Lovely walk, bit of a wall, might encounter a sovereign of the twilight realm, bring snacks

5 March 2026

Welcome to issue 28 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

This week in the Chase

A slight change of plan this week, which regular readers will know is either a sign of editorial spontaneity, mild chaos, or Spring.

Speaking of springs, the spring at Tales from the Chase cottage has dried up, our temporary lake has disappeared, and sales of our bottled-at-source water have ceased for the time being.

Hubert's in Coombe Bissett, a parish containing two villages, a stone that cannot decide what it is, and the former home of Tim Smith, a man once described by someone as a deranged genius, who made music that defied genre.

But before that, some correspondence inspired by last week's issue.

Off we go...

Our recent piece on Compton Chamberlayne, including a typically odd outing in the area by a small band of FFS walkers, has stirred things up and resulted in some letters to the editor. We felt they merited proper airing, so you’ll find them below.

This does mean that our scheduled “Beasts of the Chase” instalment, with Rufus Penn primed to recount an unusual tale of a local creature, has been deferred until next week.

To those awaiting fur, paws, or mysterious calls in the night: patience. Rufus (and the relevant beast) will return shortly.

Dear Rob,

I was interested to read Julian Dark’s account of the Compton Chamberlayne excursion in much the same way one is “interested” to notice smoke curling from beneath the kitchen door; first with curiosity, then increasingly alarmed.

Let me begin with what I can only describe as the prose. Mr Dark tells us that the ivy "brushed him lightly as if checking his shape." I have walked through hanging ivy. It brushes against you because it is ivy, and because the gap you are squeezing through is too small to avoid the brushing. You do not require a supernatural explanation for vegetation behaving as vegetation.

We are then asked to accept that the sky displayed stars in broad daylight, that a hedge was hung with keys chiming "delicately" (which I note nobody thought to examine more closely or, God forbid, take one), and that a notebook filled itself with a map bearing such names as "Ridge of the Sleeping Beasts". This last sounds less like genuine otherworldly cartography and more like something a twelve-year-old invents for a school project.

Then there is the antlered mossy figure, prone to the sort of oracular pronouncement one finds in greeting cards marketed to people who own too many crystals. "Curiosity is a responsibility." I'm sure it is. One might also observe that not entering holes in walls that don't appear on any map is also a responsibility, and rather one that Julian and his companions seem to have discharged rather carelessly.

As you will know from previous correspondence, I a man who finds it entirely plausible that there are places and things of which we understand almost nothing, and that marching into them with a notebook and a mint imperial is not, in fact, a sensible response. The figure itself said it plainly enough, even if it required rather more words than strictly necessary: some doors, once opened, do not easily close. Did our intrepid trio hear this? They did. Did they nod thoughtfully and perhaps reflect on the weight of that warning? I doubt it.

Derek lost a boot. He doesn't know how. He lost it in an unmappable location after meeting a creature made of antlers, moss, and moths, and his response upon returning to the known world was apparently to hop, partially shod, back to the car. I find Derek's equanimity either deeply impressive or evidence of a concussion that should perhaps have been investigated.

I note also that Mr Dark returned a fortnight later with another group. Without, it appears, telling them what had previously occurred. I would very much like to know what he said to these people. "Lovely walk, bit of a wall, might encounter a sovereign of the twilight realm, bring snacks."

The Society's mission should not include poking about in holes in walls that the Ordnance Survey has had the good sense to omit, mainly because they are not usually present Nor should it include chatting to mysterious entities of indeterminate identity. There is a fine line between curiosity and recklessness, and I regret to say the FFS continues to trample it. The FFS is in danger of becoming a cautionary tale rather than a walking society.

Yours, with diminishing patience,

I showed Hubert's missive to Elspeth Thorne, the FFS President. Here's what she had to say, addressing her reply to Hubert directly.

Hubert,

It is always a pleasure to read your contributions to Rob's newsletter. You write with such vigour. Such consistency. You would have made a formidable planning inspector.

