Sadness for a biscuit lost too soon, candles in the woods, and another collection of leftovers


Sadness for a biscuit lost too soon, candles in the woods, and another collection of leftovers

8 January 2026

Welcome to issue 20 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 to the first Tales from the Chase of 2026.

If you listen closely to the wind at this time of year you can hear the sound of a thousand gym memberships being activated.

Meanwhile, the old things that live up on the downs have noted the increase in neon-colored running gear passing through their territory this week. They find the sudden urge to run in January to be a bizarre human twitch, and are confused why people try to outrun the darkness when the darkness is perfectly content to just sit and wait for us.

Some things change very little.

And perhaps that’s no bad thing. As January stretches ahead full of good intentions and unrealistic expectations, the Chase reminds us that maybe life doesn’t need optimising quite so urgently.

So here’s to another year of odd tales, travels and mysteries. Welcome back to the Chase.

This week in the Chase

Out here in the Chase while everyone else is busy ‘optimising’ their lives, I’ve been finding out about roe deer and talking with Rufus Penn about a particular specimen, a mysterious local legend that roams the Chase. Hubert is back and has written to complain about the Christmas playlist, as well as to moan about Charlton Musgrove. Happy New Year.

Dear Rob,

I write to complain about Cedric’s so-called Tales from the Chase Christmas playlist in the last issue of 2025. This is mainly because I appear in it despite not having given consent, but also because of the very premise of the list itself, and that you thought it fit to publish. Shocking judgement on your part.

Imagine my dismay to find my name included in this travesty, sandwiched between a river goddess with unresolved feelings and a sentient nothingness with strong opinions about symphonic metal covers.

So Cedric, the Mr Bean of the Chalke Valley, tailed me to a cafe whilst ludicrously attired in ill-fitting cycling gear (yes I saw him, recognised him, ignored him). He then attributed a sigh on my part as a reaction to a song coincidentally playing in the background rather than the far more obvious culprit: a dunked biscuit, a mistimed extraction, and the soggy part plunging suicidally into my Earl Grey.

I’m guessing that the wraparound shades he had on over his perpetually fogged spectacles might have contributed significantly to him missing the biscuit catastrophe.

Let me be absolutely clear. The sigh was sadness for a biscuit lost too soon, dissolving to sludge at the bottom of the cup. It had nothing to do with All About Eve, December, Christmas, or anything of the sort.

Adding to this, the scope of Cedric’s folly is unhinged. What began, apparently, as a conversational gambit after he had made himself intolerable on a walk has escalated into unauthorised interviews with deities, eldritch abstractions, liminal landlords, and fox-adjacent entities, leave alone the stalking of private citizens.

His methodology was dubious. Asking questions in dreams. Singing into the night. Pretending to be “in need” until a pub manifests. Stalking people while disguised as a cyclist. This is not research. It’s ridiculous. It’s unethical.

As for the list itself: it is exactly what you’d expect if you asked a cross-section of humans, myths, ghosts, gods, and conceptual absences what they like to listen to in December. Not surprising that the list ends, like all disasters, with The Darkness.

Whilst objecting strongly to being included, and deplore the manner in which it was put together, I don't deny the accuracy of the list as a whole. Whilst a sorry lot of Christmas bangers mixed with melancholy winter warblings, there is a dreadful rightness to some of the listings, when you think about it.

However, I strongly advise you to exercise a firm editorial policy whereby anything Cedric submits must be assessed for risk to privacy, sanity, and the fabric of reality. In future, if it involves so-called surveys, disguises, nocturnal singing excursions or the phrase “it seemed to like me”, file it under anecdote unsuitable for publication.

The Candle of the Roe

Small, elegant and elusive, the Roe Deer (Capreolus capreolus) moves like the spirit of the woodland across the Chase. The Roe has lived alongside people in the British Isles for millennia, leaving deep impressions in folklore and myth.

