A giant’s grave, lost lake, missing castle and misplaced church

Last updated on November 18th, 2025 at 12:37 pm

Sometimes, it’s fun to set off in search of something you have little hope of finding.  Of course, the hope is that the elusive whateveritis will be yours to claim.  Maybe the attraction is merely the thrill of the chase.  But, perhaps the best you can wish for is that you will be able to tie enough threads together to get a sense of something – and, if you are lucky, spread a story or two.  It was in that spirit that I encouraged Daughter of Britain to accompany me on something of a quest.  Perhaps she felt sorry for me; she is a kind girl.  It was a treat for me, of course.

Since finding myself exiled in the frozen North of England, I have become enchanted by its hidden corners.  Britain is a land of myths and these crop up with delightful regularity in the remoter parts, like the far north.  Perhaps it’s the absence of bright lights, sunshine and modern buildings.  Anyway, our quest was in the area east of the tourist magnet that is the Lake District, on the edge of the Pennines, an upland region interrupted by valleys and dales.  Distinctive now, the area displays the influences of long-gone Celtic tribes, Roman legionnaires, Norse, Anglian and Irish raiders and, after them, the conquering Norman French.  It is an area some call The Old North, or Hen Ogledd.

The grave of our quest is, actually, well known and in the middle of the market town of Penrith.  The lake and castle have associations with the legendary King Arthur and, as you may have guessed, are a little tricky to pin down.  The church has no road to it, so you need to know it is there.  I had been before and wanted to revisit simply to see if Daughter of Britain liked it as much as I did.

Penrith’s so-called Giant’s Grave will be found immediately on the north side of the church of St Andrew.  The dedication to the patron saint of Scotland is a reminder of a time when this part of modern Cumbria was ruled by the King of the Scots.  The church itself is a large, block-like, 18^th century building bolted on to a 12^th/13^th century tower. It could be described as imposing; inside, functional, spacious and of the period.

The Giant’s Grave is in fact six individual highly decorated monuments assembled as a whole and dating, it is generally thought, from at least the 10^th century.  At either end are two columns, crosses thought to be of Anglian or perhaps Celtic, heritage, some ten feet (3 metres) high.  Between them are four ‘hogback’ stones, a distinctive type of Viking-Age grave markers peculiar to this part of North West England and South West Scotland – areas of Scandinavian settlement.  As a single entity, the monument is about fifteen feet (4.5 metres) long.

All the stones were originally richly covered with beautiful sculptures, but are now heavily weathered.  Better and more expert eyes than mine can pick out ancient lettering, patterns, serpents, a human figure.

The monuments may not, it has to be said, commemorate a giant.  They may have originally marked individual graves, or form a family memorial.  They are believed to be Christian and, certainly, the Giant’s Grave is on an East-West orientation.  It seems to be that the grave has always been there.  It was opened, some say, in the 17^th century, to reveal the bones of a man with “great long shank bones” and a broad sword.  When the church replaced the older building in 1720, it was intended to re-use the stones in the construction of a ditch, or drain, but this proposal caused such a local furore that they were left in place.  The real story, of course, is that this is the resting place of Sir Hugh, Ewen, or Owain, Cesarius, a huge man, and a warrior of great strength, a slayer of monsters, or wild boars, in the nearby Forest of Inglewood.  Some say he dwelt in the Giant’s Caves on the banks of the River Eamont, not far from the final destination in this quest.  Owain is an ancient Brittonic (or Welsh) personal name and Cumbrian County History Trust suggests there are a couple of candidates for the one in this instance.  Owain ab Urien Rheged, Owain son of 6^th century King Urien of Rheged, sometimes appearing in Arthurian legend as Ywain, Yvain or Gawain.  Another option is Owain ap Dyfnwal, King of the Strathclyde Welsh, who may have fought and died in the Battle of Brunanburh in 937 AD, when an alliance between Strathclyde, Olaf Guthfrithson, King of Dublin and Constantine II, King of Scotland was defeated by Æthelstan, King of England.

Before allowing ourselves to disappear down a Dark Age, or at least pre-Conquest, rabbit-hole, we should mention there is another 10^th century monument in the churchyard.  This is known as the ‘Giant’s Thumb’.  There are examples of this type of ring-cross, or Celtic cross, elsewhere.  Some can pick out a Crucifixion scene on one face of the cross.  All is much worn.  It may have been a preaching cross.  I have also read that, in the Middle Ages, it was used as a place of punishment, with miscreants’ hands being lashed through the holes in the cross and, thus, they were suspended for their sentence.

