Sprigs of mint by the clapper bridge, a nursery for vice, profligacy and immorality, and the ghost lands of Bowerchalke

16 October 2025

Welcome to issue 10 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 BACK, STRANGE COMPANIONS

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We meet again, clear evidence that you’ve learned nothing from last time. Very well. The clocks haven’t gone back yet, but the trees are changing. The air tastes of woodsmoke and somewhere in Wiltshire, something masked, with hooves, is reading over your shoulder.

Featured this week:

• At last an apology
• A brisk stroll with Hubert through the fascinating history of the Chase
• Exploring Bowerchalke: Wiltshire’s allegedly most haunted parish.

apology accepted?

If you’ve been reading this newsletter for a while, you’ll already know Isla Cobb, our resident folklorist. She has a gift for coaxing stories out of people. And sometimes out of things that aren’t people at all.

I caught up with her recently to ask about Hubert and Ebble: whether he’d done anything to set things right, to put an end to the watery visitations he’s been having since his ill-judged words back in issue one.

“Well,” she began, “he’s apologised at last. Went down to the river last week and made an offering. At night, under a full moon. A good move on his part, I have to say, and not something he got from my advice leaflet. He’s maybe got more sense than you’d think.”

"More than that, he whistled a tune, one she’d remember, and danced a few steps she’d know too. Top marks for effort. The dance was awkward, I’m told, but the tune was clear.”

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“So what was the tune?”

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“Shania Twain, ‘You’re Still the One.’ Popular on line-dancing nights at the village hall back in the 90s. One of Mary’s karaoke favourites down at the pub, too.”

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“Did anything happen when he was done?"

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“Yes, she came, of course. Rose from the water as if woven out of moonlight. Said nothing, just waited. Then Hubert tried to explain himself. Said he’d been young, foolish, frightened. That he'd realised that she hadn’t just been a woman from the village, she was something other, and he hadn’t known what to do with that. That he hadn’t known how to stay. That coming back, after all these years, ought to mean something.”

“And Ebble, in a voice like rain falling far away, told him it meant ‘everything, and nothing.’ Then she said what the old tales always circle back to: 'remember'.”

“She smiled, too, said he’d always been a poor dancer, but kindly this time. Then she touched his brow and slipped away into the current, with just a shimmer, like moonlight on silk. Then Hubert turned for home".

“And what do you think will happen next?”

“I think he’s bought himself a little peace. For now, at least. The dreams will fade, the house will stop flooding at night. But the river will be watching him. He should mind his step.”

So perhaps Hubert has done the best he can. Isla says someone’s been leaving sprigs of mint at the old clapper bridge near the church.

Make of that what you will.

This week we have a treat for you, Hubert's musings on the history of Cranborne Chase. From royal hunts to rebellious peasants, Hubert spares no one in his brisk survey of Cranborne Chase.

Cranborne Chase: From Royal Hunting Ground to Timeless Landscape

Once upon a time, because it always is once upon a time with these people, Cranborne Chase was the private playground of lords and kings. The sort who thought “public access” meant “you may grovel on the verge while I ride past in silk breeches.” The Chase sprawled across adjoining chalky parts of Dorset, Wiltshire, and Hampshire, and for several centuries its main purpose was to provide aristocratic entertainment at the expense of everyone else.

Burial mounds and mysterious constructions are scattered through the landscape, hinting at very early human interventions. Bronze Age and Iron Age settlements arrived, the Romans came and went, and then the Anglo-Saxons made it a royal hunting ground. By the time the Normans arrived in the 11th century they just had to confiscate the land and impose their own version of forest laws. Eventually James I handed it to Robert Cecil, who apparently didn’t already have enough nice things, and later it ended up with the Rivers family, who in 1828 had the good sense to “disfranchise” it, which brought to an end centuries of royal privilege and deer-hunting rights.

