County Durham Folk Tales E-Book

Adam Bushnell

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 236

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

Storyteller and author Adam Bushnell brings together stories from the rugged coastlines, limestone cliffs, remote moorland, pastoral dales and settled coalfields of County Durham. In this treasure trove of tales you will meet the evil fairies of Weardale, the shape-changing witch from Easington, the Bishop Auckland boar, the Dun Cow from Durham City and many other characters – all as fantastical and powerful as the landscape they inhabit. Retold in an engaging style, and richly illustrated with unique line drawings, these humorous, clever and enchanting folk tales are sure to be enjoyed and shared time and again.

Leseprobe

For Sarah

First published 2017

The History Press

The Mill, Brimscombe Port

Stroud, Gloucestershire, GL5 2QG

www.thehistorypress.co.uk

Text © Adam Bushnell, 2017

Illustrations © Nigel Clifton, 2017

The right of Adam Bushnell to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the Publishers.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978 0 7509 8605 2

Typesetting and origination by The History Press

Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

eBook converted by Geethik Technologies

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Introduction

1    Sir John Duck

2    The Fairies from the Cave

3    The Sockburn Worm

4    Venerable Bede

5    The Seer from Cotherstone

6    The Devil’s Boy

7    Nicky Nacky Field

8    The Bishop Auckland Boar

9    A Vampire in South Shields

10  The Picktree Brag

11  The Pensher Hill Fairies

12  The Ghost of Hylton Castle

13  The Dun Cow

14  The Easington Hare

15  The Pickled Parson

16  The Monkey Hangers of Hartlepool

17  The Faery in the Quarry

18  The Soldier in the Wall

19  The Sculptor on the Market Square

20  Lily from Lumley

21  The Stanhope Fairies

22  The Grey Lady of Durham Castle

23  The Giants of County Durham

24  The Battle of Neville’s Cross

25  Dobbie and Cloggy

26  St Godric

27  The People’s Piper

28  Bridget and Bobby

29  The High Green Ghost

30  The Brawn of Brancepeth

31  The Durham Puma

32  The Lambton Worm

Bibliography

About the Author

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I thank Chris Bostock who suggested I write the book in the first place. My thanks also go to my parents, my partner, Lorna, Isla and my son, Michael, for all of their help with the project.

Thanks too to Keith and Maggie Bell, the owners of Crook Hall and Anna the supervisor and events manager of the amazing place. Thanks also to my editors from number 7, Harry and Dee.

Huge thanks to Nigel Clifton, the incredible and talented illustrator of this book.

I also want to express my deep thanks and eternal gratitude to Paul Martin, Ian McKone and Dave Silk for all of their fantastic input and assistance. I could not have written this book without them. Cheers lads.

INTRODUCTION

I have always been a storyteller.

I was a teacher and now I run creative writing workshops in schools as a visiting author. I write academic books on writing but my real love is writing fiction. I have been lucky enough to be published several times and I enjoy telling stories through the written word. But I also love to tell stories orally.

I first started working as a storyteller over ten years ago. In this time I have gathered stories from all over the world but it is the stories from my home in County Durham that I adore best of all.

In this collection of my favourite tales I have included the major landmarks of the county: Durham Cathedral, Durham Castle, Hylton Castle, Lumley Castle and more. There are some stunning places to visit here in our county. I would like to think that the book could be used as a visitors’ guide to our vast and varied home. Come and see the places where the stories are set. Soak in the spooky atmosphere and grand architecture. Immerse yourself utterly in the narrative, by being in the place where dragons roamed, giants stomped and witches cackled.

Hartlepool, Sunderland and South Shields are now no longer part of County Durham but I have included these locations and some of their stories, as this is a book of old County Durham. The old county where worms slithered, vampires hunted and people hung monkeys.

