sam's grotto

Lyonesse is the celtic version of atlantis, once it streached from lands end to the scilly isle's..according to legend that is.

The reason for its destruction is unclear. Merlin is mentioned in one account in another angry gods/goddess's get the Blame. In yet another that strange creature the giant of which cornwall has so many is accused of throwing huge rocks and innundating the land...

There are several things made clear in the oldest form of the legend. That lyonesse was a seat of power, a place where mighty warriors exchanged rings and pledged their swords to the king of cornwall. A golden age was had as would not be matched until arthurs time, then some thing happened what triggered the destruction as i said is open to debate.

One man survived the royal heir Tristan Trevellyn, warned by a mysterious woman in a dream he rose in the middle of the night and saddled his faithful horse. He rode out alone, his father refusing to belive his kingdom would fall...who after all could defeat the mighty Trevellyn?

Tristan rode hard until dawn, his white horse a herald as he shouted to the people to flee..few heeded him. At last as dawn broke he rode up the rough cliff path at lands end and turned to look down upon the land of his father's. For a moment the city stood far below him, he mocked his weakness. Then there was a crash and a roar such had never been heard in cornwall before and the city was cast down beneath the foaming waves, never to be seen again.

Tristan survived according to cornish legend he was arthurs ancestor, for he was the true heir to the celts. And legend says that on certain still evening's from the cliffs of lands end, you can hear the church bells of the drowned lands ringing as the waves wash through them.

So what then is the truth of this? that will be the subject of my next blogg

• Americans have perfect teeth..
• The British have bad teeth..
• Russians have no teeth, cause their economy's so bad all the dentists have emigrated...to the USA.
• Australians all live in perfect sunshine, BBQ everything and couldn't give a castlemine 4X about any thing else..they too have good teeth.
• Germans are bent on world domination..of beach loungers. Teeth average.
• The French are all onion wearing, garlic chewing surrender monkeys.
• Italians Ditto except the onions..also bad dental hygiene.
• Chinese aim to take over the world with tiny gymnast's, and a side order of post mao communism...
• Africa is either happy tourist tourist trap or worlds largest getto..but surprisingly good teeth...
• Greeks are hairy, feta eating ouzo swilling monsters...also invented democracy point in their favour.
• spanish are lazy, but pay attention to their dentists
• iraq's are all turban wearing, guntoting terroists. who are damn lucky we decided to go help them out.
• Georgians would just like to make it through the night..so what does any of this crap matter?

1. sacking people
2. warm beer
3. ham and pineapple pizza
4. dentists
5. dentists bills
6. dieticians (rubbish)
7. radio one..(we're young and hip..yeah right)
8. 'dance music'
9. Busted..if you know you know if you don't you don't want too...
10. boy bands
11. american/british/french/cuban/german idol
12. people who think they can sing
13. people who want to be famous..with no clear reason why they should be...
14. doctors
15. vladimir putin
16. vlad the impaler
17. come on see where this is going
18. goerge bush...come on you voted for a guy whose last name has that sexual connatation?
19. cricket(only cause we keep losing..
20. american football (rugby with pads)
21. base ball (rounders with pads)

Stupid annoying things people do in clothes shops, from my own experience...TODAY

• drop stuff on the floor and not pick it up...sales assitant's not slaves.
• size 20 women asking why the size 12 does not fit, then insisting that they always wear size 12....
• asking if something looks nice...forgetting that since you're selling it you're going to say yes...
• ask for a discount after getting their own make up on something.
• leaving stuff in the wrong place(not stupid just annoying and lazy)
• trying on fifteen items, leaving them on the counter sans hangers, and not buying one.
• calling you by name(i might be forced to wear a name tag but don't remind me)
• coming in at 4:55 then getting offended when told we close in five..we do have the right to go home.
• getting snotty about the shop and/or stock...well you did not have to come in. shop at bloody harrods if you can afford it!! for that matter if you can afford it what ya doing in here?.
• Haggle...
• lock them selves in the changing rooms
• lock themselves out of the changing rooms
• try to return underwear (no way people not even if it was god himself)
• sweat..its unforgivable...

and that was my day..please be nice to sales assitants....

