Godshill Tall Tale

If you’re ever minded to descend into the archives in search of Isle of Wight folklore, you’ll almost certainly meet Abraham Elder’s “Tales and Legends of the Isle of Wight” along the way. This early 19th century roadtrip featuring the author and his antiquarian sidekick, Mr Winterblossom, sees the two travellers driving around the island, in a horse and trap presumably — this was in the days before steam railways, let alone motor cars — in search of local stories. But many of the tales are relocated tales from elsewhere, and some have the feeling that they are just plain made up. And even the author’s name, Abraham Elder, is a pseudonym: the best guess is the author was Augustus Moreton, MP for Gloucestershire, who stayed regularly with his uncle, in Bembridge. Anyway, this tale is one of Elder’s, taken from Bentley’s Miscellany in 1839 or so, a literary journal edited around that time by a certain Mr Charles Dickens. It’s a version of a legend that you may be familiar with: how Godshill Church came to be situated just where it can still be found today.

The tale begins with the raising of funds to build a new Church, and a search for where to situate it. The perfect spot is found, a flat plain, near a hill, between Whitwell and Arreton, between Rookley and Wroxall, and the Bishop approves. It was a very fine site indeed.

The man who farms the land, a poor franklin, or freeholder, is informed by a monk from the Abbey of the great honour to be bestowed upon him. But rather than praising the Lord, the man protests: “I’m not a pious man, sir” he says, “it would not do to put the Church there,and what would I do, it’s my best bit of land”, and on and on he goes. And it’s true. He’s not a pious man at all. Indeed, he’d rather go out of his way to avoid a confession, rather than to make one, and on the occasions when a certain passing friar would take his confession, well, it tended to be after supper, and after a pint or two. And if penance were called for, well then, the ale might turn a little sour, or be offered no more.

“My neighbours, sir, my neighbours. They are both men of God, sir, both men of God, good men, not a sinner like me. And their land is surely holier than mine, sir. And closer to god, closer to God”, and he pointed up the hill to his neighbour’s land.

But the monk wouldn’t be persuaded, indeed, he couldn’t be persuaded, because the choice had been made: “your unholy nature is no matter”, he said, “when the foundation stone is laid, you will be absolved of your sins”. And even as the man protested that his neighbours were more pious than he, more deserving, the monk walked away without even a promise of compensation.

The stones to begin the construction duly arrived from a local quarry, the site was marked out with pegs and ropes to the satisfaction of the architect, and the day to consecrate the land and lay the foundation stone duly arrived. The architect and the mason arrived good and early, and… where were the stones? Where were the pegs, and the ropes? They looked around. Surely they couldn’t be in the wrong field? They called out to Master Franklin, who’s head could be seen bobbing up and down behind a nearby hedge: “what tricks have you been playing, sir?”. But he stood there, as bold as you like, gesturing to himself, and shrugging, as if to ask: what, me? What do you mean?

Just as the men really were starting to doubt that they had right field, the owner of the land at the top of the hill turned up, and he was in angry mood, a gravely offended mood. “What in the Devil’s name are you doing?” he said. “I’ve heard tell that the Church will take a man’s land for no compensation to put a Church on it, but to start the work without even telling the man, that’s not right. That’s not right at all”, and on and on he went.

Now, the architect had no idea what Franklin’s neighbour was talking about. “What am I talking about? What am I talking about? That’s what I’m talking about…”, and he pointed up the hill; and then he started to drag them up the slope, “come on. come on’…. Well, they hadn’t gone far when they saw the stone, and the pegs, and the ropes, laid out exactly as they had been before; only this time, on top of the hill.

Well, they immediately set to, and with the other other masons and builders who had by now started to arrive and follow the commotion, they took everything back down the hill, and put it back how it was. Just in time for the Bishop and his retinue to arrive, the Bishop, seated, royally, looking as princely as he could, given that he was sitting on a donkey.

But rather than stopping at the appointed place, the donkey resolutely walked straight past the building site, indeed, it quickened its pace, if anything, and started to make its way up the hill. The assembled monks, who had been chanting psalms and looking heavenwards to prepare that place for the solemn ritual about to take place, broke off and chased after the Bishop and his wayward donkey. Eventually they caught up with him, half way up the hill, and led them both back down.