There are some truly horrible tales in the book like the character Andrew Mills, an axe murderer from Ferryhill, and Peg Polwer, a child-eating water witch from Middleton in Teesdale. There are darkly comic tales such as ‘The Pickled Parson’ from Sedgefield and ‘Nicky Nacky Field’ from Tudhoe. There are stories of three of the northern saints: Cuthbert, Bede and Godric. There are friendly ghosts such as ‘The Ghost of Hylton Castle’ from Sunderland and ‘Dobbie and Cloggy’ from Shotton and Staindrop. Sinister fairies such as ‘The Faery in the Quarry’ from Middridge and ‘The Pensher Hill Fairies’ from Penshaw, feature. Old stories such as ‘Bishop Auckland Boar’ and new stories such as ‘The Durham Puma’ are included too.

But, ask anyone what he or she believes the most famous story from old County Durham is and the answer is likely to be ‘The Lambton Worm’. It is a superb story and, of course, I have included it at the end of the book but there are other less famous stories that are equally interesting and just as exciting. These are the tales that I really wanted to tell. The ones that have almost disappeared, until now. ‘A Vampire in South Shields’, ‘The Soldier in the Wall’ and ‘The Seer from Cotherstone’ to name just three. There’s also another ‘worm’ story that is a classic. ‘The Sockburn Worm’ tells a tale to rival John Lambton’s quest.

The stories are rich and diverse just as the landscape that County Durham offers is too. We have beautiful beaches, incredible woodland, picturesque country villages, bustling towns and breathtaking natural beauty everywhere you look.

This is a book of the familiar and the unfamiliar. They are all brand new re-imaginings of stories rather than simply retellings. I have interpreted them in my own way. I have combined some stories together such as in ‘The Grey Lady of Durham Castle’ and ‘The Giants of County Durham’.

Some of the stories have similar tales from other locations. For example, ‘The Fairies from the Cave’ is very similar to a story from Rothley Mill near Newcastle.

Some are completely new stories that have been based upon scraps of information after a lot of research, such as ‘The High Green Ghost’ and ‘The Picktree Brag’. I have created fictional tales based around real life characters such as in ‘The Battle of Neville’s Cross’ and ‘Sir John Duck’. But the tales are told to reflect as much factual information about these people and the events as I could find.

I’m originally from Hartlepool and have lived in Durham for over ten years. I’m passionate about my home. I’m passionate about the place and I’m passionate about the people. But, I think I’m even more passionate about the stories that are all around this beautiful county.

So, prepare to step into a world of witches, ghosts, dragons, spirits, murderers, knights, giants and fairies …

Whisht! Lads, haad yor gobs,

An Aa’ll tell ye’s aall some awesome stories

Whisht! Lads, haad yor gobs,

An’ Aa’ll tell ye more than just the worm!

Adam Bushnell

2017

1

SIR JOHN DUCK

Young John arrived at the brow of a hill. The view that greeted him took his breath away. A silver river coiled the city like a warm embrace. In the very centre were the most beautiful buildings he had ever seen in his life. It was the incredible Durham Cathedral and it was sat next to an astonishing castle.

He sighed long and loud.

‘This will be my home,’ he breathed, ‘This will be my city.’ John had apprenticed as a butcher and was now ready to make it on his own. His plan was to get a job in the city and eventually have his own shop. He had dreamt of it his whole life.

He almost skipped towards a bridge and then went on into the centre towards the market square. He stood on Silver Street and gasped again. The market was the busiest, most bustling place he had ever seen in his life. Market traders, mainly butchers, had stalls set up everywhere. His feet squelched as he stepped forward. He looked down and saw the cobblestones running red with blood. The metallic tang of the blood was all around as he neared the stalls. Vast wooden chopping boards with heavy cleavers displayed huge joints of mutton, beef, lamb, veal, rabbit, grouse; all manner of meat. There were fishmongers too. The stench of the fish entwined with the heavy scent of the raw meat. It made John’s head swim. Then there were big bundles of dried herbs to mask the tidal waves of smells but they didn’t work. John didn’t mind though. He could not keep the smile from his face as he walked from stall to stall. It was tattooed there. A permanent toothy grin.

