Oxfordshire Folk Tales E-Book

Kevan Manwaring

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 278

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

Ride a cock horse to Banbury Cross and listen to the tales of this ancient county. Hear how a King and his knights were turned to stone at the mysterious Rollright Stones; how Dragon Hill got its name; take the Devil's Highway to the End of the World - if you dare; or spend a night on the weird Ot Moor; listen in on the Boar's Head Carol; walk the oldest trackway in Europe in the footsteps of a Neolithic pilgrim; pause to try the Blowing Stone; leave a coin for the enigmatic blacksmith to shoe your horse at Wayland's Smithy; eavesdrop upon the Inklings in the Eagle and Child; and meet that early fabulist, Geoffrey of Monmouth in the city of dreaming spires. This collection will take you on an oral tour across the county - on the way you'll meet gypsies, highwaymen, cavaliers, a prime minister and a devilish mason.

Leseprobe

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thank you to: Jennifer Horsfall (for her support and good listening skills); Anthony Nanson and Kirsty Hartsiotis (for conjuring spirits of place with me); Karola Renard and Mark Hassall (turning the wheel in Bonn); David Phelps (for kick-starting this great series); David Metcalfe (host of the Bath Storytelling Circle); Wayland the Skald (forging words at the Smithy); all the tellers and the listeners over the centuries who have kept these tales alive; Matilda Richards and The History Press; and Oxfordshire – for being such an inspiring county.

CONTENTS

Title

Acknowledgements

Introduction

Map of Oxfordshire

Song: As I was Going to Banbury

One

Ride a Cock Horse

Two

The White Horse of Uffington

Three

Dragon Hill

Four

Wayland the Smith

Five

The Raven of Sinodun Hill

Six

On Holy Ground – The Rollright Stones

Seven

Geoffrey the Storyteller

Eight

The Three Plagues

Nine

The Scholar and the Boar

Ten

The Dragon Cup

Eleven

Frideswide and the Treacle Well

Twelve

Spanish Water

Thirteen

A Gift of Water

Fourteen

The Snow Foresters

Fifteen

The White Hare

Sixteen

The Highwaymen of Wychwood Forest

Seventeen

Mollie and the Captain

Eighteen

Fair Rosamund’s Bower

Nineteen

Down by a Crystal River Side

Twenty

The Oxford Student

Twenty-one

Washington and the Cherry Tree

Twenty-two

The Weavers of Witney

Twenty-three

Mowing Yarnton Meadows

Twenty-four

The Otmoor Uprising

Twenty-five

The Roofs of Burford

Twenty-six

The Fisherman and His Wife

Twenty-seven

The Skeleton in the Cellar

Twenty-eight

The Strange Case of Anne Green

Twenty-nine

The Headless Stepson

Thirty

The Ghost of Crake’s School

Thirty-one

The Legend of St Fremund

Thirty-two

Alfred, Son of Wantage

Thirty-three

The Blowing Stone

Thirty-four

The King under the Hill

Thirty-five

Old Scrat in Oxfordshire

Thirty-six

Friar Bacon and the Brazen Head

Thirty-seven

The Cavalier Room

Thirty-eight

The Angel of the Thames

Thirty-nine

Taproom Tales

Forty

The Rabbit Room

Bibliography

Copyright

INTRODUCTION

As a child and young man growing up in Northampton, Oxfordshire was the ‘special world’ – in contrast to my very ‘ordinary’ one – just over the county border. Beyond what seemed (at the time) like a prosaic place to live, things got more picturesque and interesting in a south-westerly direction: the beautiful spire of Bloxham was a heartening site as one wended down the winding lanes towards the Cotswolds. Red brick turned to golden limestone. Banbury became my ‘Bree’ – and the Prancing Pony was the fine lady upon her cock horse, now immortalised in a splendid statue by the Cross. The Rollright Stones were the first stone circle I came to know; the nearest Neolithic monument to home, the first glimpse of prehistory and another way of being. I have visited it many times, and have had several magical moments there, often quietly communing with the Whispering Knights, the King’s Stone or the King’s Men. These ancient gnarled menhirs acted as kindling to my imagination.

