A Monthly Publication

The little ruined and dilapidated remains of the church of Ringstead Parva, stands on lonely sentinel in a farm field, and can be seen if glancing to the right when going up the Redgate Hill, or at a distance when biking down to the quiet, peaceful site of Ringstead Downs.

This, and other remains of previous dwelling sites are usually a magnet for the attentions of people, especially young boys, who imagine that the ruins contain the resting places of mediaeval knights, hidden treasures, and ghosts of the unfortunate previous inhabitants. In my younger days these rumours were held in certain belief and awe, and one day three of us decided to cycle down to the Downs, and on the way investigate the little ruin. The fact that it was sited on a local farmer’s cultivated field didn’t have a scrap of concern for us, and with the warm weather, the lovely ride, with the absence of the volume of traffic, we set off.

The relevant field, positioned between two farms, and just off the beaten track appeared, and we parked our bikes in a muddy ditch beside the lane, entered the field, and walked steadily over towards our goal.

However, about two thirds of the distance from the edge of the field, our attention was aroused by distant shouting, and we perceived a small figure at the field gate, waving a stick and bawling incoherently. As we had nearly reached our goal, we ignored this disruption, and finally arrived at the ruin, only to find that it contained a load of nettles, brambles, elder saplings and lumps of stones. Not a tomb of a knight in shining armour, or the ghosts of long deceased incumbents, or caskets of golden treasure awaited us, and slightly disappointed we attempted the walk back to where our bikes were parked.

As we progressed, the noise, and gesticulations of the seemingly irate figure at the field gate, did not appeal to us to venture meeting with him, for greetings, or questions as to why he was creating this hullaballoo, so we crossed the field to the hedge at the side, to endeavour to conceal ourselves until able to reach our bikes, and avoid attentions of the stick waving, shouting gentleman farmer.

We buried ourselves in the hedge, and soon discovered that the adjacent field contained a number of relaxing cows, quietly chewing the cud, or grazing on the grassy field. These inquisitive creatures soon perceived that there was something untoward rummaging in their hedge, and all rose and slowly ambled towards us to see what these small humans were about, and with the bawling from the next field, did not encourage us to remain there, and we ran to the edge and eventually reached, unobserved, the ditch where our bikes were.

Our planned get-away was curtailed by the roaring of an approaching landrover truck, containing the irate farmer, intent on informing us that we had walked all on his newly-sprouted winter wheat, and that we had upset his dairy herd of milk-producing cattle, and not wanting to encounter him, we had to lie down in the muddy ditch to escape discovery.

As soon as the dust cloud creating vehicle had passed, we quickly mounted our bikes, and pedalled furiously past the farm, and through the Downs, to reach the main road, and eventually home, wet, muddy, late for tea, and chastisement from our concerned parents. 

Much later, I discovered that the little ruined church had been in use by the residents of the surrounding village, and that the little community had been wiped out by the vicious Black Death pandemic, which had destroyed many of the small communities during its sojourn in the area. The church, being the most stalwart, and well built building of the village had ultimately survived, where the surrounding houses had decayed. As there could have been a possibility of the strains of the virus lying dormant in the ruins and surrounds, The farmer could have been trying to warn us about this as well, but we decided that we could find other interesting pursuits in other areas during the holidays, and did not venture to the Downs for a long time afterwards.