Blog Posts

The Rock Inn, Waterrow.

21/1/2018

I am no food critic, however I do possess a hedonistic personality and enjoy the good things, such as food and drink. I delight in the feeling I gain from good food, good wine, and good company. I often feel I lack the sensitive palate of the professional food and wine critic, and perhaps I miss some of the more subtle nuances that they claim to detect. Moreover, I am not of a mind to analyse, criticise, and evaluate things to the extent of the professional critic, it is not my job after all. I simply love good food and drink made with care by people who care about what they do.

We have, by necessity, been taking sustenance since we were nothing more than single cells floating in the primordial soup, and delicious soup it was too. Our choice of sustenance has evolved with us of course, and has come to mean so much more to us than simply calories to fuel our bodies.

There was a point, (probably) after Homo sapiens had discovered how to create fire and begun to use it to cook their meals that one of the tribe took a few moments to think about how to cook the meat from the day’s kill so it would taste better than previously. Perhaps that ancient ancestor of you and I remembered a plant he had eaten and imagined it might improve their meal if cooked with the Mammoth haunch. The others in his or her tribe would no doubt have appreciated these efforts and that experimental Hominid would have become the tribe’s first Chef. It had to begin somewhere, and would go a long way to explaining Gordon Ramsay.

Appreciation of good food well cooked, and delicious beers, wines and spirits is in my DNA, and I know I am not alone, so I felt compelled to tell you about a place I visited today, a place where all these things are clearly as important to the people who run the establishment as they are to me.

The Rock Inn is a 450 year old pub nestled in a combe in the hamlet of Waterrow, Somerset, a beautiful place in its own right, and the area is well worth exploring.

We were welcomed with a smile by Daren, Chef and co-owner with his wife Ruth, and supplied with drinks by Sugar the barmaid, (yes, I am sure that was her name). We settled down with a Quantock stout for me and Luscombe’s ginger ale for Ms Crockofshit at our scrubbed table in the corner of the pub, next to the roaring log burner, and the exposed face of the 180 million year old greywacke stone against which the pub is built.

The menu is varied, consisting of traditional pub food and more contemporary dishes, and changed regularly according to the seasons, I am delighted to say that local suppliers are used wherever possible.

Ms Crockofshit declined a starter, as is her habit, (she likes to save herself for pudding) I. however could not resist the lure of wood pigeon, ensconced as we were in this ancient, cosy pub among the trees with the River Tone ambling by, it seemed the natural choice.

‘Pan fried breast of wood pigeon with black pudding on a salad of pecan nuts and salad leaves dressed with truffle oil.’

The Pigeon breast was succulent, the black pudding was spicy, almost like chorizo, and there was the added surprise of quails eggs pickled with fennel. It was finished too soon.

For her main course Ms Crockofshit opted for the duck.

‘Breast of Beechridge Farm free range duck with new season vegetables on a creamed onion puree, roasted garlic juices and truffle dauphinoise potatoes.’

Judging by the closed eyes and the moans of pleasure that I myself would be delighted to induce in her, I believe she found her meal more than acceptable.

I chose the beef.

‘Featherblade of Aberdeen Angus beef marinated in black garlic and black treacle, cooked slowly for 14 hours, with rainbow carrots and Cheddar cheese mashed potato.’

Hands down, best piece of meat I have ever eaten, it fell apart as it was cut and melted away, almost negating the need for canines, and I am usually eager to utilise mine.

For pudding we both chose the poached rhubarb with pink custard, mini meringues and shortbread. It resembled a deconstructed Barbara Cartland, and was a taste sensation.

A sybaritic experience, in an extraordinary place with excellent people, so concerned was I with my own self-indulgence, I did not have the opportunity to discover why the little girl who visited us briefly as we ate, lingers in this place so many years after her sad demise. We shall certainly return, and perhaps that is a tale for another day.

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Hunky Punks.

24/12/2017

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Hunky Punk, North Curry Church.

Ms Crockofshit and I have many shared interests, and perhaps one of our favourite ways to spend a day is to explore the wonderful countryside we are blessed with in this sceptered isle of ours, and in particular, the landscape of my beloved home county of Somerset.

Although the beauty of the natural vistas, from tree clad hillsides, to dark plunging fern-crowded combes are of course a joy to behold, we also enjoy visiting some of the more ancient man-made places of interest. Some of our most ancient buildings are of course churches, a good number of which date back to Saxon times and many of these special places are built on sites that have been places of Pagan worship for considerably longer.

Graveyard, North Curry Church.

We love the tranquillity of a graveyard, to stand in these places, among our tight-lipped ancestors is a way to connect to the past in a palpable way, as it is likely that people have been gathering in these places for reasons of worship or celebration for time immemorial.

Gargoyle, North Curry Church.

