Menaced by ancient springs, and a hill with an incurable rash.

8 October 2026

Welcome to issue 45 of Tales from the Chase, a fortnightly publication exploring the landscapes, folklore, hidden histories and strange corners of Cranborne Chase. Including odd tales. Mildly strange goings-on. Definitely strange, occasionally amusing, and always assembled with care — delivered straight to your inbox every other Thursday. Was this email forwarded to you? You can sign up for free by clicking below!

welcome, strange companions

Autumn falls. The leaves have begun to turn at last. The odd tree has already gone bright orange, well ahead of the rest and immensely pleased with themselves; the others will surely follow.

In this issue, Hubert finds himself in trouble with water once again. The Seven Springs have written to him about his latest rudeness, and discomfort is bound to follow. Isla Cobb has a few ideas on the matter, and there is cake.

Also, Hubert is in Fovant, where the hills wear a strange military rash and the local pub shares a name with something once uttered by a dark wizard.

So pour a fresh cup, keep the lamp lit, and try not to notice how quickly the shadows are stretching.

springhead update; hubert in deep water?

In his recent guide to Fontmell Magna (see last issue), Hubert, despite never having seen them, speculated that some of the Seven Springs at Springhead might “look remarkably like puddles” and that perhaps one is “probably just a wet patch near a badger sett.” He said it aloud, too, while standing on a bridge over Collyer’s Brook, a short way downstream from the springs themselves, and in the course of a conversation with Aelwyn, the spirit of the Chase.

How wise a move that was is something we will return to shortly.

Before we get onto that, I went to Springhead on an open day at the end of September, an opportunity to visit the grounds and find out more about what the Springhead Trust does.

Music drifted through the gardens, Morris dancers performed with bells, sticks, and handkerchiefs. There was tea and cake to be had, and people wandered about in the general, cheerful bustle of an English country gathering.

I sought out the springs, which lay at the extremity of the garden, in the trees away from all the action.

I counted seven. Water emerged through pale stone, sweeping beneath glossy green fronds without a speck of mud to ruin the view.

The seven are remarkably close together, so close that standing there, the distinction between individual sources and one gathering body of water feels rather academic. Each spring wells up or pours forth from the rock, cold and crystalline like liquid glass, forming a clear pool and a stream that flows off towards the old millpond. No puddles or muddy patches in sight.

It made Hubert's speculation seem increasingly unwise. Watching the water come out of the rock, it was difficult not to feel that something ancient and very interesting was happening. I suspected that perhaps Hubert might live to regret his words.

I returned to the old mill building, bought a mug of tea and a slice of Victoria sponge, and sat at a picnic table outside in the sunshine, where a woman was singing old folk songs in period costume.

“You've seen them, then?” said a voice behind me.

It was Isla Cobb, who sat down across from me with her own mug and a slice of carrot cake. “The springs?”

“I have. All seven.”

“Good. Then you'll know."

There was something in her tone that made me suspect I’d just passed an exam I hadn't known I was taking.

When I asked what she meant, Isla took a sip of tea.

“Hubert came to see me. He's received a letter.”

“From whom?”

She gave me a look.

“The springs.” I said this with a sinking feeling, and put down my mug.

“The Seven Springs sent Hubert a letter?”

Isla nodded, her mouth full of cake.

Apparently Hubert had not been entirely sure what to make of it. He had shown Isla the letter, asked her whether she thought it was serious, and, when she had declined to reassure him it was not, left her with a copy whilst she considered her advice.

Hubert asking for help from anyone, let alone Isla Cobb, is not something one normally expects to happen.

The Seven Springs, it appeared, had heard exactly what Hubert had said to Aelwyn. Much like when Hubert inadvertently and carelessly offended the goddess of the River Ebble, it seems he has once again been rude to a watercourse. What is it with him and water spirits?

Isla rummaged in her bag and placed three things on the table: a notebook full of cramped handwriting, a small magnifying glass and a piece of chalk.

She put the chalk back, picked up the magnifying glass and examined it with a puzzled expression, then produced a folded photocopy of Hubert's letter that had been tucked in the notebook and handed it to me.

The letter was handwritten in an old style and read:

To Hubert,

It has reached us that, despite never having visited us, you have speculated from the safety of a bridge some two bowshots distant about our existence and our nature. We note in particular your comments that "at least two look remarkably like puddles," and reduced another of us to "a wet patch near a badger sett."

We are disappointed.

We are of the deep earth.

And we rise.

We do not require your reverence. The opinions of a creature whose whole life is barely a single breath for us are of no consequence.

