Twisted garlands of leaves and thorns, eyes the colour of milk

22 October 2026

Welcome to issue 46 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

Here in the Chase, the first storm of the season is expected imminently. The skies are darkening, the trees are bracing themselves, and somewhere a poorly supervised garden chair is about to begin an unexpected journey.

In this issue, we delve once more into the archives of the Forgotten Footpath Society for a seasonal tale involving some mild peril, and the sort of encounter that tends to leave the participants reluctant to discuss it afterwards. Unless you're Mad Geoff.

Meanwhile, Hubert’s visit to Great Wishford concludes with a strange encounter of his own. Hubert is not a man easily perturbed, but even he occasionally finds himself wishing he had stayed at home. Or, at the very least, chosen a different path.

So batten down the hatches, keep the cat indoors, and if something taps at the window after dark, just ignore it. Things blown in by the storm don't always get blown away again.

Hooves beneath swirling skirts

The Forgotten Footpath Society’s annual October night walk has, over the years, produced a number of reports that the Society would probably prefer not to have produced at all. This is one of them.

What follows is drawn from the field notes of Elspeth Thorne, Society President, written up after the walk and filed in the archive without amendment. I have respected the Archivist’s decision not to correct them, although I have questions. Geoff, meanwhile, has asked that his objection to the word obsession be formally recorded. It has been. Whether this will satisfy him remains to be seen.

THE FORGOTTEN FOOTPATH SOCIETY Archive of Field Records

Ref: FFS/FN/2023/10. Date: 19 October 2023

Series: Field Notes, Annual Night Walk

Author: E. Thorne, President

Party: Elspeth, Geoff, Honey, Barnaby, Theo, Maude, Cedric (7)

Advertised destination: Grovely Wood

Actual destination: See text

Conditions: Dry. Waxing crescent. Lanterns and lamps as per Rule 4

Status: Unverified. Samples retained.

Our annual October night walk is Geoff’s particular obsession. Every year, he devises a route through some suitably ancient stretch of the Chase, gathers a handful of willing participants after dark, and sets off in the hope of encountering something that cannot be explained by reference to weather, wildlife, poor eyesight, or an unfortunate combination of all three.

This year, we visited a village that should not exist in this world.

I should clarify that this was not the advertised destination. The advertised destination was up in Grovely Wood, where Geoff assured us there were “some very interesting possibilities” arising from a linear ditch and bank, a hollow oak, and a spot where his compass had behaved oddly during a walk last March.

I arrived at the designated parking area early, soon to be joined by Honey, Barnaby, Geoff, Theo and Maude.

By eight o’clock our little group stood in a ragged circle, illuminated by a variety of lamps and lanterns, a smoking constellation of naked flames, oil fumes, and melted wax.

Geoff called us to order by rapping his knuckle against his lantern glass and gave the standard safety briefing; if you see a light that isn't one of ours, do not follow it. If you feel a sudden drop in ambient temperature, do not stop walking, and stay on the path. If you hear bells or music, likewise.

“Somewhere over there” he gestured vaguely behind him, “I suspect the veil is thin.”

Cedric looked confused. Barnaby and Theo exchanged glances and eye rolls. Maude swished her cloak.

Geoff went on to explain that, should we encounter an entity, he would lead the conversation. We were not to engage it in small talk. Honey was to keep her sample tins ready, Cedric was to log the time, and Barnaby was to mark our location on the map.

He then strode off into the dark, the party following.

The first half hour passed without incident, unless one counts Geoff falling into a ditch while attempting to follow a moth. Honey scraped a sample of black slime from his sleeve into one of her tiny tins, and Maude passed round a bag of homemade elderberry bonbons.

The path narrowed as we turned off the main track and entered the deep wood. The trees stood close together, and a dense canopy blocked out what little light came from the waxing crescent moon and some faint stars.

Then we heard a bell (Cedric recorded this at 20.39. After that his watch stopped working). One slow, heavy stroke. Deep, hollow, and impossibly close.

Geoff stopped so abruptly that I walked straight into his back.

