Storyteller: Tales from Bellever Forest

Recently, I went for one of my Dartmoor rambles through Bellever Forest, and found myself at Bellever Bridge, writes DAVID PHILLIPS, Tales from the Storyteller.

As I stood on the bridge, looking down the East Dart, taking in the remains of the old clapper, I was reminded of some other old remains, further downstream, high on the left-hand bank, what is left of Whiteslade or Snailey House.

This used to be the home of two elderly sisters, who chose to live a frugal lifestyle, having no livestock with which to sustain themselves or make a living from.

When the sisters made their regular visits into the nearest village, Widecombe in the Moor, the locals always commented, after they’d gone, how well and perky they both looked, as they never bought much in the way of food, and they were not known to grow their own crops.

They were curious to know what kept them looking so healthy.

One night, that curiosity got the better of them, and a group of villagers decided to pay a visit to the sisters, to see if they could learn their secret.

As they approached the house in the dark, there was a light on in the kitchen, so they aimed for that.

Risking a peek inside, it soon became blatantly obvious what the old ladies were up to, for, on the table in front of them, were plates of bloated black slugs... and the sisters were gleefully eating them!

“Oh my God! That’s disgusting!”, uttered one of the villagers rather too loudly. The ladies glanced up in fright, to see the villagers staring in at them in disbelief, and they knew they had been rumbled!

The villagers scampered off into the night, eager to share the juicy details with their friends and neighbours.

Over the days that followed, the same villagers began to get concerned, for the sisters were not making their regular visits to the village. There was nowhere nearer, and they had no transport to take them further afield, so it was decided someone should pay them a visit, to make sure they were all right after their fright.

The local vicar volunteered, as he knew them quite well, and, although he had heard the gossip, he felt it was his duty to rise above it.

Reaching the remote farmhouse, the vicar knocked on the door but got no reply. Knowing that doors were very rarely kept locked in remote parts of Dartmoor, he let himself in, calling out as he did so.

Still getting no reply, he went into the kitchen first, to be confronted by the evidence that confirmed his parishioners’ story, half eaten slugs on plates on the table, and jars of pickled slugs in the pantry.

Exploring further, he came to the bedrooms, where, lying on one of the beds, he found the bodies of the two sisters, quite lifeless, entwined in a lasting embrace.

Upon closer inspection, he could make out tear stains on both their cheeks, which led him to the sad conclusion that they might have quite literally died from embarrassment.

The vicar arranged their funerals in his church in Widecombe, and, during the service, he gently chastised certain members of his congregation for having such an unchristian reaction to the sisters’ choice of lifestyle.

Those responsible felt suitably remorseful.

As for the sisters’ home, that was allowed to fall into disrepair, left as a memorial to its tragic former owners.

So Whiteslade became known as Snailey House, for the word snail can also refer to a slug on Dartmoor, and besides, it sounds better than Sluggy House!

Across the river, in the heart of the forest, lies the abandoned Laughter Hole Farm - thankfully not a ruin, just waiting for new owners to take it on.

Many years ago, this was the scene of another tragic little Dartmoor tale, for a father and his daughter lived there, his wife having died several years previously.

Scared of losing his child as well, he kept her confined to the farm and the yard, never letting her wander too far into the forest.

As soon as she was able, he put her to work, thinking if she was kept busy, she would never spare a thought for the outside world.

However, as she got older, she naturally started to ask questions, showing an interest in life beyond the forest, even asking if she could accompany him on his trips to market, but he always refused her.

Unbeknownst to her father, his daughter would spend her spare moments climbing the tallest trees on the edge of the farm, and would sit for hours gazing at the surrounding hills and tors, imagining what lay beyond them, and what her life might be like away from her home.

Then one day her daydreaming totally engrossed her, making her lose all track of time, and, before she knew it, her father was heading back into the forest on his way home.

Not wanting to get into trouble, she hurriedly scrambled back down from her perch, and, in her haste, she lost her footing and fell.

She always wore a white pinafore smock to carry out her duties around the farm, and, as she fell, the halter neck strap got snagged on a branch, abruptly halting her fall, tragically snapping her neck in the process.

As he rode into the farmyard, the father saw her hanging lifeless from the tree, and was instantly distraught, rushing to get her down, but, sadly, there was nothing he could do for her.

Instead, he set about burying her on the land where she had spent her whole life, and, as he lowered her body into the ground, a white dove flew up from the treetops above.

Her father took this as a sign that her spirit had finally been released from her gilded cage, and gone in search of the life that she had always yearned for.