Invite, entice or deceive

30 October 2025

Welcome to issue 12 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!

we meet again

The year leans toward its darker edge. The clocks have gone back, and somewhere far across the Chase, there's the scent of something older than the weather.

Halloween approaches, when the walls between worlds grow thin enough to see through. Take a look, as members of the Forgotten Footpath Society walk a perilous path. The owls fly low tonight.

The Dream of the Blue Flowers: Isla Cobb Reflects

Last week you'll have seen the story of Eva, the forester’s daughter who saved a strange bird and unknowingly made a gate between waking and dreaming, losing a few of the locals in the process. Isla Cobb, local folklorist, put together the tale from various versions she's found in her research.

Below, Isla shares her thoughts on the story’s background, its variations, and what she believes lies beneath its surface.

Isla Cobb on “The Dream of blue flowers”

When I first heard this story, told to me by an old gamekeeper’s wife near Pentridge, it was half as long and twice as strange. I’ve heard versions of the story told in Ashmore, Tollard Royal, and Deanland near Sixpenny Handley, and one storyteller swore her grandmother had once found a single blue petal pressed into the earth next to a well.

There are many versions of it across the Chase, though all agree on a few things: the forester’s daughter living alone, the strange bird, and the blue flowers that bloom where dreams spill into the waking world through a gate she made. In some, Eva never returns to the Hollow and simply fades away; in others, the flowers spread until the whole Chase glows blue beneath the moon.

The version I presented last week is my own weaving together of the fragments I’ve found. I've discarded some elements, but kept most. You’ll notice I never explain what happened to Eva’s parents, just that they "disappeared". Some versions say they were drawn into the Dreaming world long before her, that a door had always existed in the Hollow. I prefer to leave that question open. Folklore thrives on gaps; the things not said are often what make a story work best, letting imagination fill in.

In most tellings, Eva doesn’t know why she buried the petal, and that unknowing is the heart of it. Folklore so often turns on such moments: someone acts without thought or understanding, an impulse perhaps following an instinct.

Eva’s gift for growing things matters here. Her first impulse is not to keep it as a treasure or cast it aside, but to bury it. Some versions of the tale say it wasn’t a petal at all but a seed, which makes more sense. But I’ve always preferred the petal. In older traditions, to bury a piece of the otherworld was a way to keep its power quiet and contained. In this case, perhaps Eva's own power as a grower and nurturer of plants made an unexpected connection that opened the gate.

So a petal makes better folklore than a seed. It's less obvious and linear, more subtle and unexpected: a gate planted where none was meant to grow.

But the wording hints that Eva’s act isn’t her own at all. The dream-world itself, or the bird that carries its light, may have guided her hand, intending from the beginning to create a doorway.

In older tales, the other worlds rarely force their way in. More commonly they invite, entice, or deceive. A human touch is needed to cross the threshold. So the dream-world might have chosen Eva precisely because her hands understand how to heal and bring things to life. By freeing and nursing the bird, Eva takes the bait and partially opens the way; then she buries the petal, and throws it wide.

Why would the dream-world wish to open a gate? Myths across Europe speak of places that fade when mortals stop believing, of spirits that can survive only if someone brings their trace into the waking world. So Eva provides a way for the dream to keep itself alive.

There’s another, darker possibility too. In some tellings, the realm of dream is restless, hungry. It wants to grow, to spread, until all becomes dream. There is a version of this tale where the flowers spread until the whole Chase glows blue beneath the moon, and the gate is never closed.

If the bird is an agent of the dream realm, then why does it tell Eva how to close the gate? In folklore, messengers from the otherworld are rarely consistent. They are bound by a strange kind of fairness and must tell the truth if asked in the right way. Perhaps the bird is also influenced by her kindness when it finds itself snared.

Or perhaps some of the powers that dwells in the dream world wish to restore the balance and stop the intrusion of the waking into their world.

So is the bird trickster, teacher, something we have no name for, or all of these at once? That uncertainty feels faithful to the Chase, a place where the ordinary world often brushes against the uncanny, where not every mystery is meant to be solved.

It’s a tale with very old roots. There are echoes of older European dream-lore here: the idea of flowers that bloom between worlds, of the peril of bringing dream-things into waking life. The bird is a liminal creature, not fairy, not spirit, perhaps something older and more elemental. I’ve seen similar motifs in tales across Dorset and the New Forest: beings who exist between realms who offer beauty at a price. The colouring is especially interesting; blue and gold together often signal the threshold between mortal and otherworldly in English folklore.