1. banks
2. bills
3. food shopping
4. asda...(walmart to our american friends)
5. corkscrew's
6. pens
7. socks
8. people with *issues*
9. therapists
10. people who drive SUV's but don't do sports.
11. SUV'S
12. Mcdonalds..
13. american elections (really guys does it really take this long to choose between the devil and the deep blue sea?)
14. Fox news...i thought this was some kind of joke...
15. Food fads
16. tights..(pantyhose)
17. waxing...
18. the word society when used by any politician.
19. tabloids
20. celebrities
21. *reality* tv
22. *light beer*
23. fat free chocolate..(its just not right)
24. corperate speak..cropulite is more like it
25. adverts
26. mobile phones (i got one but i don't have to like it)
27. microsoft
28. yahoo
29. british telecom
30. the british *summer*

forgive me i am very, very, very bored

probably the last lot..for a while enjoy..

The Phantom Pony of Saddle Tor

Ponies have been part of Dartmoor for thousands of years and therefore it is not surprising that the ghosts of one or two still haunt the moor. There have been sightings of ghostly black ponies that appear and vanish all over the tors and valleys. But probably the most persistent offender is the phantom pony that stalks the area around Haytor. Rather appropriately its favourite spot is Saddle Tor where numerous people have witnessed its presence. This particular phantom seems to have a evil sense of humour which is displayed in the nature of its manifestations.

It could well be that you are out walking around Saddle Tor when in the far distance the sound of galloping hooves is heard. Very slowly the noise gets nearer and louder as the hoof beats drum across the moor. It doesn't take long to realise that something is heading straight in your direction. At this point people usually plod on in the knowledge that this is nothing unusual as there are always ponies galloping across the moor, usually it's the stallions chasing of rivals.

Rather unnervingly the thudding hooves get closer and closer which is then when the disconcerting thought that about 300kg of pony is about to trample you to death. On turning around nothing is visible but still the sound of hoof beats continues to head in your direction, the tussocks begin to shake and the long grasses bend in some invisible slip-stream. It is impossible to flee from something that can't be seen and the panic sets in as you try to decide in which direction safety lies. By now the phantom pony is almost on top of you and every muscle in your body contracts as unconsciously you brace yourself for the impending impact.

 Suddenly you feel a blast of icy wind as some unseen being charges past and then complete and utter silence, the sound of the ghostly hoofs has vanished and all around is stillness.

There is no point in frantically scanning the horizon as there is and never will be anything to be seen. The black peaty soil will reveal no trace of equine hoof prints and even the sheep grazing nearby will show no signs of alarm. The skylarks will still happily flutter in mid air chirping their ceaseless song. Quite simply there will be no rhyme or reason to the encounter except for the chilling fact that you have just met the phantom pony of Saddle Tor.

Lady Howard

                                              My ladye hath a sable coach,

And horses two and four;

My ladye hath a black blood-hound

That runneth on before.

My ladye's coach hath nodding plumes,

The driver hath no head;

My ladye is an ashen white,

As one that long is dead.

"Now pray step in," my ladye saith,

"Now pray step in and ride."

I thank thee, I had rather walk

Than gather by thy side.

The wheels go round without a sound

Or tramp or turn of wheels;

As cloud at night, in pale moonlight,

Along the carriage steals.

I'd rather walk a hundred miles

And run by night and day

Than have the carriage halt for me

And hear the ladye say:

"Now pray step in, and make no din,

Step in with me and ride;

There's room I trow, by me for you,

And all the world beside.""

I suppose it's about time I included a story that involves wicked women and headless horses who pull a carriage made of human bones. The story of Lady Howard is probably one of the more noted of Dartmoor ghost stories that has been told around the peat fires of a dark night.

So, let's begin way back in the 1600s where we can find John Fitz who at the age of 21 inherited a vast fortune. As is always the case, easy come - easy go and that was exactly what happened to his wealth, it went. Along the way John Fitz turned into a n'er do well and as fast as he lost his money he found a growing list of enemies. It was about this time when John Fitz had his daughter, Mary whose childhood was spent at the family pile of Fitzford House near Tavistock. When Mary was nine years old her father who by now was totally insane committed suicide. This left Mary with the family fortune which at the time attracted the attention of many greedy eyes.

