North Yorkshire Folk Tales

by Ingrid Barton

  His wife would not believe the story, of course. Who would?

  However, Ralph kept telling her that in four days the bridge would prove him right. ‘It’s a long walk theer!’ she complained, but in the end her curiosity got the better of her. She told their neighbours the tale and they told their neighbours, and pretty soon there was no one in Thorpe who did not know about it. Naturally their curiosity also got the better of them and so by the fourth day it was a large crowd that set out on the road to the ford of Dibb. The local priest insisted on going with them, very dubious about the whole thing.

  As they came down the valley the small boys running ahead began to shout and point. Soon everyone could see it: a fine, high, white-stone bridge spanning the river above the ford. Everyone rushed towards it but before the priest could remind them about Kilgrim and the Devil’s usual price, several people had crossed and re-crossed it with no ill effects. It seemed that the Devil, true to his word, wanted no payment.

  The priest insisted that the local stonemason carve a cross on each end of the bridge, just in case, and then everyone went home, well pleased with Ralph.

  The next Christmas when Ralph was making his way, dry-shod and safe, over the swollen winter river, he paused in the middle of the new bridge and thought about his summer meal with Old Nick.

  ‘Thoo’s a Devil o’ thy word,’ he said, ‘God bless!’

  7

  WITCHES

  ON WITCHES

  Now it may be that several thousand years ago, the witches of Yorkshire worshipped the Horned God or the White Goddess and danced naked in a frenzy of creative joy, but all that had ceased by the time their descendents were frightening folk in North Yorkshire in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. It was then that nearly all of the considerable number of North Yorkshire witch stories were collected. Sympathetic listeners like Richard Blakeborough heard first hand from grannies and grandfathers about the well-remembered old women of their youth who had cast spells on their cousins, cattle, bairns and so on. Their accounts of witch-strikes tell of real people who, for one reason or another had been labelled a witch.

  It seems that the easiest way of acquiring such a reputation was to look suitably ugly and walk past people. Story after story relies on the bewitched just ‘feeling that summat was not right’ or that ‘summat overcome me!’ as they met a suitable candidate. Often the presence of witchcraft was merely determined by popular opinion that something unnatural was happening. It is unpleasantly similar to African tales of being bewitched by witch children.

  However, witches there undoubtedly were; that is, people who believed themselves to have power, not just over the natural world but over the future as well. Some of these women were clearly genuinely nasty people who enjoyed the power given to them by their neighbours. Others acquired the more reputable title of wise women – a status always a little borderline. They were feared perhaps, but also consulted. There were wise men too, though no male witches: all the witches in these accounts appear to have been solitary females (though it is possible they once had families). There do not appear to have been any covens.

  Fortunately, the cure for being witch-stricken was less draconian in Yorkshire than in other parts of the world – at least latterly when magistrates refused to prosecute for witchcraft. You first visited a chosen wise man or woman – the stories show that there were plenty to be had, all named and well known in their area – who would first determine if your problem was actually caused by a witch and then if so, which witch. He or she would then prescribe a counter spell. These mostly involved burning something horribly smelly, driving pins into bullock’s hearts and perhaps sacrificing a black cat or cock. Bits of cloth torn from the clothes of a hanged man might also feature, and wicken-wood (rowan) was essential. Quotations from the Bible or folk spells might be chanted. It seems the witch normally got off with nothing worse than a bit of unpleasantness as her spell backfired on her. In only one story is a witch ducked and that just seems to have been added for extra excitement. It may be that the women who actually held themselves out as witches were a secret social resource, consulted about sexual matters, love potions, getting revenge or pregnant, and so on.

  THE WISE WOMAN OF LITTONDALE

  Wharfedale

  In the year 17— a solitary cottage stood in a lonely gill not far from Arncliffe. A more wretched habitation the imagination cannot picture, it contained a single room inhabited by an old woman called Bertha, who was, throughout the valley, accounted a wise woman.

