High up on the windswept expanse of Dartmoor, on the eastern slope of Sittaford Tor, lie two mysterious stone circles known as “The Grey Wethers.” To understand how these ancient monuments came to be there, we must journey back through the mists of time to an age when magic still held sway over the wild moorland
Long ago, so the legend tells, there lived a wealthy farmer who was a stranger to the eastern parts of Dartmoor. One particularly warm summer’s day, he was riding from his farm near Tavistock to Moretonhampstead on business. The journey was long and dusty, and when he spotted the little tavern by the roadside at Newhouse, he decided to rest awhile and partake of some refreshment. Having tethered his weary steed in the yard behind the building, he entered the inn and ordered bread, cheese, and a quart of ale, requesting at the same time that someone should tend to his horse. Several moormen were sitting in the tavern parlour, drinking and talking, and they soon engaged the farmer in conversation.
Perhaps it was the strong moorland ale that loosened his tongue, or maybe it was simply his nature, but the farmer began to boast rather loudly about the many shrewd bargains he had made when buying and selling sheep and cattle. Among the moormen was one who was particularly fond of playing practical jokes. Noting that the farmer was a stranger to the neighbourhood, this mischievous fellow resolved to teach him a lesson about the folly of bragging. After several more stoups of ale, the conceited farmer became increasingly boastful, and presently, with a sly wink to his companions, the moorman announced that he had forty-two fine grey wethers he wished to sell, pastured in a newtake on the eastern side of Sittaford Tor.
By now the slightly bemused yeoman was in a pleasantly expansive mood, and without hesitation, he declared he would very much like to buy the wethers, as he wanted more sheep for his farm. The moorman suggested they inspect the flock straight away, and together with several of his grinning companions, he led the farmer up to the top of White Ridge.
Pointing to the eastern slope of Sittaford Tor, he exclaimed with obvious pride, “There they be, the little beauties! There they be! Zum be standin’ up, an’ zum be lyin’ down. They’m the prettiest bunch of wethers in the district.”
The farmer, his judgment clouded by good ale and his own conceit, replied that there was no need to go any nearer as he could see they were a fine lot of sheep, and he would very much like to buy them. The cunning moorman quickly suggested they return to the inn and strike a bargain. To this, the yeoman readily agreed, and they all went back to the tavern where, after a certain amount of haggling, they settled upon a price which the farmer paid down on the table before the assembled company of secretly exultant moormen. The following day, on his return journey from Moretonhampstead, the farmer called at the inn to make arrangements for the sheep he had bought to be driven to his farm near Tavistock. He was informed, however, that the supposed sheep were nothing more than a collection of grey granite stones arranged in two circles on the moorland – the Grey Wethers, as they had always been known.
The unfortunate yeoman was furious at having been so thoroughly deceived by the cunning moorman. Nevertheless, he had made a bargain, and he had to stand by it. The adventure had taught him a hard lesson about the dangers of boasting and making purchases while under the influence of strong drink.
The circles together contain about forty-two stones of grey granite, some standing and some fallen – exactly the number of wethers the crafty moorman claimed to have for sale that summer’s day so long ago. They serve as a permanent reminder that pride comes before a fall, and that it’s wise to inspect one’s purchases carefully before parting with one’s money, especially after partaking of the strong ales of Devon.
