Berry Pomeroy Castle

Deep in the quiet folds of the South Hams countryside, just beyond the ancient market town of Totnes, lies one of Devon’s most atmospheric and enigmatic ruins—Berry Pomeroy Castle. Its crumbling towers rise above a wooded valley, a shadowed relic lost in time, shrouded not only in ivy but in tales of terror, heartbreak and mystery. It is a place where history and legend intertwine so completely that to stand within its broken walls is to feel the thinness of the veil that separates this world from the next. Of all the haunted places in Devon—a county known for its folklore and spectral tales—Berry Pomeroy remains, by many accounts, the most haunted of them all.

The castle as it stands today is a curious structure: a Tudor mansion wrapped inside the protective shell of a Norman keep. The inner house, built in the late 15th century, never reached completion. What remains is an eerie, skeletal echo of grandeur, a place where opulence once aspired to rise but was halted, leaving behind only emptiness. The outer curtain wall and gatehouse, dating from around 1300, are the legacy of the Norman Pomeroy family, who crossed to England with William the Conqueror and held the land for generations. The name itself—Berry Pomeroy—is deeply embedded in local history, and the family’s fortunes, triumphs, and tragedies are woven into the very soil of the place.

And it is tragedy that most defines this castle. The most persistent and chilling legend concerns Lady Margaret de Pomeroy, said to have been imprisoned by her own sister, Eleanor, in a fit of jealousy. The two, so the tale goes, loved the same man—a man whose affections leaned toward the younger and fairer Margaret. Eleanor, mistress of the castle, could not bear to be cast aside. In a rage masked as retribution, she had Margaret confined deep within the dungeons of the castle. There, deprived of food and light, Margaret is said to have slowly starved to death, her beauty and spirit wasting away until only her soul remained, restless and sorrowful.

Today, the ghost of Lady Margaret is said to roam the ruined ramparts and staircases of the castle, her presence an omen of death. Sightings have been recorded for centuries, but the most famous account comes from the late 18th century, when Sir Walter Farquar, physician to the aristocracy, found himself at the castle attending the steward’s ailing wife. As he sat in a cold parlour waiting, a young woman, pale and in great distress, silently entered the room and drifted past him. She ascended the stairs without a word. Sir Walter, perplexed and concerned, called after her but received no reply. Later, having tended to the steward’s wife, he inquired about the visitor. The steward blanched, then grew distraught, declaring that this meant his wife would surely die. Sir Walter assured him she was recovering well—but that very night, a message arrived. The woman was dead.

Local belief holds that to see Margaret’s ghost is to receive a warning. Some say she beckons from the top of a ruined staircase, gesturing gently but insistently. Any unsuspecting soul who follows her risks falling to their death, for the staircase has long since collapsed, and beneath her outstretched hand yawns a fatal chasm. Whether death comes as a result of the fall or if she is merely a harbinger of its approach, no one knows for certain. But few who have seen her forget the look of longing in her eyes.

Berry Pomeroy’s strange energy has drawn not only ghost hunters but photographers and paranormal investigators. Over the years, many have captured inexplicable shapes and forms on film. In 1968, two separate holidaymakers, each visiting on different days, took photographs that appeared to show ghostly figures. One showed a man in a tricorn hat, standing where no man had stood moments before; another caught a young woman in period dress, her face turned away. The man’s image, submitted to the Psychic Research Society, was examined and declared to be genuine—at least in the sense that it had not been tampered with.

There is also the legend of Henry Pomeroy, whose death adds further drama to the castle’s narrative. History records him as a man of fierce loyalty, aligning himself with John, later King John of England, in opposition to the returning crusader, Richard the Lionheart. When fortunes turned, Henry fled the castle and made a desperate last stand at St. Michael’s Mount in Cornwall. Seeing that all was lost, he is said to have ordered his surgeon to bleed him to death, in the style of a Roman nobleman, rather than face capture.

But folklore has embroidered the tale. In the more romantic—and widely told—version, Henry Pomeroy did not die by bloodletting. Instead, he donned full armour, mounted his horse, and with a final blast of his hunting horn, rode blindly over the castle battlements, plummeting to his death. Some claim it wasn’t Henry alone, but two young Pomeroy knights who leapt to their deaths during the aftermath of the Prayer Book Rebellion of 1549, choosing destruction over dishonour. They supposedly buried their treasure within the castle grounds before their fatal charge—treasure that has never been found.

There are further stories, too. One involves the tragic lovers—again unnamed in the annals of time—who were caught in a forbidden embrace by the brother of the young woman. He killed them both in a fit of rage. On certain nights, when the moon shines through the broken stone window high above the central hall, two figures can be seen reaching out to one another, their hands forever failing to meet, held apart not by distance but by an ancient hatred that still lingers in the stone.

Visitors to Berry Pomeroy Castle often report strange sensations—an oppressive atmosphere, sudden drops in temperature, feelings of dread or disorientation. Children sometimes cry uncontrollably within the ruins, and animals balk or panic without apparent cause. Shadowy shapes are said to move just out of sight, and voices—whispers, laughter, weeping—are sometimes heard in the still air.

One particularly strange story comes from a local woman named Edna from Torquay, who recounted an experience had by friends of hers. They approached the castle from the base of the valley, climbing a footpath past what seemed to be derelict cottages, tumbledown barns, and people in ragged clothing. An air of malevolence surrounded the place, so much so that one member of the group returned to the car, unwilling to go on. Days later, intrigued by what they’d seen, the group returned—only to find neat cottages, freshly painted, with blooming gardens and tidy barns filled with corn. Had they seen a ghost village? A slippage in time? The day had been hot and still, the path unchanged. They could offer no explanation.

The phenomenon of “phantom cottages” is not isolated to Berry Pomeroy. This part of Devon—deep and ancient, shaped by centuries of agrarian life and noble bloodlines—is a place where layers of time seem to rest one atop another. Some theorists believe these moments are echoes of the past, residual hauntings preserved in the landscape itself. Others suggest they are glimpses into alternate timelines, fleeting intersections between then and now. Whatever the cause, they are not uncommon in these remote valleys and wooded hills.

Some who have spent long periods at the castle describe unexpected encounters. Workers with the Department of the Environment, tasked with preservation efforts, reported seeing things they could not explain. One reached down to pat what he thought was a friendly dog—only to realise there was no dog there. Another felt bursts of electrical energy in the ground, suggesting the presence of ley lines beneath the castle. One woman, curiously, insisted the castle felt joyful rather than haunted—a haven for memory, not just mourning.

And yet, the weight of stories tips the scale toward the darker. It was Peter Underwood—author, broadcaster, and long-time President of the Ghost Club—who offered perhaps the most useful advice to those drawn to Berry Pomeroy Castle’s mysteries: be quiet. Listen. Let the place speak to you in its own time. Carry a camera, but never trust what you see through the lens. And above all, if a figure beckons you—whether down a path, across the courtyard, or up a shattered stairwell—do not follow.

The castle remains open to the public, standing not only as a monument to medieval ambition and Renaissance dreams, but as a living chronicle of the strange and the spectral. Its ivy-clad ruins seem to breathe with stories. And whether one believes in ghosts or not, there’s no denying that something lingers at Berry Pomeroy—something just beyond reach, just beyond understanding. It is a place that remembers.