A couple of weeks ago, I found myself sitting beneath one of Britain’s most famous cursed trees sharing a picnic with my three grandsons.

James, the eldest, had already claimed the biggest sandwich before the twins, Jackson and Jordan, could mount much of an argument. We’d found a shady patch of grass beneath the old oak itself, its ancient branches still wrapped in heavy iron chains that have puzzled visitors for generations.

The July sunshine was again relentless beyond the woodland, but here beneath the trees the air was deliciously cool. It was easy to forget that one of Britain’s busiest tourist attractions lay only a few hundred yards away. Until the silence broke.

Click.Click.Click.

The unmistakable sound of a rollercoaster climbing towards its summit drifted through the trees. Seconds later came the screams. Not frightened screams. Excited ones. The echoes of Alton Towers floated across the woodland before fading back into birdsong and rustling leaves. It struck me as wonderfully surreal. Few places in Britain allow the modern world and ancient folklore to exist quite so comfortably side by side. One moment you’re listening to Nemesis roaring overhead. The next you’re looking up at a tree that local legend insists has carried a curse for more than three centuries. Naturally, I told the boys the story. Their eyes never left the chains.

After lunch we wandered deeper into the woods. Within minutes, Jackson and Jordan were hunting werewolves. James had armed himself with a sturdy fallen branch that instantly became a knight’s sword. The woodland transformed around them. Every fallen tree concealed a dragon. Every shadow hinted at adventure. Then James spotted an even better stick.

Unfortunately, it lay just beyond a patch of thick mud. Ignoring every sensible instinct, he lunged for it. Predictably, he became magnificently stuck. A rescue operation followed, involving much laughter and one rather muddy grandson who nevertheless emerged triumphant, sword held high. Later, he wandered towards one of the still woodland pools, its surface hidden beneath a blanket of duckweed.

“Careful,” I called.

“That’s exactly where Jenny Greenteeth lives.”

He froze. Perhaps folklore still has its uses.

I smiled as we continued our walk because that’s how stories survive. Not through dusty books or museum displays.Through afternoons in ancient woods. Through grandparents telling tales. Through children carrying sticks that become swords. Long after the facts have been forgotten, the stories remain. And nowhere is that truer than beneath the branches of the Chained Oak.

The legend begins in the early nineteenth century with Charles Talbot, the Fifteenth Earl of Shrewsbury. The Talbot family had long been one of Staffordshire’s most influential noble families, their seat at Alton Towers overlooking the surrounding countryside. According to local tradition, the Earl regularly travelled through these woods on his way home. One evening, his carriage was stopped by an elderly woman begging for alms.

Accounts differ on what happened next.

Some claim he ignored her entirely. Others say he mocked her. Either way, she was refused. As his carriage rolled away, the old woman is said to have raised her hand and uttered words that would echo through generations.

“For every branch that falls from this old oak, a member of your family shall die.”

It is one of those wonderfully chilling curses that folklore does so well. Simple. Memorable. Impossible to forget. The Earl reportedly laughed and continued home.

Soon afterwards, a violent storm swept across Staffordshire. By morning, a branch had fallen from the ancient oak. Not long afterwards, a member of the Talbot family died.

Coincidence? Perhaps.

Then another branch fell. Another death followed.

And so the story continued.

Terrified, the Earl is said to have ordered every branch of the old oak wrapped in iron chains. If no branches could fall, the curse could never be fulfilled. Today, those chains remain. Heavy. Rusting. Almost impossibly incongruous.

At first glance they appear absurd.

Then you remember why they’re there.

Whether they ever served any practical purpose hardly matters. Their real function has always been symbolic.

In folklore, iron possesses extraordinary power. Across Britain and Europe it was believed to repel witches, bind restless spirits, imprison demons and keep the fairies at bay. Iron horseshoes hung above doors. Iron nails were buried beneath thresholds. Iron scissors were placed beside newborn children. Even ghosts, according to some traditions, struggled to cross iron.So perhaps chaining an ancient tree wasn’t quite as irrational as it first appears. Not if you lived in a world where curses were every bit as real as storms.

How much of the story is actually true? That depends which part you ask about.

The Chained Oak certainly exists. So do its chains.The Talbot family undoubtedly owned Alton Towers and the surrounding estate. But contemporary records describing the curse itself are conspicuously absent.

Most historians believe the tale developed during the Victorian era, when Gothic fiction and medieval romance were immensely fashionable. Alton Towers itself embraced that atmosphere, becoming a place where architecture, fantasy and storytelling merged effortlessly. Like so many great legends, the curse probably grew with each retelling. Every generation added another detail. Another death.Another coincidence. Another reason to believe.

Standing beneath the tree, I found myself wondering why stories like this survive at all. Perhaps because they transform an ordinary landscape into something extraordinary. Once you’ve heard about the Chained Oak, you never simply see an old tree again. You see a curse. A warning.

Exactly the same is true of Jenny Greenteeth lurking beneath duckweed. Or dragons hiding behind fallen trunks. Or werewolves stalking the shadows.The woodland itself doesn’t change.We do. Folklore colours the world around us. It encourages us to look more closely. To imagine. To wonder. And perhaps that is its greatest gift.

As we walked back towards the car, the boys were still arguing about whether dragons would defeat werewolves. James proudly carried his muddy sword. The screams from Alton Towers echoed through the trees once more before fading into the distance. I glanced back at the old oak one final time.

Maybe the curse was never real. Maybe the chains were only ever iron. But if, years from now, Jackson, Jordan and James bring their own children here and tell them about the day they picnicked beneath a cursed tree, rescued a sword from the mud and narrowly escaped Jenny Greenteeth…Then the oldest magic in the forest will still be alive.

Not the curse. The storytelling. Because that has always been the true enchantment of the Chained Oak.