King James I finally intervened and sold the young girl to the Earl of Northumberland who then married her off to his brother, Sir Alan Percy. This then meant that the Fitzs' fortune moved over to Percy and the Earl, nice work if you can get it. Unfortunately, Sir Percy never lived long enough to enjoy his windfall as whilst on a hunting trip he caught a fever and died.

This 'tragedy' then left Mary free to find her own true love who came along in the guise of one Thomas Darcy. The couple stole off into the night and eloped in order that they could get married much to the annoyance of the Percy family. Sadly, this second marriage was doomed to failure as after a few months Thomas Darcy also died. Once again the rich widow became the target for fortune hunters and once again she chanced her arm and married again. This time she had managed to secure her wealth in such a way as no man could get to it. The third husband apparently was none too happy with this and the marriage was one long constant argument about the fortune. However, all was not lost as the third husband followed the celestial route of his predecessors and died of causes unknown.

For the forth time Mary found herself a widow but also the subject of many scurrilous accusations concerning the deaths of her previous husbands. After all, one was a tragedy, two was a sad coincidence but three got tongues a waggin' and fingers a pointin'. But Mary was not to be deterred and eventually found herself a forth husband. This marriage must have been a little more harmonious as she gave birth to a boy which was christened George. Not long after his birth husband number four died, oops there goes another one.

It was after the latest tragedy that Mary decided to return to the now derelict family pile of Fitz House where with her son she planned to live out her days. Unfortunately her day number a lot more than her son's because it wasn't very long before he too died leaving Mary home alone. The story goes that the death of her son left Mary heartbroken, so much so that a few weeks after her son's death she joined him along with her four husbands in eternity.

So, you can imagine the stories, a woman whose father was a hated madman and who had seen off four husbands and one son. It did not take long before people began seeing her ghost. Legend has it that some divine entity sentenced her to spend eternity doing penance for her evil deeds.

She was given the task of travelling each night from Fitz House to Okehampton Castle in the company of a huge black dog with blood red eyes and savage fangs. The nightly 30 mile round trip is taken in a carriage made from the bones of her four dead husbands and is driven by a headless driver. On reaching the castle the black dog plucks a single blade of grass from the castle mound. Both dog and blade are returned to the carriage of bones after which it rattles back to Tavistock.

Once the grisly coach has returned to Fitz House the blade of grass in carefully laid on a flat slab of granite. Only after all the grass has been removed from the castle mound at Okehampton will Mary be allowed to rest in peace which judging by the lush covering will be a long time away. If the phantom coach should stop outside any house then an occupant was sure to die as would anyone for who the coach stopped on the road.

Those that have witnessed the ghostly journey say that the first thing you notice is the rattling of the coach of bones as it thunders along the road. As it approaches the night air chills and the sound of thundering hooves grows louder and louder. Suddenly a huge black dog with crimson eyes hurtles down the road, although some folks say it has but one eye in the centre of its forehead. The dog is closely followed by the coach of bones, on each of the four corners is a skull belonging to each of the four husbands. It's headless driver relentlessly lashes the four stallions with a long bloodstained whip, again reports differ as some suggest that along with the driver the horses are headless as well. As the coach passes the ghostly white figure of a lady can be seen sitting in the back. If you're really lucky her head will turn revealing two eyeless sockets sunk deep into a pallid, grimacing face.

 After the carriage has sped by the stench of rotting flesh is left wafting heavily on the night air. For those daft enough to continue their journey there is a treat in store by way of seeing the coach on its return journey.

Having maligned poor Mary it might now be as well to put the record straight. Mary was born on the 1st of August 1596 and was baptised at Whitchurch. True, her father, Sir John Fitz was a nasty piece of work and was guilty of the murder of two men. It is a fact that because of his behaviour the family were detested in the Tavistock are and he did commit suicide by stabbing himself. He was buried at Twickenham on the 10th of August 1605. Mary married her third husband, Sir John Howard in 1612 and he died on the 22nd of September 1622. She remarried in about 1628, this time to Sir Richard Grenville who treated her atrociously, the outcome of which was a divorce and not his death in 1633. Once the divorce had been processed she reverted to her previous name of Howard and was known as Lady Mary Howard.

