Crossing the bridge between sky and earth, and visiting the hill of the wizard

13 November 2025

Welcome to issue 14 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

The stars are bright over the hills (when it's not raining) and so this week we'll follow a path through starlight and legend. Walk with us beneath the dark November skies. Off we go...

This Week in the Chase​
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Here in the Cranborne Chase International Dark Sky Reserve, the night still holds its ancient power. Under skies untouched by the glare of modern lights, the constellations shine with a clarity that once guided travellers, dreamers, and those who looked for stories in the stars.

This week, a woman steps across the bridge between earth and sky, seeking something more than her art can provide. Isla Cobb tells a folk tale that follows her fate, a story of crossing thresholds to the stars.

We also turn our feet to Brixton Deverill, where the land holds the memories of 5000 years of settlement, and Hubert finds a legend of King Alfred, and a wizard on the hill. We explore below, so follow me...

The Star-Dreamer of the Chase

A folk tale compiled by Isla Cobb from various sources

If you climb the downs above Vernditch on a clear night, when the wind smells of chalk and thyme, look east where the Chase spreads dark and deep beneath the stars. There, between the constellations, you might spy a faint shimmer, like silver painted on velvet. That, they say, is the mark of Isolde, the Star-Dreamer. Once a woman of the Chase, now a spirit among the heavens.

Long ago, before the land was fenced and the forests tamed, the Chase was wild and full of spirits. In a village near Vernditch lived a young woman named Isolde, a painter who wandered the woods with the tools her art, and a small, clever cat called Rune who followed her like a shadow. Some said he was no ordinary cat at all, but a familiar spirit, born of the same dream that haunted her art.

Isolde loved the woods more than she loved the company of people. She would wander for days, painting the shapes of clouds and the patterns of leaves, and the spirits in the trees, the rivers, the stars.

She painted what others could not see. Silver threads of starlight touching the earth. Stars before sunset. Dawn before the night was done.

The village folk thought her strange, but they let her be, for she brought beauty to their dull winters, and her cat kept the mice from the grain. Some called her fey-touched, others blessed. The Chase is an old place, and not all who walk its paths come back quite the same.

Now one November eve, when the air was thick with the scent of fallen leaves and the moon was as round as a crown, Isolde sat beside a pool deep in the heart of the Chase. There, she began a painting of the night sky reflected in the pool. Stars above, stars below, and she between them. But as she worked, the constellations leaned closer, flickered, gleamed brighter, and a voice whispered, clear as a stream over stones:

The mist came rising soft from the water, curling about her feet like white silk. Rune sat beside her, tail flicking, ears pricked.

Isolde looked into the mist, and she saw soft, shimmering faces made of starlight and vapour. Spirits of the Chase they were, older than the barrows on the downs, older than the earth. And they beckoned to her with elegant white hands, stars shining like diamonds on their fingers.

Now, any wise soul would have crossed themselves and fled. But Isolde had the heart of an artist and the hunger of a dreamer. She hesitated. She loved her world, but she also longed to know the deeper truth of what she painted. She had always dreamed of capturing the light that moves between the stars, that secret shimmer where the world ends. Rune, ever watchful, brushed against her hand, mewing softly, as if to warn her.

Then she whispered “Yes,” and in that moment the mist wrapped around her like a shroud of bright light, surged, and was gone.

When morning came, they found her paints and brushes and a half-finished painting showing the pond bathed in an unearthly light. Rune, her little grey cat, sat beside it, staring upward, eyes wide and still.

For seven nights he waited. And on the eighth, he too was gone. But a new star flared low in the eastern sky, shining blue-white, with a smaller glimmer beside it.

The shepherds were the first to notice. They called it “The Painter” and her companion “The Watcher”, though in time the scholars called them by other names. On clear nights, they say, you can see them wandering together, slow across the sky, trailing wisps of mist and colour.

Some say Isolde paints the night itself now. When the Milky Way spills bright, it’s her long hair streaming across the heavens.

When the Chase lies under mist, folk say she returns, drifting through the fields and trees, her face calm as sleep, her hair streaming like violet smoke. The cat’s eyes gleam from the shadows, guarding her path. And sometimes, when the stars are bright, the air grows sweet with the scent of violets, and a soft hum, like the purr of a cat, can be heard over the downs.

When the Star-Dreamer walks, the wise stay still and silent. For if you speak her name aloud, she may find you and you’ll be drawn into her dream, never to wake again.

Isla’s Notes
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​This legend presents several characteristic folkloric features:

• The artist as vision-seer: The figure of Isolde unites the motifs of artistry and seeing beyond the material world
• The cat familiar: The grey cat “Rune” corresponds to numerous accounts of guardian spirits in animal form, particularly those connected with threshold or liminal places.
• Astral apotheosis: The transformation of mortal to star is a common motif, perhaps a remnant of the pre-Christian worship of heavenly bodies.

Hubert's Notes

So "a soft hum, like the purr of a cat, can be heard over the downs". Please. I live in the Chase, not far from Vernditch; that “hum” is definitely the army doing helicopter night drills, not some ethereal feline serenade.
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Hubert's verdict: Pretty. Annoying. Improbable.

