by Kai Roberts
Whilst these ghosts may have been raucous, they were never hostile and in the early nineteenth century at least, their nature seemed to be regarded as different from those violent manifestations which were regarded as the work of boggarts. However, it is difficult to tell how much this distinction was a product of the popular imagination at the time, and how much was imposed by the folklorists who recorded the material. Nonetheless, both seem to have been precursors to the modern ‘poltergeist’, which did not emerge as a separate category in the English tradition until 1848, when this German loanword was popularised by Catherine Crowe in her seminal compendium, The Night Side of Nature. Prior to this, such hauntings had been associated with demons and witchcraft as much as the spirits of the dead. Indeed, the connection has always been tenuous and poltergeists increasingly became regarded as psychic phenomena, rather than interventions from beyond the grave.
Yet, although the ghosts of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries rarely seemed to be able to interact with the material world in the manner of a poltergeist, these restless spirits were often regarded as such a nuisance that they had to be laid. A dissolute former resident of Low Hall at Appletreewick, by the name of Thomas Preston, tormented the household with a variety of auditory phenomena: ‘Unearthly sounds were often heard; the oaken rack rattled most mysteriously, doors banged fearsomely, the rafters often creaking with no apparent cause. On stormy nights hollowed sepulchral groans proceeded from the roof.’ The tenants grew so disturbed by these occurrences that they eventually had the spirit confined to a spring in Dibb Gill, known thereafter as Preston’s Well.
The motif of trapping troublesome ghosts in watery places was a common one, and the Blue Lady that haunted Heath Old Hall, near Wakefield, befell a similar fate. She was thought to be the ghost of Lady Bolles, a former owner of the hall who had died in 1662, leaving instruction that her bedchamber be shut up for evermore. When this command was violated some decades later, her apparitions began to be seen gliding through the passages of the house and the coach road leading up to it. Eventually, however, her spirit was condemned to a pool on the banks of the river to which she gave her name. Yet such exorcism rarely proved successfully; the Blue Lady was still occasionally seen at Heath Old Hall, much as the ghost of Sir Walter was seen at Calverley Hall some time after he was laid for ‘as long as green holly grows’.
The failures of these exorcisms doubtless reflected the on-going anxiety which post-Reformation theology had fostered in the population regarding the supernatural. People did not have faith in the capacity of Protestant ministers to banish evil spirits and Reverend J.C. Atkinson records an occasion when an elderly Danby parishioner asked him to expel a spectre haunting her house: ‘I told her at last I could not, did not profess to “lay spirits”; and her reply was “Ay, but if I had sent for a priest o’ t’ au’d church, he was a’ deean it. They wur a vast mair powerful conjurers than you Church-priests”.’ This experience reaffirms just how much the ghost tradition in Yorkshire was a product of the Reformation and the theological debates that followed. Rather than rid the world of superstition, Protestantism had imbued the supernatural with a newly devilish intent, and found itself with no defence against ghosts or those who believed in them.
TEN
WATER LORE
English folklore brims with legends pertaining to water sources; from lakes and rivers to wells and springs. It is hardly surprising that the medium should have exerted such a powerful fascination over the superstitious mind. Water is a fickle, dualistic element: on the one hand, it is essential for the maintenance of life; but on the other, it can snatch life away in an instant. It has the capacity to both reflect or distort an image; to reveal or deceive, like an illusionist playing games. Meanwhile, water has strongly liminal connotations. On the purely corporeal plane, a watercourse can divide physical territories, representing a no-man’s land between this bank and the yonder shore. We have seen how such thresholds resonated in the pre-modern psyche, and water embodies more than one boundary: it springs mysteriously forth from the hidden places of the earth and conceals a murky netherworld beneath its surface, forming a portal between this realm and another.
As many residents will attest, Yorkshire can be a very wet part of the country and whilst it does not have many natural lakes, it has no shortage of rivers and streams. A number of these can be quite treacherous – especially when they are in spate or must be crossed by means other than a bridge – so it seems natural that their danger should have been personified in an array of sinister genius loci. It is an impulse which has endured into modern times, and the successful 1973 public information film featuring the Spirit of Dark and Lonely Water is arguably a late twentieth-century expression of exactly the same imaginative process that once populated our lakes, rivers, ponds and bogs with kelpies, grindylows and all manner of comparable terrors.
The kelpie, or water-horse, is the most widespread image associated with water sources and whilst it is particularly characteristic of Ireland, Scotland and Wales, northern England has its fair share as well. For instance, a stretch of the River Ure, near Middleham in Wensleydale, is believed to be plagued by just such a fiend, which ‘riseth from the stream at eventide and rampeth along the meadows eager for prey.’ It is thought to take at least one human victim per year and sometimes many more. Clearly in previous centuries the vicinity of Middleham was once an important crossing point over the River Ure, and the ford particularly hazardous after heavy rainfall, as similar remarks are made about its nature in the legend concerning the construction of Kilgram Bridge (See Chapter Six).
