The Ballad of Bellever Tor

An Ode to Dartmoor; and an Illustrated Study of…

The Power of Myth in the Landscape

Poetry and Paradox - An Introduction

This blog is inspired by the myths, legends and landscapes of deepest, darkest Dartmoor.

One poetically-named tor, in particular, will form the focus - the chapter and verse - of my deliberations. But more generally, I’ll be exploring some of the “themes and dreams” which have the power to transform our natural world into something altogether more supernatural.

Along the way, I’ll be challenging the notion of objective beauty in the landscape, and instead considering the symbiosis which exists between the great outdoors and our own place within it.

As we aim to tease out the magic within our mystical landscapes, I’ll also reveal the two key ingredients which I believe imbue a myth with its power… and attempt to make sense of the paradox which seems to ensue!

Bellever - Birth of a Modern Myth

I’ll begin by presenting a kind of home-made folk tale - a light-hearted yet tragic tome - inspired by a jumble of hilltop granite blocks known as Bellever Tor…

“Bellever Tor is a helluva tor”… the summit rocks viewed through Bellever Forest

Dartmoor is home to many fine tors, a few of them (I must admit) higher and wilder than Bellever. But Bellever Tor possesses its own unique charm, rising proudly above - and almost encircled by - the forest which shares its name. And intriguingly, Bellever has the distinction of gracing the geographical centre of the moor, perhaps according it a special seal of significance… an intangible symmetry or sense of place. As if to affirm this, an array of antiquities - hut circles, cists and standing stones - lend an air of ancient mystery to the surrounding landscape.

Bellever’s Travels - Backdrop to a Ballad (A Brief History of Rhyme)

My Bellever folk tale takes the form of a ballad, conceived partly as a wordplay exercise based around a simple rhyming couplet - Bellever Tor is a helluva tor - which I’d exchange with my Dad whenever we travelled across Dartmoor and spotted the tor.

It was the sort of silly in-joke that we’d use when driving past Tintern Abbey en route to the Brecon Beacons, when I’d ask “What’s that ruin over there?” My Dad, with his slight Somerset twang, would earnestly reply “Tintern Abbey”, to which I’d deliver the punchline: “‘Tis an abbey!”. But the Bellever quote had no punchline, so it needed something - in the event a whole poem - by way of compensation.

“The muse I will choose shall be Bellever Tor”… my father Nigel at the trig point (Aug 2021)

A tentative theme was suggested by Bellever’s relative proximity to Dartmoor Prison at Princetown, feeding into the austere reputation and ominous aura of the moor. And so a kind of apocryphal myth unfolded of a hapless prisoner (the Clown Prince o’ Prince-town) who flees the jail and attempts to seek refuge in the rocks atop the tor. But the escapee is hunted down by guards with dogs (evoking the infamously-fanged Hound of the Baskervilles), and the tor becomes a trap rather than an island of sanctuary.

To cut to the chase (so to speak), the prisoner is “hounded” to his death, falling from the rocks and being forever condemned to haunt the scene of his doom.

But rather than dissecting the poem, I should probably just present it (with apologies to any serious poets out there!)… :-)

The Ballad of Bellever Tor

Bellever Tor is a helluva tor,
It’s a rip-snortin’, ca-vortin’ swell-of-a-tor
And if, as I live, I heard tell-of-a-tor
The words I inferred would be “Bellever Tor”.

Take flight, moonless night, Dart o’er the moor,
Clown Prince o’ Prince-town, confoundin’ the law,
Back-track to black, an abyss I explore
To consume the cocoon atop Bellever Tor.

Bellever Tor’s a gaol cell-of-a-tor,
It’s a honed, naked-boned “au naturel”-of-a-tor,
To hide safe inside this bare shell-of-a-tor
The muse I will choose shall be Bellever Tor.

The siren ’n’ firin’ are high’n the moor,
Surround-sound o’ hounds echo Baskerville’s roar,
I’m hunted, confronted, no weapon to draw;
I crumble, and stumble from Bellever Tor.

Bellever Tor’s a death knell-of-a-tor,
It’s a putrefied, stupefied smell-of-a-tor,
Forsakin’ my Maker I fell-of’-a-tor
To sleep wi’ the Reaper ’neath Bellever Tor.

The houndin’ ’n’ poundin’ resound evermore
Cajolin’ my soul into Lucifer’s lore,
Quakes from the Underworld thunder like Thor
To break me asunder on Bellever Tor.

Bellever Tor is my Hell-of-a-tor,
It’s my shady ’n’ Hadean dwell-of-a-tor,
At this high-hurdlin’, blood-curdlin’ yell-of-a-tor
I curse the Good Verse that served Bellever Tor.

Whenever you weather that road, I implore:
Don’t roam o’er stones that darken death’s door,
For locked in those rocks is a pris’ner o’ yore;
The free-fallin’ phantom of Bellever Tor.

Evening light reveals “The free-fallin’ phantom of Bellever Tor”

The concluding section of this blog is more essay than ode, opening up the themes of the poem to explore some ideas - and I dare say a few tangents - surrounding art, photography, and the power of myth in the landscape…

The Power of Myth in the Landscape

Shifting Sands (and How to Shore Them)

It is sometimes said that the job of the photographer is to tell a story… to present an image which is about something, rather than simply of something. This is a laudable aim, but there’s also no denying that the precise nature of the visual story - much like beauty itself - will often lie in the eye of the beholder.

There are commonalities and shared tropes, of course… but at some level we all see things differently, informed by our unique combination of culture, experience and personal interest.

Or to broaden this out and put it more succinctly: art is subjective! And taste varies not just between individuals or interest groups; it shifts and mutates in accordance with the passage of time and the ebb and flow of particular trends or movements, the most prominent of which reflect a powerful yet passing zeitgeist.

Photography is a fairly new artform in the grand scheme of things, born of advances in optical physics and micro-engineering. But consider the more illustrious history of painting, which stretches back to the caves of the Upper Paleolithic. Even restricting our history to the past few hundred years, we’ve seen the Biblical epics of the Renaissance morph into Baroque, stopping off at Romanticism en route to the everyday style of Realism… then ever onward to Impressionism, Cubism, Surrealism, Abstract Expressionism, Pop Art, and a myriad of weird and wonderful sub-genres which would have been unimaginable - in many cases heretical - to the eyes which first gazed in awe upon Leonardo’s Last Supper.

Devon’s Culm Valley, June 2020 - shades of John Constable’s “The Hay Wain” (without the actual Hay Wain!)?

The same parallels can be drawn across many other artforms, from sculpture to literature to music. In the case of the latter, the rise of post-war teen culture and burgeoning freedoms of the 1960s prompted a creative explosion which saw the rapid emergence of pop and rock. This radical new phenomenon partially eclipsed - yet quietly borrowed from - a kaleidoscopic jumble of earlier genres, its most original exponents successfully fusing various combinations of (take a deep breath!) classical, folk, blues, country, jazz, swing, R&B, vaudeville and World music. Underpinning these transitions is the symmetry and symbiosis of art imitating life, and life imitating art, with the urban landscapes which influenced the influencers themselves being re-defined and elevated. Consider, for example, how the public perception of London’s Abbey Road, or the “blue suburban skies” of Liverpool’s Penny Lane, have been forever altered and augmented by the legacy of swinging sixties iconography.

