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.
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!!
