmark gin. I make no promises about which is more effective.

NEXT TIME: FONTHILL GIFFORD

Prepare to be underwhelmed.

And finally, good things are meant to be shared. So if you’ve enjoyed reading, why not share? If you've got friends, co-workers, neighbours, a nemesis, or an emotionally distant cousin who might appreciate this glorious creation…tell them all about it and get them to sign up too!

Just forward this email to your inner circle (and the outer one, too). Tell them it’s cool. They'll believe you. Tell them It's easy. Tell them to click the button below and the world of Tales from the Chase will be theirs. With thanks.