But we offer you this: take care as you walk upon the Chase.

And take care in your dreams.

We remain always,

​
Awen, Adar, Tanwen, Cysgawen, Llif, Drywen, Cysur

​
The Seven Springs​
​

(Dictated at Springhead; transcribed by the Reed)

Having seen the springs for myself, I could understand their annoyance at his dismissive language. I noted the signatures, and wondered which spring was which. I also noted the offer, and the threat it posed. Poor Hubert.

I looked up from the paper. "Writing a letter seems a bit... conventional for ancient water spirits, doesn't it?"

Isla chuckled, leaning back against the bench.

“You’ll remember when Hubert gave you that dreadful piece last year claiming the Ebble was “a moist suggestion” and “couldn’t be bothered to turn up” he got a letter too. Delivered by an unusually assertive heron."

"Yes I do. So what is it with genii loci and letter writing?”

"They've had centuries to watch us," Isla said. "They know our ways, they know our language, they know what the written word can do. Wrongly, perhaps, they consider that a single, elegant letter carries far more weight than splashing someone's trousers. But for them it's the polite stage. Dreams are next. After that, manifestations."

I mused on this for a second.

“OK. So how did Hubert get this letter; Ebble sent a heron. Was it the same?”

"No, a swan," Isla said, "Excellent for drama. It blocked his driveway for three hours waiting for him to come home and hissed at the bin men. Chalk spirits appreciate a good spectacle."

I nodded, then thought back to Ebble's letter. It appeared to have been written by the goddess herself, whereas apparently this one had been dictated to, and transcribed by, the mysterious Reed. I put this to Isla.

"Well, Ebble famously has spent time living as a woman living in Bishopstone, so likely picked up how to write for herself. For those that never learnt, or that lack the necessary fingers, the Reed provides a service".

She leant forward and spoke softly.

“One of the volunteer gardeners was working late last Thursday, north of the millpond. She saw a strange, cloaked and hooded figure on the other side of the water, heading towards the springs. When she got closer, she heard whispering, several voices, and, in the darkness beneath the trees by the springs, thought she could see the figure taking things from a bag.

“She left and called me. She said the Reed was visiting the springs, and asked if I knew why.”

"Who or what is 'the Reed'?"

"He was once a man," she said, looking over her shoulder as if checking who might be listening. "Back in the tenth century, he was Brother Oswald, a scribe at the Benedictine priory in Cranborne. An obsessively precise young man who spent his life copying land charters."

"So not a man anymore then; what happened to him?"

"The story goes that he walked off into the mist one afternoon to check a boundary near Ashmore and never came back. The charter said an ash tree stood by a specific boundary stone. He found the stone but not the tree. Some say he searched for it and travelled far away, to a place where the stars are strange."

"Others say that a lord of the Twilight Realm was waiting for him at the stone, and took him back to his Queen as a gift. He worked as Royal Scribe, transcribing songs, poems, and curses, recording judgements, and drafting letters to creatures whose names are not wise to say aloud. He composed a declaration of war against the Shadow Folk of the Vale, and peace treaties with the Moon, the Star Wolf, and the Watcher. He wrote the Queen's proclamations in silver ink, and set down the names of the dead in black."

"He returned to the Chase after a year and a day, to find the priory long gone and the world changed.”

“Whatever really happened, now he’s just The Reed. A tall, gaunt wanderer in a cloak the colour of last year’s hay, carrying an inkhorn made from a ram's horn, and a satchel of sheepskin."

She gestured toward the letter in my hand.

" If the ancient barrows on the high ridge need a warning issued, or if the old oaks of Cranborne Chase have a dispute with a local farmer, they call on him. The powers of the Chase have immense, elemental force, but many of them don't have fingers to hold a pen, and few of those that do can write modern English. The Reed is the clerk of the court. He sits on a bank or beneath a hazel, listens to the deep, cold murmurings of the land, and puts ink to page."

"And then he hands it to a swan, or a heron?"

"Naturally," Isla said, taking a sip of her tea. "Many animals are used, depending on the wishes and commands of the spirit sending the message. The Reed transcribes what they say. Whatever creature has been selected delivers the letter. It’s an arrangement that’s apparently kept the Chase in order since the reign of King Edgar."

"Do you believe that?"

"No. But I believe in the Reed".

"So what next? Are you going to advise Hubert?"

"You know what he's like. He's rattled. He remembers the unpleasantness with Ebble. He'll get visitations, bad dreams and so forth, a lot of water involved, that's inevitable after a letter like that. It'll tail off as the springs get bored, but an apology would speed that up. I'd rather he didn't do something daft meanwhile so I think I'll suggest something."