At no time in her life had she been remotely considered as an evil woman, in fact quite the opposite as Mary was always held in high regard. She actually gave birth to several children and shed her mortal coil on October the 17th 1671 at the grand old age of 75. There is even a walk around Okehampton Castle which is known as Lady Howard's Walk so the tale must be true.

very spooky there are many tales of the dark hunt this is the most popular..check out the links to my friends site.

The Dark Huntsman

One dark night a moorman was riding his pony homewards from Widecombe fair. To say he was in good spirits was a slight understatement, he had taken some bullocks and made a fair price for them so there was coin in his pocket and whisky in his belly. A pale moon hung in the night sky and the cloud bank was building from the west. Silence engulfed the moor like a shroud, and not a breath of wind shook the tussock grasses. ''ead on pawny, a storm be on its way," he shouted at his horse. The animal's ear pricked and as if smelling the air it sniffed and snorted. This journey up over the mighty dome of Hameldon was well trod by the horse and so little direction was needed from the farmer. The slow swaying motion of the plodding pony gradually rocked the moorman to sleep. It was a good job nobody else was abroad because from a distance the form of slumped rider and mount accompanied by the hideous sound of snoring would have convinced them some ghoul was stalking the moor.

As the horse approached the old granite ring of the druids one of his hoofs clipped a boulder with a loud clonk, immediately waking the moorman with a snort. He gibbered and groaned as his whisky soaked brain tried to get its bearings. "Ah, the Druid's Circle already," the man slurred, "Gud job it 'ent Christmas or us 'ud see they awld stones a frolicking and dancin'," the farmer informed his mount. He was referring to the old legend that on Christmas Eve the stones came to life and danced frenetically.

Once past the circle they headed into open moor, suddenly the 'taller' ' taller' sound of a hunting horn wafted on the night air. In the distance a hunter and his pack of hounds appeared, they were coming full tilt towards the farmer. A maelstrom of big black dogs shot past, their jaws gnashing and snarling with blood red tongues lolling out. They seemed to be baying but no cry could be heard. Hot on their heels came a tall rider clad all in black, he was mounted on a huge blacker steed with eyes of fire. Sparks were flying from the horses hooves as it sped across the tussocks. The moorman watched the spectacle through clouds of whisky, "Hey, huntsman," he yelled "what be ee a chasin', give us zum of yer game." The dark rider slung him a bundle, "Take that and think yourself lucky," the hunter bellowed. A wrapped packet fell into the farmers lap, "why thank ee kindly," he slurred.

The pony's eyes were bulging out of their sockets and it danced and nervously pranced around. Once the hunt had gone the little horse began to calm down and carried on across the moor. By now the cloud had thickened and blocked the moonlight, the moor was now in total darkness. The surefooted pony stolidly picked its way through the clumps and tussocks.

The farmer began to wonder what tasty meal the hunter had given him, it was too small for a deer but too big for a hare. No matter how hard he squinted at his bundle could he work out what it was. Before long, horse and rider were clattering across the cobbles of the farmyard, the moorman called for his wife to bring a lantern. A few moments later the kitchen door was flung open and a glowing cow's horn lantern was bobbing down the path.  "Why what on earth be ee doin'," his wife enquired. "I met a huntsmen who gave me some game and I wants to zee what us got," the farmer excitedly exclaimed. His face took on a yellowy hue as the woman passed him the lantern. He held it high and peered into the bundle that was sat in his lap, with a shriek he leapt off the pony and a sad little form tumbled to the cobbles. The woman looked down and then too screamed and yelled, her face buried in her hands - the tasty 'game' was the tattered body of their baby.

The farmers neighbours soon got to hear the tragic news and out of earshot whispered that it was the Wisht hounds that the moorman had met and how they were hunting for un-baptised babies. For ages it had been remarked that it was about time the couple had their child christened and now they had paid the ultimate price. Everyone agreed that the Wisht Hounds normally didn't come this far north, mostly they hunted in the area around their kennels at Wistman's Wood or down south by the Dewerstone. The following weeks saw a spate of christenings at the local church - "jest to be sartin."

Oh, for a wild and starless night,

And a curtain o'er the white moon's face,

For the moor fiend hunts an infant sprite

At cock-crow over Parkham Chase.

Hark to the cracking of the whip!

A merry band are we, I ween;

List to the yeth-hounds yip! yip! yip!

Ha! Ha! tis thus we ride unseen.