I think the story is a warning, but not a moralistic one. It’s more like the Chase itself whispering: there are places best left alone, don't dig too deep.

Every version of the Dream Hollow story ends with the same unease, that the gate remains, somewhere in the woods, and sometimes opens from the other side (or even that it is never closed at all). We don't control it, because whatever is on the other side holds the greater power. It’s an unsettling thought and a reminder of how limited we are in our knowledge and understanding of the world.

Into the Shadows: The Forgotten Footpath Society walks the Wraith’s Way

In the September edition of "The Wayfarer's Whisper", the Forgotten Footpath Society's monthly bulletin for members, the following invitation appeared:

Calling All Brave Wanderers: The Wraith’s Way Awaits

This October, under the light of the full Hunter's Moon, the Forgotten Footpath Society embarks on a most daring quest: to walk the elusive Wraith’s Way, a spectral path said to vanish the moment you set foot on it. Walking it is only possible during a Hunter's Moon, so don't miss out!

Will you dare follow a trail rumoured to be haunted by shadowy guardians? Can you navigate the forest where time bends and unseen footsteps echo close behind? And most importantly, will you be among the few to return with stories to tell?

Join Mad Geoff and Mapcase Maggie for an unforgettable night expedition. Tread very carefully, you will walk it only once. The Wraith’s Way gives no second chances.

Date: 7th October 2025
​Meeting Point: The sentinel oaks Grovely Wood, 21:30 sharp
​Bring: Warm clothes, candle/lantern, a notebook and pen/pencil, a steady heart; and a brass whistle (if you have one) for luck.
​RSVP: Contact Geoff or Maggie to sign up by 6th October. The path is waiting… but only for the bold.

The invitation was accompanied by a set of rules as follows:

Rules of the Walk: The Wraith’s Way Expedition

1. Do not turn back or attempt to retrace your steps. Doing so risks becoming lost to the void.
2. Stick to the path: Follow the faint glow and natural markers exactly. Straying even a few feet can lead to disorientation or worse.
3. Silent respect: Keep voices low and movements deliberate. The Wraith’s Way is said to be watched by unseen guardians.Disturbance may provoke their attention.
4. No technology: Leave GPS devices and phones behind or switched off. They will not work, and may attract unwanted attention.
5. Carry a candle or lantern for guidance, and a notebook and pen or pencil for recording your observations.
6. Begin and end the walk within moonlit hours. The path fades with dawn. Be sure to exit before first light.
7. Leave no litter or signs of passage. Leaving breadcrumb trails, or markings or scratches on trees, is dangerous. Don't ask why, just don't do it.
8. Report all encounters: Document any unusual sights, sounds, or sensations and provide your notes/sketches for the Society’s archive on your return. Your experience is vital to understanding this elusive path.

So what do we know about the wraith's way?

According to local legend, the Wraith's Way is a spectral trail that appears only under light of a Hunter's Moon, and is a path that a person can walk only once. Prior to this FFS expedition, there's only one written account, from Victorian times, unearthed by Mad Geoff, and the inspiration for his expedition (see later for a transcript).

A faded 19th-century map, discovered in the FFS archives, marks the start (and end) of the Wraith’s Way in Grovely Wood with a symbol resembling a ghostly lantern, labelled “Illusive Passage – Walk Only Once”.

Why the FFS wants to walk it

Mad Geoff is fascinated by the Wraith’s Way’s reputation as a “once-in-a-lifetime” path, eager to test his and the Society’s resolve. Mapcase Maggie is determined to record as much as possible, hoping her expertise might finally capture the path’s fleeting essence.

I asked Elspeth Thorne, the FFS President, whether she would be willing to provide a report of the walk for Tales from theChase. Here's her account below.

Expedition Journal: Els’s Account of the Wraith’s Way

By Elspeth Thorne, FFS President

The night air was crisp, and seemed to sharpen every sound. The Hunter's Moon hung low and pale above as we assembled at the sentinel oaks. Only four of us. Me, feeling apprehensive. Geoff looking thoughtful, Maggie clutching her notebook and pens to her chest, and Cedric, the newest member of our society, quiet and watchful behind his perpetually fogged glasses. I think Geoff was disappointed at the low turnout, but he said nothing. After a brief safety talk, we all lit our lanterns, switched off our headtorches and phones, and the modern world slipped away. It felt like stepping out of time.

