A study in flint and willow with charcoal, a secret footpath, and woodland hauntings

4 September 2025

Welcome to issue 4 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!

Hello September! ​
A new month always feels like a fresh notebook. Blank pages, new possibilities, and a hint of change on the way. Read on for an update on what’s been happening, what’s coming up, and maybe a surprise or two.

Featured this week:

• Some great events lined up over the next seven days, see what's catching our eye
• an odd little ritual by the side of the stream
• we move into B territory on Hubert's grand tour of the Chase
• a range of other quirks, curios, and charmingly strange goings-on.

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4 September

• Longbridge Deverill - Bag a bargain nearly new designer clothes sale; fabulous pre-loved designer clothes, hats, jewellery, and the Old Boston Tea Party will be playing some bluegrass tunes. 10.00 am until 2.00 pm, Free Entry. At Deverill Storage, Manor Farm BA12 7DF.

6 September

• Sixpenny Brewery, Cranborne Open Mic with food by Smashin It. A surpise artist plus the Drift Tones. 1.00 pm to 8 pm.

Every day until 7 September

• Kingston Lacy Summer of Play. Head to the Kitchen Garden to join the fun. Play with giant building blocks, relax in the story garden, put on a performance at the puppet theatre and discover lots more games and activities. There are also two wonderful play areas to discover and explore, one in the Kitchen Garden and one on the Woodland Walk. Click here for details.​

Sorry-side up

So there I was, standing on the riverbank with a chunk of flint in one hand and a bunch of willow leaves in the other, about to apologise to a river, convincing myself this was a completely reasonable thing to be doing. Not weird at all.

I'd set out that morning armed with Isla's advice from our chat on the bench at Win Green (see last week's issue) and having read and re-read her leaflet several times. I was feeling oddly confident for someone whose plan involved talking to moving water and hoping it took it well.

I’d weighed up a few spots for my apology before settling on the bank at Stratford Tony. Isla said the dry bed at Alvediston would do, but I reckoned it would feel more convincing (for me) with actual water present. Apologising to a dry riverbed just feels like leaving a voicemail.

A quick scan confirmed I was still mercifully alone. Just me, the river, and my questionable life choices.

Then a duck floated by, looking disappointed. A heron landed upstream, judging.

I looked down at the flat stone, a piece of flint with the word sorry scrawled across its surface in charcoal, and thought: well, here goes.

I crouched down, placed the flint on the ground, sorry-side up, and arranged the willow leaves around it. The heron caught my eye. We stared at each other. I blinked first.

Then came the awkward part; speaking. After a long pause, and a final check for passing walkers, something like this tumbled out:

" Er… right.

So, um, hello. Ebble.
Sorry to interrupt, I know you’re probably… doing something river-y, or not, and that’s totally fine.

I just... well, I'm here to say sorry.

For the things in the newsletter about you being “a moist suggestion” or “not bothering to turn up.” Which, in hindsight, was... well, rude. And unfair. And possibly hydrologically ill-informed.

Sometimes it's hard to be a river. I suppose we don't all understand that rivers, you know, have their own schedules. And… their own reasons for disappearing now and then. (Which, honestly, I respect.)

So yes. I’m sorry."

The urge to bolt was strong, but I remembered Isla’s advice: stay awhile, in silence, no matter how uncomfortable it feels. I hoped the heron appreciated the effort. I avoided its gaze. After what felt like several geological eras, I finally added:

“Right. That’s it. Thanks. Sorry again.”

Then I left, looking very dignified of course. Exit like a pro.

I glanced back for a moment, wondering how I would ever know if it had worked.

Hubert momentarily flashed across my mind. Still unrepentant, having neither recognised the offence nor offered an apology. I imagine the river will deal with him in its own time.

The Secret Path

There’s a quiet belief among the Forgotten Footpath Society (FFS), a local walking group, that somewhere between Bowerchalke and Tollard Royal, there lies a secret footpath. One not found on OS maps. One that can only be accessed, curiously, when you’re not looking for it.

No one is exactly sure who found it first. Possibly Mad Geoff, possibly Mapcase Maggie. What’s agreed upon is that if you find it, you come back changed.

What kind of change, exactly?

That’s where it gets murky. Each rambler seems to discover a different “change” when they return from the path:

• Len found himself inexplicably sobbing under a hawthorn tree, then returned home and threw out most of his trousers. “I don’t wear beige for anyone now,” he declared.
• Paula claimed to finally understand the plot of Tenet after taking the path. She now speaks in paradoxes and keeps a large stock of cheeses stored in her fridge in alphabetical order.
• Graham insists he saw a "door" in a hedgerow. Went through it. Came out five minutes later smelling faintly of marjoram but refuses to say what he did on the other side.

Other walkers report odd time anomalies, including:

• Walking for what feels like minutes, only to find hours have passed.
• Noticing their watch stopped entirely while on the path.
• Arriving back at the start exactly when they left.

Locating the path (or not)

Despite attempts to pinpoint the start and end points on OS mapping, to identify grid references, GPS coordinates or What3 Words, the path is unlocatable by usual methods. Most who find it once never find it again. Those who have found it only remember vaguely that there's a stile or a gate or a gap in a hedge that just isn't discoverable on revisting the area. However, the following conditions are said to increase your chances of finding it:

• Walking alone, with a heavy heart but light shoes
• Carrying no map, only coffee and homemade flapjack
• Whistling a tune you haven’t thought about since childhood
• Being just lost enough to no longer care.

