Hampshire and Isle of Wight Folk Tales

by Michael O'Leary

  Night fell, and still Bevois walked – then, through the darkness, he saw a twinkling light. He followed the light through the trees and came to a rickety-rackety wooden hut. He knocked on the door, heard a scuffling and grumbling from the inside, and the door was opened by a withered old woman.

  ‘What do you want?’ She eyed him suspiciously.

  ‘Please, good woman, could I take shelter here for the night?’

  ‘I’ve got nothing, nothing to share with the likes of you.’

  ‘I have some food and drink,’ said Bevois, ‘and gladly I’d share it with you.’

  ‘Oh – very well.’

  Once inside, Bevois took the bag from the stick and the old woman eyed the food hungrily. She looked so old, frail and hungry that Bevois thought, ‘She needs this food more than I do,’ and he gave her nearly all of the food. Indeed, he pretended that he was eating more than he really was.

  When the morning came, the old woman said, ‘I’m not as daft as you think, and I saw that last night you gave me nearly all the food that you had. You are a good man, and I have a present for you.’ She handed Bevois a rough-looking wooden flute.

  ‘This is a magic flute,’ she said, ‘and you’ll know when you need it.’

  ‘Well, it won’t really do anything,’ he thought, ‘but it’s good of her to give it to me, and it would be an abuse of hospitality not to accept,’ so he said thank you, and off he went.

  It was another cold, wet, miserable day, and he walked and he walked and he walked. When night fell there wasn’t even a rickety-rackety wooden hut, and Bevois had to take what shelter he could beneath a gaunt tree. ‘At least I have the flute,’ he thought, ‘and I can play a tune. I’ll play a sad tune because that’s how I feel.’ And so he did. The tune he played, as he thought of Josyan, and he shivered with the damp and cold, and his insides groaned with hunger, would break your heart. At least, at first it would, but then his fingers started to move faster and faster – he couldn’t stop them – and he found himself playing a happy tune, a fast tune, a dancing tune. Then the flute wriggled like a snake in his hands; it twisted and turned, and became a strange bell-shaped instrument, playing dancing music that echoed through the forest.

  Bevois felt his feet start to move and, in spite of himself, he started to dance round and round the tree. Up in the tree there was a squirrel, and the squirrel started to dance up and down a branch on its back legs; then a badger came dancing out from between the trees on its back legs. The tree drew its roots from the ground and it started to dance – soon the whole world seemed to be dancing. Finally Bevois stopped playing, lay down at the foot of the tree, and fell fast asleep.

  Before long, it was morning; the sun was shining and the birds were singing. ‘Well,’ thought Bevois, ‘I’m still hungry, I still miss Josyan so much, I still don’t know where I’m going – but there are things to be done, adventures to be had, and there’s a whole wide world out there.’ So out he went into the wide, wide world, and he walked, and he walked, and he walked … until he came to a great big house. He looked through the window and saw a very grand room. There were thick carpets on the floor, fancy furniture, pictures on the walls, and chandeliers – even though chandeliers hadn’t yet been invented. Also in the room there was a flock of sheep – and a terrible mess they were making. Bevois knocked on the door; the door opened, and there stood a funny little man with a pointy nose.

  ‘What do you want?’ demanded the funny little man with a pointy nose.

  ‘Begging your pardon,’ said Bevois, ‘I don’t mean to be nosey, but I couldn’t help noticing a flock of sheep in that very grand room. Now, I’m looking for a job. Do you need a shepherd?’

  ‘There’s no point,’ moaned the funny little man with a pointy nose, ‘because there’s a giant, and he lives in the woods, and his name is Ascupart, and he keeps stealing the sheep. All I can do is bring the sheep into the house, and the straw and hay too – and oh dear, dear me; what a mess, what a mess!’

  ‘Let me look after the sheep,’ said Bevois, ‘and I’ll deal with the giant Ascupart.’

  ‘Don’t be silly; what could a little fellow like you do against a great big giant like Ascupart?’

  ‘Just let me try.’

  ‘Well, you can take a few of the sheep, and we’ll have a trial period; but whatever you do, don’t go to that long, narrow strip of a field at the top of the hill, the one next to the forest edge, the field called Long Acre, because that is where the giant comes.’