The boundaries changed over time; at its height, the Chase formed a neat quadrangle between Shaftesbury, Salisbury, Ringwood, and Wimborne, like a giant board game for people with titles. But in 1816, Ranger James Webb grumbled that only “17,000 acres” were actually for the deer out of “500,000 acres,” which must have been dreadfully inconvenient.

Management, of course, was a delicate business. You couldn’t just let the animals run riot, oh no. There were rules. Coppices were fenced, but not too tightly, for heaven forbid a noble stag should be inconvenienced. Keepers practised something called “leaping and creeping,” which sounds like an obscure folk dance. It meant the fences were managed so that the deer could leap over low parts and creep through gaps rather than having to go the long way round, like the peasants.

Speaking of peasants, they found the Chase both larder and livelihood. Chafin, an 18th-century chronicler who apparently never tired of rustic charm, wrote lovingly of “the industrious peasant” whittling hazel spars by the fire. Idyllic, he thought. Probably just too tired to complain. Still, there’s something appealing in the image: smoke curling from a thatch, potatoes bubbling in a pot, children gathering wood.

Then came the nutting season, when families swarmed into the woods like cheerful locusts, “bringing their little cots and utensils” and living for weeks among the trees. They cracked nuts and jokes in equal measure, and sang that dangerous line, “For who are so happy, so happy as we?” The answer, of course, was “the landowners.” But never mind. It was good fun while it lasted.

The Chase also had its rogues, poachers, smugglers, and the occasional over-enthusiastic sportsman. One Dibbin bragged that he’d “killed 5000 deer and was never detected.” Presumably, he was detected the moment he opened his mouth, but there we are. Others spoke darkly of the Chase as “a nursery for vice, profligacy, and immorality,” which sounds a great deal more interesting than it probably was.

For the gentry, the Chase was all about sport. Hounds, horns, and the occasional broken collarbone. Venison was prized for its “unrivalled flavour and fine condition.” Whilst deer were the raison d'être for the creation of the Chase and were hunted for centuries for sport and for the table, other species were also pursued. Foxes, famously inedible, were a case in point. Thomas Fownes bred the first foxhound pack here in 1730. Peter Beckford, author of Thoughts on Hunting (1781), a book that could have been subtitled Why I Prefer Dogs to Parliament, lived on the edge of the Chase at Stepleton House. Later came J.J. Farquharson, resident of Langton House, also on the edge of the Chase, in the early 19th century. He chased foxes for fifty years and apparently never once asked them how they felt about it.

When the Chase was finally enclosed, some lamented that the glory of the Chase had departed. Agriculture, meanwhile, rejoiced, ploughing under centuries of entitlement.

Today, walk there at dusk and you might hear the faint echo of a hunting horn, or it might just be a passing cyclist with bad brakes. The deer still move quietly among the trees, unaware that they once belonged to kings. And if you listen very closely, you might hear the centuries passing like a soft wind in the trees. After all, in Cranborne Chase, the line between past and present has always been just a little blurred.

Further Reading

• Caroline Cheeseman Land and Life on Cranborne Chase, 1786-1830, Chapter 3 in The Chase, the Hart and the Park edited by Katherine Barker, 2009
• William Chafin, An Account of the Ancient and Present State of Cranborne Chase (1818)
• John Hutchins, The History and Antiquities of the County of Dorset (3rd ed., 1868)

A parish by parish tour of the Chase

Welcome back to our parish-by-parish pilgrimage through the Chase’s 108 parishes. Alphabetical order, of course; Hubert's in charge and he likes methodical.

This week, the mysteries of Bowerchalke.

bowerchalke

A tranquil parish nestled in Wiltshire's Chalke Valley, Bowerchalke features a (very) small tributary of the river Ebble known as the river Chalke. As well as Bowerchalke itself, the parish includes the hamlets of Mead End, Misselfore and Woodminton, with a total parish population of about 360 residents.

The parishes stretches south to the Dorset border, which is marked by an ancient earthwork known as the Shire Rack.