‘Excuse me, sir!’ he called cheerfully to one butcher, ‘Do you need any help?’

‘Ya wha?’ the burly man barked back.

He was red-faced and had a blood-encrusted leather apron over a perfect sphere of a belly.

‘I’ve done my apprenticeship!’ John replied, ‘I can butcher!’

‘Where’d ya train? Which stall? Why’ve they got rid of ya?’

‘Oh, I’m not from Durham.’

‘Not from Durham?’ laughed the man meanly, ‘Then forget it. Ya won’t work round here unless ya from here!’

‘Really? Why?’

But the man had turned his back on him and was busy carving pigs’ trotters.

John tried anther stall and was given the same response.

Then another. And another.

The butchers of Durham would only hire those trained in Durham.

‘You need to belong to our guild,’ explained one butcher who was a little friendlier than the others, ‘We only take on Durham Guild butchers. It’s been that way since 1402 and that’s that.’

‘But how do I join your guild?’ John asked.

‘If you got your apprenticeship outside of the guild then you can never join the guild. Sorry!’

John kicked at the cobblestones in frustration. All of his dreams were dashed in the city he had yearned for.

Slowly, he trudged his way back to the bridge and away from the market square.

His attention was firmly fixed at his feet but a squawking made him look up. Circling above him was a black raven. John shrugged and continued his long journey home. But the raven squawked again.

‘Shoo!’ called John, ‘I’m not a dead man yet!’

John hurried his pace and the raven followed. Eventually he stopped and peered up at the large bird. It seemed to be holding something in its claws. Now that John had stopped, the raven swooped down and landed at his feet. It dropped whatever it had been cradling and with a noisy scoop of air in wings, then flapped away.

Stepping forward, then crouching, John peered at what the raven had left him. It was a silver coin on the cobbles of the street that led to Silver Street.

The boy picked it up and bit it to see if it was real. It was! He smiled. At least some good had come out of the day. This would see him have a warm meal and a comfortable night in the city, then it would be back home the next day with change to spare.

Just then he heard puffing, panting and cursing. A man was struggling to move two cows.

‘Damn you, you stubborn pair!’ the man raged.

‘Are you going to sell those?’ asked John.

‘I was!’ the man spat, ‘I’ve been trying to get them to the market all day long but the beasts won’t move!’

‘I’ll buy them!’ the boy said at once, ‘Here!’ He held out the coin to the man.

‘I’d have liked more for them,’ he said slowly, ‘But enough is enough. They’re yours and good luck to you!’

The man snatched the coin from the boy’s hand and scurried away up the road.

John stroked the snouts of the cows. He talked to them kindly and softly. When he tugged at their harnesses, the cows happily walked on. Leading them back the way he had come, to the market square, the boy’s smile was back.

‘How much do you want for those cows?’ The voice came louder than the rest of the hubbub of noise.

John’s smile was wider than ever.

‘Who’s asking?’ he called back to the crowd.

One man stepped forward. It was the first burly butcher he’d spoken to earlier.

‘I am,’ he barked back at the boy, ‘Oh, it’s you!’

‘It is!’ beamed John, ‘How much are you offering?’

‘Don’t trade with him!’ another man said, stepping in between the two, ‘He’ll rob you blind!’

‘Oh yeah?’ said the first burly man.

The two men began arguing.

‘I don’t care who I trade with, I just want an honest price!’

‘Then talk to me!’

Another man stepped forward. This third man extended a hand for John to shake.

‘I’m John,’ smiled the man.

‘So am I!’ laughed the boy.

‘John Heslop.’

‘John Duck!’

‘Pleased to meet you,’

‘Likewise!’

John Heslop bought the cows from John Duck. He was so impressed by the boy’s cheerful demeanour and enthusiastic attitude that he hired him as an apprentice, despite the protests of the Durham’s Guild of Butchers. The boy did end up owning his own butcher’s, but he ended up with a lot more too. He continued to trade on the market square. He was a wise buyer.

