A road out of the village goes down a notorious dip, known as Pebble Hill or Devil’s Arch. There is no arch as such, but ancient trees squeeze the high banks with knuckled roots.
It is always damp and darkly atmospheric, and the first to be closed by fallen trees in storms. It is also a place with a sad story about a ghostly horse.
It is here at dusk that my rattly 20-year-old car stops rattling. Something dings behind me with a flash in my rear-view mirror as it hits the road with a spark, the way a horse’s shoe strikes tarmac on a dark winter morning. I keep driving my newly quiet car with something like reckless glee. Problem solved!
But later on, on the way home, I am troubled by the place’s old stories and pull over to look for the part. Tawny owls call and the chalk bank gleams like a warning of approaching headlights. All is quiet. A dry leaf tickets down the road and my breath forms will o’ th’ wisps. I can almost hear the frost forming.
On this spot, 126 years ago, Thomas Tilling, a rakemaker, was returning home with a fully loaded timber cart, pulled in tandem by two horses, when a piece of the harness snapped. The weight of the load listed against the wheel horse he was leading. It panicked, and leaped up the bank. Tilling was fatally injured by the wagon and he died, his wife beside him, the next morning.
Ghost stories often begin as a form of warning. Tilling’s good grey horse is said to turn towards those who see it.
My phone torch catches a white feedbag hung from a tree by the gamekeeper to deter foxes. Tar spot fungus on sycamore leaves and a fermented, split bale of haylage, lost from a trailer, smell like worked leather and horse sweat. There is a warm, close presence in the darkness, and – I am sure – I hear the muffled “clop” of shod hoof on leaf mould.
I get back in the car, leaving a day-old apple core on the bank, as a poor offering. And I promise the good grey horse that I will fix this car.
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