Yet with popular culture ever expanding, and a bewildering array of genres to choose from, what does someone mean when they declare themselves a music lover? It depends on their taste. And in Western society, dominant musical tastes have continued to change drastically between successive generations. This is much too fast to be the product of biological evolution… there is clearly something else happening here, an evolution of lifestyle, fashion and ideas.

So how do these shifting sands relate to landscape photography, which - as artforms go - is surely a fairly narrowly-defined and stable activity? After all, moors and mountains don’t tend to change very much, and the viewer (you might imagine) is either predisposed to like them or they are not. But cast your mind to Glen Coe, an undisputed modern Mecca of British mountain grandeur. When Charles Dickens toured Scotland in the mid-19th century, he wrote that the glen was “perfectly terrible”, describing it as “an awful place… there are scores of glens, high up, which form such haunts as you might imagine yourself wandering in, in the very height and madness of a fever”.

I suspect that this was not mere hubris, or a kind of inverted compliment (as it might be read today). Before the rise of widespread leisure and tourism, it seems that mountains were commonly viewed with revulsion, as a barren expanse of death and demons. Or else, in some cultures, as the sacred abode of gods… but either way, aside from the odd gothic poet seeking the sublime, few people willingly ventured onto their high summits.

Mists of Time (Glen Coe, Sept 2003)

This shot from the family film archive depicts a foggy Aonach Eagach, the notorious Notched Ridge which forms the northern headwall of the “perfectly terrible” (according to Charles Dickens) Pass of Glen Coe.

The legends of Glen Coe include that of the fabled poet Ossian - a significant figure in both Scottish and Irish mythology - who is said to have been born in a cave high on the precipitous slopes of Aonach Dubh. Another tall tale (slightly more plausible) tells of the glen’s MacDonald clan hiding stolen cattle in the “Lost Valley”, a high corrie of the mighty Bidean nam Bian whose narrow entrance is concealed by a huge fall of boulders.

Although this legendary landscape is certainly epic enough to intimidate in its own right, Dickens’ fearful take on the pass - the so-called “Glen of Weeping” - may have been swayed by his knowledge of the infamous Glen Coe Massacre of 1692. This is not a myth but a real historical event, involving the slaughter of 30 or more members of the MacDonald clan as they slept in their beds. A number of other victims succumbed to the February snows as they fled to the hills. Perpetrated by government troops who had been guests of the MacDonalds before receiving their macabre orders, this dark episode symbolises a singularly brutal betrayal of Highland hospitality. (The treacherous government forces were led by a Campbell, rival to the Glen Coe MacDonalds; a sign at the nearby Clachaig Inn still reads “No Hawkers or Campbells” - either fatalistic humour or a clear breach of discrimination laws!)

The scene of the crime could not be more fitting, as Glen Coe perfectly encapsulates a landscape rich in folkloric potential… spectacular heights, gloomy depths, Gaelic intrigue and a genuinely bloody history. Today it is regarded as a Mecca of Scottish mountaineering, attracting climbers, walkers and sight-seers from all over the world.

Contrast Dickens’ description of Glen Coe with that of Ansel Adams, the pioneering American landscape photographer, after he first visited California’s Yosemite National Park as an impressionable teenager in 1916: "the splendor of Yosemite burst upon us and it was glorious…. One wonder after another descended upon us…. There was light everywhere…”. Only a budding photographer, I suspect, would think to describe the gargantuan scenery and granite walls of Yosemite in terms of light! In the ensuing years, Adams’ evident love of nature, and his experiments in black and white tonality, would help to transform American society’s enthusiasm for the great outdoors. (Adams would forever become one with his revered mountain playground when his ashes were scattered on Yosemite’s Half Dome in 1984.)

Incidentally, Dickens’ more oppressive mindset can also serve the landscape photographer to great effect (as it did his novels). I can personally testify that wandering the heights of Glen Coe can indeed feel a little mad and fevered, which is always an exacting challenge to capture on camera. My aim here is not to pass judgment on individual points of view, but rather to highlight the changing cultural consensus which can colour the way in which landscape art - and art in general - is typically perceived by society.

Even in contemporary times, the way in which someone views a wild vista - the emotion which such a scene evokes - varies dramatically between individuals.

To illustrate the point, I’m reminded of an occasion many moons ago, when I was travelling to the Lake District for a camping holiday with friends. My companions didn’t know the Lakes very well, so I was keen to subtly share my love of the fells. Approaching from the south, I’d been waiting for our first truly breathtaking view to unfold… a point on the Windermere road where motorists can suddenly see across the lake to the stirring outline of the Langdale Pikes.

Sure enough, as the view opened up, my pal in the passenger seat exclaimed, “WOW!”.

“I know,” I said, secretly chuffed at the instant reaction; “that’s the Langdale Pikes.”

“No,” he replied; “I’ve just seen a great bay for fishing in the lake!”

I made a mental note that people are stirred by different things… and that, in future, I should probably pay more attention to foreground detail!

The “stirring outline of the Langdale Pikes”, viewed across “a great bay for fishing in the lake”. (This is actually Blea Tarn, rather than Windermere!)

Across wider society, differences in perception can be even more marked. A farmer or shepherd, tending the land for their living, will view the landscape very differently from the tourist or thrill-seeker who is there to be awed or entertained. And independently of occupation or purpose, personal sensibilities clearly come into play… some may feel themselves deeply in tune with the land, invoking Gaia and Mother Earth; while others perhaps take it all for granted, seeing only a wilderness to be tamed or a commodity to be exploited. Since the true value of art is in the interaction between artist and consumer - the feeling which is evoked by a painting or photograph, rather than the physical product itself - it becomes apparent that there are no real absolutes. Even if the artist intends to convey a specific point or emotion, the question which is raised by the artwork - the story that it tells, or the message which it imparts - is inherently unpredictable.

This is before we consider the startling impacts of the digital revolution, a new paradigm of the late 20th century which continues apace today. In terms of photography, these advances have changed everything from formatting media (film versus digital) to camera design (the rise of DSLR, mirrorless and mobiles); and from mass consumerism (enter social media) to post-processing (Hollywood-style editing at our fingertips)… all swept along on a tidal wave of uncontrollable progress.

The Relentless March of Technology

We live beneath the same night sky as our ancient forebears… yet closer at hand, the direction of travel seems exponential. A tidal wave of uncontrollable progress?

[Jupiter above M5 in Devon, 10-second exposure - August 2020]

The direction of technological travel seems exponential, and clearly cannot be halted. Yet perhaps we can mitigate its effects, and shore up those shifting sands of perception? This, I believe, is where the power of myth comes in. For myth has the power to bind, to somehow join the sensibilities of the ages and add an over-arching sense of recognition. And where myth morphs into local legend or folkore, we are presented with a framework which roots us in the past yet still makes sense - even if only on a hazy subconscious level - to the audiences of today and tomorrow. After all, this type of story-telling is ultimately about the human condition; about our place in the world, and a quest for deeper meaning. These are surely universal themes.

So when we view places which speak to us on a visceral level, we have a head start in terms of formulating a common story. Or at least, we experience a shared atmosphere - a kind of familiar ambience - which underpins our understanding of the possible stories.

