Strange folk indeed, and a hilltop hamlet

11 December 2025

Welcome to issue 18 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 fellow travellers

This week in the Chase

December has the countryside on mute and the sun barely bothers to turn up most days. We plough on regardless towards the years end, with the promise of a new start over the horizon. Diving into the archives, the Forgotten Footpath Society finds a path that only shows up at dawn around the summer solstice. It heads to a most unusual village, stuck in the 1930s and strangely devoid of people.

And we head for the parish of Chalbury, a small community hanging onto the edge of the Chase. Step this way...

Into the Dawn: A walk with the Forgotten Footpath Society

Some walks are taken for exercise. Others, for scenery. And then there are the walks that seem to lead you not somewhere… but elsewhere. Such journeys are a speciality of the Forgotten Footpath Society, a walking club based in the Chase. This week we bring you another of their enigmatic routes, intriguingly named in their archive as “ The Midsummer Path to The Village That’s Only There at Dawn.”

It sounds almost mythic: a trail that exists for only about half an hour at dawn on a couple of days either side of the summer solstice. To make matters even more interesting, the exact location of the path shifts annually within a two-mile radius of White Sheet Hill, near Mere.

The FFS first documented this path in June 2009. What was meant to be a routine sunrise hike to observe skylark nesting grounds instead turned into something extraordinary. Much to their delight.

According to members, they set off in the dawn twilight and were up on the downs following the main track when the path unexpectedly appeared as a line of silvery light across the grass, just as the sun’s edge peeked over the horizon. It was as if the first sunlight reflected off the dewy grass along the route.

Intrigued, they followed. It lead east toward a small copse of twisted rowan trees, then bent south through meadowland. Neither copse nor meadows are shown on any map or aerial photograph. Birds fell silent. Footsteps sounded muffled. One member reported seeing a hare perched atop a fencepost, motionless, and all devices - watches, phones, cameras - simply stopped working.

After roughly twenty minutes, the walkers arrived at a village frozen in another time. The roads were stony, gas lamps flickered in the growing light, faded bunting waved in a breeze. A red post-box stood by a village green with a well in the centre. There was a church with a sundial on the tower. Strangely, the gnomon cast no shadow.

A sign on the village green read:

“You Are Here. For Now.”

The village itself seemed eerily alive despite an absence of people. Thatched cottages had laundry hanging, a pub called The Quiet Mare showed lights through the windows and emitted the faint scent of malt and baking bread, and a newsagent displayed a paper called the Gazette, dated 21 June 1933, with headlines about “The Great Light in the East.”

There were signs of daily life everywhere: a steaming cup of tea on a windowsill, a punctured bicycle with fresh flowers in its basket, a bucket full of water by the well on the village green, and a chalkboard outside the bakery promising “Fresh loaves at first light.”

Yet, knocking on doors brought no answer. Shadows shortened as the sun rose higher, and the strengthening sunlight brought a change. The village began to fade; cottages, church, pub, all seemed to blur or dissolve at the edges. Sounds of life, birdcalls, voices, footsteps, doors opening and closing, all drifted in and out like echoes. The silver path flickered alarmingly.

Some of the FFS group reportedly saw ghostly versions of themselves walking just ahead, slightly translucent and out of step. They left the village in a hurry, following the flickering silver path back the way they’d come, fearing that if they did not it would disappear and perhaps leave them stranded. In the rush to leave, one walking stick was left behind on a bench by the well.

The experience lingered long after the hikers returned. Members spoke of sudden nostalgia for village fêtes, dance bands and swing, and music hall songs.

It vanished shortly after, only to reappear months later in Agnes's cutlery drawer, wrapped in a newspaper cutting from the Gazette dated November 1933, about walkers gone missing in Chase Woods.

It's a mystery what that all means; but it was Agnes who left her walking stick on the bench, and the newspaper cutting seems to refer to the infamous Library of Unfinished Weather disappearances (see issues 9 and 11). Whether there's link remains to be seen.

one Who Didn’t Make It out in time

FFS records tell of Harold Finch, a member who set out on the path alone at dawn on 20 June 2010 and failed to return.