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

BOWERCHALKE

Ah, Bowerchalke; sounds like something Miss Marple caught while gardening. "I’m afraid it’s Bowerchalke, doctor. I may have inhaled a dormouse". Nestled at the very bottom of Wiltshire as if it’s trying to sneak out into Dorset and escape. A linear village, which is just a fancy way of saying “everyone lives on one road.”

To the untrained eye Bowerchalke appears charming. A place where everyone leaves their doors unlocked. But only because the things that want to come in already know how, and locks don't stop them.
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Notable for: various hauntings

Known to some as Wiltshire’s most haunted village. This is, frankly, a dubious claim but one the village wears like a slightly moth-eaten crown.

The story of Kitt’s Grave alone is enough to unsettle anyone with a healthy respect for liminal spaces. Of which more later.

Then there are the spectral monks, seen on misty mornings silently processing through the churchyard.

And of course, there are the usual collection of apparitions, shadows, and inexplicable chills reported in the lanes, the downs, and in Stonedown Wood. Like the ghost of a lantern-wielding man, rattling a bag of coins. Collecting for charity? Maybe. Save our Souls is always on a fund raising drive.

And a story about a golden coffin, stolen from a barrow up on the downs. Seven men uncovered it but never returned to the village. Their ghosts have been seen on winter nights, dragging their golden treasure over the downs. Who told them this counts as a proper afterlife activity?

In short, Bowerchalke is charming, peaceful, and cheerful by day; but before dawn or in the twilight, it has the subtle thrill of a place that knows secrets it will never share. Perfect for anyone who enjoys their countryside with a side of dread.

Other features

The obligatory church

Every Chase village must, by law and divine bureaucracy, possess an ancient church. Holy Trinity in Bowerchalke fulfills this quota. Apparently a procession of spectral monks has been seen, walking in the churchyard in the early morning.

Kitt’s Grave

A wander up Marleycombe Down and through Vernditch Chase takes you to Kitt’s Grave on the parish boundary, at the point where Dorset, Wiltshire, and Hampshire meet. One story says that Kitt was a young girl from Bowerchalke, heartbroken beyond repair, who threw herself down the village well. Another story claims she was a wandering gypsy woman who met the same fate. Whichever, this was death by one of the most serious sins in medieval and early modern eyes; suicide.

Per normal practice, the poor wretch was buried at a crossroads. An in-between spot where the living meet the dead and everyone pretends not to notice. In this case, the placement seems particularly pointed: not just anywhere, but precisely where three counties could each refuse to claim responsibility.

No sign of the grave though, although some speculate that a nearby longbarrow in the woodland in the next parish, known as "Cotel’s Barrow", might actually be "Kitt’s Grave". Still, it’s a lovely walk if you enjoy scenic views that end in disappointment.

The River Chalke

A small stream (the river Chalke) starts at an ancient spring at Mead End and trickles enthusiastically northwards out of the parish, heading for the Ebble at Broadchalke. Go river Chalke.

The chalk hills

The surrounding chalk hills rise, they fall, they collect mist, and they do not care whether you admire them or not. They also double nicely as a reminder that humans are puny and insignificant and generally underprepared for steep inclines.

It must be said: the view from Marleycombe Down is magnificent. Gaze across three counties, Wiltshire, Dorset, and Hampshire, and realize how astonishingly similar all three look from a distance. On a foggy day, you might see the end of your own nose.

The Shire Rack

This earthwork, part boundary, part footpath, forms most of the parish boundary westwards from Kitts Grave to Shermel Gate. The name itself is revealing. Shire (i.e. county) meets rack (from Old English racu, a “reach” or a narrow path).

Already old, it was first recorded in the Anglo-Saxon era. When you trudge along it, you’re echoing the footsteps of people who were marking who owned which patch of land more than a millennium ago. Not all of it is accessible, or even obvious, these days. But on the walkable bits, such as from Shermel Gate eastwards, skirting Garston Wood to the south, you can feel time pooling around your boots like leaf mould, as you brush past the haunted lands of Bowerchalke to the north.