We stood in silence, looked at each other, then towards the gap between the oaks. Then Geoff nodded, and together we stepped forward. Passing between the oaks felt like nothing at all, the only sound the faint scrape of boots on leaf litter. But after a short distance, we came upon a tree that shouldn’t have been there: a single twisted oak, its trunk warped into a slow spiral, bark as dark as pitch in the inky shadows cast by the moon. A faint glow on the ground beyond it marked the start of the path.

"That tree has never been there before" muttered Geoff, and the lantern light wavered in a breeze that wasn't there.

“Look at the glow, it’s the path!” said Maggie, already opening her notebook, the pages catching the lamplight. “Passed between oaks, 21:32.” She paused, glancing up, then began to jot notes with quick, precise strokes. “Seventy paces from the sentinel pair to the twisted oak. Air temperature lower by at least three degrees. Faint phosphorescence along ground level, following a curved trajectory east-southeast.”

Cedric approached the path and crouched. “Could be mineral,” he murmured.

“Maybe, something reacting to the moonlight” Maggie replied, still writing. “But it’s moving. Look.”

The pale shimmer seemed to pulse faintly, its light ebbing and returning with the rhythm of breath. I stooped and touched the edge of it. The glow dulled for an instant beneath my fingertips. It felt cold and moving, flowing, like dipping your fingers into running water.

“Let’s keep a steady count,” Geoff said, lifting his lantern higher. “There's a clear path ahead, no branching. Maggie, take a note every hundred steps, and at obvious waypoints.”

She nodded, tucking the pencil behind her ear. “Seventy from oaks to marker tree, first waypoint logged. Reset from here.”

We moved forward then, Geoff and Maggie leading, Cedric behind me, our lights swaying, and the forest closed around us.

We were on the Wraith’s Way. I could see Geoff’s lantern swinging ahead, Maggie’s silhouette just behind him, and could hear Cedric’s steady tread behind me, careful but confident.

Then, little by little, the sounds thinned. It wasn’t sudden. It was as if the air began swallowing things, first our footsteps, then the rustle of our coats, the low murmur of Maggie counting steps under her breath. The faint glow beneath our feet grew brighter, whiter, and the lanterns ahead had become no more than dull embers in the mist. Then they disappeared.

“Hold up,” I called. No reply.

I turned, expecting to see Cedric just behind me. There was nothing. Literally nothing. No Cedric. No path. No trees. Not hidden by shadow, just a blackness so deep it seemed to devour the light of my lantern. I took a cautious step back. There was no sense of distance or boundary, only a total absence, an endless void in every direction.

I turned back , and found that the path had faded. Afraid it would disappear and that the void would consume me, I fought down the rising sense of panic and stepped forward, keeping my gaze fixed on the faint, wavering shimmer on the ground ahead. Each step felt heavier, as though the ground resisted me, urging me to stop, to turn back into that consuming dark. I followed the flicker of the path, alone, pursued by endless emptiness.

I don’t know how long I walked. My watch was useless, the hands either turning too fast or not at all. The silence seemed to get deeper than ever; yet beneath that silence, something began to stir.

At first, it was the softest sound, footsteps, light and measured, matching my own. At first I thought maybe it was Geoff and Maggie, I was catching them up, or maybe Cedric was still there, behind me. But the steps were not behind, not ahead. They were somewhere close, their rhythm overlapping mine by a heartbeat. I stopped. So did they. When I moved again, so did they, perfectly timed.

A trick of echo, I told myself. Caused by the shape of the terrain, the spacing of the trees. But there was no echo here. The path absorbed the sound of my own steps.

Then came the whispers.

They were so faint that I couldn’t tell if they were real or imagined. They were like a suggestion of words spoken in some language I didn't know. They drifted from behind me, or beside me to one side then the other, rising and falling, the edge of meaning always just out of reach. I turned my lantern toward the sound, but the light scattered against nothing. The void behind me was still there, black and absolute, keeping pace with me, pursuing me. The whispers faded, but not away; they simply hid in the dark and the silence, waiting.

Ahead, the trees began to thin. The ground sloped gently downward, and the glow of the path grew brighter. I sensed movement then, and saw a shape, pale and human, standing still among the trunks.

“Geoff?” My voice came out small. "Maggie?"

The figure didn’t answer. It seemed to lean slightly forward, the lantern light glancing off what might have been a face, though it held no features I could fix upon. It raised a hand, not in warning but in greeting. And then, as I blinked, it was gone.

