The Shrinking of Week Down

Anyone who’s lived on the island for an any period of time will be familiar with the idea of landslips, as cliffs shear off and slip down to the shore line. But have you ever heard of a hill sinking?

From St Catherine’s Down, you can look up the coast westwards, towards Blackgang Chine, or out seawards, over Chale Bay, as described in Richard Warner’s Collections for the history of Hampshire, and the bishopric of Winchester, 1795, p.127:

Chale Bay, which opens from the most southern point of the island, westward from the shore called Underway, is about three miles in extent, and has, at low water, a fine broad beach, separated from the high country above, by a continued range of perpendicular cliffs, extremely dangerous to ships. The way down to the strand, at Black Gang, is very awful; the descent being through an immense gully, amongst vast masses of broken ground, and disjointed rocks, the ruins of the land above. In an arched excavation at the bottom, under the projecting rock, from whence water is continually dripping, there issues a spring, strongly impregnated with copperas. The surrounding scene, from this depth, is truly majestic.

Some years ago it was discovered, that the sand under the cliffs was mixed with gold dust: this, for a while, engaged the country people to wash it in bowls and pans, as is practised in Africa, and South America; but, from a number of dollars occasionally found there, it appears likely that both were the contents of some Spanish ship, wrecked in this dangerous bay, and, in stormy weather, thrown up by the violence of the waves.

The tale of the gold, down there on the beach, perhaps provided some inspiration for Abraham Elder’s tale of “John Cann” and Puckaster Cove. But that is another story, to be told elsewhere.

But what if you look eastwards? Back in the day, a remarkable tale was told of Week Down, between Whitwell and Ventnor, between St Catherine’s and Shanklin, on the Isle of Wight.

In Sir Richard Worsley’s The History of the Isle of Wight, of 1781, p247-8, (which also appears verbatim in volume I of Richard Warner’s Collections for the history of Hampshire, and the bishopric of Winchester, 1795, p.127), a view from St Catherine’s Down, where de Godeton’s Pepperpot stands, is described:

Looking eastward, from the elevated spot where the tower stands, two other hills are to be seen: the nearest, which is about three miles distant, is called Week down, over which, about a mile and a half farther, appears that called Shanklin down. Concerning these downs, a singular circumstance is remarked by the inhabitants of Chale, that may be mentioned for the gratification of those who are curious in natural enquiries, as the evidence of it seems unobjectionable. Shanklin down may now be guessed to stand about an hundred feet higher than the summit of Week down; yet old persons still living affirm that within their remembrance, Shanklin down was barely visible from St. Catharine’s: they declare moreover, that in their youth, old men have told them, they knew the time when Shanklin down could not be seen from Chale down, but only from the top of the Beacon; the old post of which stands near the chapel. This testimony, if allowed, argues either a sinking of the intermediate down, or a rising of one of the other hills; the causes of which are left for philosophical investigation.

According to John Hassell, in the first part of his two volume Tour of the Isle of Wight, 1790, p192-3, it seems that the change is even more pronounced than Richard Worsley suggested, even if he does not actually believe the legend:

Stories are told by the inhabitants of the parish of Chale of the sinking of Week down, which lies about three miles off, in the intermediate way between St. Catherine’s and Shanklin down. They say, that formerly Shanklin down, through the interference of Week down, could only be seen from St. Catherine’s; whereas now it is visible from Chale down; consequently either Week down must have sunk considerably, or Shanklin down must have increased its altitude. And some of the old people tell you that this has partly happened within their own own remembrance. So wonderful are the operations of Nature, that it is not for man to say, “It cannot be;” but this is an event so far out of her usual course, that I own I could not readily give credit to it.

In passing, Hassell also describes the unused light house on top of St Catherine’s down:

On the top of St. Catherine’s is a light house, and a beacon, neither of which are now used. The tower serves, in the day time, for an excellent landmark; it being near eight hundred feet above the level of the sea at low water. A small part of the chapel is remaining; it is in form an octagon, and by some called the hermitage, from - the circumstance of a priest’s having formerly immured himself in it from the world.

The light house, which to this day still acts as a seamark, is commonly referred to as “The Pepperpot”. As you might imagine, there is a story to be told about that, too. But again, that is a tale to be told elsewhere.

