Holy Trinity, Buckfastleigh

 Hello all!

I hadn’t heard of Holy Trinity Church in Buckfastleigh until a couple of years ago. I was scouting around for book promo shoot locations when someone said to me, “What about the ruined church in Buckfastleigh? You know, the one with the cage over the grave.” I didn’t know what they meant but, of course, I was intrigued. They gave me directions and I told my partner, Jay, to pack his camera!

So, off we went. We were doing the shots for one of my books and also a promo shoot for my business Alter Ego. The place is exactly the sort of backdrop you’d expect for gothic photos: scorched stone, roofless walls, and the tower still standing watch over the graves. It was spooky, yes, but also surprisingly quiet. We pranced around the churchyard with our props, snapping photos among the headstones, and every now and then I’d catch myself looking over at the famous tomb in the corner. It is one thing to read about a caged grave and quite another to stand next to it.

Me and Tabs - the bestie - at the church

So, the history. Holy Trinity was Buckfastleigh’s parish church from the fifteenth century right through into the twentieth. Over time the town grew down in the valley and a new church was built closer to the people, leaving Holy Trinity less and less used. Then in 1992 vandals set it on fire, destroying the roof and gutting the inside. Over the years locals have embroidered the story, some say it was Satanists, others whisper about occult rituals. It fits the pattern: once a place already has a “dark” reputation, people pile on extra layers of myth to explain any later misfortune. Either way, the fire was real and today the church stands as a hollow ruin, open to the sky.

And then there is Richard Cabell. Cabell was the local squire of nearby Brook Manor in the seventeenth century, remembered less for any great deeds than for being cruel, corrupt, and generally despised by his neighbours. He died in 1677 with a reputation so black that locals built him a chest tomb of heavy stone and caged it with iron rails. Cabell was said to be violent, corrupt and irreligious, a man people feared enough to try to pin down even in death. The legends followed quickly. Stories of phantom hounds circling the tomb on stormy nights, of Cabell’s spirit roaming Dartmoor, of how Arthur Conan Doyle supposedly borrowed the tale for The Hound of the Baskervilles. Whether or not Doyle ever did hardly matters now, because the link has stuck.

What I found interesting, posing there amongst the ruins with my bestie, is how much of the story comes not from words but from sight. The tomb (which we didn't actually photograph, would you believe!) looks like a stage set. You don’t have to be told Cabell was wicked; the iron cage tells you. Other squires have been forgotten, their names on fading stones, but Cabell’s story clings because there is something to see, something to point at. Even with the church gutted, the legend feels louder than the history.

So, Holy Trinity isn’t just a ruin, it is folklore made solid. A ruined church, a caged grave, and centuries of stories still circling. We went there for photos, but what I came away with was a sense of how a place can hold a story long after everything else has burned away.

The White Lady of Radford: Ghosts, Folklore, and Forgotten Histories

 

For a couple of years I lived in Plymstock, not far from Radford, and it became one of my favourite places to walk my two dogs. The path leads you in under the trees, then down to the wide lake where swans and ducks float about on the still waters. On one side the ruined boathouse leans into the water, its roof gone, its windows hollow. Further along you find the folly castle standing guard on the bank, and in the middle of the grounds the remains of the old silo still rise up, a reminder of when the estate was more than just a park. It is a place where history shows through in fragments, every turn of the path hinting at what once stood there. 

The only thing that ever spoiled it for me was the South West Water plant tucked on the edge of the park. If you wander too near on the wrong day the air turns sharp and sewagey, a rude interruption to the otherwise gothic air of the lake and woods. 

Even so, I loved it, and I even used Radford for my books, sourcing the cover photographs for Ella’s Memoirs and The Black Marshes there among the ruins.

One of the raw images from the Haverleigh cover photos featuring Natasha Berry who posed as Ella.

The Ghost Stories

Radford has its share of ghost stories. A faceless monk is said to appear at the lodge gates. Drake himself is said to have been spotted there and people claimed servants' bells rang on their own in the long-ruined house before demolition. Dogs are said to shy away from the paths at night. The most famous of all is the White Lady.

