The taste of morning light on chalk, shape-shifting hares, and a post-office from another universe

18 June 2026

Welcome to issue 37 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, wanderers of the Chase

Summer's arriving on the downs. The landscape is still quite green after recent rain, but the light is changing. Walk the ridges now and catch the Chase before it all changes again.

In this edition Hubert visits East Knoyle and gives his verdict, including thoughts on dead architects, a sub post office of Ankh Morpork, an elite Victorian salon, witch-hares, a fancy dress party, and a giant dog with glowing eyes.

We also dive back into into the Forgotten Footpath Society archives, unearthing another visit to the Star and Lantern, a mysterious pub that's hard to find but somehow manages to stay open despite not having a fixed location. Or maybe because of that. New member Owen has a bit of an adventure.

So let’s see just how lost we can get this time. Scroll down slowly and enjoy the rambling.

The Star and Lantern: An interview that went too well

Searching the archives of the Forgotten Footpath Society is a rewarding, if occasionally unsettling, pastime. The records are full of odd encounters, hidden places, and happenings that resist straightforward explanation. Among these, the Star and Lantern has always stood out, the so-called 'phase pub' first documented in issue 15, and I've continued to look out for records of subsequent sightings.

One recently came to light, filed under 'Anomalous Establishments, overflow'. The notes were made by Rosalind Quaich on 15 June 2022, following what had begun as a routine walk from Berwick St John.

The weather was overcast, with a specific quality of grey that Rosalind noted as feeling 'deliberate'.

Four members attended, Rosalind acting as leader, plus Gerald, Pamela, and a new recruit named Owen. Owen had joined after responding to the society's notice in the shop in Sixpenny Handley, and this was his first walk. Owen said he'd been looking for the society for years. Gerald said the notice had only gone up the previous Tuesday.

The group were not intending to find the pub, although most experienced members always hoped they might. The notes from the first visit suggested that don't go looking was the best way to find it.

Somehow, they strayed from the path and in trying to find it again they went through a gap in a hedge and emerged into a clearing that was not on any map, in winter light that was several months out of season.

The pub was there, right in front of them, the sign reading The Star and Lantern, Est. ??? Smoke curled from the chimney.

A black horse was tethered outside. It turned its head and looked at Gerald for an uncomfortably long time.

"It recognises something," said Owen.

"It doesn't know me," said Gerald defensively.

The man by the wall

Then they saw the man, if man he was. He was crouched by the wall and wore a long coat the colour of lichen and boots that had seen many miles. His hat was wide-brimmed and looked damp. Rosalind noted: could be forty, could be four hundred, face that's been rained on a lot.

He was examining something in his palm. When the group approached he closed his hand around it.

"You came back," he said, without looking up.

"We haven't been before," said Pamela.

"That's not really what I mean," he said.

He turned to look at them and stood, and was taller than expected. The horse made a sound of acknowledgment. He put one hand on its flank without looking at it.

His name, offered unprompted and in a tone that suggested it might not be entirely accurate, was Aldric.

Rosalind asked if he was waiting for someone.

"Oh yes," he said, and looked at Owen for a moment that had some weight to it.

Inside

The group went into the pub. Rosalind, who had read the notes of the previous FFS visit several times, immediately recognised Elowen behind the bar. Elowen gave Rosalind a look that suggested she had been expecting this.

Silas was also there, writing something in a ledger. Gerald said hello. Silas put a hand over the page. At the far end of the bar, a woman in a dark coat was reading a newspaper dated from 1987.

"Are you open?" asked Pamela.

"For what?" said Silas.

Pamela said she meant for drinks. Silas tilted his head. Elowen brought them each a small glass of something golden without being asked.

"Gatekeeper's Gold?" asked Rosalind.

"Threshold Pale," said Elowen. "Similar principle. Different occasion."

Owen didn't touch his. Elowen noticed. The grain of the bar surface rippled slightly. In the corner, a man with his back to them was folding and refolding a map. Each time he unfolded it, it was a different place. When Rosalind looked back at the woman with the newspaper, she was watching Owen with an expression of recognition.

The compass

They were sitting at a table by the fire when Aldric came inside. He sat across from Owen and placed, carefully, on the tabletop between them, a compass. Small, brass, very old. The needle turned slowly, continuously, with great purpose.

"This has been doing that for many, many years," said Aldric. "Since it was taken from where it belongs."