A parish by parish tour of the Chase

This week, back to Wiltshire and the first of the Deverills, Brixton Deverill.

Brixton deverill

The parish of Brixton Deverill only has a population of around 80 people (approx) but extends across a relatively large area in the West Wiltshire Downs, encompassing typical landscapes of chalk downland​​‌ ‍either side of the River Wylye. It shows evidence of millennia of human settlement‌‍​.​ ‌ ‌​​ ‍‍​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​‍ ‌‍‍‌‌‍ ‍‌ ‌​‌‍‌‌‌‍ ‍‌ ‌​​‍ ‌‍‌‌‌‍‌​‌‍‍‌‌ ‌​​‍ ‌‍ ‌‌‍ ‌‍‌​‌‍‌‌​ ‌‌ ​​‌ ​‍‌‍‌‌‌ ​ ‌‍‌‌‌‍ ‍‌ ‌​‌‍​‌‌ ‌​‌‍‍‌‌‍ ‌‍ ‍​ ‍ ‌‍‍‌‌‍‌​​ ‌‌ ‌‍‌‍‍‌‌‍ ​‌‍ ​‌‍​‌‌‍‌ ‌‍‌‌​ ‍ ‌ ‌​‌ ‍‌‌ ​​‌‍‌‌​ ‌‌ ‌‍‌‍‍‌‌‍ ​‌‍ ​‌‍​‌‌‍‌ ‌‍‌‌​ ‍ ‌ ​​‌‍​‌‌ ‌​‌‍‍​​ ‌‌‍‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍​‌‌ ‌​‌ ‌‌‌ ​‍‌‍‌‌‌ ​ ​‍‌‌​ ‌‌‌​​‍‌‌ ‌‍‍ ‌‍‌‌‌ ‍‌​‍‌‌​ ​ ‌​‌​​‍‌‌​ ​ ‌​‌​​‍‌‌​ ​‍​ ​‍​ ‌​​ ‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍​‌‌‍​‌‌‍​‌​ ​ ​ ​‍‌‍​‌‌‍‌​‌‍‌‌​ ​‌​‍‌‌​ ​‍​ ​‍​‍‌‌​ ‌‌‌​‌​​‍ ‍‌‍‌​‌‍‌‌‌ ​ ‌‍​ ‌ ​‍‌‍‍‌‌ ​​‌ ‌​‌‍‍‌‌‍ ‌‍ ‍​‍‌‌​ ‌‌‌​​‍‌‌ ‌‍‍ ‌‍‌‌‌ ‍‌​‍‌‌​ ​ ‌​‌​​‍‌‌​ ​ ‌​‌​​‍‌‌​ ​‍​ ​‍‌‍‌​‌‍‌‍‌‍​‍​ ‌‌‌‍‌‌‌‍​‍​ ​ ‌‍​‍​ ‌‌​ ​‍​ ‍​​ ​‌​‍‌‌​ ​‍

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

BRIXTON DEVERILL

Ah, Brixton Deverill. The place you’ve driven past on your way to somewhere more interesting like Stourhead or your own front door. A tiny population in a parish that sprawls across a fair chunk of the West Wiltshire Downs. Chalk underfoot and the River Wylye babbling away like it’s auditioning for a mindfulness app. This parish has been continuously inhabited for about five millennia, presumably because some people never managed to find the exit.

There’s no pub, no shop, but what you will find is peace, skylarks, and the distinct feeling that the landscape is unimpressed with you and your choice of footwear.

Notable for: the church of St Michael the Archangel, patron saint of draughts

A 14th-century building of pale stone. Local folklore insists that King Alfred the Great prayed for victory in the earlier Saxon church on the site, on his way to the Battle of Ethandun in 878 AD. Mind you, some even claim that the infamous cake burning incident didn't happen in the Somerset Levels, but here in the parish. True or not, the church itself seems entirely unconcerned with historical accuracy, so why should we worry.

Also featuring

The villager. Found in the churchyard. A wiry old man in a cap, smelling faintly of pipe smoke and moss.

“Looking for Alfred, are you?”

“I’m looking for somewhere that sells sandwiches.”

“Alfred camped here, before Ethandun. Down by the Deverill". He gestured with his stick. "They say he went up Cold Kitchen Hill to see the wizard.”

“And what did the wizard tell him?”

The man nodded solemnly. “Told him to keep his spoons dry.”

We stood in silence. A skylark trilled somewhere overhead.

Then the man tapped his stick, muttered, “Worked, didn’t it?” and wandered off down the lane.

Long barrows. There are two; one on Pertwood Down, one on Cold Kitchen Hill, both neolithic. What this means: people were building monuments here 5,000 years ago. Yes, before the Romans, before even the idea of a “village”. So when you’re strolling those rolling hills, remember you’re walking past something older than most nations.

A Roman road. There’s a section on Pertwood Down, about a kilometre long, up to 12 m wide, and still traceable. Likely used to take lead from the Mendips to ports on the south coast, the empire’s metal of choice for plumbing, coffins, and possibly the world’s slowest inadvertent mass poisoning campaign.

