My father – now no longer with us – had three ghost stories: two from his childhood, one from his early twenties. There’s not really much substance to them, but maybe because of the circumstances of their telling, or the fact that the landscape is one I am very familiar with, they have always seemed very atmospheric to me. I probably won’t be able to do them justice. (I’ve been reminded of these stories by a discussion on the
It Happens To Us All thread.)
A little background: Dad was two decades older than my mum – born near Hartington in the White Peak area in 1920, to a farming family of modest means and a mother who was already 40 when he was born (a very considerable age for childbearing at the time). He progressed from farm boy to soldier - serving in WW2 - then immediately after demob, school headmaster. He’d tell the following stories if and when prompted, but was not one who ever deliberately sought an audience- he was very entertaining, but never actively sought a platform to be so.
Story #1: Around the age of eight or nine dad was walking with his mother across the fields above the village of Hartington, in what is now the Derbyshire Peak District. Returning home from an unremembered errand, their path took them through an area my dad knew as Boggart’s Barn, but at the time he had no concept of what might be implied by that name, nor given it any thought.
It was a blustery afternoon, but relatively fine – and late in the day, but still light. As they walked past the isolated structure which gives the place its name - set back a little way from the track, hunched alone in the fields, and at some consierable distance from human habitation - my dad saw what he took to be a woman dressed in very pale or white clothing, sitting on wooden gate set in a dry stone wall. Rather surprised to see someone in such a lonely spot - but unaware at this time that there might be anything remarkable about the situation - he couldn’t help but to keep looking over at her as they made their way through the field. The figure did not appear to be taking any notice of the pair and gave the appearance of being deep in thought - her legs swinging gently against the bars of the gate.
They walk on until, at a point where the woman is now behind them, my dad turns to look again. The lonely figure appears to look towards him and raise an arm in the air (at least this is how he read it at the time – when my dad related the story to me many decades later he said that what he then saw in his mind’s eye was the figure rise up in height a little, and then sort of ‘flap’ an arm - very MR James, I know). His mother had been concentrating on picking their way along the rutted track and had not noticed the figure – so he tugs on her coat and asks about the lady who is waving at them. Does she know who it is? She looks over her shoulder towards the gate, stops dead in her tracks for a moment – my dad described her eyes widening and a distinct look of alarm crossing her features - then she grabs my dad’s hand and pulls him forcibly along the track, away from the barn, their pace doubled. She tells him there is nothing there – but he knows she’s just seen the same thing he has. When he looks back the figure is no longer on the gate – and it’s at this sudden absence that the fright actually kicks in for my father, more so than if the figure had still been in sight. By the time they finally drop off the fields and onto a road they are almost running.
It should be pointed out that my grandmother – who I unfortunately never met – was tough as old boots; most stories concerning her describe a woman who would stand her ground and have it out, rather than run – and her obvious sense fear is what convinced my father that something out of the ordinary had taken place. She never spoke about the incident – and when my dad asked his father he was told something along the lines of, ‘there are things up there that you don’t need to know the name of’. This, in itself, was odd - my dad’s family were great storytellers who would spin out epics of family and local lore at the drop of a hat - he felt that the reticence this experience met with told him far more about it than a half hour yarn at the kitchen table.
Notes: I have not been able to find a place known as Boggarts Barn – not even on older maps and field plans. This, in itself, is not so odd; the OS has always been pretty good on local and folk place-names - but never exhaustive; my relations used a fair few place names that were never on any plan. What
is a bit odd is the usage of the word ‘boggart’ – which is not common in the area. The name ‘Hob’
is very common, and maybe not so different in implication – but I cannot find a Hob’s Barn either, and besides, knowing my dad, and his knowledge of the area, I doubt he was mistaken in the first place.
I do have a strong inkling of the place in question – and I’ll maybe try and get up there this spring and take some photographs. Possibly early in the day…when it’s nice and sunny, and there’s no danger of me getting caught out by a darkening afternoon.