An owl with a gift; and a barrow with a crown of trees

27 November 2025

Welcome to issue 16 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 strange companions

November draws to a close, and Winter is coming. The fields are quiet, the hedgerows bare, and the low light casts long shadows across the countryside. Off we go on another trip around the Chase.

This week in the Chase​
This week, we head for Burcombe Without; a parish that feels both present and missing.

And if you walk quietly at dusk, you might just catch sight of a ghostly barn owl said to mark birthdays. We catch up with Rufus Penn to find out more.

Ghostly hunters and the birthday owl

The countryside of the Chase is home to one of the UK’s most hauntingly beautiful birds: the barn owl (Tyto alba). With its ghostly, heart-shaped face, pale underparts, and silent flight, this hunter is a familiar yet almost otherworldly presence flying on silent wings above the fields and hedgerows.

Barn owls are extremely effective predators. Their specially adapted feathers allow them to fly without sound, making them expert hunters of voles, mice, and other small mammals. Whilst owls in general are known for being nocturnal, barn owls sometimes hunt by day as well as at dusk or by night. They nest in hollow trees, or old buildings such as barns, farm sheds, even church towers. And if you listen closely, you may hear their eerie, long drawn out screeches (they don't hoot), so distinctive and instantly recognisable once you know the sound.

They have long captured human imagination. Across Europe, they appear in folklore as birds of omen, as messengers, and as guardians of the night. In some traditions, the haunting call of a barn owl warned of misfortune, while in others, their presence in a barn or field was a sign of good fortune. They were sometimes thought to be shape-shifters or familiars of witches, while their large eyes and silent flight made them symbols of secrecy, wisdom, and the unseen.

While barn owls surely have many talents beyond those we know, my daughter told me on my birthday a few weeks back that she'd heard a curious tale about an ancient barn owl in the Chase who somehow knows when it’s your birthday. So I sought out my old friend Rufus Penn, a wildlife expert whose knowledge of the Chase is encyclopaedic and, at times, just a touch mystical, to see if he knew this story. We met at dusk on Martin Down last week; here’s what happened.

Auralis, Giver of Gifts

As dusk draped its shadows across the down, we set off along the track from the car park, and were soon on a path that runs alongside the old dyke. Rufus revealed that today was his birthday, and he more than half expected to see the owl. He'd seen it before.

“I’ve seen her many times,” Rufus said, eyes scanning the skies and the landscape.

For centuries, locals had told stories of her: a ghostly owl with feathers pale as silver moonlight and eyes like the depths of space. She is said to watch over those who celebrate the turning of their years, delivering small, magical gifts that mark the event.

On the night of a birthday, she delivers these gifts; not man-made trinkets, but small wonders of nature, imbued with a quiet, enduring magic. Each gift is unique, chosen by Auralis to suit the season.

We paused and watched the dying of the light across the grassland. Rufus bent close to a patch of brambles and smiled. A soft white feather lay there caught in the tangle. “That's a sign. There's to be a gift for someone who walks here. Perhaps… me.”

A sudden flutter of wings caught the corner of my eye. Perched on an old fence post, heart-shaped face catching the last of the light, was a barn owl.

"Auralis?" I whispered. Rufus said nothing, looking intently at the owl. Nodded, eyes fixed on the bird, if bird she is. “Could be her. Or maybe another… but you see how carefully she watches."

Then she rose without a sound and swept toward us. As she passed Rufus, something slipped from her grasp and dropped at his feet: a curled oak leaf fashioned from a pale metal, faintly shimmering with the soft glow of moonlight. It was strange and perfect, flawless. Rufus knelt to pick it up, letting the cool, weighty thing rest in his palm. Auralis had already returned to her post, watching us in silence.”

“Gift from Auralis,” he murmured. “Always different. Always hers. Sometimes a pebble, sometimes a feather, sometimes a leaf … sometimes, who knows what else. Depends on the season. But always a blessing.” He looked back to the owl, and nodded again.

