Until I accidentally bought a cottage at St Briavels, my only knowledge of the Forest of Dean was through geography lessons at school, with the industrial maps that we used showing the Forest area coloured in black, to represent the coal mining industry. The house purchase was accidental as I was supposed to be bidding at the auction for a friend, who gave me a limit, but I was carried away and bid beyond the limit. I had to do some quick financial juggling to get my bid honoured by the bank, and then I moved from London to the Forest of Dean.

I quickly learned that the village’s name rhymes with revels, and not the clumsy Bri-a-vels. The name of the village commemorates a shadowy Celtic priest, Saint Brioc, who was apparently a much-travelled monk who had connections with Wales, Cornwall and France, where the village Saint-Brieuc also celebrates his name.

I’ve moved around the Forest quite a lot since then, and spent ten years in an overseas exile, but St Briavels still retains its charm for me. The quaint village centre, with its charming church and two great pubs, the Crown (now sadly no longer with us), and the George, the intellectual centre of the village where matters of philosophical and political interest could be discussed to resolve the problems of the world.

But the great feature of the village is its castle, which dominates the village and the Wye valley below. It was constructed in the 12th Century on orders from Milo FitzWalter, Sheriff of Gloucester. as one of the many castles along the border with Wales to deter any Welsh invasion. This must have been one of the most effective forts along the entire national boundary, with the great views into Wales from its elevated position overlooking the River Wye. It seems to have worked without any military action necessary.

There was also a forge, where cross-bow bolts were made for wars in England’s other mediaeval boundary, that with Scotland.

The castle served for many years as a prison, and there are a couple of sad messages scratched onto the walls of the prison cells, such as the heartbreaking ‘ For I have been here a great space; And I am weary of the place’ and the great cry of an apparently honest man who fell out with someone whose testimony had condemned the poor nameless prisoner ‘Robin Belcher, The Day will come that thou shalt answer for it for thou hast sworn against me’.

And there is the oubliette, a savage form of imprisonment that involves throwing a prisoner into a cellar, slamming the door, and leaving him there.

This cruel sort of punishment is not generally recorded, but the castle does indeed have the oubliette trap door in the middle of a room.

The castle became a private dwelling after its time as a post-mediaeval debtors prison, and is now a youth hostel, bringing the glorious Forest to visitors from throughout our country and beyond.