Tag Archives: otherworld

Burnham Beeches: The Whispering Woods

Posted by Sarah-Jayne Farrer on


There is always a reason you are called to a specific landscape at a certain time, and the call to Burnham Beeches has been insistent ever since my return to Old Blighty, where if you are still and quiet you may be able to hear the message whispered upon the breeze. It’s been a while since we at ‘In the Chimehours’ have posted, but my feet are now firmly settled back on English soil and I’m ready to write! Actually, since returning home (and sticking my feet deep into the rich, ancient soil upon which I have spilt my blood, sweat and tears), there has been a slight shift in focus. I’m sure you will notice the difference in the material well be posting in upcoming articles, but for now we head back to the Whispering Woods of Burnham…

These woods have held me in thrall and deep admiration since I was my son’s age, and I once again found myself wandering amongst veteran pollarded Beech and Oak a few weekends ago. The distinctive shapes caused by the upper branches of these trees being allowed to grow when pollarding ceased about 200 years ago happens to be one of my longest standing memories of this place, and one of the forest’s well-loved features. These trees are the survivors from centuries ago when this area was mainly wood pasture, and what lends to the impact of this unique place.

Upon entering the ancient forest, one which once covered most of Buckinghamshire, Berkshire (the county Burnham was originally located in before the county borders were moved) and North Hampshire, the first thing you notice is the stillness. Crackling branches and crushed leaves underfoot are at times the only things that break that unreal silence, other times it is the whispering, the murmuring which builds in the deep dark places.  A silence that fills the air thickly, not an empty silence, but one with a presence. A very strong presence. For a woodland which is now an oasis of calm surrounded by modern day life, and minutes from the M25, it always takes the unsuspecting by surprise, but memories came flooding back as soon as my feet fell softly upon the damp, sun-dappled floor.

It has been quite a few years since I was here last, and I made the most of the time I had wandering the truly diverse landscape of ancient woodland, wood pasture, deep ponds and glistening streams. You may, if you are lucky even spot the occasional Adder slithering through the grasslands. The acidic heathland populated by Heathers, Heath Milkwort, Betony, Gorse, Broom and old Junipers, lead into mire and bog. These damper areas contain a number of species of Bog Moss, Water Mint, the delicate Marsh Violet, Wood Club-rush, Wood horsetail, Water-lilies, the Yellow Iris, and Bog Bean that is beautiful when in flower. The woods themselves at certain times of year are littered with Bluebells, Woodruff, Wood Anemone, and rings of  Amanita Muscaria. In the Summer when the shade and shadows beneath the trees are at their deepest, tiny white flowers appear to litter the forest floor where nothing else blooms: the evocatively named Enchanter’s Nightshade (the Circaea is not a member of the Nightshade family, Solanaceae, but was named after enchantress Circe who was supposed to have used enchanter’s nightshade in her magic), which was once called Aelfthone by the Anglo-Saxons and was used in charms against the wily ways of Elves.

The Fleet Wood and New Coppice are another two areas that draw me back time and time again. These areas were taken from the common land and made into Coppice Woods. Coppiced trees are those that are cut at ground level to produce regular crops of straight branches. These straight branches were used in a manner of ways, but are very handy if you require a stang of hazel, oak or beech. I don’t always use a straight stang myself, my favourite ‘riding pole’ is fantastically crooked and twisted – A little serpentine to say the least.

Lost in a reverie, I was startled by the cawing of a Crow just a few feet away from where I was standing. The filtered sunlight catching on it’s dark feathers, reflecting tones of emerald and sapphire, as it cocked it’s head my way, hopped a few paces deeper into the woods and paused on the roots of an old Beech tree. I had gained a companion for the day, as it seemed wherever I strolled that darkly jeweled beauty wasn’t far away.