Then, as silently as she had come, Auralis was away, a pale shape gliding over the down, vanishing into the deepening twilight.

Rufus exhaled softly, a smile touching his lips, looking down at the gift, shining faintly in the growing dark.

"It'll never fade, that light" he said. "Some say that those who receive her gifts are touched by good fortune through the year ahead. I'll let you know how that goes".

Back in the pub afterwards, the curled leaf shimmering faintly on the table between us, pale as a winter moon, Rufus told me more of what he knew about the tales of Auralis.

"Legends say that Auralis was once a mortal owl, but was selected by the Moon herself for the task of marking birth nights," Rufus told me.

"But why would the moon want that?" I asked.

Rufus paused, thinking. “Some say it’s because the Moon wants to welcome people to her domain, not have them fear it. Humans rush through their days, hardly seeing the natural world, and many are uneasy in the dark, wary of what hides there. By leading people onto the paths of the Chase in the twilight and night, on the turning of the day they first saw the world, the Moon hopes they’ll learn that even in darkness, wonder waits. And that there are rewards for those willing to seek it.”

"So how did you know you would see her tonight?" I asked.

He shrugged, as if the answer were obvious. “She doesn’t scatter gifts at random,” he said. “And they’re not meant for everyone. It’s about being in the right place at the right time. You’ve got to know.”

Over generations, those who keep the old story have learned to walk at dusk on their birthdays, seeking out certain places. “Usually old ground,” he explained. “By the Bokerley Dyke, like we were today. Or near the barrows, the ancient forts. Maybe a hilltop. Sometimes just a clearing that’s older than it looks.”

“When you’re close, you feel it, like something’s nudging you the right way,” he went on. “Your eye snags on something, makes you pause or change direction. Sometimes you’ll hear the owl call, drawing you toward the place where she’ll leave the gift. It's never the same twice.”

He took a slow sip of his beer. “Sometimes you misread it. Something’s off. She doesn’t come. Maybe you missed the signs, weren’t paying attention to the land or the light. But there’s always next year.”

The road home was dark, the fields shadowed and still, and I imagined Auralis drifting through the dusk and darkness, leaving her shimmering gifts for those who seek them on their birthday. Maybe next year on my own day I'll head for one of the old places of the Chase as the sun sets and see what happens.

A parish by parish tour of the Chase

This week, Burcombe Without (Burcombe for short).

burcombe WITHOUT

Burcombe Without is a parish named as though something has gone missing. As it happens, something has. The parish is so named because the original parish of Burcombe was split in Victorian times. The eastern part was snaffled by the neighbouring town of Wilton, and the remnant in the Chase became Burcombe "Without".

Today the parish has a population of around 150 people (approx). As is typical in the Chase, the parish spans a river (in this case the Nadder) and rises up either side onto chalk downland​​‌, with a fair share of prehistoric earthworks scattered about. ​‍‌‍‌‌‌ Whilst a small village, there is a butcher's shop, and some small business units in converted farm buildings.

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

BURCOMBE WITHOUT

Ah yes: Burcombe Without. A parish name that sounds less like a place and more like the beginning of a lament. Burcombe Without… what, exactly?​
Without bustle and verve?
Without a pub?
Without its northern half?

All of the above.

You may imagine Burcombe Without as a picturesque parish cradled in the chalk downs and threaded by a gentle river. I, however, see a place that once had two Burcombes and now has, at best, one and a bit.

Let me enlighten you.

Notable for: A Tale of Two Burcombes

The parish once included the twin settlements of South Burcombe and North Burcombe, separated by the river Nadder and a road (what is now the A30).

But the village of North Burcombe is gone. Vanished. It has ceased to be. It is an ex-Burcombe. Not quite wiped from the face of the earth, as the church building plus a small handful of others survive.

