Human today, but maybe not tomorrow; and a place where people voluntarily buy watercress

20 November 2025

Welcome to issue 15 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 fellow travellers

Under these long November nights the Chase is full of mysteries. Come along the quiet paths with us. There’s always a chance of finding something that isn’t on any map.

This week in the Chase​
​
This week, we turn our attention to one of the Chase’s strangest tales (out of many, many contenders): a pub that appears only when it wants to be found. Hidden in the archives of the Forgotten Footpath Society lies Derek Fosdyke’s account of a place called The Star and Lantern. An inn that shouldn’t exist, but occasionally does.

From uncanny ales to a landlord who never quite stays in one place, this is the story of a “Phase Pub”, a sympathetic structure that reveals itself only to the weary, the lost, or the slightly misdirected. Isla has thoughts, Hubert has opinions, and somewhere out there a beermat still smells faintly of cloves and pipe smoke.

And after our brush with the uncanny, we come back down to earth with a wander through Broad Chalke: history, watercress, Pratchett, and all.

The pub that isn't there

From the archives of the Forgotten Footpath Society we bring you the tale of a remarkably mysterious pub.

Described as “uncanny but welcoming,” it was discovered by five Society members during a walk in 2012. The original file now resides in the “Anomalous Establishments” drawer of the filing cabinet at the back of the FFS shed, tucked behind the equipment storage cupboard.

The notes were recorded by Derek Fosdyke - no longer a member, having disappeared in 2018. Using his file entries, I’ve assembled the following account.

Discovery

On an overcast afternoon ramble from Donhead St Andrew, the FFS party strayed from a bridleway due to a huge fallen tree, taking a forced detour through a faint gap in an overgrown hedge. They found themselves in a field that "felt watched" (was this normal trespassers guilt, or something else?) and followed the hedge until they guessed they had gone far enough to get past the blockage. Finding another "gap" in the hedge they left the field and emerged, not onto the bridleway, but into a sunlit clearing in woodland that wasn’t there on the OS map.

At the far end of the clearing stood a small cob and thatch pub nestled between two moss-covered oak trees, smoke curling from the chimney and a large black horse tied up outside.

A hanging sign above the door read:

“The Star and Lantern”​
​Est. ???

Not wishing to pass up the opportunity to try out a new pub, the group decided to go inside for refreshments.

Inside

Derek notes that the interior was warm, with a soft amber glow and the smell of woodsmoke and something that may have been cinnamon. A black dog slept by the fireplace and never woke up. A radio crackled faintly in the background. The sound was of soft static and something that might have been a sea shanty played backward.

They settled at a table by the fire, and Derek went to the bar to order.

There were no modern beer taps, just brass hand-pulls and blackboards with chalk-written names. The group sampled three of them and Derek recorded these observations:

There was also a Nightjar Dark Ale, served only after sunset. The barmaid didn’t explain why.

The bar was cash only. Derek found he had strange coins in his pocket, with which he paid. The old till was ornate and mechanical, and made a sound like a distant church bell every time it opened.

A door next to the bar had a sign reading "Not Yet" in handwritten script. The barmaid politely blocked anyone who moved toward it.

The landlord

Known as “Silas,” Derek records he had a voice "like sandpaper." When Derek asked how long the pub had been there, Silas replied: “Depends who’s asking, and when they think they are.”​
​
He seemed to be somewhere slightly different every time they looked towards him; behind the bar, near the hearth, leaning in the doorway. No-one saw him move.

​
​The barmaid

The barmaid introduced herself as Elowen, though she said it in a tone that made the group suspect it wasn’t her real name, or her only name. Her clothes were patched with bits of tweed, old velvet, and sailcloth.

She moved like someone trying not to disturb the dust. Her footsteps made no sound.

There was a note in the file from Sylvia, who had written down a conversation she had with Elowen, who was slicing lemons at the bar with what looked like a small sword with a golden pommel and faint inscriptions on the blade:

Sylvia: “What is this pub? It seems unusual...not like other pubs”

Elowen: “It's a place for resting. Some arrive by accident, others by necessity.”

Sylvia: “Are you human?”

Elowen paused, and sliced clean through the cutting board. One half fell on the floor.

Elowen: “It would seem so. Today.”

Sylvia: “What about tomorrow?”

Elowen: “Oh, Sylvia. Tomorrow is another place, another time. Ask me tomorrow, if I still wear this face.”