“The parish church in Steeple Langford ought to be about two miles to the north,” Barnaby observed. “There shouldn't be a bell that large any closer.”

“Unless we aren't where we think we are,” Honey suggested.

Geoff was already moving towards the sound.

The trees thinned. Beyond the last line of dark trunks lay a village beneath a full moon and a sky full of strange bright stars.

There were thatched stone cottages clustered around a green. Smoke curled from chimneys, though it appeared to me that some of it drifted downwards before disappearing into the ground. A cat sat on a wall watching us.

A man crossed the green carrying a bundle of sticks. He glanced at us without apparent surprise, then stopped to catch his shadow, which had wandered off in the opposite direction.

A woman in a white apron was sweeping her doorstep. She had gathered a small heap of darkness beside the door.

“New people,” she called to someone inside. “And they've brought their own night.” (or knight, I did not ask).

A woman appeared from inside carrying a tray of little glass bowls. Her hair was pinned up with what looked like small silver fish. Her eyes were wide and bright, intense blue in colour.

“Come along,” she said. “You're just in time.”

We were led towards a long table on the green. It was laden with plates and dishes, though very little of what it contained resembled food.

There were bowls of black liquid, a dish of pale blue flames, a tureen of fog with a pewter ladle, and several translucent pears. There was a bowl of chalk, grated like parmesan, and one of flint flakes, each bowl with its own silver serving spoon. A jug contained a grey cloud, which occasionally flashed and produced a brief rumble of thunder. Beside it stood a plate of what looked like thin slices of moonlight.

Geoff asked our hostess what the occasion was.

“The Bidden Feast, of course,” she said. “You must eat something. It would be rude to leave without having tasted anything.”

I explained that we had not expected to dine, and that we had no idea where we were.

She waved this aside. People were always arriving without knowing where they were, she said.

Honey was examining a bowl of black liquid. She asked whether the contents were naturally occurring, and took out a specimen bottle.

I told her to put it away.

At the far end of the table, an old man was searching beneath the dishes. He was dressed in a long brown coat and had a beard full of tiny, dried leaves.

He looked deeply troubled. He had put it down somewhere, he explained, and now he couldn't remember where. He'd had it only a moment ago.

Maude suggested he look in his pockets.

He did so, producing a dead beetle, a wooden spoon, and a small brass key that turned slowly in his palm.

“It's always the same,” he muttered. “You put something down, and the next thing you know, it's Friday.”

Cedric, meanwhile, had accepted a glass of something silver and sparkling from a young woman with bright blue eyes. He held it up to the moonlight.

“What's in it?” he asked.

“Yesterday's rain,” she replied.

He went to take a sip, and I stopped him. “Everybody, no eating or drinking,” I announced loudly. No one openly objected.

Geoff had picked up one of the translucent pears and was turning it over in his fingers. Our hostess advised him that it was best eaten whole, without chewing.

He glanced at me, looking annoyed, and went to raise it to his mouth. I gave him my sternest look and he slipped it into his pocket.

The feast continued around us. The villagers ate and drank, passed dishes to one another. A woman was licking the dish of blue flames, pausing occasionally for it to relight.

Then the bell rang again.

Our hostess smiled at us.

“It's time for the dance.”

The villagers formed a loose circle around the well. Music began, seeming to come from the well, the branches of the tree beside the green, and somewhere beneath the earth. It was a strange, lilting tune, familiar enough to make me think I had heard it in childhood, though I could not recall where or when.

The villagers began to dance.

“Stay where you are,” I told the others, quietly but firmly. “Nobody joins in. If anyone asks you to dance, you politely decline. We don't know where we are, who these people are, or what happens to those who dance with them. I have no intention of finding out by experiment.”

At first it resembled an ordinary country dance. Couples joined hands and moved around the green, turning and stepping in time with the music. But gradually the movements became stranger. Some dancers drifted sideways without moving their feet.

The woman who had been licking the blue flame began to waltz with a tall, thin figure whose head was a cluster of white flowers. A little girl danced with her own reflection, which had climbed out of the well wearing a different dress. Maybe they were just twins.

