Legendary Dartmoor The many aspects past and present of Dartmoor
Childe was a wealthy man and a keen hunter, his vast estate was at Plymstock a small village to the south of the moors. Childe was happiest riding the moor alone, come rain or shine he would roam the wastes in search of game. One winters day he had been hunting on the southern moors when suddenly the sky turned as grey as a goose, the air was cold and still and silence fell all around. The first flakes of snow lazily floated down from the laden heavens and the wind gathered in strength. Before long the hunter was caught in a bitter blizzard, the wind sweeping across the bare tussocks blasting the snow horizontally before it. Childe could hardly see any further that his horses head and the cold was tearing through his clothing. Gradually as each hoof print was obliterated by the snow he realised it was useless the struggle against the storm. He decided to take shelter until the tempest had blown over and so he pulled his horse to the frozen ground and huddled against it for warmth. Time ticked by but still the relentless snow howled across the wastes, the hunter became colder and colder and he knew he would surely perish unless his did something. After a few moments considering his options it was with a sad heart that he decided that the only means of salvation was to slay his faithful horse. Childe drew his dagger and quickly slit its throat, as he did so his rolling tears froze to his face like miniature glaciers. Once the poor animal was dead the hunter slit its belly and dragged out the steaming innards then he clambered inside the bloody cavernous skeleton for shelter.
A few weeks later a travelling moorman found a frozen heap amongst the snowy tussocks. It was the remains of the hunter and his horse, apparently the fresh blood inside the animals had frozen solid, encapsulating Childe in a gory ice tomb for eternity. News soon reached Plymstock that the lord had perished in a blizzard high on Dartmoor. It did not take long for his will and testament to become common knowledge, in it Childe had stated that wheresoever he was buried, the local church would be granted his estates.
The monks of Tavistock Abbey were delighted, as the man had died on their lands then it was only fitting that he be interred at their monastery. However, the people of Plymstock had other ideas. Surely he was from Plymstock so therefore his estates belonged to them, or at least that was their belief. Both parties saw the urgency in recovering the mortal remains of Childe the Hunter and men were sent from both Tavistock Abbey and Plymstock. Now the distance from Tavistock to where the body of Childe lay was about nine miles, but it was thirteen from Plymstock so there is no guessing as to who would arrive first. The men from Plymstock also realised this and decided it was futile to run an un-winnable race therefore they would waylay the Tavistock party on their way back to the Abbey. An ambush was set up beside a crossing place on the River Tavy and the Plymstock men concealed themselves from view.
Somehow the party of Tavistock monks got to hear of the trap that was awaiting and so returned by a less obvious route. The dilemma that now faced them was that there was only one crossing on that particular reach of the Tavy. The waters were too deep and fast to even think about wading across and so the monks constructed a temporary bridge over the river, and so by guile they had foiled the Plymstock ambush and safely got Childe’s remains back to the abbey. Here they were buried and the monks of Tavistock inherited all the rich estates of Plymstock. The spot where the temporary bridge was placed has always been known as Guile Bridge and a mighty tomb was erected at the spot where the body of Childe the Hunter perished. It was said that on the tomb the following words were inscribed:
One of the first written records of this legend comes from Tristram Risdon in his book of 1600s entitled ‘A Survey of Devon’:
‘It is left us by tradition that one Childe of Plimstoke, a man of fair possessions, having no issue, ordained, by his will, that wheresoever he should happen to be buried, to that church his lands should belong. It so fortuned, that he riding to hunt in the forest of Dartmore, being in pursuit of his game, casually lost his company, and his way likewise. The season then being so cold, and he so benumed therewith, as he was enforced to kill his horse, and embowelled him, to creep into his belly to get heat; which not able to preserve him, was there frozen to death; and so found, was carried by Tavistoke men to be buried in the church of that abbey; which was so secretly done but the inhabitants of Plymstoke had knowledge thereof; which to prevent, they resorted to defend the carriage of the corpse over the bridge, where, they conceived, necessity compelled them to pass. But they were deceived by guile; for the Tavistoke men forthwith built a slight bridge, and passed over at another place without resistance, buried the body, and enjoyed the lands; in memory whereof the bridge beareth the name of Guilebridge to this day.’, pp.198 -199.
Over the centuries this famous tale has been told in various forms, some related around a fireside at night and others put in verse. One of the more famous versions is the poem written by N. T. Carrington:, pp. 246 – 254.
| Childe the Hunter
Few roam the heath, e’en when the sun – But when upon the ancient hills Heaven aid that hapless traveller then Yet blithe the highland hunter leaves The eye of highland hunter sees Yet oft the shuddering peasant tells And when the Christmas tale goes round The lord of manors fair and broad – Slow broke the cheerless morn – the cloud For Winter’s wizard had check’d When Childe resolv’d with hound and horn, Of sportsmen brave who hunted then They rous’d the red-deer from his lair With cheer and with shout, the jovial rout The moorland eagle left his cliff – They follow’d through the rock-strew’d glen ;- |
But gallantly that noble deer Defies the eager throng, And still through wood and brake, and fen He leads the chace along. Now through the flashing stream he darts And many a chasm yawning wide But now swift sailing on the wind And one by one, as fast the clouds And some there were who deem’d they heard Who rode a shadowy courser, that ‘Twas fancy all ;- yet from his side, He threaded many a mazy bog – For far and wide the highland lay He paus’d ! – and soon through all his veins The dying man – yet love of life And on the ensanguin’d snow that steed In vain – for swift the bleak wind piled Yet one dear wish – one tender thought And ere he breath’d his latest sigh The fyrst that fyndes & brings me to my grave, |
But how much truth is in the tale? It is thought that Childe was of Saxon decent, he shows up in the Domesday book as Ordulph, a wealthy landowner with 22 manors to his name. He too was a passionate hunter who died on Dartmoor whilst out on a hunt although nothing is known about the circumstances. It was his wish that he be buried at an abbey in Dorset and as was the custom of the day left his Cornish manor of Anthony as a ‘soul scot’ to the church where he eventually got interred. However, his body was taken to Tavistock Abbey where it was buried alongside his ancestors and it was these monks who ended up inheriting the manor of Anthony, Finberg, pp 4 – 5. She also mentions, p.226 that on the obit of Ordulf’s death a great bell was tolled at the abbey and the monks partook of wheaten bread and wine.
Now we come back to the realms of legend for it is said on Dartmoor that the spot where the hunter died is marked with a stone cross that stands upon a pedestal and is known as Childe’s Tomb. In fact the cross was placed over a prehistoric kist and may well have been an attempt to Christianise the spot.
Even in the 21st century the story of Childe the Hunter is being retold but now it is in song form thanks to the efforts of Seth Lakeman the Dartmoor singer. Below is his version of the tragic events:
| Come and listen, brave and tall, The greatest tale I have to tell you, It was a bleak and barren moor. In ancient days he fell. There rode a man of high renown His name it came as hunter Childe. Every day he chased heath and waste On a moor so black and wild. The wind blew in and that hunter He looked up high and he begged her He drew a knife from off his back, With his finger dipped in blood
|
The wind blew in and that hunter Fell upon a bed of snow. The night drew in and that thunder Stuck him in a steady hole. He looked up high and he begged her Take a warning when you’re in the wild, He was a man of high renown, The wind blew in and that hunter He looked up high and he begged her |
Carrington, H. E. 1834. The Collected Poems of the Late N. T. Carrington, London: Longman Press.
Finberg, H. P. R. 1969. Tavistock Abbey, Newton Abbot: David & Charles.
Risdon, T. 1970. A Survey of Devon, Barnstaple: Porcupine Publishing.
