“Hunningham is a small parish and village in the Learn valley, 3½ miles north-east of Leamington Spa. The river Leam forms the boundary on the north and west, the village being near the river. Hunningham Bridge, which connects the parish with Weston-underWetherley, was out of repair in the early 17th century, the inhabitants of the two parishes being presented at Quarter Sessions in 1636 and 1638. It was found, however, ‘by ancient indenture’ to be chargeable to Knightlow Hundred, and was eventually repaired in 1651 for £20 at the cost of the hundred. This suggests that the by-road carried by the bridge, running roughly parallel with the ‘Welsh Road’ from Napton-on-the Hill and Long Itchington towards Stoneleigh, was formerly of some importance. The Fosse Way runs diagonally across the centre of the parish and is here a metalled road, though not one of the portions which are still a first-class main road.  The south-east boundary is formed by the river Itchen, a tributary of the Leam; near the two rivers the land is liable to floods and about 200 ft. above sea level. A fishery at Hunningham is mentioned in 1348″

From: ‘Parishes: Hunningham’, A History of the County of Warwick: Volume 6: Knightlow hundred (1951)

The White Lady of Hunningham Bridge

With the sad decline of the oral tradition of story telling, which often conveyed local wisdom and history through the use of fable, the legend of the White Lady and Hunningham Bridge is all but forgotten in living memory. Fortunately, through some diligent research, we have managed to turn up some relics of the tale within the unpublished writings of J. Harvey Bloom. Bloom is perhaps best known among folklorists for his now rare Folklore, Old Customs and Superstitions in Shakespeare Land, first published in the nineteen-twenties. The Hunningham legend appears to have been one of those that sadly didn’t make it into the final manuscript, but nevertheless received brief attention in his erudite compilation of the county’s lore when industrialisation was marking the death knell for a past way of life.  Bloom’s book is a greatly referenced source book for much of the later studies into Warwickshire folklore and those with a pocket as deep as their interest can find copies of the 1976 reprint available via online bookstores.

The story of the White Lady of Hunningham Bridge is curious as it makes use of a respected resident in the early part of the 19th Century; a past parish Vicar and Sedleian Professor of Natural Philosophy at Corpus Christi College, Oxford, no less. Revered George Leigh Cooke was a member of the wealthy Leigh family, who owned much of the land and property in Warwickshire, as well as a cousin of novelist Jane Austen. Indeed, Austen wrote with some warmth toward her ‘cousin George’ remarking upon his wit and intelligence. Cooke was made curate of Hunningham and Cubbington parishes in plurality in 1824 and held the positions until his death in 1853; at the time of appointment he was 44 years old. Perhaps the legend adopted Cooke at a later date to allow it some credence among the enlightened and literate recorders of such tales. However, it is pleasing to think that Cooke, like the Rev. Robert Kirk of Aberfoyle, author of the posthumously published Secret Commonwealth of Elves, Fauns and Fairies, was unique in having an otherworldly encounter during a time when belief in such things was as clear a feature of class divide as any social indicator.

There has been the necessity to reconstruct the legend from the fragments available to us through the careful preservation of J. Harvey Bloom. There is no attempt to make addition to the story in detail where it is not absolutely necessary in order to render it coherent. Where there has been cause to take some liberty, we make small apology but hope that the completed article is not diminished by these efforts; perhaps this is the last time the story may be preserved for posterity. Here is, then, adapted in our own words for a contemporary audience, the story of the White Lady of Hunningham Bridge:

***

The Reverend Cooke, being a congenial man, was enjoying the pleasant company in the Red Lion public house one blustery Autumn evening, discussing as best he could the matter of ethics with the locals. Being an educated man with Latin and Greek, he understood well the works of Aristotle and Newton and was trying to make the local populace better acquainted with the higher learnings made available to him as an Oxfored Don. Indeed, the Reverend was known to proselytise the virtues of morality in the age of reason as well in the lecture rooms of Corpus Christi College as in the pulpit of St Margaret’s church. Little did the Reverend Cooke know that the effects of the ale and the events of the evening were going to challenge his firmly held beliefs.