The Beech’s snake-like roots speak of wisdom and rebirth, but to be reborn one must first die. Crossing thresholds can be a daunting challenge, rife with uncertainty and change. It’s always easier for us to stay with what we know, that comforting familiarity with ‘the way things are’, but to crawl out of our stagnant situations we must confront our fears head on, be willing to step out of our comfort zones and take a leap of faith. Not every question can be answered straight away, nor every step accounted for and planned meticulously. The Beech speaks of using the ancient knowledge as revealed through dreams, vision, old objects and the wild places to gain insight about the future, and to provide a measure of protection when stepping into new territory. Beechwood has been placed in pockets of travelers for luck and protection on roads unknown for many a century.

When growing so near to the Hazel it speaks of rising beyond the personal limitations we have set for ourselves. It reminds us that nothing is impossible, even if we may not see a clear path to where we desire to be. There is a piece of folklore I learned many moons ago whilst wandering beneath these same pollarded Oak and Beech. I was told by a man who had storytelling in his blood that the Beech was once widely known as ‘The Wishing Tree’. Rods, representing wishes, were tied to its branches, and the breeze would carry them away to be fulfilled when the time was right. Or that if one has a need or a want you should inscribe your wish onto a sliver of Beech wood, or a fallen branch, and push it into the ground. Your desire is then carried swiftly by the hands of Fagus into the deep, the Underworld, for the consideration of the Queen of Elphame herself. These wishes were granted more often than not, but not in the way one would expect. Oft times men and women were left wishing they had never made their initial wish to begin with, and therein lies the simple advice: “Be careful what you wish for, you might just get it.”

The jeweled Crow soared from the Beech within the forest, across the clearing, and came to rest upon a mighty Oak. The wind changed and a new set of whispers were carried upon the breeze. He whispers of patience, endurance and strength. He speaks of weathering storms, of standing fast, of traveling deep and holding tight. Thick, intricately carved doors bar the way, His wood heavy and solid against the hands, it does not ‘give’ like some other woods. It has braved lightning strikes and many a storm, yet still stands strong. The strength we need to open this gate is not brute strength, as nothing will budge these doors unless they themselves want to open for you. If you listen closely and have patience, like the acorn we can achieve much from such humble beginnings, you may be granted the password and permission to enter. What you will receive on the Otherside no one can say. The Land will give you what you need, not necessarily what you want, when you need it the most; if you approach the Land with reverence and respect.

Burnham Beeches has been used as a site for Witchcraft for many a year.

Here, deep within the forest the Old Ones still linger. Watching. The forgotten gates, hidden and barred,  lay in wait for those who have gained the keys to enter; those who would become their guardians, and restore them to their former glory. Altars of years gone by, lost within the gloom of the sands of time,  await their rediscovery. The hair will rise all over your body, skin set a-tingling, as the watchful gaze of familiar eyes are felt. Ancient eyes. The air will thicken and murmuring will be heard from all directions and none, as dark figures meander at the edges of your vision. The head flares. The shadows lurk here. They dance around the long-dead tree, course and careen amongst the haunted Bluebells where the wise would only tip-toe or enter not at all, flitting from tree to tree, from shade to shade. Waiting and watching for an offering.  An offering cast deep.

When monks, by holy church well schooled,
Were lawyers, statesmen, leeches.
Cured souls and bodies, judged or ruled,
Then flourished Burnham beeches,

Skirting the convent’s walls of yore,
As yonder ruin teaches.
But shaven crown and cowl no more
Shall darken Burnham beeches.

Here bards have mused, here lovers true
Have dealt in softest speeches.
While Sun’s decline and parting, threw
Their gold o’er Burnham beeches.

O, ne’er may woodman’s axe resound.
Nor tempest making breaches.
In the sweet shade that cools the ground
Beneath our Burnham beeches.