On descending from the St Catherine’s Down, Hassell’s attention was grabbed by a rather amusing scene:

When we descended the hill [St Catherine’s Down, going towards Niton], an odd circumstance attracted our notice, which though trivial in itself, we mention, as it may appear as singular to our readers as it did to us. It being bar veil time, a cheerfulness and jollity seemed to prevail at a farm-house we passed at the bottom of the hill, which did not extend to the whole of the inhabitants; for we observed that a fine game cock and his feathered mate walked about in a melancholy mood. Instead of “proudly strutting before his dame to the stack, or the barn door,” as the cock described by Milton did, poor Chanticleer went slowly on, with a large piece of flat stick fastened to his breast, followed by his solitary companion, dame Partlet, who had a clog tied to her leg, of the same kind as those fixed on the legs of horses, though not so large. And this was done we found to prevent their entering the fields, and committing depredations on the newly reaped corn. We soon after saw several others hampered nearly in the same manner.— A sight at once so droll and so novel, afforded us no little entertainment.

From St. Catherine’s we crossed the common fields to Niton, which is frequently termed Crab Niton, from the great number of crabs found on that coast. The want of a good road to this village makes the visiting it very inconvenient to travellers.

He also remarked on a scene further back up the coast that he apparently would not have believed had he not seen it for himself (p206):

There are many things in Nature which not only appear incomprehensible to a careful observer, but which cannot always be accounted for by the naturalist. Of this we met with an instance here. We could not help surveying, with a wonder bordering on astonishment, the sheep that had got over the edges of the craggy precipices, from the downs they grazed on, and lay in the hollows of the rocks, in order to shelter themselves from the heat;- we even observed their bleating young ones carefully to descend, and reach their dams in safety.- How, thus fearless of danger, they leave the plains, and venture on these hazardous de clivities, where the least false step must be attended with destruction, is, we believe, beyond the comprehension of the most sagacious naturalist.— So extraordinary did it appear to us, that nothing but ocular demonstration could have convinced us of the truth of it.- The account received from a peasant, had we not seen their situation, would have met with but little credit from us.

Hassell also relates, at pp207-8, a curious tale regarding the local atmospheric conditions out in the bay compared to the shoreline:

When we sat out from Knowle a storm seemed to be pending in the horizon; and by the time we had reached St. Lawrence we heard several claps of thunder. As every incident which tended to produce picturesque effects instantly attracted our attention, we cast our eyes towards the sea, in order to observe whether any alteration had taken place on its smooth surface; when, to our great surprise, we plainly perceived a vessel, within eight miles of the shore, labouring under the effects of the storm, and apparently in the greatest distress. And what was extremely striking was, that though the sea where the vessel happened to be, rolled (as it is commonly termed,) mountains high, yet not a breath of that air, which was there so tempestuous, ruffled the water on the beach beneath us.- An operation of Nature that had never before fallen under our inspection; and we greatly regretted not having with us some ingenious painter, in the marine line, to take an exact representation of it.

A light, rendered more bright by the contrast, had spread itself round the electric cloud, which was thus venting its rage upon the helpless ship, and rendered the scene more gloomy. By a glass, we could perceive that she laboured much under the violence of the storm, and every wave came full fraught with danger. For near an hour did the tempest permit us to behold its raging at a distance; but at length a brisk wind springing up, it made its way towards us, and we should have shared in its “pitiless peltings,” had we not retired to a neighbouring cottage, where we continued til it had passed on.

From a similar spot, tales were often told of seeing mackerel down in the bay around Chale.

A few years later in The history of the Isle of Wight; military, ecclesiastical, civil, & natural, 1795, pp180-5, Richard Warner also remarks on the legend of the sinking of Week Down, as well as being supportive of the idea that some of the downs are rising, rather than others sinking:

A late amiable naturalist, speaking of a range of chalk downs, in the upper part of Hampshire, resembling those of the island, has the following observation: “perhaps I may be singular in my opinion, and not so happy as to convey to you the same idea; but I never contemplate these mountains, without thinking I perceive something analogous to growth, in their gentle swellings, and smooth fungus like protuberances, their fluted sides, and regular hollows and slopes, that carry at once the air of vegetative dilatation and expansion.” [White's Nat. Hist. Selborne, p. 163.] The idea is novel and ingenious, and seems to be founded in truth, from certain appearances of gradual enlargement which the Isle of Wight hills have exhibited.