Dartmoor is one such place, Glen Coe another; but there are any number of compelling legends strewn across our weathered tracts of wilderness, befitting a long history of sustenance and struggle. This is particularly true of those mystical lands which have immortalised trouble and triumph, love and loss, in Celtic verse or Pictish symbol down through the ages.

It seems to me that our instinctive reaction to certain locations or types of scenery can tune in to this intangible ethos. In the context of art and landscape photography, the underlying evolution of fashion, technique and technology merely acts as window dressing to something more fundamental… and perhaps more profound.

Mystical Celtic Lands - the enigmatic Standing Stones of Callanish adorn Scotland’s Isle of Lewis.

Sacred Sites - A Quest for Myth and Meaning

The concept of myth-in-the-landscape is perfectly exemplified by the beguiling ancient monuments which adorn our Celtic lands, all the way from the tip of Cornwall to Scotland’s Northern Isles. Cornwall is represented here by the enigmatic Lanyon Quoit (distant Bosiliack tin mine tells a contrasting story of struggle), while the Ring of Brodgar epitomises the wealth of archeological treasures to be found in the iconic “Heart of Neolithic Orkney”.

Monolithic Landscape - We may never truly know what significance the Stones of Machrie Moor, on Scotland’s Isle of Arran, held for their creators… yet the grand natural setting, calling through the ages, surely played a part in nurturing their underlying mythology?

The Mythic Paradox (or The Familiarity of Mystery)

I mentioned in this blog’s introduction that I would reveal the two key ingredients which imbue a myth with its power, and attempt to unravel the resulting paradox. A bold claim perhaps, for the ingredients of a myth are many-fold… and to be honest, I’m no social historian! Nonetheless, here is what I have in mind…

As teased in the section above, I believe that the power of a myth is derived from a combination of its familiarity and its mystery. And this is where the paradox might be seen to arise… for if something is familiar, how can it be mysterious? And if something is mysterious, how can it seem familiar?

To answer this simply, I think that maybe the mystery itself - not so much a specific mystery, but the concept of the unknowable - is the familiar component of a myth. Or indeed of any otherworldly belief, of which mythology is arguably just a subset. I say “arguably” because, by some definitions, mythology is recognised as fiction, and hence is not an otherworldly belief. But either way, it is the stories themselves which carry the power of inspiration and intrigue, not their underlying veracity. Did the Ancient Greeks really believe the literal truth of Greek Mythology? Who knows… it’s all suitably nebulous! In many cases - including perhaps Ancient Greece - I suspect that one person’s fictional myth is another’s cherished religion.

But back to the components of the paradox: The reason familiarity is important is that it anchors the myth - whether an archetypal legend or a recurring piece of folklore - in the collective human psyche. This gives us a story through the ages… a universal trope to act as a reference point, mitigating the turbulence of exponential change. For while society’s views on superstition do change (thankfully we are no longer burning witches!), and while religions do evolve (Darwin may have found this ironic!), these processes usually happen too gradually (and perhaps too begrudgingly) to register from one generation to the next.

As for the mysterious… well, who doesn’t love a good mystery? But it’s important to distinguish that I’m not talking here about mystery in the sense of a detective drama, which relies upon a satisfying solution - an unmasking of the villain - in the final denouement. Rather, superstitious belief systems rely on the mystery not being solved, and for the intrigue to be perpetuated. After all, if the answers to a paranormal phenomenon were suddenly discovered (and crucially, accepted by its adherents), then it would no longer be paranormal… the phenomenon would either be relegated to the mundane (if esoteric claims were disproved), or scientific paradigms would be shifted to accommodate the new-found revelation.

Of course, I’m not suggesting that esoteric mysteries are without answer: many worthy people have sought to illuminate the unknown, and some have succeeded to the satisfaction of themselves and others (either correctly or incorrectly). However, without a broad consensus - which is very difficult to achieve in these murky waters - the underlying mystery will on some level persist. And if the subject of the mystery itself “moves in mysterious ways”, so much the better!

It is certainly tempting to seek answers, for many of the questions surrounding supernatural or otherworldly phenomena are hugely significant. Do hauntings indicate the existence of an afterlife? Do UFO sightings imply that advanced alien lifeforms are visiting our planet? How about alleged cosmic encounters, like the 1947 Roswell Incident (now firmly entrenched in pop culture)?

Bigfoot meets The Flintstones? Or perhaps the mysterious truth - a prehistoric dinosaur footprint - is even more incredible?
[Isle of Arran, Sept 2020]

It is the importance yet evasiveness of these conundrums, and the controversy surrounding them, which makes mystical subjects so intriguing… and debate around them so supercharged. But to re-iterate, the mystery itself has the real power here, independently of its underlying truth. After all, you don’t need to believe in ghosts to be genuinely spooked when the lights are snuffed out, or the floorboards creak, in a haunted house… while a shadowy séance, suitably enacted, can disturb the most skeptical of minds. It seems that the very idea of paranormal antics is enough to send perfectly rational folk into a head-spin. Doubtless part of this is down to nurture, of being raised in a Hammer House of Horror-type culture. But I suspect nature plays a more visceral role, as though our species has long been programmed for superstition and conspiracy.

The evolutionary roots of this can be deduced by applying a little Flintstones-style logic: back when we were painting bison on cave walls, natural selection favoured those who feared that the rustling in the bushes might be a sabre-tooth tiger. Most of the time it would be something far more innocent… but caution, statistically speaking, was the more reliable survival instinct. Now introduce an idea or meme which would reinforce this sense of trepidation in impressionable little ones - a shamanistic demon-of-the-dark, say - and the children who complied were more likely to survive to nurture (and scare) offspring of their own. So ultimately, we are all descended from ancestors who were inclined to believe.

Yet this deductive logic (itself clearly a simplification) is not to disparage the value of myth and superstition. Quite the reverse, if anything. In my example, the allegorical demon-of-the-dark was a substitute for genuine peril - the story’s kernel of truth being a snarling sabre-tooth - which made the underlying message a valuable one. And yes, this core truth may have been passed on in a colourful and misleading manner, sometimes even with deliberate guile… but then, craftiness has always formed an integral part of the human condition.

The Art of Craftiness - Part 1 (Lightroom versus Darkroom)

Inevitably, the field of human deception - a “tricksy” yet tantalising subject - lends itself quite naturally to the tangled web of myth and magic. And this, in turn, feeds into the expansive canvas of landscape art. This is a broad topic, but let’s start by considering a practical modern application - a doorway to the devious, if we care to think of it that way…

I’ve highlighted above - and indeed in my previous blog, Camera on the Crags - that the digital revolution has delivered profound change to the world of photography. One impact of this change is the ease with which imagery can be manipulated and shared, with the more extreme examples of “creative editing” more likely to go viral. This leads to a number of pertinent questions: How is photography actually defined? When does it morph into something more “artful”? And what does “artful” mean in this context? The divinity of “High Art”, or the cunning of the “Artful Dodger” (to again borrow from Dickens!)?

“The Moon in Bloom” - Art or Artifice?

Nocturnal experimentation results in a blended image of the Moon rising above Earthly blooms; difficult to achieve in a single image, as exposing for the Moon’s brightness would throw the foreground into darkness.