The further south-west one went, the prettier it seemed to get. The charming towns of Chipping Norton, Stow-on-the-Wold, Burford and Moreton-in-Marsh waited. The hills got more dramatic – the Fosseway providing a free rollercoaster on my two wheels, as I crisscrossed the county countless times, visiting my old home town from the West Country where I settled in my late twenties. From Bath, and later, Stroud, the route across the Cotswolds was always my way back to my roots, and so I have probably traversed Oxfordshire more than any other county in England. It has become familiar to me, but still retains that special ‘threshold’ quality – it is a zone of transition for me, abutting as it does both my old home county (Northamptonshire) and my new one (Gloucestershire): near enough to be familiar, but far enough to be deemed as a place with a numinous atmosphere.

Sacred places that seem attainable have always held a special allure for me – my favourite stories are, so often, because the ‘gateway’ they provide seems imminent and accessible (e.g. in Mythago Wood by Robert Holdstock, Ryhope Wood – a small fragment of ancient woodland which feels tantalisingly close – could be Yardley Chase, an outlier of a wildwood that once stretched to the south coast). As I child ‘I longed for scenes where man has never trod’, as I followed in the footsteps of peasant poet, John Clare, who was interred in my home town. Exploring my neck of the woods – the ‘spinneys’ and gentle hills that demarcated the edge of my world – I searched for secret pathways; for roads less travelled.

In the selection of these stories I have eschewed the mainstream and explored the green lanes and hollow-ways of Oxfordshire’s oral tradition – as recorded by the likes of Ruth Tongue and Katherine M. Briggs, who lived in the area. On my two wheels, or on two feet, I have visited all the places featured, often several times. Some, like the White Horse of Uffington, have been engraved upon my soul from years of pilgrimage (I once walked the Ridgeway to it – and beyond – to Avebury). If there is a good folk tale I have pounced upon it, and done my best to revivify it in my own voice – this has often followed a live performance. My preferred methodology was to strip the tale down to the ‘bones’ and then perform it to an audience, before committing it to a text version. If this was not possible, I have, at the very least, ‘performed’ it to myself – many times in situ, as a way of giving thanks to the original source of inspiration and checking that the tale evokes the spirit of the place accurately. Two significant shows where these tales were road-tested were: the ‘Turning the Wheel’, a bilingual storytelling performance which took place with fellow tellers Karola Renard, Mark Hassall and Anthony Nanson at Bonn Central Library, Germany, on Twelfth Night, 5th of January 2012; and ‘Spirits of Place’, with Anthony Nanson (Gloucestershire Folk Tales) and Kirsty Hartsiotis (Wiltshire Folk Tales) at Hawkwood College, near Stroud, on St George’s Day, 23rd of April, the same year. Others were tested at the Bath Storytelling Circle and similar events. Thus, the narrative style is informed by an authentic and individualistic style of oral delivery. I hope this brings them alive on the page, but does not exclude the reader/teller to perform them in their own way.

Where only a scrap or two of folklore existed I have fermented it in my imagination to create a folk tale around it. This, I feel, is exactly the process that storytellers have been engaged in over the millennia. The first ‘versions’ of these tales were possibly created in just the same way; an unusual feature or phenomenon providing the grit in the oyster to the local fabulist. Nature abhors a vacuum and so does the human imagination and where there is a lack of facts, we have an instinct to fill in the gaps with narrative invention (‘Here be dragons’). I haven’t imposed a story of my own upon a place, only selecting places that already have a folkloric focal point. My imagining of the tale of place is merely an addition to the secretion of narrative I have found already occurring there, a conversation I have joined in with. And in this way, the landscape is mythologised and the storytellers who have inhabited this county (and been inhabited by it) conjure a dreamtime from the windings of the rainbow serpent of the tongue, the hearth, the heart and the listener’s attention. The traditional and contemporary merge in the moment of the telling. The ancient becomes topical. The ‘there’ becomes ‘here’; the ‘then’ becomes the ‘now’. We become part of the tale and the tale becomes a part of us.

