A Face Lift For The Haunted Britain Website

Over the last month or so I've been hunched over the laptop revamping my Haunted Britain website.

I originally put the site together way back in 2002, when the web (or at least my knowledge of it!) was very much in its infancy.

The site looked very dated indeed. Indeed, it looked as though my (then) five year old son had got together with our pet dog and had come up with a regurgitated effort.

So a few months ago i began tinkering with the template and the new website is now rolling out in dribs and drabs.

I've currently got as far as the Haunted Hereford section of the website and have added several short films that I took of the locations that I visited last year whilst writing my book on Haunted Britain.In this section I decided to give the wonderful Hellens Manor, largely because I think its a great location and I think everyone should pay it a visit.

In addition, as mentioned in my previous blog, I recently gave a talk on Jack the Ripper at the magnificent St Briavels Castle in the heart of the Forest of Dean in Gloucestershire, and was able to do several films in its various haunted rooms. Again it was a fantastic location and i would urge you to pay it a visit if you get the chance.

I read in the paper to day that they're thinking of scrapping the Oxford Comma. as a writer i find this a most interesting idea. Apparently it was only brought in a hundred or so years ago and is the comma that is used to separate a grouping of words. So, for example, (I don't think that was an Oxford Comma) if i were to say I have paid a visit to Hellens, St Briavels Castle, St Michael's Mount and the Tower of London - well that is an oxford Comma. Personally I quite like it as I think it a good idea to divide words like that, and don;t you think it would look untidy if they just followed on one after another?

Speaking of St Michael's Mount, I was most intrigued to read in the paper this week that an underwater landslide is thought to have caused a small tsunami that sent holidaymakers and anglers scattering in Cornwall, and soaked visitors who were crossing the causeway they joins St Michael's Mount with the mainland. Witnesses told how the sea was "sucked out," before a wave hitk the coast on the morning of 27th June 2011.

No damage was caused by the wave, thought to have been about 40cm (16in) high and causing a surge up to 90cm (3ft) by the time the seawater pushed into the Yealm estuary, 70 miles up the coast near Plymouth, Devon.

What intrigued me most about the reports was the fact that many people reported that static electricity in the air at the time made their hair stand on end. Curiouser and curiouser!

Anyway, just returning to the Haunted Britain website, I've got two more locations to add to the next section - Haunted Gloucestershire - and then that will go live on the website.

What's In A Name?

I was on my way to another haunted location when I started to notice some of the great street names with which the spectral landscape of Britain is blessed.

My ultimate destination on this leg of my journey was the church of St Peter, in the village of Tewin. So I was poodling along through the leafy byways of Hertfordshire -well given those byways were still very much in the grip of winter they were more stark and skeletal than leafy, which, I suppose, is more in keeping with the theme of Haunted Britain - when, lo and behold, I saw the name Robbery Bottom Lane on a sign.

What a great street to live on! Imagine phoning up a call centre to order something and then when they ask for your address proudly announcing "44 Robbery Bottom Lane." There'd be that brief pause then, "can I just place you on hold Sir whilst I suppress the urge to giggle." Or perhaps I'm just being puerile and Robbery Bottom Lane isn't in the least bit funny? In which case I offer a thousand apologies and promise to grow up. Still here's a photo of it just on the off chance.



Anyway this was a pleasant diversion as I headed through Herts on route to Tewin and, before you could say Robbery Bottom Lane, I was driving up the drive to St Peter's Church where I hoped to reacquaint myself with Lady Ann Grimston.

You approach the church along a fairly long drive, which curves into a circle, that is surrounded by trees, just in front of the church door. This posed something of a problem as I couldn't work out where I was meant to park. So I pulled over to the side of the circle and got out of the car.

The last time that I visited Lady Ann was in 1999 when I was writing my first book on Haunted Britain and Ireland, but since she's been dead since November 1780, I wasn't expecting her to have changed a great deal, and nor did she disappoint. The reason I wanted to visit her again was that the last time I was here I had photographed her grave on film, yes film, that's how long ago it was. So I wanted to update my collection by obtaining a digital image of the grave.

