A ghostly halloween moon ...

It’s the time of year when thoughts turn to muffled walks along the beach, when winds and gales storm in from the vast reaches of the oceans to pluck the leaves from trees which are themselves battening down for the harshness of winter. Walks down country lanes and over fields see the desperation of small animals trying to find shelter from the desolation which is to come. But yet this is no armageddon. It is just the turn of the seasons which give such richness to our lives. It was Keats, about two hundred years ago, who penned the immortal phrase “Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness” which so brilliantly summed up the gentler side of autumn.

But there is a more mysterious side ... felt best at night. About one hundred years ago  the poet Alfred Noyes wrote:

                             “The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,

                               The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas”

How evocative. And it is true that the moon seems to come into its own when summer has departed and cold windy nights hold sway with threats of darkness, storms and unexplained events. And this mysticism is compounded by the way the moon changes its shape during its cycle. Imagine how primeval man must have lived in such awe of this fearful influence which often hangs, huge and remote, and then seems to shape-change in a baleful silent mystery. Watching and waiting, while the affairs of men continue in fear.

So imagine my delight when driving through a small mediaeval village in Somerset called Stoke sub Hamdon. There are rows of delightful old terraced cottages, many of which have boston ivy clawing a purchase on the honey coloured sandstone, and in the middle of which is a pub called “The Half Moon”. Images of the Occult immediately rose to mind. Finding a parking space I could then look more closely and get a feeling for the building. This appears to be an old coaching inn which according to the most hospitable landlady Anne, then became two cottages before being turned into a pub.

The Half Moon in Stoke sub Hamdon, Somerset

The sign outside is a slight anomaly in that it is actually a waxing crescent moon, with the horns pointing to the left. A half moon by definition has no horns. But who cares? When the moon is waxing, or getting larger, it is a wonderful time for magic, curing of illnesses and generally is a “good” influence. So this pub is definitely worth a visit without any danger!

Going through the heavy wooden coaching doors you are instantly taken back to a more simple age where wood and natural materials give a secure ageless feeling of warmth ... a sympathetic background from the steel and glass of the modern era. And, for those sensitive to such things, it is an obvious playground for the spirit world. So, settling down with a few drinks, Anne told us some entertaining stories about her ghostly experiences since taking over the Half Moon. These included:

• Unexplained footsteps upstairs when there was nobody there
• Midnight voices, some raised in argument
• The front door mysteriously becoming unlatched
• Barrels being moved in the cellar in the early hours of the morning

But the piece-de-resistance is the Coachman. He has been seen standing in the main bar area dressed in nineteenth century boots, stove pipe hat and hardy coaching gear as protection against the vagaries of the weather which he must face through all seasons. But he quickly vanishes when observed. It is perhaps he who has followed Anne at midnight, whistling in an eerie fashion?

But that’s not all. There is a Roman soldier who has taken up residence behind the bar; perhaps he was wounded in the many battles which took place around that part of England. Maiden Castle is just thirty miles away, and Roman soldiers have been seen marching in columns down from Ham Hill which dominates the skyline above the village. Perhaps the soldier died on the premises and has been unable to “move on”?

And so the stories go on. Anne is a wonderful entertaining host who revels in the Half Moon’s history. It is definitely worth a visit....maybe on a clear night when the halloween moon is at its brightest?

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A 400 year old skull which still lives

There is a farmhouse in a small village in Somerset where a skull has rested for the last 400 years. This skull can be moved at your peril...

But I am getting ahead of myself...

During the dark days in the west country while the Civil War raged (see my article The Sedgemoor Ghosts for a taste of this) there were unspeakable atrocities committed by both sides. One of the participants in these battles was a certain Theophilus Brome who fought hard against the Royalist cause. Being initially on the winning side he led a comfortable life until his death in 1670. He did however have to keep a low profile after the restoration of Charles II. By then it had become the custom to disinter the bodies of those who had opposed the monarchy, separate their skulls from their skeletons and display the skulls on pikes in a variety of public places. Even the body of Oliver Cromwell was so treated, after being tried for treason, hanged in chains at Tyburn, and his head then displayed outside Westminster!

