West Yorkshire Folk Tales E-Book

John Billingsley

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

Seitenzahl: 264

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

Whether hailing from the open Pennine hills or the close-knit neighbourhoods of industrial towns, West Yorkshire folk have always been fond of a good tale. This collection of stories from around the county is a tribute to their narrative vitality, and commemorates places and people who have left their mark on their communities. Here you will find legendary rocks, Robin Hood, tragic love affairs, thwarted villainy, witches, fairies, hidden treasure and much more. The intriguing stories, brought to life with illustrations from a local artist, will be enjoyed by readers time and again.

Leseprobe

First published 2010

The History Press

97 St George’s Place,

Cheltenham, Gloucestershire, GL50 3QB

www.thehistorypress.co.uk

© John Billingsley, 2010

The right of John Billingsley to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyrights, 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 978-0-7524-7039-9

Typesetting and origination by The History Press

Printed by TJ International Ltd, Padstow, Cornwall

eBook converted by Geethik Technologies

CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

PREFACE

One ROBIN HOOD AND THE HUNTER

The Day I Met the Wild Hunt

Two ANOTHER HUNT, ANOTHER DEER, AND A WITCH

The Hunt at Eagle Crag

Trouble at t’ Mill

Three A FAMILIAR STORY

Betty the Witch

Four BOGGARTS!

Watch Out, There’s a Boggart About…

Five THE MOST FAMOUS FAIRIES OF ALL

The Cottingley Fairies

The Uses of Cats

Six THE HEADS OF HALIFAX

The Holy Face

The Holy Hair

The Hellish Gibbet

The Luck of the Head

Seven A CIVIC BEAST

The Great Boar of Bradford

Eight ROBIN AGAIN

The Death of Robin Hood

Nine A TRUST BETRAYED

Fair Becca

Ten A DOG’S LIFE

The Canine Messenger

Eleven A YORKSHIRE TRAGEDY

Walter Loses It

Twelve MYSTERY VISITORS

Shady Doings at Illingworth and Sheepridge

Thirteen THE SPOILS OF ILL-WILL

The Elland Feud

Fourteen SMILING MEN WITH BAD REPUTATIONS

Rimington’s Ride

Black Dick

The Suicidal Sculptor

Fifteen TALK OF THE DEVIL

The Devil’s Knell

The Devil’s Rock

The Lights of Stoodley Pike

Sixteen LIQUORICE AND LOSS

Pontefract Cakes

The Girl in the Water

Seventeen KEEPING TO THE OLD WAYS

Jennet Benton, Right-of-Way Activist

Eighteen THE WRONG KIND OF PARTY

Bad Neighbours and Good Neighbours

Nineteen THE ROCKY ROAD OF LOVE

A Marriage Hits the Rocks

Twenty ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

The Wanderer Returns

Afterword BACKGROUNDS AND REFLECTIONS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My warm thanks go to Stan McCarthy, who has put so much time and effort into producing the illustrations for this collection over the past few months. Stan also helped correct some errors and anachronisms, and made some useful suggestions about how some of the stories might be developed. Though I haven’t always taken on his suggestions directly, his input has had more influence on this book than he might think!

The stories here have come from a variety of sources, both oral and textual. Thanks must therefore go to all the people, from all walks of life, who have shared a story with me over my thirty-five years in West Yorkshire. Thanks also go to the library staff of Calderdale, Kirklees, Leeds and Bradford for all their help – the breadth of knowledge and information-gathering know-how possessed by these people is surely an under-rewarded resource.

PREFACE

Welcome to a world of shifting truth. We have stories here that seem completely made up, but just might have a kernel of truth in them; and stories that purport to be truth, but give cause for some doubt. They all testify to our love of a good tale, and preferably not one where everyone except the villain lives happily ever after. That doesn’t mean you are on the verge of unremitting gloom and tragedy – just that things do not always happen as might be expected. Anyway, you’ll find out as you read on. Please note that these chapters are intended to be read sequentially, as they lead on from one to another, so dipping into these stories randomly isn’t recommended.