She drained her mug and ate the last of her cake. Across the lawn the folk singer stopped, and the Morris side wandered ominously past in search of refreshments.

She stood and shook out her skirt. A robin hopped in for the crumbs .

"I'll let you know what I decide" she said and strolled away, threading her way between tea-drinking morris dancers. The photocopied letter was still in my hand. It was slightly damp.

A parish by parish tour of the Chase

fovant

FOVANT

Ah, Fovant. I approached with little enthusiasm and even less interest. It had the air of somewhere that had long been waiting to disappoint me. I knew it to be a parish of 716 people, according to the 2021 Census. Why it requires quite so many remains unclear.

The parish extends from the downland heights in the south to the River Nadder in the north. This is a considerable area to hide a village in. The A30 cuts east-west across it, allowing motorists to hurtle past, note some enormous replica military badges cut into the hillside, and remain largely unaware that a sizeable settlement is lurking nearby somewhere.

Most notable for...

The badges. They are enormous, visible for miles and impossible to ignore. I have tried. They even have their own website (https://fovantbadges.com) and their own lay-by on the A30 to look at them from.

A brief history, to save you looking it up. During the First World War thousands of Commonwealth troops were stationed around Fovant and neighbouring villages. Thousands of men passed through military camps and hospitals. Huts, roads, shooting ranges, and other infrastructure blanketed the landscape. There was even a military railway connecting the camps to Dinton.

Then in 1916 the London Rifle Brigade cut its regimental badge into the Downs.

Imagine the planning meeting:

"Right, chaps. We have been sent here to train for a war."

"Excellent."

"Whilst we do that, shall we carve a gigantic military emblem into the hill?"

"Obviously."

Several other units saw the result and felt they ought to have their badges up there too. The hillside thus became the military equivalent of a village noticeboard, except that nobody could take anything down. The hill has never recovered, although during the Second World War, the badges were allowed to overgrow so enemy aircraft could not use them as landmarks.

This was but a brief respite. After the war, local people and veterans restored them. They are now a scheduled monument and are maintained to this day. Whilst some say this is important commemoration, I suspect the hill regards this as little more than a persistent, incurable rash.

Historic England regards the surviving group as the largest and most complete collection of hill figures in England. The Giant, the Long Man and the White Horse will have to live with it.

Also notable:

Chiselbury Camp an Iron Age hillfort sitting on the ridge overlooking the badges cut into the hillside below.

I have often wondered what the Iron Age inhabitants would have made of the badges.

They would probably have been impressed by the labour involved, but would have been puzzled by the precise purpose.

They might have guessed that maybe they were tribal marks, religious symbols, or some kind of ritual display.

But I suspect perhaps they would have understood the broad intent perfectly: we were here; this was important to us; remember us by our works.

Different people, different technology, much the same instinct.

The Greater Good, formerly the Pembroke Arms, is the village pub. It strikes me as an odd name for the new phase of the pub's life. The phrase "the greater good" has form, such as its use by a dark wizard in Potter, and by Sandford's Neighbourhood Watch Alliance in the movie Hot Fuzz. Neither was known for hospitality. Naming the village pub after a phrase associated with a dark wizard and a murderous village conspiracy is possibly a subtle warning to outsiders. I have some sympathy with this approach. I declined to enter.

It is possible, of course, that there is an entirely innocent explanation for the name. I have chosen not to investigate it.

The name Fovant is thought to come from the Old English Fobbefunta, meaning "The spring of Fobba, or Fobbe" Nobody knows who Fobba was. Or Fobbe. He or she apparently owned a spring and has been remembered ever since.

There is another interpretation involving a frothing or foaming spring. I prefer this. A village named after someone called Fobba/Fobbe is mildly ridiculous. A village named after a spring that appears to be foaming is merely suspicious and slightly alarming.

The Old Road. Before the A30 came along, the old route high up along the Downs just inside the parish boundary was part of the main road from London to the west, and post coaches to Devon would have travelled this way.

These days, some call it Old Shaftesbury Drove. In earlier centuries it seems to have accumulated several names, including the Herepath, the Ten Mile Course, and the Great Western Post Road. One historian has suggested it had no fixed name at all. I find this reassuring. A road that has been there for centuries and still people cannot agree what it is called is exactly the sort of road I trust.

In 1700, the Earl of Pembroke marked the route with milestones, planting a tree beside each one to make them more noticeable. By 1752, it was being called the second principal road in the kingdom (London to Falmouth). No, I don't know the first.