The next few steps carried me into a clearing. The light there was diffused by a faint mist, as if the air itself glowed. At its centre lay a pool so still it looked like polished glass. I knelt beside it, lantern low, and saw my reflection pin sharp on the surface.

Then there was a ripple, though I saw nothing touch the water. When the surface stilled again and I saw Geoff and Maggie moving through a narrow corridor of trees, lanterns held high; and then Cedric standing at the edge of darkness, his face turned toward something unseen; and then myself, alone, my eyes closed, standing where I was now, but older, my face hollowed, hair streaked with frost, my lantern dimmed as if about to fail.

I blinked, and the pool was just water once more, only my face staring back, pale and uncertain. A shiver rippled through the water, and for a moment I thought I saw another reflection beside mine, a faint suggestion of the pale figure, standing over my shoulder. When I turned, nothing was there.

In one direction the path waited, faint and patient, leading on. In the other, the void waited just outside the clearing, as if it would not approach the pool.

I left the clearing behind. The glow of the path had dimmed to a thin, silvery thread, easy to lose if I looked away too long. Aware of the void behind, I tried not to panic, eyes fixed on the thread, willing it to stay with me.

Then something moved ahead.

It wasn’t like the pale figure I’d seen before. This one was darker, less distinct. It swayed as if half made of smoke or mist. Suddenly it spoke with a sound like a vibration, low and resonant, that seemed to have some meaning that I couldn't know. My lantern guttered, the flame almost going out. The figure tilted its head, and for an instant, I saw its eyes, two points of faint, cold light, like reflections off deep water.

Then it stepped backward and was gone.

The silence that followed felt absolute. My breath sounded too loud. I quickened my pace, hurried along the silver thread, pursued by the void. At last the trees began to seem familiar, their branches stretching overhead seemed more real, more like the Chase. The glow beneath my feet faded to nothing, there was just leaf litter and ordinary woodland smells and sounds. I was through, passing between the sentinel oaks once more. The night looked unchanged, as though no time had passed at all. Geoff, Maggie, and Cedric were already there, standing just beyond the trees. Their lanterns burned steady. Geoff was speaking, mid-sentence, his tone casual.

“There you are,” he said, glancing up. “Where did you get to?”

I didn’t answer right away. Maggie smiled faintly and closed her notebook. Cedric gave me a nod, though his expression was oddly distant, his eyes unreadable behind the fogged lenses of his glasses. How and when had he passed me?

When I turned to look back, the wood was utterly still. The twisted oak was gone, and with it the void.

We left the forest without speaking, as the first light of dawn washed the horizon with muted colour.

editor's note

Below is a transcript of the note Geoff found that inspired his desire to attempt the Wraith's Way. There was also a map that helped him to pinpoint the start point at the sentinel oaks in Grovely Wood, not reproduced here.

From the Journal of Elias Callow, Fellow of the Forgotten Footpath Society

October the 14th, 1887 — Under the Full Hunter’s Moon

This night we endeavoured to trace the reputed Wraith’s Way, that phantom thoroughfare spoken of in hushed company and said to vanish beneath one’s very tread. The air was curiously still in the trees silvered by moonlight, and yet I perceived a tremor beneath the soil, as if the earth itself drew breath.

The ground emitted a faint luminescence, enough to mark the next several footfalls, though nothing behind me remained. It was as though the world unmade itself with each pace, compelling one forward by necessity rather than courage. Miss Winton swore she heard footfalls other than our own, though none of us beheld another soul.

Presently, time lost all measure. Trees seemed both near and immeasurably distant. My companions’ voices faded, absorbed by the hush of the place, until I was alone amidst whispering that spoke my name in tones not wholly human.

A clearing presented itself. At its centre lay a still pool, reflecting not the heavens above but a visage aged and wearied, bearing my features yet older by decades. The reflection’s lips moved, forming words I could not discern. When I reached towards it, the image broke. I walked on and the wood resumed its ordinary guise and I found myself upon familiar ground, though no path led back.

I have since resolved never again to attempt that spectral track.

