The story of the tragic death of a young girl at Laughter Hole Farm

My March group walk was around Bellever Forest with sunny showers and many rainbows. Seven humans and three well behaved little dogs...Arthur, Bea and Oreo...gathered in a very crowded parking area amongst the trees on the opposite side of the road to Postbridge Visitor Centre.

Our route took us into the hamlet of Bellever. As we crested the rise we could see the northern hills, shrouded in mist behind us, with rain clouds circling whilst in front lay a scattering of houses with all the necessary amenities, including a working phone box, a letterbox, for posting letters (not containing a rubber stamp), and a community noticeboard. Bellever is probably best known for the fact it boasts one of the only Youth Hostels on Dartmoor. It's in a central position making it very popular with walkers attempting the south/north crossing of the wilderness, something I’ve never done myself.

Reaching the other main parking area within the forest, we made a pit stop as it has proper toilets! This area is very popular with visitors, as it sits nicely on the edge of the East Dart with a picturesque little bridge, and remains of an ancient clapper. It became too popular during lockdown, sadly very abused by people unschooled in how to treat our wonderful countryside which might explain why it now costs £5 to park there for the day to help pay for the damage caused.

Moving on, we took a path leading to Laughter Hole Farm, a property sadly no longer in use, but now fenced off to prevent trespassing by curious passers-by.in the grounds of which we spotted several deer casually grazing, seemingly unfazed by noisy walkers.

The farm has a sad tale attached to it concerning a young girl,and her over-protective father, who tragically lost his wife in a horse riding accident and as a result forbade his daughter to ever leave the protection of the farm. Obeying her father, the girl spent her days helping out where she could, the only time she allowed herself any sign of rebellion was when her father went to market to sell their produce. Once a week he set off early, not wanting to leave the girl on her own any longer than necessary, whilst she in turn made the most of his absence by climbing to the top of the highest tree in the forest to sit and daydream about what life must be like in those far off lands beyond the confines of her home.

One day her father returned early, eager to show her the new doll he had bought for her. Being roused from her fantasies with a start and not wanting to be caught breaking the rules, she scrambled back down the tree. In her haste, she lost her footing and fell...her fall being broken when the strap of her apron dress snagged on a branch, snapping her neck in the process. Her father arrived back to find her lifeless body hanging from the tree. Distraught, he cut her down and immediately buried her in the grounds of the only home she had ever known. As he placed a handmade wooden cross, to mark her final resting place, a white dove flew up from the trees above and the father took this as a sign that his daughter was finally getting the freedom she craved.

Tragic tale told, we headed onwards to the open moor but if we had taken a left turn we would have come to Laughter Hole House, a property to the best of my knowledge, still in use with a set of stepping stones close by.

If we were to cross the river here and make our way up the hillside opposite we would reach a stone-walled enclosure, housing the remains of what was once known as Whiteslades Farm.

Here, two elderly sisters lived in relative seclusion from the surrounding community preferring to keep themselves to themselves. Now and again, one or other of the sisters would be seen in the local markets, buying household products, but never any food.

One night, after overindulgence in the pub, several of the locals decided they wanted to know what sustained the sisters in their solitude, so they made their way in the dark, to the farm. They soon got their answer, for as they stared through the lit window of the kitchen, they saw the old ladies sitting round a table covered with jars of slugs and snails, happily munching into platefuls of the creatures. Unable to hide their disgust, the locals turned and ran towards home, laughing and mocking the poor sisters. Hearing  commotion at the window, they knew their secret was finally out. Gossip soon spread, but when neither sister showed their face in the market for a week or more, the local priest started to feel concerned. Paying a visit to the isolated farm, and having gained access, he was mortified to find the two women lying dead on a bed, locked in a final embrace. It was as though they had literally died from embarrassment! The following Sunday, the priest chastised his parishioners for being so uncharitable towards the sisters, making everyone feel suitably guilty. The sisters’ farm was never lived in again, allowed instead to fall into disrepair, the resulting ruin becoming forever known as Snaily House.

Meanwhile, back on the moor, our task for the day was to find a letterbox, recently moved from an old site, where I had failed to find it, to a new home on an outcrop near Laughter Tor which was where, many moons ago, I had made my first chance discoveries. This time it was Tamsyn, a new member of the group, and little Bea, who found it for me.

Whilst in the area, we went to pay our respects to Laughter Man, one of my favourite standing stones on the moor. Passing the nearby Sheepfold, we had a photo op with the Man, including some overenthusiastic hugging, sadly in a passing shower.

Next stop was Bellever Tor, reaching it via a well-worn, muddy track, passing through gates, hopping muddy puddles and climbing stiles to get there. Sadly, my hope to find a twice elusive letterbox, associated with the trig pillar, proved third time unlucky.

Now we were on the home stretch and I allowed Becky to lead the way as amongst this land of many fascinating antiquities, there was one in particular I wished to see again for having found it once, I had failed to find it on subsequent visits. Becky, however, was confident she knew where it was...

Before setting off, there was one last tale to tell concerning poor Tom White and his encounter with a pixie revelry amongst the rocks on Bellever Tor. He was making his way home one night from his girlfriend’s house at Huccaby to the farm where he lived and worked at Postbridge, when he heard the sound of music and singing coming from the tor.

Taking a closer look, he was astonished to find a pixie party in full swing and before he could slink away, he was spotted, and forced to take part in the merrymaking. The dancing didn’t stop until the sun came up when the pixie folk scurried back to their homes and poor Tom was left exhausted on the grass, where he slept until noon. Arriving at work very late that day, Tom’s boss gave him a stern telling off and too ashamed to reveal the reason for his tardiness, he vowed never to cross the moor again, meaning he never saw his girlfriend again. She never did find out why she was so cruelly dumped, but it was all because of those pesky little pixies...

True to her word, we soon found what is known as Lakehead Hill cist or burial chamber, a fine example of its kind, complete with stone row, having passed a light coloured deer in another clearing on the way, standing motionless for a while before walking off slowly, a truly magnificent sight.

Pictures taken, we moved off into an area of further antiquities, culminating in the hut settlement, unfortunately named Krapps Ring. This is a similar set up to Grimspound, with a large outer circle containing lots of small hut circles that would once upon a time have housed our ancient ancestors. 

From here, it was just a matter of following a few paths through the forest, back to the cars, and onwards to our meal to mark the end of another fabulous day out, and looking forward to our next adventure in April.