- Excerpt from “Burnham Beeches” by Henry Luttrell


Text – Sarah-Jayne Farrer

“The Offering” © Sarah-Jayne Farrer & Matt Baldwin-Ives

All Other Images © Matt Baldwin-Ives (www.milescross.co.uk)

Ancient Yew and Humps of the Devil…

Posted by Sarah-Jayne Farrer on

“A thousand charms now open on the view,
O’er which enchanted roves the wanderer’s eye
With ever-fresh delight. In stainless, blue
Immensity above extends the sky : —
Below, in richest harmony, each dye
Of varied green is blended to adorn
This solitary vale, that seems to lie
Lovely as Eden on Creation’s morn,
Ere nature knew decay — ere pain and grief were born”

Some pretty long-standing memories have been forged upon the South Downs of England. Some meaningful, some not, some spiritual, some filled with laughter, others with tears, some with sheer terror, others with joy, and one particular night’s happenings (when but a delicate 16 year old) will forever be engraved in my mind, and burned onto my retinas. It is a place very close to my heart. A place where I feel instantly at home.

From it’s iconic, and dramatic chalky white cliffs on the East Sussex coast, to the beautiful and evocative western Weald of Hampshire and West Sussex. I must say I think I had, possibly, one of the best pints of real ale at the ‘The Shepherd & Dog’, just outside the village of Fulking (not far from the Devil’s Dyke), that I have ever had in my life. That may have something to do with the fatigue and weariness from trekking across the Downs from Sun rise to Sun set. There is nothing like a great pint or two, over some pub grub and deep belly laughs, to really put the spring back in your step after a long, exhausting, but exhilarating day.

The historic village of Slindon on the Southern slopes of the South Downs, the towns of Arundel, Lewes, Winchester, and Chichester, the stretch of the Seven Sisters of the Eastern coast, the impressive Blackdown, and the Chanctonbury Hill & dew pond; are all places that have a firm hold on my heart and soul. Local legend has it that the Devil himself created the Chanctonbury Ring, and that one may summon him by running around the clump of trees seven times anti-clockwise; which links in with the place I’m going to be talking about today.

North-west of Chichester there is an ancient, magnificently dark and somber, Yew forest covering two hundred acres within a narrow coombe. The bark of the oldest trees takes on a molten-like look. Very anthropomorphic. The forms of the faces, arms and hands, parts and pieces of those who have been laid to rest beneath the shelter of their poisonous branches, can be seen in their knarled, twisting trunks. Newer trees wrap around the dead Yew inside; writhing and entangling around the original, until they are no longer distinguished as different trees, but one. Growing and dying, and living again. Together. Over and Over.

This place is hushed. An eerie silence and dimness enfold you as you walk between these ancient trees. Even on a bright sunny day, the thick canopy blocks out the Sun; dappled light hits the damp floor, died red by fallen berries. On a hot day the vapours rise from the trees, and an altered state is imminent. The toxins within the Yew are released in the heat, and if you sit meditating in this grove on such a day they can bring forth some pretty in-depth trance states; due to the mild narcotic and hallucinogenic effects these vapours produce. I take moment here to warn of the extent of the poison of this tree. Even meditating on hot days, at length, can induce an overdose. So, it’s always handy to have someone with experience to watch over you, just in case, but with care it’s a very useful and powerful place for a seer to meditate.

It’s easy to get lost within the Kingley Vale forest, even without the hallucinogenic effects. The trees arn’t where you remember them to be, and paths don’t take you where you thought they would. This site has been used for Witchcraft for many a moon, and somewhere within these woods stands a single sacrificial Oak.

“Come, Meditation! Stray awhile with me,
The scene will suit us well, for we may muse
On themes we long have cherish’d secretly,
Within yon grove of venerable yews;
Whose twilight gloom and silence may infuse
Into our dream, perchance, that pensive joy
Which philosophic Melancholy woos
Amid such scenes, whose beauties never cloy ;
But yield to Taste and Virtue bliss without alloy”


Deep beneath their sacred canopy, the atmosphere thick and grim, you can truly understand why the Yew is used in workings and ritual involving the Ancestors, communing with the spirits of the Dead, ceremonies of remembrance, Necromancy, and the Otherworld. The Yew is the Gatekeeper to the Shadow Lands. She is an Ancient Matriarch which holds many stories beneath her bark. Sitting amongst Her serpentine roots, with ears to listen, she might tell you a few. Of the inspiration of death. Of the beauty in decay. Of the power to renew and transform through total surrender. Beautifully haunting tales will bleed forth from Her, tales that will make your heart ache so bad you fear it might break. Physically break. Tales that will make your soul sing. Tales that will linger with you forever. You never return from a journey with the Yew in quite the same way as you were before you left.