In 1768 the local gentlemen petitioned Parliament to abandon it in favour of the lower road through the village (now the A30). This came into force in 1787. The old road is now a byway, carrying the occasional walker, cyclist or horse rider, and the odd vehicle that can cope with the potholes and ruts. It does not appear to mind.

The Fovant Hut was an old inn that served the old Downs road. The Hut was enlarged in 1757. Disgraceful. Never trust anything called a "hut" which requires enlargement. A hut should know when to stop.

The Hut thrived as an inn until 1787, when the traffic moved downhill. Enlargement did not save it. These days it is someone's house.

Highway Robbery. Oh yes, there were highwaymen.

Dr R. C. C. Clay, writing his Notes on the History of Fovant in 1928, records that several of these nefarious characters worked the old road. Two accounts in particular caught my eye.

On Sunday morning, 30 November 1783, between 10 and 11 o’clock in the forenoon, Mr Reuben Sidney of Southampton was travelling from Shaftesbury when he was robbed of eight guineas by three miscreants near Fovant Hut.

This is remarkable for two reasons. First, Sunday morning between 10 and 11 is precisely when one ought to be at home pretending to be asleep. Second, upon Mr Sidney complaining to his attackers that he now lacked the funds required to complete his journey, they kindly returned one guinea.

One struggles to reconstruct the interpersonal dynamics:

"Stand and deliver."

"Here’s all I have, eight guineas."

"Splendid, now off you pop."

"But I’ve got to get to Southampton. The horse will want oats."

"He makes a fair point, John. And it’s a long walk to Southampton if the beast dies of starvation."

"Agreed, we are highwaymen, Benjamin, not monsters."

"Well, give him a guinea back then."

Sadly Mr Sidney was unimpressed by the partial refund. Upon reaching the safety of Fovant Hut, he immediately reported the robbery.

The three footpads were swiftly apprehended and hauled off to Fisherton Gaol in Salisbury.

Then there was Cunning Dick, who favoured lurking around halfway between Chiselbury and Fovant Hut.

Now anyone adopting the moniker Cunning Dick is asking for trouble. History does not record precisely how cunning Dick actually was, but the strategic brilliance implied by his name may have been somewhat overstated. He was eventually hanged at nearby Gallows Hill.

St George's Church is considerably older than most people seem to realise.

There was almost certainly a Saxon church here by 901, when King Edward granted land at Fovant to his minister Wihbrord. No trace of that wooden church survives, although the present building incorporates remnants of a later Norman church amongst the usual melange of later styles and additions.

Today it seems oddly isolated at the edge of the village. It probably wasn't always so. When the church was built, it would have stood near the centre of the settlement, surrounded by houses and other buildings. Many of those nearby dwellings were later abandoned during the medieval period, probably as a result of the usual cheerful combination of plague, population decline and changing agricultural circumstances.

There are several ‘scratch dials’: rayed circles scratched into the church wall, with a hole for a peg in the middle, rather like miniature sundials, so medieval people could tell when it was time to turn up for prayers.

An Abbess and thirty one nuns turned up in Fovant following the Dissolution of the Monasteries. This was Cicely Bodenham, the last Abbess of Wilton, and her gang.

I wonder whether the villagers regarded the arrival of thirty-two women from a dissolved religious house as a solemn historical event, or simply wondered where on earth they were all going to sleep.

There are, naturally, Other Things. Fovant has acquired its share of stories about things which some would prefer not to be there.

The best documented is the Grey Lady of Oakhanger Barn. She appears as a small, elderly woman in grey, wearing a full skirt and shawl. One local woman, recovering from influenza, saw the apparition approach and felt a soothing hand placed upon her forehead.

Which is unexpectedly considerate.

A carpenter repairing the roof of Oakhanger Barn in the 1920s saw the same figure. He threw his hammer at her. She disappeared.

I cannot decide whether this demonstrates courage, panic, or an appalling standard of workplace safety.

I have not investigated this further. There are limits.

On Leaving...

Before you leave, go stand beneath the badges at dusk. You may notice that the hillside looks different from the way it does in daylight. This is probably caused by the angle of the sun. Or the shadows. Or your eyes. There are several perfectly reasonable explanations.

If you hear scratching, do not investigate.

If you see a small elderly woman in grey, curtsy.

If someone appears and invites you to the pub for a pint, by all means accept, for the greater good. But if anyone there asks if you’re staying for the “annual harvest” back out slowly without making eye contact.

And if at any time on your visit a rabbit approaches carrying a chisel, don't ask what it is doing. Just run.

NEXT TIME: GREAT WISHFORD

The name has set expectations. I expect disappointment.

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