08-06-2021, 10:32 PM
There was a tune I recalled from my school-days called 'Widecombe Fair' (pronounced wid-ee-comb) and too-long ago,
I looked-up the lyrics of the Devon folk song. I'm not from that area of England, but the words in the verse -names of certain
men and always in order, were supposedly people going to the fair in the little village on Dartmoor and that list has always
stuck with me.
"Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawke, Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all."
But there was one name that would never appear in that list of Widecombe residents, and that was Jan Reynolds.
By all accounts, Reynolds was a bad man and someone who the more fairer residents of Widecombe in the Moor knew to
steer clear of.
Known for his heavy bouts of drinking, womanising and gambling, the rough young tin miner found that his wild lifestyle was
catching up with him and to solve the problem of being always short of money to sustain his behaviour, he made a pact with
the Devil.
For the price of his soul, Jan Reynolds acquired a pot of gold and with his debts paid, he continued to frolic in his merriment.
The years passed by and the little hamlet continued to be a playground for the rowdy roughneck. But accounts always need
to be settled and when it comes to the King of Hell, nobody gets a pass.
One Sunday morning, those of Widecombe who prefer to not listen to the threats of damnation from the pulpit, often took to
visiting the little tavern called The Tavistock Inn. Far enough away from the church, the local men could sate their thirsts and
and chew the cud without a Priest clucking indignantly at their conduct.
But this particular warm Sunday, The Tavistock Inn would receive a new guest to try their ale.
The sound of galloping grew louder to those idling near the doorway and seeking an answer to who would be hurriedly visiting
their quiet little village, some of the men looked out into the morning sunlight. The horse was huge and the colour of midnight
and with sparks spitting from its hooves, the wide-eyed steed was brought to a halt by its rider.
Dismounting, the patrons of the Inn could see the stranger wore attire the same hue as his mount. Head-to-toe, all black and
all wrapped in a menacing air. Without a word, the tall newcomer purposefully strode into the tavern and stood silently at the
counter, whilst surveying the gawking men looking back.
The landlady, forever looking for custom, poured the stoic stranger a tankard of ale which he promptly paid for with a gold coin.
With stares of astonishment, the surrounding men were amazed to see such a sum of money and offered features of alarm as
they also heard a sizzling noise coming from the stranger's throat as he quaffed his brew.
With one final look around the bar the man in black finished his drink and strode out.
As the sound of galloping hooves faded, one of the locals asked to see the stranger's gold coin and so the landlady reached into
her cash box. To her and the boozing men's bewilderment, she found only a few pennies and a pile of dry, withered leaves where
she had put the golden guinea.
..................................................
The church of St Pancras -a hallowed building that proudly boasted a 120-foot granite tower, found on the same day that the local
Inn had been visited by the stranger, the shadow of Jan Reynolds staining the gravel path to its entrance. The care-free rogue had
his eye on a certain church-going milkmaid and enduring a sermon of how sin wasn't a virtue, Reynolds believed was a small price
to pay for a possible tumble in the hay.
Ignoring the warnings of burning in the flames of perdition, Jan passed the time by idly playing with a pack of cards.
The Vicar's lecture of everlasting torment droned on and soon the young tin miner's eyelids grew heavy. Not long after he fell alseep.
Then a sudden flash of lightening lit-up the windows of the church. A loud crack of thunder announced a storm had arrived in the village
of Widecombe and moments later, dust and debris showered down on the screaming congregation from the church's ornate roof bosses
that decorated the interior of the tower. The Devil had arrived.
Without announcement, Lucifer strode over to where the sleeping figure of Jan Reynolds was and picked him up. Some witnesses later
reported that the Dark Lord crushed Reynolds' skull to a pulp before flying back up to the hole in the belfry.
Outside, the fleeing parishioners look towards the roof of St Pancras and saw the Devil's wild-looking mount tethered to one of the churches
pinnacles. With total disregard for his audience below, the Antichrist threw the tin miner's body across the horse's neck and then leapt on
the animals back.
Tearing away part of the stone spire, the Devil rode off across the sky, leaving the terrified people evading the falling rubble.
Those who weren't at church that day, reported that they saw the ominous figure of Lucifer passing over Birch Tor Mine and climbing higher
into the storm clouds.
As the tempest abated, four playing cards belonging to Jan Reynolds fell from his pocket and fluttered down onto the moor, east of the
Birch Tor Mine. The imprints of where the four aces landed can still be seen today and stand as a warning to those who dare to gamble
in church.