Then the music changed. The moon dropped lower in the sky. The cottages seemed to slide slowly around the green, as though the entire village were turning on a great invisible wheel. The dancers moved faster and faster. Their clothing seemed to alter as they turned. The colours changed. Bright ribbons became twisted garlands of leaves and thorns. I thought I saw hooves beneath the swirling skirts, but whenever I looked directly, there were only shoes. Several dancers appeared to have horns. I cannot say whether these were part of their costume or not.

Maude had begun to sway in time with the music, swooshing her cloak to the rhythm. I took hold of her arm.

“Don't,” I said.

She looked at me vaguely, as though she had forgotten who I was. But she stopped.

“It's only a dance,” Geoff murmured.

“Then you won't mind just watching.”

For a moment I thought he might argue. Then the music changed again, and a woman in a red dress turned towards us. Her face seemed to shift as she moved, features sliding fractionally out of place before settling again around eyes of an intense, unnatural blue.

She held out her hand to Geoff.

“You mustn't keep us waiting,” she said.

Geoff looked as though Christmas had come early.

He smiled back and went to take her hand.

“Geoff,” I said.

He stopped. “I haven't done anything.”

The woman continued to hold out her hand. Her smile did not alter. Around her, the dancers moved in strange, effortless circles. The music seemed to be coming from everywhere now. I became aware that my feet were tapping in time with it. I planted them firmly on the ground.

“Whatever happens,” I told Geoff, “we do not dance.”

The woman tilted her head. For a moment, her blue eyes rested on me, and her smile widened by a fraction.

“As you wish,” she said.

She lowered her hand, turned, and slipped back into the circling dancers. Her red dress flared as she spun, and within seconds I could no longer distinguish her from the others.

Geoff watched her go with evident regret.

I turned to see Cedric watching his feet. His shadow had joined the dance. It was moving independently of him, turning and stepping with a grace that Cedric himself had never demonstrated. Every so often it appeared to pause, as though inviting him to join in.

Cedric remained where he was.

I was grateful for this small display of restraint.

The music reached a crescendo and ended. Every dancer stopped at once, their faces turned towards the well.

For a moment, all was silent.

Then the bell rang once.

The dancers bowed to one another.

The woman with the silver hairpins came over to us and thanked us for attending. She seemed particularly pleased that we had stayed until the end. She told us the dance had been especially good this year. “We had wondered whether we would have any visitors at all,” she said. “We do hope you'll come again.” Her face seemed to change briefly then settled, her intense blue eyes flickering.

I said that we ought to be going.

She nodded. “Best be off, then. The path doesn't stay long.”

Beyond the cottages, where the windows were going dark one by one, there was only darkness beneath the enormous moon.

The villagers were dispersing, fading as they moved into the shadows and then vanishing altogether. The old man with the beard full of leaves took one last look into the well, and disappeared into the darkness beneath the tree.

Then the moon flickered, went out, and the village was gone.

We stood in silence in the wood. The moon above us was a thin crescent. The faint stars were familiar. Somewhere in the undergrowth, a fox barked.

Geoff expressed profound satisfaction.

I reminded him that we had no idea where we had been, what we had witnessed, or whether we had actually been anywhere at all.

He agreed that these were interesting questions and suggested that we might return same time next year.

I declined to respond.

Maude discovered something caught in the lining of her cloak: a small silver leaf, delicate as foil but veined like a real leaf. She had no idea how it had got there. Honey was immediately interested and, after some hesitation, Maude handed it over for safekeeping. Honey placed it in a specimen tin.

Our return trip was straightforward and uneventful. The cars were where we had left them, although they were covered in a fine dust that none of us could identify. Honey took a sample for analysis.

Archivist's note: Notes received 20 October, in Miss Thorne's hand. Page three carries lantern soot and a stain consistent with elderberry.

The church at Steeple Langford was checked. There are in fact six bells. The largest tenor bell is deemed not deep enough to correlate with the sound heard.