I recall our first encounter in 1994, when Margaret Felce came back from Summerslade Down speaking in what turned out to be perfectly grammatical Old Norse for six hours. I recall you expounding eloquently about responsibility and meddling, about boundaries best left unprodded, and the thin line between curiosity and trespass. Nothing changes.

However, I have some sympathy with the sentiment, if not the expression, of your letter to Rob. It is true that Julian's group entered without preparation, without the customary observances, and without informing anyone of their route. This is a point I have raised with Julian directly, and he has the grace to look somewhat sheepish about it. The three-day discrepancy alone should have triggered our standard missing-persons notification procedure, and it did not, because nobody knew they had gone. This is a fair criticism and I accept it.

But to suggest we should not go at all? That we should walk up to a door in the world and turn away from it because it makes Hubert anxious? I think not.

The antlered figure itself, and I note that you accept its existence readily enough while simultaneously treating its words as fortune-cookie vapidity, said that curiosity has a kind of authority. I believe this is true. I believe it is why the FFS has always attracted the people it attracts: curious, stubborn, awkward, independently-minded individuals who cannot leave a thing alone.

We received Julian's account in the spirit in which it is offered: as an honest record, faithfully reconstructed under difficult circumstances, of a genuine encounter with something that does not map neatly onto ordinary experience. The archive is richer for it. The Society's understanding is, I believe, advanced by it.

If the world presents a window, Hubert, it seems discourteous not to look through it.

With warmth, admiration, and the faintest exasperation,

Elspeth Thorne

Mad Geoff also chipped in with this:

YES.

That is all I will say to Julian's account. YES. Finally. FINALLY someone else. I have been saying this for ELEVEN YEARS.

The keys on the hedge. The KEYS. Julian walks past a hedge hung with keys and makes one observation about them and moves on. Julian. My friend. Those keys are significant beyond your imagining and I have a folder. I have SEVERAL folders.

The pond showing a different landscape. The reflections. The line of people walking single file. I know who those people are. I am not going to say in the newsletter because last time I said certain things in public, Elspeth asked me not to come to the monthly FFS meetings for a while, which I respected, but the point stands and is documented.

Now, the mothy bloke with the antlers and mossy cloak.

I have met him, or similar. Not at Compton Chamberlayne, mine was near Sixpenny Handley, but it is the same figure or the same type of figure or the same idea of a figure wearing different moths, I haven't fully worked that out yet but I'm close. It also said things to me. It said rather more to me than it said to Julian's group, possibly because I asked follow-up questions, and I have those written down, and I have mapped the bell-sound locations across the Chase going back to 2009 when I first started keeping records.

We should go back. I volunteer. I have equipment now. I have learned from previous visits. The time before last I was only gone for four days and I came back with most of my things and my notes substantially intact, and I consider that a significant improvement on earlier excursions, as does my therapist. I have worked out a method for the notes which I won't detail here for reasons of space but it has proven robust.

I would also say, regarding Derek's boot: the moth is important. The moth is very important. Derek needs to be careful about open flames, not because of danger, just as a precaution, and if he sees a pale moth indoors he should follow it calmly, and note the direction. I have written to Derek privately about this, he hasn't responded yet and he always seems to be leaving the pub just as I arrive, but one day we'll talk.

Also, it is not Old Norse. It was never Old Norse. Margaret Felce and I have discussed this at length and we are in agreement. I cannot say more here.

Hello to whoever else reads this newsletter that I think reads this newsletter. You know who you are. So do I. Cheers.

Geoff

And finally a letter not related at all to the FFS.

It's a reminiscence of a former Chase dweller sparked by reading Hubert's guide to Compton Chamberlayne (present world version).

Dear Rob,

Reading Hubert’s recent guide to Compton Chamberlayne stirred a memory I feel proud to share.

In the early 1980s, while living in Fovant and turning out for Fovant Cricket Club, I achieved what remains the highlight of my cricketing career: my only six.

It occurred at Compton Chamberlayne.

Batting mid-order, I took a hopeful swing at a short delivery and set the ball on a looping trajectory toward a fielder stationed over by the boundary to my left. I fully expected to be caught out.