  So Bevois looked around and thought, ‘Which field has got the richest, greenest grass?’ and of course, it would be, wouldn’t it? It was Long Acre. The little man had given Bevois some food and drink, and so, in Long Acre, he sat down to eat and drink. The sheep were cropping the grass and bleating softly, the sun was shining, the birds were singing, and Bevois drifted off to sleep. Then, out from the forest came a HUGE giant, with huge feet, a red warty nose, a large club, and a leather apron around his belly. He leant down, picked up a sheep, and hurled it into the leather apron. Bevois awoke, leapt to his feet and shouted the Middle English equivalent of ‘Oi! Put that sheep back!’

  ‘AREYOU GOING TO MAKE ME?’ bellowed the giant in astonishment.

  ‘If I have to.’

  ‘Listen, I could crush you with my thumb, little man.’

  ‘Go on, then.’

  The giant roared, and leant down to crush Bevois. But what did Bevois do? He put that flute to his lips – it wriggled and squirmed and shape-shifted – and dancing music swirled around the hill top and the forest edge; and the giant started to dance. The giant was dancing, Bevois was dancing, and all the sheep were dancing around Long Acre on their back legs. The giant had the biggest, heaviest legs, so he got tired first.

  ‘Stop, stop, please stop,’ he screamed.

  ‘Why should I stop?’

  ‘If you stop I will go into the woods and fetch you back a special suit of armour, a special sword, and a special horse.’

  ‘Well, make sure that you do,’ said Bevois sternly.

  The giant went into the woods, and when he emerged he had a rusty old suit of armour, a broken sword, and a poor old broken down donkey.

  ‘Right,’ said Bevois, and started to play again.

  ‘No, no, no,’ said the giant, ‘this time I will, I will.’

  When the giant returned, he brought a shining suit of armour, a shining sword, and a beautiful white horse with a black star on its forehead. The name of the sword was ‘Mortglay’. The name of the horse was ‘Arundel’.

  Then the giant said a strange thing: ‘I’m weary with being the villain, I’m weary of everyone hating me – but I have to eat. Please, could I come with you and have adventures?’

  ‘All right,’ said Bevois, ‘as long as you behave yourself!’

  So they took the sheep back to the funny little man with the pointy nose and set off into the wide, wide world.

  They had many adventures in many lands, but one day they were walking three abreast in the wild country of Armorica. You can imagine Bevois holding the horse’s bridle and the great giant Ascupart striding along beside them. Suddenly, the horse turned to Bevois and, for the first time, the horse spoke.

  ‘Bevois, back in Hamtun there is trouble. There is a foul dragon, and the dragon is the spawn of Sir Guy’s wife. A terrible dragon called Murdure flew southwards from the wild forests of Caledonia, burning and ravaging as it went. The wife of Sir Guy transformed herself into the awful dragon of the southern forest, and over Vectis [the ancient name for the Isle of Wight] they had a mighty copulation. This copulation was so terrible that it raised vast waves and storms, storms so violent that they destroyed the town of Francheville, ruined by dragon breath and sea. The she dragon then dived into the bottomless waters of Shirley Pond, where she gave birth to a beast that grew into a mighty dragon in three days. The she dragon returned to Hamtun as the earl’s wife, cool as you please. But her spawn has crawled forth from the pond and wrapped itself around the cit
y walls of Hamtun. It is calling, “Feed me, feed me – give me my dinner.” The people have brought it all the horses, the cows, the oxen, the pigs, the sheep, the goats, the cats, the dogs, the rats, the mice … and still it calls “Feed me, feed me – give me my dinner.” So there has been a terrible lottery. When your number is called, you are taken outside the city walls, tied to a stake, and fed to the dragon. And the last number to have been drawn is that of Josyan, the fair Josyan. Tonight she is to be fed to the dragon.’

  ‘Nooo!’ screamed Bevois, ‘but we are far away in Armorica, what can we do?’

  ‘Jump on my back and I’ll show you,’ said the horse.

  So Bevois jumped onto Arundel’s back, and the horse leapt into the air and flew, with the great giant Ascupart running after them.