Over time, while visiting these captivating places, we have developed a fascination for a specific aspect of the architecture of the buildings that survive there.

I speak of ‘Hunky Punks’, which is Somerset dialect for the phantasmagorical carvings on the sides of buildings, often late gothic churches. Somerset boasts numerous examples of these remarkable sculptures. Hewn from local stone, it seems the stonemasons responsible for them were often allowed to let their imaginations run riot. You may be forgiven if you were to confuse these carvings with gargoyles, however there is an easy way to spot the difference, a gargoyle is designed to drain water from the roof of the building via its mouth, while the Hunky Punk is purely decorative. A good example of this may be found on a church tower which may have carvings on all four corners, despite the roof draining in only one direction, in this case there would be one gargoyle and three Hunky Punks.

Hunky Punk, North Curry Church.

It is my intention, if you will indulge me, to share this passion with you in what I hope will become a regular, if occasional feature of my blog. To this end, I have recently returned from a visit to North Curry church in Somerset, resting place of several of my own ancestors, and in my opinion boasting some of the finest examples of Hunky Punks to be found anywhere.

The Church of St Peter and St Paul is the Parish Church of North Curry, it is a generously proportioned building for a village church, and is known locally as The Cathedral of the Moors. When first built, perhaps as early as the 9th century, the church would have stood on a promontory between marshland on all sides, extending from West Hatch to Athelney, before the land was reclaimed by drainage.

The views from here are truly spectacular, on a clear day, gazing out over a huge expanse of flat country it is possible to see Taunton Deane, the southern slopes of the Quantock Hills, the Brendons, the Blackdowns, the Mendips, the Poldens, and Exmoor. I find it easy to picture the spectral, nocturnal horde of The Wild Hunt sweeping across this landscape on Yule night, perhaps if you are courageous or foolhardy enough you may be able to view the spectacle from this vantage point.

The Wild Hunt, led by Odin.

Hunky Punk, North Curry Church.

Hunky Punks of Pagan origin, unique to Somerset are a feature of North Curry Church. This one represents Lucifer in chains, struggling to free himself from the north west corner of the church, fleeing into the darkness of sun-down.

Hunky Punk, North Curry Church.

Gargoyle, North Curry Church.

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A sojourn at Sennen Cove.

17/12/2017

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Sennen Cove.

Sennen Cove, or Porthsenen as Cornish speakers would have it, is a small coastal settlement in Cornwall, approximately two miles from Lands’ End. Even now, in the 21st century, Sennen maintains the atmosphere of an ancient fishing village, the diminutive harbour is populated by several small fishing boats and lobster pots are piled high, demonstrating the continuing local fishing industry. There is a tangible connection to the past in this place.

Cowloe rocks.

Sennen has long been known as a place visited by Mermaids and is famous for the story of ‘The Sennen Whooper’. According to legend, even on clear, calm days, a strange mist would gather in the cove on the Cowloe rocks, from this mist a strange whooping sound would issue forth by day and showers of sparks would radiate from it by night, it was believed this event was the foretelling of a storm and would prevent local fishermen from venturing out into the perilous waters. The Whooper was respected as a guardian spirit until one day, despite the Whoopers warning, a reckless fisherman and his son set forth into a storm, they were never seen again and the Whooper fell silent and has not been heard since.

Thanks to the generosity of our friends, whose tenth wedding anniversary we were there to celebrate, we were booked to stay at The Old Success Inn, a 17th century building with breath-taking views across the bay. On the first day of our sojourn, the 2nd of December, our party of nine gathered in the bar and we proceeded to catch up, chatting and drinking local ales happily in the cosy pub. From my vantage point, I could see the Cowloe rocks, which were quite clear. This first day was most agreeable, all of our companions present that day were friends we meet up with only very occasionally, however we all quickly fell into comfortable conversation punctuated with a good deal of laughter, our discourse became rather loud and indoor voices were in short supply. Genuine friends will always remain so regardless of separation due to time or distance. Aside from the general revelry, there is one incident worth mentioning. At dinner that evening as we all ate, drank and became still more merry, a few of us noted what appeared to be fireworks outside, which seemed to me to be somewhat incongruous, pondering on this, I remembered the story of the Sennen Whooper, and how it is said sparks would radiate from it by night. Could this be what we saw, reflected in the window panes?

Morpheus.

That evening, after eating and drinking to a degree that in the heady days of the Roman Empire would have required the use of a Vomitorium, most of our party retired shortly after last orders. I witnessed a certain young elfin lady crawling up the stairs because, in her own words, ‘I’m too full to walk’. A gentleman would of course never suggest that the large quantities of Cornish Rattler cider the lady in question had imbibed may have played a part in her ambulatory difficulties. No, a gentleman would never do that.