[Devon Lockdown, April 2020]

Whatever our views on this, the fact remains that even the best modern cameras are unable to perfectly capture the dynamic range and subtlety of nature-in-the-raw. So it’s understandable that virtually all professional photographers (as well as bumbling hobbyists such as myself) prefer to control their own output, rather than rely on the automated processing of default camera settings. Perhaps digital post-processing, using contemporary tools such as Lightroom, is no different in principle to the experimentation which Ansel Adams, and other historic pioneers, were previously employing in their Darkroom?

Yet, there clearly is a difference in terms of scale and accessibility. There is a feeling that almost anything is now possible with digital post-processing, so how can we trust the veracity of the images which constantly bombard us via social media and the internet? Was the sunset really that orange; and does the model from that advert really look so perfect? Probably not… so it raises that highly-charged follow-up question: Is this giving us all false expectations of real life?

“The World Keeps Turning” - Star Trails

Long-exposure is a well-established in-camera technique, often used to deliver “artistic” rather than real-life results; this was a first attempt at blending multiple long exposures, plus “torch-painted” foreground treetops, using StarStax. It perhaps reveals our giddy place in the cosmos!

[Devon Lockdown, April 2020]

This is too big a question for me to grapple with here, of course. All I’ll say is that the veracity of an image depends, to a degree, on the integrity of those promoting it… has it been presented in good faith, or with intent to deceive? Even this promise of truth, though, can quickly dissolve and disapparate once an image enters the minefield of public domain.

The Bellever Phantom… of dubious origin (allegedly!).

Take this blog’s Bellever phantom image, for instance. I make no bogus or fanciful claims about the nature of the “ghost”, and I think its context (illustrating the poem) is pretty clear. But in principle, this could end up anywhere, supporting any number of false beliefs (especially if I’d done a better job in Photoshop!). Which brings me to another source of myth-building, beyond the text of any poem or folk tale… the old adage that a picture paints a thousand words. The catch here is that, all too often, not all of those words are honestly articulated!

It’s true that ”tricksiness” has always formed part of the artistic endeavour, especially in photography… from early grainy images of the “Cottingley fairies” (of which Arthur Conan Doyle was an advocate) to blurry shots of ghostly apparitions… or from Monsters in the Loch to those elusive UFOs, their otherworldliness seemingly tailor-made for the post-war space age.

To come clean about my humble Bellever phantom, I must admit that my initial intention of creating a “long-exposure spectre” - of leaving the shutter open to capture a spookily-moving figure - was scuppered by high winds and a reluctance for chilled fingers to faff with lens filters! Maybe next time, for this method has the advantage of delivering the end product “in-camera”, instead of requiring the blending of different shots. (I’m sure I’m not alone in spending far too much time in front of a computer screen!)

For one final take, I’ll present a version in which a little “tricksy” post-processing has been employed to simply mature the image (less space age, more old age!). :-)

The Myth in Monochrome

The best narratives are often timeless… but setting this aside, I was envisioning the ballad’s “Bellever break-out” occurring sometime in the long-lost 19th century. A certain separation from today’s workaday bustle would hopefully add an aura of romance, while linking the story more directly to the gothic intrigue of Dartmoor’s “Hound of the Baskervilles”.

Like the apparition itself, myths and legends are only really sustained by becoming a little faded around the edges… too much clarity can rob a story of its nuance, compromising the vibrant yet sepia-tinged nature of the underlying themes.

And of course, from a practical standpoint, images from yesteryear are seldom seen in glorious technicolour. For these reasons, and to help preserve the mystery and menace of the shadows, I’ve attempted here to tease out the phantom in “olde-worlde” monochrome…

The Art of Craftiness - Part 2 (Fields of Myth and Mystery)

When it comes to fields of myth and mystery, the covert land artists of my native Wiltshire could write the book (indeed, some of them have done!). These stealthy artisans - inspired by their Hampshire predecessors - are largely responsible for the elaborate crop circle designs which appear magically overnight across Southern England, as though channeling Banksy meets the X-Files.

If you can remember the 90s…
then you weren’t abducted by aliens!

My previous life as a fledgling crop circle investigator (that’s me on the left, notebook in hand… and the clues are right in front of me!); Wiltshire Downs, July 1992. (Photo: Nigel Mann)

The circles phenomenon makes for a fascinating study as a modern micro-myth. It started slowly and discretely in the late 1970s, the designs subtly evolving yet remaining mostly unnoticed over the ensuing decade. Its instigators almost quit (clearly ploughing a lonely furrow!), before their circle formations morphed into pictograms, news crews arrived and a tipping point was reached; the esoteric grapevine kicked in, bringing with it covert copycats and a myriad of colourful disciples. By the early 1990s a full-blown New Age belief system had been spawned, complete with self-anointed shamans, wide-eyed pseudo-scientists and everything in between (even regular folk finding purpose in pastures new!).

Motives and inspirations of the actual circle-makers vary… yet the collective oeuvre of these groups shows that, once mythology takes hold, the underlying narrative can spiral rapidly out of control (much like the circles themselves!).

Spirals in the Landscape… A Canvas of Wheat

The vista from Oliver’s Castle, a prominent Iron Age hill-fort near Devizes, in July 1994. Some of the finest circle formations had a strange habit of appearing wherever nature provided convenient viewing platforms!

Naturally, the Wiltshire circle-makers understand the value of mystery. This is why they don’t (as a rule) claim authorship of their nocturnal endeavours… because it would rob their creations of the power to bewitch and beguile, eroding much of their ethereal wonder. And of course cosmic harmony decrees that favoured hotspots - generally rolling chalk downlands - are rich in ancient sacred sites. Here, the circles are energised - almost tangibly so - by the aura surrounding such megalithic masterworks as Avebury, Silbury Hill and Stonehenge.

Amongst crop circle devotees or cerealogists (an eclectic group which secretly includes their makers), these enigmatic patterns are in fact regarded as temporary sacred sites… for each autumnal harvest churns their furtive existence back into the landscapes which fleetingly cradled them. Thus, their parting piece of magic is a disappearing act: there one day and gone the next, straw temples blown away in a puff of arable dust!

To avoid prematurely closing the casebook on cerealogy (the book never can be closed on a good mystery!), I should point out that unexplained circles have occasionally cropped up in the Fortean archives prior to their Great British resurgence of the late 20th century. Depending on the predilection of the observer, these cases have typically been attributed to either tornado damage or UFO landing traces. Returning to folklore, some say that an Old English pamphlet of 1678 depicts a “Mowing Devil” impishly swirling a prototype. It’s an intriguing prospect, which I’ll leave for another day; it does, however, bring me neatly on to the concept of origins…

Courts of Camelot

In speaking of a myth’s mystery, we most naturally concern ourselves with those headline-grabbing supernatural elements. However, my old friend the sabre-tooth tiger (a very real adversary to my allegorical Flintstones) hints at another aspect of the puzzle, which I’ll explore some more by considering the legend of Camelot.

The question which I’m pondering is basically this: does a myth’s origin contain a kernel of truth… and if so, how far does this extend?