Having learnt these stories to recreate in an extempore fashion, organically, in the moment, I feel I have a ‘moveable county’ within me now: my own version of Oxfordshire – selective, subjective; coloured, no doubt, by my predilections and peccadilloes. It feels like an interesting place to visit and I’ll keep returning there, every time I tell one of these tales.

If this collection whets your appetite and encourages you to explore the county and become your own ‘folk tale hunter’, then it will have succeeded. May it deepen your appreciation of what is a beautiful area, the very quintessence of England – a meadpit for kings and warriors; saints and scholars; highwaymen and rogues; ghosts and cavaliers; merchants and tinkers; future prime ministers and presidents; wise women and wizards; mistresses and storytellers – the crossroads of history where treasure can be found in both the great and the small; the lauded and the neglected; the glimmering fragment in the hedgerow; the time-worn feature, hiding in plain sight.

X marks the spot.

Kevan Manwaring, Stroud, 2012

ILLUSTRATIONS

The map here (with the exception of the coat of arms) and all line drawing illustrations are by the author (© 2012).

AS I WAS GOINGTO BANBURY

As I was going to Banbury

Ri-fol la-ti-tee O

As I was going to Banbury

I saw a fine codling apple tree

With a ri-fol la-ti-tee O

And when the codlings began to fall

Ri-fol la-ti-tee O

And when the codlings began to fall

I found five hundred men in all.

With a ri-fol la-ti-tee O.

And one of the men I saw was dead,

Ri-fol la-ti-tee O

And one of the men I saw was dead

So I sent for a hatchet to open his head.

With a ri-fol la-ti-tee O.

And in his head I found a spring,

Ri-fol la-ti-tee O

And in his head I found a spring

And seven young salmon a-learning to sing

With a ri-fol la-ti-tee O.

And one of the salmon as big as I,

Ri-fol la-ti-tee O

And one of the salmon as big as I

Now do you not think I am telling a lie?

With a ri-fol la-ti-tee O.

And one of the salmon as big as an elf,

Ri-fol la-ti-tee O

And one of the salmon as big as an elf –

If you want any more you must sing it yourself

With a ri-fol la-ti-tee O

One

RIDEA COCK HORSE

Ride a cock horse to Banbury Cross,

To see a Fyne lady ride on a white horse.

With rings on her fingers and bells on her toes,

She shall have music wherever she goes.

This place has always been a crossing way, where things … pass over. Nowadays it is little more than a glorified roundabout, with a steady stream of traffic circling it, belching exhaust fumes. An elegant statue watches on, but few stop and stare – the busy people are always rushing somewhere. Yet it has always been thus – for centuries folk have passed this way, from west to south bringing salt along the Salt Way, from Droitwich to London, the Welsh Marches to Romney Marsh, and Banbury Lane, running from Hamtun along the Fosse Way to Stow-on-the-Wold; men trading goods or blows. Many armies have marched this way – Iron Age warriors; Roman centurions; Saxons, settling by the Cherwell; a band of Danes once, coming from Hamtun, ravaged the county, until they settled and learnt the value of peace. Banbury Castle, a Royalist stronghold, was besieged in the Civil War and finally pulled down, 500 years since its construction. And the three crosses which the town once had – High Cross, where important proclamations were made; the Bread Cross, where the bakers and butchers sold their wares, and bread was doled out to the poor on Good Friday; and the White Cross. The town worthies decided the populace had ‘far gone into Puritanism’ and had the High Cross pulled down, to curtail the Catholic pilgrims who came to the town. Just after dawn on the 26th of July 1600, two masons began demolishing the High Cross, with a crowd of at least 100 men looking on. When the spire fell to the ground Henry Shewell cried out jubilantly, ‘God be thanked, their god Dagon is fallen down to the ground!’ The Bread Cross and the White Cross were destroyed in the same year.

