Beatrix
Potter and Arthur Ransome wrote stories and created characters that
have become part of the culture of this part of the lakes. Tales of
adventures on sunny days, of breezy picnics by the lake, friendships and laughter. But some stories are much much older, these are stories of love and loss of
violent actions with fatal consequence of madness despair and death,
these stories ,centuries old , have been passed from generation to
generation and have been around so long they are now part of the soil,
the water the rocks and the air.
At this time of year these stories seem somehow closer to the surface. Maybe it’s the cold still autumn mornings when the
mist hangs low over the lake, deadening the background noise, allowing
disembodied voices animal and human to reach out through the enveloping grey. Maybe
it was the earth tremor last night; that noise and the shaking woke me
suddenly with a bright blinding light and a searing pain down my spine
and I have had the mother of all headaches ever since.
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| Windermere Ferry early morning |
And this is how I start my normal daily commute into work as a countryside Ranger on my trusty iron horse,
a journey I’ve made a thousand times before, but this morning it feels
somehow different, otherworldly, I have a sick feeling in my stomach and
feel so damn cold. A mile along the lakeshore cutting my way through
the mist, the sound of the Windermere car ferry , creaking and groaning
as it pulls itself along on metal chains. I am reminded of the ferry
disaster of 1597. A wedding party 45
strong returning from Far Sawrey cram themselves onto the ferry which
was in those days just a large rowing boat. The outward journey in calm
waters, full of laughter and merriment turned to disaster on their
return as the winds picked up the wedding party high on drink but low on
balance capsized the boat and 38 people drowned. The biggest loss of
life that this lake has seen.
Since
then people have reported seeing faces in these murky waters and
swimmers have felt hands grabbing their ankles trying to drag them under
to join the wedding party. These are probably
just reflections and submerged weeds, but his morning through the mist
the bouys that surround the islands look eerily like floating lifeless
bodies .
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| Sawrey Church |
Onward and up ferry hill to the church at Far Sawrey the late flowering devils bit scabious scattered on the grassy road verges. Chattering crows gather on the wall watching me pass by like they’re waiting for something to happen.
Through
the Sawreys and along the side of Esthwaite Water this is always the
coldest part of the ride in, this morning it is icy cold I look out
across the water towards the Devils Gallop. In medieval times when
Hawkshead was the main market town in south Lakeland the packhorse men
would spur the horses on double-quick along this lonely stretch of road
trying to keep one step ahead of old nick. Through the mists I hear the
sound of hooves and a sudden snort of some large hidden beast on the
other side of the hedge gets the adrenaline racing and I put my foot
down on the pedals just that bit faster.
Approaching
Priests Pot, a small circular tarn on the edge of Hawkshead village
past the site of the gibbet. This was an upright wooden post with a
projecting arm for hanging the bodies of executed criminals. A bit like a
giant bird feeder it acted as a blunt warning to the packhorse men
approaching the village, with its 14 public houses, to behave themselves
when they got paid or as a reminder as they were leaving that they may
have got away with it this time but next time they might not be as
lucky.
Riding through the village the speed camera on the corner shouts 13 at me in bright red numbers ( why is it always 13 ) is it trying to tell me something ?
Riding out of the village my nerves on edge not warming up at all I look to my right to Latterbarrow and Claife Heights my
thoughts inevitably stray to the Crier of Claife the ghost that has
haunted the Heights since they were the property of Furness Abbey. There was apparently a house of ill repute on Claife heights where women would provide ‘ refreshment ‘ to the weary packhorse men. A
young monk sent by the Abbey to save these women from a life of sin,
fell in love with one of them, but his advances were spurned and the
rejection eventually sent him mad, he died love lorn and lost on the
heights.
His
restless spirit wandered the heights for years wailing into the night.
One foggy winters evening the ferry men based at Ferry Nab, heard a
desperate call from across the lake “ferryman, ferry man". The ferryman set off into the mist a single lamp on the prow of the boat lighting the way. After some considerable time, the boat eventually drifted back across the lake, with no passenger, no light and the ferryman wide eyed with terror, struck dumb by whatever unspeakable horror that he had witnessed .
Well, that was enough for the locals and they quickly engaged two priests with ‘bell ,book and candle'
to exorcise the ghost’s spirit to a remote quarry on the heights. If
you listen carefully some nights you can still hear strange noises
probably just the screech of an owl, the cry of a fox or the bark of
young stag.
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| Claife Under a blood red sky |
Climbing
up Hawkshead Hill ,out of the mist now the ghost of the mad monk seems
to be fading , but the late rising sun offers no heat and has cast a deep bloody hue over everything , the silent ghostly figure of a barn owl sweeps low across the field to my left. It is folklore that these owls carry the souls of the recently departed I look back to see Claife under a blood red sky, and it looks most peculiar.
Up
ahead I can see a black figure crouched over something in the middle of
the road is that a shadow or .... As I get closer the figure stands up
and breaks apart, exploding in ten different
directions at the same time, the sound of a cape?..... no it’s the
sound of wings flapping as a murder of carrion crows disperse into the trees above, not wanting to move too far from what was interesting them lying on the tarmac.
What
was interesting them is a mass of blood and bone and entrails , road
kill of some description feeling bad enough I can’t bear to look too
closely so I cycle on and the pain in my back and the cold are just
getting worse.
I
finally reach the crossroads at High Cross and now have an easy
descent, freewheeling down to our Ranger base in Coniston. The base is
very quiet, unusually quiet for a workday, I walk into the kitchen area and on the table lying open on pages 7 and 8 is the most recent
edition of the Westmorland Gazette and my eye is drawn to a short
article ‘National Trust Ranger killed in early morning traffic accident', gripped by a crushing fear and understanding, the
cold and the pain intensify, the room starts shaking and then suddenly
the pain and the cold disappear along with the colour, the light, the
sound………
When
you are walking the paths and lanes of South Lakeland if you feel a
sudden unexplained rush of wind passing by or the squealing of brakes
when no bike is around to be seen, it might just be me on my way into
work again ........ghostrider.
Paul Farrington (1963-2014)
National Trust Ranger
South Lakes