  They flew over rivers, streams, fields, forests, roads, villages, towns, cities – over the sea, over Vectis – till ahead of them was Hamtun. Wrapped around the city walls was the hideous dragon. There, also, was Josyan, tied to a stake. Arundel and Bevois touched ground next to her, to see the dragon busily blowing smoke rings, and admiring them as they drifted over the city walls.

  ‘Leave her be!’ shouted Bevois, drawing the mighty sword Mortglay.

  The dragon grinned a toothy grin as it lazily looked at the knight, and thought how it liked its food in tins. ‘Are you going to make me?’ it drawled.

  ‘If I have to,’ shouted Bevois, and struck the dragon on the nose with the sword.

  ‘Ow!’ squealed the dragon, ‘that hurt!’ and, seizing the sword in its jaws, it spat it up into the air. The sword flew down the south coast of England and landed in the city of Arundel (the same name as the horse, of course). To this day, if you go to Arundel Castle you will see a tower called the Bevis Tower, and in the castle you will find the sword Mortglay – all of which tells you that my story is true.

  ‘Now I’m seriously angry,’ screeched the dragon in a voice like fire and brimstone, and, blowing out a great ball of fire, it reared up above Bevois.

  But Bevois drew out his flute and started to play. The music swirled around the city and over the sea.

  And the dragon danced…

  and Bevois danced…

  and Ascupart the giant danced…

  and Arundel the horse danced…

  and even Josyan, tied to the stake, danced a little bit of a jig.

  But as the dragon danced it shrank. It got smaller and smaller till it was just the size of a horse – and smaller and smaller till it was just the size of a person – and smaller and smaller till it was just the size of a dog – and smaller and smaller till it was just a strange green bubble. Then Arundel the horse kicked the bubble, and there was nothing left but a nasty green stain and a horrible farty smell.

  Bevois cut Josyan free from the stake and they fell into each other’s arms. Down from the castle came Sir Guy. ‘Who are you?’ he said.

  ‘Father, don’t you know me?’

  ‘You’re Bevois – and you’re welcome home.’

  And so it was that Bevois and Josyan were married – and later they ruled Hamtun; it is said that they ruled wisely and well (some would say that we need them back). As for Josyan’s mother? Well, she went stamping off into Lordswood and she was never seen again.

  Or perhaps not. There are those who say that she became a dragon again and flew, shrieking and screaming, to Burley Beacon, where she became the dragon that terrorised Bisterne. Others say that if you walk in Lordswood, you might come to a clearing, and in the clearing there is a well, and at the well you will see a woman filling seven wooden jugs with water. But if you turn round – blink – and look again, there’s nothing there.

  THE BURIED SHIRT

  Southampton is a modern city, and folk stories, as I’ve already pointed out, do not just belong to a mythical past. In 2001, the construction of a huge football stadium was completed in Northam. It was called St Mary’s Stadium because Southampton Football Club originated in the St Mary’s area of the city (hence the name ‘Saints’). The stadium isn’t in St Mary’s, though St Mary’s is not far away.

  Now, not far down the motorway, is the city of Portsmouth – generally known as Pompey – Southampton’s arch-rival. As is the way with British cities that are in close proximity, this rivalry can be deadly serious, and a local derby means that tensions run high. Normally, Saints fans are really quite civilised, and most matches pass by in good order. Except, that is, when Saints play Pompey. The police vans line up, and the air crackles with tension. Then the Pompey fans arrive. They gaze, blearily, upon the stadium – but there are some with a secret knowledge. You see, when the stadium was being built, construction workers were recruited from all over Hampshire, and this included plenty of Pompey fans. Some of these fans concocted a diabolical plot…

  One stormy evening in 2001, a group of Pompey fans shuffled out to the Northam Stand end of the pitch, and began to dig a hole in what some Saints fans pretentiously call ‘the hallowed turf’. Under the turf – oh wickedness – they buried a Pompey shirt. They then chanted various obscure incantations, and shuffled away, leaving the stadium jinxed.

