Imagine …

It is a day of execution at a Cross Roads in medieval Dorset. The gibbet dominates the scene where the four roads meet which connect the local villages. Life is cheap, and for the poor, short. There is a large crowd gathering in a party atmosphere with brightly coloured stalls selling beer, pies and gruesome relics from other executions. These are always fake but in a time of religious fervour the gullible public will buy anything which has even the faintest hint of a promised salvation which such remains were deemed to possess. This even affected the rich and educated.

They are coming from all four directions; sightsee-ers from the various villages who have been discussing this day for several weeks. There is a palpable feeling of excitement. And finally the star of the show is led to the gallows; sometimes even dragged there on a wicker sled. He, or she as in those days many witches were hanged, is then prodded up the ladder, the halter is attached to the sound of prayers being offered by the local priest, then the victim is swung off into space to “dance” until death relieves the suffering. This is accompanied by much shouting and hooting from the onlookers, until a collective indrawing of breath marks the final moment. Then the crowd, after loitering for an hour or so to watch the final gyrations of the body, departs. Because now a new fear replaces the spectacle. It is a well-known fact that on Crossroads such as these, unhappy souls who have committed suicide are buried. There is nothing to mark their passing, none to lament their shortened lives but the rumours persist of these spirits returning to haunt those who linger. It was well-known that crossroads such as these were chosen to bury the dead so that the soul of the departed would be too confused to know which road to take to seek retribution from those who had persecuted them in life. To the Church such an action was an ultimate sin so no help or comfort would come from that source.

And then we come to the interesting part of the story. To remind people of where they are, and to encourage strangers to hurry past with averted eyes to avoid seeing evil, the road signs on these crossroads were painted red.

A likely story I hear you scoffing.

But such a red sign still exists on the Bere Regis to Wimborne Minster road, the A31. So for those who are sensitive to such things if you go there on a quiet morning you might just hear a whisper of the crowd, or a harsh grating of the rope against the crossbar of the gibbet as the weight suddenly takes hold and the struggle begins. Or it might be just the soughing of the wind in the trees. But anyway, this is not for the faint hearted. Most of us who have to go that way, hurry past with a prayer for the tragedies of the past.