All of these tales come from somewhere, and although I cannot give all the sources, both oral and written, that have contributed to this collection, I have provided some supplementary information in the Afterword. If you want to know more about the backgrounds and sources of these folk tales from West Yorkshire, you may find what you’re looking for there. Of course, if you’d like to pass on some local story, I’d be glad to hear it – please contact me at [email protected].

John Billingsley

Hebden Bridge,

June 2010

One

ROBIN HOOD AND THE HUNTER

Everybody likes a good story, they say; but I suppose my stories simply weren’t good enough for my teachers, who seemed to have some difficulty believing them. Truth is elastic, however, and I was well aware that at some level my stories were true, though it wasn’t always the kind of truth adults wanted.

That was always the feeling I got from myths, legends and folk tales, even the fairy tales I learnt that have gone out of political fashion today, like Little Red Riding Hood. They were pretty fantastic at times, and I heard more than a few adults deriding them as ‘filling kids’ heads with nonsense’. But that seemed to miss the point (as adults often seemed to, back then). However odd, however out of the ordinary they seemed, there still remained the sense that these stories were in some measure expressing the truth, or at least a truth. The kind of truth varied from tale to tale. I later learned that a legend is defined as ‘a tale told as if true’, and that description, as the idiom goes, rings true itself.

How are we to treat King Arthur in this rationalist age? Or Robin Hood, or fairies, or visitations from the other side of the grave? Not disrespectfully, I would hope, for such stories have been expressions of reality in cultures all over the world for centuries and it is not for us to gainsay their experience. Even if the stories differ from what we read in our history or science books, it does not mean they have no substance or that they are nonsense.

I didn’t have a problem with these varieties of truth when I was younger, and I still don’t. Yet I recognised that some stories came across as rather deeper in meaning than others, and I came to recognise the influence of the ‘great wheel’ of myth. Other tales appeared more far-fetched than others, and were not usually located anywhere in particular. Later I realised that these were the so-called fairytales, even though fairies never appeared in them. Others stretched credulity for sure, but not past breaking point – not for me, anyway. These were legends, stories told about places or people, frequently featuring some magical or supernatural happening and generally treated as ‘just a story’. But I often wondered – is this really ‘just a story’?

When I came to West Yorkshire in 1975, I began hearing all sorts of stories about the valley that had come to be my home, and still is. A boundary stone that twirled about at New Year, a town whose legendary history is built upon a severed human head, an affluent witch who could turn into a deer, or another who preferred cat form, and a man who drops dead as he makes fun of a boggart supposed to haunt the spot. Some of these motifs are familiar and appear in stories all over the world; others are more local and distinctive. But even the familiar motifs raised the questions, ‘Where did they come from? Why here?’ Poignantly at times, I wondered if the traditional tales had all been made, and survive uncertainly in the modern educational climate of reason and the dramatic, individualistic, climate of performance. In other words, are there any traditional tales in the making, and if so, what would be the stimulus for their genesis?

And then something happened that was rather odd, or it seemed so at the time. It wasn’t the first strange experience I’d had, nor will it be the last I’m sure, but it was a singular incident and has lingered with me.

THE DAY I MET THE WILD HUNT

I was walking up Cragg Road – that’s the B6138 that leads south out of Mytholmroyd towards the remote moors of Blackstone Edge, on the boundary between Lancashire and West Yorkshire. Just as you leave Mytholmroyd, you pass a sign that declares, ‘Start of longest continual gradient in England. Rises 968 feet over 5½ miles’, so you know you’ve got a long climb ahead of you if you go all the way up to the Rochdale Road at the top. I wasn’t going that far, though, as I had been invited to dinner at a friend’s house in the village of Cragg Vale, a couple of miles up.

Mytholmroyd runs out after a few hundred yards, and from then on there are just scattered houses until you reach Cragg Vale. As you climb, the valley closes in around you, especially on your left, and soon you are walking at the foot of a steep, wooded slope. On your right the valley is a little wider for a while, and Cragg Brook and a few fields separate you from the woods and hills on that side. However, they soon begin to close in and you’re walking by the road with the river just below you and the hills just above you; on the whole it’s very attractive.