South Burcombe, meanwhile, is now simply rebranded as Burcombe. This was an easy step to take, being a practical acknowledgement of a change in geography, cardinal points no longer required. Speaking of maps, it could have been worse; in fact it was, see below.

Also notable:

The Quaere Catastrophe: A cartographic comedy spanning 145 Years

As if disappearing weren’t enough indignity for North Burcombe, it endured an additional insult: being mislabelled “Quaere” on maps for nearly a century and a half.

Here is the sequence of brilliance:

1. Christopher Saxton, in the 16th century, produced a map of Witshire indicating the presence of North Burcombe, but left the mark unnamed.
2. John Speed, mapping Wiltshire in the early 17th century, copied Saxton’s anonymous symbol. Unsure of the village name, he wrote “Quaere” beside it. Latin for “query”, indicating he might get back to it later.
3. Speed did not get back to it later.
4. His engraver, diligently copying every line into permanence, assumed that Quaere was the actual name and inscribed it proudly onto the finished map.
5. Later cartographers, adhering to the well-established professional principle of “copy the previous bloke; he probably checked,” reproduced the error without question for 145 years.

Emanuel Bowen, in his 1755 map, finally corrected the blunder. He presumably paused mid-engraving to mutter, “Surely the Almighty cannot have intended a village called Quaere” then did the 18th century equivalent of an internet search and found that North Burcombe was (still) a thing.

The most disappointing part of this saga is that, meanwhile, North Burcombe hadn't leant into it and erected a tasteful “Welcome to Quaere” sign.

The church. Of Saxon origin, the church of St John the Baptist has roots older than most nations. Rebuilt many times, after centuries of service it finally threw in the liturgical towel in 2005.

Its tower is lower than the nave roof, so maybe they lost a bit in one of the rebuilds.

Now it stands alone and unused, the last lonely remnant of a lost settlement, perched by the roadside, presumably wondering where everyone went.

The A30, Divider of Worlds, Destroyer of Burcombes slices through the parish, forever separating where North Burcombe once was from the village formerly known as South Burcombe.

It is the most energetic thing for miles. It hums with traffic. It prevents Burcombe Without from becoming Burcombe Without Visitors.

The River Nadder winds gently through Burcombe Without, doing its best to balance out the indignity of the nearby A30 by being picturesque, soothing, pleasant, and calm. It is the only thing in Burcombe Without that has not been mislabelled, closed, reinvented, or taken by the wind. The river’s god seems less amused by humans than Ebble ever was. More inclined to sulk in shallows and flood bits of footpath just enough to get your shoes wet, but not enough to justify complaining. Like nature’s version of someone flicking you repeatedly on the ear. I admire his pettiness.

Villa Verde (formerly The Ship Inn). The Ship Inn was once Burcombe’s beating social heart before closing, the closure presumably due to existential malaise or sheer economic reality. It re-emerged as the Villa Verde pub and restaurant, reborn like a phoenix, if phoenixes specialised in Italian cuisine. There were lights. There was pasta. Chianti. It was glorious. It now appears to have closed again. It stands there today, locked and inscrutable, as if contemplating its next reincarnation.
Perhaps as a Spanish tapas bar. Or a portal to a dimension where rural pubs actually survive. Or maybe it will reopen and once again be filled with the sound of diners happily chowing down on gnocchi and tiramisu, quaffing prosecco and limoncello.

The Punch Bowl barrow sits high on a ridge to the south, built by prehistoric people at the head of a steep, bowl-shaped valley (the Punch Bowl) that it broods over like a prehistoric lookout. Now crowned with beech trees and surrounded by nettles.

When I turned up, there was a man in waterproofs and an unfeasibly large hat standing nearby, looking shifty. He sidled over. "I built that,” he said.

“The barrow?” I asked.

“Yes. They’re all mine, spiritually.”
Turns out he believes he is the reincarnation of an ancient barrow-builder with an extensive CV. He trotted out a long list of his creations, spanning the Chase and Salisbury Plain and beyond.