To apply this to Arthurian legend: most fundamentally of all, was there really a King Arthur? Quite possibly. Did he welcome a bride called Guinevere into the Pendragon clan? Maybe (but what’s in a name?). And did Arthur share gallant quests with his “Knights of the Round Table”? More doubtful. Or receive Excalibur, his divine sword, from “The Lady of the Lake”? Hmm… a “farcical aquatic ceremony”, according to “Monty Python and the Holy Grail”!

And what of Merlin, the great wizard? Is he merely a creation, like Gandalf or Dumbledore, or did he actually exist? If the latter, was he a genuine wizard (whatever that implies), or just - to borrow a phrase of Gandalf’s - a “conjuror of cheap tricks”? We could go on… but the deeper we delve, the more impenetrable the questions begin to sound. As previously conjectured, it can be seen that the value of the myth lies in the questions themselves - that sense of the unknowable - rather than the answers.

Nonetheless, reviewing the black and white pages of literature (rather than the colourful world of myth), a little honest delving can still pay dividends. It seems that the tale of King Arthur and his noble entourage first gained traction in the 12th century, largely through a fanciful British history penned by Geoffrey of Monmouth. The narrative was further popularised in the 15th century by Sir Thomas Malory, whose classic work Le Morte d’Arthur was based on earlier, conveniently-obscure French manuscripts. We can deduce from Sir Thomas’s title that he may have harboured a vested interest in promoting the gallantry of knights! But how much of the Arthurian myth he (or Geoffrey before him) merely reported, as opposed to inventing or embellishing, is difficult to determine. Unlike Excalibur, the trail fairly quickly loses any sense of being set in stone…

We can be sure of one thing, and that is the enduring legacy which the legend of Camelot has brought about. A cynic might highlight the commercial opportunities which arise; the wealth of souvenirs and books, films and TV franchises (even that wacky stage production, Spamalot!). The suspicion that profit trumps truth is certainly valid, but it doesn’t define the myth. What interests me more is the sense of wonder which is evoked by the association of Arthurian legend with mystical landscapes such as Tintagel Castle and Glastonbury Tor. These places may not actually be ancestral homes of King Arthur… but since the quest for Camelot seems as elusive as the Holy Grail itself, they may just be the best that we can do.

“The Rain of King Arthur”… Tintagel Castle, situated on a dramatic Cornish headland (May 2021). This potential Camelot (“King Arthur’s Seat”) was visited on a day of persistent rain, so it was a pleasant surprise that this panorama emerged from the ether. But as Merlin’s Cave is magically located near the centre of the image, it’s possible that the great wizard had a hand in it! ;-)

So does the legend fuel the mystical landscape, or does the mystical landscape fuel the legend? As the years roll by, they clearly feed off each other, forever entwined by their common cultural ties. But what gave rise to the initial spark, that magical moment which enabled everything else to fall so neatly into place?

In the case of Tintagel and Glastonbury, I strongly suspect that the quirks of local topography - wild headland, or steep-sided knoll - provided both defensible terrain and spiritual sanctuary to early settlers. Over time, this led to the construction of a church - an abbey, a castle - and the concept of holy ground intensified. These sacred sites then became logical arenas in which to set tales of derring-do, handed down through the generations in popular story and song. Fast forward some more and the New Age movement finds a place of pastoral pilgrimage, the area’s natural geography and Pagan or Christian heritage by now augmented with an array of leylines, crystals and positive energy. Viewed in this light, it’s really no coincidence that Glastonbury has become synonymous with one of the foremost pop festivals in the world, an annual celebration of sound, colour and creativity. Such is the power of myth in the landscape!

“Magick of Yore”… my own pilgrimage to Glastonbury Tor, April 2018. (Photo: Nigel Mann)

There’s no doubt that the fabled Castle of Camelot - or the allied Isle of Avalon - represent particularly potent unions of legend with landscape. But I could have chosen others. The medieval folk heroes of Robin Hood and his band of curiously Merry Men, for instance, whose own gallant quest involves robbing from the rich and giving to the poor. Again, the legends associated with Robin of Loxley can be traced back to 15th century narrative ballads, enabling the story’s providence to pass a tipping point from which the mythology was destined to grow. And grow it did, all the way from Sherwood Forest to Hollywood… whose big-screen adaptations, some more scurrilous than others, have ranged from Prince of Thieves to Men in Tights. The detail may differ from Arthurian fayre, yet the archetypes are familiar. I might well have been dissecting and illustrating the tales of Robin, Little John, Friar Tuck and friends - not to mention the dastardly Sheriff of Nottingham - had my travels (both literal and literary) happened to take me in that direction.

To continue the story-telling theme, I’d like to draw this blog toward its close by considering the part which popular literature plays in shaping mythology. For if our tales of derring-do are largely cultivated on the page, perhaps there’s something in that age-old saying that the pen is mightier than the sword?

Pen and Sword

It is a given that the written word can have an incredible impact on public perception and passions, capable of eliciting love or fear, hope or suspicion, enlightenment or oppression. We only have to consider the palpable awe and aura which is attributed to sacred texts such as the Bible or Qur’an - whether or not we believe in their divine origins or promises of salvation - to appreciate that whole societies and cultures are built on the recording and transmission of powerful stories, often transcribed into a guiding set of morals and misdemeanors.

Associated with such hallowed scripture is the concept of Holy Lands, each one a spiritual heartland which forms a kind of holy matrimony between myth and landscape. In some cases the texts themselves are firmly rooted in a sense of place, such as the Dead Sea Scrolls. And indeed, the arid, desert landscapes of the Middle East are often conjured up whenever Holy Lands are considered in our minds or on the silver screen. Justifiably so, for a (holy) trinity of major world religions converge on Jerusalem; while Mecca - an Islamic place of pilgrimage - has become a metaphor for a location which inspires intense devotion. (I meant no disrespect - quite the reverse - when I earlier described Glen Coe as a “Mecca of Scottish mountaineering”.)

Yet, Holy Lands in their broader sense do not have to embody vast religious epicentres. On a smaller scale, miniature versions can be experienced at every church, synagogue, mosque or temple, wherever in the world these are located. And we have seen in this blog that a myriad of ancestral sacred sites exist all across the UK, from Neolithic Orkney and the enigmatic Western Isles, down through the mystical landscapes of Avebury and Glastonbury, and along to the farthest tip of Cornwall. Place names often eagerly hint at this rich heritage, exemplified by the proliferation of Saint pre-fixes spread far and wide across the nation; or by the obvious hallowed connotations of the repeated moniker Holy Island…

Holy Smoke… or rather Scotch Mist, forming an ethereal early morning veil around Holy Island (viewed from the neighbouring Isle of Arran, Sept 2020).

Holy Island - A Place of Pilgrimage and Prayer Flags

Not to be confused with Northumberland’s iconic Lindisfarne, the Holy Island depicted here can be found in Scotland’s Firth of Clyde, anchored just offshore from the Isle of Arran. Like Lindisfarne, Arran’s Holy Isle has links to early Christianity dating back to the 6th century, when St. Molaise is reputed to have lived in a hermit’s cave tucked away on the western shore. As if to diversify its spiritual appeal, present-day Holy Isle is home to a Buddhist community who sanctify the island as a haven of peace and meditation. The only other permanent inhabitants comprise wild ponies, free-roaming goats and Soay sheep (who enjoy grazing the seaweed).