He reappeared 13 years later, having found himself sitting on the grass, disoriented but unharmed, near a tumulus on Rodmead Hill. He made his way home, much to the surprise of his wife who had long since given up hope and was not sure how to welcome a husband who seemed to have misplaced a sizeable chunk of his life. Her new husband was not delighted either.

His recollections are vague, but Isla Cobb interviewed him at his new home in Hindon some weeks later.

Here are some quotes from her notes of the meeting.

“I lived there in one of the cottages facing the green. It felt like home, like I’d always been there. The seasons didn’t change, always summer. The mornings always felt like the same morning.”

“I met people who remembered me before I arrived. They greeted me like I'd just come back from a long trip away. They knew my habits, knew I like strong tea, that I sleep light, that I hum when I mend tools. I didn’t hum though. At least, not before I went there. Never mended tools either.”

" I don't really remember any details about the people, like it was a dream. I know they made me welcome, we talked, listened to dance band music on the wireless, went to the pub and drank together...but faces, names, events, I can't recall any of it."

"I can't remember much of what I did day to day either...I think I did some coppicing and hedge-laying, made wooden furniture, had a vegetable garden...but I don't know why I think that, and really can't be sure".

“But the pub, The Quiet Mare, that stays with me. A very friendly place, warm light, a big hearth with a fire that doesn’t go out, doesn't crackle, it just… burns in silence. The landlord, never caught his name, always polishing glasses.”

“There were some freakishly talk folk who visited often. Taller than the doors, but they walked through without bending. Never saw their faces; they just seemed to have suggestions of faces”.

“They asked me questions about roads I’d never walked. About things I’d never seen. They didn’t bother me though, they had a nice ‘feel’ about them.”

"There were others who came dancing in from time to time, their clothes changing as they moved, flickering from green to gold to frost.”

“They were merry folk. Sang strange songs to the tune of a fiddle, and brought gifts sometimes. A wreath of leaves, or coins that disappeared once they’d left.”

“Then there was a fisherman who visited often, with a pipe that never went out. The smoke didn’t rise, it hung in a little spiral beside him, like it was waiting. When he left the pub, the smoke went with him, floating along behind”

“And a woman in a red coat, came in every now and again. Her coat was always wet, dripping pools on the floor, though it was never raining outside. I thought maybe she just climbed out of the well, lived down there perhaps.”

“There was a boy with a lantern who never grew older. He'd come in at dusk. He said he was ‘keeping the dark outside’. Sat by the fire for a bit, then next time you look, he'd be gone ”

“Then there was the visitor who never came inside. He stood outside the pub door. Never spoke.”

“Had a cloak with a deep hood, we never saw his face..”

“When he was outside, the fire went dim. People whispered.”

“Once, I tried to leave while he was out there. The landlord stopped me with a hand on my shoulder. ‘He’s not here for you,’ the landlord said. ‘don’t tempt him.’”

What Isla Thinks

Isla Cobb is comfortable with stories that sit somewhere between the improbable and the impossible, it's her job. So I asked her for her thoughts.

“Finch’s account,” she told me, “is a mix of motifs we see in British liminal folklore, especially from chalkland regions. You don't need to believe that every detail literally happened. But his story corresponds strongly to common patterns."

She explained that several elements stood out to her:

"This sense of ‘unchanging summer’; it's the same language used in old accounts of people straying into fairy rings or ‘the Otherworld’,” she said. “Endless morning, no seasons, no hunger; these are classic.”

Villagers greeting Harold as though he’d always lived there is, according to Isla, “a dead ringer for the returning guest motif,” in which people enter a realm where their identity has already been absorbed or anticipated. “It suggests the place is not just spatially unusual but temporally so,” she added. “It knew him before he arrived.”

"The 'visitors' in the pub are textbook liminal beings,” she said. "Travellers between worlds. There are many types, with different motives for their travels".