Another tale concerning a black dog is the one about a farmer who was out on the moor one night when he heard a loud, rhythmic padding sound coming from behind him. When he turned around to see what was following him he saw a huge black dog. For a moorman he should have known better, but he put his hand out to smooth the approaching beast and as soon as he did the dog loped off leaving behind the acrid smell of its sulphurous breath. He watched the beast speed off across the moor and noticed that as it approached a nearby stream it exploded into a thick yellow cloud of sulphur.

There is also a story told on the southern moor of a group of rabbit poachers who were up on the Avon with their terriers. It was a Sunday night and all of a sudden the dogs came howling and yelping back to their masters. In the distance could be heard the baying of the Wisht hounds and so poachers and dogs sped off home. Within two weeks every single dog had died of unexplained illnesses.

The legend of the Wisht hound is the one that Conan Doyle based his 'Hound of the Baskervilles on and this was the beast that used to haunt the great 'Grimpen Mire'. However, early in January 2006, it now seems that the folk of the Yorkshire Dales are trying to say that the Baskerville Hound was based on their 'Barguest' beast which stalks Trollers Gill. Mind you, Tyne Tees Television have made a series of programmes looking for Yorkshire links with Conan Doyle so they would say that wouldn't they. Hands off, the Baskerville Hound came from Dartmoor and after all, have Yorkshire got a 'Hound Tor' or a snack wagon called 'Hound of the Basket Meals' ? Next thing you know them 'Northerners' will be going around singing 'On Dartymoor by tat' and saying the Wisht Hounds are whippets - ee by gum!

I was a chubby child....

i also became blond...

For those of you who don't know Dartmoor is a large area of heath's, bog's and moorland in devon. It is a national park, an area of outstanding national beauty as well as a site of special scientific interest.

It is also one of the most haunted, pixey ridden, myth filled places in the british isles. And naturally a great place for kids. I spent many happy days there as a kiddy and as an adult. So thought i would share some of the weirder stories i grew up with. 

The weaver of dean combe

Deancombe is a small sleepy hamlet that is tucked under the southern edge of Dartmoor. This was a busy cloth producing area with Buckfast as its centre. Many years ago there was a weaver called Knowles living in a tiny house in Deancombe. He was reputed to be one of the most clever and skilful weavers on Dartmoor. His weft was taught and his weave straight and always the finished knap was of the highest quality. One would have thought that with all his talent he would be a contented soul but no far from it. Alongside his long list of skills ran a long list of his faults. His neighbours considered him to be greedy, selfish, evil and a wicked 'wag-tongue' (gossip), basically he was despised throughout the area. But despite this Knowles prospered and became very rich soon adding 'miserly' to his list of traits. Every day he would sit up in his weaving loft and work from sun rise to candle snuff. The old shepherds up on the moor would often use his candlelight as a beacon to walk home. If the weaver knew this he would probably have charged them for the privilege. But death is a great leveller and one day, sat at his loom he passed away. Oddly enough, although he was much hated his funeral was a splendid affair, mourners came from all over the area and it is said that the food and drink at his wake was as plentiful as a Harvest Home. As the ale and cider flowed people wished old Knowles a safe journey and all gave their condolences to his son Fernley. Now Fernley came from a different mould to his father, he was kind, caring and generous to a fault and this was probably why so many people came to the funeral, not for the memory of his father but to support Fernley. Once the last mourners 'cider swayed' their way home Fernley lit a candle and climbed up the creaky stairs to his bedroom. Lying in bed he started to think of his future, clearly money was not going to be a problem but somehow he had now to prove that his weaving skills were as good as his fathers, after all it was he who had taught Fernley the skills of the trade. So as his eyes started to close he vowed to be up at first light to continue the family business. The following morning he woke with the crowing of the dunghill cock and went downstairs to make some breakfast. The first job of the day was to light the peat fire and as he stacked the turves on the hearth he heard a familiar but heart stopping sound, for coming from the upstairs weaving loft was the steady clunk, clunk of the loom. Initially he dismissed it as being the open window blowing in the breeze. But then he realised that it was too rhythmic for that, it was definitely somebody working the loom. With clammy palms gripping the banister he edged his way up the stairs and softly walked to the weaving loft door. Somebody was working the loom and as he peeked through a crack in the door he saw who - it was the ghost of his father. There was a chill in the air and a pungent fusty smell coming from the room, Fernley found himself transfixed, what should he do? His first thought was to get out of the house which he managed to do at great speed. Once outside in the clear morning air he knew he must get help and probably the best place for that was the local priest. He ran straight down to the church and luckily found the vicar saying his morning prayers. He explained his ghostly encounter and apart from stopping to get his 'bell, book and candle' the priest rushed up to the weavers cottage. The two men stood in the kitchen and listened to the sound of the loom. The priest went to the bottom of the stairs and in a stern voice demanded that the lost soul "come down stairs", nothing stirred, the priest then said "this is no place for a lost soul, come down and return to your grave". The loom stopped and an eerie voice replied " I will as soon as I've worked out my quill" (shuttle full of wool). The priest was having none of it, "No, get down here this minute, your life's work is done and it is time to return to your resting place under the churchyard yew". Amazingly the loom fell silent and the ghost along with its stench and chill came downstairs. As the weaver's spectre came into the room the priest threw some holy water into its face and then recited a prayer whilst at the same time ringing the bell. The ghost let out a spine chilling scream and before their eyes turned into a huge black dog. With bible in hand the priest commanded the dog to heel and led it outside, down the lane and into Dean Wood. Here the procession climbed up the burn until they came to a pool. The priest walked over to an old oak tree and picked up an acorn shell. This he gave to the dog and said "take this shell and when you have emptied this pool with it you will be granted eternal rest".

