19/02/2026
Childe was a wealthy landed lord and a keen hunter; his vast estate was at Plymstock a small village to the south of the moors. Childe was happiest riding the moor alone, come rain or shine he would roam the wastes in search of game. One bleak winters day he had been hunting on the southern moors when suddenly the sky turned as grey as a goose, the air was cold and still and silence fell all around. The first flakes of snow lazily floated down from the laden heavens and the wind gathered in strength. Before long, the hunter was caught in a bitter blizzard, the wind sweeping across the bare tussocks blasting the snow horizontally before it. Childe could hardly see any further that his horses head and the cold was tearing through his clothing. Gradually as each hoof print was obliterated by the snow he realised it was useless the struggle against the storm. He decided to take shelter until the tempest had blown over and so he pulled his horse to the frozen ground and huddled against it for warmth. Time ticked by but still the relentless snow howled across the wastes, the hunter became colder and colder, and he knew he would surely perish unless his did something. After a few moments considering his options it was with a sad heart that he decided that the only means of salvation was to slay his faithful horse. Childe drew his dagger and quickly slit its throat, as he did so his rolling tears froze to his face like miniature glaciers. Once the poor animal was dead the hunter slit its belly and dragged out the steaming innards then he clambered inside the bloody cavernous skeleton for shelter.
A few weeks later a travelling moorman found a frozen heap amongst the snowy tussocks. It was the remains of the hunter and his horse, apparently the fresh blood inside the animals had frozen solid, encapsulating Childe in a bloody ice tomb for eternity. News soon reached Plymstock that the lord had perished in a blizzard high on Dartmoor. It did not take long for his will and testament to become common knowledge, in it Childe had stated that wheresoever he was buried, the local church would be granted his estates.
The monks of Tavistock Abbey were delighted, as the man had died on their lands then it was only fitting that he be interred at their monastery. However, the people of Plymstock had other ideas. Surely he was from Plymstock so therefore his estates belonged to them, or at least that was their belief. Both parties saw the urgency in recovering the mortal remains of Childe the Hunter and men were sent from both Tavistock Abbey and Plymstock. Now the distance from Tavistock to where the body of Childe lay was about nine miles, but it was thirteen from Plymstock so there is no guessing as to who would arrive first. The men from Plymstock also realised this and decided it was futile to run an un-winnable race therefore they would waylay the Tavistock party on their way back to the Abbey. An ambush was set up beside a crossing place on the River Tavy and the Plymstock men concealed themselves from view.
Somehow the party of Tavistock monks got to hear of the trap that was awaiting and so returned by a less obvious route. The dilemma that now faced them was that there was only one crossing on that particular reach of the Tavy. The waters were too deep and fast to even think about wading across and so the monks constructed a temporary bridge over the river, and so by guile they had foiled the Plymstock ambush and safely got Childe’s remains back to the abbey. Here they were buried and the monks of Tavistock inherited all the rich estates of Plymstock. The spot where the temporary bridge was placed has always been known as Guile Bridge and a mighty tomb was erected at the spot where the body of Childe the Hunter perished. It was said that on the tomb the following words were inscribe “They fyrste that fyndes and bringes mee to my grave, The priorie of Plymstoke they shall have.”