  I was at that time very young and unmarried, and far from having any dread of her would frequently talk to her and was always glad when she called at my father’s house. She was tall, thin and haggard. Her eyes were sunk deep in their sockets and her hoarse masculine voice was anything but pleasant. The reason I took such delight in her company was because she was possessed of great historical knowledge and related events that had occurred two or three centuries ago in such a detailed manner that many a time I believed that she had seen them for herself.

  In the autumn of 17— I set out one evening to visit her cottage. I had never seen inside and was determined to. I knocked at the gate and she told me to come in. I entered. The old woman was seated on a three-legged stool by a peat fire, surrounded by three cats and an old sheepdog.

  ‘Well,’ she exclaimed. ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘Don’t be offended,’ I answered. ‘I’ve never seen inside your cottage and wanted to do so. I also wished to see you perform some of your “incantations”.’ Bertha noticed that I spoke the last word ironically.

  ‘So you doubt my power, think me an imposter and consider my incantations mere jugglery? Well, you may change your mind. Sit down and in less than half an hour you shall see evidence of my power greater than I have allowed anyone else to witness!’

  I obeyed and approached the fireside, looking round the room as I did so. The only furnishings were three stools, an old deal table, a few pans, pictures of Merlin, Nostradamus and Michael Scott, a cauldron and a mysterious sack. The witch, having sat by me a few minutes, rose and said, ‘Now for our incantation; watch me but don’t interrupt.’ She then drew a chalk circle on the floor and in the midst of it placed a chafing dish filled with burning embers; on this she fixed the cauldron that she had half-filled with water.

  She then told me to stand on the opposite side of the circle. She opened the sack and taking from it various ingredients threw them into the pot. Amongst other things I noticed a skeleton head, bones of different sizes and the dried carcasses of some small animals. All the time she did this she continued muttering some words in an unknown language.

  At length the water boiled and the witch, presenting me with a glass, told me to look through it at the cauldron. I did so and saw a figure enveloped in the steam. At the first glance I did not know what to make of it, but soon I recognised the face of N—, a good friend of mine. He was dressed in his usual way but seemed unwell and pale. I was astonished and trembled.

  The figure having vanished, Bertha removed the cauldron and put out the fire.

  ‘Now!’ she said. ‘Do you doubt my power? I have brought before you the form of a person who is some miles from here, I am no imposter!’

  I only wanted to get out of there but as I was about to leave Bertha said, ‘Stop! I haven’t finished with you. I will show you something more wonderful. Tomorrow at midnight go and stand on Arncliffe Bridge and look at the water on the left side of it. Don’t be afraid. Nothing will hurt you.’

  ‘Why should I go? It’s a lonely place. Can I take someone with me?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because the charm will be broken,’

  ‘What charm?’

  ‘I’m not going to tell you any more. Do it. You will not be harmed.’

  That night I lay awake unable to sleep and during the next day I was so preoccupied that I was unable to attend to any business.

  Night came and I went to Arncliffe Bridge.
I shall never forget the scene; it was a lovely night; the full moon was sailing peacefully through a clear deep-blue cloudless sky and its silver beams were dancing on the waters of the Skirfare beck. The stillness was broken only by the murmuring of the stream, while the scattered cottages and the autumn woods all united in a picture of calm and perfect beauty.

  I leaned against the left battlement of the bridge, trying to be calm. I waited in fear for a quarter of an hour, half an hour, an hour. Nothing happened. I listened; all was silent. I looked around; I saw nothing. Surely, I thought, it must be midnight by now. Bertha has made a fool of me! I breathed more freely. Then I jumped as the clock of the neighbouring church suddenly chimed. I had mistaken the hour. I resolved to stay a little longer.

