Once upon a time, so the stories go, there were pixies on Dartmoor - little people no higher than your knee who lived amongst the rocks and combes, gathering on moonlit nights in favoured places around the moor. Many a Dartmoor man had a tale to tell of how he had stumbled across their revels after nightfall on his way home, but whether his story was coloured by the amount of ale he had consumed, who can say?

But ale alone cannot account for every tale told of their merry gatherings. William Crossing tells the story of young Tom White from Postbridge, a farm worker who was the ardent suitor of the young dairymaid at Huccaby Farm. Several times a week, after his work was done, Tom would trudge the 5 miles from Postbridge to Huccaby to be with his lady love, returning to Postbridge after dark. His way took him close by Bellever Tor, a favourite haunt of the pixies, and one night, whilst making his way round the rocks he heard the sound of singing. From behind a large boulder he watched as a throng of little folk danced in a ring, singing as they went. Thinking to pass on the other side of the tor he began to creep away, but they caught sight of him and, joining hands, encircled him, compelling him to spin with them in their revel. In vain he endeavoured to stop the crazy dance by throwing himself to the ground, but only when the sky lightened over Hameldown and the pixies vanished into the rocks, did he gain release. So frightened by his experience was Tom that he vowed he would never go courting again.

Many are the moorland folk whose lives were touched by the little people. One farmer went to his barn to thresh corn, only to find a neat pile of grain and the straw neatly bundled. Arising early the next day, he heard the sounds of elfin voices and the flails at work and crept away until the sounds had ceased. Wishing to reward his helpers he placed bread and cheese in the barn each evening and every morning returned to find his threshing done. Another man watched through a peephole in his barn as a pixy, dressed in rags, threshed his corn. His wife rewarded the little fellow by making him a new suit of clothes.

Left undisturbed, free from prying eyes and suitably rewarded, pixies are usually said to be more desirous of lending a hand by threshing corn, churning butter and suchlike than causing mischief. Nevertheless, reports of travellers being ‘pixy-led’ are numerous, the reward of those who have earned the pixies’ displeasure in some way. The remedy, if caught in this dilemma, is to turn your coat inside out to break the spell and then you will quickly find your way. Near the Blackaton Brook, in the Prison enclosures north of Princetown, stands a small granite shelter protecting Fitz’s or Fice’s Well. On the coverstone are inscribed in relief the letters IF and the date 1568. Tradition says that in this year John Fitz of Fitzford, near Tavistock, was riding over the moor with his lady when they were ‘pixy-led’ and lost their way for many hours. Coming across this little spring bubbling from the ground, they stopped to drink of the pure water and the spell was immediately broken, enabling them to find the path which would take them home. In appreciation, John Fitz erected the edifice over the well whose water is still said to break the spell over the pixy-led traveller and also to have healing properties.

Dartmoor has many places said to be the haunt of the little people. Amongst these is Piskies’ Holt which stands on private ground in Huccaby Cleave above the River Dart and is today out of bounds to anyone without a fishing permit. Once it was a much frequented place where children would leave a shell, a pin or a piece of rag as presents for the pixies. Fishermen, too, would leave a favourite fly, hoping it would bring them a lucky catch. A friend of mine, now in her 70s, was often taken there as a child by her uncle who lived nearby. Walking to a glade beside the river, they would climb through the trees to a delightful dell, and there, behind a beech tree, they would wriggle through an opening between the rocks and into the cave where it was possible for several people to stand. A rock shelf served as a repository for tiny gifts made by visitors and here they left their offerings for the pixies, part of a much-enjoyed holiday ritual she has never forgotten.

Sheeps Tor, too, has a similar Pixies’ Cave which can be visited - that is if you can find it! Amongst the clitter of rocks on the south side overlooking the village is a narrow cleft through which it is possible to squeeze to gain entrance to the cave. I believe the rocks have shifted over the years, diminishing the size of the cave, but it is a recognised pixy haunt where those undaunted by modern cynicism still leave their offerings.

With so many sightings of pixies in the past, why are they rarely seen today? Were they simply the product of rich imaginations or an explanation for an otherwise inexplicable event? However clever we have become, however great our intellect, there is much still unknown to us and to science and it is not always wise to scoff at things beyond our present belief. Maybe they dwell in another dimension into which today’s scepticism has rendered it impossible for most of us to venture. Maybe only those who somehow still retain the special senses and instincts all men had at the beginning of time are able to see these tiny folk.

Dartmoor is, after all, a place apart, its wildness virtually untamed, where wind and weather have made a bigger impression than the hand of man, however hard he has tried. Who knows what mysteries it contains? The little people are part of the spirit of the moor and, should you find yourself in a place known to be a favoured haunt, it would be most unwise to leave without making some small offering - just in case!