Sample tins and bottles H/1 to H/4 were submitted for analysis. The black slime is ordinary organic slime. The dust from the vehicles remains unclassified. Honey has asked that the word "unclassified" be underlined. Other samples include well water, but the mineral profile does not match any known local source.

Also a silver leaf was found attached to Maude’s cloak. The leaf appears metallic but is neither foil nor any recognised metal alloy. Its shape does not correspond to any known botanical species.

Honey requested permission to keep it in her possession overnight for further observation. Permission was refused.

One translucent pear is unaccounted for, last seen heading into Geoff’s pocket. He denies this.

Cedric reports his watch stopped at 20.39.

Cross-reference: FFS/FN/2023/10a (Maps and Time Log). Both are incomplete. Not to be repeated. Noted that it will be.

A parish by parish tour of the Chase

great wishford

GREAT WISHFORD

Ah, Great Wishford. A parish with an admirable woodland and a village on the wrong side of the tracks. I mean literally; the Chase boundary is formed by a railway line, and places the village outside the Chase. Over there there's a church, a school and various claims to importance. All very well. None of it my concern.

What I’m left with is mostly chalk downs, woodland, earthworks and the unsettling suggestion that the dead left stuff behind, some of which we may not want.

Most notable for: Grovely Wood​
Most of the large area of woodland we now call Grovely Wood is beyond the parish boundary, mainly in Barford St Martin and Dinton. Only some of the eastern fringes and a small block known as Heath Wood is in Great Wishford.

Nevertheless, Great Wishford has a significant link with the wider Wood. Every 29 May, Great Wishford celebrates Oak Apple Day when the villagers assert their rights to fallen timber, green boughs, grazing, nuts and acorns in what was once the Royal Forest of Grovely. The Forest Court confirmed these privileges in 1603 or thereabouts.

In a nutshell, on Oak Apple Day the villagers gather branches from the Wood at dawn then go to Salisbury Cathedral and shout the Grovely Cry:

"Grovely! Grovely! Grovely and all Grovely!"

It is a robust approach to legal administration. Some people employ solicitors. Others prefer to shout in cathedrals. Both seem to be effective, although I’m not sure this has been fully tested.

Also notable.

The Nitch Ladies, so-called because they carry bundles of sticks or green boughs called nitches. They are part of Oak Apple Day, and so are part of the assertion of the villagers' woodland rights.

Their duties are considerable, though not, so far as I can determine, especially hazardous, although apparently it involves a fair amount of wandering about with oak boughs on their heads, which sounds less than comfortable.

In the morning, they accompany the villagers to Salisbury Cathedral, where they perform a traditional dance outside the North Porch. One assumes this is intended to put the clergy in the appropriate frame of mind.

Following the dance, the procession enters the cathedral and assembles before the high altar. There, the ladies join in as the villagers loudly proclaim the Grovely Cry, formally maintaining their woodland rights for another year.

Back in the village, the Nitch Ladies lead the annual village parade, and dance again to inaugurate the community fete. Presumably after this they are at liberty to put down their oak boughs having spent the day dancing, parading and defending the villagers’ legal rights with considerable foliage.

I assume that to be selected as a Nitch Lady is a significant local honour. Quite right, too.

There is, however, a historical wrinkle. The Nitch Ladies are associated with a tradition of women resisting attempts to deprive the villagers of their woodland privileges. Yet women were not allowed to take part in the Salisbury procession until 1894, and even then were not permitted to join the Oak Apple Club itself. It turns out the men of Great Wishford were more than happy to let women help to defend their rights, so long as they didn't expect any.

Grovely Ditch, sometimes called Grim's Ditch, forms part of the parish boundary in Heath Wood.

Sometimes people wanted to keep something in. Sometimes they wanted to keep something out.

Occasionally, one suspects, they were trying to achieve both.

The ditch is old. Its makers are gone. The reason for its construction has been lost, and, in the Chase, the distinction between history and superstition is not always as clear as one might wish.

There are places in the Chase where an ancient bank seems less like a boundary than a warning. The trees grow close, the light behaves badly. The Wood can be perfectly ordinary by daylight. It is the sort of place where one might walk for a while, admire the trees and return home with nothing more sinister than mud on one’s boots.