He bought and sold first beasts for farms then, at last, the farms themselves. He made shrewd investments in land and soon became known right across the County of Durham. He built himself a fine mansion in Haswell, where he lived with his wife, the daughter of John Heslop.

He eventually became the Mayor of Durham and rose to the rank of a baronet when he became Sir John Duck of Haswell on the Hill.

John never forgot the raven that helped him though. He decided that he wanted to give something back to the city that had looked after him. So, with his wealth, he built a hospital in Great Lumley for the poor and needy.

The boy without a penny to his name will always be remembered in the county as the man who rose to greatness in his beloved city. There is a pub that bears his name on Claypath that leads to Silver Street. The logo beside the name is a raven holding a coin. It stands on the place where the boy first began to make his fortune.

2

THE FAIRIES FROM THE CAVE

Fairy Hole Cave sits between Eastgate and Westgate in Weardale, near to Killhope Lead Mining Museum. It is a deep cave with a long history. It is also the home to fairies.

A boy lived at a mill near to Cowshill. He was mean and nasty to all he met. He was cruel and vicious. He laughed at the unfortunate. He was also very lonely.

The boy used to collect stones to keep in his pocket. He would walk through the woods and throw these stones at squirrels and birds. He would pick flowers only to tear them to pieces. He would trample ferns and shred leaves. In short, he would take out his loneliness on anything he could.

One bright autumn morning, the boy was walking near the woods when he came across a small limekiln. The fires had long since cooled so the boy climbed on top of the tower of stones. It had a turfed roof. He peered inside from the grassy top. He decided that this would be an excellent vantage point to launch stones at passing rabbits. Heaping the pile of rocky missiles to his side, he then lay back upon the soft grass and decided to have a snooze.

A tinkling sound that sang in the distance soon interrupted his sleeping. He sat up. It was quite unlike any other sound that he had heard before. It was a ringing that danced over the hills and, quite involuntarily, made him smile from ear to ear. He squeezed his eyelids together, squinting over the green landscape to see the source of the sound.

There was a whole procession of fairy folk. Each would have been no higher than the boy’s kneecap. They came dancing and singing along the land. Some carried hurdy-gurdies, turning the handles and tapping at the keys. Some played pipes, some played fiddles, some sang, some danced. They all made up a merry band and the boy flipped himself over onto his stomach. He became perfectly still. He held his breath. He was scared. He had never seen fairies before. Of course, he had heard of them, but he had always thought that the boys and girls from his village were making up stories. He had been convinced that there was no such thing. He had said it often enough and given those same children a firm punch for making up lies. Yet, here they were. Fairy folk in the flesh.

The boy slid his eyes over to the pile of stones next to him. A cruel smile slithered over his mouth. The fairies continued their merry parading dance until they got to the base of the kiln. Then the music came to an abrupt halt. The echo of it drifted on the air like a whisper of smoke.

Each fairy was wearing the colours of an autumnal landscape – reds, browns, yellows, all beautifully decorated with leaf and branch patterns. Their hair was plaited and their eyes were shining. They chatted and laughed. Their voices were high-pitched, singsong and musical. Busying themselves by unloading leather backpacks, the fairies were completely oblivious to the boy’s presence above them. He was a still statue atop the stones.

Once the musical instruments were safely stored away, the fairy folk unpacked small sticks and kindling. They entered the kiln and busied themselves preparing a fire within. Daring to move merely a matter of inches, the boy peered down the long shaft of the kiln to see what was happening within. He felt smoke upon his cheeks. Floating, grey wafts came gently drifting from little orange flames. A cooking pot was being hoisted onto a metal tripod over the fire. Water was poured from small leather pouches and then herbs were added. One fairy was delightedly adding great handfuls of honey.

‘Sweet tea,’ he giggled, ‘Honey makes it sweet!’