Of the tall folk with indistinct faces she had this to say “These belong to highland and fen folklore; freakishly tall, very polite. Why they're here in the Chase is an interesting question. Might be something to do with Harold's heritage or lived experience.”

She thought the dancing ones with shifting clothes “might seem straight out of the Otherworld; but they’re not. The flickering from green to gold to frost...this is unusual,” she explained. "Traditional ‘fair folk’ or Otherworld beings tend to be associated with a single season or element. But the way their clothing shifted as they moved suggests they aren’t tied to one season, they’re cycling through them. Like watching a year in motion, condensed into a dance with costume changes. Interesting, I'll do more research on these".

The fisherman is “a typical guide of the lost or wandering. Maybe waiting for someone specific, but Harold doesn't recall him leaving with anyone. Maybe he's just taking a break between tasks.”

The woman in the red coat dripping water is “a water-spirit or drowned revenant figure. Red is a warning colour in traditional lore. Probably just comes in to feel alive for a bit.”

The boy with the lantern was a bit of a puzzle for her: “Obviously seems like some sort of guardian, but I've not come across anything similar, must look into it some more.”

When it came to the cloaked figure, Isla’s voice dropped a little.

“That one is old. Very old. Fire-dimming is a sign of a being whose presence drains energy. When the landlord says ‘Not here for you’, that's a remarkably unsettling line."

"In many old traditions, travellers of all kinds, human or otherwise, must pass through a place where a keeper sees them. A warden. Someone who watches the coming and going. In Harold’s story, that is clearly the landlord."

I asked about Finch’s disorientation on return. “Well, his partial amnesia, or dreamlike recall, is not unusual, completely typical in fact” she said.

When I asked whether she believed Harold, Isla smiled.

“I don’t think belief is the right question,” she said. “This isn’t about whether something happened. It’s about the shape of what is remembered. Harold’s memories have the right shape. They fit into a tradition far older than he is. That’s what I find compelling.”

She paused, then added something I didn’t expect:

“If Harold had invented this story, deliberately or subconsciously, he’d have made himself the hero. Have some story about how he managed to escape, find his way back to here and now. People always do. But he didn’t. He was just… there. Then here again. That’s very unusual.”

hubert speaks

A silver path that only appears for half an hour? A village frozen in the 1930s, complete with laundry and steaming mugs of tea? Give me a break.

And the pub, of course, the magical tavern that’s both a crossroads and a sanctuary. Naturally, the landlord knows all and says nothing. Predictable. Classic trope. You could script it yourself.

Then there’s the hooded figure, standing outside like some gothic bouncer, dimming the fire with the power of his own melodrama?

Sure. I’ve seen things that don’t obey the ordinary rules. I’ll happily admit there are moments when the world doesn’t play fair. Strange lights in the woods, inexplicable sounds, objects moving on their own. Women that turn out to be immortal river goddesses. I know a bit about what might technically be called 'weird stuff'. And I say that while Harold’s story isn’t entirely without merit, he’s just telling the story his mind wants to tell.

Who knows where he really was all those years, but it wasn't in an enchanted village. Probably somewhere far less magical and far more mundane, doing something nefarious, messy, or embarrassing.

A parish by parish tour of the Chase

This week, Chalbury. But only part of it; it's another one of those "edge parishes".

chalbury (part of)

Chalbury, in Dorset, sits on the eastern edge of the Chase. Whilst the parish overlaps the Chase boundary, most of its area sits within it. However, of the population of about 140, most live in Chalbury Common, which lies outside the boundary.

The hamlet of Chalbury itself, perched on an eponymous hill, is small and peaceful and has a church with 13th century origins. The views from Chalbury Hill give a fine panorama to the south. The parish also includes Didlington, a tiny place down by the River Allen on the western border.

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

chalbury

Ah, Chalbury. Or, more accurately, that bit of the parish that actually lies within Cranborne Chase. Hubert finds himself once again required to write about a “part of” a parish. I despair. At least it's most of the parish this time, not some scrap of leftovers.