Theophilus had a mortal dread of this fate, so he persuaded his sister to sever his head after his death and guard it in their farmhouse for perpetuity. The remains of his body were buried at St. James’ Church in Chilton Cantelo. His wishes were duly carried out and his skull still rests, to this day, in the oldest part of the farmhouse. It is a fearsome object with the cavities of the eyes and nose dominating the mouth where the bottom row of teeth and the chin have mysteriously gone missing.

During the centuries after the skull was placed to rest, several attempts have been made to move it, bury it or hide it. However this only galvanised what is a benign spirit into a rampant, noisy and disturbing influence. Unearthly noises, screams and mysterious footsteps have all been witnessed throughout the farmhouse.

In addition, those with long memories might remember the comedian Dave Allen. He experienced such activities when visiting the house about 30 years ago... he left vowing never to return, but was reticent about the specific reasons for his hurried departure.

So the spirit of Theophilus is quite simply anchored to earth. Maybe the time will come, sometime in the distant future, when his skull and skeleton can be reunited so he can depart in peace. But until then he is best left undisturbed.

In Association with the Western Gazette 

You can also read this article, and many others, at the Western Gazette website. Click here to follow me and be the first to know when I publish my next short story, article or book review.

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The Sedgemoor Ghosts

It was a gentle, warm day on June 11th 1685 when a small flotilla of boats made landfall in the bay at Lyme Regis in the County of Dorset. There were 82 men in the group who went to work immediately by raising a further 300.

The landing party was led by the Duke of Monmouth, an illegitimate son of Charles II. He had a vision; to wrest the throne of England from James II. But as events unfurled how he, and his supporters must have wished for a “wise woman”, or a suitable seer to warn them of their folly. But in those days such women were hanged.

At first it all went well with more recruits volunteering, but it was a ragtag army of peasants, artisans and farm workers. They marched north with several skirmishes on the way and eventually, in weather which was getting worse and worse, found themselves in the small town of Bridgwater where they dug in. However, by this time recruits were now missing their families and were quietly drifting home. Monmouth’s navy had been captured so cutting off any retreat, and a simultaneous rebellion in Scotland had fizzled out. Royalist troops had virtually surrounded Bridgwater.

So the Duke was stuck on the Somerset Levels, a rather ghostly, mist engulfed marshlands where, about 700 years earlier, King Alfred had also sought sanctuary from the Vikings. The Duke then made the extraordinary decision to lead his ill-equipped army out of Bridgwater on a night march across the moors. He clearly had no knowledge of all the deep and dangerous drainage ditches which criss-crossed the countryside. These are hard enough to ford in daylight, let alone on a cloudy, dark night. So it was only a matter of time before they were seen by a royalist patrol and the alarm was raised.

It was a disaster for the Duke which was eventually to lead to his execution. His army of farm-workers were no match for the King’s regulars and in the early morning of July 6, 1685 the flatlands of Sedgemoor absorbed the blood and spirits of more than 2000 violent deaths. There was more bloodshed to follow as Judge Jeffries hanged more than 300 survivors, but there was one lucky escapee, a certain Daniel Defoe who would go on to write more than 500 books and pamphlets, including the famous Robinson Crusoe.

Today, phantom cavalry can be seen galloping across the moors, jumping the ditches and then disappearing into the mist which hangs in a melancholy salute to the dead. And spectral voices can be heard calling the opposition to defect, while it is said that on the anniversary of the battle the ghost of Monmouth himself can be seen making his escape, stooped and slinking over the land as he fled the field of battle in dishonour. But the most poignant legend is that of a farmer who was given the chance to escape if he could outrun a horse. With his local knowledge he picked the most sodden, waterlogged area and won the race while the horse got bogged down. But he was shot anyway. His lover, who had to witness this event, then cast herself in her misery into the nearest river and drowned. Her ghost can now be seen gliding along the path of the race, while the heavy breathing of the runner can be heard over hoof beats on the turf. Or it might be just the sighing of the wind over the grasses; local views are mixed.

