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Where is this chilling and unsettling noise coming from? It hails from the ghosts of a grey mare and seven shameful men out on the Devonshire moors. Why?
If only we knew. The song tells us that an old grey mare took sick and died whilst in the care of these local characters. Apparently it was a 'shocking affair', and the seven men had a 'horrid career'. We do have the names, however, of the Devon Seven. We also know who owned the tragic horse. Tom Pearce, Tom Pearce, lend me your grey mare . . . .
A dubious and reluctant Tom Pearce was persuaded to lend to this motley crew his horse as they wanted to go to Widecombe Fair. Yes, you've got it: all along, down along, out along lea. Clearly a lengthy old trek. So here are the names of our hopeful travelers: Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davey, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawke. Oh yes, and of course: Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.
Great names for a good, rollicking folk ballad? Absolutely. How fortunate, for it is almost certain they were real people. This legendary song unflinchingly points the finger of judgement, naming and shaming as it does so. And, thanks to research done by the Widecombe and District Local History Group, most of the characters in the curious cast have names which can be traced to families working or living in the Sticklepath and Spreyton area of mid-Devon in the early part of the nineteenth century.
The History Group also found a sign on the premises of the Tom Cobley Tavern in Spreyton indicating that the men set off from outside the pub to travel to Widecombe in the year of 1802. The pub is a sixteenth century building, and was probably known simply as The Tavern at the time in question.
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| Tom Cobley Tavern, Sprayton |
There were more than a few Thomas Cobleys in the Spreyton area back in the day. The most likely for our purposes, in the opinion of the History Group, is the Cobley who died in 1844, aged 82 years. He was a Butsford man and is buried in Spreyton churchyard. But herein lies a problem: he would have been only forty years of age at the time of the trip to Widecombe Fair. Would he really have been known as 'Old' Uncle Tom Cobley? Surely a more likely candidate is his great uncle Thomas. He died in 1794 in Spreyton, and just to add to the mystery nobody knows where his grave is. This would mean of course that the sign conveniently found at the Tavern dating the trip to 1802 is bogus. That figures. It is too accurate, too precise and clear cut for a legend such as this. Further back in time, plus a lost grave, is far more in keeping with the mists of this particular mystery.
The intrepid History Group also found headstones across mid-Devon alloted to various Daveys, Gurneys, Pearces (or Pearses), and Stewers. Brewer is a common enough name in the area, and so is Whiddon or Whitton. And no shortage of Hawkes, by the way.
And so it is fair to assume that a gang of associates, probably livestock farmers or dealers, were up for the trip from Spreyton to Widecombe across the old country roads over the moors. Twelve miles would be the distance. And Tom Pearce was put on the spot. Were these guys his friends, neighbours or a bit of both? It is quite possible that whatever the relationship, the owner of the grey mare was made an offer he couldn't refuse. In other words, he daren't say no. And in handing her over, the poor old horse's awful fate was sealed.
So what can we assume may have caused the death of the mare? Obviously she could well have been exhausted, driven beyond her limits of endurance; thirsty, unrested, underfed and overworked by a bunch of bladdered chumps. But such a death, though terrible in itself, would surely not have created the dark controversy which underpins our famous ballad. Oh, no. It would seem that much more sinister deeds were afoot, out there between Widecombe-on-the-Moor and home. At the very least the song hints at gross maltreatment; further into the pit we could be looking at a form of ancient ritual. Whichever way one looks at it, Tom Pearce's cherished old mare was sacrificed out on the moors.
The wassailing folk custom called 'Mari Lwyd', Welsh in origin and commonly practised from two hundred years ago to the present day in the West Country, entails the use of a hobby-horse made from a horse's skull mounted on a pole. A ghostly white sheet covers the stick and anyone holding it. The wassailers knock on people's doors and demand entry, therein to receive food and drink. It's regarding as a celebratary ritual these days, lawfully participated in by all who are not stuck on their mobile phones. But it's spooky.
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| A typical Mari Lwyd hobby-horse |
So is the Mari Lwyd a credible scenario for Widecombegate? Frankly, it's doubtful if the rag-tag bunch of Bank Holiday Hooligans would have been able to get their act together for such a task. But the sacrifice of a horse, particularly in the West country, is a form of ritualistic paganism that goes way, way back in time. And sadly, it probably goes on still.
There is a famous illustration (see top of blog), and many versions of it, commonly associated with this whole affair. Ostensibly comic in intent, it depicts all the named men sitting on Pearce's mare at the same time. The implication is that these lazy dunderheads all clambered on the mare's back and tried to save themselves a long and tiring walk. And the burden, unsurprisingly, was too much to bear.
But these were bawdy times. and bawdy jokes abounded across all walks of society. Look again at the drawing and you will see the men are inevitably sitting rather too snugly together. What is our artist hinting at here? And what are we supposed to to say to a suggestion (albeit an illustrated one) that all these men rode the horse? Double-entendre or what?
Something unseemly undid Tom Pearce's mare, and one of the gang, or more than one, snitched to someone back at base. There could have been no song written in this way without inside information. And with the law not getting involved, it was down to a balladeer to seek redress for the poor horse and its owner by telling it how it was. Without, exactly, telling it how it really was.
The great thing about folk music, with its great tradition of social conscience, is that it makes us think. In this case, it might be better just to enjoy the song.