Now Lady Ann Grimston was a Sadducean who lived on Robbery Bottom Lane. I'm just kidding about where she lived, just wanted to try and get it into the blog again. Being a Sadducean meant that she didn't believe in the Resurrection of the dead. As she lay dying, in November 1780, she point blank refused to recant her heresy, even though the vicar implored her to do so. "If, indeed, there is life hereafter," she told the vicar, "trees will render asunder my tomb."

When she died she was buried in St Peter's Churchyard. Now whether what happened next was a divine response to her death bed challenge, or was the vicar's attempt to prove that he had been right and she was wrong, is uncertain. But her tombs has indeed been rendered asunder by several trees that have sprouted and grown up through it, causing the stone to crack and shatter.


So, there I was happily photographing the tomb when a lady with a spade suddenly appeared as if from nowhere. "Is that your car?" She asked. I confessed that, indeed, it was. "You're not meant to park there, it's against health and safety, we need to keep that clear for fire engines," was her reply. I looked nervously at the spade, wondering if she might be the local traffic warden and the spade was the implement by which Tewin enforces a zero tolerance response to parking violations, one strike and you're buried sort of thing. But no, it transpired she was simply working on the churchyard. "And we've got a funeral at 2.30," she said "so we need it to be kept clear for the hearse."

Apparently, when you visit St Peter's you are meant to park between the trees, not on the path - so now you know dear reader.

Anyway, I offered my profound apologies and asked if I could quickly photograph the tomb. So I quickly snapped a few photos as she headed to the corner of the churchyard and commenced tidying around a few of the graves.

As I walked back to the path, I noticed another car reversing into the gap between the trees and arrived at my car just as a very tall, gentleman got out. of the other vehicle. "Is that your car?" He asked. "You're not meant to park there." I explained that I'd already had the conversation with the lady over there and pointed to where she had been standing, except - yes you've guessed it - there wasn't any lady there!

Just as I was contemplating the prospect of making a cameo appearance in my own book, she appeared from the other side of the church. "Hello vicar," she said to the gentleman. Whereupon, I climbed back into the car and head further into the Hertfordshire countryside. Till the next time...

OMG - I THOUGHT I SAW A GHOST

The thing about old coaching inns with roaring log fires is that they don't have roaring log fires in the bedrooms!

I was at the Unicorn in Stow-On-The -Wold overnight, a lovely old inn with dark corridors, low beams and creaky floorboards. Nice old fashioned sash windows, and boy do they let the draft in. I ended up popping down to reception to borrow a fan heater, which did the trick.

This was a delightful place. There were only a handful of guests there last night, but the night before they'd had two guests booked in at 5pm, and they ended up full as more and more motorists abandoned their cars as the blizzard raged outside.

This morning the locks were frozen on the car and the normal de-icer wouldn't clear the windows. Luckily, I found that at some stage I'd had the foresight to buy some Super De-icer and that did the trick. So, after a few skids, slips and slides, I managed to reverse out onto Sheep Street and was on my way.

All along the road from here to Shipton there were abandoned cars and vans still wating to be retrieved after their owners had ditched them on Tuesday.

Even Emily, my trusty sat-nav, was feeling the cold "recccccccallllllculllaaaaaaaating" she stamerred as I went straight through the lights on the A429, instead of veering left on the A424 as she'd instructed.

Undeterred, I managed to turn round and got back on track.

Soon I was descending into Burford and, there on the left was a sign telling me that Shipton was just four miles away. "What the heck" I thought," only four miles," and headed off on a road that was icy but passable.

Arriving in Shipton Under Wychwood, I suddenly remembered why I knew it.

On the left was the Shaven Crown Hotel. I'd actually stayed there in 2004 whilst writing Haunted Inns of Britain and Ireland. I hate to admit it but I'd forgotten all about this place, which is a pity because it's an absolute gem.

It dates back to 1380 and originally provided accommodation for the monks of nearby Bruern Abbey.

The Abbey was dissolved in 1534 and the building lay derelict for over forty years. Then, in 1580, Elizabeth 1st, having used it for a time as a hunting lodge, presented it to the village on condition it was always kept as an inn.

