The Storyteller: A fairy tale midsummer's eve

Recently I paid another visit to Crazywell Pool during a letterboxing expedition, which was very appropriate for this time of year, as the folklore attached to it relates to Midsummer’s Eve...

It is said that, if you gaze into the depths of the pool at midnight on Midsummer’s Eve, the face of the next person to die in the parish of Walkhampton, where the pool is to be found, will be reflected back at you. Any sensible person will realise that the only face you are likely to see is your own. However, this didn’t deter two local lads from testing out this story in more recent times.

They were propping up the bar in their favourite hostelry when the subject of the legend came up, as it was indeed Midsummer’s Eve. Mocking their superstitious acquaintances, they set out to prove them wrong. Riding their motorbikes as close as they could get, they then completed the journey on foot, following the path that took them straight to it, which overlooks Burrator Reservoir.

Being near the time of the Longest Day, there was still enough daylight for them to see by, even at that time of the night, so, at the allotted hour, they both peered into the pool, but, as they suspected, the only faces they could see were their own. As they rode their bikes home after the mission, in an inebriated state, both men were killed in a tragic accident... maybe there is some truth in Dartmoor folklore after all?

This prompted me to recall some of my own adventures from this time of the year...

Along with Halloween, I find Midsummer, with its extended daylight hours, a very auspicious time to hold events to celebrate the occasion. Last year, I held an Evening of Storytelling around a Campfire at Wray Valley Camping, which was very well received. This year, as you read this, I will have just held a free Evening of Storytelling at The Sportsmans Inn in Ivybridge in the hope of collecting some more local stories for my proposed Ghost Walk around the town.

Back in the days when my Monday night meetings for my investigation group, TIP, were held at the atmospheric Churston Court, we had other ways to mark the date...

On the closest Monday to Midsummer, we would plan a visit to our favourite, most haunted castle in England (allegedly), Berry Pomeroy. We would never dream of climbing the walls and spending time inside, in the dark, as I know some do. Instead, we would stand, respectfully, on the lawn, in front of the ruined ramparts, in the hope that the White Lady would make an appearance for us...she hasn’t, as yet.

We would also do a spot of sky watching, and, on one occasion, I saw the most bizarre thing. As I looked up into the starry sky above the castle, the darkness was ripped open, revealing daylight underneath, and all these tiny white objects started spilling out of the void, almost like a mothership was unloading a cargo of UFOs! Then, just as suddenly, it sealed itself up again, and darkness, once more, reigned.

Something even odder happened at Churston Court, prior to one such visit, many years ago. We were just gathering around our favourite old wooden table in the Armoury Room, full of anticipation for the adventure later that night, when, suddenly, a little bell rang, seemingly coming from the Blue Room next to us.

We all heard it. As we discussed what might have caused it, it rang again, this time louder, as it was in the room with us...and then a third time, right behind people sitting at the table. Trying to make sense of it all, I surmised that someone was playing a trick on us, possibly from the neighbouring Blue Room. In those days, all the rooms were interconnected, so it was possible to go in a circle through them all. My plan was to try and sneak up on the prankster. As I stood up from the table to make my move, something very heavy seemed to be dropped on the table right in front of us with an almighty crash, as if trying to split it in two! We didn’t see anything, only heard it.

The mediums amongst us weren’t aware of any spirit presences, but something was trying to get our attention for sure. The previous week, a side of Morris Dancers had been entertaining us out in the car park, accompanied by the sound of their little bells. Was our experience some sort of replication of those sounds? We had no answers, so for many years this was just a story I dined out on, sharing it with newcomers to the group. That was, until one Monday evening, when we were joined by two ladies, who just so happened to be staying at the hotel...

The ladies in question had originally been staying in a caravan park in Brixham with their husbands. By some quirk of fate, something had gone awry with their booking, causing them to seek alternative accommodation, which is how they had ended up at Churston Court. On their first night there, both had rooms overlooking the car park, then, on the second, one couple had been moved to above the Armoury Room, where we sat for our meetings, and it was this lady who had a tale to share with us...

During the afternoon, she and her husband had gone for a stroll to nearby Churston Cove, returning in plenty of time to have a nap before their evening meal. She claimed to have been rudely awoken by the sound of a church clock striking one... her bedside clock told her it was 6pm. This was odd, in that the church next door has no clock, and no local church can be heard from that location.

Then her story became very familiar, as she next heard the sound of three little bells ringing in quick succession, followed by an almighty crash, making her think that a piece of furniture had fallen over downstairs. Expecting to find a scene of devastation when they went down for dinner... she was surprised to find everything was as it should be. We listened to her tale open-mouthed, and then I told her about our experience, all those years ago... the same sounds in the same sequence. We were still none the wiser as to what had caused them, but it was good to have corroboration of what we had witnessed, and it adds an interesting postscript to a tale I love to tell.

I have one other Midsummer adventure to share with you, one that is very special to me and those I experienced it with, but, due to the sensitive nature of the location, I can’t identify it here, as what we did would be very much frowned upon today. Suffice to say, it is an area of great folkloric importance...

On the night in question, a group of us started out visiting other significant sites, such as Kitty Jay’s Grave and Hairy Hands bridge, before heading to a nearby pub. Then, as it was starting to get dark, as dark as it gets at Midsummer, we headed towards our destination for the night. The plan was to stay there until just before sunrise, when we wanted to watch it come up over the mighty tors from a stone row.

There was no camping involved, no tents or fire pits; we just wanted to sit respectfully on rocks to see if anything would happen...and nothing did...it remained eerily quiet, which is what made the experience so magical. No twigs cracked, no leaves rustled, nothing stirred... apart from the odd fox crying on the hillside opposite and the dawn chorus starting on the slopes above us... it was like, for that night, we were at one with nature. I do have something to show for our stay, though, for just as we arrived, around midnight, I was panning around with my night shot camcorder when something flew past the lens. It was too late for a bird or dragonfly and too small for a bat.

What made it most unusual was the pair of tiny legs that were flicking away, as if the creature was swimming through the air. I showed my capture to my companions, and we were all in agreement... it could be a fairy! Sadly, it was an analogue camera, so not easy to share on a computer back in those days, but, hopefully, one day, when I come across that footage again, I will be able to. For now, you will just have to take my word for it that, one magical Midsummer’s Eve, my friends and I were visited by a member of the fairy folk, somewhere on Dartmoor, on the one night of the year when they are famously known to be abroad...