The River Ure in spate in Wensleydale. (Kai Roberts)
An even more famous water-horse haunts the Bolton Strid in Wharfedale. Of course, this notorious spot is an exemplary location for such a legend as it is universally regarded as one of the most dangerous stretches of water in the entire British Isles. At this point, the River Wharfe rapidly narrows from approximately 80 feet wide to a mere 8 feet over a distance of only 300 yards. The majority of the water has eroded downwards through the rock, meaning that the depth of the Strid is considerable and due to the ferocity of the current flowing through it, impossible to fathom accurately. The rocks surrounding the channel are often extremely slippery and over the ages, numerous foolhardy individuals have attempted to jump across the narrow breach; no one who has fallen into the Strid has ever survived and even their corpses go unrecovered.
One apocryphal legend holds that nearby Bolton Abbey was founded in the twelfth century on land donated to the Augustinian canons by Lady Alice de Romilly, after her son drowned in the Strid when his horse unsuccessfully tried to jump it during a hunt. The episode was immortalised by William Wordsworth in his poem of 1807, ‘The Force of Prayer’, although sadly the legend does not appear to have any historical foundation. Another legend connected with the Strid holds that three sisters – the heiresses of Beamsley Hall – kept watch at the Strid one May Day morning, hoping to see its fearsome water-horse and that by expressing their dearest wishes to it, they might, by magic, be brought to fruition. However, these siblings ought to have known better; for the spectral steed is only seen to emerge from the churning white waters prior to a fatality and whilst they may have witnessed it ride, not one of the three sisters returned to Beamsley Hall that day.
The perilous Bolton Strid, where a fairy steed rides on May Day morn. (Kai Roberts)
Whilst horses seem to be the most common embodiment of a perilous river, more anthropomorphic spectres have also been recorded, and a ford across the River Dove in Farndale on the North York Moors was once renowned as the haunt of a spirit known as Sarkless Kitty. She was said to manifest in the form of a striking young maiden without a shred of clothing to preserve her modesty – hence the title ‘Sarkless’ which in the local dialect means ‘without a dress’. Kitty was supposed to appear to young men on the opposite bank of the Dove and using her beauty, tempt them to their deaths in the treacherous waters. The ghost was associated with a
Gillamoor girl called Kitty Garthwaite, who, in 1787, had committed suicide in the river after being abandoned by her fiancé and like so many suicides in that era, was refused burial in consecrated ground.
Yet, it seems that this connection is mistaken, for there is evidence to suggest that the spot was already regarded as haunted years before Kitty Garthwaite’s death. It seems more likely that her story was attached to a much older water spirit, whose legend arose as an animistic personification of the River Dove. Either way, at the peak of local belief in the tale, from the late eighteenth to early nineteenth century, at least eighteen victims were attributed to Kitty. Following the death of a popular young farmer in 1809, local feeling ran so high that the vicar of Lastingham was summoned to perform an exorcism on the ford. It seems unlikely that any fewer people died in those dangerous waters as a result of such an intervention, but nonetheless, the country folk were satisfied that Kitty had been laid and refused to even mention her name thereafter, lest she rise to torment them again.
Although Yorkshire in not abundant is natural lakes, there are a few examples and, perhaps inevitably, their origins have been thoroughly mythologised by generations of country folk. Yet, the narratives which have accreted around them differ quite considerably from the motifs associated with rivers. For, whilst the latter display distinctly animistic – some might say ‘pagan’ – characteristics, Yorkshire’s lake legends embody a firmly monotheistic milieu, communicating orthodox Christian theology regarding almsgiving and divine judgement. Like many traditions connected with the Devil (See Chapter Six), these stories seem to have arisen to provide local congregations with concrete examples of God’s power, by taking a common migratory legend and relocating it to a setting familiar to the audience.
The most famous example concerns Semerwater, the largest natural lake in North Yorkshire and the second largest in the county as a whole. It nestles in the secluded confines of Raydale, a tributary valley of Wensleydale and is surely one of the most picturesque spots in that region. The legend tells that a prosperous settlement once stood where Semerwater lies today, and its wealth was such that the people of the town had grown proud and decadent. One day, an impoverished and elderly vagrant – some say a pious hermit – stumbled upon this community and went from door to door humbly asking for some provisions to help him on his way. But, such was the arrogance of the townsfolk, they refused to provide the old man with even a morsel of food and he was turned away from every house he visited.
At length, after he had been snubbed at every dwelling in the town, he came across a much less affluent residence high on the flanks of the surrounding valley. It was occupied by a poor shepherd and his wife, but despite their own hardship, they insisted the beggar partake in their meal and offered him shelter overnight. Thus, the following morning, before he travelled on, the old man looked down on the community that had treated him so poorly, raised his arms to the heavens and declaimed, ‘Semerwater rise, Semerwater sink and swallow all the town, save yon li’l house where they gave me food and drink!’ Sure enough, a deluge rose to consume the uncharitable town; but whilst it submerged the houses of all those who had turned the hermit away, the waters stopped just short of the cottage where he had found hospitality at last.
