The Storyteller: Pixies 'up to old tricks' prove to be convenient cover ...

I must admit to being fascinated by the wee folk who secretly live on Dartmoor. I recently received a list of Letterbox clues, inspired by a book all about the activities of said Pixies, compiled by William Crossing, that are scattered over the moor at the locations where the stories allegedly took place. A winning combination in my book!

You may recall the article I wrote after Easter, when my Letterbox hunt was interrupted by my discovery of a sheep stuck in the rocks on Sheepstor. I claimed to have been Pixy-led there in order to do my bit to help save it. Well, that was just around the corner from the Pixie Cave, the subject of the stamp that I was in search of at the time, which eluded me then, so a return visit is needed. Prior to that, I’d taken my walking group on an exploration of Bellever Forest, and out onto the open moor, taking in Laughter Tor and Bellever Tor, another notorious haunt of the Pixies, and where poor Tom White got into all sorts of bother, after being forced to dance the night away during one of their Pixie Parties, which features on another stamp. Having now got several of them in my collection, the other day, on one of my solo walks, it was time to go after another, relating to a rather odd tale, intriguingly called Modilla and Podilla. This story takes place in an isolated cottage, called Merrifield, in the shadow of Brent Hill, and the associated Letterbox lies on the hillside overlooking both.

I started the walk from the car park at Shipley Bridge, where most people head towards the Avon Dam, however, my route took me along the lane towards the bridge that crosses the Bala Brook, as it can be quite difficult to negotiate out on the open moor. Going this way, it is a steady climb up the rocky path, known as Diamond Lane, that gets you to the moor gate at the top. From here, I headed west towards Corringdon Ball, with its granite spheres atop tall stone gateposts. It was in this area, taking a bearing off said gate, that I started searching for several Letterboxes, one of which was the Pixie stamp I was keen to find, and, luckily enough, it didn’t take very long to locate. 

So now I’ve got it successfully in my book, I feel it only fair to share with you the strange story of Modilla and Podilla...The cottage known as Merrifield, lies at the foot of Brent Fore Hill, in the shadow of Brent Hill, completely isolated, in a plantation of trees. In days gone by, when simple country folk took their superstitions seriously, everyone believed that Pixies lived amongst them, even though no one had ever seen one. They were the stuff of legend, and everyone had a tale to tell, the taller the better...until, one Winter’s night, the women of Merrifield had a most unusual encounter, an experience they would be able to dine out on for the rest of their lives. Winters were harsher in those days, so, in order to give themselves something to look forward to, every opportunity to celebrate a special occasion was taken, and this particular night was going to be no exception.

It was one of their son’s birthdays, so whilst father kept the lads working late in the fields, mother set to work, with the help of her daughters, preparing a sumptuous meal for them all. The meat had been roasting on a spit, over the fire in the hearth, for a while now, filling the kitchen with mouth-watering smells, when, all of a sudden, the outside door seemed to open by itself...a door that had been firmly secured from the inside. As all the women looked up from the kitchen table, having been distracted from their task of preparing the vegetables, they stared in astonishment, as a very tiny man, wearing green trousers and a matching jacket, sporting a red pointed hat, poked his head through the door, his nose clearly attracted by the smell of the delicious meat. Following his nose towards the fireplace, seemingly completely oblivious to the room full of women, staring incredulously at him, he stood on tiptoe, below the spit, taking in as much of the aroma as his little nose could handle.

Finally satiated, he began inspecting the nooks and crannies within the hearth space around the fire, and, having completed a circuit, he once again stood beneath the spit. This time he plucked a single hair from beneath his hat and poked it into the flames. This curious action, he repeated a second time, a third, and then a fourth. Nothing appeared to happen, and the women couldn’t help but wonder what was the purpose of this hair burning? Just then, there came a cautious, tiny voice, calling from outside, “ Modilla! Modilla!”, it cried. It sounded like a Pixie, but no other showed itself, instead, the one in the fireplace, spun round, supposedly at hearing its name, and replied, “Podilla! Podilla!”. Then another, more urgent cry of “Modilla!”, came from outside. The women could only assume this was some sort of warning call to their little visitor, telling him he had been seen, for, with another cry of “Podilla!”, he fled towards the still open door, as fast as his little legs could carry him.

Before the women could react, he was out of the door, which slammed shut behind him. Finally running to the door themselves, they found it was, once again, securely locked from the inside. Opening it, they too rushed out, looking for signs of their tiny visitors, but there were none. The moon was full that night, so anything out of place would have been clearly illuminated, but everything was as it should be. Initially doubting what they had seen, the women excitedly began comparing notes, and soon came to the conclusion that it was far from a hallucination. They then longed for the return of the menfolk, so they could share with them the tale of their visitor, and his strange antics with burning his hairs.

Those were simpler times indeed, when country folk were quite happy to accuse Pixies of turning the milk sour, or stopping their hens from laying, and the grass rings that appeared in newly mown fields, were the result of fairies and Pixies dancing the night away together. Even when building new homes, the owners were quite happy to allow imperfections in the brickwork, for these holes would let the wee folk have access too.

However, there were some less gullible, shall we say, members of the community, who were only too happy for Pixies to take the blame for their more nefarious activities. A story originated in the area of Aish Ridge, near to Brent Hill, that Pixies had been galloping horses during the night, and when the farmer who owned them, came to tend to them in the morning, he found them sweating and uneasy. He was only too happy to lay the blame at the doorstep of the local Pixies. Also happy for this version of events to be circulated, was the local smuggling fraternity, who were, in reality, the ones “borrowing” the horses, and galloping them to the nearest coastline, upon hearing contraband was being brought ashore, and then galloping them back again, laden down with their share of the booty. They would return them to their field, in an exhausted state, and be amongst the first to claim that the Pixies had been up to their old tricks again! Poor Pixies!...

Having found a few other stamps, as well as my Pixie box, on the same hillside, I continued my walk up and over Brent Fore Hill, crossing Red Brook, onto Old Hill, and then following the tin mining gullies to the old track of the Zeal Tor Tramway. This then took me all the way back to the car park, accompanied by a stunning full moon...the same full moon that hung in the sky, the night the Pixies visited the ladies at Merrifield...