The old kennel hounds at Fowlescombe have been used for both fox and deer hounds through the ages. They are now ruinous. Rumour has it that a kennel master suffered the unfortunate fate of being eaten by the hounds! The animals were kept hungry in preparation for a hunt the following day, but as they were making a great noise that night the kennel master went out to see what was wrong. In his haste he failed to put on his familiar hunt jacket. The next morning all that was found were his boots. (See longer version below)

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The following extract shows how important the the kennels were at one time

The story of the hounds as told by Rebecca Koskings

This story dates back about 100 years or so and was told by my great  great grandfather:

In the early part of the 1800’s Fowlescombe Manor was renowned for it’s pack of deerhounds. They were famous in the area for being the most fearless and handsome of beasts and known as "The Kings hounds."
It was said that the master at the time gave orders to keep the hounds on half rations so their hunger kept them keen. The formidable pack was kept in check by strong use of the whip and servants were ordered to wear red hunting jackets at all times when dealing with them in order for the dogs to recognize them.

The story begins with a teenage lad who was in charge of feeding the hounds. He had fallen in love with one of the serving maids of the manor but the girl had rebuffed his amorous advances. Heartbroken and humiliated he walked to Ugborough to drown his sorrows in the pub that afternoon. When nightfall came he suddenly realised he'd completely forgotten his duty of caring for the hounds. Scared of facing his master’s whip, he rushed back to Fowlescombe to feed the pack.

As he came over the hill into Combe valley a cold wind had picked up and he then realized he’d left his red jacket back in the pub but amongst the winds wisps and gusts he could hear the baying and howling of the hungry hounds wanting their food so the young lad ran as fast as his drunken legs would take him slipping and staggering as he went.

Finally he arrived at the kennels and set to cutting up the meat to feed the dogs, but with his judgment impaired from the booze the knife slipped, cutting a deep gash in his hand. This did not stop him from the task in hand, knowing his master would beat him if the hounds were not fed he carried on regardless. As he entered the kennels with a bucket of meat so his own blood trickled down the handle into the pale and onto the floor...

Whipped up by hunger, uneased by the lad’s drunken behaviour and emboldened by the lack of red jacket the dogs lunged for the bucket knocking him off his feet. When the pack smelled the poor lad’s blood his gruesome fate was sealed. 

In the estate that night many awoke on hearing the most blood curdling screams. They gathered in the manor hall only to be ordered back to their quarters by the master who assured them it was just the wind howling and wailing around the eaves.

The next morning, visiting the kennels, the master was greeted with the sight of the bloodied sleeping hounds, their stomachs full and rounded. Only a few remnants of the unfortunate lad remained. All that was left were his well-chewed boots, a few blood soaked tatters of clothing and some hair from his scalp.

It is said that once a dog acquires a taste for human flesh it will never go back. That is certainly true of the Kings hounds. From that day forward the pack never behaved the same again. It was said that rather than chasing their quarry on a hunt, the dogs were easily distracted attacking first sheep, then cattle and even cornered farmers and work hands in the fields. Locals grew fearful of the hounds and on hunt days many would make sure their children were safely back at home under lock and key.

One day the inevitable happened when the hounds turned on a pretty young farmer’s daughter working in a field dragging her to the ground and tearing at her face. The riders were not far behind and the master was able to pull the dogs away but not before the hounds had mauled her terribly and had inflicted dreadful damage. The poor girl was  in her sick bed for months and her face, neck and arms scarred  for the rest of her life.

As tensions grew, anger raged against the Master of Fowlescombe.  His hounds became deeply feared and resented. Eventually there was no other choice for the master but to destroy his beloved pack, needless to say an act that pained him gravely.

It is said that soon after the Master moved away; some say to continue hunting on better grounds with new dogs but many thought the move was out of embarrassment for what had happened here in the valley.

All was peaceful and quiet for a few years, but then people living and working around the manor began to hear strange ungodly noises coming from the woods around the old kennels on nights when the wind blew wild.
There were reports of baying hounds and piercing screams and the locals said it was the old master’s fault for killing his hounds in the kennels at Fowlescombe, saying he'd reunited them in death with the poor soul of the servant lad.
They said that now the hounds were godless and without a master they were more dangerous than ever.

As the years passed, residents and travelers to the valley reported being greeted by the ghostly figure of a terrified young lad who ran up to them warning in a trembling voice "make hest the hounds are afoot" he would then run off into the darkness. As the boy disappeared they would hear the snarling and barking of dogs in the distance.

On several occasions farmers on land near the manor reported seeing the figure of a young lad running like a petrified hare across their fields pursued by a glowing pack of hounds. This only happened at dusk and always when a strong wind blew. The baying calls from the hounds were so blood curdling it would make people lock the doors and shut home their houses. Some farmers even reported hearing the hounds come into their yards, snarling and howling and scratching at the doors and windows.

Locals worried that maybe one day the kings hounds would take a quarry from the quick, fearing if the ghosty lad was not there to warn them one night the dogs would hunt them down instead.
As the years turned into decades, Combe valley and Fowlescombe woods got a reputation as a place not to travel by night,… particularly when the wind blew.