The Church of St Andrew occupies a focal point in town, in the midst of what was once a fortified enclosure defined by the surrounding streets.  It is an attractive place, like a cathedral close.  Before leaving in search of the next part of our quest, we treated ourselves to a coffee and a bacon roll.  On the way out, the street sign De Whelpdale Lane caught my eye.  I hoped it was named for the curious medieval Cumbrian habit of de whelpdaling – something to do with dogs and valleys – but it turns out that John de Whelpdale was one of the original governors of Queen Elizabeth Grammar School, founded in 1564 and originally situated in the churchyard.

Our lost lake was (and still is) called Tarn Wadling, Tarn Wadalyne, Terne Wathelyne, The Wathelan – or variations thereof.  Though little more than a dip in the ground these days, Tarn Wadling is no mythical place.  Well known in times past, it appears on the medieval Gough Map, Britain’s oldest road atlas, as one of only two lakes in old Cumberland, the other being Lake Windermere.  It was located in the midst of the mighty royal forest of Inglewood, with a tree-lined shore, roosting wild fowl on its still waters – and was said to breed the finest carp in the kingdom.  The fish were owned by the Benedictine nuns of nearby Armathwaite and were also enjoyed by the Augustinian canons of Carlisle.  The tarn is still marked on the modern Ordnance Survey map, just to the east of the village of High Hesket, roughly mid-way between Penrith and Carlisle, and its association with Armathwaite Nunnery may be attested on the same map by a nearby patch of land marked ‘Nunclose’.  The name Inglewood Forest also appears on today’s map, some distance to the west.  Lord Lonsdale, clearly a pillock with far too much money, drained the tarn in the 1850s, it is said to create a training ground for racehorses.  When I first read about the drainage, I imagined some chap wading into the waters searching for a gigantic plug, heaving it out and the water draining away with a satisfying gurgle into a hidden subterranean cavern. As it is, I believe the tarn was on higher ground than the River Eden, off to the east.  It is reported that the lake at least partially refilled, because people skated on it in 1939.  It was finally drained for agriculture in the 1940s.

The A6 north out of Penrith follows the Roman road to Carlisle and Hadrian’s Wall, past the site of the Roman fort of Voreda.  This, remember, is the Old North.  The site of Tarn Wadling is a little further on.  A right turn along an unclassified road before High Hesket brought us to a small wood managed by the Woodland Trust; and there was the sign – Tarn Wadling – welcome.  Even parking outside the wood in a small lay-by produced a slight frisson of excitement, because Tarn Wadling has – or had – something of a curious reputation.  Some thought it a gateway between the realms of men and fairies.  Some thought it cried, or that the sound of bells could be heard drifting from beneath its waters.  There were strange lights.  Then, in 1810, a small island mysteriously rose up to the surface.  It was several yards in diameter and stayed several months before sinking back into the watery depths, reminiscent of Atlantis – or Avalon.

So here’s a tale…

The great King Arthur, when holding court at Carlisle one Christmas, set off on his own one day to ride through the Forest of Inglewood.  Inglewood was an enchanted forest, known to be close to the Otherworld.  Some associate it with the Green Knight – but that’s another story.  Close by Tarn Wadling, Arthur came upon a grim baron knight, Gromer Somer Joure, of Castle Hewen.  The Baron, armed with a great club, bars Arthur’s way and says he will spare the king’s life if he promises to return in a year with the answer to a riddle: what is it that women most desire?  But he has to answer that question, or his life will be forfeit.

When Arthur gets back to Carlisle, he asks his companions if they know the solution to the riddle.  None can work it out.  In despair, Arthur rides the countryside thereabouts, looking for an answer.  In the forest once more, he comes upon a loathly lady, a hag, mounted on a fine horse.  Her name is Dame Ragnelle.  She seems to know the king’s plight and offers to tell him the answer to the riddle if he can promise her his nephew, Sir Gawain, for her husband. The king heads back to court and tells Gawain his predicament.  Gawain, one of the Round Table’s parfit gentil knyghts, consents to the marriage in order to save his uncle. King Arthur rides back to the forest, meets with Dame Ragnelle, and tells her of Sir Gawain ’s agreement.  In return, Dame Ragnelle tells him that what women most desire is their own free will – sovereignty.  Arthur gives the answer to Sir Gromer Somer Joure, who it transpires is Dame Ragnelle’s brother, and the planned marriage of Gawain and Ragnelle goes ahead.

