In the old days of Dorset, when Old Magic still lingered in the landscape, there was an old farmer on an old farm near an old stone circle. Farmer Russell had lived on the land for the whole of his life, like his father before him, and his father before that. Following tradition every year on Midsummer’s Eve he walked every field on the farm to count the animals and then counted the standing stones in the circle, which in those days, unlike today, were all standing tall and proud…

In the old days of Dorset, when Old Magic still lingered in the landscape, there was an old farmer on an old farm near an old stone circle. Farmer Russell had lived on the land for the whole of his life, like his father before him, and his father before that. Following tradition every year on Midsummer’s Eve he walked every field on the farm to count the animals and then counted the standing stones in the circle, which in those days, unlike today, were all standing tall and proud… One year, however, when he’d finished counting the sheep and cattle in the fields, it was a little later than usual as he came to walk around the stones when the sun was setting on Midsummer’s Eve. Old Farmer Russell noticed that there was one more standing stone than usual in the circle. “Strange!” he muttered to himself staring at the particular pillar of grey rock. Even stranger – as he stared at the stone a crack appeared, forming the outline of a doorway which slowly creaked open with a sound of grinding stone.

Out of the doorway stepped a wizened figure, with a wrinkled brown face, clothed in animal skins and a shaggy cloak of wolf and bear fur across his shoulders. Around his neck was a string of white jagged teeth. “Well met, young Farmer Russell – the right place at the right time!”

No-one’s called me young for a long time, he thought with a smile. But then standing straight he spoke to the stranger, “Who are you, and what are you doing on my land?” “Long before this land was yours, I was here. And I’ll be here long after you’ve gone too. I’m an ancient wizard, and keeper of the secrets of the stones.” “What secrets? I’ve known this land since I was a child, there are no secrets that I don’t know about…” In response the wizard closed his eyes and began to speak in a rhythmic, rhyming chant:

By rock, by stone Beside buried bone By six by three One will open by key.

When he finished he extended a hand towards the farmer, holding a shining bronze key. “Take it – a gift for looking after this sacred land so well. All of these standing stones are doorways to other worlds, portals to places beyond your imaginings. With this key you may open one door, and only once. Be wise in your choice – some lead to golden halls of treasures whilst others lead to places of deadly peril. And one more warning: you must never, ever talk to anyone about what you have seen today. For what comes from stone, goes back to stone…”

The wizard was suddenly gone, so quickly that Farmer Russell was inclined to believe that it was all a trick of the light; a flight of fancy. But in his hand was the cold reality of the key. So in the owl-light he began walking around the stones to decide which one amongst the eighteen he would choose to open. He was on his third circuit around the stone circle, when he felt the key in his hand become warmer. Looking down it seemed to be glowing and glimmering. This is the stone – this must be the one. He couldn’t see a keyhole, so holding the key in his hand he tapped the rock three times and repeated the wizard’s words:

By rock, by stone Beside buried bone By six by three One will open by key.

Again there was the sound of grinding stone, another doorway appeared and then opened. Beyond was a staircase leading down into darkness, lit by yellow flickering firelight. Drawing on his courage, he stepped down and deeper into an underground tunnel, following it until eventually he came into a golden hall so dazzlingly bright he had to shield his eyes. In that hall was a semi-circle of 18 golden thrones where 18 Kings and Queens were seated, glittering golden crowns upon their heads. Some of the sovereigns he thought he knew: King Arthur with the sword Excalibur, Queen Boudica in furs with a long-eared hare in her lap. Others he didn’t recognise but who appeared no less important.

The old farmer felt utterly out of his depth in such a place of splendour amongst such noble company but each King or Queen bowed their heads towards him in turn. Until, at last, King Arthur himself nodded and stood up, tapping his sword on the stone floor. Immediately a great golden nugget appeared in front of him. “Take it,” said Arthur. “It’s a gift for you!”

Farmer Russell gasped as his eyes beheld the gleaming light and then removing his hat he stepped forward to address the Royal company: “Thank-you! It’s more than I deserve, more than I have dreamed of. But in truth it’s more than I could carry.” A woman to Arthur’s right-hand side, perhaps Queen Guinevere herself, raised her hand and spoke: “Gorwell, my old friend, you are needed now.” Her words were answered by the sound of horse’s hooves into the circle stepped a beautiful dapple-grey mare, with glinting green eyes.

To Farmer Russell the Queen said: “The horse is stronger than she looks and can bear any weight. Take her with my blessing…”. To the horse she whispered: “Go well, Gorwell. Go well…”

With the help of servants the golden nugget was carefully strapped onto the grey mare’s saddle. Then bowing to the assembled royalty, Farmer Russell began leading her back through the fire-lit tunnel. Out of the stone door – the King’s Stone – they emerged as morning light was breaking the eastern horizon.

When sold, the gold was enough to keep Old Farmer Russell well-off and wealthy for the rest of his days. He renovated the farmhouse, rebuilt the barns and stables and there was the finest food and drink on his table. He also gave willingly and generously to others – his neighbours and friends all received a share in his golden gift. But to any that asked from where the gold came from, he kept his lips tightly sealed, remembering the wizard’s warning. The magical mare, Gorwell, he grew to love with all his heart. He kept her in the best stable by night and the prized paddock by day, where the grass was green and lush. Within a year the grey mare unexpectedly gave birth to five colts: each foal as grey and beautiful as the mother.

News spread of Farmer Russell’s beautiful grey mare and her colts, until one day at midsummer a horse trader arrived at the farm, intent on buying one or more, of the foals. Farmer Russell led the man to the field. He looked at each of the colts in turn but his eyes lingered longest on the grey mare herself.

“How much for her?” asked the horse-trader. “She’s not for sale,” replied Farmer Russell defiantly. “Why not?” “Because she’s… special!” “What makes her special?” Feeling pressured by the horse trader, Farmer Russell impulsively blurted out: “Because she came from the Hall of Kings beneath the standing stones…”

As soon as he’d spoken, the farmer felt the blood freeze in his veins. There was loud piercing whinny followed by the sound of grinding stone. Both men turned to see the grey mare and her colts in the field had all instantly transformed into cold, grey stone…

“What have I done?!” cried the farmer. Leaving the astonished horse trader standing in the field, Old Farmer Russell ran to the stone circle – hoping beyond hope in his heart to find the wizard, to beg for forgiveness. But when he arrived he found every single one of the stones lying flat on the ground, as if blown over by a mighty, magical wind.

All evening he walked around the stones, tears in his eyes, as the sun set on Midsummer’s Eve once more. He tapped every stone with the bronze key and he chanted the wizard’s words over and over. But they sounded hollow and empty now – the Old Magic had gone. Never again did Old Farmer Russell talk of his journey through the stone doorway to the Halls of Kings. But, thanks to the horse trader’s loose tongue, the story was told and remembered long after the farmer was dead and buried. After the King’s Stone and Farmer Russell himself, the place became known as ‘Kingston Russell’ stone circle. The Grey Mare and Her Colts are still there in the field to be seen and she has even given her real name – Gorwell – to the farm where she stands. So it must be true!