The others laughed and encouraged him to add more. Their voices mingled with the smoke and the boy beamed. But his smile was not like that of the fairies. His smile was a cruel and taunting thing. He slithered his arm over the grass until he could feel the hard stones against his fingers. He slid them closer to the opening of the kiln. Then he waited, like an ancient spider.

The fairies were stirring the heavily scented tea with a large wooden spoon. Some were sat in a circle around a fire, some had taken up their instruments again and were playing slow, melancholic tunes while others stared into the now large flames.

Several minutes passed and the boy remained still and silent. The fairies had passed around acorn cups and were all busy sipping their herbal tea. The taste of honey was in the air and the boy licked his lips. He inched himself forward, very slowly and very quietly.

Gripping a stone in each hand, he aimed carefully. The fairies were utterly oblivious to the boy above. He dropped both stones, which landed perfectly into the pit over the fire. Boiling tea splashed in every direction, soaking the shocked fairies. The boy rolled onto his back and exploded with laughter. Rolling back again, he looked down into the kiln. The shocked fairy folk were up on their feet; the acorn cups fell to the ground. They rubbed at themselves gasping in surprise.

The boy laughed and pointed at them.

The fairies looked up at their attacker. Their faces instantly changed. The eyes that had previously shone with laughter and music narrowed. Their expressions, once filled with kindness, now bore rage. Arched eyebrows framed fury.

‘Burn and scald.’ one fairy said, ‘Burn and scald.’

The fairies all pointed up at the boy at exactly the same time.

‘Burn and scald,’ others joined in, ‘Burn and scald.’

Laughter soon stopped from above the kiln. The boy saw and heard the fairies and became frightened. He sat up on his knees.

‘Burn and scald!’ All the fairies now chanted together. ‘Burn and scald!’

The boy was now up on his feet. He scurried away from the kiln top as fast as he could. The fairies had emerged from the kiln entrance though. Their voices a shriek upon the wind.

‘Burn and scald!’ They pointed at the fleeing boy, ‘Burn and scald!’

He kept looking over his shoulder and fell to the floor. He landed with a soft thump. He turned and saw the fairies running over the grass towards him.

‘Burn and scald! Burn and scald!’

Jumping back to his feet, the boy cried out in terror as the mass of fairies tore across the landscape. His foot fell into a rabbit hole and the boy tumbled to the floor again.

‘Burn and scald! Burn and scald!’

The fairies were almost upon him. He lunged forward. He felt the scratching of fingers on his legs. They were upon him. He had to be fast.

‘Burn and scald! Burn and scald!’

The firm fingers found soft flesh. The fairies gripped the boy’s legs and he sank to the ground once more. Then they were climbing over him, scratching and tearing at his leg.

‘Burn and scald! Burn and scald!’

The boy kicked wildly and managed to get back upon his feet. He raced over the grass and did not look back. He sprinted to a cluster of trees. He could not hear the fairies. He turned and could not see them either. He hunched himself over, breathless and panting.

‘Stupid fairies,’ he said at last. Standing up to his full height he looked back at the kiln.

‘They didn’t scare me.’

That night, sleep did not come easily for the boy. He turned in his bed this way and that. His mind was buzzing with memories of fairies that stung. The boy did at last fall into a fitful sleep. But, in the middle of the night, a terrible pain in his leg awaked him. It was the leg that the fairies had scratched and torn at.

He bolted up and flung the covers to the floor. The pain was terrible. It was a burning pain. A scalding pain.

He pulled up his pyjamas and saw that his leg was blackened and scorched. He tried to cry out in anguish but the pain had taken his voice. Wild, wide eyes gulped in the scene. His leg was withered. He would never walk again.

‘I’m sorry,’ he gasped at last, ‘I’m sorry! I’ll never hurt anyone or anything again!’

With those words his leg was healed. The flesh returned to its normal colour. The pain was gone. He fell back onto the bed and breathed out long and hard.

The next morning, the boy was out in the woods. He saw a squirrel scamper up a trunk of a tree. He grinned and found a stone in his pocket. But as he went to pick it up his leg burned. The stone fell to the floor and the pain went away.