Shortly before you reach the village, the woods on your left part and you can look up towards a rock outcrop at the top of the slope where a couple of great piers of rock, like diving boards, jut out at a giddying height. The largest of these piers acquired the name Long Tom in the early twentieth century, after a type of French 155mm cannon used by the South Africans in the Boer War. The whole outcrop, though, has an older name – Robin Hood Rocks. A pub in the valley below echoes Robin’s association with this spot, as its sign bears a customary rhyme: ‘Ye archers and ye bowmen good, come in and drink with Robin Hood; if Robin to the fête has gone, then share a cup with Little John’.

You can’t live in West Yorkshire long before you come across Robin Hood. Popular association may put him in Nottingham, but traditional tales and ballads lay just as strong, if not stronger, an association with West Yorkshire – or the West Riding as was, to be more exact. Moreover, Robin pops up in place names all over the county and there’s a particular focus in the Calder valley, as we’ll see later in this book. In popular thought he’s an outlaw with certain redeeming characteristics; in legends, his activities are much wider and include tossing great boulders around the countryside – but we’ll come back to those later. In whatever guise we find him, he is a figure of the wildwoods and inevitably lives by hunting, often, as the ballads tell, of the ‘king’s wild deer’.

So on this day – it was a Friday evening early in December 1980 – I was walking along and gazing up at Robin Hood Rocks and I saw that their outline against the sky neatly cut through the constellation of Orion the Hunter, as if Orion himself were sitting on the rocks. I found myself recalling not Robin the Outlaw, not Robin the Stone-Shifter, but Robin the Hunter because it was 6 December – one of the dates known across Western Europe as a night when the ‘Wild Hunt’ rides.

The Wild Hunt is a spectral pack of hounds that careers through the air, sometimes with an equally spectral giant huntsman, making a ghastly racket. It’s also known in West Yorkshire as the Gabriel Ratchets and it’s not something you’d care to encounter. No matter the country or culture in which you meet the Wild Hunt, it brings with it doom, illness, death or some unwelcome news. It’s usually heard at night, mind, so I reckoned myself safe on that afternoon. Nevertheless, as I walked and gazed up at Robin Hood Rocks, I was musing on the connection – if any – between our local, giant, stone-tossing hunter and the giant spectral hunter of Northern Europe and the significance of the date that I just happened to be walking past these rocks.

My thoughts were interrupted by a Land Rover pulling up behind me and a well-dressed man getting out.

‘Excuse me,’ he said, in a more upper-class accent than we were used to in that area at that time, ‘have you been out walking?’

‘Just up from Mytholmroyd.’

‘Oh, well, I was wondering, you haven’t seen anything of a pack of hunting dogs have you?’

‘Hunting dogs?’

‘Yes, a small pack. You see, mine got out earlier today and I know they like running out across here…’

Well, a pack of hounds running free would certainly have caught my attention, so I assured him I hadn’t, bade him good day and walked on.

‘What an odd coincidence,’ I thought, ‘what with me thinking about Robin the Hunter and the Wild Hunt and all…’

It was then that the stranger reached back into his vehicle, pulled out a hunting horn and blew three long blasts on it, the sound echoing across to the slopes on the other side of the valley. I have to say I felt a shiver down my spine then. But neither hounds nor men clad in green leapt from the woods at the sound and I walked on to my dinner appointment and stayed the night. The next morning I woke up feeling like death warmed up, sick as a dog and as weak and shaky as a new lamb. My friend was fine, so it wasn’t the food we’d eaten and all I knew was that I’d better get home as soon as I could. Those two miles or so downhill were some of the longest of my life. It took me over 1½ hours and several fields beside the road received something unwelcome from me. Somewhere along that road I heard a sound from the woods on the western side of the valley – the same horn that the huntsman had blown the previous day. When I finally got home I went straight to bed and there I stayed, hardly eating, for the next five days or so, wondering what I’d stepped in the way of.

I began to wonder whether I had run into some modern version of the Wild Hunt and the huntsman, and been touched by its doom. They say that people always remember where they were when they heard of John Lennon’s assassination on 8 December 1980. I remember for sure; I was lying in bed feeling very ill, and it even crossed my mind whether the Wild Hunt had caught up with John.