Finally, those who like the books written by Arthur Conan Doyle should get a copy of Micah Clarke. This gives a wonderful dramatisation of the whole saga. Then go to Lyme Regis and Sedgemoor to see for yourself.

In Association with the Western Gazette 

You can also read this article, and many others, at the Western Gazette website. Click here to follow me and be the first to know when I publish my next short story, article or book review.

_

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If you enjoyed this article you may also like P J Cadavori's sexy supernatural horror novel Catacombs of the Damned. 

_

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The Extraordinary Legends of Glastonbury

                 

      The small town of Glastonbury in the south of England is dominated by a 500 foot hill called The Tor, with the tower of a ruined church on the very top. Legends abound of King Arthur and his Round Table, but more interestingly it claims the presence of Jesus himself while travelling with Joseph of Arimathaea of Biblical fame, reputedly his uncle. Most of us know the famous hymn Jerusalem by William Blake which addresses this theory:

                                “And did those feet in ancient times,

                                 Walk upon England’s mountains green...”

Glastonbury is reputed to have had its seeds in the mists of the third century BC in an area which in those days was surrounded by swamplands and tidal waters. It was an island, often called the Isle of Avalon; alternatively dubbed The isle of the Departed Dead. Archaeological evidence abounds of iron tools, ornaments and pottery with even a dugout canoe in Glastonbury Museum as various tribes, now all lumped together as Celts, lived on the islands around the Tor. Ghosts and superstitions abound - remember that Stone Henge was already ancient by that time - and then the Druids made it one of their prime sites with the planting of groves of oaktrees which had huge religious significance. It seems that the Tor was primarily worshipped as an entrance to the Underworld; there were several similar hills but the Tor was the chief one.

Some specific legends:

    1. Joseph of Arimathaea.

        Joseph was a trader, reputed to be the uncle of Jesus, who travelled to England many times. Jesus went with him as a boy and spent a short time in  

        Glastonbury in contemplation for his Ministry. Joseph returned the last time after the Crucifixion with 11 companions to spread the Gospel of Christ

        and the story of the Resurrection. It is believed that he brought the Holy Grail with him to Glastonbury. He died there and was buried locally. But his

        tomb was moved during the tumult of 1662 and his remains vanished.

     2. The Holy Grail.

         This is generally thought of as the cup used by Christ at the last supper. Pontius Pilate gave the cup to Joseph of Arimathaea who caught drops of 

          Christ’s blood as he hung dying on the cross. This cup and the blood were then brought to Glastonbury. Legend tells us that it was buried at the

         foot of the Tor in a place now called Chalice Hill. Over the subsequent centuries those in Arthurian Legend searched, and found it.

     3. King Arthur.

         There has been so much written about him and his circle that it is tedious to repeat any of it. But he was centred around this part of the country, and

          after the recovery of the Holy Grail it was circulated regularly around the Round Table. But then it disappeared.

      4. The mother of the Virgin Mary.

          This is possibly one of the less likely stories. Ann was born in Cornwall and made a most unhappy marriage. Now pregnant, she caught ship to the

           Holy Land where Mary was born. At the age of about 15 Mary married a carpenter while Ann returned to Cornwall where Jesus visited her. Mary later

           travelled to Britain with Joseph of Arimathaea during the Christian persecutions and is buried at Glastonbury.

Finally, in my book Catacombs of the Damned I discuss ley lines. These are mystical connections between important religious sites which give life and comfort to those living or travelling on them - even birds are said to navigate along them. Maybe this is a long lost ability to use the earth’s magnetic field? Glastonbury is right in the centre of a huge system of ley lines which stretch from Cornwall to Avebury in Wiltshire and continue onwards to Norfolk. Another one runs from Glastonbury through Stone Henge to Canterbury Cathedral.

This blog post doesn’t do justice to the fantastic history of this part of the country. A visit for a few days is well worth the effort for those who like these mysteries!

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