More tantalising accounts of the Devil's labours on Dartmoor

Regular readers of my column will know that I’m partial to tales of the Devil on Dartmoor. The other weekend, when I was in Tintagel, I picked up a couple of new books. One of them was “Dartmoor Myths & Legends” compiled by Robert Hesketh.
I met Robert many years ago, when he came to a TIP meeting to interview us about our experiences at Churston Court, for a book he was writing about haunted inns in Devon. This more recent book, on Dartmoor tales, takes a different approach, by acknowledging the sterling work that the nineteenth century collectors of local folklore did by preserving the traditional stories, as told to them by those who had been told them by a past generation, thus preserving them for future generations. Robert has taken extracts from the likes of Sabine Baring-Gould, Mrs Bray and William Crossing, and shared them, using their own words, keeping the tales as true to how they were told them.
As I was reading the book, one particular passage, from William Crossing, jumped out at me. Robert refers to it as “Satan and Brentor Church”, taken from “Folklore and Legends of Dartmoor”, a book I have in my collection, and consulted often during my research. Seeking out the source material, I was intrigued to find this extract comes from the first chapter, entitled “To and fro in the earth”. I must confess to being confused by this title, during previous readings, as I wasn’t sure what aspect of folklore it was about. Imagine my surprise, upon taking another look at it, to find it was all about the Devil’s machinations on Dartmoor. I presume the title refers to Satan’s movements between Hell and the surface of the earth, with the superstitious locals crediting him with creating the many tors that litter the landscape, by throwing rocks around on a whim!
There is actually a tale, stating that once the Devil took on King Arthur, no less, at a game of quoits, and where the quoits landed, up sprouted the rocky outcrops, forming the tors that we know and love today. It would appear many such contests were held all over the moor, but the one mentioned in the book says that King Arthur took his stand on what is marked on the OS map as Blackingstone Rock, whilst the Devil threw from the aptly named Hel Tor, which, in this instance, just means height.
However, it was the connection of Satan with the building of Dartmoor churches that caught my eye, for Crossing refers to three churches, not just the two I already know about, Buckfastleigh and Brentor, but adding in Plympton as well. Buckfastleigh was built on the hill overlooking the town, instead of in the town itself, the Devil’s thinking was that if built on the hill, the congregation would be put off by the trek up. The builders gave in to the Devil’s interference, at the same time constructing a set of steps to help the townsfolk reach it.
Crossing’s version of the Brentor story is different from the one I share during my talks, where a merchant commissioned a church to be built on a high point, to commemorate St Michael for rescuing him from a storm. The Devil intervenes, and moves all the building materials to the foot of the hill. In the end, St Michael saves the day, and his church gets completed on the summit, as planned. In Crossing’s version, the church was intended to be built at the foot of the hill, but it’s the Devil who moves it to the top, presumably with a similar aim as the one at Buckfastleigh, to deter the congregation from attending services at such an unreachable place of worship.
However, it’s the story of the Plympton St Mary Church that interests me the most, as I’d never heard it before. Once again, the Devil interferes with its construction, this time it was intended to be built on high ground, a place called Crownhay Castle, presumably today’s Plympton Castle, as marked on the OS map. When the builders find their materials continuously being removed from the mound, they eventually discover them on the shore of a nearby creek, shown as the Tory Brook on the map, where, once again, the builders give in to the Devil’s machinations, and finish the construction there. In this instance, the warped thinking, is that a particularly powerful flood might come and wash the holy place away. Pre-empting this possibility, a strong wall is built around the church to protect it from such an act of God. It’s fascinating to think how, back in the day, superstitious locals couldn’t accept their God might allow this to happen, instead the usual whipping boy, Satan, would have been to blame.
One final thing, that Crossing’s chapter throws up, which is of great interest to a particular line of my research, is a the mention of the Devil’s Door. He states, “In a church in Cornwall a small door used formerly to be opened during baptisms in order that when renounced the fiend might readily take his departure. This was called the Devil’s Door, and was in the north side of the church. That is the quarter favoured by evil spirits, and thus everything was made as convenient as possible for him.”
Tantalisingly, Crossing doesn’t name the church in question, but a quick Google search of “the Devil’s Door in Cornwall” throws up several possibilities, including Mullion, Sennen, and Egloskerry, a village we regularly pass on our way to Boscastle.
It would seem that my search for that elusive piece of church architecture, now, sadly, mostly bricked up, can continue across the border.