Ms Crockofshit and I retired to our delightful room at the front of the Inn, with its spectacular view of the bay and Cowloe rocks. As I opened the sash windows so we could enjoy the sound of the mighty Atlantic Ocean, I peered into the darkness in the direction of Cowloe rocks. No sparks.

We fell into the arms of Morpheus quickly and I slumbered deeply for some hours, dreaming of drowning, dragged under storm tossed waters by the weight of many tangled fishing nets. I woke at three AM, seemingly very much awake, every sense heightened, tingling with anticipation. What was that noise? It was a sound I found difficult to process, unlike anything I had ever heard, the best comparison I can come up with is the sound of the male Bittern booming.

Ms Crockofshit slept on as I quietly slipped from the bed and made my way to the window, peering into the darkness, the Cowloe Rocks were illuminated by the light of an almost full moon, visible through a gap in the clouds. A strange mist indeed carpeted the rocks and sparks flew from it as the Whooping continued, it was at this point I felt my mind violated by an insistent voice.

The voice belonged to Annie Treeve, who was taking the opportunity to tell her story through me. Annie had been landlady of The First and Last pub at the top of the hill above Sennen in the early 1800’s, Annie and her husband Joseph, in addition to running the pub, also managed the smuggling and wrecking operations that many of the local residents were heavily involved in. After being evicted from the pub by Dionysius Williams, wealthy land owner and smuggling agent, and finding no help or solace from her fellow villagers, Annie took her revenge by turning King’s evidence against her landlord and the villagers, as a result some received long prison sentences or were hanged.

The villagers took their own revenge on Annie by staking her out on the beach at low tide and as the tide rose, Annie was pulled under by the fishing nets that were used to weigh her down and she drowned. A terrifying and some might say fitting method of execution for someone who had orchestrated many wrecking events, causing the deaths by drowning of countless seafarers.

There are unseen forces with an ironic sense of justice, that occasionally intervene after the death of those they consider deserving of their attention, Judge James Popcawn, for instance found himself under the scrutiny of these forces after his death, I believe Annie came to their notice due to her actions in life and the circumstances of her death.

It was decreed that Annie should remain in the bay as a guardian spirit for fishermen and other seafarers in recompense for the deaths that had resulted in her wrecking activities, as a result she became the Sennen Whooper. On the occasion The Whooper was ignored, her obligation was lifted and she ceased whooping, she was then free to move on, however, she never did and has remained in the bay in another form ever since, no longer a protector, but a kind of temptress, intent on wrecking the lives of those who fall under her spell. I sensed from her a malignant anger and desire for revenge for the terrible thing done to her that sadly shows no sign of abating.

I remember nothing more until I woke in bed next to Ms Crockofshit as dawn broke, and was inclined to dismiss the experience as nothing more than a dream.

After a satisfying breakfast and a fond farewell to two of our party, who were compelled to return home due to pesky work commitments, we set off on a bracing walk along the cliffs to Lands’ End. The coastal path is a delight, with huge views of the landscape, ocean and sky, unfortunately the destination is not quite such a delight having been purchased by a company interested only in making money, to this end they have constructed a tacky ‘attraction,’ that succeeds in making this once wildly beautiful place considerably less attractive. At the very edge of this blot on the landscape is a sign, next to the sign is a shed, both are surrounded by a fence, the sign points to places such as New York and John O’Groats giving a distance in miles to the destination, you can even have your hometown added to the sign and pose for photographs. For a price. All that is needed to complete this scene is a tricorn hat and a flintlock for the man in the shed, and a stable for Black Bess.

Moving on quickly, we continued on our circular walk, stopping at The First and Last Inn for refreshments on the way, where we were able to see ‘Annies Well,’ which is the entrance to the old smugglers tunnel running to the cliffs.

Annie's well.

Finally we arrived back to a warm welcome at the Old Success where we enjoyed a delicious Sunday roast lunch followed by a walk on the beautiful beach. An excellent day in excellent company.

The evening began as we watched ‘Arthur Christmas’ in the room of our hosts in the company of two ladies with a serious festive film habit. After watching this serving of Christmassy cheese, washed down with a civilised cup of tea, we adjourned to the bar where we once more indulged in the fine ales on offer from the St Austell brewery, most notably their HSD strong ale, and new to me, but an absolute revelation, Mena Dhu, their Cornish stout, which is delicious.

The evening progressed in a similar manner to the previous one, with much chatting, laughing and drinking. That Sunday night, the third of December a full, super moon was up there somewhere, however we could not see it as the sky was bloated with rain clouds and as I occasionally glanced through the window I could see darkness, with the exception of a weak puddle of light cast from the pub window, which enhanced my already excellent night vision.

