Scraps And Scribblings: The Witch of Conger Hill and Pancake Day February 2021

by Richard Tearle

Conger Hill, Toddington, Bedfordshire

(Photo courtesy of Toddington Village Facebook Group

photographer unknown)

She'd been known as 'Old Agnes' for centuries, but it wasn't her real name. She could not even remember what it had been. It didn't matter, not now, for she did not mix with people anymore so there was no one to call her by name, ancient or otherwise.

People? Pah! She had no time for the creatures. False they were. And liars. Vain creatures who criticised what they did not understand.

Once upon a time she had not been too bothered by them, willing to help some of them if they were ill or in childbirth. 'Wise Woman' they termed her and that, at least, was true. Some, though, called her witch and much as she hated that, she did not cause them harm. At least, not in a way that could be blamed on her.

She'd lived in the woods back then. A solitary existence for the most part. The occasional traveller might stop by and request water or food and these she would provide in exchange for news of worldly events.

In her time, invaders had come and were gone again, or became integrated. Life evolved but it also revolved. Enemies became friends and allied against former friends who were now enemies. Kings and queens created dynasties which were replaced by new ones. Even the land changed and changed again.

Take this hill, for example. Many centuries ago it had been as bare and barren as it is today. But in between times men had built on it. Romans had begun that and it had continued long after they had gone. Wooden fortresses at first until a great stone castle was erected. But even that had crumbled and disappeared leaving the hill just as it had been when she first came live by it.

Agnes shook her head and mumbled Fools! to herself. She remembered the castle only too well. That's where they'd thrown her and left her to rot after the incident...

The year was 1293 by human reckoning. The third King Henry was on the throne of England and a man called Sir Paul Pever owned the castle balanced on top of Conger Hill as well as a brand new Manor House nearby. Agnes still lived in her ramshackle hut just away from a rough path through the woods. There she gathered her herbs, perfected her recipes and healed the sick when her assistance was asked for.

The time of the year was called Lent by the Christian people and though she rarely went anywhere near the manor she knew that it was a time of a great feast followed by a period of abstinence for those devout enough to observe the tradition. Agnes scoffed at it: none of her business.

But this year, she recalled, was different. It was different because they came calling upon her. They consisted of a vaguely familiar girl who, by her attire, was a kitchen maid, a number of women who would prove to be cooks as well as a few soldiers serving as an escort. She could not guess why they had come to her at this time.

Agnes looked up from the healing potion that was boiling in her cauldron. Another few minutes and she could remove it from the heat and allow it to cool.

'What d'ye want?' she said without looking up.

'We need your help, Wise Woman,' replied the serving girl.

'What sort of help would you want from an old woman like me?'

The girl looked down at her feet. 'Sir Paul is having a banquet tonight, but the chief cook has fallen ill. Sir Paul particularly loves the pancakes he makes because Cook has a secret ingredient that nobody knows. Sir Paul will be angry if he can't eat his favourite pancakes.'

Agnes laughed heartily. 'Ye've come all the way out 'ere t'ask me to make....pancakes? Bugger off, the lot of yer!'

'My grandmother used to tell of how you were the best cook in the county,' the girl cried.

Ah! Agnes had thought she knew the face. Yes, indeed; the very spit of her gran. And she was right about being the best cook, too. That pleased Agnes. Praise wasn't a sentiment that passed too often along this road.

'And what's in it for me, then? If I were to agree, that is.'

'Gold?' offered one of the women.

'A nice warm room?' said another.

'And you'd be famous,' added the girl. 'People will know it was you who cooked pancakes for Sir Paul.'

Agnes stopped to think. Gold was all very well, but she had little need of it. A warm room would be nice, too, but spring was here and summer on its way. Fame? Ah, now, that was a different kettle of mackerel. She may not see many people in her life, but just knowing that they were out there and talking about her in a complimentary way was irresistible to Old Agnes.

'We'd best be getting a move on, then, else I won't get 'em all cooked in time.

Old Agnes had never seen such a kitchen. Shiny copper pots and pans, sharp knives and more ingredients than you could shake a stick at. And here she was in charge of it all! Agnes was not one for hanging around and she was soon bossing everybody, whoever they may be.

'Too much of that', she'd cry. Or: 'Too little of that! As she went around tasting the mixtures the cooks were making from her strict instructions. But everyone agreed that these were the best pancakes and Sir Paul would be suitably pleased.

Not everyone, however. The jester was heard to remark that 'No good would come of this,' and a lady's maid declared that she had 'Never seen the like.' This angered Old Agnes, but she held her temper until one of the servants sampled one of the pancakes and said loudly, 'Truly wonderful. Almost as good as dear old Cook's pancakes!'

Agnes was seething. How dare they criticise! Out of the goodness of her heart she had agreed to get them all out of a mess and here they were saying almost as good? All thoughts of gold, comfort and fame departed. Almost as good? Nearly as good? Well, she'd show them! Their cook may have had his own secret ingredient, but she had a few of her own.

After all of the guests had fallen ill, Old Agnes was taken and locked in the castle dungeons. Her cauldron and grill were thrown in with her. Many things befell Sir Paul and his family, culminating in his death three years later. Nobody thought to blame the witch incarcerated under the ground; indeed, all had forgotten about her. In time the castle crumbled and the remains disposed of. Nothing remained of the grandeur that had once stood there.

In her underground dungeon, Old Agnes heard the bells. She felt the tremors as they reverberated through the ground around her.

It's time!

Today was the day she waited for all year and she cackled in anticipation. The grill was ready, the cauldron full. She began cooking.

Above her, the children of the village would be gathering, supervised by parents and schoolteachers. As the bells tolled out – a reminder to the villagers that they should be making pancakes today – the children would be instructed to lie down and put their ears to the ground.

Could they hear the witch frying her pancakes?

Oh, they would hear her alright. Young ears would catch the pancakes crackling away in the depths of the ground. They may even smell the delicious aroma permeating through the soil.

And perhaps some errant child would stray into her lair.

She was running short of some of her special ingredients...

(Conger Hill is a small mound just outside the village of Toddington in Bedfordshire. A Roman fortress once stood there. On Shrove Tuesdays, the bells of the nearby church rang out as a reminder to all housewives to cook their pancakes. Children were taken to Conger Hill where they lay on the ground and listened. Some say they can hear the witch cooking her pancakes …..