In (or should that be inn?) which capacity it has been attending to the needs of weary travellers ever since.

Amongst its most infamous residents was Oswald Mosley, who was incarcerated here for six months during World War Two.

The ghost that haunts this venerable old hostelry is, apparently, a leftover from its monastic days, and is a harmless old fellow known to the staff as Brother Sebastian.

So I decided it was time to get an update on Brother Sebastian's spectral antics.

You enter the hotel through a massive oak door to find yourself confronted by a residents lounge that is graced by a double collar-braced roof that is 600 years old. It really is a fantastic place.

Eventually I found the receptionist, who told me that there hadn't actually been any recent sightings of the phantom monk.

She also told me that there had been no guests at the hotel for the last few days.

Which means that, had I pressed on last night and got to Shipton as I intended, then I could have had the entire haunted old place to myself.

But then I might just as easily have ended up ditching the car along with all the others that I passed on my way here.

Oh well, in another 30 years, when they are speaking of the worst winter since the snows of 2010, I'll hobble in on my zimmer frame and hope that there are no other guests.

When I was there in 2004 the owner had told me something that I've encountered time and again at haunted hotels.

Obviously, if you decide to publicise the fact that your hotel is haunted you are walking a fine line between attracting customers and terrifying them into staying away.

Thus, at every haunted hotel I have visited the staff have always been adamant that their ghost is very friendly and is not in the least bit frightening.

Wouldn't it be great if a hotel decided to go the whole scary, spooky hog and advertise that their ghost is "an absolute evil b***d that rips guests livers and hearts out whilst they're sleeping and eats them?" Just an idea.

Leaving the inn, I crossed over to the green and the church looked magical across the expanse of white. So I drove ,or rather slid, down Church Lane and spent a pleasant 20 minutes wading through knee deep snow in the churchyard snapping the church from different angles.

Returning to the car I found a group of local seniors gathered around bemoaning the fact that the news agent's had a notice up reading " Not Times, No Telegraph, No FT."

"No comment," mused one elderly gentleman in exceedingly clipped tones.

Back in the car I coaxed it back up the slight incline of Church Lane and then headed back to Burford.

I parked up by the side of the road just as a local lady was coming out of her front door alongside my car. I asked if it was OK to park there. "No problem, they always do," she replied in a jovial country accent that was either Australian or Kiwi.

Burford Church looked a picture, and having snapped it against a deep blue sky, I made my way over to the wall to take a photograph of the plaque commemorating the three Levellers.

In the wake of the English Civil War in the mid 1600's a group of Parliamentarian Soldiers (the side loyal to Oliver Cromwell) en route for Ireland suddenly decided that England would be a happier society if a policy of equality and religious tolerance was adopted.

They became known as the Levellers, and Cromwell led them to believe that no action would be taken against them until the possibility of a negotiated settlement had been explored.

Now, with England's long history of those in power - be they king's, noblemen, governments - making promises they had absolutely no intention of keeping, you'd have thought that, by the 17th century, your average GI Joe would have learnt not to trust a word said by a despot when you're rebelling against him.

But the Levellers had, evidently, not read the Oxford Concise Guide to English History and, on the evening of 13th May 1649, they bedded down at various inns, private houses and barns in and around Burford to dream of the Utopian brave new world of equality and understanding that would soon envelope England in a warm blanket of goodwill and tolerance.

They were rocked from their slumbers by the approach of Cromwell and General Fairfax (plus of course a few thousand troops) who swept in on them in a pincer movement and, following a brief skirmish, 340 Levellers were taken prisoner and spent three days locked up inside Burford Church.

One of their number, Anthony Sedley, passed the time by carving his name and "1649 Prisner" onto the font, where it can still be seen today.

On the morning of the 17th May 1649 the prisoners were marshaled up to the church tower from where they watched as Cornet Thompson, Corporal Church and Private Perkins, whom the court-martial had decided were the ring leaders, were put up against the church wall - where the plaque now commemorates them - and, according the then Vicar of Burford's later record in the Parish Register, were "shot to death."

Once inside the church I crossed to the font and tried to take a photograph of Anthony Sedley's inscription. Having done so I turned round to take in the splendid interior of the church and there was a white shape hovering in the distance.