So, suppressing a quiet rage that yet another parish insists on having a split personality, let us begin our sorry tale.

Notable for

Chalbury Hill & All Saints’ Church

Also known as "the only features worth bothering with".

Chalbury Hill rises modestly above the parish, giving a view that some call “panoramic”. Yes, you can see the countryside. Yes, it’s very wide. No, the Isle of Wight appearing on the horizon does not make it interesting. It’s the Isle of Wight. The Dorset equivalent of spotting a celebrity: superficially impressive, spiritually disappointing.

At the summit sits All Saints’ Church, of 13th-century origins. There are 18th century box pews, a three-deck pulpit, and a musicians’ gallery that looks exactly as it did when someone in a wig last tried to keep a sermon under three hours. As for the rare box pews, I would observe that 18th-century backsides were apparently made of sterner stuff. The church is so unchanged that attending a service must feel like time travel, except instead of witnessing history, you simply acquire lower back pain.

During the Napoleonic Wars, Chalbury Hill served as a signalling station in the Admiralty’s semaphore chain. Messages flashed across the country at speeds unheard of. Thrilling.

Also notable for:

Didlington, a hamlet that's been recorded since AD 946, which means it’s had over a thousand years to become more interesting and has declined to do so. Now just a couple of houses and a millstone down by the river at the west end of the parish. Long on age, short on anything worth mentioning.

Mary Frances Billington, a notable (but not by me, never heard of her) journalist, was born in Chalbury in 1862. She went on to have a proper career involving cities and news and people doing things.

The River Allen flows quietly along parts of the western boundary. Clear, slow, and populated by trout, grayling, crayfish, and possibly the ghosts of dead anglers.

The Hardy Way threads through Didlington alongside the Allen. Hardy enthusiasts following the Way may imagine themselves exploring Wessex's finer points. Hubert imagines Hardy rolling his eyes from beyond the grave.

The woman on the path. Along the Hardy Way near Didlington I saw a woman leaning against a gnarled fence post, mist curling around the hem of her coat like she'd just hastily tucked her flask of steaming tea under there.

“You’re not from here,” she said, without looking.

“No,” said Hubert.

“I know you don’t belong. I’ll be watching.”

A kingfisher flashed past, I followed its flight into the bushes downstream. When I looked back the woman had gone, leaving only a wisp of steam and a scent of Earl Grey. I wondered whether she was sent to punish writers who report on 'part of' parishes. Seems likely.

Suggested Itinerary

Arrive

Roll in, preferably slowly, regretting the decision immediately.

Visit All Saints’ Church. Step inside. Marvel at the box pews. Wonder how anyone survives a sermon without modern back support.

See the view from Chalbury Hill. Go through the gate and stile from the churchyard. Survey the vista across southern Dorset. You may glimpse the Isle of Wight if conditions are merciful, or you may glimpse only clouds laughing at your optimism.

Head to Didlington then take a short stroll on the Chalbury parish section of the Hardy Way. Ignore any lightly steaming women you may encounter. If you smell oil of bergamot, turn back at once.

Peer at the River Allen. Observe the fish. Wonder if they know you're there. Realise you’re staring at water like a person who’s forgotten how entertainment works.

Look for something else to do. Fail. Sit on a stile. Eat a disappointing sandwich.
​

Leave, slightly concerned you may have accidentally enjoyed it. Tell friends you visited “a charming hidden corner of the Chase,” while privately acknowledging it was exactly what Hubert warned you about.

NEXT TIME: CHARLTON MUSGROVE

Prepare to be utterly underwhelmed.

That’s it for another week, so keep warm, keep dry, and mind the shadows as winter tightens its grip. Next week, expect a twist in the usual tales: Cedric will summon up the Tales from the Chase Christmas playlist, while Hubert is slipping off for a “winter break” somewhere suspiciously warm and sunlit. Whether he sends his guide before he disappears is anyone’s guess, or maybe we'll get it on a postcard. Or scrawled on a mysterious beermat.

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