About 80 years after the tragic events at Fowlescombe, a young Butchers apprentice from Modbury who was well known to my great great grandfather was playing cards and drinking near Ugborough (Venn farm, seems to ring bells with my Dad). Apparently he was a big chap, liked a drink and thought of himself as a bit of a tough guy. 
Anyway at the end of the evening, he decided to walk home and, not one for being scared by old ghost stories, decided to take a short cut through Combe valley traveling close to Fowlescombe Manor.

It was a bitterly cold night and the clouds travelled fast past the stars. As he stumbled on his way the wind picked up and blew off his hat. After some drunken scrambling he retrieved his hat, replaced it on his head and said to the wind " If you are a ghost blow it off again, I dare you!" With that an icy gust blew it off again. A little unnerved, he scrabbled around for it again but as he did so behind him came a low deep growl so unearthly it sent the hairs on his neck bristling and
he daren’t look around.

Suddenly in front of him there was the figure of a young lad who ran between the trees. The butcher’s apprentice went after him but the young lad had seemed to vanish into the darkness. Then the growls behind butcher became louder and more threatening. He called out in the hope that the young lad would hear him seeing this was the only would-be companion he’d seen that night; there was no answer. The butcher called again but almost as soon as he did a deep, cold chill took hold of his body as if someone had stepped over his grave. He was suddenly aware that someone or something was standing right beside him.

The butcher turned slowly but was not prepared for what he saw.  There was greyish figure of the lad but now, up close, the butcher could see this was no living being. The lad’s eyes were hollowed and his face tortured from terror. The ghostly apparition whispered " make hest the hounds are afoot"

Understandably panicked, the butcher turned on his tracks and ran. But within a few paces he skidded to a halt as  there  confronting him was a pack of ghoulish hounds slowly pacing towards him, their heads lower their backs arched their fangs protruding as they snarled. The dogs vile grotesque faces were warped and disfigured by evil and they had the lust for blood in their eyes. The butcher screamed for help and doubled back again now he didn’t know in which direction he ran all he knew was he had to escape. The brambles and trees whipped his face and tore at his clothes but it didn’t stop him.
He ran as fast as he could but with no path to follow he quickly slipped and fell. As he paused briefly shaking in the mud on his knees, the figure of the young lad fled past him with the ghastly hounds hot on his heels. The spectres passed within inches of the butcher’s face, oblivious to his presence, for now they had their ancient story to play out once more.

The butcher watched in horror as the ghost hounds pounced on the young lad, dragged him to the ground and started to tear him to shreds. The butcher tried to cover his eyes and ears to shut out the goring and ripping off flesh, the snarling of teeth and the helpless piercing screams of the young lad, all as life-like and brutal as that terrible day 80 years earlier. 

It was something no man should have to witness and the butcher could stand it no longer. With the ghost hounds seemly engrossed in a depraved feeding frenzy, he quietly stood up and made for his exit. But, as he did his movement caught the eye of one of the dogs.  It turned and looked him straight in the eye and let out a deathly howl alerting the rest of the pack to a new quarry.

The Butcher now ran for his very life as the ghostly lad was no longer there to distract the beasts. As he ran the hounds gave chase. Never looking back, never stopping once to catch his breath not even for a second the butcher felt his lungs burning and his heart beating out of his chest. His legs felt like lead but still he ran on as the wind whipped round him and the howls, chatter and squeals of delight from the hounds behind filled his ears.  On he ran up the hill to Modbury.

Finally he arrived at the top of Brownston street, yelling, screaming, banging on the doors and waking the bleary eyed locals. The sight that greeted them was pitiful; a terrified shell of a man half naked and shaking in the bitter night air. Both his shoes were missing along with his hat and coat. His arms, face and neck were so deeply torn by bramble and thorn that the wounds looked like the work of some wild beast.

He was brought into the Modbury Inn and plied with brandy and lovage, where he fitfully recounted the happenings in the woods. A doctor was called for and the butcher was taken to bed with a fever. It was reported that in the following days he went over and over the story sobbing and crying as he did. At night he was scared to sleep and when he did he suffered the most frightful nightmares and screamed and bellowed so loud that neighbours could hear him through the walls of their homes. Within a few days he developed pneumonia and by the end of that week he was dead.

The stories of seeing the kings hounds out hunting in the valley on a stormy night lives on. Dad said old Robert Ellis (rest his soul) claimed to have seen them in his top fields adjoining those of Fowlescombe. If you ask Pearl Furneaux, she’ll tell you there’s meant to be ghost hounds here in the valley but she’ll do it with a chuckle and smile. Finally I remember when there was a howl in the wind my old Gran used to say " The kings hounds are calling".

So there you have it, as you can imagine when I first heard this story at the age of 7 years old or so  it scared the living bejesus out of me and even as a teenager I never liked riding my horses past the bottom entrance to your place because of this tale...

oh a couple of caveats to put in…….. I have no idea how much embellishment my family over the generations have given this story , probably a load of old cobblers but still it’s  a bit of fun

And my Dad told me that my great great grandfather told my Grandmother that the butcher always had a bit of a colourful imagination on him and was a bit of a twit at the best of times.
My GG grandfather also suspected that a twig probably knocked off the butchers hat and he just got scared, but had to come up with a fanciful story to justify  waking up half of Brownston street at 2 in the morning.
But it’s true the poor butchers apprentice did sadly die the week after that night, and his death was attributed to shock and pneumonia and he did have dreadful nightmares, and his neighbours heard his screaming.  So something scared him to death… literally!!