Later, as he went to strip a young tree of its leaves, that same scalding pain returned.

The boy nodded. He stared at his leg. At last he understood. The fairies had left their mark upon him forever and he would never be the same. It was not a mark visible to anyone else. It was a mark inside of him. He looked from the trees towards the kiln in the distance. Beyond that he saw the mouth of a cave. The boy smiled. He was changed. For the better.

3

THE SOCKBURN WORM

The River Tees coils and snakes its way around the North East of England. The serpentine river fuels High Force Waterfall, not far from its source, and slithers east, past Barnard Castle, continues to travel near to Darlington and finds its way into the North Sea once it has past Stockton and Middlesbrough. It can be seen from the Bowes Museum, Preston Park Museum and Grounds, Durham Tees Valley Airport and Middlesbrough’s Riverside Stadium. It invades both counties of Yorkshire and Durham. But it is at the southernmost point on this river’s journey that it surrounds a place known as Sockburn. This was a land said to have been plagued by a terrible dragon. The creature was known as a ‘worm’. This name came from the Anglo Saxon word for dragon, which was ‘wyrm’, and also the Germanic word, also for dragon, which was ‘wurm’. The Sockburn Worm was a legless dragon that coiled and snaked across the land just as the River Tees still does today. It could breath poisonous gas that filled the air with deadly toxins on each exhalation. This meant that no living soul could even get near it, let alone fight it. It fed on cattle mainly, but also on people.

When Sockburn was known as Storkburn, the manor house did not yet belong to the Conyers family. It was the youngest son of the Conyers, whose name was John, who got the idea into his head that it should be he that killed the creature.

‘I’ve had enough!’ bellowed a farmer. ‘It’s already eaten my entire flock of sheep! How am I meant to make a living?’

This was met by much nodding and mumbling.

‘We’re cursed!’ added the tanner. ‘That’s what we are! We must have done something! This worm is a plague sent by God to punish us!’

Some agreed. Plenty didn’t.

John Conyers sat and listened. He heard the people of Storkburn. He was just a small page, not even a squire, but he had big plans and even bigger ideas.

He raced to the castle where his father was talking to his knights.

‘The people of Storkburn call upon us!’ His father boomed, his voice authoritative and theatrical, ‘We must kill this monstrous creature.’

The knights dared to glance at one another but none of them uttered a word. John nodded and smiled. His father was a brave man and an excellent leader. Perhaps it would not be young John who would defeat the worm but his father. He would lead his knights into battle and defeat this monstrous worm.

‘We have found its lair. It lives beneath the ground at the foot of a hill. At Graystone. It sleeps as we speak. There isn’t a moment to lose. Summon your squires. We are leaving within the hour.’

The knights were clearly shocked by the sudden news but all moved as one into action.

There was clanging and rattling as armour was strapped onto gambesons. Helms were donned and weapons strapped to belts. War hammers, swords, maces, axes and spears were all gleaming with anticipation. The horses were readied and Lord Conyers bellowed commands.

Hooves clattered onto cobblestones as the small army rode off towards the deadly creature. John Conyers ran after them. He watched them gallop into the distance, following the trail of muddy hoof prints upon the land.

Soon they were a cloud of dust in the distance. Then the dust settled and John’s burning legs slowed from a sprint to a jog and now to slow walk. He so desperately wanted to see the battle but knew it would all be over by the time he got there. He imagined his father holding aloft the head of the slain beast with a triumphant smile upon his face. There would be feasting and celebrating for days. The people would be happy once more. His father would be a hero. John’s chest heaved with pride.

Once his breath had returned and his muscles regained their strength, he was off running again. He turned the corner to the hill and abruptly stopped at Graystone. A thick fog curled and slithered over the land and John could make out only shapes. Shapes of people. Of horses. There were bodies everywhere. Limbs lay scattered. Blood pooled all over. The whole army had been torn apart.