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The 'Myths & Legends of Dartmoor' is a personal project about folklore, community and my personal experience with nature and walks with my dad in Devon, specifically Dartmoor. Dartmoor is alive with rumors of spectral hounds that roam the misty hills, ancient stone circles that hum with forgotten rites, and mysterious figures like the Dartmoor Pixies and the legendary Beast of Dartmoor. These stories have shaped my own connection to the land, passed down from my father’s voice to mine, grounding me in a history that is both vast and deeply personal.
Bowerman's Nose
Deep in Dartmoor’s misty wilds stands Bowerman’s Nose, a towering stone figure, but once a man. Bowerman the Hunter was brave, hunting with his fierce hounds, mocking the witches who haunted the moor. One cold, shadowed night, Bowerman chased a hare into the witches dark gathering. Enraged, the witches plotted cruel revenge. Levera, a witch who could become a hare, led Bowerman and his dogs on a nightmare chase across the fog shrouded moor, draining their strength. At the darkest hour, the witches trapped them, chanting a terrible spell that turned Bowerman and his pack into stone, frozen in agony, forever guarding the moor. Locals say on moonless nights, the sound of distant, ghostly howls drifts through the fog. Enraged, the people drove the witches away, who fled across the Bristol Channel to Wales. But their curse lingers in the cold, silent stones a warning that some hunts never end.
Tar Barrels
Each year on the 5th of November, beneath the cloak of night, Ottery St Mary awakens to an ancient, fiery ritual. Just off the edge of the moors, brave barrel rollers bear blazing tar-soaked barrels, weaving through the winding streets as flames leap and smoke swirls like spirits summoned from another realm. The air hums with mystery, the spectacle a bridge between past and present. The origins of this ritual lie hidden in the shadows of time. Some people believe that the Ottery St Mary Tar Barrels tradition has pagan roots, others suggest it's a celebration of the defeat of the Gunpowder Plotters. Through flame and smoke, the community sought protection, renewal, and the blessing of unseen forces. Passed down through countless generations, the Tar Barrels are more than tradition, they are a living spell, a dance of light and shadow that carries the soul of Ottery St Mary, echoing with the whispers of ancient magic and timeless spirit.
WISTMAN'S WOODS
Nestled on the eastern slopes of the West Dart lies Wistman’s Wood, a tangled grove of twisted dwarf oaks, mossy boulders, and creeping lichens. This ancient woodland, heavy with the scent of earth and age, has long been feared and revered. Legends speak of Druids, ghosts, the Devil, and dark spirits haunting its shadows some from before written history. Locals warn never to enter after sunset, when the wood’s sinister creatures roam, hunting lost souls. Known as “the most haunted place on Dartmoor,” every crevice is said to writhe with venomous adders. The dreaded ‘Wisht Hounds’ black dogs with blood-red eyes prowl here, led by the Devil or the ancient spirit ‘Old Crockern.’ The massive ‘Druid’s Stone’ stands silent, while ghostly monks in white robes have been seen on the nearby Lych Way, the old path for carrying the dead. Even the small oaks seem touched by the supernatural some say they bear no acorns, yet carrying one wards off rheumatism. At night, the mournful cries of ‘Jumbo,’ a ghostly terrier, echo through the valley.
KITTY JAY'S GRAVE
At a lonely crossroads on Dartmoor lies a small grassy mound marked by worn stones Kitty Jay’s grave. Once a kitchenmaid raised in hardship, she was cast out when she bore a child out of wedlock. Despair drove her to take her own life. Denied a place in sacred ground, she was buried on the boundary between Manaton and Widecombe parishes a place believed to trap restless souls. This land, once sacred to Druids, still hums with ancient magic. Odd things started to happen around her grave. It’s said that a figure in a black hooded cloak could often be seen kneeling at her graveside under a moonlit sky. Several explanations have been put forward as to who the person might have been, one of which was supposed to have been the soul of the farmer’s son who was sent to look after the grave of his victim and unborn child. For years, the grave lay forgotten until mysterious wildflowers began to bloom: ivy, holly, foxgloves, heather. Locals whisper that it is the Druids themselves who lay these flowers, guardians of Kitty Jay’s restless spirit. No one knows who tends this lonely grave beneath the cold, brooding moorland sky. The secret is lost to time, like Kitty Jay forever caught between worlds, watched over by unseen hands and ancient rites.
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