The time was around 10.00 PM when I peered into the night to see a brief spray of seawater and a slender hand grasping the cold, slippery steel of the safety rail that prevents numpty’s from falling onto the rocks below, it was joined from the darkness by another hand, both gripping tightly, the knuckles white with effort. In the weak light, I was able to observe the top half of a woman’s body come into view, naked and slick with seawater. Long dark hair heavily sodden, covered the woman’s face, however I could see every muscle in her toned arms and torso working as she pulled herself with graceful ease into a handstand position. I believe I may have gaped as she held the position for a second, her long green tail sparkling like myriad emeralds in the lights from the pub. As she lowered herself gently to the ground, her tail seemed to disintegrate, torn away in tatters by the wind, and she landed on human legs and feet. She stood for a moment in the pool of light, finding my eyes and holding them before stepping into the darkness away from my view of the area opposite the window. Nobody else in the pub seemed to notice, and as I am accustomed to seeing things that many others do not, I elected not to mention my vision.

However, with the help of lashings of Mena Dhu, moments later I proved to myself that sometimes I should simply keep my thoughts to myself. I fear little in this world or the next, however I do have one potentially debilitating terror, I suffer from Cenosillicaphobia, and noticing my glass was indeed almost empty, I glanced toward the bar as I prepared to leave my seat for a refill, as I did so, I noticed a bright light shining through the window on the opposite side of the pub.

‘Hang on.’ I said, genuinely baffled. ‘Why is it dark out there?’ I asked all present, pointing to the window that looked out onto the Atlantic. ‘But light out there?’ Now pointing to the opposite window. My dear friends were predictably unsupportive of my dilemma, laughing uproariously before pointing out that outside one window was the unlit road and the brooding Atlantic, while outside the opposite window was the well-lit car park of the pub. They then indulged themselves in several minutes of merciless ribbing at my expense.

As a result of my foolishness, when I saw an ethereal green glow on the other side of the window, I kept my blithering mouth closed. Seconds later, the door opened and a cold eddy of air insinuated itself into the room, accompanied by a strong smell of the ocean. Seemingly carried on this waft of ocean breeze floated a tall dark haired woman of striking beauty, her waist length hair was damp, and as a result, the thin cotton blouse she wore had become transparent where her hair lay on it. She wore the skinniest jeans I have ever seen, of a deep aquamarine shade, her naked feet left wet prints on the wooden boards as she made her way to the bar. I recognised her of course, she had spoken to me the previous night, and I had witnessed her emerge from the ocean only minutes before.

At this point, it seemed I was the only person to notice her, however this changed as she reached the bar, I perceived a shiver ripple down the body of the barmaid as she registered the woman’s presence and asked her what she would like. The woman nodded at the Mana Dhu pump.

‘Pint?’ The barmaid asked, at which the woman simply gave a brief smile, the barmaid poured the drink, and when it had settled, placed it on the bar before the Mermaid who made no comment, nor did she show any sign of intent to pay.

I watched with fascination as she waited. There were several men milling around the bar, some accompanied by wives or girlfriends, all of them were reaching for their wallets. The quickest of them handed a twenty to the barmaid.

‘I’ll get that.’ He said, the biggest shit-eating, self-satisfied grin cracking his face wide open. He turned to the woman, emitting hot lust from every pore, she turned and smiled demurely, radiating cold, sharp blades of ice, and doomed him.

‘I’ll get the drinks in shall I?’ I said, gathering up those terrifying empty glasses.

I wish to thank the couple whose wedding anniversary we were in Sennen to celebrate, for their remarkable generosity, and for inviting us to share this special time with them, also the other members of our party who helped to make it such a memorable weekend. You know who you are. Thanks are also due to all the staff of the Old Success Inn, for their tolerance and patience, and making us feel right at home.

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A challenge for you from Vlad.

7/12/2017

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I observed this symbol carved into the west wall of St Bueno's church at Culbone. It is somewhat familiar, as it resembles the ancient Celtic symbol for inspiration,'Awen'. This may make sense, Culbone being as close to Wales as it is. However, although the three lines that point downward look correct, this symbol has a solid line running across the top, whereas Awen has three 'dots' at the head of the lines representing three points of light, the three lines representing rays emanating from these points. My question is this:
Is this symbol a variation of the Celtic symbol Awen, or is it something else entirely? Your assistance in this matter is appreciated, there are no prizes, however you will win my respect and admiration if you are able to cast light onto the true meaning of this enigmatic carving. It would please me if you were so kind as to leave your suggestions in the comments section below.

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A shamble from Porlock Weir to Culbone.

1/12/2017

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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.

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Dead Woman's ditch.

21/7/2017

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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.

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Forward>>

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

The Rock Inn, Waterrow.

Hunky Punks.

A sojourn at Sennen Cove.

A challenge for you from Vlad.

A shamble from Porlock Weir to Culbone.

Dead Woman's ditch.

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