With its simple church, quaint houses and winding lanes, Imber looks at first glance like any other Wiltshire village. Yet since 1943 it has been a ghost settlement, emptied of its people and absorbed into the Salisbury Plain military training area. Its story stretches back to the Domesday Book, when fifty souls were recorded here, and by the mid-nineteenth century the population had risen to over four hundred. The decline came later, as isolation and the War Office’s gradual purchase of land pushed families away. By 1939, almost every property belonged to the military, save for the church, vicarage, schoolroom and Bell Inn.
In November 1943, with American troops preparing for D-Day, the villagers were given just forty-seven days to leave. They departed reluctantly but without resistance, leaving food in cupboards and possessions in place, believing they would return within six months. They never did. The blacksmith Albert Nash, who had served the community for decades, was found sobbing at his anvil; within weeks he was dead, said to be of a broken heart, and buried at St Giles. His story has become emblematic of the trauma of eviction.
Efforts to reclaim Imber continued after the war. In 1961, two thousand protestors gathered in the village, demanding its return, but the inquiry ruled it must remain a training site. Later, in the 1970s, testimony from soldiers and pilots confirmed promises had been made to villagers, yet the Defence Lands Committee still recommended retention. Over time, cottages were demolished, shells of houses built for training, and the place became a hollow echo of its former self.
Yet Imber is not only remembered for its history; it is haunted by stories of ghosts and figures from its past. In 1880, Mr and Mrs Plank at New Zealand Farm saw a white-robed figure glide past in the fog, thought to be a druid spirit from the Bronze Age camps nearby. In 1976, a white hare with a golden chain was seen chased by a spectral greyhound, echoing witch lore of shape-shifting and pursuit by the Devil. Soldiers in the 1950s reported the windmill turning in the night, though it had long been demolished, and in 1988 a paratrooper named Paul Gearing described a black figure in pleated collar crossing a room and vanishing through a wall. Others smelled phantom fires and heard voices in empty houses.
The roads around Imber carry their own legends. A phantom coach and highwayman are said to haunt the old Bath road, recalling tales of Biss, hanged in Salisbury in 1695, and of a robbery in 1839 when thieves were chased across the downs and later transported to Australia. A galloping horseman rides the High Street at night, promising treasure to those who can keep pace. On Chitterne Down, the Robber’s Stone still warns of swift justice for brigands.
The Bell Inn, once a lively public house, is now a shell, but shadows and clangs of metal are heard there, as if Albert Nash still works his forge beside it. Imber Court, the manor house, was once the social centre of the village; today its shuttered windows are said to reveal a candle-bearing lady of the Wadman family. Range wardens have heard voices demanding “What gives you the right?” and phantom hunting dogs baying from the old kennels. Even graffiti appears mysteriously on walls, white letters that vanish from photographs as if written by unseen hands.
Despite its abandonment, Imber still hosts moments of life. Since 2009, the annual Imberbus event has brought Routemaster buses across the Plain, raising funds for St Giles and the Royal British Legion. Each September, on St Giles’ Day, the church opens for service, and at Christmas carols are sung in its medieval nave. In December 2022, Kelvin Nash, born in Imber, was buried beside his father and great-uncle Albert, likely the last funeral the village will ever see. The ghosts of Imber — both spectral and remembered — linger in its lanes, its church, and its stories, ensuring that though the villagers never returned, their presence has never truly left.
