The Storyteller: A walk through weird Wonson

Wonson is a tiny hamlet that lies on the north-eastern edge of Dartmoor.

By definition, a hamlet is a small village without its own church/chapel or meeting place/village hall, which it doesn’t have, but it does boast a haunted pub and a manor house with an unusual tale to tell. It was here that David Hammond and I headed towards after our recording session in Chagford the other week.

I’ve passed through Wonson many times over the years, usually on the way to visit nearby Gidleigh and Throwleigh, both possessing fine examples of Devon churches, Gidleigh possibly with the remains of one of my Devil’s Doors on display, but I’d always meant to stop at its pub, The Northmore Arms, as I’d heard good things about it. So we finally managed to put that right by popping in for a spot of lunch.

The first thing you are met with, as you pull into the small parking area, is a big gun! It’s safely behind black iron railings and quite overgrown now, but it certainly makes an interesting talking point and a way to break the ice with the owner. Apparently, it was one of a pair, rescued from Greenwich, by a previous landlord. One went for scrap, whilst the other remains on display here, passed down from owner to owner...

The interior of the pub is very olde worlde, with plenty of photos and collectibles from various eras to catch the eye as you first walk in. There are also plenty of signs that it forms a very important social centre for the local community and visitors alike, with quiz nights and music nights, also demonstrated by a TV showing videos from mine and David's favourite decade...

Then there is the extensive food menu, making it hard to choose, but once we had decided, the owner cooked it for us fresh, so it came to us piping hot. Then, as we tucked in, it was time to talk about what we had really come for...stories of the pub’s ghost...

A bit of research suggests that many people, over the years, have sighted a bearded sailor around the premises. This could tie in with the fact that the pub lies very close to what’s known as the Mariner’s Way, a traditional route taken by seamen, overland, that links ports on the south coast of Devon to those in the north, allowing them a safe route between ships, rather than undertaking a hazardous sea voyage around the Cornish coastline...although this wasn’t without its dangers, as we will see...

The current owner doesn’t claim to have experienced him; instead, they feel more of a feminine energy, possibly his wife, as some guests staying in the rooms above have felt themselves being tucked in at night as they’ve tried to get off to sleep. Maybe this used to be their home, and the wife is waiting for her husband to return from a journey he sadly never survived, for whatever reason...

My theory is that, possibly, he became a victim of the Mad Monk of Haldon Hill, who took in travellers, including sailors, passing by Lydwell Chapel, his home and hermitage, offering them food and lodgings for the night, before murdering them in their sleep and dumping their bodies down his well, whilst claiming all their valuables for himself. This would be rather ironic, for the holy man, who became the Mad Monk, started his notorious career at a little chapel in the Gidleigh area, which has long since been desecrated and destroyed by the locals, who were very aggrieved that he appeared to be getting away with his wicked deeds.

It would be nice to think that the sailor and his wife are now united in spirit, back in their old home at the Northmore Arms. As for the monk, who is said to haunt his well on the Haldon Hills, is it possible that his ghost has also been seen walking the lanes around his former home?

This idea came to me when I was recently contacted by a lady who had a very disturbing encounter during a walk she undertook during the Covid lockdown. She also told me about sighting a figure walking through the wall of Helpful Holidays in Chagford, plus the fact her friends live in a house they believe is haunted by Cavaliers, but probably not Wonson Manor, which I will come to shortly.

On the occasion in question, she spotted a figure walking down the hill towards her, which, as it got closer, took on the form of a monk dressed in a habit, without a face under the hood! As fear rose in her, and just before their paths crossed, the spectre disappeared from view behind a kink in the hedgerow, and she found herself alone in the lane. I felt this was too much of a coincidence, encountering a lone monk in the area where the Mad Monk was first thought to live on Dartmoor.

Back in Wonson, opposite the pub, stand two granite pillars, topped with granite balls, marking the entrance to the old manor house. Sadly, the house is privately owned, so access isn’t permitted, but it does house an interesting artefact with a haunting tale to accompany it. Back in the time of the English Civil War, the then owner, a certain Lord Northmore, who gave his name to the pub, was a bit of a gambling man, and it is said that, one night, he rather rashly wagered a parcel of his land on the turn of a single card, the Ace of Diamonds.

Sadly, he lost and instantly regretted his stupidity, relinquishing the land with good grace. As a reminder of this foolishness, he had the image of the Ace of Diamonds drawn large upon the wall of his gambling den in the house, something that can still be seen to this day. It is also said that, at night, if you quietly open the door to this room, you will witness the scene of four men dressed in the style of Cavaliers, including the owner, acting out the turn of the card that proved to be the downfall of Lord Northmore.

Still in this area, and still with a Civil War connection, you’ve got the site of the bloody battle of Blackaton Brook, which, on the anniversary of the skirmish, is said to run red with the blood of the fallen, hence its nickname, Bloody Meadow, and is where poor Sydney Godolphin received his fatal blow. On the anniversary, it is alleged that you can sometimes hear a re-enactment of the fighting, with the sound of horses’ hooves charging; the neighs of frightened animals; the clash of swords; musket fire; and the cries of dying men...

To end on a lighter note, there was once a local parson who looked after the parish containing Blackaton Brook and was well aware of the legend that had grown up around the battle. He was in the habit of walking from his home at the vicarage into nearby Chagford, where the hostelries sold his favourite tipple, and he would regularly overindulge.

One night, as he was wending his way home in a merry state, he took a tumble into a hedge, letting out a cry of alarm. At that instant, he heard the sound of hooves galloping across the field next to him. Getting quite excited, expecting he was about to witness a re-enactment of the infamous battle, he cautiously raised his head above the hedgerow to find himself staring into the faces of a herd of inquisitive cows, attracted by all the commotion he had made... Did I say that Wonson was weird?