The Witch Bride of Stowford

(A Work of the Imagination, Inspired by a Walk There on Satuday, 20th October 2018)

Stowford is a small village, no more than a hamlet really, not far from Launceston and the border with Cornwall. These days, the grange and manor farms offer no more than hints of the past, what with their barns and stone outbuildings turned into homes for the elderly and well-heeled, but it was once a thriving agricultural community. One that was surprisingly prosperous for its tiny size and remote location.

More than one visitor noted the remarkable affluence of the place. The farms looked handsome and comfortable, exceedingly so. The farmhouses themselves were grand, the cottages offered their labourers comfortable, and there was a surfeit of carts and wagons for bringing produce to market. Harvests were always bountiful, which went some way to explaining how the village prospered whilst all around struggled for a livelihood.

Perhaps most outsiders were not observant enough to notice the strange, dead, stump of a tree standing in a field near the barton. And if they did, they weren't curious enough to remark upon its existence, for it would've struck them as nothing more odd than an old oak probably hit by lightning. In fact, the bleached, limbless entity was far more important than that to the people of Stowford. It was their witch oak. Around whose skeletal trunk were performed the rituals they held responsible for their wealth.

Upon the eve of each cardinal date those villagers met, to enact the kind of rites once celebrated by all in this pagan isle. Witnessed by the rector of St John the Baptist church, they returned to their race's pre-Christian heritage. Although proud of their devotion to the old ways, grateful for the harvests they felt sure were due to heathen acts, they knew to keep their actions secret and hidden from outsiders. In those days of religious zealotry, inquisitions and witchcraft trials, it wouldn't have done to admit to practicing traditional beliefs.

It happened that a young maiden was required for the quarterly rituals, a virgin of impeccable standing in the community. In the year of our lord,1776, that village girl was one Annie Woolacombe, who could trace her bloodline back to beyond the Conquest. Beautiful and fair, she was, with long flaxen hair and a pale heart-shaped face. A body as ripe as summer fruit. Many a farming lad desired her, but Annie was too good for them. Nature had bestowed upon her such good looks as attracted the eye of a far more noble kind of suitor.

Enter Thomas Harris, heir to a great mid-Devonshire estate. Courted Annie he did, swept her from her feet with tales of wealth and comfort in his stately pile near Lyfton. The maiden's family begged her not to fall for Harris, because they knew her importance to the community. Should she marry, they would be left without a witch bride to conduct their ceremonies, and that threatened poverty and want for all. There was not as yet another girl old enough to replace her. Wait a while, they pleaded, until your cousin Mary is old enough to take your place. She is 13 now, t'will only be another three years before she is able to succeed you. Then you can join this rich gentleman in marriage.

Annie would not be told. She meant to wed her noble beau and would not be defied. And so, on the third Saturday in October, a carriage left her father's farm on the outskirts of the village. Its cargo was the most beautiful girl the village had ever seen, its destination St John the Baptist church, where her handsome groom awaited.

When she arrived, just as the church clock struck three, young Annie's heart was broken. Her husband-to-be was not there.

The rector claimed he had suffered last minute nerves, and fled with a change of mind. Her bridesmaids confirmed the tale, all present in the congregation likewise. But if that was so, why, Annie asked, did he leave strange tokens of his being there behind him? Items of the unfortunate man's clothing were found in the churchyard, as though torn in a struggle. The stone by the gate bore fresh blood upon its surface.

Returning home, the girl used her unholy powers to ask the spirits what had really become of Thomas Harris and the answer was pretty much as expected. Determined not to lose their virgin witch bride to married life, the villagers had conspired to murder him!

What happened next is disputed by historians and folklorists. The former, prosaic in their teaching, stubborn in their refusal to see beyond science, say an illness of some kind struck the village. That it was confined to Stowford's boundaries, not even crossing the lane into neighbouring Portgate, is explained by the suggestion that folk did not in those days mix with those from outside their community.

Of course folklorists, and those of a more imaginative bent, tell a very different tale. They say Annie invoked demons to avenge her murdered groom. They say that the villagers, all of whom conspired to do away with him, received the most terrible retribution for their sins.

Whoever is right, what is true for sure, is that the tiny community of Stowford remains haunted by the witch bride. Upon the third Saturday of each October, the clatter of ghostly wheels can be heard travelling down the lanes to its lovely church; also the sound of neighing, as a spectral horse leads the wagon to a wedding that never occurred.

The scent of fresh flowers, perhaps the tragic bride's bouquet, catches the air. The old standing stone beside the churchyard gate is stained an impossible red.

Of course, the inhabitants of modern day Stowford are oblivious to all this. Numbed by televised sport and reality shows, obsessed with such frightful anxieties as Brexit and talk of war with Russia, they do not sense the very obvious presence surrounding them. But it is there and, maybe if you are sensitive to such things, you will feel it too.