A similar tale is told of Gormire, a small body of water which lies beneath Whitestone Cliff on the edge of the Hambleton Hills. Gormire is an unusual lake in that no streams or rivers feed or drain it; rather it is a glacial feature sustained by a spring alone, but doubtless this curious composition helped foster the notion that it was bottomless. Local legend claims that it too was once the site of a wealthy town which was inundated following a terrible earthquake; however, the story is less clear on the connection between the pride of its inhabitants and its watery fate. Nonetheless, it was long believed that ruined buildings lay beneath the surface of Gormire and could be seen glinting in the depths when the waters were especially clear.
Semerwater in Raydale, beneath which lies a sunken town. (Kai Roberts)
The sunken city is a common motif across the world and has been throughout the ages. As early as the fourth century bc, the Ancient Greek philosopher, Plato, implied that the legendary city of Atlantis was drowned by the gods as punishment for its leaders’ hubris, and the trope also appears extensively in Celtic mythology – most pointedly in the Breton legend of Ys. Perhaps more significantly, the theme has parallels with the Judaeo-Christian tradition of the Great Flood, which the Book of Genesis claims God sent to express his displeasure with the sinfulness of mankind. The lesson of the deity’s retribution against communities who prodigiously sinned or failed to exhibit virtues such as charity, was doubtless one that clergy, both Catholic and Protestant, wished to instil in their flock and by attaching this moral to a local landmark, sought to bring it closer to home.
Whilst Yorkshire may not have many natural lakes, it is rather more abundant in springs; especially those which have been dedicated to some patron saint and dubbed ‘holy wells’. Indeed, according to one reckoning, the county has the highest density of such wells in England outside Cornwall, a region widely considered to be the home of the holy well. The precise definition of a ‘holy well’ is contested: some authorities use the title to refer solely to those wells which have been consecrated by the Christian Church, whilst other sources employ the term rather more loosely, applying it to any well that possesses some historic or cultural significance. In the interests of avoiding confusion, this chapter will go on to discuss the latter category, but it will reserve the title ‘holy well’ for the former alone.
There is also much controversy surrounding the provenance of well worship. For many generations it was popular to assume that holy wells were a direct survival from the animistic pre-Christian religions of the British Isles, and that a continuous tradition of veneration from that period could be identified at a number of examples. There are certainly understandable grounds on which to believe this: there is extensive evidence of votive offerings being deposited in water sources during the Iron Age and Romano-British period, and superficially, the medieval holy well tradition has much in common with such ancient practice. On the other hand, the rationale of the assumption depended greatly on the early folkloric hypothesis of ‘survivals’, which has long been discredited – at least as far as pagan survivals are concerned.
There are two substantial obstacles to supposing any demonstrable continuity of tradition in well worship from the pre-Christian period. Firstly, between the Romano-British period and the early Middle Ages, the Dark Ages intervenes. During this time, no written records exist to document the status of such belief through those centuries, and the archaeological record remains conspicuously silent on the matter. Secondly, the historical record suggests the pattern of use and abandonment of holy wells is so dynamic – even within the Middle Ages, let alone after the Reformation – that it would be quite remarkable if a tradition had endured for such a lengthy period of time. Therefore, it is more realistic to suggest that whilst Iron-Age Celts and medieval Christians may both have worshipped at wells, they probably worshipped at different wells. Very little evidence of the former survives and the latter took place firmly within the context of orthodox Christianity.
In his study of holy wells, folklorist Jeremy Harte suggests that those springs known simply as ‘Holywell’ may represent the earliest examples of sacred springs in the Christian tradition, in many cases pre-dating the Norman Conquest. He bases this conclusion on the extent to which these names are embedded in the landscape, in toponyms or family names such as Halliwell. Harte goes on to suggest that the distribution pattern of such wells – concentrated primarily in areas which would have been classed as ‘waste’ in the Domesday Book, but not too far from the periphery of civilisation – indicates that they were probably originally associated with hermits, and other mendicant holy men, in the period before many permanent churches were established. It is perhaps consistent then that springs baldly titled ‘Holywell’ are amongst the mos
t ubiquitous in Yorkshire, especially the West Riding – for example, Halliwell Syke or Holywell Green, both in the vicinity of Halifax.
The second wave seems to have been those wells dedicated to native saints, of which there is an abundance in Yorkshire. It is with these early dedications that the reputation of holy wells for healing first emerged. According to Catholic doctrine, the souls of saints passed immediately into the presence of God and so could function as intercessors, who would communicate a supplicant’s prayer to the Almighty. However, for the prayer to be more effective, it is desirable to be in close proximity to the saint’s remaining traces on earth. It was through such belief that the medieval cult of relics flourished, to the point where almost every cathedral and monastery in the Middle Ages preserved bones, which they claimed were those of some beatified patron.
Hordes of pilgrims flocked to offer prayers to saintly relics and such was the demand for this service, that people began to consider that it was not just the mortal remains of saints that were efficacious; maybe the places and objects they had consecrated during their lifetime were similarly potent? As such, wells from which they had drunk and supposedly blessed came to act as substitute relics. It is true that such practices were regarded with contempt by some ecclesiastics, but their objections were not so much due to fear of paganism; rather, they were disturbed that they could not control and profit from the worship taking place at these sites. Their objections were about authority rather than theology. Conversely, there is evidence to suggest other churchmen not only tolerated well worship, but actually approved it.