The menu

The chalkboard menu included:

• Ploughman’s lunch (for ploughmen only; proof of plough mastery required)
• Lost Lamb Pie
• Breadcrumb Soup (if we can find it)
• Wayfarer’s Broth (served when needed)
• Memory Crumble (for those who forgot dessert)
• The Other Sandwich

Elowen said that the Other Sandwich “only exists on alternate Thursdays.” When asked what the Lost Lamb Pie contained she said “Best not to ask questions about that.” None of the party fancied the food on the menu, or were disqualified from having it for various reasons, so Elowen produced a "specials" board.

This included

• “Second Chance” Stew with Tomorrow’s Bread
• Lanternseed Biscuits

The party ordered these. The stew was thick and savoury, and every spoonful tasted slightly different. Silas insisted it’s just vegetables. The bread was warm, soft, and perfectly risen. Elowen said not to take it outside the pub, because it goes stale instantly. The biscuits were small and round, dotted with dark seeds that glowed faintly when broken open. Eating one gave a strong sensation of déjà vu. Elowen warned: “Only one per person. You don’t want too many futures at once.”

Other oddities

A painting above the fire showed the FFS group sitting exactly as they were, at the table by the fire. Though no-one saw it move, whenever they looked at it the composition had adjusted to their current positions.

Her other recorded mumbles include: "Silas was shorter last century” and “The pub was taller. Or the sky was lower. Hard to tell.”

Derek asked about the map and she produced a rolled bit of parchment from up her sleeve. It twitched. “It drinks the places you’ve been,” she said. “And burps up the places you don’t want to go.”

Silas confiscated it gently. Elowen mouthed: good call.

The pub quiz​
A voice emerging from the radio static announcing a pub quiz.

Categories included:

• animals that don't exist (yet)
• historical events that didn’t happen
• geography of places you can’t visit
• songs that have never been sung
• interactions with sentient homeware.

No one remembers the questions.

There was another team, who suddenly appeared at a nearby table just as the quiz began. There were four of them. One was a tall man with a lantern tattoo on his wrist. He wrote furiously in a notebook every time the static voice spoke. There were twins, identical women who always spoke in unison. Their hair flickered between shades. And a person wearing a vintage motorcycle jacket whose face never quite came into focus. They were heard to say:

At the end, they left through a door that wasn’t there earlier.

Departure

After quiz the group left, intending to return the next week and document it properly. Once they had passed through the door and walked a few steps they found themselves on the bridleway by the fallen tree, with no sign of the wood, the clearing, or the pub.

Proof?

Sylvia Blotch found a beermat in her rucksack the next morning. A soft disc with gold-foil edging.

The ink smudges when wet but reappears sharp when dried.

Return attempts

When they returned the following week they walked around the fallen tree, into the watchful field, then back through the hedge at what they thought was the same point; but found themselves back on the bridlepath.

They tried again a month later. This time the wood and the clearing appeared briefly, and the pub was visible for no more than ten seconds, flickering like heat haze.

Margo heard Elowen’s voice saying “You’re early.”

Silas’s voice followed: “No, they’re late.”

On the ground they found a matchbook. Inside were three unused matches.

FFS Conclusion:

A “Phase Pub”. This is a known but rare phenomenon in which establishments appear during certain alignments of mood, mist, and minor miscalculations in direction. Thought to be sympathetic structures, drawn to the weary and slightly lost.

Attempts to re-locate it are ongoing.

As usual, I asked Isla and Hubert what they thought.

Isla’s observations
​
​A classic example of the English “wanderer’s inn” motif, a temporary, liminal establishment that manifests for the weary or lost, operating under its own temporal rules. Silas and Elowen are “threshold guardians” who test or guide visitors. Derek’s notes are invaluable. First-hand documentation of ephemeral folk phenomena is extremely rare.

Hubert's thoughts

Sympathetic structures, fleeting alignments of mood and mist… or maybe it’s just 2012 and a bunch of amateurs wandered into someone’s cosplay in the woods. As for maps that drink... I'd be suspicious of a map with it's own bar tab.

But I hate to admit it, if I ever get lost, I wouldn’t mind finding a new pub and sampling a pint of honeysuckle ale.

A parish by parish tour of the Chase

This week, Broad Chalke.

broad chalke

The parish of Broad Chalke has a population of around 650 people (approx) and extends across a large area in the Chase, encompassing typical landscapes of chalk downland​​‌ ‍either side of the River Ebble. As well as the main village, it‌‌‍‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍​‌‌ ‌​‌includes the hamlets of Knapp, Mount Sorrel and Stoke Farthing, plus many scattered farms.‌‌‌ ​‍‌‍‌‌‌ ​ ​‍‌‌​

The map extract below is from a larger version on display in the village near the Queen's Head pub and the village stores, and was made by Jane Alyson Smart in 2024 (also available to buy; see janealysonsmart.co.uk).