Owen looked at it with an expression that Rosalind struggled to describe. Recognition was part of it. Reluctance was part of it. The rest, she noted, I can't account for yet.

"Where's that?" said Rosalind.

Aldric pulled a face. "Not so much where but who. An old one. The compass was made to find this someone, and it will, but the person who carries it has to be the right person. Otherwise it just..." he gestured. "Does that."

The woman with the newspaper was now watching them closely. The man with the map had stopped refolding it and was listening, head to one side, though his back remained turned.

"And Owen is the right person?" said Gerald.

"Owen was always going to be the right person," said Aldric. "I've been looking for someone the compass will settle for, and it's been unsettled for a very long time."

Owen said: "I found the FFS notice in the shop in Sixpenny Handley."

Aldric said: "Yes."

Owen said: "You put it there."

Aldric said: "I put it in a number of places. That one worked."

Gerald said, indignantly: "I put that notice up."

Aldric smiled at him and said: "Gerald. Yes. I know." The way he said it closed that line of enquiry with a kind of finality and authority, like a very old door that shuts without a sound.

Elowen arrived from nowhere with a piece of paper, which she set on the table. The writing on it was small and dense. Rosalind copied what she could. As she wrote, she became aware that the other customers had drawn slightly closer.

"Why not open it?" asked Pamela.

"Because it's not a compass," said Elowen.

A pause. The fire crackled. Silas's pen stopped scratching in his ledger.

"It's a compass," said Aldric at last, in the tone of someone contradicting a statement they made themselves. "But it's also something else. And the something else is not ready to be looked at yet."

"What happens if you open it?" said Rosalind.

Aldric and Elowen looked at each other. A conversation took place in that look which lasted approximately six seconds and covered a great deal of ground. Behind them, the woman with the newspaper had begun to smile to herself. The man with the map had turned slightly towards them.

"Just don't," said Aldric. "I don't want to have to start again." He said this with the exhaustion of someone describing something that had already happened at least once.

Owen's decision

Owen picked up the compass. The needle stopped moving.

It pointed. A fixed, certain, direction.

"That's good," said Aldric, quietly.

Owen looked at the direction the needle was pointing, at the back wall of the pub, but despite it's sturdy stone construction the wall didn't seem to feel this was an insurmountable problem. As he stared at it, Rosalind noticed the stone beginning to lighten almost imperceptibly.

The woman with the newspaper stood and folded it with great care. The man with the map had turned fully now, though Rosalind couldn't hold his face in her mind. Silas had closed his ledger. Elowen was watching Owen with an expression of deep admiration.

"Can I finish my drink first?" said Owen.

"The drink will wait," said Elowen.

Owen drank it anyway. Elowen's expression did not change, but there was something in the set of her shoulders that suggested approval.

He stood. The compass needle trembled slightly, as if recognising the moment. Aldric stood as well, and inclined his head in a gesture that might have been respect, or farewell, or both.

Owen walked toward the back wall. The other customers watched in absolute silence.

Then Owen was gone.

No one moved. Pamela's hand had gone to her mouth. Gerald was staring at the space where Owen had been. Elowen was clearing glasses. Silas had opened his ledger again. The woman with the newspaper had returned to her seat. The man with the map put it in a bag and left by the door. Everything continued as if nothing had happened.

Departure

They found themselves leaving the pub without having thought about it. Outside, they turned back towards the door, but the pub was gone. A horse whinnied in the distance.

The afternoon light was wrong. It had been mid-afternoon when they entered; now it felt like the hour before dusk, though the sun hadn't moved noticeably. Gerald checked his watch. It had stopped at 3:47.

Rosalind's notes on this said: We stood there for a moment. Pamela asked if we ought to wait. Gerald said he didn't know what for. We walked back to the car. We didn't talk much. The walk was 7.4 miles.

Proof

Rosalind found a note in her coat pocket the next day. It was written in handwriting that wasn't hers and wasn't anyone's she recognised.

He's going the right way. Don't worry.

E

Three days later she received a postcard showing Valley of the Rocks, North Devon. It was from Owen:

Starting here, heading south. Not sure where to, but found a friend. The compass knows the way. Will keep in touch!

Status of Owen

Pending clarification. Then a handwritten note: Returned 24 June 2022, sans compass, with the energy of someone who has thoroughly enjoyed a secret holiday. Had a pocketful of sea glass. Keeps staring at empty corners as if expecting something to happen. Debriefed immediately by Sylvia, the president. See President's Restricted Files for more details (by permission only). Includes full audio with transcripts.