It was the next Thursday, when I was groggily back up and about, that I felt that chill down my spine again. In the local newspaper was a headline, ‘Thieves Cut off Head of Deer’. The previous Saturday morning – the morning after I’d met the careless huntsman, the morning that I’d heard his horn again as I was struggling back home – some children out walking at Thistle Bottom, near Hebden Bridge, had come across a dead stag. It was directly across the hill from Cragg Vale, maybe a couple of miles from where I’d met the huntsman as the crow fiies – or perhaps as the Wild Hunt rides. This deer was one that had recently been released into the wild on the hills between Cragg and Todmorden as part of a plan to repopulate the valley. The children who found it went off to tell someone, but by the time people came back there was less for them to carry, as the stag’s head, antlers and all, had been taken off.

On the face of it all this could be down to a simple coincidence: a man, interested in legends, and a huntsman trying to recover his hounds meet in Cragg Vale. If I hadn’t known about Orion, Robin Hood and his rocks, and about the Wild Hunt then I wouldn’t have given it much thought at all except as an interesting anecdote over dinner. And of course one can catch a bug from anywhere, any time, so that’s just a coincidence too. It might not have been a coincidence that a deer died when a hunting pack was lost in the area and it’s no great surprise that someone local might have fancied an antlered deer’s head trophy for their wall. That person and the huntsman might even be reading this now and recalling their own version of that weekend.

However, even if you choose to dismiss it as coincidence it doesn’t dismiss the experience and the impact it made on me. A collection of traditional elements combined powerfully that weekend and once you make the connections perhaps you have – as I now think – a scenario for the genesis of a story. The tale comprises a local legendary figure, a mythological hunt, an animal with a magical reputation and other weird and fateful happenings. Such a story has the credentials to be part of the Robin Hood corpus and to become part of the local mythos.

If legends grow from a real experience such as this, why should they not be told as true? This episode taught me a new respect for the stories and beliefs carried down to us from our forebears.

I urge you neither to believe all you hear or read, nor to disbelieve if it doesn’t quite fit your view of the world. In this book you’ll meet all kinds of things it would be easy to scoff at. Don’t forget, though, that your predecessors would far rather that these things hadn’t existed or hadn’t happened, and that they’d never have occasion to tell the tale. It might be a duller world for us, but for them it would have been a safer and less complicated one. So ask yourself, why were these stories told in the first place? Is the answer so simple?

Two

ANOTHER HUNT, ANOTHER DEER AND A WITCH

The Wild Hunt that we may have met in the previous chapter wasn’t known as that in West Yorkshire. Locally it was known as the Gabriel Ratchets, or Gabble Hounds, the shrieking pack that trails doom across the skies on fateful nights. To some people the huntsman was Odin, to others he was the Devil. To others still, local figures took the role and why not Robin Hood in Cragg Vale? However, the hounds came to be known by the name of Gabriel, regardless of the huntsman’s identity, across most of Northern England. Some say the origin of this label was not Gabriel, but an old word meaning ‘corpse’. It’s hard to feel anything other than apprehension amongst such company.

Oliver Heywood, the renowned Halifax Nonconformist minister, knew of the fearful hounds and remarked that they had been heard several times in the winter of 1664-65. The noise of the Ratchets, he wrote in his diary, ‘is as if a great number of whelps were barking and howling, and they are never heard but before a great death or dearth’. Around Leeds it was said to be the crying of children who had died unbaptised.

Nowadays, despite the traditional associations with dogs, some people say that the baying of the spectral hounds is the sound of a flock of geese clamouring across the sky. Whatever it may be, the thing to do when you hear it is to throw yourself face down on the ground till the pack has passed and make sure you don’t see them. As they are usually reckoned to come out on stormy nights, this can’t make the experience any more pleasant.

THE HUNT AT EAGLE CRAG

The Ratchets were, it seems, regrettably familiar in the hills around Todmorden, especially around Eagle Crag in Cliviger on Halloween. There they flew around the outcropping rock – which looks quite like Long Tom of the Robin Hood Rocks – before streaming off south-east across Langfield Common towards Mankinholes. It was said that they then flew into the earth below Stoodley Pike, beneath which the Devil had a lair – but that’s another story.