He describes the changing relationship between Week Down and Shanklin Down as follows:

It is a well-known fact, that, about half a century since, Shanklin down, which (lands in the South-Eastern part of the island, was not to be discerned, from St. Catherine’s, owing to the intervention of Week down, whose magnitude and elevation completely screened it from the eye. A gradual, but imperceptible expansion, however, of Shanklin down, has at length reared it to a greater bulk, and a greater height, (by at least one hundred feet) than that of its formerly invidious neighbour.

As to the sinking of Week Down, he favours a contrary explanation:

It seems sufficiently clear, that this difference in the appearance of the two downs must have arisen rather from the growth of Shanklin, than the sinking of Week; since the latter, and all the surrounding downs, bear the same relative proportion to each other they ever did, which could not be the case, had any change taken place in its elevation or magnitude.

As well as their changing heights, anyone wandering across the downs might also encounter other unusual sights:

These downs exhibit a number of those circular marks on the grass, which Philosophy, unable herself to account satisfactorily for the phenomenon, in compliance with vulgar superstition, is content to call by the name of fairy rings:

“Where
At fall of eve the fairy people throng,
In various game and revelry to pass
The summer night, as village stories tell.”

These appearances are generally circular, sometimes oval, and from two to twenty feet in diameter. They may easily be discovered by the rankness of the grass, which forms the ring, and the number of fungi or mushrooms that cover it. Various, have been the conjectures relative to the cause of this phenomenon, and none perhaps more plausible than that of Doctor Darwin, who accounts for it in the following manner:

“The numerous flames of lightning which occur every summer, are, I believe, generally discharged on the earth, and but seldom, if ever, from one cloud to another. Moist trees are the most frequent conductors of these flames of lightning, and I am informed by purchasers of wood, that innumerable trees are thus cracked and injured. At other times larger parts or prominences of clouds, gradually sinking as they move along, are discharged on the moister parts of grassy plains. Now this knob or corner of a cloud, in being attracted by the earth, will become nearly cylindrical, as loose wool would do when drawn out into a thread, and will strike the earth with a stream of electricity perhaps two or ten yards in diameter. Now as a stream of electricity displaces the air it passes through, it is plain no part of the grass can be burnt by it, but just the external ring of this cylinder, where the grass can have access to the air, since without air nothing can be calcined. This earth, after having been so calcined, becomes a richer soil, and either fungusses or a bluer grass for many-years mark the place. That lightning displaces the air in its passage, is evinced by the loud crack that succeeds it, which is owing to the sides of the aerial vacuum clapping together when the lightning is withdrawn. That nothing will calcine without air is now well understood from the acids produced in the burning of phlogistic substances; and may be agreeably seen by suspending a paper on an iron prong, and putting it into the centre of the blaze of an iron furnace; it may be held there some feconds, and may be again withdrawn without being burnt, if it be passed quickly into the flame, and out again through the external part of it, which is in contact with the air. I know,” adds the Doctor, “some circles of many yards diameter, of this kind, near Foremark in Derbyshire, which annually produce large white fungusses, and stronger grass, and have done so, I am informed, above thirty years.” The probability of this hypothesis will perhaps be allowed, when it is recollected that these gramineous circles are generally found upon open and exposed places, and never in immediate contact with trees, or any other free conductors of the electrical fluid.

Once again, we might wonder if Abraham Elder drew on such observations as he framed John Cann’s encounter with the fairies around Puckaster Cove. But there is no doubt that Elder was aware of the Week Down legend, which he describes in one of his tales and legends of the Isle Wight in Bentley’s Miscellany, (Vol. 5, 1837, p535):

…; for soon afterwards, as we were looking towards the island, I observed to the antiquary [Mr Winterblossom],

“That high peak that we see is St. Katherine’s, the highest point of the island, is it not?”

“Yes,” he replied, “St. Katherine’s is at present the highest point of the island.”