As the evening drew long, a mist began to gather over the river Leam that passes close by the public house. Gazing out across to the bridge, Reverend Cooke fancied that such a peculiar fog was like a ‘willow-the-wisp’ dancing in the night wind up from the waters. As bright as it was in the light of the moon, the fog was making the road hard to see and the Reverend Cooke determined that he should set out for his residence before it condensed so hard as to prevent visibility entirely. Buttoning his coat tight and venturing from the warm fire of the Red Lion, Cooke braved the cool night air and bid farewell to his companions.

Outside, he gazed momentarily out toward the river that seemed the source of the mist and for an instant Cooke imagined he saw a patch of fog brighter than the rest upon the small stone bridge. With a frown, he looked again and could indeed make out the shape of a figure standing near the centre of the ancient brick bridge. Confused by the sight and half-congratulating himself already on being the good Samaritan, Cooke made for the figure and in a few strides was before the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She was pale and wan and dressed in the most peculiar clothes. He thought her dress more like a night-gown and of such brilliant white that it almost outshone the moon. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders and was as golden as the harvest wheat. For a moment, he was struck breathless by the unexpected loveliness before him and he caught a gulp of air in time to speak. In a warm tone, he enquired what the devil she was doing there so late and in such a fog. “The devil is right,” she replied and began sobbing. The Reverend Cooke placed a hand upon her arm and, with his most reassuring tone, which was difficult for him to achieve, he asked what she meant.

“You must away, good sir, or my father will do you harm on account of you being a vicar and all,” the woman sobbed between breaths. “And he is determined to wreck the bridge before the moon sets.”

“But who is your father that he should cause such upset and threaten me?” the Reverend Cooke quizzed her, by now quite cold and anxious to get them both to the fires of the tavern.

“Why, he is Robin the Devil[i] and this is his bridge,” replied the lady.

“His bridge?” guffawed the vicar, “what nonsense is this? It would take a force of men a week to dismantle this bridge, it was hardly built yesterday.”

At this, the girl broke free from the Vicar’s grasp and ran across the bridge and down to the bank of the river, disappearing into the mist. The Reverend Cooke pursued her but, as he came up to the river Leam, he could not make her out. Hallooing at the top of his lungs, he scoured the banks of the river in the hope of the glimmer of her dress. For what felt like hours he looked before returning to the tavern, which was by this time quite empty and preparing to close. Mary Farn who lived at the pub told him that she had seen no strange ladies that night, just the regulars, but promised to keep a watch out. Some of the labourers had foretold of a storm on the horizon and the landlord’s daughter promised that they would see no soul wandering that night.

Contented that his duty had been fulfilled to the best of his ability, the Reverend Cooke retired for the evening and had a very restful sleep. Upon awaking to a bright, crisp morning he could still remember the soft and beautiful face of the mysterious lady upon the bridge. Unable to shake the image, he washed and dressed quicker than normal and made his way to the Red Lion without delay. Before he could arrive at the pub, though, he was astonished to find that there had indeed been such heavy rain in the night as to cause gigantic puddles upon the roads. By the time he reached the Red Lion, he could see that the river had burst its bank and the waters reached right into the pub itself. Shocked by the magnitude of the flooding, the Reverend waded into the waters and batted floating debris away as he headed knee deep toward the pub. As he drew near, he saw with great relief that despite the tremendous attack, the bridge and the pub both still stood.

Since that time, it was long said in the village that if the White Lady was seen upon the bridge, she warned of heavy flooding to come.

---

[i] The National Archives has this entry referring to an individual who has an unmistakable and rather sinister name: “…in 1235 the Warwick holding in Hunningham was reckoned at a quarter of a knight’s fee, the tenant not being named. This quarter-fee was in 1242 held by Robert de Deyvill…”

From: ‘Parishes: Hunningham’, A History of the County of Warwick: Volume 6: Knightlow hundred (1951), pp. 117-120.

Also of significant import here is the legend of ‘Robert the Devil’, sometimes equated with the Duke of Normandy, William the Conqueror’s father.

horses in the car park…