It is one of only two undisputed native deer species in Britain, the other being the Red Deer (although Fallow Deer have been here so long that they are also often considered native). Archaeological evidence places them here since before the Mesolithic period, more than 10,000 years ago.

Despite this ancient presence, the Roe nearly vanished from much of Britain. By the 18th century, intense hunting pressure and widespread deforestation had pushed them to extinction across most of England and Wales. Only scattered populations clung on in the rugged parts of Scotland.

Their return is largely owed to Victorian estate owners, who reintroduced the Roe to southern landscapes such as at Milton Abbas in Dorset. These rewilding efforts were motivated by sport, aesthetics, and a growing Romantic fascination with nature.

Today, Roe Deer are at a population high not seen in over a thousand years. They now inhabit almost every English county. Under cover of darkness, they increasingly slip into suburban gardens and urban green spaces.

They can be seen across the Chase but look carefully; they are more secretive than the larger Fallow, and solitary. In winter they may form small groups, but don’t move in large herds.

During the summer rut (July - August), bucks pursue does in tight circular chases around trees or shrubs. The repeated trampling leaves behind a visible loop on the ground, known as a roe ring.

Roe deer possess a remarkable biological adaptation. Though mating occurs in summer, the fertilised embryo does not implant until late December. This ensures kids are born in late May or early June, when food is abundant and conditions are gentle.

The Roe’s voice is a sudden, dog-like bark. Echoing through twilight woodland, this often catches walkers off guard. It is a warning call, either to rivals or to alert others of danger.

Roe in folklore

In British and Celtic tradition, deer (of any kind) are rarely mere animals. They are liminal beings, creatures of thresholds, often acting as messengers between worlds.

In some traditions deer were believed to be the livestock of the fairy folk. Legends tell of fairy women herding and milking does high on remote hillsides. The fairy women had the ability to shapeshift into deer form. To kill such a deer was to invite misfortune: hunters might find themselves cursed, led astray by will-o’-the-wisps, or lost forever in bogs and mist.

There are tales of magical deer that vanish into thin air. Those foolish enough to pursue such deer are said to be lured toward ravines, mires, or sheer exhaustion.

Locally, there are other stories. I’d heard of a specific roe in the Chase, a buck with a white mark on its forehead. And a curious thing: that the white blaze is not just a patch of fur, but an actual flame, glowing in the half-world between light and dark.

Who better to ask for more details than Rufus Penn, local wildlife expert and keeper of strange tales?

We met beneath the beeches as the sun was sinking. Rufus, voice low, said:

“They call it the Candle of the Roe. A light that burns and a guide to the lost.”

The Candle of the Roe

A movement in the wood stilled us both. There, in the hush, a roe buck stood. A pale forehead patch caught the last of the sun.

“You see it?” Rufus asked softly.

I wasn’t sure. The patch looked bright enough, but flame? I hesitated. The patch seemed to brighten and flicker.

“They say that mark burns.” Rufus whispered. “Not in this world, but in the thin space between. If you’re lost, the candle may appear, and you can follow. Just follow, don’t look back, the roe will lead you out, to safety. But if you follow, you must never look back. Not once. If you turn, the deer will be gone, and so will the path. You’ll walk forever in a wood that doesn’t end.”

“And if you chase it when you don’t need it, if you’re not truly lost; if you follow out of curiosity or greed; you’ll lose it and never find your way back. The deer will vanish, and the wood will close around you.”

The buck stamped once and melted into shadow.

We lingered briefly, watching carefully for anther sight, then turned for home. Dusk was gathering fast. As we walked, Rufus shared other scraps about roe deer, gathered from conversations with neighbours and acquaintances across the Chase:

“Some say that a roe that crosses your path at dawn means the day will end in rain.”

“If a roe crosses in front of you twice in one walk, turn home. The second is no deer, but a shadow borrowing its skin. Go, and quickly.”

“Never tell a roe your name. If you do, one day it will call you, you will answer, and you will not return”.

