Our tale this week comes from the village of St Weonards which lies within the area known to the Saxons (and later English) as Archenfield. Now before we get ahead of ourselves we need to head way back in time. To a time when most of Herefordshire was covered in forest. There once was a local woodcutter, who lived a lonely life out in the woods. Some thought he was a little strange, others were wary of him but all knew him to be a good man. He appeared wise, measured and gentle. His name was Weonard.
There was something about Weonard that whenever he went into the local village, people would be drawn to him and would pour out their woes. Most of the time he said nothing in return, he just listened and nodded. But this seemed to do the trick, everyone appeared to go away a little less burdened. Word soon spread and before long villagers would make their way into the forest to find Weonard and offload their problems. As the years passed and Weonard aged he moved into the village. There was always a steady stream of visitors to his home, trading gifts of food and treats just to have his ear for a while. He was no longer lonely that’s for sure.
But when Weonard passed away a strange thing happened. The villagers would go and sit by his graveside and talk to him. Some would still bring gifts as they always had done when he was alive and got comfort from their one sided conversations. Such was their believe in Weonard some of his most ardent visitors began spreading the word that he was a saint. But they knew the only way that Weonard would receive a sainthood was to laud up his good deeds and convince the bishop he was worthy of the title. Having said that the bishop didn’t need too much persuading, it was good business to have a saint or two in the county. Therefore Weonard was duly proclaimed a saint, promptly dug up and buried in front of the high altar in the church.
News travelled fast about this new saint and hoards of people arrived to visit the altar and divulge their troubles, rich and poor alike. With the rich leaving gifts of gold, silver and jewels. Within no time the altar sparkled and glistened in the dim lights of the candles. But as with everything time marches on and lives change. A thousand years later no-one came to worship Saint Weonard anymore, their attentions were drawn to other things. Before long the riches lying on altars like the one of St Weonard were on a list to be pillaged by the King’s Commissioners. The King required them to pay for his wars and lavish lifestyle. However the villagers had long memories and other plans. Before the King’s men arrived they took all the gifts and buried them in an old mound next to the church and denied all knowledge they existed when they were quizzed. And so the treasure remained in the mound. More time passed, memories faded and tales were told.
You may think that the story ends here but you would be wrong. Onto the scene comes a drover by the name of Ivor Williams. Ivor was a trusted successful chap and had made his money moving sheep and cows to London. But like every entrepreneur his sights were set on bigger things. Ivor came up with a plan to drive a load of pigs to London instead and invested his fortune in this venture. Such was his confidence that he even went so far as putting a saddle on the biggest pig so that he could ride it on the way. The drive however did not go to plan, the pigs had other ideas and he lost both them and his fortune.
On his return home he stopped off to drown his sorrows at an inn in Treago. He soon perked up though when he heard one of the locals regaling the story about St Weonard and his buried treasure. You know where this is going don’t you? In the dead of night Ivor took a spade and began to dig the mound. After hours and hours of shovelling he finally hit the treasure. He was elated! A gold cup, jewels and rings. Just one of those items was enough to replace the fortune he had lost. But Ivor was greedy he wanted to take as much as he could carry. What he needed were some sacks, something he did not have. Worried that if he left the treasure both uncovered and unattended it might be discovered by another he covered it over again with soil and headed off to Hereford to do some odd jobs in order that he could buy some sacks.
At last after a few weeks he returned excited and ready to take his haul home, but there was a problem. He couldn’t find the spot were he had dug up the treasure. The grass had grown over and there were no clues as to where he should start digging. Villagers found him still at the mound the following morning scratching at the earth in an almost demented way. Sadly he was taken away to St Mary’s Asylum at Burghill and never seen or heard of again.
And what of the large pig with the saddle we hear you say? What happened to him? Well folklore tells that you may well see him again. If you happen to be on St Weonards mound when the clock strikes midnight the phantom pig with a saddle on his back will appear from the bushes and make his acquaintance with you. Another good reason not to be loitering around graveyards late at night we say!