Riding Mill Witch-Hunt (NZ019614)

One of Riding Mill’s most prominent landmarks these days is The Wellington Hotel public house, sitting, as it does, on the north side of the main thoroughfare of the village. It is a popular stopping off point for travellers, but few will be aware of the establishment’s grisly past.

The building began life as a private residence in the mid 17^th century, and was known originally as Riding House. Not long after its construction, though, it became embroiled in an extraordinary tale of alleged witchcraft and an unfortunate suicide.

The story goes that in 1672 a young servant girl called Anne Armstrong had several of those episodes all too common at the time and began randomly accusing various individuals of dabbling in witchcraft. Anne lived at Birches Nook, Stocksfield, and after a minor argument with an old woman over some eggs she descended into a series of hysterical trances. Among her many rantings she accused three local women – Ann Forster of Stocksfield, Anne Dryden of Prudhoe and Lucy Thompson of Mickley – of dancing with the Devil and other shenanigans (including shape-shifting into various beasts) at Riding House.

The case rumbled on until it was finally heard at Morpeth Quarter Sessions in 1673, whereupon the magistrates considered young Anne’s account far too fanciful and dismissed it. The three defendants were therefore acquitted, and the matter was considered to be at an end.

However, Anne Armstrong, the deluded accuser, was to have the last, horrid word. For, shortly after the case was concluded, she was found hanged in the Riding House scullery. And (of course) her ghost is said to haunt the pub to this day…

Note: The case of the Riding Mill witch-hunt is considered to be unique in English witch trials, the various witchly goings-on having a distinctly ‘continental’ feel to them. Quite how a young North-East servant girl came to recount such stories has, however, never been properly explained.

Lord Crewe Arms, Blanchland (NY966503)

The Lord Crewe Arms, taken by the

 author in 1991. Other than the cars, 

not a great deal has changed.

One of the North-East’s most picturesque villages, Blanchland sits quietly in a fold in the moorland landscape near the head of the Derwent Reservoir. It is situated on the Northumberland side of the nearby border with County Durham and gets its name from the order of ‘White Canons’ – the Premonstratensians – who settled there in the twelfth century.

The religious order obviously had its abbey, and, though there isn’t a great deal of this left today, a sizeable chunk of the complex forms the present-day Lord Crewe Arms, one of the most famous inns in the region. Essentially, the former abbot’s guest house is understood to have occupied the building utilised by the paying public today; and the pub’s garden was once the abbey’s cloisters.

The abbey was dissolved in 1539, and the old buildings found themselves in the hands of, firstly, the Radcliffe and then the Forster families – it essentially becoming a manor house, used regularly to host upper class hunting parties. When the Forsters fell from grace thanks to their Jacobite tendencies, Lord Crewe, Bishop of Durham, took over the reins. And this is, of course, where the establishment’s name comes from. And though he died within a few years of his takeover (1721), he left the estate to the Lord Crewe Trustees – in essence, leaving it to charity.

Then came the leadminers, and the general growth and prosperity of the village. The old manor house then became a pub, pretty much out of necessity, and, in time, the site developed into the impressive inn we see today.

And though it doesn’t openly boast about it, the Lord Crewe Arms has quite an interesting history – much of it surprisingly recent. Quite apart from being able to hark back to the days of the White Canons and their abbey, ex-owners the Forsters brought infamy upon the place when ‘General’ Tom Forster hid in the establishment’s giant fireplace during the Jacobite rising of 1715. The Blanchland days of this infamous family are also recalled in Walter Besant’s historical novel, Dorothy Forster.

Then there is the rather well-known W. H. Auden, who stayed at the Lord Crewe Arms at Easter 1930, remarking that “no place held sweeter memories.” Auden and Christopher Isherwood’s play The Dog Beneath the Skin (1935) may have been partially set in the village, too.

Poet Philip Larkin is also known to have dined at the Lord Crewe Arms; and in 1969 Benjamin Britten and tenor Peter Pears stayed at the inn.

Needless to say, that due to its timeless beauty, TV and film cameras have made regular use of Blanchland’s byways – from Catherine Cookson dramas to recent children’s fantasy effort Wolfblood – so you may well have seen the old pub pop up on the small or silver screen from time to time.

And to add to all of this, the inn is, of course, haunted – by not one but three ghosts (at the last count, that is). See here for a full account of the spooky goings-on at this fantastic old place.

Meg O’ Meldon (NZ108855)

The sleepy hamlet of Meldon in the Wansbeck valley a few miles west of Morpeth was once the home of one of the county’s most infamous ghosts, namely, Meg O’ Meldon. As with most such shadowy figures, the story of Meg is based loosely on fact – in this case that of a misery old woman (and suspected witch) by the name of Margaret Selby. There are spectral appearances, tales of misfortune (and good fortune), as well as, of course, hidden treasure...

