In this month’s edition of Common Knowledge, we’ve chosen to investigate the folklore of the Yateley common told through the mouths and eyes of locals. This week we have been lucky to track down and interview Yateley’s only surviving oral storyteller, The Bottom Bard. A hike into the Castle Bottom Hills eventually brought us to his solitary home. Our team of yarblers were relieved to find shelter from the oppressive heat. Yateley, Eversley and even Darby Green were visible from the castle, and upon climbing its highest tower, one of our reporters claimed he saw the Atrium. Clearly heatstroke was taking hold. After a traditional Yatelerian yoghurt (recipe in lifestyle section), we asked him for a story, which is recorded below:
‘When the sun has set, and the 406 has made its final stop, in the depths of Castle Bottom’s majesty,
When the geese and heese have been herded from the creek and the tall trees can sing their sultry song,
The sun beckons us to follow but we cannot hear
For the moon is our new god when quiet solitude creeps so near
If you follow these commands or fall into their trap
The Castle Bottom Bull will yell, like a thunderclap’
This severely rattled our team, who, bundled up at the fireplace, still felt a chill down their calves. He drew this abnormous creature for us (shown below) and weaved a tale of advise for if we ever encountered this beast.
The sun was beginning to set as we left the castle walls. The Bottom Bard gave us a long smile with his pearly yellow teeth, and we waved goodbye for the last time.
I checked my stagecoach app-as I often do in banal frustration- and to my horror, the 406 had reached its destination. We began a light jog, as darkness enveloped the large expanses of shrubbery and shadows. One of our Yarblers (Chris) tripped on a root, dropping the boom mic in the process. The clatter reverberated into the silence, and through the trees a low, long moo rolled like a wave. Our training kicked in, and we dived into the Castle Bottom stream, covering ourselves in pebbles and branches, but Chris was lost in the carnage, shouting out our names in panic. It was too late for him. The Castle Bottom bull stormed across the bridge, huffing, galumphing and staring with the bright red eyes I only caught a glimpse of. Eye contact or conversation is very important to avoid. Another long, loud moo seemed ear-splitting, but we had to endure it. A human scream and the rushing of hooves were the last things I heard before I fell into deep, troubling reverie. I awoke 13 hours later, by a disgruntled horse. I was carried in convulsions back to town by local folk.
I have vowed never to talk about that day again, of the Bull, Chris, or The Bard, whose castle seems lost somewhere in the common’s winding paths, not forgotten, just waiting to be discovered once more.
Make sure to tune in next week for a new edition of Common Knowledge. Where Yateley’s hidden secrets are found.
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