  Then, as I gazed in the stream, I heard a low moaning sound and saw the water violently troubled. The disturbance continued for a few moments before it ceased and the river became calm and peaceful again

  I wondered what it could mean. Who moaned? What caused the disturbance? Full of fear I hurried home, but turning the corner of the lane that led to my father’s house, I was startled as a huge dog crossed my path. A Newfoundland, I thought. It looked at me sadly. ‘Poor fellow!’ I exclaimed. ‘Have you lost your master? Come home with me until we find him. Come on!’ The dog followed me, but by the time I got home, it had disappeared. I supposed it had found its master.

  The following morning I went to Bertha’s cottage again and once again found her sitting by the fire.

  ‘Well, Bertha,’ I said, ‘I obeyed you. Last night I was on Arncliffe Bridge.’

  ‘What did you see?’

  ‘Nothing except a slight disturbance of the stream.’

  ‘I know about that, but what else?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing! Your memory is failing you!’

  ‘Oh, I forgot. On the way home I met a Newfoundland dog belonging to some traveller.’

  ‘That dog never belonged to a mortal,’ she said. ‘No human is his master. The dog you saw was Barguest. You may have heard of him!’

  ‘I’ve often heard tales of Barguest but I never believed them. If the old tales are true someone will die after he appears.’

  ‘You are right. And a death will follow last night’s appearance.’

  ‘Whose death?’

  ‘Not yours.’

  Bertha would tell me no more, so I went home. Less than three hours later I heard that me friend N—, whose figure I had seen in the cauldron steam, had that morning committed suicide by drowning himself at Arncliffe Bridge at the very spot where I saw the disturbance of the stream!

  OLD NANNY

  Nidderdale

  Come in this minute or Old Nanny will get you!

  Old Nanny overlooked his pigs and they all died!

  Old Nanny’ll find you! If you go down there!

  Who is Old Nanny/Old Alice/Old Peggy? You may think that she is an old woman living just beyond the end of the village, or that she haunts the crossroads or the churchyard or sits below the gibbet. You may use her to frighten your children away from abandoned houses, or old wells, or even other people’s property, but one thing is certain: once you have let her into your mind, she will set up lodgings in your imagination. Then, you had best beware!

  One night a farmer living near Stokesley wakes to find Old Nanny standing at the end of his bed. He knows it is her because all the hair on his head is standing on end and his heart is beating fit to bust.

  ‘What do you want?’ he gasps.

  ‘Get the gold!’ she says. ‘Get the silver!’

  ‘I’ve neither one!’ he stammers, though it is a lie.

  ‘Get the gold! Get the silver!’

  This time she points out of the window towards the orchard, where the new spring leaves shine in the moonlight as if they are themselves made of silver.

  The farmer begins to think that perhaps she has not come to rob him after all.

  ‘Under the foremost!’ says Old Nanny. ‘Take the silver; leave the gold. Give it to Annie.’

  ‘That dirty old witch who lives just beyond village end? Why her?’

  ‘Give it to Annie!’ she repeats. She takes a step backwards, out of the moonlight and is gone.

  The farmer lies awake panting and unable to get back to sleep, but as soon as the sun begins rise he leaps from his bed. The farm men yawning and rubbing their eyes as they come into the kitchen are amazed when he strides through them.

  ‘Where’s farmer going at sparrow’s fart?’ mutters one. They all stare out of the back door as the farmer goes first to the cart shed for an old spade and then marches straight towards the orchard.

  ‘Eh! Farmer’s crackin’!’ they opine gleefully.

  The farmer digs under the tree closest to the house, and, just as Old Nanny has said, he unearths a chest of treasure. It is full of silver and gold. He waits until all the men have gone about their work and then brings it into the house. In his room he runs his fingers through the coins. How delightfully heavy they are!

  He does not for a moment consider giving anything at all to Annie; lonely, miserable, hungry and cold in her little tumbledown cottage. He thinks, ‘The chest was in my orchard, on my land and I dug it up. It’s mine!’

  But once Old Nanny gets into your mind you’re never free again. From the moment he shuts the chest on that decision everything begins to go wrong for him. He does not notice immediately, though he remarks to his surprised foreman on how unseasonably cold it has suddenly become.