Filed by: R. Quaich.

Needless to say I arranged to meet the President in the Queen's Head in Broad Chalke to ask about access to the Restricted Files. Despite a convivial exchange over a pint, the answer was a flat, unyielding no. Apparently, curiosity alone doesn't grant you the key to Sylvia’s locked desk.

When I left the pub, frustrated and empty-handed, I slid my hand into my pocket. My fingers brushed against something cold and smooth.

It was a piece of violet sea glass.

I certainly didn't pick it up or put it there. If I place it on my desk, it doesn't stay still; it slowly, imperceptibly slides west.

A parish by parish tour of the Chase

east knoyle

EAST KNOYLE

Ah, East Knoyle, home to around 680 or so lucky folk up in the northern half of the Chase. Small portions extend beyond the Chase boundary, where the landscape becomes marginally less self-conscious about its appearance, but we'll overlook that.

In many ways it's the standard Chase experience: Bronze Age burials, the course of a Roman road, evidence of Celtic horse-goddess worship (Epona, in case you're wondering), a Saxon cross, medieval buildings and several thousand years of people leaving things behind for archaeologists and historians to get excited about.

It's a parish of several settlements including not just East Knoyle village itself but also the hamlets of Holloway, Milton, The Green, Underhill and Upton, joined by a network of narrow, tree-lined roads. Sat-navs adore these roads. Visitors generally don't, although the lanes do meander charmingly. The charm is generally lost on first meeting a tractor coming the other way.

Personally, I think the parish is a bit much. Multiple hamlets, ancient lanes, cottages smothered in roses, a medieval church, and suspiciously photogenic views. There's only so much rustic charm a reasonable person can absorb. East Knoyle exceeds the recommended daily allowance. Maybe it’s trying too hard. But if you must visit, you'll find it sitting patiently just off the A350 north of Shaftesbury, en route to Warminster. Here is my guide to the place. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Notable for: The Christopher Wren obsession

The village’s absolute favourite thing to brag about is that Sir Christopher Wren, famed astronomer, geometrician, physicist, mathematician and architect (notably of St. Paul’s Cathedral in London), was born here on 20 October 1632. His dad was the rector. Now, Christopher's family had the good sense to pack up and move to Windsor when he was a toddler, way before his fame and fortune, but that hasn’t stopped the parish from erecting a massive memorial stone.

It is meant to mark Wren’s birthplace, which was apparently knocked down during a project to widen the road. Notably the plaque reads 'in a house near this spot', a phrase that manages to be both almost specific and yet also unhelpful. Historians may prefer greater precision. I'm sure it's out there if you'd care to look for yourself.

John Maine, a renowned, internationally acclaimed sculptor, lives in the village. He carved the Wren Stone that now sits near the birthplace memorial. It was unveiled in 2023 on the 300th anniversary of Wren's death. Wren himself would probably have approved. Portland stone was favourite of his.

Also notable

Links to Ankh Morpork. The village has a community-run shop, just across the road from Wren's memorial and the Wren Stone, called (in a flash of inspiration and originality) Wren's Shop. It was opened on 23rd June 2006 by author Terry Pratchett, who was a Chase resident, living not too far away over in the Chalke Valley (see issue 15 for more details). Many of you will be familiar with Pratchett's Discworld novels, and the odd cast of characters inhabiting the sprawling city of Ankh-Morpork.

The East Knoyle Post Office is located within the shop, and is officially licensed as a sub-Post Office of Ankh-Morpork. There is a certificate to this effect on the wall behind the Post Office counter. The Ankh-Morpork Post Office also issued first day covers to mark the opening of the shop. So, remarkably, we have a rare example of local history being both implausible and thoroughly documented at the same time.

Fancy plasterwork. Inside the Grade I listed St. Mary’s Church, you’ll find some elaborate 1639 plasterwork on the chancel walls, designed by Wren’s father (Dean Christopher Wren). The architectural historian Nikolaus Pevsner called it a “surprise and delight”, which is more polite than "absolutely unhinged."

Wren's dad had the plasterwork used as evidence against him at a trial during the Civil War, the Puritans considering it idolatrous. It's still there though, and the Puritans are long gone, proving that moral indignation is less resilient than decorative plaster.

Wren's dad had a few run-ins with the Roundheads, including when he was Dean at St Georges Chapel in Windsor, famously denying them the keys to prevent them looting the place. They later broke in anyway, but he managed to preserve some of the best stuff, like the records of the Order of the Garter, and King Edward's sword.

