Brawn of Brancepeth

Some people say the village of Brancepeth was named after the great wild boar that lived in the nearby woods many years ago, `Brawn's path,' though some say it simply means `the path to Brandon,' which is a neighbouring village. No matter which is true, there was indeed a great brawn in the area once, and this is the true story of how it met its end.

The men of Brancepeth had tried all the conventional methods of ridding themselves of the boar, but their arrows barely scratched its skin and the only man who had been brave enough to attack it with a sword had been so badly mauled that no one else was prepared to attempt a similar effort. It was a wily creature, travelling at great speed through the forests and long grass on its way to and from different feeding grounds. Often it would stop and raise its snout to test the air, and if it caught the scent of hunters it would turn quietly about and hurry off in the opposite direction. Like all wild animals, the boar preferred to run away rather than risk confrontation, but if it was caught unawares, he was strong and ferocious enough to elude capture by even the most experienced of woodsmen.

At that time, there lived a man named Roger de Ferry, and he lived at Ferryhill. He decided to make a name for himself by ridding the countryside of the fearsome wild boar. He tried all the methods that others before him had tried, and of course he failed. He thought that if perhaps he were on horseback he could outrun the boar and lance it from above. So he saddled his horse and galloped off into the woods to seek the brawn. After many hours he finally came across it feeding in a copse near the village of Tudhoe, and smiling a broad smile he dug his heels into the horse and lowered his lance. The boar, still some fifty paces distant, looked up at the oncoming charger and, baring its great yellow teeth, let out a spine-chilling squeal. Roger's horse, unfortunately, was not so brave as he, and the sight of the startled boar made it rear up, sending the unfortunate horseman hurtling into the bushes where he landed heavily in a crumpled heap. Both brawn and horse took to their heels. For some days after this hunt, Roger stayed around his house and rubbed his sore bones.

When at last he was ready to try again, he climbed to the top of a hill and looked towards Brandon. Not having any sort of idea, he sat there most of the day just thinking, and he returned the next, and the one after that. It was on the third day of watching the comings and goings of the brawn that he noticed something peculiar, something which he thought might help him in his quest. After the boar stopped in the woods, either to eat or rummage around, it would speed off to the next feeding ground using the same path each time. This habit that the wild boar had formed was to be its downfall, and then and there Roger began make his plan to kill the great brawn.

Roger had noticed that it was always late afternoon by the time the boar reached the woods near Ferryhill, and from there it carried on its way down a path to Mainsforth where there were lots of acorns to be had. This was the place Roger planned to make his move. Early one morning, he set out along this path and dug a pit deep and wide for the boar to fall into. Hard and long he laboured, through the midday sun an early afternoon, until at last he was satisfied with the dimensions of the huge pit in the ground. Still he could not rest, for he had to cover the pit with branches and dry grass and he had to hide all the soil he had removed from the hole. All this accomplished, he sat atop a nearby rock and awaited the arrival of the brawn.

After a while, he saw the boar trotting speedily along the track, unaware and unconcerned, tail erect and eyes looking straight forward. To Roger's delight, it plunged headlong straight into the hole and could not climb the walls to escape. Roger climbed down from the rock and plunged his lanced again and again into the brawn, until it lay quite dead. He had done what all the others had failed to do and the locals were so grateful to be rid of the viscous wild boar that they erected a cross beside the place where he dug the pit. The stone cross has long since vanished, but there is still a tablet built into a wall at Cleve's Cross farm near Ferryhill. It is inscribed:

THE
LARGE
STONE JUST
ABOVE PART OF
CLEVE'S CROSS
MARKS THE
SITE WHERE
BY TRADITION
THE BRAWN OF
BRANSPETH
WAS KILLED BY
ROGER DE FERRY
ABOUT THE
YEAR 1200