Those ghastly hounds have always had some association with deer, and on Halloween on the Crag you might also encounter a ghostly white doe standing at the tip of the projecting crag, facing an equally ghostly hunter and his dogs. And that’s the tale I have to tell now.

The main road twists and turns up the valley from Todmorden towards Burnley, and just before you leave West Yorkshire you come to Portsmouth. Up in the hills to the left of the road stands Bearnshaw Tower. It’s no good looking for an old house and tower now though; there was a legend that treasure was buried under the tower and so many people went digging in the foundations to find it that the structure fell down. People still live on the old site where once, we hear, Lady Sybil lived alone, save for the housemaid and the farmworkers. She had never married and was quite well off enough to continue like that for some time at least.

This was just as well, perhaps, as there were some things about Sybil which she might have found hard to share with most of the men round about. Not least was the fact that had she married, her own property would have had to go under her husband’s name and rights of disposal, and that didn’t sit well with her. At the same time there were some things most men of her class might have found hard to accept in her, too, and it wasn’t just the independence that comes of living perfectly well on your own, thank you. For people spoke quietly among themselves that she was some kind of witch – that her quiet lonely walks on the moor were not as ordinary as they might seem, and that sometimes she had ‘funny turns’. Sybil probably heard these stories, but whether she did anything to encourage them or otherwise we don’t know; as long as there was no proof, there was no danger. And perhaps the rumours helped to ward off unwelcome attention.

Yet still suitors came and they went, too, disappointed that their efforts were not rewarded with a good slice of property as well as a suitable wife. The most persistent of them all was surely William Towneley of Hapton Tower. His family had a fancy house, Towneley Hall, on the edge of Burnley, and owned much land in that part of East Lancashire. Not that they were ever remiss in acquiring more – often at the expense of the previous tenants. The Bearnshaw land would certainly have made a useful and nearby addition to their holdings, and would give William something to be going along with. However, we may be doing the old family, and William especially, a disservice. Sybil was comely enough, they said, for any young man to desire even without the lure of property. So William fell, he supposed, in love and the more he was rebuffed, the more he succumbed. Successive appeals to love, neighbourliness, reason, logic and economics all failed, and he began to fret enough to consult a local cunning woman. Perhaps she could do something that might win Lady Sybil’s heart, or at least her hand.

Old Mother Helston was getting on in years and was well-versed in the concerns of those who came to visit her. She’d make up medicines for those who were ailing in body, or salves and potions for those ailing in heart or mind; she told fortunes and gave advice, and if she found it necessary she’d even use a little bit of the special knowledge she had. Some people would call her a witch, but she offered her services to people around her and by and large what she offered she worked for the benefit of others, not for malice. It was sometimes hard to tell where the boundaries lay, though. She was respected as a cunning woman by her neighbours – after all, fear or disrespect wouldn’t get you very far with someone who knew how to employ spells and magic. So people young and old, rich and poor would come to Mother Helston’s door, and William wasn’t the first of his family to come knocking.

He enquired after her children, though now long gone, and her health, and whether she was eating well, and he laid a little something on her dresser to tide her over and put a little more bread on the table. She offered him some herb tea and they sat down; after a little general conversation they began to talk of Lady Sybil. The old lady could see what was on William’s mind and that he would ask her what countless young men and women had asked her over the years – for a little help in their romantic desires.

But there was, of course, a problem with helping William, for Mother Helston knew well that Sybil was indeed a woman versed in the kind of magic she herself used, and one who much preferred her lonely but comfortable situation to a respectable life as the wife of a gentleman.

‘Take my advice,’ she cautioned William, ‘this woman would not bring you the happiness you imagine. I know her well and I know her ways. I would say to you, leave well alone.’

But he wasn’t inclined to take no for an answer, so he changed the subject and asked her how the cold winters were for her and added a little bit to what he’d left on the dresser, to put by in case of need. After a while, the conversation returned to the lady of Bearnshaw.