The story of the White Lady at Radford is told in many ways. Most versions centre on a young woman of the family who drowns and whose ghost lingers by the water. First to mention is that "White Lady Ghosts" are a common figure in folklore, not just in Devon but across Europe. They are usually tied to stories of tragic love, suicide, or betrayal, women who died too soon and are said to wander in pale garments near the place of their death. The details change from place to place, yet the image is instantly recognisable. I have written before about the White Lady of Berry Pomeroy Castle, and you can read more about the whit ladies of folklore in my earlier blog post HERE

In one of the best-known tellings of Radford's white lady story, a girl of the house falls in love with a boy from Oreston. She is forbidden to see him, and the pair take a rowing boat onto the lake which overturns, drowning them both. Since then she has been seen in white, walking by the water or drifting across it on moonlit nights, searching for her lost love. A local road even bears her name, White Lady Road, keeping the tale alive.

I have come across several variations of this tale too, from blogs and heritage sites to Facebook posts and other retellings. The details shift with the teller. Sometimes the companion is a sweetheart, sometimes a close female friend of lower rank. Sometimes the lady drowns by accident, other times she chooses to end her life. A few versions move the setting away from Radford altogether and place her death at Hooe Lake. These contradictions are typical of folklore like this.

The ruined boathouse - photo by Mckinnon Images

The History:

Radford House was once the great seat of the Harris family, rising from a medieval manor into a grand Elizabethan mansion where Sir Christopher Harris, Member of Parliament for Plymouth and close associate of Sir Francis Drake, entertained figures tied to England’s naval exploits. Drake is said to have lodged at Radford during preparations against the Armada, and the Harris family held his will for a time, securing Radford’s place in that circle of sea-faring legend. The estate sprawled across what is now Radford Park, with ornamental gardens, a lake, a boathouse and, later, a little folly-castle built on the dam. By the nineteenth century the land was being parcelled and remodelled, its former grandeur slowly ebbing away. The twentieth century brought decline: the house stood increasingly empty, its contents sold, its walls left to rot, until the main building was finally demolished in 1937. What remains today are fragments: the lake, the lodge, and the boathouse ruins which are open and free to roam.

In several recountings of the folklore, I found mention of the white lady's drowning happening in the 1700s (18th century). In the 18th century there certainly were daughters and female relatives living at the house such as Susannah Harris and Anne Harris of the Bellevue and Hooe branch. Neither of these ladies drowned, though. In fact, after extensive searching through parish registers, inquest files, and local papers, I can confidently say that there is no record of any drowning there in the period usually implied by the legend. No named young woman lost to the water. No grief-stricken lover. Nothing of the sort.

There was, however, one incident that may have seeded rumour from a later period. In 1853, a twenty-year-old woman named only as "Mrs Revil" was discovered in Radford Lake with her baby in her arms. She and the child had both almost drowned, but ‘had the good luck’ to be pulled out by a passing doctor, who managed to revive them both. Mrs Revil lived not in Radford, but in Prince Rock, and had no recorded link to the house. Her actions were reported as an attempted suicide and attempted murder of the child in the Western Times (25 June 1853, p.7). The story travelled widely, reprinted in several newspapers across England, including in London. It is tragic, sensational, and close enough to the setting that later retellings may have shaped it into something ghostly.

More telling still is the silence in the literature. I cannot find any written version of the Radford White Lady prior to a local guidebook in the 1990s. The most-cited online account is an unsourced ghost story book printed in 2010. The demolition-era reporting (for example, Western Morning News, 27 July 1935, p.7) describes the house falling into ruin. It speaks of echoes of Drake and of bells heard on still evenings, but no pale figure by the lake. Those latter details seem to have grown later, perhaps from oral stories told around the time when the estate was derelict and romantic to imagine.

So the White Lady of Radford is both ghost and gap: a figure who may never have lived at all, yet whose presence has outlasted those who did. Walking the water’s edge at dusk, I can see why she has appeared as a local legend.

Pan - a Greek Legend

This piece is an article I wrote for the 2019/2020 "Wonky Broomstick Diary".  

 As you are walking out in the lushest part of the greenest forest you can imagine, a figure catches your eye. He’s like nothing you’ve ever seen before, cloven hooved, ancient eyes and ears which poke up out of his hair like an animal. He has horns like a goat and eludes a feeling of ancient wisdom, interspersed with playfulness and raw animalistic power. In his hand, he carries a musical instrument: a set of pipes made of reeds, and all about you, you can hear the sound of the leaves swishing so that they sound like the laughter of young women. You might well have just stumbled into the realm of the god Pan!