A parish by parish tour of the Chase

This week, the first of the Hampshire Chase parishes, Breamore. Only a part of it though, it's on the edge and the Chase boundary splits it in half.

breamore (part of)

Breamore has about 290 residents who live in a scatter of houses, mainly spread out along the main Salisbury/Bournemouth road (A338), around the Mill, the edge of the Marsh, Upper Street, and the hamlet of Outwick.​​​​‌ ‍There are also numerous farms and individual dwellings scattered throughout the parish.​​​​‌ ‍ ​‍​‍‌‍ ‌ ​‍‌‍‍‌‌‍‌ ‌‍‍‌‌‍ ‍​‍​‍​ ‍‍​‍​‍‌ ​ ‌‍​‌‌‍ ‍‌‍‍‌‌ ‌​‌ ‍‌​‍ ‍‌‍‍‌‌‍ ​‍​‍​‍ ​​‍​‍‌‍‍​‌ ​‍‌‍‌‌‌‍‌‍​‍​‍​ ‍‍​‍​‍‌‍‍​‌ ‌​‌ ‌​‌ ​​​ ‍‍​‍ ​‍ ‌‍ ​‌‍ ‌‍​ ‌‍​‌‌‍ ​‌‍‍​‌‍ ‌ ​ ‌ ‌​​ ‍‍​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​‍ ‌‍‍‌‌‍ ‍‌ ‌​‌‍‌‌‌‍ ‍‌ ‌​​‍ ‌‍‌‌‌‍‌​‌‍‍‌‌ ‌​​‍ ‌‍ ‌‌‍ ‌‍‌​‌‍‌‌​ ‌‌ ​​‌ ​‍‌‍‌‌‌ ​ ‌‍‌‌‌‍ ‍‌ ‌​‌‍​‌‌ ‌​‌‍‍‌‌‍ ‌‍ ‍​ ‍ ‌‍‍‌‌‍‌​​ ‌‌ ‌‍‌‍‍‌‌‍ ​‌‍ ​‌‍​‌‌‍‌ ‌‍‌‌​ ‍ ‌ ‌​‌ ‍‌‌ ​​‌‍‌‌​ ‌‌ ‌‍‌‍‍‌‌‍ ​‌‍ ​‌‍​‌‌‍‌ ‌‍‌‌​ ‍ ‌ ​​‌‍​‌‌ ‌​‌‍‍​​ ‌‌‍‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍​‌‌ ‌​‌ ‌‌‌ ​‍‌‍‌‌‌ ​ ​‍‌‌​ ‌‌‌​​‍‌‌ ‌‍‍ ‌‍‌‌‌ ‍‌​‍‌‌​ ​ ‌​‌​​‍‌‌​ ​ ‌​‌​​‍‌‌​ ​‍​ ​‍​ ‌​​ ‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍​‌‌‍​‌‌‍​‌​ ​ ​ ​‍‌‍​‌‌‍‌​‌‍‌‌​ ​‌​‍‌‌​ ​‍​ ​‍​‍‌‌​ ‌‌‌​‌​​‍ ‍‌‍‌​‌‍‌‌‌ ​ ‌‍​ ‌ ​‍‌‍‍‌‌ ​​‌ ‌​‌‍‍‌‌‍ ‌‍ ‍​‍‌‌​ ‌‌‌​​‍‌‌ ‌‍‍ ‌‍‌‌‌ ‍‌​‍‌‌​ ​ ‌​‌​​‍‌‌​ ​ ‌​‌​​‍‌‌​ ​‍​ ​‍‌‍‌​‌‍‌‍‌‍​‍​ ‌‌‌‍‌‌‌‍​‍​ ​ ‌‍​‍​ ‌‌​ ​‍​ ‍​​ ​‌​‍‌‌​ ​‍​ ​‍​‍‌‌​ ‌‌‌​‌​​‍ ‍‌‍​ ‌‍‍​‌‍‍‌‌‍ ​‌‍‌​‌ ​‍‌‍‌‌‌‍ ‍​‍‌‌​ ‌‌‌​​‍‌‌ ‌‍‍ ‌‍‌‌‌ ‍‌​‍‌‌​ ​ ‌​‌​​‍‌‌​ ​ ‌​‌​​‍‌‌​ ​‍​ ​‍‌‍​ ​ ​ ​ ​‍‌‍‌‌​ ‍‌​ ‌‍​ ​ ​ ​‌​ ‌‍​ ​​​ ‍​​ ​​​‍‌‌​ ​‍​ ​‍​‍‌‌​ ‌‌‌​‌​​‍ ‍‌ ‌​‌‍‌‌‌ ‍​‌ ‌​​ ‌‍​‍‌‍​‌‌ ​ ‌‍‌‌‌‌‌‌‌ ​‍‌‍ ​​ ‌‌‍‍​‌ ‌​‌ ‌​‌ ​​​‍‌‌​ ​ ‌​​‌​‍‌‌​ ​‍‌​‌‍​‍‌‌​ ​‍‌​‌‍‌‍ ​‌‍ ‌‍​ ‌The map below shows the area of the parish that's in the Chase, overlaid with a blue tone.

