...The Grey Hangman’s Stone
A view across Charnwood Forest - the original photograpgh used to illustrate Heywwod’s article back in 1933
WHEN all good people are abed, ‘tis the poachers’ hour, and with net and snare he works they countryside where he knows every twist and every fold.
With eye trained to the dimmest light and ear well tuned to the veriest crackle, he is amply prepared for the immemorial battle of wits with the keepers, a contest which he has ever regarded with a sporting zest.
TIME was when men in the Chace of Charnwood, living primitive lives, neglected no means, lawful or otherwise, of adding to their meagre wage and supplementing their daily rations.
Before the enclosures act was passed in the middle of the eighteenth century, they were allowed certain privileges of which they took full advantage.
Some would gather fern which they would burn to
make ash balls. Others would graze a horse or maybe a few asses on the common, land, and would hawk small quantities of coal to the nearest town, while the making of besoms is a forest industry which has not been entirely absorbed by the greedy hand of machinery.
But there is one pastime which has ever made a strong appeal to the hardy and adventurous forester. It was a dangerous game in those early days, indeed often a matter of life and
death, yet many would spend a fair portion of the night in a stimulating effort to outwit the rangers and enjoy some of the spoils of the forest to which they were not legitimately entitled.
A hazardous challenge which has ever been resolutely accepted throughout the ages in spite of dire penalties. The prizes to be gained were not negligible as legend relates.
“It happened but once in the tide of time, And but once since the conqueror came,
“That all Shepeshed men were in bed at ten,
“And all Whitwyk wights the same.
“There were fat red deer in old Bardon Park.
“Fat hogs on the great Ives Head.
“Fat goats in crowds on the grey Lubs clouds.
“Fat sheep in the forest shed.
“There were coneys in store upon Warren Hill,
“And hares upon Long Cliff dell;
“And a pheasant whirred if a foot was stirred
“In the haw of Holy Well.
“There were trout in shoals in the Charley Brook,
“And pike in the Abbot’s Lake
“And herons in flocks under Whityck rocks,
“Their nightly rest would take.
“All these were the cause why the Shepeshed men
“And the Whitwyk wights the same,
“Never slumbered when the clock told ten,
“But watched for the sylvan game.”
John of Oxley was a poacher bred and born, infinitely skilled and resourceful, and the family cupboard was ever plentifully filled with good things.
One night his wife impatiently awaited the homecoming of her good man in their old stone cottage a bare mile from the village of Shepeshed.
Here was a prime supper of stewed hare, it for King Henry himself, spoiling in the saucepan on the kitchen’s fire. The lot of a woman was a hard one thought this dutiful wife as she looked at the stewpot and out of the thnall window for any sign of the return of her lord and master.
Gradually darkness set in, the children were put to bed, and as hour succeeded hour the unhappy woman forgot her grievance and became profoundly anxious as her husband failed to put in an appearance.
The night passed by the next day and yet another night, still John of Oxley did not return, and his wife began to fear that he had been caught redhanded in the act of poaching by the rangers of the forest; and she thought ruefully that little mercy could be expected for ‘twas an offence that was punishable with the utmost severity of the law.
Another day and night went by, and still she waited for tidings.
John of Oxley was sorely distressed. He was returning home after a nightly expedition with empty pockets. This was a humiliating thought to any man well versed in the noble -art of poaching.
His luck was out, he had tried Timber Wood and Cats Hill, but the rabbits and hares laughed at his snares; moreover he had narrowly avoided an encounter with that bold and dreadful giant Nat the Ranger, the leader of a corps of forest officials whom he had always been cunning or fortunate enough to outwit. Best pack up and make for home without any further delay, ere worse befall him.
A wise decision, John of Oxley, would thou had’st abided by it.
Alas as he glanced around, he espied a herd of deer resting beneath a massive oak.
The temptation was too great, he dearly loved ven’son, which he knew was uncommon good to eat.
Cautiously he scanned the neighbourhood in the bright moonlight, but not a sign was there of Nat the Ranger, or any of his stout minions.
Amply recompensed for his early failures, he tied the legs of his victim and hoisted it over his shoulder, and as he toiled o’er Lubcloud brow he hastened his steps as he thought of the warm, and comfortable kitchen and the goodly spread awaiting him at home.
But that hart was terribly heavy and as John of Oxley neared the tall stone standing out grim and lone on the Lubcloud rise, the sweat was pouring off his forehead, and a short rest became an urgent necessity.
“With his back to the stone he rested his load,
“And he chuckled with glee to think
“That the rest of the way on the downhill lay
“And his wife would have spiced the strong drink.
“A swineherd was passing o’er Great Ives Head,
“When he noticed a motionless man;
“He shouted in vain no reply could he gain –
“So down to the grey stone he ran.
“All was clear – there was Oxley on one side the stone,
“On the other the down hanging deer;
“The burden had slipped, and his neck it had nipped;
“He was hanged by his prize – -an was clear.
“The gallows still stands upon Shepeshed high lands,
“As a mark for the poacher to own,
“How the wicked will get within their own net;
“And ‘tis still called the grey hangman’s stone.”