I was lucky enough to explore Holy Isle for an afternoon during September 2021, and to experience its air of tranquility away from the relative chaos of modern life. Devotional Buddhist art complements Nature on rocks above the shoreline, while the island’s uppermost point is adorned with Tibetan prayer flags which are said to release positive mantras as they flutter in the breeze.

I visited on a day of sunshine and showers, when the rainbow colours of the flags seemed to seep into the ether and illuminate the sky. I’m sure that St. Molaise would have approved! :-)

It is apt that the natural wonders of Holy Isle have converged with Buddhism, for Eastern religion has a penchant for deifying Nature. The mighty Ganges is a sacred river in Hinduism (an impressively long and winding shrine), while many Himalayan peaks are revered as the home and spiritual abode of gods. When Kangchenjunga (the world’s third highest mountain) was first ascended in 1955, the Western summiteers - Joe Brown and George Band - left the final inches untrammeled to fulfil a promise which they’d made to the Buddhist priest-kings of Sikkim. This is fitting, I think… as mountains may be ascended (if we are lucky), but they are never conquered. By any worldly measure, the pride of human ascent is surely fleeting and insignificant.

Northern Climes

Mountains also loom large in Scandinavian mythology, where immense, thunderous landscapes naturally suggest the hammer-wielding antics of the Norse god Thor. The mutability of myth is demonstrated by Thor’s crossover from the Viking world to modern pop culture, where he regularly appears as a Marvel comic-book character. A similar fate seems to have befallen trolls, another staple of Norwegian folklore, who have crossed over to Middle-earth - in suitably dark and menacing fashion - in JRR Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings.

My Kingdom for a Norse
“The Bishop” and “The King” reign over the dramatic mountain pass of Trollstigen.

With or without pop culture, the original resonance of these Nordic myths remains undimmed back in their homelands… as symbolised by the tortuous hairpins which bisect Norway’s wild mountain pass of Trollstigen (meaning Troll Trail).

The twin peaks which tower above the pass, Bispen (The Bishop) and Kongen (The King), doubtless have stories to tell of their own. Given the meaning of “Kongen”, it is perhaps fitting that the Trollstigen road was opened in 1936 by Norway’s King Haakon VII… forever linking the fairytale romance of palace life with the shadowy underworld of the troll.

Of course, it is another irony of modern life that trolls - who traditionally dwell in dingy, dank corners, which surely have no WiFi - are now most commonly found all over the internet!

Don’t Feed The Troll
Twists and turns of the Trollstigen road, rising from the valley depths in Norway’s Romsdal region. Nearby is the notorious “Troll Wall”, whose fearsome reputation precedes it...

The Turreted Trollveggen… a very “gneiss” Wall for Trolls!

In such a wondrous landscape, it is only fitting that trolls should also claim the ultimate natural battlement… the savagely-serrated Trollveggen, or Troll Wall. The tallest vertical precipice in Europe, this fabled showpiece of gothic mountain architecture has become a kind of Holy Grail for elite climbers and base jumpers alike. Sadly - though perhaps inevitably - not all have returned to tell the tale.

As befits the Land of the Troll, it is apt that the first recorded ascent was accomplished by a Norwegian team in 1965, finishing one day ahead of marauding British rivals! In testimony to the Troll Wall’s difficulty - and also its relative remoteness - I find it curious that this feat was achieved a clear 100 years after the Alps’ celebrated centrepiece, the Matterhorn, was first scaled.

Whether or not mountain-dwelling trolls made unrecorded ascents of Trollveggen far earlier remains an open question… :-)

Faroes of the North - The Giant, The Witch but No Wardrobe

Sticking with Northern Climes, a particularly rich source of written folklore - bridging the gap somewhere between history, myth and epic yarn - can be found in the celebrated Icelandic Sagas. Originally written in Old Icelandic (an offshoot of Old Norse), these quintessentially family tales have branched out over time to cover some of the surrounding islands and archipelagos, which would have acquired otherwise-forgotten meaning to these daring sea-faring folk.

One such story, the Færeyinga Saga, was written in Iceland shortly after 1200. It concerns the far-flung Faroe Islands, and tells the tale - or recalls the origin - of two prominent sea stacks called “Risin” (The Giant) and “Kellingen” (The Witch). Although not natural bedfellows (so to speak), the Giant and Witch joined forces to pull the Faroes across the sea to Iceland. But the task proved to be a demanding one (perhaps predictably!)), and a dawn shaft of sunlight turned them both to stone. There they stand to this day, immortalised - indeed petrified - beneath the great sea cliffs of Eysturoy Island…

Iceland’s Geyser of Strokkur (July 2011)… epitomising the otherworldly, dynamic landscape which inspired the epic Icelandic Sagas. Will today’s epic story-tellers have a similarly dynamic impact on the world of future mythology?

It’s interesting to consider the part which modern story-telling - literary or cinematic fiction - might play in the wider world of future mythology. Bram Stoker’s Dracula and Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, for instance, have both attained the status of iconic gothic tales - pseudo-modern parables - which have perhaps become entangled with “real-world” mythic archetypes such as angels, demons and ghosts. (I mean “real-world” in the sense of being traditional and sincerely believed, whether or not they are in some way “true”.) I certainly suspect that a cursory check of children’s Hallowe’en costumes would reveal an eclectic mix of ancient and modern horrors, rooted in everything from pop culture to the primeval. Similarly, we’ve already seen how the heritage of classic medieval folk heroes such as King Arthur and Robin Hood can be largely attributed to known (albeit obscure) literary works of the 15th century. It wouldn’t surprise me to find that the creations of our more recent popular myth-makers - Tolkien, Stephen King, Philip Pullman, JK Rowling - are similarly elevated to divine or demonic status by future generations, as though leaping off the page and into the societal ether.

This might seem a fanciful claim, given how well recorded all of our lives are nowadays. By contrast, the life of Sir Thomas Malory is almost as opaque and mired in speculation as that of his fabled Arthurian knights. Plenty of wiggle-room there for creative (mis)interpretation! Compare this with authors or film-makers of today, whose daily exploits are splashed over news and social media for all to see. Their fictional creations are surely indisputably documented as such? Maybe, or maybe not… for social media works not only to inform, but to misinform. Today’s society is becoming increasingly susceptible to conspiracy and “alternative truth”, in which it is fashionable and knowing to doubt any form of official narrative. The lure of being in the know can indeed be irresistible, and of course conspiracy theories are themselves self-perpetuating… after all, anyone presenting contrary evidence has either been duped (it is assumed) or is part of the conspiracy. In the light of this, maybe today’s recognised facts - or known fictional worlds - are destined to become tomorrow’s polarising myths?

In terms of the ubiquitous connection with landscape, it’s notable that many of these fictional works are themselves rooted in a definite sense of place. I’ve discussed the association of Arthurian legend with Tintagel and Glastonbury; likewise for Robin Hood and Sherwood Forest. But even entirely fictional universes tend to adopt atmospheric real-world locations when transferred to film; such as New Zealand’s enchanted hinterland for The Lord of the Rings, or the Western Highlands of Scotland for Harry Potter. (Hogwarts was actually located in and around the aforementioned Glen Coe, which incidentally - to join the magical dots - was also a prime filming location for Monty Python and the Holy Grail!)