Banbury – famous for ‘cheese, cakes and zeal’, so the saying goes, and you can see why.

And yet, despite their efforts, the true crossing place remained – silent and unseen to all but those with subtle eyes. Only on a moonlit night was it possible to catch a glimpse of the fine lady. In the deadness of the dark, listen sharp and you might hear her music. But stop your ears with wax, lest you want the rings on her fingers and bells on her toes to lead you away to the land of Fey – never to be seen again by your loved ones. They say her beauty is spellbinding. Once you see her, you are enchanted by her comeliness. Every year, the townsfolk process through the town with their hobby horses to keep on her good side. She likes to be honoured; some would say placated.

Some say it was Queen Bess herself who was the ‘fine lady’, Spencer’s Faerie Queene. She had travelled to Banbury to see a cross being erected. Banbury was situated at the top of a steep hill and in order to help carriages up the steep incline a white cock horse, a large stallion, was made available by the town’s council to help with this task. When the Queen’s carriage attempted to go up the hill a wheel broke and the Queen chose to mount the cock horse and ride to the Banbury cross. The people of the town had decorated the cock horse with ribbons and bells and provided minstrels to accompany her so ‘she shall have music wherever she goes’.

And there are other theories, but all let the truth slip through their hands – like Rhiannon, who rode a white horse and would not let herself be caught until she chose; like her older sister, Epona, Celtic horse goddess; like the Queen of Elfland herself. And Tam Lin would agree – that you would not want to meet her at the witching hour. He crossed over, but Janet won him back:

Just at the mirk and midnight hour

The fairy folk will ride,

And they that would their true-love win,

At Miles Cross they must bide.

So, take care if you pass this Crossing Place at an in-between time. Pay your respects to the fine lady, and go quickly on your way. If you do not pay your respects, she will exact her tithe at a terrible cost – as a good doctor, William Oldys, once found out…

Doctor Oldys was a vicar at New College. During the Civil War, even men of the cloth were not immune to the madness which swept the land. All were forced to make a hard choice – one that split families apart. Oldys was loyal to the King, and so found himself the natural enemy of Cromwell and his rebel army. As a consequence, it was no longer safe for him and his family to stay at home at his fine vicarage in Adderbury, next to one of the finest spires in the county. Oldys decided it was prudent to make for Banbury, which was a garrison for the King at that time. The preparations were made – Oldys would go first and secure dwellings for them; then he would return to rendezvous with his wife and son (whom he intended to get to the safety of the university) on the road at an appointed day and hour.

Word of this plan was somehow leaked to the enemy – by a nefarious turncoat neighbour. And thus, some Parliamentarian soldiers lay in wait for the good doctor as he made his way to meet his wife and child.

Yet Oldys had made plans for such an eventuality – for difficult times make for cautious hearts. His wife and son would ride out to the spot first, for any soldiers would not attack them. If they met troops, they were to give him a signal – if the men be of the King’s party his good wife would hold up her gloved hand and he would approach; if not, she must pass on without further sign.

And so the good doctor found himself anxiously waiting in the green shadows as he watched his wife and son approach the spot. As he feared, a cavalry appeared in the clearing, breastplates and spears glinting in the light through the trees.

As the doctor’s wife approached the men, trying not to show her terror, she saw they were Roundheads and rode straight on, with only the slightest of polite acknowledgements to them. Their hard eyes scrutinised her from behind their iron veils.

The doctor, duly noting that no hand was raised, made a hasty retreat back to Banbury. The enemy noticed his sudden departure and gave chase with alacrity. On their chargers they rapidly gained ground. To delay them, the doctor scattered his purse along the trail – but there was one amongst them who desired blood more than gold and would not tarry for the mud-tainted coin. He had known the good doctor and had received his charity, but this did not soften his heart. Cromwell had replaced Christ in his heart.