‘Well,’ she said finally, ‘I’ll tell you what to do, and maybe this will cool your ardour a little. It may seem a strange piece of advice, but it’s all you’re getting from me so take it or leave it. You go out hunting on All Hallows Eve – just you and your dogs, mind – and make your way out across Thieveley. Make sure you have a rope made of white silk with you and that you stay out till the dark comes. Be ready for whatever befalls and do not shirk the hunt. And then we shall see what comes to pass. Maybe you’ll get what you desire – though for the life of me I can’t see why you persist – and maybe you won’t’. And Mother Helston stood up and opened her front door for William to leave.

So a few weeks later William gathered his hounds, mounted his horse and rode out on the afternoon of 31 October towards Thieveley Pike. It was a pleasant afternoon for the time of year and the dogs picked up the odd rabbit, chased a couple of hares, followed a few fruitless fox trails, but raised no other prey. The sun set and they were ambling across Thieveley Moor when a strange dog, white with chestnut-brown ears, ran up and joined the pack. William, surprised enough to see such a strange-coloured dog, was astonished to see that his hounds seemed to accept the new arrival immediately. He decided it was best to ask no questions, especially when there was nobody about to ask.

Very soon the new dog picked up a scent, sounded, and off the pack ran after their new friend. From a thicket and off across the moor sprang a milk-white doe. ‘Two curious beasts in one afternoon! I swear I catch the scent of magic around me’, thought William. ‘Well, the old lady said be ready for whatever befalls, so here we go!’ And he rode on with renewed energy.

Now William had a good horse and his hounds were fit, but they could not catch up with the doe. All round the moor, as twilight turned to a bright moonlit night, the creature led them, but however tired they all were, William remembered what he had been told – ‘do not shirk the hunt’ – and kept his horse and hounds at it.

It must have been midnight when the panting doe suddenly stopped and faced them. She was standing on a slab of rock and as William came closer he saw that beyond the rock there was no land – just a sheer drop into the dark valley below. He recognised it as Eagle Crag. He was close enough that he could see how beautiful this white beast was, how proudly she held her neck, and her eyes glittered with intelligence rather than fear. She was hesitant and trembling on the edge of the crag, but obviously weighing up the options. Should she jump off and trust to providence? Should she run through the pack and trust her speed could evade the hounds? Or was she too tired?

Now the strange dog moved forward and stared into the doe’s eyes, and something seemed to pass between them. The deer seemed to calm down, her muscles relaxed, her eyes no longer looking for escape but appraising the situation. The hounds had fallen silent. The moor was still, poised at this midnight hour as if this extraordinary event had dispelled time.

William dismounted from his horse and took out the silken noose. He walked slowly towards the panting deer, and when he was close enough he laid the noose lightly, without resistance, around the doe’s neck.

The doe followed William meekly as he led her away from Eagle Crag and along the top of the valley side. Following a very strong intuition he did not head for Hapton, but for Bearnshaw Tower. The strange dog slipped away into the night and soon after Mother Helston opened her front door and revived her fire.

At Lady Sybil’s home it was all quiet and if anyone stirred as William led his entourage into the stable they took it no further than that. William tied his horse and the deer into stalls, set the dogs outside the door and waited. In a little while the atmosphere in the stable changed and the white doe seemed to grow hazy, indistinct…

Suddenly, William was looking at Lady Sybil, tied to a stable stall with a silken noose about her neck, staring straight into his eyes with resentful defiance as he made his speech: ‘Well, my lady, I am sorry to discover you in this state and I feel bound to remind you of the poor view the law takes of sorcery. Yet you need have no fear of me, for I can assure you of my love and sincerity, and this love will not permit me to tell of this night to anybody. But, my dear, I urge you not to disappoint me further, but to marry me as I have often asked before; and if you will agree to put aside these dangerous ways, then you shall hear no more of it from me.’

She could, as William implied, fare a lot worse than this, she thought, though she would most certainly have words with old Mother Helston later. And so it was that Lady Sybil of Bearnshaw Tower, the area’s most sought-after but elusive prize, finally accepted a suitor and married him in Holme Chapel not so long after.

TROUBLE AT T’ MILL