The ghost of the old weaver was never seen again but to this day the moorfolk will never go near that pool at noon or midnight because it is said that when the church clock strikes twelve the black dog can be seen frantically trying to bale out the pool with the acorn shell.

The hairy hands

Imaging the year is 1925 and it is a dark winters night, the sky is clear and the air is cold, a frost is starting to bite at the whitening verge side. You and your partner are driving along the B3212 between Postbridge and Two bridges after visiting friends in Moretonhampstead. This old turnpike road was once known as the 'Carters Road' because a man called Carter built it. The car is freezing and to keep out the moorland chill you both have heavy coats and thick gloves. On the left the moon is peering up over Arch tor and the combination of it's yellowish beams and the dim car headlights a pair of fiery eyes are gleaming in the middle of the road. As you get nearer a brown hunched figure stands transfixed, those blood red eyes just stare deep into your soul. Your partner screams and you grab the brake, the heavy rubber tyres slide across the icy surface. Seconds seem like minutes as the vehicle glides gracefully sidewards along the bumpy road and stops just short of the static monster of the night. Gradually your racing heart slows down and your senses return, and there a red deer, transfixed with fear in the glare of the headlights, stands quivering. Your partner is not sure whether to laugh or cry, the deer regains its wits and gracefully bounds off towards Archerton Bog, the swishing of the icy grass is the only sound that betrays the path of the animal.

If it was not so cold you would take off your gloves and light a cigarette, but there are many miles to go before you sleep so onwards speeds the little car. The headlights pick out the small Cherrybrook Bridge in the distance and you can see the sharp right hand bend leading into it. Knowing the road is icy you gently apply the brakes and select your course, allowing for the hard granite parapet of the bridge. Suddenly and for no reason the car sharply veers to the left hand side of the road, you grip the wheel tighter and notice a pair of severed hands clamped  around it. No matter how hard you try to force the car back onto the road the hands stubbornly steer it towards the verge. A sickening jolt announces that the car has just left the road, this is followed by a nerve grating screeching sound as the willow branches scratch along the side of the vehicle. Eventually the car crashes to a halt, steam billows hissing up into the cold night air and there is silence, a stomach churning silence. Nervously you glance at the steering wheel those putrid, ghostly hands have vanished as quickly as they appeared. You check your partner, she is as white as the big moon that is hanging over the moor, the smell of hot oily water and burning rubber flares your nostrils... Congratulations you have just met the 'Hairy Hands of Dartmoor'!