But returning full circle to Dartmoor, The Ballad of Bellever Tor itself mixes myth with a more contemporary literary reference. This is, of course, The Hound of the Baskervilles, whose origin is the fertile imagination of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Yet, beyond providing a fearsome foil for Sherlock Holmes, the hound is himself a manifestation of a common mythical archetype… one which is surely born of a particular place. For this foe is essentially a landscape personified in beastly form, reflecting the visceral sense of unease and foreboding which is felt in dangerous or threatening environments. And yes, The Hound of the Baskervilles may be fictional, but he is also part of a wider, very real phenomenon. Just ask his modern-day Cornish cousin, The Beast of Bodmin (if you dare!). :-0

Deepest Dartmoor - Haunt of the Hound
Looking across Dartmoor to the magnificent profile of Hound Tor (the rocks on the back left horizon). This tor’s presumed links to the “Hound of the Baskervilles” remain obscure… however, a takeaway van in a nearby car park goes by the name of “Hound of the Basket Meals”!

Granite Planet - Hay Tor “Simulacra”
Reversing the angle from the previous vista (Dartmoor, Oct 2016) reveals the mighty twin blocks of Hay Tor emerging from foreground granite boulders. Hay Tor has noticeable ghosts of its own, being the backdrop to long-abandoned granite quarries and railroads which lend the landscape a poignant reminder of its harsh industrial past. As with more ancient relics, these industrial workings are today being reclaimed by the moor and subsumed back into Nature.

The Beast of Bodmin, and similar manifestations on Dartmoor, Exmoor or further afield, are sometimes collectively known as ABCs… Alien Big Cats. This is usually taken to mean “alien” to the environment in question, rather than of extra-terrestrial origin… but let’s not rule anything out!

The wider field of Cryptozoology makes for a fascinating study, encompassing such famed “mythical” beasts as the Himalayan Yeti (or Abominable Snowman); its North American forest-dwelling relative Sasquatch (or Bigfoot); and of course, Scotland’s iconic Loch Ness Monster. Nessie was once even bestowed with a scientific moniker, Nessiteras rhombopteryx, by respected naturalist Sir Peter Scott.

Parody of a Nessie hoax… Urquhart Castle guards Scotland’s iconic Loch Ness (May 2009).

It was later pointed out that Nessiteras rhombopteryx is an anagram of “Monster hoax by Sir Peter S”… however, since Sir Peter seemed to have genuine intent, and the given name has meaning (Ness marvel with diamond-shaped flipper), I’d counter by saying that coincidences do happen (especially if we search for them). Either way, it’s all grist to the myth’s mill, as it were!

Seekers of these suspiciously-elusive creatures often quote the curious case of the Coelacanth. This prehistoric fish was believed to have been extinct for 66 million years before living specimens were found off Madagascar in 1938, swimming merrily around and apparently not even running a temperature. Evidence from the fossil record clearly needed a course correction!

Some of the Alien Big Cat stories actually require a fairly modest leap of credulity, with their “kernel of truth” (if there is one) perhaps being something as mundane as an escaped zoo animal or an unwanted exotic pet. Nessie and Bigfoot are admittedly more colourful… yet if the Coelacanth exists (so the argument goes), then why not other large beasties which are currently unrecognised by science, or are thought to have died out with the dinosaurs? Is Nessie really a Plesiosaur, for example, “locked in a loch” and stranded in time? If this sounds implausible, consider the enigmatic yet very real Giant Squid, about which so little is known… and when does this morph, in fantasy if not in fact, into the formidable Kraken?

These lines of thought take us back to the inscrutable nature of mystery… for as we ponder the existence of these mythical creatures (or other curious phenomena), each strand of the story both poses a question and leaves it tantalisingly open-ended. And this, ultimately, is why the concept of mystery is important… because it legitimises the unknown, elevating lack of definitive knowledge from a failing into something altogether more thrilling. It is a triumph of imagination over reality, allowing our intuitive hopes or fears to inject some primal adrenaline into our everyday lives.

The geographical domains of Cryptozoology also remind us of the symbiosis which surely exists between myth and landscape. I’ve mentioned that The Hound of the Baskervilles personifies the ominous aura of Dartmoor in beastly form… and the same could be said of many other mythical creatures within their respective natural environments. It is no coincidence that the Yeti inhabits the greatest mountain range on Earth, or the Sasquatch some of its darkest temperate forests. Closer to home, the Loch Ness Monster lurks deep within the UK’s most voluminous trench of fresh water, while the nation’s only deeper lake/loch hides a lesser-known monster of its own. (This is Loch Morar’s Morag, by all accounts a close but shy cousin of the celebrated Nessie.)

In terms of Highland high-jinx, it’s notable that Britain’s second loftiest mountain - Ben Macdui - is the reputed haunt of a “Big Grey Man”, more properly known as Am Fear Liath Mòr. Presumably the isolated eeriness of the Central Cairngorm plateau is more conducive to “tall tales” than the even taller - though far busier - summit of Ben Nevis.

In each case, I suspect a region’s atmosphere builds a reputation… which fuels a myth, which heightens the atmosphere… and so on, such that the growing superstition becomes an almost tangible character within the fabric of the landscape. To draw a further analogy with fiction, it is a similar phenomenon to a horror story craving a spooky location (and vice versa).

The Summit (upper left) and North Face of Ben Nevis, the “Rocky Roof of Britain” (Aug 1999). This scene may be missing Ben Macdui’s “Big Grey Man”, but is terrifying enough as it stands… with plenty of climbing mythos locked up in those epic cliffs!

This is why myths - even fantastic flights of fancy - can tell us so much about the places which they inhabit or describe. They may not provide an accurate historical record (being more akin to a kind of abstract communal memory), but there is no denying the fervour and the heart. If nothing else, they continue a tradition of story-telling which stretches back thousands of years, from humble beginnings around a camp fire, through the genesis of sacred belief systems, to the epic fantasy novels and high-tech film franchises of today.

At a local level, this is also why I seek out books of folk tales or ghost stories whenever I visit a new area (much to my wife’s amusement)… not just for the entertainment, but as a means of absorbing something of the neighbourhood’s mystique. Admittedly there can be an exploitative aspect to this, and some ghoulish accounts stand up better than others; but if approached in the right spirit (as it were), whole new dimensions can be opened up. (My favourite unintentionally-comedic book title in this genre is Haunted Swindon - but then I was born in Swindon, so possibly find it funnier than most!)

Flippancy aside, one of this blog’s central themes has been the idea that a myth’s power is not reliant on literal truth… indeed, to seek truth, in the context of myth, is actually the wrong quest. In part, this is because rational explanation is constrained by the practicalities of proof and persuasion. But beyond this, I believe there is something even more fundamental at play… for when we consider mythology, we are firmly in the realm of allegory and metaphor, of parable and symbolism. Much like Aesop’s fables, or the fairy tales of Hans Christian Andersen and the Brothers Grimm, we are entering a tradition in which a story’s message is paramount. It is this underlying message, artfully told, which ultimately conveys a broader truth about the human condition and our place in the big wide world… or in terms of today’s literary media, our place in the big world wide web!

