Tales from the Storyteller: Tragedy at Laughter Hole Farm

During my recent ramble through Bellever Forest, I had a great view of Bellever Tor, rising above the trees that surrounds it.

This is the site of Tom White's encounter with the pesky Dartmoor pixies, which I have shared with you before.

On the other side of the trees, you come across the rocky outcrops of Laughter Tor, complete with the remains of a sheepfold, once used to store rounded up sheep in, and its own standing stone.

This is one of the more impressive Dartmoor menhirs, known as Laughter Man, or Loughtor Man, to give it its ancient title.

The tor is also said to be home to some of the pixies that once tormented poor Tom on Bellever.

It was on Laughter Tor, back in the late 1980s, that I found my first ever letterboxes... and I’m still hunting for them to this day!

I will never forget the walk we did, having parked in the forest, we trekked out on to the open moor, where we were confronted by the rocky outcrops, and our first hunting site.

On the way, in the heart of the forest, we had come across Laughter Hole Farm, and its grander neighbour, Laughter Hole House.

Nowadays, the farm has been abandoned, thankfully not a ruin, just waiting for new owners to take it on.

Many years ago, Laughter Hole Farm was the scene of a tragic 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.

Her tasks included feeding the chickens, and collecting their eggs for her father to take to market.

She always wore a baggy white pinafore apron, with a halter neck, and big pockets, to make it easier to carry the eggs in.

They had a couple of goats that roamed the yard, and she loved to tend to them, but the sheep and cows they owned were kept up on the moor, and she was never allowed to see to them as they grazed.

Often, she would beg her father for a pony to care for, not to ride, for it was a riding accident that had taken her mother from them, but the answer was always the same, a very firm no, for that very reason, he couldn’t bear the painful memories.

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.

Unbeknown to her father, whilst he was away, she would often 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.

As she fell, the halter neck strap of the pinafore apron she always wore, got snagged on a branch, abruptly halting her fall, tragically snapping her neck in the process. She died instantly and painlessly.

Riding into the farmyard, calling out for his daughter, wanting her to see the gifts he had brought back for her, 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.

He buried her on the land where she had spent her whole life, wearing her favourite white pinafore, 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 its gilded cage, and gone in search of the life that she had always yearned for.