However, this expectation relied too much on the skill of my opponent. No catch was forthcoming. The fielder, dressed in naval bell-bottoms, executed a mis-timed dive for the catch, and the ball struck the unfortunate gentleman squarely on the head. The laws of physics and geometry ruled in my favour and ensured that it ricocheted over the boundary without touching the ground.

Six runs were signalled. I raised my bat in triumph, or perhaps apologetically; it was a purposely ambiguous gesture.

The fielder, to his credit, picked himself up and remained upright, though perhaps later, as he nursed the lump on his head, he reconsidered his choices. The Compton Chamberlayne team was well known for struggling to put out a team. I expect that you don't get much opportunity to practice fielding on a frigate, but sailors on shore leave are probably easy to persuade to make up the numbers.

And I imagine the bell bottoms may have hindered his dive, maybe too much drag and turbulence from excess flapping fabric. Bell bottoms…a generous cut and a loose fit that’s ideal for rolling up your trousers whilst swabbing the deck, or for removing at a moment’s notice if you need to abandon ship, but not great for running around a cricket field.

Thus was my place in local cricketing history secured, via a fortuitous cranial deflection, possibly assisted by the handicap of archaic naval issue clothing.

Yours sincerely,

​
​Paul H,

Formerly of Fovant, currently of Helotes, Texas.

A parish by parish tour of the Chase

coombe bissett

See Hubert’s guide to Coombe Bissett below. All opinions are his own, and may not be shared by Tales from the Chase, or anyone of sound mind.

COOMBE BISSETT

Ah, Coombe Bissett. A parish on the edge of, but thankfully mostly within, the Chase. We can ignore the bit that isn’t, it’s not important.

The A354 passes through. Away from the modern road, the oldness and strangeness of the Chase prevails. Stand in the lane at dusk and you may sense you are not entirely alone.

About 675 people call it home; at least the sort of 'people' who fill in forms and answer to their names.

Then there are the chalk spirits, of course. Every downland valley acquires them in time, pale, patient things that keep to the folds of the hills and prefer dusk to daylight.

Along the hedgerows, there are certain gates that are hard to find and that never creak, and there are footpaths that feel longer on the return journey. There are places where patches of mist settle with uncanny precision, even on fine days. Best just walk briskly by.

Notable for:

Two villages. Yes, we have not only the eponymous Coombe Bissett itself but also a hidden bonus village, Homington.

Homington once had it’s own parish, but was absorbed following a bloodless coup in 1934, and is now a kind of subsidiary duchy within Coombe Bissett’s chalky empire.

Also notable

Chalk downland rolls like a slightly rumpled duvet. The sky is unreasonably large. Sheep stare with the vague suspicion that they are extras in a period drama but are to dumb to be bothered by it.

Walk the high paths away from the settlement down in the valley and you will feel reflective. This is not optional.

Coombe Bissett Down Nature Reserve, where rare orchids bloom and butterflies perform aerial ballets as if auditioning for a show. Not at this time of year obviously. When I was up there all I saw was sheep, magpies and rooks.

The River Ebble moves through the valley and forms part of the Chase boundary east of the A354.

The river has been known to display unexpected depth and a disconcerting capacity for transformation. But rivers change. People misinterpret things. One moves on.

Hubert respects that.

A medieval packhorse bridge. Now disguised with modern accoutrements like wooden railings and a tarmac surface. Clearly built in a time when falling in was considered character-building but now modernised to prevent today’s visitors from acquiring resilience the hard way.

The plague stone. Or possibly just the stone. Its hollowed depressions were supposedly filled with vinegar so coins could be cleansed of contagion.

However, this particular specimen sits squarely in the middle of the village, not at the boundary where plague stones are typically placed. You know. To keep disease out. Not conveniently positioned where everyone already is.

Some suggest it is not a plague stone at all, but the base of a market cross. Or perhaps a preaching cross.

Or maybe it’s just an old lump of stone. Try not to catch anything from it.