“Is at present! Why, you do not mean to say that there ever was a time when its elevation was different?”

“That I know nothing about,” he replied; “but it appears very probable that Shanklin Down will soon overtake it in height.”

“Why, you don’t mean to say that Shanklin Down is growing higher?”

“That, indeed, appears to be the case, or, at any rate, relatively to other heights in the island. The inhabitants of Chale will tell vou that formerly Shanklin Down, from the interference of Week Down, could only be seen from the top of St. Katherine’s, whereas it is now visible from Chale Down, which is much lower; consequently, unless Week Down has sunk lower than it was, Shanklin Down must have risen considerably. Now, if Week Down is sinking, it is very probable that St. Katherine’s is slipping down too; so that, whether Shanklin Down is growing higher or not, it seems very probable that it will in the course of time overlook all the rest of the Isle of Wight.”

“Very curious,” said the hero of the foot-tub [previous storyteller], with a kind of supercilious air. “I suppose the two hills playing at see-saw. — Now we go up, up, up; and now we go down, down, clown. Very curious,—very,” picking his teeth incredulously between the two last words.

“There is no animal,” thought I to myself, “so jealous of another of the same species as your regular story-teller.”

The tale appears to have still been in currency several years later, as Jane Loudon observes in Glimpses of Nature and Interest described during a visit to the Isle of Wight, in 1848, p142:

“St. Catherine’s Down,” continued Mr. Merton, “is about nine hundred feet above the level of the sea, and is the highest part of the island.”

“Yes, but it is lower now than it used to be,” said the driver. “They say it is not above eight hundred feet high now in most parts, and that it is gradually sinking.”

In 2023, Ordnance Survey Maps gave the height of St Catherines/Niton Down as about 220m above sea level, with Week Down at 211m, and Shanklin Down at 235m.

In the second volume of A journey from London to the Isle of Wight, published in 1801, and which also includes an image of the Pepperpot, Thomas Pennant remarks on the Pepperpot before concerning himself with the relative heights of the downs and the legend surrounding them, p186-8

From Niton Down we passed to that of Chale; the cliffs, that here impend over the shore, consist of free-stone, and are of tremendous height. A Christian Pharos was erected above these terrible precipices, in form of a chapel, dedicated to St. Catherine, in 1323, by Walter lord of the manor of Godyton in this neighbourhood, who assigned certain rents for a chaunting priest to sing mass, and also to provide light in the Tower for the safety of navigators. At the Dissolution, the prayers of the priest, and the more efficacious security derived from the light-house, were involved in one common ruin. Neither of them were ever restored; yet the Tower, still called St. Catherine’s Tower, continues to serve as a guide to mariners by day. It was thought of such importance, of late years, that it has been thoroughly repaired, and, in clearing away the foundation of the chapel, the form was discovered, and the floor of the little cell of the pious priest laid open to view.

This chapel stood seven hundred and fifty feet above high-water-mark, and commanded a most extensive view; its outside was octangular, its inside square, the top pyramidal. In the two first respects it has the form of the famous Roman Pharos at Dover; but, the finishing of the last being lost, we can pursue the comparison no further.

Divines, who seek for the completion of prophecies, may have a more comfortable and authentic proof, from the recent appearance of Shanklin Down, from the Tower of St Catherine. Within memory of man, another, called Week Down, interfered so far as to render the former scarcely visible from the Tower; but, at present, Shanklin Down appears from that ancient structure a hundred feet higher than that of Week: so that, in this instance at least, “every valley shall be exalted, and every mountain shall be made low.” I well remember the infinite satisfaction I gave to a truly learned and pious Divine on this subject, by relating to him, that the later measures of the height of our boasted Snowdon made it about a hundred and fifty feet lower than it was in the preceding century.

We might wonder about whether the tale of Week Down ever made it to the ears of the men who performed the first of the national surveys, and who chose Dunnose point as a base point for surveying Britain at the end of the 18th century and start of the 19th century. That activity, quite literally, helped shaped Britain. But would they have been so keen to use a hill whose height might be changing as a cornerstone of their triangulation grid? How might they have woven that story into their interpretation of why a pendulum bob hung at a slant as they performed their survey?