  That night he wakes to see Old Nanny sitting on a chair by the fire he has had lit in his bedroom. She does not speak, just looks at him. He pretends not to see her and turns over.

  The next night she is there again, and the next.

  ‘T’awd bitch’ll never wear me down!’ the farmer mutters to himself, pulling the blankets over his head.

  The next evening he finds himself, uncharacteristically, heading for the alehouse. ‘Just a bit of a stiffener,’ he tells the surprised landlord, ‘to face her down.’ He does not say who ‘her’ is. The following evening he goes again. Soon it becomes a regular habit. His men increasingly have to go and help bring him home. He often says that Old Nanny is following him, but that he will face her down, t’awd bitch – then he laughs drunkenly. The men look nervously behind them but there is never anyone there.

  ‘Farmer’s finally cracked!’ they say.

  The farmer never sleeps well any more until dawn is near. He rises later and later and stops supervising his men’s work. Inevitably they take advantage. The farm starts to go to rack and ruin.

  He still rides weekly to Stokesley market but as often as not the horse will have to find its own way home with its owner slumped drunkenly asleep in the saddle.

  One wild and windy Saturday night, however, he is not asleep. On the contrary, the villagers are themselves woken by shouting, the clatter of hooves and a terrified neighing. As they throw their shutters open the farmer gallops furiously by, spurring his horse unmercifully. As he passes they hear him shouting ‘I will! I will! I will!’ Then some see that up behind him is a hunched shape, a small woman in black. She wears the straw hat of an ordinary farm labourer’s wife, but she is clinging to the farmer like a cat with her long pointed fingernails.

  The farm gate is shut and though the newly awoken men run into the yard at the noise of hooves, they are not fast enough to open it. That does not stop the farmer; he brings his whip down again and again on the horse’s flank. ‘I will! I will! I will!’ he screams.

  ‘He’s niver going to leap t’gate!’ the men gasp, but, yes, there he goes!

  Some of the men try to grab the reins of frightened horse as it lands skidding on the cobblestones, but it rears violently as they approach, throwing off its passengers. The farmer flies through the air and hits his own doorstep with a crack they can all hear. The foreman runs to his side. He kneels down to help him – too late; his master’s head is covered with blood, his eyes are open and sightless.

>   Of Old Nanny there is no sign.

  She hasn’t gone far though.

  She’s in your head now …

  THE NINE OF HEARTS

  Swaledale

  George Winterfield was a stealer of hearts. The girls of Leeming, near the River Swale, were attracted by his good looks and easy charm. He was excitingly wild too, known for his drinking and gambling, his jokes, his daring.

  He had a girl, promised her marriage, as everyone knew, but somehow there was never quite enough money or the time was not quite right – maybe next year? She waited patiently, but as time wore on, she became increasingly desperate. The other village girls had been jealous when she bagged George, so they were not inclined to be kind to her as the prospect of her marriage appeared to recede indefinitely. George himself remained as friendly and charming to them all as if he was not promised at all.

  One evening he was playing cards with his mates in Leeming Mill. George played most winter evenings when there was nothing else to do. The miller’s wife brewed a good ale, his fire was warm and the company, for the most part, jolly – unless they were losing, of course. There were four of them: the miller himself, George and two old school friends, John Braithwaite and Tim Farndale. None of them was a rich man, so the pot was not very large, but, even so, George was a canny player with something of a reputation to keep. Occasionally a passing visitor would be invited to join the game, usually going away poorer than he had arrived. When that happened the girls of Leeming would get all sorts of small treats from George; rides at the fair, ribbons, sweetmeats and so on. It will never be known what the poor lass to whom he was promised thought of this.

  On this particular evening, the frost was crackling on the windows and the miller’s fire was crackling on the broad hearth. The men sat down to their game with pleasure, but something strange happened. George was dealt eight consecutive hands containing the nine of hearts.