A spectre? A Ghost?

Well actually it was a particularly ethereal looking angel hovering over the nativity scene in the church's crib. But for a moment there........

There are several other points of interest to detain you inside Burford Church.

There, is the memorial to Christopher Kempster, a 17th century stone mason, who was for many years employed building the cathedral and dome of St Paul's Cathedral

High up on a wall is a stone carving that shows three figures, one of which rides on a donkey, and which has been known to centuries of choir boys as "The Three Disgraces."

Why? It doesn't say. But that's what the plaque beneath it says and I'm sure whoever wrote it knows what the choir boys have called it for generations.

No-one actually knows what it is meant to depict, nor for that matter how old the stone is. It may be 12th century, it may even be Celtic and date from the 1st century AD.

There's another little mystery on a nearby floor tombstone to John Pryor, Gent who, according to the inscription, was murdered on 3rd April 1697 and was "found hidden in the Pryory Garden in the Parish."

The church information board wasn't particularly forthcoming on this long ago act of infamy as it simply mentioned the murder and then added the enticing "but that's another story."

There's one more macabre sight inside Burford Church in the form of a Memento Mori beneath the effigies of Sir Lawrence and Lady Tanfield on their very ornate tomb.

Caged behind sturdy iron bars underneath the two effigies there is an extremely realistic carving of a skeleton.

Well I think it's a carving.

There is a tradition that Lady Tanfield had a reputation for oppressing the good people of Burford, and that she continued to terrorise them in ghostly form after her death in 1629 .

Well, that's it for this leg of the Haunted Britain journey. On Monday, providing the snow doesn't return and disrupt the railways I'll be heading to Edinburgh and will resume the blog then.

Until then... Good Hauntings.

I'm Dreaming of a White.......

What a Difference A Day Makes!

Woke up this morning in Worcester Travel Lodge, switched on the news and discovered there was a severe weather warning in place. Looked out of the window and it was a bright blue sky.

Having started to head south, I’m determined to get to Somerset this week, I had hardly gone any distance - actually I was still on the Travel Lodge Car Park -when I realised I still hadn’t visited Hampton Court (did you know there‘s one in Herefordshire?), Harvington Hall and Hanbury House.

Since Harvington Hall was the one furthest away I tapped its postcode into the sat nav and Emily woke up with her usual morning greeting of “please drive to highlighted area.”

As it happened there was a B and Q en route to the "highlighted area," so I stopped off to buy a wind up torch and a spade (every paranormal investigator should have one), because I’d heard on the news that motorists were being advised to have a spade, blanket, torch and flask of warm water with them just in case.

Armed and ready, I drove to the "highlighted area" and headed off into a slightly overcast but otherwise pleasant January morning.

And then.

It started on the M5 with just a few flutters of snow. But, by the time I’d turned off the motorway, and was heading along some A road or another en route to Harvington Hall, the snow had become a veritable swirling mass of white.

Traffic was reduced to a crawl as the conditions became atrocious. “At least the road’s flat” I thought, counting my blessings I wasn’t up in Cumbria.

And then.

Why do hills turn up when you least expect them?

Rounding a bend, I was confronted by a steep hill. Crawling up it I experienced the first of many slides, but at least I made the summit. Actually that’s a bit grandiose, summit is probably a bit of an exaggeration , as it wasn’t that much of a hill - it just seemed like it.

I’d crept along at about 10 miles an hour in a line of traffic and achieved an amazing 15 miles in 40 minutes, when Emily woke up and told me to “take the next right.” A quick glance at the turn, and the deep snow that blanketed the road, and I made the executive decision not to risk it and to ignore Emily‘s order. “Recalculating,” she snarled.

But there on the left was a pub car park, so I slid off the road and parked up. “I don’t know why I f*****g bother, why can‘t men follow simple directions” snapped Emily. She didn’t really, but I know she was thinking it in whatever satellite she is looking down from. I have an image of her as one of those Greek Gods you see in the films looking at the fickle human species beneath in a golden bowl (geez what did they put in my coffee at breakfast?)

Once out of the car, I locked up and set off down the road that Emily had told me to turn right along.