Athens’ celebrated Parthenon - centrepiece of Athena’s Acropolis - displays a jarring juxtaposition of ancient and modern. (Family archives: Karen Scott & Paul Mann)

The sacred precinct of Delphi - centre of the world, according to Greek Mythology - is cradled by the rocky ramparts of Mount Parnassus. (Photo: Karen Scott)

Reconstruction of the Fables

As well as spawning the “Mother of all Mythologies”, Ancient Greece was home to Aesop (if indeed he existed!) and his fables (which do exist). Meanwhile, Hans Christian Andersen’s “The Little Mermaid” (a Danish fairy tale dating from 1837) is commemorated through evolving styles of sculpture along the Copenhagen waterfront…

The Little Mermaid… Realism meets Surrealism?

Back to Bellever

To bookend this blog - to finish up where I began - I’d like to briefly return to The Ballad of Bellever Tor. It’s not exactly a Sgt. Pepper-style reprise (I’m missing the panache and psychedelic promise), but nonetheless this hopefully lends a certain symmetry to proceedings…

Contrived wordplay aside, it could be said that the narrative behind The Ballad of Bellever Tor takes the form of a typical folk tale… a kind of small-scale tragedy with an inevitably dark conclusion. I’ve suggested above that folk tales often morph into metaphor or parable, with the message more important than the plausibility of the story. In the case of Bellever, the underpinning parable is basically just a salutary lesson, using established tropes to illustrate the futility of cheating justice or escaping destiny… with the moody, atmospheric setting of Dartmoor acting as a natural catalyst.

Before I delve into this too deeply, I should stress that I claim no particular literary merit for the poem (which was, after all, originally conceived as a joke). Instead, what interests me is the way in which familiar myths can be used as a shorthand (some might say cliché) for conveying specific concepts or emotions. Looking back on the ballad now, it’s apparent that I instinctively borrowed a variety of supporting myths from different cultures or ideologies, which have unique qualities of their own yet share common archetypes or easily-recognised themes.

Celebrating a Rich Cultural Heritage - Story-telling traditions within the landscapes of Devon and Cornwall have diverse roots, ranging here from Paganism (Carwynnen Quoit, a.k.a. Giant’s Quoit) to Christianity (Widecombe Church).

Returning to wordplay, the poem’s main narrative arc (if that’s not too grand a label!) hinges on a subtle yet crucial distinction… the transformation of Bellever, as perceived by the protagonist, from a helluva tor to a literal Hell-of-a-tor. To help paint this picture, the verses respectively reference the Grim Reaper (which has various mythical origins), Lucifer (Judeo-Christian), Thor (Norse) and Hades (Greek), plus the aforementioned Hound of the Baskervilles (in some ways, a literary metaphor for the moor itself). It could even be argued that this is all served on a healthy bed of Paganism, with the “tricksy” spirit of Pan luring the hapless prisoner to his inevitable doom!

So actually, the story of the Bellever phantom can be viewed as a kind of micro-myth built on wider traits and traditions - or demonic archetypes - from a variety of sources. There is indeed a vast array of such source material for modern-day story-tellers to draw on, representing the rich legacy of human experience and imagination passed down through the ages. And as mentioned, it’s illuminating to note that many of these ancient legends and epic yarns - despite being crafted by disparate cultural, religious or secular communities - share common visions or values. Perhaps we are not so very different after all!

Of course, since this particular blog focusses on the power of myth in the landscape, I should acknowledge that the landscape of Dartmoor provided the initial inspiration for the ballad. The origins of the poem date back to 2014, a time when I would often join my Dad for walks on the moor and scrambles on its fine granite tors. Bellever Tor, although only occasionally visited, was frequently admired from afar as we drove by en route to a new adventure. As explained in my introduction, this was enough to spawn our jokey catchphrase, Bellever Tor is a helluva tor… which, combined with the moor’s stark reputation and proximity of the prison at Princetown, ultimately coalesced into a pun-packed narrative (of sorts!). And so, with a neat circularity which is by now familiar, the landscape inspired a myth, which itself enhances the mythology of the landscape.

“Pre-Ballad” Dartmoor Explorations, May 2014 - with my father Nigel, seen here scrambling high above Tavy Cleave…

The Freedom of Princetown - a leap of faith, somewhere between tomfoolery and high-jinx… perhaps emulating the “Bellever Phantom”? Black Tor, Dartmoor’s Meavy Valley; April 2017. (Photo: Nigel Mann)

But if The Ballad of Bellever Tor illustrates the power of myth in the landscape (however humbly), what is the power of the ballad itself? Can it really exert any meaningful influence? After all, as a home-grown folk tale, it’s hardly likely to catch on or go viral (if it did, I’d have it tested!). I have no online followers, and the subject matter is decidedly niche. Nobody in years to come is going to tread that tract of moor, feel a weird tingle in their spine, and proclaim, “Beggar me, it’s Bellever Tor… I’d better beware the free-fallin’ phantom!”

Well, the point here is that a story’s impact can still be powerfully felt on a local or personal level… it doesn’t need to be grandiose or all-embracing (or even believed). The truth is, my focus on the poem enabled me to view Bellever through fresh eyes… firstly in 2014, when I drafted most of the verses; and again during the 2021 Covid lockdown, when I re-discovered and expanded the text. This ultimately led me to re-acquaint myself with the actual tor; not just on paper (or computer screen), but in person. Without the ballad, I would never have found the impetus to escape lockdown and make that 100-mile round trip in stormy weather. And without the siren-call of that Bellever photoshoot, the lost confidence of confinement would have continued its stranglehold.

Inevitably, conditions at Bellever didn’t quite play ball; winds whipped the open terrain, while the desired Dartmoor sunset failed to ignite. Fingers were numbed as I fumbled with camera and tripod, self-consciously clad in olde-worlde clobber which I naively hoped would transform my huddled silhouette into the Bellever phantom. Yet none of this mattered… for I was once again exploring the moor with my Dad, turning back the clock to rekindle the indomitable spirit of Camera on the Crags. And that’s worth something, I think. It’s worth a lot.

As it transpired, it’s not only a pris’ner o’ yore that is locked in those rocks… more prosaically, Bellever also claimed my lens cap! And as we scoured the gloaming, our torch-beams devoured by the fading expanse of granite and heather, it occurred to me that perhaps there was some malevolent presence here after all, attempting to ensnare us. We eventually retreated in near-blackness, stumbling and weaving across the moor and through the forest… and although I knew the Bellever phantom was merely a creation, the nervous glances over my shoulder were all too real. It just goes to show that you can’t keep a good myth down! :-0

Bellever Tor “Picture-Poem”… the font, naturally, is “Baskerville Old Face”!
[King James Bible, Job 16:12: "I was at ease, but he hath broken me asunder…"]

Blogger’s Footnote:-

I should credit Tim Sandles’ Legendary Dartmoor website for publishing my initial, 2014 draft of The Ballad of Bellever Tor (which I considered complete until my 2021 revisions for the current blog).

A link to this early version of the ballad, with access to Tim’s wider compilation of Dartmoor legends, can be found here:
https://www.legendarydartmoor.co.uk/2016/03/26/bellever_poem/

Quick Disclaimer: I have no affiliations to Legendary Dartmoor, so cannot vouch for specific content… I’m sure you know the usual caveats!

Whatever your muse (Dartmoor legends or otherwise), Happy Questing! ;-)

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