As the good doctor passed his former abode on the way to Banbury, his horse stopped, thinking it was home. With mounting desperation, Oldys could not get it to move forward by any persuasion. This gave the enemy time to overtake him and, apprehending him, they did not hesitate to exact their fateful toll – one pulled a pistol and shot the good doctor dead. It was noted afterwards, by neighbours of the parish, that the one who had warned the troops fell down dead on the very spot the doctor was slain.

At New College, a tablet in memory of Doctor William Oldys was raised, recording how he was murdered by the Rebels.

* * *

Visit Banbury today and you’ll see a statue of the fine lady by the Cross. A blood-thirsty horse goddess, the ultimate nightmare; or an elfin Queen, comely and fair? She is all these things and more, immortal and ever changing. Perhaps she is sufficiently honoured, and travellers who pass that way may feel safe – or perhaps not!

The presence of this Fine Lady is a gift to any storyteller. Although there is a possibility that she is none other than one of the Oxfordshire Fiennes (whose famous descendants include an explorer father and two actor sons) and her cock horse is nothing more than the strong stallion used to pull her carriage up the hill into town, I have used my artistic license to interpret her as the Queen of Elfland – the ‘rings on her fingers and bells on her toes’ are akin to the bridle of the one who graced Thomas the Rhymer with her presence (decorated with ‘fifty silver bells and nine…’). Enchanting music was often heard before the appearance of the Fey, and any who heard it was doomed to go there, or fade away in this world. Its pull is irresistible, as W.B. Yeats captured so immortally in his classic poem The Stolen Child: ‘Come away, O human child, to the waters and the wild…’

Fairyland might seem far away from Banbury, but since this was the first town outside of Northampton (my old home county) I would come across as I ventured ‘into the west’, I think of it as a ‘Lud-in-the-Mist’ type place (the town in Hope Mirrlees’ 1926 novel which borders Faerie), being the gateway into the Cotswolds and beyond to the ‘weird’ West Country and wilder Wales. Here, I have melded two strands of folklore together – one about the Queen of Elfland and crossroads (as featured in the Scottish ballad ‘Tam Lin’); and the other a local folk tale about William Oldys. In this coupling of the mythic and the mundane something magical occurs. One needs to be anchored to the other – to stop the former flying away into the ether and the latter from being stuck in the mud of reality. Visit Banbury on the day of the Hobby Horse Fair in early July, when unusual beasts from all over England gather for a procession through town, culminating in the People's Park, and you will see this occurring before your eye. For a while, reality bends.

Two

THE WHITE HORSEOF UFFINGTON

Come to the Horse Fair-O – have you a scrape and thrill! Come to the White Horse, stabled on Uffington Hill.

It was the time of the Scouring of the Horse, a great fair that took place every seven years on Uffington Hill. The local lord himself had funded it, though much did he rue the fact, complaining about the state of the economy, taxes and poor harvests. But the spirit of the people to celebrate could not be suppressed, especially when they’d had to wait so long; long enough for legs to grow, and tales in the telling of the previous fair. Littl’uns who’d grown up listening to what the grown-ups spun were now eager to discover the magic for themselves. Would it be real, or moonbeams on the chalk? Well the day had finally come…

Uffington Fair is always a very lively affair – officially lasting for three days – although the revelry often continues before and after with the quaffing of much ale, the feasting, the cheese-rolling down into The Manger, stalls selling gewgaws and local wares, wrestling, dancing, tests of strength, the sharing of news and views, and, of course, the Scouring of the Horse. The villagers took great pride in this, and Betty was one of them – a local lass, this was the second Scouring she could remember. She was conceived at one, fourteen years ago, so her folks remind her, much to her embarrassment: she was an ‘Uffington gal, thru and thru,’ her Dad said. The fair had always seemed magical to her, with its many sights and wonders, but especially this year when she felt… different, and had taken great care in preparing her outfit, a lovely clean white dress with ornate bonnet, her best shoes, her hair done just so, and her face ‘as fresh and comely as a May morning’, as her Granny said. Holding a garland of flowers, she had proudly joined in the procession to the Horse at dawn along with the whole village – apart from Granny, whose legs weren’t like they used to be.

