Category:

A shamble from Porlock Weir to Culbone.

1/12/2017

Ms Crockofshit and I, desirous of a change of scenery today found ourselves at Porlock weir. A small settlement of cottages some of them very old, including the Gibraltar Cottages which date from the 17th century, have grown up around the harbour. The port has existed for more than 1,000 years and in 1052, Harold Goodwinson arrived from Ireland with nine ships to plunder the area, even earlier than that, in 86 AD it was visited by the Danes. Plenty of history here then.

Despite the obvious charms of this delightful place, we elected to take a stroll through Yearnor woods to Culbone, well known in these parts as having been a centre for Pagan worship. We took the coast path through towering tree clad hills following paths trod by one of our greatest poets, and my personal favourite, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, who stayed near here at Ash Farm, he reputedly penned Kubla Khan here.

Along this path we happened upon a most unusual tree, It seemed unnaturally contorted and the wood so hard as to appear fossilised, upon closer inspection and careful contemplation, I came to the conclusion that this violently twisted ‘tree’ is in fact the petrified remains of an ancient Basilisk who once inhabited this area. The creature had fallen foul of a local Witch, who had tracked it to its lair in the woods, they had fought fiercely and as the Basilisk had uncoiled to its full height in readiness to strike, the Witch had petrified it and rooted it to the spot, where it has remained for centuries.

We continued our amble along the path noting in the hillside above, the ruins of Lady Lovelace’s ostentatious fairy tale mansion, it was Lady Lovelace, Lord Byron’s daughter, who brought a team of Swiss engineers to Worthy, as this area is known, to construct tunnels in the hillside. These tunnels, known locally as the fairy tunnels allowed traders to come and go as the lady made her way in obscuration to her private beach below.

Finally, we began to descend into the combe within which nestles the scant settlement of Culbone and its tiny church, St Bueno’s, the smallest parish church in England which dates back to the Saxon period, the font is almost certainly Saxon. There is a leper’s squint set into the north wall, a remnant of the 16th century when there was a leper colony in the woods nearby. There is a small graveyard and most of the dead here seem to be at peace.

However, as is to be expected from a settlement of this great age, there are some who do not rest so easy. Most notably, a man named Thomas, who in life had been chaplain of Culbone. In 1280 Thomas had murdered Albert of Esshe with a single vicious blow to the head with a hatchet. Both the chaplain and his victim linger here in an eternal circle of hatred for one another, the cause of which neither can remember. The area is also haunted by several Celtic monks, left behind from those that settled here sometime in the 5th century, these fellows seem to be reasonably peaceable. Surprisingly there appear to be no lingering lepers from the colony that existed here from 1544 for seventy eight years, who have all moved on, no doubt relieved to be removed from this place where their lives must have been quite unbearable.

This area has been used for some dubious purposes, from 1385, during the time it was known as Kitnor, this isolated place was used for the purposes of banishment, where unfortunate souls were sent for crimes ranging from theft to adultery, attracting sentences from a few months to five and a half years. Only men were sentenced to this lonely punishment, they were not permitted to bring anything other than the clothes on their backs and were expected to live by their wits, fashioning their own shelters and growing their own food. The men were visited occasionally by an official to ensure they had not escaped and were forced to attend the monthly service in the church, this being their only contact with the outside world. Some of the men went mad or committed suicide. Finally, in 1478 the area ceased to be a dumping ground for such ‘undesirables,’ however you may take my word that some of these poor, sad men still remain, locked in a never ending spiral of despair.

Perhaps the most shameful episode in the history of this place is the forced labour of a group of East Indians who were used as servants by the British in India and brought back to England. When no longer required as servants, thirty eight of them were sent to Culbone as charcoal burners, they survived as best they could, with almost no English, exchanging the charcoal they made for simple things such as tea and sugar. They lived this way for twenty one years until they were finally released from their bondage, only twenty three of them survived to see freedom, and none of the survivors managed to return to India, dispersing into a hostile society throughout England. The fifteen men who did not make it remain to this day, understandably embittered and longing for their homeland.

Culbone is a picturesque settlement in a beautiful combe with views of the sea, a truly peaceful secluded spot and well worth the two mile walk from Porlock Weir, on a dazzling clear day it truly is idyllic, but for some it has not always been so.

By all means enjoy the splendid natural beauty that surrounds you here, appreciate the wonderful walks, but remember what lurks beneath and behind what your eyes can see, and tread these paths with respect for those who came before.

8 Comments

Dead Woman's ditch.

21/7/2017

4 Comments

Surveying Dead Woman's Ditch.

The woods of coppiced oak where John Walford plied his trade as a charcoal burner.

The 'Counting House' in the grounds of which John Walford likely murdered his wife, still stands to this day.

The blind corner known locally as 'Gibbet's Elbow' at the point on the old coach road where John Walford was hanged and gibbeted.

Marker post at Walfords Gibbet.

The spectacular view from Walfords Gibbet, we could see Wales from here on this beautiful day.

Dead woman’s ditch is an ancient monument near the picturesque village of Over Stowey in Somerset on the Quantock hills, it is thought to be a boundary ditch relating to Dowsborough Hill fort dating back to the Iron Age.

Local folklore has it that it gained its name after a brutal murder that occurred in the area on the fourth of July 1789. John Walford beat his wife almost to death with a hedge post, then with ruthless efficiency, he cut her throat using sufficient force to score the bone in her neck. Jane Walford (nee Shorney), was heavily pregnant with John’s child.