I looked-up the lyrics of the Devon folk song. I'm not from that area of England, but the words in the verse -names of certain
men and always in order, were supposedly people going to the fair in the little village on Dartmoor and that list has always
stuck with me.
"Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawke, Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all."
But there was one name that would never appear in that list of Widecombe residents, and that was Jan Reynolds.
By all accounts, Reynolds was a bad man and someone who the more fairer residents of Widecombe in the Moor knew to
steer clear of.
Known for his heavy bouts of drinking, womanising and gambling, the rough young tin miner found that his wild lifestyle was
catching up with him and to solve the problem of being always short of money to sustain his behaviour, he made a pact with
the Devil.
For the price of his soul, Jan Reynolds acquired a pot of gold and with his debts paid, he continued to frolic in his merriment.
The years passed by and the little hamlet continued to be a playground for the rowdy roughneck. But accounts always need
to be settled and when it comes to the King of Hell, nobody gets a pass.
One Sunday morning, those of Widecombe who prefer to not listen to the threats of damnation from the pulpit, often took to
visiting the little tavern called The Tavistock Inn. Far enough away from the church, the local men could sate their thirsts and
and chew the cud without a Priest clucking indignantly at their conduct.
But this particular warm Sunday, The Tavistock Inn would receive a new guest to try their ale.
The sound of galloping grew louder to those idling near the doorway and seeking an answer to who would be hurriedly visiting
their quiet little village, some of the men looked out into the morning sunlight. The horse was huge and the colour of midnight
and with sparks spitting from its hooves, the wide-eyed steed was brought to a halt by its rider.
Dismounting, the patrons of the Inn could see the stranger wore attire the same hue as his mount. Head-to-toe, all black and
all wrapped in a menacing air. Without a word, the tall newcomer purposefully strode into the tavern and stood silently at the
counter, whilst surveying the gawking men looking back.
The landlady, forever looking for custom, poured the stoic stranger a tankard of ale which he promptly paid for with a gold coin.
With stares of astonishment, the surrounding men were amazed to see such a sum of money and offered features of alarm as
they also heard a sizzling noise coming from the stranger's throat as he quaffed his brew.
With one final look around the bar the man in black finished his drink and strode out.
As the sound of galloping hooves faded, one of the locals asked to see the stranger's gold coin and so the landlady reached into
her cash box. To her and the boozing men's bewilderment, she found only a few pennies and a pile of dry, withered leaves where
she had put the golden guinea.
..................................................
The church of St Pancras -a hallowed building that proudly boasted a 120-foot granite tower, found on the same day that the local
Inn had been visited by the stranger, the shadow of Jan Reynolds staining the gravel path to its entrance. The care-free rogue had
his eye on a certain church-going milkmaid and enduring a sermon of how sin wasn't a virtue, Reynolds believed was a small price
to pay for a possible tumble in the hay.
Ignoring the warnings of burning in the flames of perdition, Jan passed the time by idly playing with a pack of cards.
The Vicar's lecture of everlasting torment droned on and soon the young tin miner's eyelids grew heavy. Not long after he fell alseep.
Then a sudden flash of lightening lit-up the windows of the church. A loud crack of thunder announced a storm had arrived in the village
of Widecombe and moments later, dust and debris showered down on the screaming congregation from the church's ornate roof bosses
that decorated the interior of the tower. The Devil had arrived.
Without announcement, Lucifer strode over to where the sleeping figure of Jan Reynolds was and picked him up. Some witnesses later
reported that the Dark Lord crushed Reynolds' skull to a pulp before flying back up to the hole in the belfry.
Outside, the fleeing parishioners look towards the roof of St Pancras and saw the Devil's wild-looking mount tethered to one of the churches
pinnacles. With total disregard for his audience below, the Antichrist threw the tin miner's body across the horse's neck and then leapt on
the animals back.
Tearing away part of the stone spire, the Devil rode off across the sky, leaving the terrified people evading the falling rubble.
Those who weren't at church that day, reported that they saw the ominous figure of Lucifer passing over Birch Tor Mine and climbing higher
into the storm clouds.
As the tempest abated, four playing cards belonging to Jan Reynolds fell from his pocket and fluttered down onto the moor, east of the
Birch Tor Mine. The imprints of where the four aces landed can still be seen today and stand as a warning to those who dare to gamble
in church.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.