On their wedding night, Gawain sets out to behave as any other newly married couple and go to bed, whereupon Ragnelle is transformed into the most beautiful woman he has ever seen.  There is just one snag – there always is: Ragnelle had been under a spell to look like the loathly lady until a good knight married her, but her looks can only be fully restored by day or night.  Which would Gawain prefer?  The privacy of their marital bedroom, or the publicity of court?  In an act of courtesy and compassion, Gawain, good chap that he is, leaves the choice to her.  This breaks the spell that Ragnelle and her brother had been put under by their wicked stepmother, he to challenge travellers through the forest, she to lose her looks until some man married her and gave her free will.  The couple lived blissfully together, but tragically, Ragnelle died after just five years; Gawain mourned her for the rest of his life.

There are variations of the tale The Wedding of Sir Gawain and Dame Ragnelle and the themes in it, including that of the Loathly Lady – notably in Chaucer’s Wife of Bath Tale.  They originate from less politically correct times.  The version here is a summary from various versions easily found on the Internet and from the fabulous ‘Albion – A Guide to Legendary Britain’ by the late Jennifer Westwood.

Tarn Wadling is the location for another Arthurian tale, The Awntyrs off Arthure at the Terne Wathelyne.  King Arthur, Queen Guinevere and knights of the Round Table set out to hunt in Inglewood. The king gallops off in pursuit of a deer, while the queen settles beside the waters of the Tarn Wathelene, guarded by the good Sir Gawain.  Suddenly, the sky darkens, a storm rises and, with much hideous wailing, a truly awful figure glides across the lake toward them.  It is in female form, hideous, barely clad, black, rotting, covered in toads and snakes, with sunken, glowing eyes.  It identifies itself as the ghost of Guinevere’s mother, and describes the torments she suffers for her sins in life, particularly lust and pride. She warns her daughter against the same fate, unless she is virtuous and charitable, and asks for masses to be said for her own soul.  She also predicts the fall of Arthur and the end of the Round Table by a traitor in their midst – Mordred, Arthur’s illegitimate son through his half-sister, Morgause.

There is a second part to the story, after the party return to Carlisle, which is a seemingly unrelated romance with a happy ending, thus ensuring the reader can forget about Guinevere’s mother’s prophetic warnings.

Sadly, there is little to be seen at Tarn Wadling these days, though the dip in the ground where the lake lay for centuries, probably a kettle hole formed from melting glacial water, is clear.  We had to enter the wood, though; there was no point coming all this way to find a lost lake without some attempt to put our toes in the water, as it were.  It was an attractive little wood, yet noticeably quiet and still.  It felt old, but the present trees are relatively recent, certainly not medieval.  All the talk of knights and kings and hideous women was getting to me, though, and it was hard to avoid the imagination doing what it does best.  Would a Loathly Lady appear, or a huge Baron Knight?  I pulled myself together.  There is a well-defined way, not a path exactly, which led through the wood to a gate into a field, still part of the lost lake.  It must have been huge.  At the far side, on what was once the eastern shoreline, was a ruin; the remains of an old boathouse, apparently.

You may recall that the fortress of the grim baron, Gromer Somer Joure, was called Castle Hewen, or Hewin.  Some believe that ‘Hewen’ is a derivative of ‘Owain’.  Other candidates as owner of Castle Hewen include Sir Hugh, Ewen, or Owain, Cesarius – believed to be the 6^th century Owain ab Urien Rheged – and the 10^th century Owaine of Strathclyde.  You may also recall that these Owains have all been associated with the Giant’s Grave in Penrith, where we began our quest.  Are they all the same person?  When you step into legend, it can be a small, sometimes complicated, world.

From what I can make out (and, really, I’m none too sure) Castle Hewen stood less than a mile NE from Tarn Wadling on a NW-SE ridge between the hamlet of Aikengate and Nunclose.  Remember Nunclose?  The grid reference, if you’re really fussy, is supposed to be NY4852246253.

The 16^th century antiquary John Leland, or Leyland, recorded a ruined castle, thought to be medieval, there in 1553.  He called it Castle Lewin.  The 18^th century antiquary William Hutchinson recorded foundations at Castle Hewin in 1794 that were in places 8 feet (2.4 metres) thick, and one building measuring 233 feet (71 metres) x 147 ft. (44.8 metres), with outer defences and trenches. By the 20^th century, all appeared to have been ploughed out and aerial photography only revealed indistinct earthworks.  Nevertheless, the site was marked on he OS map in 1901, as sown above.  It was partially excavated in 1978-81, when there was focus was on what seemed to be a large circular structure, possibly of high status.  The conclusion of the dig was that Castle Hewen was not a medieval structure. “The hilltop had, however, been occupied by the early Roman period, if not before, and consisted of structures suggestive of some ‘status’. One (or more) ephemeral phases of later occupation was demonstrated, and yielded a date in the late Roman period/early 6th century.” 