Margaret was the daughter of William Selby of Newcastle, who was a well-known money lender. She married Sir William Fenwick of nearby Wallington, and brought with her to the arrangement the estate of Meldon. This all happened a long time ago – in and around the late 17^th century – and well before the construction of the current John Dobson-inspired effort known today as Meldon Park. Anyway, the only facts that seem to have trickled down to us from these distant days concern the infamy of Meg’s great meanness and avarice. Any income which came her way was greedily hoarded, being stashed away in any number of places across the parish. She was understandably disliked and therefore (of course) branded a witch; and when she and her husband passed into history, stories persisted of caches buried in almost every corner of the district.

Such was her reputation, though, that the locals claimed that her spirit continued to guard over her riches after her demise, wandering from pillar to post, triggering tales of ghostly apparitions aplenty in its wake. Meg’s spirit would travel hither and thither by way of a subterraneous coach road, and she would often be seen on Meldon Bridge in the shape of a little dog – or, indeed, ‘in a thousand forms, lights and colours, flickering over the Wansbeck, or under a fine row of beeches by the river.’ She would sometimes present herself as a mysterious, beautiful woman; or sit in a stone coffin at the site of Newminster Abbey (water from this trough was used to treat warts and other ailments).

Most famously, the ghost of Meg would sit guard over a well near Meldon Tower, where she was thought to have hidden a bull’s hide full of gold. She once enticed a local man to attempt its retrieval at the dead of night, but at the point of success he shouted in triumph, thus breaking the spell and causing the treasure to be dropped and lost forever.

Understandably, any discovery of value in the neighbourhood has been attributed to the legend of Meg. Once, when the ceiling of Meldon schoolhouse gave way, a stash of gold coins issued forth from the attic, sending the pupils into a ‘rich scramble’ for their unexpected windfall. Every time a stash is thus revealed and put to some good, so the spirit of Meg rests ever more soundly. And, though Meldon Well still hides its bag of riches, the ghost of Margaret Selby has long since disappeared from the banks of the Wansbeck.

Denton Hall (NZ198657)

 © Copyright Phil Thirkell and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence.

Built in 1622, Denton Hall is one of the few surviving examples of Jacobean architecture in the region. And what a fine specimen it is.

The mighty edifice was built by Anthony Errington, the estate’s owner at the time and a big player in the early coal industry of the area. He lived with his wife Dorothy and two sons at his new hall for a mere ten years before his death in 1632 – the property passing to his first-born, Lancelot. During the English Civil Wars the Erringtons supported the king and, as a result, ultimately lost their Denton estate by degrees over the ensuing years. Their catholic sympathies did them little good, either, of course.

Ownership of the hall slid to the Rogers around 1700, then onto the Montagu family in the late 1750s – more specifically, Edward, who took possession along with his wife, Elizabeth, a woman who was to become the most famous figure in Denton Hall’s history.

At first apprehensive of her husband’s recent acquisition – and especially its northerly latitudes – Mrs Montagu soon took to her new environment. They would stay at the hall in the summer months – Edward attending to his coal, farming and other business interests in the area, with Elizabeth throwing herself into various social and charitable tasks. In time, these duties grew and expanded as she further integrated herself into the local community. For example, she founded a school at Denton for the children of the pitmen, and was always attentive to the needs and demands of the local workforce.

Mrs Montagu was an accomplished writer and was interested in all manner of topics, from the literary to the scientific, as well as moral matters (among many others). Visitors to Denton Hall included the likes of Dr Samuel Johnson, Dr Joshua Reynolds and David Garrick, and several others of note. She was considered something of a leader of society, and was regarded as the ‘first woman’ for literary knowledge in England. Elizabeth was also a prominent figure in the so-called ‘Blue-Stocking Society’.

When her husband died in 1775, Elizabeth inherited all of his property. She carried on running his old affairs with great efficiency and cared a good deal for her ‘black friends’, the term she employed for the pitmen and their families. She continued visiting her ‘Gothick Mansion near Newcastle’ almost every summer until 1789, after which old age began to get the better of her. She died in London in 1800, aged 80.

During the 19^th & 20^th centuries the hall passed from the Montagus to the Rokebys and beyond – though for much of the past two centuries it has been tenanted (its most famous occupant being that of ‘Silky’, the resident ghost). Eventually it fell back into the hands of catholic ownership, becoming a nunnery in recent decades – indeed, today it is the official residence of the Roman Catholic Bishop of Hexham & Newcastle and is formally known as ‘Bishop’s House, East Denton Hall’.

North Country Brags (NZ281531 & NZ282552)

The imaginings of our ancestors knew no bounds. Goblins are one such entity said to have haunted the lanes and backwaters of our countryside – and the North-East is no different to anywhere else in the UK. In this part of the world, though, they seem to have been known as ‘brags’, and were able to shape-shift at will, it would appear.