Bill the butcher led the way, beating his pigskin drum in solemn manner, his black tricorne hat sporting a pheasant feather, ‘like the cock o’ the morn,’ someone giggled, until elbowed into respectful silence.

They gathered in a great circle round the chalk figure – over three hundred feet in length – which was carved into the side of the Downs. They stood overlooking the Vale of the White Horse, slowly emerging from the mist as though from the dawn of time.

The drumming stopped and the priest said a few words, blessing the Scouring in the name of the Lord; and then they set to work, removing any weeds that had grown in the chalk over the last few years. It was said if the Horse grew too hairy, the harvest would falter: ‘No grain in the barn; no butter for the bairn.’ And so the villagers took the Scouring seriously – as long as the White Horse shone down upon them ‘luck would fill the Vale’. So the old ones said, and so the young ‘uns followed. And so it always had been – longer than any could remember.

As Betty pulled out the tufts, a laugh caught her attention; it was John, the blacksmith’s son, with his dark lick of hair. He gave her a wink, and she blushed even more.

They spent the rest of the Scouring coyly flirting with each other. It was like playing in the smithy – Betty knew it was perilous and she could easily get her fingers burnt, but she could not resist. There was something about the day, the time of year, and the time of her life. Like the verdant land around her, she felt like she was … waking up.

The June sun was burning away the mist to reveal fields brimming with new growth. With so many hands at work, the Scouring was soon complete. A festival breakfast awaited them – warm bread and strong cheese, spring onions and last year’s apple chutney – which they took on the flanks of the hill. A cool jug of cider was passed around and for the first time, handed to Betty, who warily took a sip and coughed. John laughed his easy laugh, accepted it from her and downed a draught, wiping the back of his hand with a smack of his lips. They smiled at each other as someone struck up a fiddle.

‘Come on!’ John led them, laughing, to the delights of the fair.

* * *

What a day it had been! They were deliciously weary from it now – all the delights they had seen and savoured, the rickety fairground rides, the side-stalls, the sugary treats, the buzz of conversation, the dancing and foolery. With a satisfied sigh, they wandered away from the fair, which was now being packed away.

The villagers lingered on the hillside, savouring the last golden drops of the day.

A little awkward, the young couple held hands and walked away from the crowd.

From the ramparts of the ‘castle’ – the earthwork above the Horse – they watched the sun set. Below, the Horse gleamed in the silver light of the moon which rose as the sun fell.

Around them they sensed the gaggles of villagers, making merry. Louder than all, they could hear old Lob, the local teller in his flow now he was lubricated with cider. He was declaiming on his favourite subject of horse lore: ‘If mares slipped their foals, a black donkey would be run with them to cure evil; if a donkey was unavailable then a goat could be used the same way!’ Laughter carried across the hillside.

‘What about different coloured horses, Lob – what do you make of that?’ someone piped up, with a nudge and a wink to a friend.

‘A good horse is never a bad colour.’ Sounds of affirmation, though one scratched his head.

‘A horse with a white flash on its forehead is lucky, as is a white-footed one, but if it has four white feet they should be avoided, it’ll be unlucky with a surly humour.’

Someone commented, ‘We’d best be careful then, with the White Horse so close!’ Lob rubbished this idea.

‘Of all the horses, a pure white horse is the most auspicious – but its magic is strong, and so it is wise to cross ‘uns fingers, and keep ‘em crossed ‘til ye see a dog.’ Nearby a dog barked, and everyone laughed with relief.

Snuggled on his coat, John and Betty lay in the twilight, holding one another. Betty tingled all over. This was the first time she’d been close to a man. The first time she had slept outdoors. But since half the village was there, it felt safe and acceptable to do so. It was common for them to sleep out on Horse Fair Hill on this special night. Many a good memory had been forged on its flanks, and passed down the generations, making the young ‘uns especially keen to have their own ‘experience’.