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

BROAD CHALKE

Ah, Broad Chalke. A village so bursting with historical significance, artistic brilliance, and pastoral charm that I have been forced to acknowledge it. Imagine my disgust.

You may think Broad Chalke is a tranquil idyll in the Chase. I think it’s a place where people voluntarily buy watercress, which tells you everything you need to know about the locals’ mental state.

Still, since humans insist on romanticising every pebble they stand on, let me guide you through this village’s “wonders.” Bring a stiff drink. Or several.

Notable for: being a literary and cultural hotspot

Sir Cecil Beaton lived at Reddish House for decades. When not photographing royalty or designing sets and costumes he generally wafted around Broad Chalke as if he owned the place. He’s buried at All Saints’, probably still turning up a nose at the headstones.

Then there’s Sir Terry Pratchett, who wrote internationally beloved fiction while living in a parish where the greatest local drama is someone putting the bins out early. Somehow, instead of succumbing to terminal boredom like the rest of us, he used the place as inspiration for some of his finest work.

You may have heard of the Tiffany Aching books, a sub-series of the Discworld novels featuring the eponymous young witch, the Nac Mac Feegle (a pint-sized, rowdy clan of blue-faced, kilt-wearing, fierce fairy folk with a penchant for whisky and mischief), and more sheep than strictly necessary.

The “Chalk” where Tiffany lives? The rolling, ancient downland landscape? The windswept ridges? Yes, that’s Broad Chalke and its surroundings dressed up in magical clothing. The Feegles themselves would feel right at home here, shouting at the sheep and stealing the occasional pie.

Pratchett didn’t just admire the chalk downs. He got the subtle danger, the old magic lurking under the soil, the sheer ancientness of the land. While everyone else saw rolling hills, he saw a story. Meanwhile, I see yet another place destined to leak into my shoes when it rains.

Pratchett became one of the locals, opening the community-run village shop, popping into the pub, generally acting as though he wasn’t an international icon with legions of fans.

That’s Broad Chalke for you. It has a habit of lulling astonishingly talented people into staying put. It’s practically supernatural. I suspect witchcraft.

Toyah Willcox and Robert Fripp also hid here for a while, proving that even rock icons occasionally need to retreat somewhere with no nightlife whatsoever.

No, it's just your imagination, temporarily getting confused with your record collection.

Other literary figures include John Aubrey (no, not any ringing bells here), a 17th-century writer and gossip-collector who, it seems, lived here and filled his notebooks with observations, several of which were even about other people.

Then there's Tom Holland & James Holland, two historians raised in this rural crucible of inspiration and in some way responsible for an annual history festival in the parish (see below).

Not forgetting Maurice Henry Hewlett (who? me neither; I've not forgotten him, I never heard of him), a novelist, poet, and professional under-appreciated writer, who lived here long before it became fashionable.

Also featuring

The Chalke History Festival

Once a year, Broad Chalke explodes in a frenzy of historians, tanks, re-enactors, and people dressed as long-dead individuals who, let’s be honest, would probably hate them. It’s quite something to behold: thousands flocking to a field to watch someone explain medieval cookery and how to handle a poleaxe. Not usually at the same time. Recent speakers include Michael Palin, Ian Hislop, Helen H. Carr, Helen Castor, Michael Livingston, Peter Frankopan, Al Murray, and Max Hastings. It's history as entertainment rather than text books. A festival proving that the past is far more fun when no one’s fretting about grades. There's even fairground rides. It's Glastonbury for people who have a preferred era of chain mail.

Ancient origins

Records of the parish go back to Saxon times, including a 955 charter from King Eadwig gifting the land to nuns, who presumably drew the short straw.

And of course people lived here before records began; just look at all the various lumps and bumps and ridges and ditches that litter the place. Long barrows, round barrows, bowl barrows… practically every shape of prehistoric burial mound except, mercifully, the novelty barrow (Inflatable? Glow-in-the-dark? Musical? Pop-up? The mind boggles).

Archaeologists adore these things because they represent “deep time,” “ritual landscapes,” and “the enduring mark of Neolithic peoples.” Personally, I think the Neolithic peoples just had an overactive work ethic and far too much free time. There are easier ways to bury a body, but no, let’s move half a hillside and make a commemorative lump. Humans have always been exhausting.

Then there’s the Roman road, or what’s left of it. It's over towards the border with Hampshire (in fact forms part of the boundary). Much is ploughed out but there remain some bits where you can still tread in the footsteps of the empire, and imagine legionaries muttering about potholes. Proof they were just like us.