One of the most famous of these unearthly creatures is ‘The Picktree Brag’, which was said to have wandered the countryside around this tiny village between Chester-le-Street and Birtley. The most notable account is that given by a 90-year-old woman in the 1830s – as told to local noble Sir Cuthbert Sharp, who handily commited the tale to print.

As is so often the case, the ‘brag’ was never seen distinctly, but was more often heard or ‘sensed’ in the dead of night. “It sometimes appears as a calf … or a horse … whinnying every now and then. It also came like a ‘dickass’,” she was heard to say. Others, she exclaimed, saw it as ‘four men holding a sheet’, or as a naked man without a head. It would often accompany the midwife on her rounds in the shape of a horse – and if anyone tried to mount it it would throw them violently and run off, ‘laughing’ loudly.

Other northern legends refer to such spirits appearing as a man, an ox or a hound – but it was most often in the form of a horse or donkey, making a terrifying noise, that the ghostly beast would materialise. Strangely, the nearby village of Portobello (a little to the north) also harbours a similar legend. But I mean, come on, let’s be reasonable … it’s probably the same creature ‘doing the rounds’. Common sense, really.

The Ghost of Lily Lumley (NZ288511)

Lumley Castle, near Chester-le-Street, has put the willies up many an unsuspecting visitor over the years thanks to rumours of ghostly goings-on in its ancient corridors. The most famous is that of Lily of Lumley, the wife of the castle’s founder Sir Ralph Lumley.

After a few years frantic activity in the name of his country, Sir Ralph returned from a spell in prison in Scotland to his manor house near Chester-le-Street in 1389 and obtained permission to convert the said building into a castle. This he did, though, as chance would have it, he fell out of royal favour and ended up losing his head in 1400.

During one of his absences from his new abode, two Catholic priests are said to have confronted his wife, Lily, to question her about her failure to embrace ‘the Faith’. When she again refused to comply, it is said that the two clerics grabbed her and threw her down the castle well to her death – presumably in an attempt to save her soul.

Realising the trouble that they were now in, they hatched a cunning plan to extricate themselves from the unlikely predicament. They made haste to a nearby village, ‘borrowed’ a sick young woman and took her to a local nunnery. As expected, she soon died and the priests managed to persuade Sir Ralph that the woman was his wife, and that whilst he’d been away she’d decided to become a nun.

Gullible Sir Ralph appears to have swallowed the story and that seems to have been the end of it. But, of course, the ghost of Lily lives on, and has, from time to time, been known to drift up from the depths of the well and wander the corridors of the castle.

Lumley Castle is now a hotel and many guests have reportedly been spooked by Lily’s wanderings – including the many famous cricketers who frequent the establishment when playing at the nearby Riverside Ground.

A quick glance at the records, however, would suggest that Sir Ralph Lumley never even married a woman by the name of Lily…

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Ketton Ox: Animal & Pub, Pt 2 (NZ419129)

© Copyright Gordon Hatton and licensed for 

reuse under this Creative CommonsLicence.

The Ketton Ox public house, a fine-looking affair at No.100 High Street, Yarm, has a history stretching back, in various forms and under many names, some 400 years.  It must have enjoyed its fair share of custom during the town’s long reign as one of the region’s premier coaching stops – to say nothing of Yarm’s status as the Tees’ primary port before the rise of Stockton and Middlesbrough.

However, as elegant as it looks today, the establishment has dark associations with the once rampantly popular sport of cockfighting. Indeed the place was well-known for its gory gatherings when it was a legal pastime; but come a rather inconvenient change in the law in 1835, it had to move with the times… the landlord switching the venue to another room – conveniently fitted with a trapdoor to permit escape if the place was raided!

Being over four centuries old, the pub is, of course, haunted, with all manner of ghostly going-on, it would seem. Many put this down to the fact that the pub was once used as a morgue, primarily for bodies which, from time to time, found themselves floating lifeless in the River Tees.

Cleadon Landmarks 2: The Windmill (NZ389632)

© Copyright DAVID ELSY and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence

Situated on its lofty perch atop the Cleadon Hills, this ruined windmill was probably constructed in the 1820s – though an earlier construction may well have occupied the blustery site. It is likely to have fallen out of use after it was damaged by a storm in the 1870s, for it is not mentioned in directories after this time.

During World War I it was used for target practice, though it has since been partially restored. In the late 1970s, what was left of the mill’s internal machinery was removed, and the entrances barred.

The ruin is said to be haunted by the ghost of Elizabeth Gibbon, a miller’s daughter who threw herself from the top of the mill tower after suffering a broken heart. The windmill was actually operated by a family of that name at the time of the 1870s storm, so maybe the story is true, if not the ghost.