According to 9th Century manuscripts, a group of Vikings invaded the countryside around what is now Chichester; however the Vikings weren’t expecting a revolt by the Anglo-Saxons. They turned on their pursuers, and a huge battle commenced, in which hundreds were killed. The wood is believed to be the location of this battle; onto the ground where the slain fell, a grove of sixty trees was planted as a memorial. The ghosts of these fallen warriors are said to wander beneath their boughs at night. They arn’t the only things that wander once the Sun sinks below the horizon, as legend has it the trees also come alive and walk the coombe. This sets cold shivers down the spine when you are amongst these trees at night. Truly lost. In the pitch blackness you look for trees you had seen earlier on in the day, that have seemed to have disappeared, or are further down the path than you expected. A very haunted and powerful place to be sure, almost threatening at times.

“Fierce was the conflict, as old legends say,
And fearfully re-echoed through the dell,
Mid the wild uproar of the battle-fray,
The Briton’s shout, the Sea-Kings’ fiendish yell, —
And of the mighty Northmen many fell,
Whose bold hearts’ blood distain’d the verdant ground ;
And few return’d the daring deeds to tell
Of Cissa’s gallant sons, who that day, crown’d
With glory’s wreaths, made hill and dale with joy resound”


The special chalk grasslands of Kingley Vale have developed over thousands of years and support a wide variety of flora and fauna. The grassland is grazed upon by fallow and roe deer, wild rabbits and sheep (in the Winter) to prevent the coarse grasses and trees from stifling the growth of wildflowers. Wildflowers such as rock rose, wild thyme and marjoram, and the rare orchids which litter these meadows, including the common spotted, frog, bee and fly orchids. The Vale is also home to blackthorn, hawthorn, ash, elder, spindle, willow, birch, gorse and juniper. It is a wonderful place that has stolen the heart of many a poet, including Tennyson and Crocker.

There are a number of ancient remains in the area; earthworks, settlements, cross dykes, scattered long barrows and a couple of Iron Age hill forts. On a ridgeway crossed by an ancient trackway above the forest and the grasslands, stand four large Bronze Age barrows called ‘The Devil’s Humps’ or ‘The King’s Graves’ on the crest of Bow Hill. These kings were leaders of the Viking invasion wiped out by the Anglo-Saxon men of Chichester. It is said that the Vikings, or at least their leaders, lie in these barrows. The Yews of the forest are believed to be the descendants of the trees planted to mark the battlefield.

This is not really a place you want to be alone at night. I speak from personal experience, and I even had a friend just within earshot. I came to Kingley Vale emboldened by stories, and entertained fancy ideas of walking/running around the mounds six or seven times, to test the claims of the Devil coming to meet you. As the darkness cloaked the land, I began my journey around the burrows. I made it around a grand total of four times (nothing jumped out after the third, as some local legends claim), but the atmosphere changed on my forth trip. Not only did the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, but my whole body. The air thick. The night seemed to close in. The sky within reaching distance. Whispers were heard on the breeze. Shadows. Movement. Chills. Fear. I was not alone. The dead do indeed walk.

I have never again sat upon those burrows alone, and I cannot fully describe what happened in the hours that came next… Maybe I should try… But that, my friends, is a story for another time…

Text – Sarah-Jayne Farrer

Images © Matt Baldwin-Ives (www.milescross.co.uk)

* The Devil’s Humps: photograph by Brannon Masters with digital manipulations by Matt Baldwin-Ives.

** Poems excerpts from ‘Kingley Vale’ by Charles Crocker

COMPLETE KINGLEY VALE GALLERY: http://inthechimehours.com/the-gallery/kingley-vale-gallery/