A Roman villa. Someone digging a cable trench in the village found a mosaic. Surprise! That's a Roman villa. It's on private land, so sorry, no free Roman villa tour with tea and cake, and is now once more under grass following excavation. But you can still see the landscape and imagine the past. If you can be bothered to engage your imagination of course.

Cold Kitchen Hill. Sounds like the sort of place where lunch goes to die; bleak, draughty, and entirely devoid of hot food catering.

The name might come from an old Celtic phrase, “Col Cruachan”, supposedly meaning “hill of the wizard”, or so some would have you believe. Others say its more like "grove on the sacred hill". And other interpretations are available. Alternatively, maybe after the humans left it earned the title “cold kitchen” because no one lived there anymore, their homes deserted, their kitchens cold. Take your pick.

Sometimes I prefer the latter explanation. I’ve picnicked up there. ‘Cold Kitchen’ is a typically English understatement; ‘Chilly Lunch of Despair’ would be nearer the mark.

But on a misty morning, with the chalk glowing pale, the long barrow looming in the fog and the skylarks fluting overhead, it does look like somewhere the dead might pop out for a bit of light haunting.

Mind you, the name Col Cruachan lingers in the imagination, humming like an old spell. Whether it truly honoured a wizard, a sacred grove, or merely the spirits of the long barrow’s residents, the hill is a place where strange things happen.

The strange man on the Downs. As you crest Cold Kitchen Hill, the wind hard enough to exfoliate your soul, you notice a lone figure standing on the track near the barrow. He’s dressed oddly. Layers of tattered robes, something like a druid. You assume he’s a local amateur dramatics enthusiast gone feral. Then he speaks.

“The river remembers,” he says.
“Even the stones whisper.”

He gestures dramatically toward the long barrow, then to something behind you. You turn to look, and when you turn back, he’s gone.

Locals insist he’s a harmless eccentric from Warminster who likes dressing up, enjoys the solitude and the drama. Others, in lower voices, say he’s the old wizard of the hill himself. Still keeping watch over his chalky homeland, muttering lines from the world’s longest one-man show.

I remain unconvinced. If he’s a wizard, he could at least do something about the wind. And the cold.

Romano-Celtic temple. On Whitecliff Down is the site of a serious religious building: a Romano‑Celtic temple, and a nearby midden (that's a rubbish dump to me and you). Recovered artefacts span from the Late Iron Age right through to the late Roman period: human bone, pottery, coins, brooches, tweezers, pieces of painted plaster, animal remains. Used for centuries of ceremonies and, let’s be honest, centuries of tossing stuff aside afterward. Feasts are fun, but they do leave a mess.

The River Wylye. In the upper reaches (e.g. in Brixton Deverill) it was once known as the River Deverill, before it became the Wylye lower down. A cheeky modern interpretation of the name Deverill is that it’s a “diving rill” (because the stream sometimes vanishes underground in times of low flow). Gives the landscape that added layer of weirdness; mysterious springs, disappearing water.

Suggested Itinerary

Arrive and greet the river. Pause where the bridge crosses the river to marvel at the clarity of the chalk stream. Note the stream’s identity crisis; Wylye or Deverill? Say nothing out loud in case you get it wrong. Try not to cause offence, rivers can be vengeful and capricious creatures.

Head to the church. Avoid the old man with the cap, if he’s there. Maybe pretend you’re foreign and ‘no habla inglese'. Imagine, if you can, the predecessor Saxon church built of wattle and daub, and King Alfred seeking divine aid and better marching weather.

Head for Cold Kitchen Hill & Neolithic long barrow. Climb the hill to inspect the barrow, built by people with excessive time and massive quadriceps. Feel the wind, enjoy the views, and reflect on hauling tons of chalk without modern equipment.

Meet the strange man. Near the barrow, you may see a lone figure draped in anachronistic costume, performing dramatically for an unseen audience. His eyes meet yours, and he speaks at you in sudden bursts, with sweeping arm gestures.

Offer polite applause and exchange grumbles about the wind; this counts as cultural immersion.

Romano-Celtic temple Head toward Whitecliff Down to see the site of the temple, now a field with lumps in it. If you close your eyes, you can imagine incense, coins, offerings, feasts, and folk in togas. When you’re done, nod solemnly, whisper something vaguely respectful to the invisible priests, and move on, back to the village below.

Head up to Pertwood Down to see the Roman road. Stand and imagine legionaries marching, carts creaking under the weight of lead, and the occasional disgruntled Roman muttering, “Why didn’t we just go by river?” and "it makes the water taste funny...".

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​Leave feeling like you’ve only scratched the surface of the chalk and general weirdness.

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NEXT WEEK: BROAD CHALKE

Prepare to be utterly underwhelmed.

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Does the wizard watch from his hill, and what ancient secrets do the barrows keep? Legends swirl like wind round the hills and paint the stars overhead, but other paths now call. We're off to follow them. Next week, we're back with those who walk between worlds. Do join us.

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