After dusk, the same walk may acquire a different character. Sounds carry oddly. Paths seem to lead a little further than they ought. And there is sometimes the distinct impression that one has crossed a line without being able to say precisely where.

If you find yourself in the Wood after dark, I recommend staying on the path. Do not follow lights between the trees, answer voices calling from the other side of the ditch, or assume that a familiar path will necessarily take you where it did in daylight.

Above all, do not cross the boundary merely because something on the far side appears to be waiting for you.

And if you hear someone calling your name from the other side, do not answer. If the voice sounds familiar, be particularly wary. The Chase has no shortage of things that can imitate the living, and not all of them are nice to meet.

And should you hear your own voice calling from across the ditch, I suggest you leave the wood at once.

You have no business being in two places at once.

I have no evidence for any of this, naturally. I do, however, know better than to cross the ditch after sunset.

Ebsbury, up on the downs next to the Wood, is an Iron Age settlement and possible hillfort, according to archaeologists.

"Hillfort" encourages visitors to imagine besieged warriors, heroic last stands and a great deal of shouting. It may have been defensive. It may have been social, economic or symbolic. It may have been all of these, which is how most buildings turn out.

What remains is a collection of grassy lumps, banks and mounds. Archaeologists find them thrilling. Archaeologists find most things thrilling. It is how they cope. But apparently people lived and died here, even though they did not leave a helpful note about what they thought they were doing.

The temptation to fill the gaps is real. Stand on an old bank at dusk, look across to the woodland edge, and it is easy to imagine figures between the trees. Fires where no houses stand. Voices in a language nobody has spoken for two thousand years.

The Romans came later, as they do. Somebody buried two hoards of coins here, in earthenware pots, with the remains of a glass vessel and six silver rings. The latest coin dates from 408, right at the ragged edge of Roman Britain's collapse, just before the legions marched away forever.

Older still, the same excavations turned up a Neolithic mace-head. Someone had been here, and left something, long before there were piles of earth to leave it in.

As twilight falls over Ebsbury, it is hard to shake the feeling that whatever lived here before the ramparts fell never entirely left.

Heading home

Near the woodland margin my path crossed a damp, sunken dip in the earth. Sprawled across the base of an old beech root was a massive, monstrous ruffle of fungus, a layered rosette the size of a dustbin lid.

I now know it was a Giant Polypore, although it looked less like a mushroom and more like something ancient that had crawled out to keep watch over the path.

Sitting on a mossy log right beside it was a man wearing a tailored three-piece suit of an indeterminate, muddy grey. He had no shoes on, only thick, grey woollen socks caked in damp earth. He had a silver tea tray on his lap, upon which sat a single, unadorned porcelain teacup.

"Good evening," I said.

The man did not look up immediately. He was staring intently at the fungus.

"It’s breathing, you know," he said.

"It’s a fungus. It does not possess lungs."

"Not lungs, no," the man agreed smoothly, finally turning his head. His eyes were the colour of milk and he had no eyebrows to speak of. “Every fold takes a little sip of the dark."

I decided I needed to change the subject.

"You appear to be missing your footwear."

"I left them in 1904," the man said, taking a small, delicate sip from his empty teacup. He made a faint swallowing sound. "Tell me, sir... do you happen to have the time?"

I looked at my watch. It was ticking, but the second hand was executing a tiny, nervous dance back and forth over the figure 6 without advancing.

"It is... roughly twenty past five," I lied smoothly.

"Fascinating," the man murmured. "How quaint."

Then he smiled and nodded at the fungus. "It says your blood tastes like stewed tea and cold gravy. Very traditional."

I stared at him for a long second. He stared back with what I can only describe as a hungry expression. Then I set off down the track at pace. Behind me, there was a soft, wet crunch followed by the musical clink of porcelain on a tray. I did not look back.

NEXT TIME: GUSSAGE ALL SAINTS

The first of the Gussages. I'm afraid November will be all Gussage.

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