A milestone that likely dates from the post-medieval era, possibly installed when the “new” bridge across the Ebble arrived in the 18th century. Though it may predate that, back when the packhorse bridge was still the principal crossing.

It reads: Sarum 5, Blandford 10.

No, not a high scoring game of football, just the number of miles to each place. For the benefit of those not in the know, (I’m under no illusions about the quality of education Rob’s readers might have acquired) Sarum was an old name for Salisbury.

Two churches, the doubling-up being a consequence of Homington’s annexation. The parish contains both St Michael & All Angels (Coombe Bissett) and St Mary's Church (Homington).

Both medieval. Both mucked about by “restoration”. Typical.

A working red telephone box. Installed shortly after WWII, the Homington red telephone box was the village’s first (and only) public phone.

It remains in use, largely because mobile signal in the valley sometimes behaves like a mythological creature: often spoken of, rarely seen.

If you listen carefully, you may hear faint echoes of voices long gone.

There’s another red box in Coombe Bissett, sans phone, and now a miniature library of children’s books.

The Fox and Goose is a busy village pub fronting the A354 where locals, passing trade, and lost tourists converge in a blur of pints, pies and small talk. The food is hearty, the ale is plentiful. There’s a large garden and a large menu.

Tim Smith who made the parish his home in his latter years (he died in 2020). Tim was the visionary force behind Cardiacs, a genre-defying band. Is it art rock, progressive rock, art punk, post-punk, jazz, psychedelia? Is it heavy metal? Are there elements of circus, baroque pop, medieval music, nursery rhymes and sea shanties? Yes to all. Tim also added anarchic vocals and hard-to-decipher lyrics. The music magazine Organ once commented that "one Cardiacs song contains more ideas than most other musicians' entire careers”. Tim was often hailed as a genius (albeit sometimes a "deranged" one).

Suggested itinerary

Recommended listening: Cardiacs, The Duck and Roger the Horse.

Arrive. Turn off the A354 before it takes you somewhere more interesting. You're here now. Commit.

Locate the plague stone. Or just the stone. Whatever, it’s the village's most enigmatic rock. A plague stone in the middle of the village is a bit like a fire extinguisher inside the bonfire, but let's not dwell. Touch it if you like. It's probably fine. Use hand gel (or vinegar) after, just in case.

Cross the packhorse bridge. Medieval engineering, now fitted with handrails. Cross it. Try not to look too grateful for the railings. Pause to admire the crystal clear Ebble rushing by below.

Find the milestone. Somebody was paid to chisel this. That was their contribution to history. Take a moment.

Admire St Michael & All Angels. A genuinely old church, heroically survived until the Victorians got their improving hands on it. Go in if you like and pay your respects to whatever they left intact.

Head for the Fox & Goose. Lunch. The A354 brings all sorts in here and frankly you're indistinguishable from the lost tourists. Order a pie. Drink the ale. Overhear something you weren't meant to.

Drive to Homington. Ring someone from the phonebox. Wonder how long it is since last you used one for real. Easily a couple of decades, right? If not longer. When your call’s answered, tell them where you are. Listen to the big hole where their interest should be.

Admire St Mary's, Homington. Visit your second medieval church, if you want. Maybe you’re all churched out. I know I am.

Head back to Coombe Bissett and up to the Nature Reserve. There’s a small car park up there, or you can walk uphill until the village disappears and it's just you and some deeply suspicious sheep. You will become contemplative. Unless you arrive in summer, the orchids are not here. The butterflies are not here. The sheep absolutely are.

Leave. Head back down to the village, ideally at dusk, when the chalk spirits are clocking on and the mist is settling into its usual spots. Walk quickly past the mist. Don't look at the hedges too closely. As you drive off up the A354, muse that somewhere in this valley, Tim Smith once lived and that he made music that sometimes sounded like a pipe organ falling down stairs whilst someone in the corner plays thrash guitar as though offended by the concept of melody. Select some soothing music to ease the journey home.

NEXT WEEK: CORSLEY

Prepare to be utterly underwhelmed.

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