Pan is a well-known figure in modern paganism, known for his half-goat form and iconic “Pan pipes”.

 

This article will give you a run-down of where he originated, and how he had risen to become such a well-known deity.

Pan was first mentioned in ancient Greek mythology. He was first worshipped in the region of Arcadia as far back as the 4^th century BCE where he was heralded as the god of mountain and pasture. From there his image spread throughout Greece but whereas most of the Greek gods were worshiped at temples or shrines, Pan was rarely approached in this way, and was more often worshiped out in nature. Pan was thought also to be a close acquaintance (drinking buddy!) of Dionysus, the Greek god of festivity and wine, and there are several stories in the mythology about their antics! In Roman mythology, there is another remarkably similar god named Faunus and in modern understanding of Pan, some of Faunus’s traits have been incorporated, and some believe that he might well have been a cultural representation of the same god. Faunus, like Pan, was an animalistic god, being also half-goat and half man. In Roman terms, this amalgamation is a faun, named for Faunus, and in Greek terms it is a satyr. Both terms are nowadays used interchangeably. Both Faunus and Pan share the traits of being the god of pasture, mountain and fields, as well as having something of a reputation as erotic and sometimes lustful gods! There is ongoing debate still, as to whether Pan and Faunus are the same god, brother gods, or unrelated, however the stories told of them are remarkably similar!

Pan is, in general, seen as a happy-go-lucky sort of a chap! He was especially fond of Nymphs and is often referred to in conjunction with these creatures, quite literally! He is often portrayed as erotic, and many of the stories about him include some level of romance or sex – usually with nymphs although that is not unusual for a forest god, one would imagine! He drinks, sings, dances and frolics about the forests.

Despite his jolly and frivolous nature, some of the stories of Pan show his downfalls too, as he is often described as too hedonistic and unthinking in his pursuit of pleasure!  One of the most famous stories of Pan is that of how he forged his pan-pipes:

 Deep in the forests at the foot of a row of ancient mountains, there lived a wood nymph named Syrinx. Syrinx was the most beautiful of wood nymphs, with rich long hair and eyes which flashed with playful intrigue. She lived happily and was sister to the river nymphs of a nearby body of water. Pan, who walks all mountain paths and pastures, happened into

Pan and Syrinx by Edmund Dulak

Syrinx’s forest. The day was bright and lush, with the sunshine creating reflections on the water, and the scent of wildflowers in the air. Pan’s footsteps took him from the path, and towards a rushing waterfall nearby. There, he caught sight of Syrinx for the very first time, washing her thick and luscious hair in the waterfall. At once was taken by her beauty and her playful manner. She smiled, and he was lost – madly in love with her in the blink of an eye! Pan moved in closer as she sat out on the rocks, naked as nymphs are, and made a motion to speak with her, to entice her to come to him as so many of her kind had before. Syrinx, however, knowing of his reputation and unwilling to be the next in line of his conquests, jumped up at once and fled into the woods. Pan, thinking this was some game – for nymphs were known to play such – took off after her, laughing and enjoying the fun of the chase. Realising that Pan pursued her, Syrinx ran to her sisters, the river nymphs, and asked them to hide her from Pan, so that he would pass on and be about his business. The river nymphs did so, turning her into a reed on the edge of the river. Seeing this, Pan fell to his knees and begged the river nymphs to turn her back so that he might speak with her, but they – being scatty as nymphs often are – did not know the magics to undo the spells and so were unable to turn Syrinx back. As the days passed, the reeds that had been Syrinx melded in with the others which grew upon the banks of the river, wilting and rising again so that she became lost there. Pan mourned for long days at the side of the river, but as he sobbed, his breath cast over the reeds, sending out a song so mournful and beautiful that even the river nymphs themselves wept to hear it. Pan, in desperation that Syrinx not be lost, as well as in remorse for his unwitting participation in her downfall, cut seven reeds from the riverbank, and there he bound them together to become what is known as the Syrinx Pipes, or as they are more commonly known, Panpipes.

There are some slight variations to this tale, in some cases it is Zeus himself who turned Syrinx into a reed, and refused to turn her back in his annoyance at the nymphs and their games – something of a cautionary tale for young girls! In others Pan was said to have raped the nymph, or have tried to.

