Moorland Ramblings

Widecombe-in-the-Moor is A quaint little village found in the central moors. If (when) you visit, odds are the first thing you notice is the sprawling village green with its lonely metal bench and the village sign, which is probably the most famous in Dartmoor. From this spot, you will be able to admire the tor studded landscape that acts as a backdrop to the green, whilst reminiscing on the stories that are so closely associated with the location in which you sit, stories like the two below.

The Great Storm

If the village green isn’t the first thing you notice, then the Church will be. St Pancras church, also known as the Cathedral of the Moor, is the dominating feature of Widecombe-in-the-Moor. As to be expected with a building as stunningly commanding as this, the church has many stories associated with it, the most famous of which is the Great Strom.

On an October afternoon, in 1638, a great storm crossed the Moor. Terrified by the maelstrom that was raging above, the local moor folk sought shelter in one of two places. The pious folk of Widecombe-in-the-Moor sought shelter in the Church and the comfort of their God. Those from nearby Poundsgate, less concerned with the sanctity of their soul, took an approach more akin to that of Shaun Riley (of Shaun of the Dead fame) and went to the inn to grab a nice cold (probably more warm than cold to be honest) pint to “wait for all of this to blow over”.

Whilst the storm was raging, the locals in Poundsgate were regaling themselves with stories, passing on local gossip and singing songs to maintain spirits and push the threat of outside aside. As the merriment went on, the temperature dropped, the darkness became engulfing and the heavy, thick, low hanging clouds rolled in like boulders ready to crush anything in their path. Just when things seemed at their bleakest, the sound of approaching hooves was heard. Far from being a comforting familiarity in the face of the unknown storm, the sound of the pounding hooves marching on the cobblestones was unceasing, unnatural and even disturbing. Suddenly, no sooner had the sound of an approaching horse stopped, then a great pounding was heard on the door of the inn – one, two, three.

An uneasy, frightened hush fell over the inn with the locals, once so familiar now doing all they could to avoid eye contact with their neighbour, lest they be the one assigned to open the door. No further sound was heard, but despite the passing of a few minutes, the inn goers knew that the unwelcome guest remained stood in the rampant tempest. Eventually, with curiosity starting to replace fear, one of the locals courageously inched open a window and peered through. What he saw was a silhouette, black against the dark purple, swirling skies above, of a cloaked figure sitting atop a huge horse that was impatiently pawing at the ground. A booming voice was heard to order a flagon of cider. Quivering, the local closed the window and turned to the bar keeper expecting to be given the drink. All that was returned however was the blank faces of curiosity, as it became apparent that the voice was heard only by the brave local, despite its apparent command. Passing on the order, the local went to sit in the corner, not quite believing what he had seen and heard.

Trembling, the barkeeper opened the door to the inn to deliver the drink. The shadowed figure threw down two coins before draining the beverage in one gulp. Uncertainly, on collecting the gold and shutting the door, the barkeeper declared that the cider hissed as the strange rider drank it. With the door closed, the horse was heard to be galloping away, in the direction of Widecombe. As the sound of the hooves on the cobbles faded into obscurity, the storm appeared to lift and along with it, so did the spirits of the inn’s patrons, who began to speak of the Devil.

Over at the church of St Pancras, the pastor, having unexpectedly gained a full audience with nowhere to go, delivered a sermon, untroubled by the chaos evolving outside. The droning monotony of the preacher took its toll on a local boy, who gave in to the inexorable approach of sleep. As he drifted off, he was comforted by the rhythmical clopping of far-off hooves.

Now, it is well known that you shouldn’t fall asleep in church, as this affords the Devil an opportunity to claim your soul. Galloping though Widecombe with the intention of feeding his braying hounds at Dewerstone, the extraordinary horseman stopped by the church. Tethering his steed to the tower of the church, he peered in and seized the opportunity presented, seizing the sleeping child by the scruff of his neck. Remounting his horse, with his prey in his hands, the Devil kicked his horse and went on his way. In his haste to escape, the horse’s tether was unreleased, and as the powerful horse galloped off to the distance, the pinnacle of the tower was snapped in half. Inside, the congregation, were sent scampering as the church tower crashed through the roof, to the accompaniment of an incredible clap of thunder. Having tended to the injured, prepared the bodies of the dead, and cleaned up the aftermath, the only person left unaccounted for was a small boy, who was never seen again.

Widecombe Fair – Uncle Tom Cobley

The biggest day in the calendar of Widecombe-in-the-Moor is the famous Widecombe Fair. The annual fair, held on the second Tuesday in September, is synonymous with those found across the countryside, offering agricultural shows, horse jumping, rural crafts and more. Alongside the local fun, the fair has also spawned the creation of a famous folk song, which tells a simple enough story – seven men and a grey mare set off for Widecombe Fair, but before completing their journey the old horse becomes sick and dies.

“Tom Pearce, Tom Pearce, lend me your grey mare,

All along, down along, out along, lee,

For I want for to go to Widecombe Fair,

With Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney,

Peter Davy, Dan’l Whiddon, Harry Hawke,

Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all,

Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.”

“And when shall I see again my grey mare?”

All along, down along, out along, lee,

“By Friday soon, or Saturday noon,

With Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney,

Peter Davy, Dan’l Whiddon, Harry Hawke,

Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all,

Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.”

So they harnessed and bridled the old grey mare

All along, down along, out along, lee,

And off they drove to Widecombe fair,

With Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney,

Peter Davy, Dan’l Whiddon, Harry Hawke,

Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all,

Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.”

Then Friday came, and Saturday noon,

All along, down along, out along, lee,

But Tom Pearce’s old mare hath not trotted home,

With Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney,

Peter Davy, Dan’l Whiddon, Harry Hawke,

Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all,

Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.”

So Tom Pearce he got up to the top o’ the hill

All along, down along, out along, lee,

And he seed his old mare down a-making her will,

With Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney,

Peter Davy, Dan’l Whiddon, Harry Hawke,

Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all,

Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.”

So Tom Pearce’s old mare, her took sick and died,

All along, down along, out along, lee,

And Tom he sat down on a stone, and he cried

With Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney,

Peter Davy, Dan’l Whiddon, Harry Hawke,

Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all,

Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.”

But this isn’t the end o’ this shocking affair,

All along, down along, out along, lee,

Nor, though they be dead, of the horrid career

Of Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney,

Peter Davy, Dan’l Whiddon, Harry Hawke,

Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all,

Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.”

When the wind whistles cold on the moor of the night

All along, down along, out along, lee,

Tom Pearce’s old mare doth appear ghastly white,

With Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney,

Peter Davy, Dan’l Whiddon, Harry Hawke,

Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all,

Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.”

And all the long night he heard skirling and groans,

All along, down along, out along, lee,

From Tom Pearce’s old mare in her rattling bones,

With Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney,

Peter Davy, Dan’l Whiddon, Harry Hawke,

Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all,

Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.”