Legend Land, Vol. 2: Being a Collection of Some of the Old Tales Told in Those Western Parts of Britain Served by the Great Western Railway

In Short

Compiled as a series of travel guides for the Great Western Railway in 1922, this collection maps the legends of Devon and Cornwall onto the physical geography of the West Country. From the sunken, mythic kingdom of Lyonesse to the spectral hounds that roam the Dartmoor wastes, the narratives capture the oral traditions of a rugged, ancient landscape. By linking these tales to specific railway stops and local landmarks, the book serves as both a whimsical folkloric study and a nostalgic invitation for the reader to explore the wilder edges of the British Isles.

The Story

The narratives are anchored in the harsh, untamed beauty of the Devon and Cornish moors, where the boundary between the human and the demonic remains perpetually thin. The arc of these stories begins with the creation of sacred space, such as the church on Brent Tor that the Devil repeatedly steals and relocates to the hilltop, only to be thwarted by St. Michael. This sets a tone of eternal struggle between pious intent and malevolent interference. As the collection moves westward, the tales shift from structural piety to the darker, more personal consequences of human pride and ambition.

We encounter the weaver of Dean Combe, whose obsession with industry follows him into the afterlife, forcing him to continue his labor in a ghostly loop until a priest binds him into the form of a black hound, consigned to a pool beneath a waterfall. Similarly, the "Parson and the Clerk" serves as a cautionary tale of greed and violent temper; their frustration with the slow death of a bishop—and their subsequent reliance on a demonic guide—ends in their literal petrifaction on the coast of Dawlish.

The collection then bridges the gap between folklore and heroism through the figure of Sir Francis Drake, who is portrayed not just as an admiral, but as a man in league with a helpful demon who transmutes wood shavings into gunboats to fend off the Spanish Armada. This duality of the demonic—as both a threat to be exorcised and a force to be harnessed—continues with the "Samson of Tavistock," Ordulph, whose immense strength allows him to break city gates, yet whose legacy is eventually reconciled with the church.

The tone grows more melancholic as the geography reaches the sea. The legend of Lyonesse describes a fertile civilization swallowed by the ocean, a cataclysm that leaves only the Scilly Islands as a reminder of what was lost. The supernatural persists in the domestic, evidenced by a villager stumbling upon a piskie funeral in Lelant, where the small folk weep for their dead queen. The final arc of the collection moves toward ritual and song. In Padstow, the ancient May Day traditions—complete with the "Hobby Horse" and lyrics about French invaders—provide a bridge to the present day. The book concludes by grounding its fantastic history in the tangible, whether through the stained glass of St. Neot’s church or the enduring, eerie moaning of the Hooting Carn, ensuring that even as the reader departs, the landscape remains permanently imbued with the echoes of these old, restless spirits.

How It Unfolds

The foundational struggle The collection opens with the church at Brent Tor, establishing a recurring theme where the landscape itself—rugged and isolated—acts as a battleground between the Devil and the faithful. The villagers' persistence in building on the heights mirrors the tenacity of those who inhabit these wild, moorland regions.

The moral reckoning The narrative progresses toward stories of human failing, such as the weaver who cannot abandon his loom and the parson who loses his way in the rain. These tales emphasize that the spirit world often demands a penance, whether through transformation into a hound or being frozen into sea-stack rock formations.

The intersection of history and magic Legends of Drake and the giant Ordulph show how the folk mind elevates historical figures into the realm of the mythic. These accounts suggest that greatness is often tied to hidden, otherworldly pacts or divine, superhuman traits that transcend ordinary human experience.

The vanishing of the world The final movement touches on the fragility of human existence, symbolized by the drowning of Lyonesse and the quiet, hidden rituals of the piskies. The book concludes with the enduring, rhythmic traditions of the Padstow May Day songs, suggesting that while empires and lands may vanish, the culture of the people persists through song and ceremony.

The People

The figures in these tales are rarely static; they are defined by their appetites and their ultimate concessions to a higher power. Knowles the weaver is a man consumed by his own industry, his desire for perfection in his craft becoming a curse that traps him in a ghostly, repetitive existence. He represents the danger of being defined entirely by one’s labor.

Parson Dodge emerges as a man of formidable, almost frightening competence. He is the master of the supernatural, the one who can command spirits and lay ghosts to rest, yet he remains a figure of intense dread to his own parishioners. He represents the thin, uncomfortable line between the holy man and the sorcerer.

Ordulph, the Samson of Tavistock, is a study in raw, unchecked physical power. His desire for dominance, expressed through his destruction of the Exeter portcullis, initially threatens his social standing, but he survives because he channels his intensity into patronage of the church.

Finally, the mermaid of Cury serves as a bridge between the mortal and the elemental. She desires the safety of her family, but her interaction with the old man shows how human beings seek to negotiate with nature for practical gain, asking for the power to heal and detect theft. Each of these figures, from the weaver to the saintly pigmy St. Neot, demonstrates that in this "Legend Land," no one survives the encounter with the unknown without being fundamentally altered or brought to a state of humble reflection.

In Its Own Voice

"The devil and his wicked works enter largely into them, and there is reason to believe them to be among the oldest tales known to us."

The author sets the stage for the Devon legends, suggesting that the harshness of the moorland environment has preserved tales that predate recorded history.

"I would rather have the devil for a guide than you."

This sharp, impatient remark from the parson to his clerk triggers the series of events that leads to their transformation into the petrified cliffs of Dawlish.

"With a mournful howl that was heard as far as Widdicombe in the Moor, the hound leapt into the pool to begin its hopeless labour."

This sentence captures the final, chilling resignation of the weaver Knowles, whose earthly greed has been transmuted into an eternal, spectral punishment.

What It's Really About

The book functions as an exploration of the "spirit of place." It posits that legends are not mere fabrications, but are instead an atmospheric necessity for a landscape as rugged as Dartmoor or the Cornish coast. The central argument is that the geography of the West Country—its bleak moors, deep gorges, and jagged sea cliffs—has dictated the character of its folklore. The stories ask whether the land shapes the people or if the people’s long memory projects their own anxieties onto the hills. It is a meditation on how human communities establish meaning in isolated places, suggesting that every landmark, from a stone circle to a cathedral, is a physical marker of a story that refuses to be forgotten.

Why Read It Today

Readers who appreciate the intersection of travel writing and local history will find a quiet, persistent charm in these pages. The book is not a high-fantasy epic; rather, it is a collection of fragments that feel like field notes from a world that is slowly disappearing. It is best read as a companion for the curious, capturing the specific, melancholic beauty of the English West.

However, the modern reader should be prepared for the book’s 1922 perspective. The prose is stately and earnest, reflecting a Victorian and Edwardian preoccupation with "Celtic" identity and folklore that may feel quaint or essentialist today. The tone is occasionally patronizing toward the "old country folk" whose superstitions are being recorded, and the pacing is deliberate, slowing down to describe railway connections and station amenities with a precision that might surprise those looking only for monsters and magic. Yet, there is a genuine warmth here. The book captures the feeling of a train journey through a mist-covered landscape, where the past is always just outside the window. It remains a valuable, modest record of how we once told the story of the land, preserving not just the myths, but the routes by which we traveled to find them.