The Chase stretches up onto Breamore Down, where bronze age remains and a Mizmaze can be found. Notable sites include the “Giant’s Grave” long barrow and several round barrows.​​​​‌ ‍One of many examples of "Grim's Ditch" in the Chase marks the northeastern boundary.​​​​‌ ‍

Hubert's guide is below. His tour sticks to the Chase only, not the parts of the parish outside the boundary. All views expressed are Hubert's own, and not necessarily shared by Tales from the Chase.

BREAMORE (PART OF)

Breamore (pronounced however you feel like) is a tiny village that’s been minding its own business since roughly the Dark Ages. Most of its houses have had the good sense to sit outside the Cranborne Chase boundary, but the really interesting bits, the ancient, the crumbling, the faintly haunted, lie firmly within it.

It’s one of those places people say is “unchanged for centuries,” and in this case this could be an accurate assessment. There's a church so old it’s technically an archaeological site.

Notable for: St Mary’s Church

Built around 980 AD, and still in a surprisingly vertical condition.

A church that predates the English language’s ability to adequately express a complaint about draughts. It’s a tranquil space perfect for contemplation, or hypothermia. If you sneeze, do so reverently.

Also featuring

Breamore House, a grand Elizabethan mansion owned by the Hulse family. Not currently open to the public (wait until Easter), but inside there is apparently a collection of ancestral portraits where people look like they’re trying not to sneeze whilst being slowly strangled by their ruffs. Also furniture so old it probably remembers when sitting down was invented.

Museum of rural life, which is filled with old agricultural tools, presumably so you can appreciate just how miserable farming was before tractors. See how your great-grandfather once toiled for 14 hours a day to produce one slightly dented bucketfull of turnips.

The Mizmaze, an ancient turf maze hiding amongst equally ancient yews up a hill beyond Breamore Wood, offering a destination to those willing to trudge up in drizzle. No one knows its purpose: penitence? Meditation? Early lawn art? It’s “mystical,” apparently. So is watching the fog roll over the downs, and wondering if the cafe is still open.

Whatever it's origins, one of the Chase's premier venues for walking in circles while pretending it’s profound now lies fenced off for it's own protection; look but don't trudge.

They say ghostly monks still wander the woods near the Mizmaze, gliding silently through the trees. Or they could be spirits of the damned. Or dog walkers in robes.

The Pantry Barn Café stands ready to provide caffeine, cakes, brunch, lunch. The staff are delightful, the coffee (and tea) decent, the cakes tasty, and the décor suspiciously retro-interesting.

The Giant’s Grave where, as the name suggests, legend says a giant is buried. It’s a scenic spot; a long barrow surrounded by views of the Chase and the Avon Valley. Great for atmospheric brooding or pretending you’re in a BBC documentary.

Suggested itinerary

Arrive. Park by the Museum and the Pantry Barn Café. Lace up your boots, sigh, and set off, mainly to justify the drive.

Head for St Mary’s Church Peer at the 10th-century stonework and ponder how people managed to construct something so solid while believing the world was flat.

Breamore House

From the church, wander past Breamore House. Admire the gables, the chimneys, and the sense that you will never, ever be invited inside.

The Mizmaze

Follow the signposted footpath (and your creeping sense of futility) through the woods, out the other side, and up to the Mizmaze, hidden among the yew trees.

The Giant’s Grave

Head towards the long barrow known as the Giant’s Grave. Consider how small giants must have been in the olden days. Head back to the Mizmaze, then back whence you came.

The Pantry Barn Café

By this point you’ve earned sustenance. The Pantry Barn awaits: warm coffee, decent cake, and the smug satisfaction of surviving the Mizmaze. Order something, consume it. Wonder why the TV only shows silent movies.

LEAVE

Return to your car, muddier, wiser, and slightly older. As you drive away, Breamore fades behind you. You’ve walked through over a thousand years of English history.
You’ve seen ghosts, mud, and a fine selection of cakes and pastries. And you’ve survived.

NEXT WEEK: BREWHAM

Prepare to be utterly underwhelmed.

​

So the path closes behind us, for now. But there are always other tracks, older ways waiting to be found. We’ll be back to follow them. Until then, watch the skies, and when the frost begins to whiten the hedgerows, make sure you've got wooly socks.

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.