Also over towards the border with Hampshire there's one of the many Grim’s Ditches that are scattered across the Chase and beyond. Territorial marker? Defensive line? Giant prehistoric landscaping error? Personally, I think it was a very early attempt at keeping the "neighbours" out, which failed, because the neighbours had legs. We don’t know what lived over there, but maybe it was big, hairy, and no thank you. If you linger there at dusk and the wind blows just so, you might convince yourself you hear something moving.

In any case, if you enjoy walking among the remnants of civilisations that didn’t make it, barrows collapsing gracefully, roads dissolving into the fields, ditches wandering toward eternity, Broad Chalke is your paradise.

If not, well… at least the pub’s nice.

The Queen's Head. A pub, not some kind of grisly trophy. This place has charm, soul, and all the right trappings of a village inn. If you’re the kind of person who likes sitting by a fire with a pint, have a meal that's pub classic but with menu options that also include something a bit more refined, The Queen’s Head is a top bet. It’s perfectly content being a warm, slightly rustic, highly likeable country retreat. And that’s good enough even for me.

Chalk streams and watercress

The River Ebble flows through the village, a pristine chalk stream feeding watercress beds dating to the 1880s. Broad Chalke is immensely proud of this, as if cultivating soggy leaves were the pinnacle of civilisation. They even sell it with an honesty box; a system that relies on trust, guilt, and the knowledge that everyone knows where you live.

All Saints' church

It's is a large one, by Chase standards. Inside you can find part of a 9th-century preaching cross, proof that even back then people here needed something to look at while waiting for Sunday to end. And there's a bell in the tower that's older than most countries (1347) but still works, unlike many modern appliances after a couple of years.

The Village Stores

The shop opened in the meeting area of the URC chapel in June 2013. There is a coffee shop in the chapel worship area and a community office on the balcony. Efficient, in a disturbingly British way.

Conclusion

Broad Chalke. A place so stuffed with history, eccentricity, literary brilliance, and charming nonsense that it almost distracts from the crushing tedium of existence.

Here is Hubert’s suggested Itinerary for Broad Chalke. Crafted with all the enthusiasm of a man who has seen far too many villages.

Arrive

Roll into Broad Chalke with cautious optimism. Immediately lower your expectations. You’ll thank me later.

Stand outside Reddish House

You can’t go in, of course. It’s private property and the current residents may not appreciate your attempt. But do admire the gates. They're very gate-like. Not at all like the iron gates of fate, where the seeds of time were sown. They do look iron, though. So maybe.

Visit the shop and cafe in the former United Reformed Church

Buy something you don’t need. Have tea and cake.

Follow the River Ebble upstream

Ah yes, the chalk stream. Clear, cold, pure. Perfect for growing watercress. If the honesty box is out, buy a bundle. Pay correctly. You’re being watched. Experience the sudden, chilling fear that someone saw you put in the wrong money and is writing your name on a list.

Head for the hills

So go wander the downs around the village, stride across the long ridges, gaze upon the lark-haunted fields, and the valley folding gently beneath you. Imagine Tiffany Aching walking there too. Imagine the Feegles somewhere nearby, shouting, drinking, or committing petty larceny with menaces. And complain about the incline.

And if you hear faint singing drifting across the downs, don’t worry. It’s probably Toyah Willcox fans who don't realise she moved away many years ago. It's a mystery, oh it's a mystery. And it really is. Why are they singing in a field?

Head for the boundary with Hampshire

Find the old road and walk in the footsteps of Romans. Try not to trip over Grim's Ditch on the way. If you hear footsteps behind you, don’t panic. It’s probably a sheep. But if you hear Latin? Run.

Visit the festival field

Look at the empty field where the History Festival briefly rages with re-enactors, tanks, historians, a helter-skelter, and people who own too many fountain pens. Try to picture all that activity. Fail. It’s just a field. Make a note to come back in June when the action happens. Or not.

Visit the pub.

Ah yes, the Queen's Head. Plant yourself by the fire with a pint, watch the locals debate the correct way to reverse a tractor uphill, and consider it the closest thing Broad Chalke offers to high entertainment.

Leave

Walk, drive, or flee from Broad Chalke with a vague sense that you have learned something, though you’re not sure what. Maybe it's never to play hide and seek with the ghosts of dawn. Or to stop listening to prog rock. Or to start.

NEXT WEEK: BURCOMBE

Prepare to be utterly underwhelmed.

Well, the pub’s vanished again, Broad Chalke’s pretending nothing odd ever happens there, and we’re left holding a beermat that smells of pipe smoke. Typical week in the Chase. Next time, we leave the inns-that-aren’t and follow the beasts who inhabit (or haunt) the Chase. There may be an owl. Please act surprised.

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.