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Saturday, 7 January 2012

The Darkness of Dartmoor

The Darkness of Dartmoor

This ancient county with the Devonshire moors from Westward Ho to Dartmouth Docks, the county is haunted with myths and legends so many forgot.
There is the Highway man of Beetor Cross, his eye sockets are empty as he is often seen, standing there on Dartmoor Green, a cloak and dagger, two flint guns to rob and plunder the frightened ones.
Again on Dartmoor, by Bradford Pool a female voice will gently call, softly calling for you to take a swim, then pull you down into the deep dark pool, till your lungs stop breathing in that death trap pool.
The sounds of battle can still be heard, over the bridge of Cadover in the dead of night when clash of swords and shields drown out the screams of those being killed.
Over the moor near Princetown and Ashburton Way, the guardian monster of a treasure trove roams Chaw Gully with ravens and crows, not a single soul has survived the fall, as the monster of  Chaw Gully, eats their body, and all.
A mile or two, near Exeter town and the Dawlish River where Childe’s Tomb is found.
This hunter of the Dartmoor Plains, froze to death in the dead of night in the month of August when hot and bright, they say you see his ghost at night, carried by monks in the August moon light.
Many a tale Devon can tell of ghosts and legends and a life in hell, but the moors of Dartmoor are a mystic place the horror of which many befell.
At Lustleigh Cleave on the edge of the moors strange horsemen do ride in the dead of night, dragging dead travellers’ to tin mine pits then casting their bodies down these disused tips.
At Lych Way phantom monks are seen pulling the hearse full of the dead, miners of tin who were crushed to death.
Rowbrook, Broad Stones, by the river Dart just once a year, will call you by name and take away your fears,” Come swim in my water, it’s  lovely and clear” then drown you and dump you on a far distant shore, lifeless meat, a human no more.
Beware of the Pixies from Cornwall way who came to Devon in the coffins of slaves, small and evil who loiter your way, digging deep holes in the moors vast grounds, them fill them with water so the visitor drowns.
But all in all its not a bad place, this Devon of mine, this beautiful place, the stories are true so be on your guard for we want your money before you reach the grave yard.
Peter Wicks

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