More recent additions to the church include a 20th century window by architect and artist Sir Ninian Comper, and a recent window that commemorates the millennium. Neither has yet been denounced by Parliament, although it is probably just a matter of time.

A weathered Saxon cross from somewhere between the 9th and 11th centuries is located in the churchyard. Local folklore says travelling monks used to preach here before the church was built. Doubled up as a convenient scratching post for medieval sheep.

If you do go looking for it, it's hiding behind a yew tree and other vegetation right at the western edge of the yard, almost flush with the wall of an adjacent cottage. Once an important feature of parish life, now hiding in a shrubbery. It happens to us all.

Teleporting church bells. Local myth claims that the Devil, or perhaps some local witches, used to steal the heavy bells at night to stop them from warding off evil spirits, only for them to “miraculously” reappear in the tower by morning. Well, the universe can be a weird, dark place, but this sounds less like the forces of darkness and more like an overactive imagination. Waking up in the morning to find the bells in the tower would usually be deemed entirely normal. Why anyone should think they are only there because someone has, by some miracle, retrieved them from a nocturnal supernatural heist (which no-one witnessed) is beyond me. It's almost as if they never left.

Clouds House, a 19th-century mansion that became the headquarters for “The Souls.” This was an elite, late-Victorian social group of politicians and artists. One member, Wilfred Scawen Blunt, described the Souls as an "interesting group of clever men and pretty women....bent on pleasure, but pleasure of a superior kind". They prized intelligence and aesthetic refinement, and were patrons of the arts.

In reality, they just invented their own brand of stuffiness, which seems to have involved spending entire weekends doing intense soul-searching poetry readings and playing superior parlour games. Horrifying.

These days Clouds House is a treatment centre for drug and alcohol dependence. Which, depending on your view of Victorian intellectual salons, may represent less of a change in function than first appears.

A spectral black dog. These phantom hounds with glowing eyes travel silently along the old tracks in the area. While historical wimps feared them as dark omens, other tales say they actually guided lost travellers through the treacherous downland mists. Given the choice between chatting with the locals or being guided through a thick fog by a glowing, demonic hound, I’d take the dog every single time.

The witch-hares. Local legend claims that if you shoot a hare at night, the same injury will appear on a local recluse the next day. This tells us rather less about hares than it does about people. Whenever something strange happened, people looked around for the person who kept to themselves and decided they were probably responsible. As a fellow recluse, I find this deeply offensive. We already have a difficult enough public image without centuries of folklore insisting we're all shape-shifting into hares after dark.

The Fox & Hounds, a pub up at The Green, is currently closed, but it may open temporarily before the summer is out. The pub's future beyond that remains uncertain. If the locals can raise enough money, it may yet become a community-owned venture. This is usually presented as an uplifting story of local resilience. It can also be interpreted as a sign that nobody else thinks running a village pub is a viable business. It remains possible that it will join the growing list of rural pubs remembered fondly by people who haven't been inside for years.

The Windmill, up on Windmill Hill, doesn’t have sails anymore, which is a metaphor for the whole place, really. There's still something to look at, but not much going on.

Folklore says old millers were viewed with deep suspicion because they worked late by the power of the wind and allegedly possessed “magical” understandings of the weather. Translation: they were anti-social weirdos who kept odd hours and looked at clouds a lot. My kind of people, frankly.

The Wren Shop's 20 year anniversary celebration and parish beacon lighting happens this year, on Saturday 4 July at the Windmill. Bar, food, live music, and fancy dress (go as your music hero).

I hate fancy dress and celebrations on principle. However, if I were to attend maybe I'd go as Howard Devoto. Left the Buzzcocks before they became famous, made intelligent and occasionally difficult music with Magazine, and spent much of his career looking irritated. I can do that. Or maybe Peter Gabriel from Foxtrot-era Genesis, wearing a long red dress and a foxes head. Maybe I should do a poll.

Summary

So there you have it. East Knoyle. Come for the dead architect, stay for the fancy dress party, and keep your eyes peeled for the giant dog with glowing eyes. Are you actually planning on visiting this place? Very well, do it. Many people spend a lot of their time trying to distinguish fact from fiction. East Knoyle doesn't seem especially concerned by the distinction. Facts are important and deserve respect, but good stories can be more fun.

NEXT TIME: EBBESBOURNE WAKE

Prepare to be underwhelmed.

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