Despite this and other such pieces of folklore about him, somewhat unusually for Greek mythology, Pan doesn’t really seem to have a role in the god-politics of the time. Other than being the guardian of pastures and fields, he didn’t really have a role, spent no time involved in the usual antics which went on around Mount Olympus and did not engage with the power struggles with which Greek mythology is littered. Due to this, there are some scholars who believe that Pan actually predates Greek mythology and was incorporated into their stories as an outside agent. This debate has led to various theories about Pan’s origins, with some scholars claiming that he could be one of the oldest gods in existence, or even the original horned god, and that the Greek version of Pan is just another interpretation of him. I even read one article where Pan was cited to be possibly another aspect of the green man!

Whatever his origins, Pan has become a household name in witchy and pagan circles. Nowadays, rather than the god of pastures and fields, Pan is considered the shepherd between civilised life and the wilds, and in some cases, the guardian of the gate to faerie or other worlds. Pan is used most often used to represent sexual frenzy – not fertility or love, but raw lust and passion. He represents the inner self, the animalistic and primal self which follows hedonism and indulgence. He is said to control primal urges and one article even named him as the inventor of masturbation! In modern-day worship, Pan is still mostly worshipped out of doors, and can be called upon to strike passion and lust into your magics, rituals and circles. He can guide the mind away from the normality of civilised life, and allow you to step back to a more wild and unfettered state. Be wary though, as he is often set on his own pleasures, and has a reputation for carelessness with other beings!

 

Tom Bawcock - A Cornish Christmas Tradition

 I saw a viral facebook post about the story of Tom Bawcock and I was interested in its origin so I thought I would have a rummage online and see what I could find :) 

To begin, the legend goes thus:

The story

At some time in the sixteenth century, a man named Tom Bawcock lived in a village called Mousehole in Cornwall. Tom was a fisherman, so the legend goes. One particularly bad year, the townsfolk were starving because the weather had not allowed them to go out fishing. Tom, it would seem, decided to brave the storms despite the danger to himself, and so took his boat out anyway to do some fishing in order that the townsfolk would have something to eat over Christmas. The day was the 23rd December, the year unknown! 

Despite all odds, and a treacherous sea, Tom did in fact make it back to land, and in his boat was enough food to feed everyone! Large open topped fish pies were cooked from the fish Tom caught, with the heads and tails of the pies still on show, so that the villagers could see that the pastry contained actual fish! This dish is known as stargazey pie.

The legacy:

Today the village of Mousehole celebrates Tom Bawcocks Eve every 23rd December with people baking pies as well as lights and celebrations in the streets. A book, The Mousehole Cat was written in 1991 which tells of the deeds  of Tom and "mowzer" , his cat, who the book proposed purred the waves to calm. 

The history:

Ok, so first off, interestingly, Bawcock wasn't really localised to Cornwall as a name in this era. Whilst this isn't conclusive, that would at once make a historian like me more skeptical. It's also true that these old traditions and such are often not this specific. A short internet search found me the theory from another blogger which seems to have merit, that "Bawcock" was a word used by Shakespeare. This generally meant "a fine chap". To me this makes more sense in the usual pattern of these type of traditions. The fisherman who went out, therefore, may not have been named Tom Bawcock at all, but was merely Tom, a fine chap! 

The origin:

Another theory, much older, is that of Cornish folklorist Robert Nance (1920s), who thought it was a translation of Beau Coq - a French term which translates to beautiful rooster! He attributed the figure of Tom with the "rooster bearer" in a pre-christian winter festival. There doesn't seem to be a lot to substantiate this though and several modern folklorists even go so far as to say Nace was known for his embellishing! It was Nance, however, who

brought us the song of Tom Bawcock, having found a scrap of it and been inspired to put the rest together himself!! 

In newspapers, the earlier record I can find about Tom Bawcock is actually 1928. This is quite interesting as if it was an age old tradition, you would expect to see much more mention in earlier newspapers! Thus gives support to several accounts I read which claimed that the festival was revived early in the 1900s, rather than one which has ever been celebrated. It's no coincidence whether, that this is the era that Nance first started writing about it. This is not to say that it didn't exist earlier, only that perhaps it wasn't celebrated the way it is now before then, or in fact that it is an older festival which died out and was revived :)

Let me know your theories in the comments!