The cider, the music, the stars – all swirled in her mind. Betty felt like she could float off, but John’s arms softly held her to the earth. His gentle words soothed her, his rough hand smoothing her hair.

As he cradled her in his arms, John told her how on moonlit nights just like this, the Horse would come down to feed in the Manger – the meadow in the hollow of the hill beneath them. This made Betty shiver and she was glad of his strong arms around her. It had been a rich day in many ways – she’d had a bit too much to eat and drink, and her head was whirling as she found herself slipping into a deep slumber, the sound of Uffington Fair drifting on the night air.

* * *

The distant beat of the drums carried her deep into the hillside which seemed to open up and swallow her, until she felt like the land itself. She felt the stirring of every living thing – beetle and ladybird, mole and vole, rabbit and hare, fox and badger, swine and stag – moving above her and inside her. So much life! Sowing and growing, mating and decaying – an endless cycle that stretched back a long, long time.

The drumming became the thudding of horse hooves, and suddenly she was above ground, galloping along – a white horse, as pale as moonlight! She ran free across the Downs, along the Ridgeway, its ancient paths glowing in the silver light. Whinnying with joy, she came out onto the open land above the White Horse – which, strangely, was not there. Only a clean swathe of grass could be seen. Her nostrils quivered and she snorted a plume of breath. The landscape was the same, but different. The Castle was surrounded by a palisade of sharpened timbers, dark spikes against the lights of a village inside. The strong wooden gates creaked open and out processed a line of people holding torches, led by drummers and priests and priestesses in white robes, adorned by oak leaves and flowers. They made their way to the side of the hill and the drumming suddenly fell silent.

As one, they watched as the moon rose in her fullness, flooding the Manger with unearthly light. The robed ones began to speak in a strange tongue that sounded vaguely familiar.

Betty could catch the odd word, which echoed in the back of her mind like a pebble dropped in a deep well. They turned to her and for a moment she was frightened, thinking they had spotted her, the trespasser; but they hailed her by a strange name: ‘Epona!’ The tribe came forward and placed offerings at her feet – the bounty of the land. And then the priesthood oversaw the cutting of the turf. By their direction, the shape of the Horse was carved out of the hillside, revealing the chalk beneath. The design was stylised and elegant, and resembled the intricate ornaments some wore, or the tattoos revealed as men stripped down to their waists to work on the Horse. Finally, it was complete and the moon-glow bestowed upon it an unearthly sentience. Betty felt the spirit of her horse pour into it. The Goddess was happy and lay upon the bed they had prepared for her. She felt soothed by the songs the tribe sang, the fellowship that flowed around the gathering – a circle of love, binding them together.

* * *

Betty awoke, blinking, yawning and rubbing her eyes. The ghost of the sun could be sensed through the mist, which lay like a white sea over the Vale. Somewhere, a cock crowed and around her lay the huddled shapes of villagers, looking like no more than bundles of clothes by smouldering fires.

She was a little disorientated at first, and unsettled by her vivid dream. But it was all right. John still held her in his solid arms, snoring lightly.

Below her, the White Horse of Uffington lay; a reassuring permanence on the landscape. It was old, very old, and yet it had survived. The people of the Vale of the White Horse had preserved it for all of these years; beyond living memory – but not the memory of the land.

Around her, villagers were awakening and returning to their homes, to their chores and tasks. Uffington Fair was over for another seven years, but Betty would remember it for the rest of her life. She had been changed by her night on the hill. The horse inside her had woken up, had tasted the Manger, and would not be put back in its stable.

Beside her, John stirred, yawned and smiled. He brushed down his coat and put it round her shoulders and off they set.

‘Well, that’s it then; back to the forge for I,’ said John. ‘May the Horse bring us luck.’

Both were lost in their thoughts, the ghost of the night lingering.

Seven years! Who knows what life will bring them by then?

Betty knew and she walked with a confident gait down the hill, arm-in-arm with John, her bridegroom-to-be. Although, he did not know it yet.