Then, “Barrows today,” he informed me, “are decadent. Too many wheels.”

He nodded sagely, as if he'd spoken ancient wisdom instead of utter nonsense. I left, wondering how come I always manage to find these people.

A Grim's Ditch, as is often the way, forms part of the parish boundary to the north. We've been here before, the Grim's Ditches of the Chase are many and legion. Not all are the same one, although this one probably is a continuation of the same one previously encountered in Berwick St Leonard (see issue 6). Continuing the Burcombe theme of things with different names, it's also known as Grovely Ditch in this location. Whatever you call it, the usual questions apply. Was it a boundary? A territorial statement? Keeping something in, or something else out? Who knows. Who cares. It’s old, can't remember its name, and trying its best. Let it be.

Burcombe Down lies in the south of the parish, a Site of Special Scientific Interest (SSSI) where rare chalk grassland species flourish undisturbed, including Juniper bushes. The latter are rumoured to shelter small, ancient things that scuttle out when there's fog on the hills. They busy themselves with inscrutable errands like rearranging flints into patterns, or giving directions to lost moths. Harmless, really. Really.

Notable residents. My research revealed that Burcombe Without has been home to a few figures of cultural interest, each of whom, sensibly, moved away as soon as they realised what they’d done. Sadly I've never heard of any of them before, so you won't have either, but these are they:

• Robert Furneaux Jordan, architect and critic
• Edward Earle Dorling, heraldry expert
• Edward Slow, dialect poet.

By all means do your own research if you want to know more about these people. You can't expect me to do everything for you.

Here is Hubert’s suggested Itinerary for Burcombe Without. Crafted with all the enthusiasm of a man who has seen far too many villages.

Arrive

Roll into Burcombe Without with a mixture of cautious optimism and the nagging suspicion that “Without” refers to excitement, nightlife, and anything resembling a plan.

Contemplate the loss of twin Burcombes

Look north over the River Nadder and picture the vanished North Burcombe. Nod solemnly at the lonely church, standing like the last survivor of a poorly organised evacuation. Reflect on North Burcombe's time as “Quaere”. Consider that the world is a confusing place.

Check out Villa Verde

Peer at the building that once throbbed with life, and now… does not.
Ponder the question: will it ever open again? Or maybe you'll get lucky. Maybe it's a Phase Pub, just waiting for the tired and lost. Don't try the door, it's probably alarmed.

Stroll down to the River Nadder

Find a path down to the banks of the Nadder (there is one, west along the lane past the closed pub). Pause and enjoy the quiet hum of the A30 traffic. The river god will be keeping an eye on you, so don't annoy him. The herons and kingfishers are basically his minions and will treat you with contempt, so avoid eye contact.

Climb to the Punch Bowl barrow

Getting up there is a steep climb, making you question why you didn’t choose a flatter hobby. Admire the barrow, its crown of trees and the nettles. Marvel at the fact that it has survived better than North Burcombe. If you see a man in waterproofs and a massive hat, run.

Explore Burcombe Down

Wander to the SSSI where hardy juniper bushes rise spikily above rare chalk grassland. If it's foggy, and something small and ancient emerges from under a juniper bush, simply nod and pass by.

Contemplate the 'famous' residents

Walk through the parish imagining:

• Architects fleeing
• Heraldry experts packing bags at dawn
• Poets praying for inspiration in the local dialect as they wait for the next bus.

Reflect on the deep tradition of leaving Burcombe.

Depart

Leave Burcombe without looking back. Carry with you a vague sense of the ghosts of twin Burcombes whispering “Quaere.”

NEXT WEEK: CANN

Prepare to be utterly underwhelmed.

A Burcombe is gone, and the Punch Bowl barrow shakes its crown of trees in the winds of coming winter. Somewhere, maybe, Auralis glides silently above the fields, with a shimmering surprise for someone. Next week, Isla has a story for us. Try not to scream.

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