The Fiery Dragons of Chapman Barrows

Long before the first stone was laid in Challacombe’s churchyard, before the Roman roads carved their way through Britain’s wild spine, there were whispers on the wind of fire on the moor. Not the fire of hearth or war, but of creatures older than kings—fiery dragons whose breath scorched the sky and whose eyes blazed with the fury of a forgotten world. They haunted Chapman Barrows, rising from the earth like wounds on the land, where time pooled thick and still. Generation after generation passed their stories down—half warning, half prayer—until they became more than legend, more than memory. They became truth in the bones of the moor itself. And though the world beyond Exmoor changed—railways laid, radios hummed, cities swelled—the barrows stood unyielding, their fiery guardians patient as stone. Now, as the winds begin to shift once more and silence deepens across the heath, the flames stir again in the dark, and the dragons of Chapman Barrows prepare to rise.