To walk the Shire Rack doesn’t take you anywhere glamorous, but it does lead somewhere old, and in the Chase that’s practically the same thing.

The pub that isn't there

There isn’t one. Of course there isn’t. You thought there’d be a pub? Adorable. They lost it many years ago. Absorbed into the mists of economic reality in 1988. The nearest pint lies a few miles away in Broadchalke.

The villager

He emerged from behind a hedge with the stealth of a badger, wearing the facial expression of one who has just discovered a stranger interfering with their compost.

We exchanged a half-nod of wary acknowledgement. A profound silence followed, broken only by the distant bleat of an unimpressed sheep.

I attempted conversation.

Me: “Lovely spot, this. Very peaceful.”
​Villager: “Mm. Been that way a while.”
​Me: “Must be wonderful, living somewhere so… lovely.”
​Villager: “We manage.”

The villager shifted his weight, glanced at my boots, and added:

Villager: “You’re not lost, are you?”
​Me: “Just exploring.”
​Villager: “Ah. The road's that way.”

I thanked him, which seemed to alarm him slightly, and he vanished back into the hedge, reabsorbed by the ecosystem that spawned him.

Famous residents

In the 1950s to 1980s Bowerchalke was home to William Golding, Nobel laureate and Lord of the Flies author, and James Lovelock, originator of the Gaia hypothesis. Golding apparently suggested the name. Spend long enough in rural Wiltshire and you too might start eyeing the neighbours like rival tribes, cast off the thin veneer of civilisation, and find yourself muttering ‘Kill the pig’ at the village fête. Or you might co-evolve with the environment, and begin to understand that the countryside doesn’t just surround you, it absorbs you and teaches you how small and temporary you are.

Poaching

Long before the village became quaint and acquired literary connections, Bowerchalke had a reputation for a type of entrepreneurial ingenuity, also known as poaching. During the era of the Royal Forests, when the law insisted that only the aristocracy could eat deer without consequences, the villagers learned to be discreetly creative.

There was a tradition of quiet rebellion, clever improvisation, and a disregard for forest law. A notable example: an old lady who, confronted by suspicious keepers, attempted to hide her venison by sitting atop the iron pot in which it was slowly cooking away. Ouch.

Hubert's suggested Itinerary

1. Arrive before dawn. Half-asleep, unsure if you’ve arrived or drifted in by mistake. Pause on the lane by the church and listen. That faint rustling in the mist? Probably monks. Probably.
2. Walk to Kitt’s Grave. Head up to the parish boundary at the point where Wiltshire, Dorset, and Hampshire meet. The air feels as if it remembers something unpleasant but won’t say what. Try to decide which county you prefer. When you fail to find the grave, tell yourself that the walk, and the views from Marleycombe Down on the way, was the point all along.
3. Seek out the path along the Shire Rack. Creep along it to Shermel Gate. Following the rack is practically a form of time travel, the ancient woods of Dorset to the south and the ghost lands of Bowerchalke to the north.
4. Wander through Stonedown Wood. Listen. That metallic clink? Probably him. The lantern man, doomed to rattle coins for eternity. If approached, offer exact change.
5. Visit Mead End. Here the mighty River Chalke begins its heroic trickle northward. Admire its enthusiasm. Whisper encouragement; it’s trying hard to be a river. Move on quickly before the ducks notice you.
6. Think of Golding and Lovelock, shaping grand ideas in this place. Wonder if Lord of the Flies was less a novel and more a local documentary. Or if everything around you is alive and watching, and changes you whether you like it or not.
7. Leave​
   Go before the mist returns. And the monks. Bowerchalke keeps its secrets. Be grateful it lets you leave.

NEXT WEEK: BOYTON

Prepare to be utterly underwhelmed.

The last light slides off the downs. The Chalke trickles, Ebble flows on, the owls rehearse their lines, and Bowerchalke settles into the kind of silence that sounds ominous.

We’ll meet again soon, to explore the lore of the Chase some more.

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