Despite the structure being Grade II Listed, there is a threat that it may be demolished soon – if rumours on the Internet are to be believed.

For some beautiful images of Cleadon’s landmarks, see here.





 

Souter Lighthouse (NZ408642)

 

© Copyright malcolm tebbit and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence.

When it commenced operations in 1871, Souter Lighthouse was the most advanced in the world. Designed by James Douglass, it was the first to use electricity. The 800,000 candle-power light was powered by a steam engine from a dedicated engine room.

Though located on Lizard Point it somewhat strangely takes its name from Souter point a mile to the south. It was, in fact, the intention to build the lighthouse on the latter site, but this was changed at the last minute due to the lie of the land. The original name, however, was retained – though this was thought to have been done to avoid confusion with Lizard Lighthouse in Cornwall.

Though decommissioned in 1988, the lighthouse is still fully operational – with engine house, light tower and Victorian Keepers’ Cottage all open to the public under the guiding hand of the National Trust.

It is, of course, haunted.

The official website can be found here. As for the ghost, try here.

Tales from Two Pubs

In Narrowgate, Alnwick, sits a whitewashed public house called Ye Olde Cross (NU185134). You can’t miss it. And when you find it, take a look in the shallow bay window to the right of the entrance, and you will find a curious little display of glassware together with a note which reads:-

These bottles have been here for over 150 years.  Whilst putting them here the man collapsed and died.  It was said that if anyone tried to move them they would share the same fate.  They have never been touched since.

The man in question was the pub’s landlord, who is supposed to have cursed the bottles as he endured his death throes. It was his widow who issued the fateful warning – ignored, apparently, by some poor unfortunate several years later, who similarly perished.

The display has lain untouched since and is covered in cobwebs, giving the pub its local nickname of ‘Dirty Bottles’.
 

Not too far away, on Northumberland Street, Alnmouth, can be found The Schooner Hotel (NU247104), the “most haunted hotel in Great Britain.” The title, twice bestowed by the esteemed Poltergeist Society, has stuck, naturally, if for no other reason than to attract a bit of attention from passing tourists.

However, we are assured that the place has been “thoroughly investigated”, and is “listed on record as having over 60 individual ghosts”. There are many tales of accidental death, suicide, and even mass murder surrounding the hotel – though solid evidence is sadly lacking. Living TV’s Most Haunted called in in 2003, after which it was given a most favourable rating. Room 28 is the spookiest, they say, the setting of the mass murder of a French family by a gypsy for their belongings three centuries ago.

The Schooner’s reputation hasn’t deterred the famous from staying over. Charles Dickens, Douglas Bader, and King George III have all spent the night there – as well as John Wesley, who was aware of the village’s reputation for “wickedness”, though this was probably a reference to its smuggling history more than anything else.

So if you ever have the chance of staying there, well, remember, Room 28 is the one you should insist on.

Dunstanburgh Castle’s Wandering Knight (NU257218)

One stormy winter’s night as the skeleton of Dunstanburgh laboured through another of its strenuous battles against the wicked Northumbrian elements, there came to the doors of this desolate fortress the gallant knight, Sir Guy.

Unable to gain entry, the pathetic figure of Sir Guy settled himself as best he could in the porch and prepared for a long cold night. As he sat watching the storm, unable to sleep, there was a huge crack of thunder on the stroke of midnight and the castle doors burst open. In the doorway there stood a huge figure of an old man, bathed in flames, with a flowing robe and a long, white beard. As Sir Guy stood transfixed, the old wizard extended a crooked, beckoning finger and the brave knight crossed the threshold.

After passing through a labyrinth of passages filled with eerie sounds and strange creatures they passed into a huge, dimly-lit subterranean hall. A hundred black steeds and their white knights lined the walls, spell-bound, and opposite Sir Guy there stood two giant skeletons guarding a crystal tomb, within which lay a beautiful young woman in a deep sleep. One skeleton held a sword, the other a horn, and only a courageous knight brave enough to come thus far and to then make the correct choice between the two could break the spell, he was told.

After much thought Sir Guy chose the horn and, as he blew, the hall came to life. The knights awoke and the horses reared excitedly. The girl, too, awoke for a moment then passed sadly back into her deep sleep. Whereas he might have bravely taken the sword, he had selected the horn – a symbol, even if he did not realise it, of a cry for help. He had, of course, made the wrong choice. The resounding sound of an evil cackle of laughter filled the hall and darkness descended, Sir Guy collapsing unconscious.

Waking in the porch the following morning he frantically re-entered the castle and searched its corridors for the enchanted hall and its sleeping beauty, but nowhere were they to be found. It is said he continued his search until his death, and that his ghost continues the search to this day.

[text lifted unashamedly from Aspects of North-East History, Volume 1 … but that’s all right, because I wrote it myself]