Some time around the early 1900's a series of accidents were reported along the stretch of the B3212 road which runs from above Postbridge to Two Bridges. Cyclists said how suddenly the handlebars of their bikes were wrenched out of their hands, forcing the bike into the ditch. Pony and traps were also forced off the road and onto the verge. Drivers of cars and motor coaches were experiencing the same occurrences. In 1921 Dr Helby from Princetown had his motorcycle and side car suddenly forced out of control. His two children were tossed out of the sidecar but sadly the doctor was killed. Not long after this tragic event and Army Officer was injured when his motorcycle was driven off the road, he lived to tell the tale and the one he told was that of muscular, hairy hands clamping over his and forcing the bike into the verge. The Daily Mail soon picked up the story and the ghostly events became headline news. The local authorities sent engineers to investigate and repairs were made to the road.

In the 1920's a woman staying in a caravan parked in the ruins of Powder Mills was woken one night and saw a hairy hand creeping up the window, she made the appropriate sign of the cross and the dismembered limb vanished.

A car was then found upturned in the ditch with its driver dead at the wheel, the cause of the accident was never established. To this present day there are still reports of either spectral hands grabbing the steering wheel or of an evil presence inside the car which in some cases leads to erratic steering.

STOP PRESS ! STOP PRESS ! STOP PRESS

A world exclusive, whilst driving over the Higher Cherrybrook Bridge I saw the 'Hairy Hands', (June 8th 2006), I swung the car violently into the car park, grabbed my camera and went back to investigate. There right in front of my eyes were the two black hairy hands swinging on the barbed wire fence - wow!!!!

I put before you the very first photographic evidence of the ghostly 'hairy hands' of Dartmoor which I will add, I risked life and limb to get.

As with most things, the danger of putting them in the public domain always risks exposure to the arseholes in life and such is the case with the monkey. Some faceless creep has decided to pinch the 'hairy hands' and so you will no longer see him!

 right then hope you enjoyed those two, more will follow grateful thanks to my friends at legends of dartmoor for allowing me to ransack their website cheers people see you at the school reunion!!

Belas knap long barrow, a place i go to think. 4500 years old situated on top on a killer hill next to beautiful cleeve common.

The mound itself is 55 metres long and 18 wide at its widest point 

The mound was restored in the 1930's after being 'excavated' in the 19th century. the bodies of over 50 people have been discovered interned here... meaning this was an important place. 

The best day i remember having here was the first time i took Connor. He valiantly climbed the hill despite being only two and a bit. Crawled all over the

Time flies

it twists, turns

makes us it's prisoner.

never enough hours in the day,

every second counts,

what fallacy

what idiocy

we are free,

each and every one

to do what our heart,

will's to be done.

against the clock,

there is no such thing,

it is against ourselves,

we fight for every thing.

Lines Written At an Inn At Henley.

To thee fair freedom, i retire,

From flattery, cards and dice, and din,

Nor art thou found in mansions higher

Than the low cot or humble inn.

'Tis here with boundless power i reign,

and every health which i begin

Converts dull port to bright champagne,

such freedom crowns it at an inn!

I fly from pomp, i fly from plate,

I fly from fashions specious grin,

Freedom i love, form i hate,

and choose my lodging at an inn

Here waiter take my sordid ore,

which lackeys else where might hope to win,-

it buys what courts have not in store,

It buys me freedom at an inn.

Whoe'er has travelled lifes dull round,

where'er his stages might be found,

May sigh to think he still has found,

The warmest welcome at an inn!!

William Shenstone

                          1714~1763

Should prob be called ode to the british pub! ten points to the person who spots the joke....

just wanted to share this lovely poem i found...

Well, then, i now do plainly see,

This busy world and i will ne'er agree:

The very honey, of earthly joy,

Does of all meats the soonest cloy;

  And they, methinks, deserve my pity

Who for it endure the stings,

The crowd, the buzz, the murmurings

  of this great hive, the City.

Ah, yet ere i descend to the grave,

May i a small house and a large garden have!

And a few freinds and many books both true,

Both wise and delightful too!

And since love ne'er will from me flee,

A mistress moderately fair,

And good as guardian angels are

Only beloved and loving me.

~Abraham Cowley (1618-1667)

With solstice around the corner i thought this a good time to share my knowledge of 'the henge'.

If you have not been there it is hard to describe the atmosphere. Dispite the tourists and the hideous wire fence this is still a very sacred spot. You can feel the weight of centuries weighing down on you, this place was ment to exist forever and so far it has outlasted empire's.