I passed a couple who were out walking their dogs, a greyhound and a ferocious looking bull dog. I nodded that non-commital "goodmorning" that you feel obliged to nod when encountering others as nutty as you to be out on a day like this, and headed up a track that was signed 'Harvington Hall'.

Then it suddenly dawned on me that I’d left Emily on the windscreen, still switched on and in full few. Ok, our relatonship isn't what it was, we're arguing a lot about which direction our relationship should be taking, but I'd hate to lose her, or at least hate to return to a smashed side window, so I decided to do the decent thing and gallop to her rescue.

Heading back to the car I saw the couple and their dog approaching. So, being a polite sort of person, I proceeded to manoeuvre around them.

And then.

The road dipped sharply left at that point, which I hadn’t notice because of the snow. Suddenly, the world turned upside down and I was flat on my back with a slobbering bull dog nuzzling my face. The couple helped me up and luckily only my pride was injured.

Back at the car, I hid Emily away.

Then it was off up the lane, and in about ten minutes I caught my first glimpse of Harvington Hall through the trees.

It looked fantastic. Its roof was draped with a thick covering of fresh snow. Its red brick exterior, punctured by a myriad of dark windows, looked like something off a Christmas card. The trees and bushes around it were likewise covered in snow. I've said this before, and I'll no doubt say it again, but - what can I say - WOW.

The whole place looked truly magical. I photographed it from all angles, even trying a few arty shots, framing it with snow clad branches or trying to snap it through the icicles that clung tenaciously to the branches of the trees. It was fantastic.

There wasn’t a living soul around.

In fact, there wasn’t any kind of soul around as, despite a thorough search, I failed to catch a glimpse of Mistress Hicks who is reputed to haunt the grounds of Harvington Hall.

Perhaps she too had ignored whatever type of sat nav ghosts have and had decided to stay on the gritted ghostly paths or roads?

I love visiting houses like this when there is no one else around. Admittedly, that means coming to them when they are closed so I can’t actually get inside them. But I really believe that all old houses have an atmosphere, or if you like a spirit, and that that spirit exudes from every pore and crevice of abodes such as this.

But I also find that that ambiance just doesn’t come through in “the season” when hundreds of visitors are traipsing through these old houses. I like to view them out of season, sense their atmosphere and then, should it really captivate me, return during normal opening months.

Harvington Hall pulsates with atmosphere and spirit, so I’ll most certainly be back in early March and I can’t recommend it highly enough.

Opposite the Hall there is a delightful little church which I snuck into and sat down inside. One of the curious fixtures was a stained glass window about which I could find no information, but which showed a group of people, and behind them was a depiction of Harvington Hall. I really must find out a little bit more abou this window, although I suspect it is depicting something to do with the Elizabethan persecutions of Catholic priests, as Harvington Hall has numerous Priest holes, where priests would hide to avoid the authorites in the reign of Elizabeth 1st.


Walking back to the pub car park I noticed a lovely black and white timbered house, which looked particularly picturesque so I snapped a few photos and then headed back to the car.

Hanbury House is about 20 minutes from Harvington Hall, so I decided to head over there next and arrived about three hours later!

The roads were abysmal. Cars were slipping and sliding all over the place. At one stage I sat in a traffic queue for over an hour before discovering that cars were actually holding back before launching at a steep, snow and ice covered, hill. The trafic quite simply wasn't moving, but the usual impatience that drivers show in this kind of circumstance was strangely absent. People were getting out of their cars and chatting. It's amazing how these sort of adverse weather conditions bring out the old community spirit that we once had in the days before reality TV.

Still, there was one consolation. We recently decorated our front room and, being a total snob when it comes to sloshing on a coat of B and Q mix and match, I had chosen what I was assured were the finest paint brushes available. These were made by Harris.

Thoughts of home, and our newly spruced up front room, swept over me as I found myself sitting outside the Harris manufacturing premises for over 60 minutes.

When it finally came to my turn to attempt the hill I took one look at the cars that were slipping and sliding at all manner of strange angles and decided it wasn’t a good idea.