Finally some first hand accounts:

“I stepped off the main bridleway to tie my boot. When I looked up, I was somewhere else entirely. I don't remember much, just walking through pleasant scenery. I came back with a better understanding of my mother, and a craving for biscuits.”​
– Sylvia , Berwick St John

“My compass spun in a perfect circle. I just laughed and followed the path until I recognised where I was. Haven’t worried about anything since. Except slugs.”​
– Margot, Bowerchalke

“I walked in humming a tune I hadn’t heard since I was six. When I came out, I remembered who first sang it to me. She’d been gone twenty years.”​
– Neil, Farnham

A parish by parish tour of the Chase

Our parish-by-parish pilgrimage through the Chase’s 108 parishes continues. Alphabetical order, of course; Hubert's in charge and he likes methodical.

This week we move on to the letter B, starting with Barford St Martin.

barford st martin

Barford St Martin sits on the A30 at its junction with the B3089, and is the first village in our journey that still has a pub; the Barford Inn. It's also our largest so far, with over 500 inhabitants.

The parish stretches up onto a ridge to the north, taking in much of Grovely Wood, one of southern Wiltshire’s largest woodlands, valued for its conservation importance. The woods also hold their share of history: the course of a Roman road runs through, there are remains of Iron Age and Roman-British settlement, and local tales whisper of ghosts and hauntings.

For more, see Hubert’s guide below. Fair warning: he’s in a particularly grumpy mood this week (apologies, Barford). Clearly, something is weighing on his mind. Ebble.

I'd left a copy of Isla's apology guide leaflet for Hubert in his dropbox when I picked up his text, and a note to say I thought he should offer his own independent apology.

He called me later that day to say his personal apology seemed unnecessary, and to suggest that I ignore Isla's advice, make some grandiose, grovelling proclamation, and bring “something dramatic, like a ceremonial staff.”

Anyway, here's his guide for this week. In his own words.

BARFORD ST MARTIN

Ah, Barford St Martin; a name that sounds less like a village and more like a minor character cut from The Archers for being too dull. The sort of place where someone once sneezed and was commemorated with a bench.

Notable for

The church of St Martin, dedicated to a Roman soldier turned saint, who cut his cloak in two to give half to a beggar. Pathetic. The church seems to judge your inappropriate footwear, your posture, and your sense of history; it’s seen far better visitors than you.

The early medieval cross. A stone cross that’s been there so long it predates the church, when it was likely to have been a focus for outdoor preaching. Which roughly translates to “people standing in the cold listening to someone talk at them while wondering if lunch is ready.”

​The Barford Inn; looks simultaneously open, closed, and deeply wounded by TripAdvisor. An inn since the 16th century, it was previously known as the Green Dragon. They'll sell you a pint and some food and tell you stories about how a tank was named after it during the war. It has served generations with local ale and the thrilling risk of a breakout of stories about local woodland ghosts.

The River Nadder, once featuring two mills in Barford. Because apparently humans can’t leave a perfectly good river alone. Today, the mills are gone, but the river remains, a scenic reminder that water flows, people come, people go.

A pigeon flapping overhead, perhaps trying to escape.

Other features

Hamshill Ditches The remains of this former Iron Age/Romano-British settlement sit up on the chalk hillside, a bunch of overgrown earthworks that archaeologists get misty-eyed about. Allegedly, it was very interesting in 500 BC. Not so much nowadays.

Grovely Wood, with bonus witches. An "ancient" expanse of trees. People insist it’s magical, mostly because the alternative is admitting it’s just a wood. Cue the local legend of the “Four Sisters,” accused of witchcraft and killed here in the 17th century. Because apparently the best way to deal with local problems back then was to murder some women and hope for the best. Now they're supposedly represented by 4 beech trees and their ghosts are said to drift about, which at least gives you something to imagine while trudging pointlessly around up there.

Also starring, the Burcombe Woodsman Depending on which version of the pub gossip you prefer, he was either a poacher strung up for daring to nick the odd rabbit, or a hapless watercolour artist who managed to get himself shot during a deer cull. Frankly, both options are equally pathetic.

Naturally, he’s now a ghost flitting about in the wood. Reported sightings occur after the sound of a twig snapping. Which, in case you hadn’t noticed, is what literally every twig in a wood does when stepped on.

Summary

Where ambition comes to retire and develop a keen interest in bin-day politics. Has a faint aura of mysterious goings-on, with a waft of pub gravy.

Suggested itinerary

• Arrive late morning. Visit the church, and try to look pensive as you examine it. If you see the vicar, ask them about the best places to find ancient pottery shards. They probably won't know, but it makes you look intelligent.
• Go to the Barford Inn for lunch. Buy a pint and some grub. If anyone asks what you're up to, just stare into the middle distance and mutter something about "following in the footsteps of ancient peoples." It sounds far more impressive than "I'm just looking for a sandwich."
• Go to Grovely Wood. Go off the path if you fancy a one-on-one with a vengeful ghost. The spectres are very picky round here so don't be surprised if nothing happens.
• Go back to the pub. You've earned another pint. Feel free to embellish the stories of your afternoon. Tell them you heard the snapping of a twig. Tell them you were chased by a particularly angry badger. They'll believe you.
• Leave.

NEXT WEEK: Berwick St John

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For more authorative and less opinionated information about the history of Barford St Martin, see the parish council website.

That’s all from this corner of the world, where even the pigeons are up to something. Small mysteries are proof that the world is stranger, and far more interesting, than you'd think. Until next time, stay curious.

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