He said that children in the Chase once spoke a rhyme: “White on the brow, step back now. White on the chin, let it in.” The rhyme’s meaning is uncertain. Roe deer do have white chins, but rarely have white on the brow. Some say it was a warning to beware the candle of the roe.

He told of hunters who spoke of roe tracks suddenly disappearing, as if the deer had lifted clear into air. And an old tale of a poacher who caught a live roe and bound its legs, only to find the ropes empty by dawn. Next to the ropes lay his own hunting knife, broken into pieces. He never set snares again.

Back home, I thought of the deer’s pale flame and wished I had seen it more clearly.

I lit a candle. The flame trembled oddly, as if in a draught that wasn’t there. Outside the window, I thought something slipped past.

Maybe it was nothing.
But I set the candle down with care.

A parish by parish tour of the Chase

This week, Charlton Musgrove

charlton musgrove

Charlton Musgrove is a small village and civil parish in Somerset, bordering Wiltshire, with a population of around 400. Although modest in population, it is one of the largest parishes in the county by area, stretching from the edge of the Stourhead estate in the east to Wincanton Racecourse in the west. Only the far eastern part of the parish falls within the Chase boundary, where woodland cloaks the distinctive Greensand Hills landscape character area.

Hubert's guide to the part of Charlton Musgrove in the Chase is below. All views expressed are Hubert's own, and are not necessarily shared by Tales from the Chase.

CHARLTON MUSGROVE (PART OF)

New year, same old nonsense. Once again I find myself tasked with writing a guide to a scrag end of parish dangling at the edge of the Chase, because most of Charlton Musgrove stubbornly refuses to be there at all. Acres upon acres of it sprawl enthusiastically westwards, while I am left with a thin shaving and the familiar instruction to “stick to the Chase”. Why I ever agreed to this arrangement remains beyond me. (Ed. He insisted on it).

This particular margin is mostly Cockroad Wood, which at least has the decency to contain something interesting enough to justify my presence. Hidden among the trees are the earthwork remains of Cockroad Wood Castle, a Norman motte-and-bailey flung together shortly after 1066, when England’s new rulers were energetically rearranging the landscape with fortifications to remind locals of who was now in charge.

It didn’t last. Once the surrounding area became the Royal Forest of Selwood, the castle became redundant. Forest law arrived with its deer, officials, and a bracing enthusiasm for punishment, rendering local strongholds unnecessary.

Selwood Forest also bore the heavy historical bootprint of King Alfred, who famously summoned the men of three counties here in 878 before heading off to beat up some Danes.

While contemplating all this from the remains of the motte, I was interrupted by a man walking his dog, the latter clearly in charge. The man, lowering his voice despite there being no one else for miles, informed me that the castle was “obviously a Druid site originally” and that the Normans had merely “borrowed the mound”. The dog rolled in something unspeakable and looked embarrassed for him.

As if a fragment of parish and a half-remembered castle weren’t quite enough, Charlton Musgrove’s contribution to the Chase also includes part of an Iron Age hill fort, the rest of which is over the county boundary in Wiltshire (but still in the Chase, in the parish of Stourton with Gasper; which sounds like something diagnosed after an awkward pause by a doctor who avoids eye contact).

Once a single, coherent defensive enclosure, it is now neatly sliced in two by a tarmac lane along the county boundary. Wouldn't have been allowed in Alfred's day.

So this corner of the Chase basically offers a collection of leftovers. Good job its scenic in a twentieth-century-forestry-plantation-wishing-it-were-still-native-woodland sort of way. Don't all rush at once.

NEXT WEEK: CHETTLE

Prepare to be utterly underwhelmed.

Hubert has returned, as grumpy as ever, and as the year unfolds we’ll all be peering into the woods, half-expecting candles to appear among the trees. Next time, things may take a stranger turn when Isla Cobb brings her latest folklore musings to the party and starts looks at some of the things the woods should keep to themselves. Until then, stay warm.

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Cranborne Chase: more than just rolling hills (but we’ve got plenty of those, too)

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