However, although it is true that this horrid crime took place within a short distance of the ditch, (probably in the grounds of the local copper mine’s Counting House), Jane’s corpse was not discovered in any part of the ditch. Furthermore, there exists at least one map dated 1780, nine years before the event, that mentions Dead Woman’s Ditch.

It is possible this beautiful spot was given its macabre moniker hundreds of years before the birth of the ill-fated Jane Shorney, It is indeed an atmospheric place, its steep combes are smothered in forests of coppiced sessile oak. During the lifetime of John Walford, it was described as deep, dark, damp, misty and primeval, and, it was believed to be inhabited by fairies and ghosts. Folklore also tells of bloody Celtic battles and even Pirate raiders.

The roots of this forest are steeped in rivers of blood, and whoever the eponymous dead woman is, her name will remain forever lost to history. Considering then, what moulders beneath, cocooned forever in the grasping roots of these trees, I would counsel against collecting timber from this place to burn on your hearth, there is no telling what you may release. Indeed I wonder what John Walford may have unleashed here during his years of lonely nights spent in the remote parts of the forest as a charcoal burner.

Walk a little further up the old coach road however and you will discover the very aptly named ‘Walford’s Gibbet’. This is the spot where a thirty foot gibbet was raised from which to hang John Walford for his crime, not only was he executed on Thursday 20th August, the sentence was changed to ‘hanging in chains near to the place where the offence was committed’, which meant he would be hanged and his body put on display in an iron cage on the gibbet.

So it was that John Walford was hanged on a temporary gallows after admitting to his crime, but insisting, ‘I did it without foreintending it’. After hanging for twenty minutes, the corpse was taken down, locked into the iron cage and hoisted to the top of the gibbet. It is worth noting the gibbet was a quarter of a mile from John’s parent’s house and directly opposite it, so over the next year each time his parents opened their front door, they were greeted with their son’s body hanging on the hill before them.

Walford hung in the iron cage, dancing and desiccating in the wind, delineated against the sky for all to see until precisely a year to the day after the murder, (which is in itself an unsettling detail), the cage came loose from the gibbet and crashed to the ground. Local people buried him ten feet deep on the spot where he fell.

If you are looking for an example of the restless dead, come to Walford’s Gibbet, you may hear him, stamping about and whining because he still believes his crime was somehow justified, a weak, cowardly man in life who murdered his wife because she was inconvenient, he remains so in death.

Two are required to make the beast with two backs, that is undeniable, and Jane Shorney must bear some part of the responsibility for producing at least two bastards, one by John Walford, another by John’s brother, William, and carrying another by John that was weeks from birth at the time of her murder. However, John was no fool, he was described at the time by no less a man than Thomas Poole (local business man and associate of Samuel Taylor Coleridge) as ‘breathing intelligence’, therefore, there can be no doubt he would have been perfectly aware of the potential consequences of his actions. Jane Shorney however was described (also by Thomas Poole) as ‘a poor, stupid creature, almost an idiot’. This leaves me in little doubt as to who was the victim in this grim scenario.

Illegitimate pregnancy could result in a public flogging for the mother until 1742, and thereafter would result in terrible disgrace, a bastard was a burden on the parish, and the Overseers of the Poor had the power to arrest the father and if he would not give security to release the parish of its burden, or agree to marry the mother, they could imprison him.

It seems to me therefore, that having previously sired one other bastard with Jane Shorney, a child which his mother had provided security for on his behalf, he should have had the sense to keep his wick dry.

So John was arrested once more, and being too proud to ask his mother to help once more, he agreed to marry Jane Shorney, seventeen days later she was dead.

John Walford made his choices, he chose to partake in intercourse with Jane Shorney, nobody forced him, he chose to end her life when he could have simply run away to London, as he had at one time planned to do, his choices would have consequences, he knew this. At the time, the consequence of murder was state sanctioned murder for the perpetrator.

Accept it John, move on.

4 Comments

Sometimes one simply needs to get away. My neighbours, amusing as they sometimes are often re- awaken in me certain ‘urges’. Urges which invariably concern the use of greased wooden poles.

Of course when I do have the opportunity to scamper off on a jolly jaunt, my ideal destination tends not to be ‘usual’.

I prefer charnel house to manor house, gin palace to Buckingham palace, Bran castle to Windsor castle, boneyard to botanic garden. You probably discern the pattern.

Therefore, fascinating as life on the strangest street in this sceptered isle may be, I thought readers might appreciate the occasional diversion further afield.

It is my intention to regale you with tales of my light-hearted cadaverous caperings into the weird, the macabre and the unusual around the UK and (sometimes) beyond.

Perhaps I may visit medieval buildings guarded by faithful gargoyles, graveyards and catacombs inhabited by the restless dead, extraordinary natural landscapes where pagan gods dwell, restaurants, pubs and hotels in unusual places, haunted by ancient denizens and hopefully run by mad chefs with mad ideas. I will not know until I get there. I can only say they will be places to replenish my essence and head off those pesky impaling urges.

Tread with me if you will, paths less well known.

The extracurricular adventures of Vlad and Ms Crockofshit

A shamble from Porlock Weir to Culbone.

Dead Woman's ditch.

Archives

Categories