So I did a perfectly executed U turn (actually I just hit the brake pedal and the snow did it for me) and told Emily to take me down to Somerset.

But, as I arrived at the turn off for the M5, I saw a sign for Hanbury Hall that pointed along a road that looked particularly clear of snow.

So off I went. “Are you trying to p*** me off on purpose,” spat Emily from the windscreen sat nav. “Well find your own way, I quit.” Ok I made that bit up, what she actually said was “recalculating.”

But the upshot was that I made it to Hanbury Hall.

I had to scramble over a gate and trudge across a snow covered field, but the red brick walls of the Hall looked magical surrounded, as they were, with a field of pure white snow.

Alas, 18th century society beauty Emma Vernon, who left her husband for the local curate, and who has since been condemned to wander the house and grounds as a ghost till hell freezes over, was conspicuous by her absence.

Mind you, it was so cold that hell may well have frozen over, so that may account for why I failed to make her acquaintance.

From there I drove over to Hampton Court, the one in Herefordshire, but found the gates locked and no way of getting a peek at the Castle itself.

So, as darkness began to fall, I decided to head for one of my old favourites, the Skirrid Mountain Inn, as a night at one of the most atmospheric haunted inns in Britain, with one of the cosiest and warmest log fires to sit by, really would make the perfect end to a perfect day in which I encountered the perfect snow storm.

Alas, a thick fog suddenly engulfed the entire landscape and, just past Hereford, the sight of a Travel Lodge proved too tempting and I decided that I’d done enough for one day.

So I’m writing this in a nice old beamed pub, called the Grafton, on the road just outside Hereford. It's a lovely place, good food, and lovely friendly staff who can't do enough for you.

It’s snowing again (according to the forecast we’re due 16 inches by tomorrow), but, with a nice rump steak and a glass of Merlot in front of me, I find myself able to cope.

So, until next time, - good hauntings.

Haunted Britain - Emily and My Dongle

As part of my New Year Resolution for 2010 I'm going to knuckle down and get back out on the road gathering stories for my new book Haunted Britain, which is due for publication in October this year.

Although October sounds a long way off, as is always the case with publishing, my deadline for the book is in fact in March. So time is of the essence!

Thus tomorrow, Monday January 4th 2010, I'm off on the road and will be heading for Herefordshire, Worcestershire and, snow and time willing, Somerset to gather another batch of ghost stories.

It's actually been five years since I wrote my last book about Haunted Britain (Haunted Houses of Britain and Ireland) but researching the new book has got the old creative juices running and, I have to confess, I'm quite excited about the prospect of traipsing down mud tracks and up hillsides to soak up the atmosphere and sample the ambiance at some of Britain's spookiest locations.

Now I know I'm a little behind the times, but I've actually bought one of those sat nav thingies that sticks on the windscreen (actually it fell off the other day so it's going to be on the seat next to me) and I have the honour of being guided on my search by the sensual tones of Emily, replaced every so often by Doug, when Emily gets fed up of "recalculating" and her tone gets more and more aggressive.

On previous journeys I've had to trust in the AA's excellent Road Atlas (they're my publishers so I've got to be nice about them), which has been extremely reliable. However that method of navigating around the country can also prove frustrating when I, as I often do, take a wrong turn and end up in the middle of nowhere with a white van tailgating me as I desperately try to read the road signs to get back on track. But now, thanks to Emily's timely intervention, and her amazing ability to "recalculate" on a whim, such frustrations are a thing of the past (yeah right!)

I will be posting several updates a day on this blog as to the places I've visited and the stories I've acquired along with photographs and, possibly, even videos.

The thing is I've gone really techie on this trip and have even bought myself a dongle (I think that's what it's called) which I am assured will enable me to keep my connection up (I think that's what the man in the shop said anyway!) in some of Britain's most places.

Time, and the regularity with which this blog updates, will be the measure of the success of my dongle and my ability to maintain my connection (why did the man in the shop keep sniggering when he told me that?)

Well I'm off to pack the thermals and, if I leave now, I might just make it round the M25 by this time tomorrow night. Hopefully the updates will go like clockwork so, as that chap with the goldfish bowl on his head once said "to infinity and beyond."