The 6^th century is the period often associated with the legendary King Arthur.

Castle Hewen was shown on the 1901 OS Map, but not on the modern equivalent. The trusty ABAB Team set out by trusty chariot along tiny lanes from Tarn Wadling, parked in the tiny hamlet of Aikengate and walked uphill along a track heading southeast. There was no trace of any structure – although we did not explore anything off-track.  Would a 6^th century warlord have known this spot?  He would probably have enjoyed a view over Tarn Wadling and, in the distance, the mountains of the English Lakes – long before England had been invented.  That part of the view is still there today, as you can see at the very top of this piece.

The last stop on our quest was Ninekirks.  ‘Ninekirks’ is more properly St Ninian’s, Brougham, a remote church a couple of miles east of Penrith.  As mentioned previously, I had already visited.  It is accessible only by foot, along a track to a bend in the River Eamont and thence to where the church nestles inside a walled enclosure in the middle of a field.  To reach the start-point by car, drive on the eastbound side of the A66 from Penrith and, ignoring the unwanted advances of the HGV behind attempting intercourse with your car, slow down as you pass the turning for Brougham Castle.  More or less opposite Whinfell Park on your right, drop sharply left off the road down into a very small parking area.  It’s easy to miss this turning, in which case you simply need to go past and turn round.  Once there, the pathway is obvious, even without a map, and in under a mile you will reach a five-bar gate with the church in front of you.  You may need boots – and to ignore the ugly, curious, sheep.

Ninekirks is a lonely, beautiful and evocative spot and, on the face of it, there is no reason for anything to be there at all.  The present building was constructed in 1660 by Lady Anne Clifford on the site of an earlier one and is a rare example of a 17^th century church close to how it looked at the time.  It is very simple – most of the fittings, including the box pews, date from this time.  There is no electricity and, in poor light, it is quite dim inside.  The completion date, 1660, the year of the Restoration, is carved over the simple altar.  Services are still occasionally held there.  However, the site is thought to be very early medieval, possibly even Roman.  There was a Celtic monastic settlement here, by tradition founded by St Ninian, at the end of the 4^th century – long before newcomers like Saints Columba, Aiden, Augustine and the Roman Catholic Church stumbled into the pages of history.  It is felt a settlement grew from this, but had been abandoned (or moved closer to Brougham) by the end of the 13^th century.  The monastic church, or its successor, presumably stayed.  It was dilapidated by the 17^th century and that’s when the redoubtable Lady Anne stepped in.  You can read more about her at Brougham, Brough, Pendragon castles and elsewhere.

Many of Britain’s churches and cathedrals have very early, sometimes pre-Christian, beginnings.  It seems here was a Celtic community at the very dawn of Christianity in Britain, possibly as Roman rule drew to a close.  A hoard of 23 Roman coins was uncovered during the digging of a grave in the churchyard in 1914 and these are said to have been left there between 276 and 286 AD – more than 100 years before Roman Britain petered out.  It is not clear where the tradition of the monastery being founded by Ninian comes from.  Ninian is reputed to have landed on the Isle of Whithorn, in Dumfries and Galloway, in 397AD where he established a mission to convert the pagan southern Picts.  He is meant to have been a native Briton, but little is known about him – and none of it undisputed fact.

Marked on the map on the opposite, northern, bank of the Eden close by Ninekirks is ‘Giant’s Caves’.  Ninian is reputed to have lived as a hermit in a cave; perhaps it was there.  Interestingly, Sir Hugh Caesario – who you may remember from Penrith’s Giant’s Grave – had a hermitage nearby called Sir Hugh’s Parlour.  See how joined up this quest is?  At the risk of introducing yet another character, one Torquin, a man of gigantic stature and addicted to all kinds of rapine and brutality, lived in a cave in this neighbourhood too.  What a busy place it used to be.

Here is a link to bit more about Ninekirks.  To be honest, it looked a little worse for wear on my second visit.  But before we leave it, we should mention that it is looked after by the excellent Churches Conservation Trust and open from 10am to 4pm daily.  Dusk was falling as we left the church and made our way across the field to the path and thence to the parked car.  I spotted a man crossing the field toward us.  He was bespectacled, with a jaunty scarf and khaki shorts.  I assumed he had come to lock up.  We nodded to each other as we passed.  At least, I thought we did.  When I mentioned him to my daughter, she insisted – repeatedly – that she had seen no one.  She could be teasing me.  I could find out by contacting the CCT.  However, I’m leaving it there for the time being; why spoil a perfectly good companionable day of myths and legends by risking too much reality creeping in?