The graveyard around St Peter and St Paul church in the sleepy Kentish hamlet of Charing, a ‘Blink and you will miss it’, village on the main road which runs in a shallow valley of the Kentish Weald, is notable for the large number of children’s graves, each marked by a tiny headstone, and which are mostly unmarked with a name or date. There are over one hundred and thirty, almost all dating from about the same period in history. Most folk miss this interesting place, as Charing is a village which boasts a high street of buildings dating back seven hundred years or more, a Palace, once the home of archbishops from nearby Canterbury, the large meadow named Clewards which was once the site of the fishing lakes for the Palace, and the now hidden but still extant ice well. Clewards meadow tumbles it’s erratic way from the market place, down across the past lake beds to a spring of fresh water, which in the time that King Henry stopped here for a few days at the Palace, back in 1420, and on his way to ‘The Field of the Cloth of Gold’ in France, fed what was then a large moat, a protection for both the palace and the village too. A triangle of trees and grass, outside of the two rustic cottages here, marks the place where once stood the village stocks and gallows, on the old road to Ashford, the market town just six miles away. The gallows long gone, this area still has the remnants of sadness hanging over it.

The church, built around nine hundred years ago, in the time which I have known it, has lost some of its detail around the arch of the fine porch and doorway, to the effects of the twentieth century and acid rain, but the interior is much as it has always looked, though these days a congregation can be counted on the fingers of one’s hand, and for most of the time it is left open, cared for but deserted by humans, the odd bat fluttering about at dusk, the mice beneath the pews, and black crows squawking at the break of day, being the only noise apart from the rumble of traffic from the motorway just across the hill. So Charing is a slow dreary place these days - no longer is there a bustling market by Royal charter in Market place, but for those in the know, Charing still has some fascinating secrets, and ghostly happenings, though only the older residents can nowadays still recall or tell the tales. As the first of May approaches, yes, May Day, it brings to mind a strange occurrence which, still to this day fascinates those who live in the centre of the village, and which is known in the hamlet as the ‘Night of the Dancing Feet’.
Back in the history of the village, a little paganism rustled on in the shadow of Christian worship, and is said by some to still be followed today, although as far as I know, none of those there, who I feel I know well, seem to be the type of folk to be involved - but who can tell what goes on behind the leaded windows, and around the sunken well’s, or roaring fire hearths in the prim and pristine cottages?

But here I go, getting away from the facts of the enduring mystery of the dancing feet, so let’s get back on track!

It is said, that in the early morning hours of May Day, and within the dew laden mist of the early morning, as it hovers like a cloud of foam above an invisible sea, silently forming swirls of white in the light of the full moon upon the grassy blackness of the ground, the lightly dancing feet and merry sounds of children’s voices are apparent, but muffled by the mists of time.
In ages past the decorated pole was erected by the men folk of the village, with garlands of spring flowers around the top, and the many strands of gaily coloured silk ribbons hanging from its crown fluttered in the gentle breeze. But this was in the past, and many years have been and gone since the last village maypole was set for dancing upon the meadow.
But still they dance, it seems, ethereal within the mist, a score of children tread lightly to the music of past days and beneath the silver rays of moonlight.
The older folk of the village talk of the dance but none will venture upon Clewards meadow at this witching hour, in fear of unknown pain and memory. But still the children dance, the frenzy of excitement growing with every step as the silent fiddler encourages them on and on. The ribbons intertwine their spectrum of colour down the ghostly pole and the tiny feet waltz on in a mazurka of passion and will to live again, a dance of ghosts, of spirit, and of the joy of death, before the joy of life was ever fulfilled with hope.

And as the sun glances across the meadow, and in the shadow of the church tower, it’s subtle heat dispersing the mist of night, now, seen in the glow of sunrise appears a ephemeral circle in the grass, grass crushed flat beneath the naked toes of children from another age and a past dimension. A circle of magic, and untimely passing.
Should you venture across the dew wet grass at first light on the first of May, then you might see not only the bold circle left by dancing feet, but also observe the path those tiny feet took on their way back to their homes, worm and dust infested homes deep beneath the earth of the graveyard, in the shadow of the church, where the stones lean at crazy angles, moss encrusted, but still supported by the bones below.

It is said that around midnight, as May the first develops as a new day, muted lights move silently across this place, hovering at different heights, and bobbing around as the ghostly children make their way to the pole around which they will celebrate their short lives, appearing once more to bring life to death, and to remain fixed within the traditions of the meadow forever more. I have seen a photograph of this illuminated stream, wending its way towards the church, taken many years ago by a villager who left a simple pinhole camera at the scene. The image is weird, but clearly shows what has been seldom seen by human eyes. On May the first, this year, I will be upon the meadow, what I will see I do not know, but curiosity will hold my hand in the face of childhood death.
In pace requiestate.