The Bishop was by now not in the best of moods, but he was there to do God’s work, and do it he would, and so he got off the donkey, and laid the foundation stone, placing under it a coin and some masonic tools. And then he absolved all the sins of the franklin in exchange for the land and set off back for the Abbey.

As the party headed away, the conversation was dominated by the strange story of how the stones had somehow moved to the top of hill the previous night. If they’d been placed on top of the hill and rolled down, well, that would have been weird, but it sort of makes sense. Things are always rolling down hills, but not usually uphill.

Or perhaps it was a miracle. Now, a certain sort of a churchman really likes the idea of a miracle, and the pilgrim benefits that accrue, but the majority thought it unlikely to be a miracle. There was surely another explanation?

Well, then, a joke, perhaps, a prank? But who would do such a thing? Not the pious men of the island, not men who might face excommunication and eternal damnation for thwarting the will of God and the placing of his Church.

So talk turned again to the possibility of the miracle, and one of the party feverishly pointed out how the donkey had also made its way past the original site, and up the hill, and how that too was surely a sign, was surely more evidence that a miracle had occurred?

Now, the Bishop himself wasn’t convinced by this. Not least because the Bishop and the donkey had previous form. And so the Bishop suggested that one of the monks go back and tell two of the workmen that they should keep watch over the stones that night, and then after they reported back in the morning, they could discuss the matter further. And so it was done.

The next day, a messenger arrived at the Abbey with the strangest of news: he’d found the two watchmen lying helpless on the ground at the foot of the hill, with sore heads and bloodshot eyes, for all the world looking as if they’d had a troubled night, and they had told the most marvellous tale: a tale of how the stones, the stones that had been at the foot of the hill, including the foundation stone, had all miraculously been transported back up the hill again. And the site at the bottom of the hill was all repaired so as you woouldn’t know that the foundation stone had been laid there the day before at all.

Well, the two watchmen were summoned, and askd to explain themselves and they told of how at first the little stones, had started to jiggle, and almost jump, and then start to roll and bounce their way up the hill. And one of the stones had bumped and jumped and clattered straight into tone of the men’s shins - and at this point, he showed a fresh bruise on his leg. And then the pegs and the ropes rolled themselves up, and up the hill, and then the bigger stones, well, it was as if they needed a few attempts to lift themselves and start rolling but they did it. And one stone, well, it had an odd shape, with a jagged bit, and as it rolled it kept getting stuck. And it was so sad to see it struggling, that the men thought, should they show it some charity and help it out. And so they did, they gave it a hefty push to help get it out of a rut and then it seemed to gain momentum and it rolled away and it managed to make it’s way the rest of the way up the hill, all by itself. And as the Bishop interrogated the men, well: their stories barely had a hair’s breadth of a difference between them.

The Bishop looked on in wonder, and called for the whole party to return to the site so he could see this for himself. And so the donkey was saddled, and they set off once again. Getting to the top of the hill, the pegs marked out the Church as exactly as they’d been placed before, and even the foundation stone was where you’d expect. At least, if you expected to find it marking out a church built on top of the hill.

The final proof would surely be if the coin and the mason’s tools were to be found under the foundation stone. And so it was lifted, and there, there beneath the stone, was: a miracle. A relic. A holy relic. A thumbnail. And the monks began to chant and sing, and praise the holy lord and the masses that were said that day, and the processions they made, well, you’d think it was a relic of the Holy Lord Jesus himself. And perhaps it was.

By now, it was obvious that God’s work was afoot, and that the top of the hill was surely the right place for the Church. And so another consecration ceremony was held, but this time on the top of the hill. And there the Church was built; and there it still stands today.

And at the bottom of the hill, what of the franklin who lived there? Well, his mortal sins had been absolved the first time around, and he continued to work that land till the day he died. And if either of the two watchmen from that earlier night were to ever pass by his way, well, he’d invite them in and they’d share an ale or two and they’d retell the tale of what happened on that miraculous night, just as I’ve told you, and as you can tell others.

And that is the end of the story.