But what was it for? thats a difficult question. its hard to fathom what could have motivated our ancestors to move these huge blocks of stone (the sarsen came from about thirty miles away, the small bluestones even further) that is until you look at the whole landscape.

The ridges around stonehenge are dotted with buriel mounds, a great causeway sweeps from the monument down to the river, there is also a mysterious earthwork the cursus which cuts the landscape in two. This was thought until recently to be a roman race track! it actually predates stone henge itself by about 500 years!

Then there is durrington wall's- a massive complex of ring ditch and bank. This site is a few miles down stream from henge. For years it was dismissed as a lesser place, but that changed when a series of postholes was found. After much digging and academic arguement, the post holes were found to be in the 'same' positions as the sarsens at stonehenge...so this was a henge too..but of a different type. Wooden instead of stone, transiant instead of immortal. This place too has a causeway which joins it to the river. It was also found to be the same age as its stone counterpart (about 3500Bc) 

So what was the purpose of all of this?

One theory is that stonehenge was the home of the ancestors with the cursus marking off the sacred 'land of the dead' and that wood henge was the place of the living. It is thought that people would gather in the area for the two main festivals of the year...the summer and winter solstice.

For a long time there was no evidence to support this theory, then one summer next to wood henge a house was discovered. And then another and another. What the arceaologists had found was the largest neolithic 'town' in europe. They produced evidence to show that thousands of people had been in the area, food refuse, pottery human waste!

So what were they up too? everybody knows how the sun lights up henge at solstice. But why was it important? Simple: rebirth, fertility, and the good will of the dead. The ancestors may have started summer solstice at stonehenge with the rising of the sun, thanking the dead for their fertility and then travelled the sacred 'road' along the river in time to see the sun set at woodhenge, then they partyed! This was a festival of fertility after all, its possible that a form of handfasting was practiced.

Then we come to winter solstice the people return having gathered in the harvest, the nights are long. It might feel like spring will never come, this could be the time of the dead. perhaps they brought their loved ones cremated remains to pour in the river.So they could join with the ancestors. And they would walk the other way from the living to the dead to ask for the return of the sun....

I could go on forever about this subject...how it was built by who then this blogg would be a book, if any body has any Q's just ask!

Blessed be and happy solstice to all!!

• Toaster's (I have said this before but what the hell its true)
• showers
• tabloid newspapers
• slimming products
• i can't believe its not butter!..well i can its not.
• american presidents..if you look really carefully you can see the WMD's
• British prime minister's..no we're not eroding people's constitutional rights honest!..you don't agree well thats 42 days jail time...charges? don't need them!
• Oil companies
• NASA..yeah your really spending billions so you can just float around up there AND I'M THE POPE!
• The Pope, all my friends joined the hitler youth it was the in thing!
• Instruction books for any electrical item...
• any microwave meal with tasty or delicious on the box
• Mcdonalds
• Roadmaps
• scales (as any woman will attest)
• easy to assemble on anything from ikea
• The FA
• weathermen

now is the time to take your chance,

to dance the forever dance,

don't stand by the wall,

waiting for chance,

seize the day

its time to play,

let your inner dragon out

no need to pout

the world is changing

energy is swirling

uncertainty loom's

but all things pass

and this will too

there is nothing new under the sun

whats beginning

is new and wild

but will it take you too the stars

or leave you charred?

This was all i could come up with for 'curves' (please click to enlarge). Took it a couple of weeks ago in the cathedral cloister's. This is some of the finest and oldest fan vaulting in england, the stone is less than an inch thick in some places and suspended by a wooden truss, attached to the roof.

Always reminds me of a forest frozen in stone, i find this part of Gloucester cathedral endlessly fascinating. There is something wonderfully pagan about the interlacing curves and arches....Parts of the harry potter films were shot in this part of the cathedral too!

This is my old street last year during the floods, as you can see a river ran through it!. The weather today reminded me of this picture, which i took hanging out the window. Probably river side would be a more appropriate tag. A lesson in the power of nature!

i murmur under moon and stars

in brambly wildernesses;

i linger by my shingly bars;

i loiter round my cresses;

and out again i curve and flow

this joyous brimming river.

for men may come and men may go,

but i go on forever.

-Tennyson.

(and if you don't treat me with respect i will invade your house and blow up your computer!!)