  The big opening day was 11 August 2001, and Saints marked the occasion by playing a friendly against the Spanish side, Espanyol. The terrible magic emanated from the ground and, in the first half, Espanyol whacked in four goals. In the second half, Saints woke up a bit, but they were still beaten 4-3. The jinx continued; Saints lost 2-0 to Chelsea in the first St Mary’s league game, then 3-1 to Aston Villa, and 2-0 to Arsenal.

  The folk story – for that’s what it is – was really taken quite seriously. At one time, white witch and druid Ceridwen DragonOak Connelly attempted to lay the curse, somewhat to the derision of passing fans.

  Personally, I wonder if the local Gods were upset when the blessing at the opening ceremony was made by the vicar of St Mary’s Church – for St Mary’s Stadium is, after all, not in St Mary’s, it is in Northam – Northam, where Cnut drowned those Saxons. The jinx did seem to wear off, though, and it has to be said that if you follow the fortunes of Portsmouth Football Club, it didn’t really do them much good.

  Three

  DYSTOPIA – BETWIXT SOUTHAMPTON AND PORTSMOUTH

  Southampton and Portsmouth are the cities on the coast of Hampshire, but between them lies an area that has been transformed – maybe even more than the cities – during the last century.

  In the 1970s, I worked as a greenkeeper just outside a village called Shedfield. At that time, it was starting to change from rural to suburban. Since then the market gardens, once so characteristic of the area, have gone. The cities have crept towards each other, and a city in all but name has formed between them along the south coast, a city made up of Hamble, Bursledon, Locks Heath, Warsash, Segensworth, Stubbington, Lee-on-the-Solent, Fareham, Gosport and Whiteley. There are stories that connect to this change – though they tend to be stories that arrive in fragments, and have to be pieced together.

  Once I was reading a book of British folk tales and came across a story about three green ladies on a hill. It was a rather fey story, and seemed related to a more powerful Greek legend about Erysichthon and Demeter. However, something about the story made me think, and I remembered a conversation I had with a policeman back in the 1980s.

  At that time, the M27 was only recently built. This motorway connected Portsmouth to Southampton, then, extending onto the A31, connected to Bournemouth. This highway was to change the nature of much of the surrounding countryside. The motorway passes Hedge End, which was once a small Hampshire village (possibly at the end of a hedge) but has become a bit of an urban splurge on the edge of Southampton. The policeman told me that, every midsummer, there were accidents at a point where the motorway passes a hill at Hedge End. The drivers all related that they’d seen a naked green lady dancing around a tree, and this had taken their concentration from the road. The policeman related the story to me in a bit of a ‘nudge-nudge’ fashion, because the lady was naked, though the dancing cou
ld hardly be described as anything like pole-dancing.

  Anyhow, in the years after this conversation, the out-of-town retail outlets and industrial estates clustered around the motorway until a time in the 1990s when, working as a professional storyteller, I was asked to tell stories on the very hill that the policeman had referred to. It was then that the fragments of story started to connect, though it was some years later that it all formed into a complete narrative. Here it is:

  THE GREEN LADY OF HEDGE END

  Once upon a time, Hedge End was a remote village, and in Hedge End there was a farm. On the farm there lived a farmer and he had three sons – well isn’t that always the way in stories? On the farm there was a hill, and on the hill there were three trees, so people called it Three Tree Hill. Every midsummer, the farmer took three bunches of primroses to the top of Three Tree Hill, and laid them out – one at the foot of each tree. This required some expertise in the finding of late-flowering primroses, given that primroses are generally all gone by midsummer, but maybe Hedge End was a special place.

  As he laid the primroses at the foot of each tree, the farmer would sometimes catch a glimpse of three naked, green ladies dancing around the trees. The ‘other people’ can only ever be seen out of the corner of the eye, and the farmer would never presume to stare directly at a naked lady, green or otherwise, but they were there.

  The farmer told his sons that, after his death, they must continue the tradition. The eldest sons promised volubly that they would, but the youngest, like Shakespeare’s Cordelia, promised that he would only do what was right. This apparent lack of enthusiasm angered the father, so in his will he left the youngest son only a mere strip of land, next to the lane at the bottom of the hill. The eldest son had the biggest parcel of land, which included Three Tree Hill, and the middle son had the middle-sized piece.