Haunting the Peak District

Hello everyone, and welcome to LukeLore. A quick deep dive into a folklore topic, where I share some of the stories from around the world that have piqued my interest.

This is something of a companion piece to the Derby episode, although they don't need listening to in order. The Peak District itself is quite the expansive location stretching across a huge patch of central England, a lot of it in Derbyshire but reaching up North West to Manchester and Cheshire, North East over into Yorkshire, and with a chunk of Staffordshire as an additional splat in the middle of the country. It has evidence of settlements going back as long ago as the Mesolithic era, also known as the freaking middle Stone Age, staying relevant all the way through to the modern day as the oldest established National Park in Britain – the second oldest in the world only after Yellowstone in the US.

This is all to say it has some history, and that history can breach containment in quite the variety of interesting ways. What follows now is a celebration of the region, making use of 'Folktales of the Peak District' by Mark P. Henderson and 'Peak Districk Folktales' by Joe Winstanley as primary sources alongside my usual online ones, not to mention my merry blundering about the place as I've found the chance.

SECTION BREAK – A Lesson In Not Shorting Punters

Okay, this is the first story from 'Folktales of the Peak District'. I was immediately delighted, and the intrusive thoughts commanded me that I must do the voices of the characters presented within. So this is a direct performance of the folktale Henderson found, as he presented it.

The tale of 'The Butcher and Devil', a story from an area known as “The Gateway to the Peak”.

Nicolas Booth was born and brought up in Castleton but he moved to Mottram and set up in trade as a butcher. He was liked and trusted, honest in his dealings, slow to speak but a quick thinker. He was never unkind, though he laughed to himself at the follies and foibles of his fellow men.

Nick's brothers and cousins were farmers in Castleton, and he bought cattle and sheep from them. He'd stay with them overnight and then drive the animals back to Mottram, taking the long road through Woodley and Godley and selling some of his stock along the way. When he got home he'd slaughter the rest of the animals and sell the fresh meat at fair prices to the good folk of Longdendale.

When he returned from a trip to Castelton, or when he closed his shop in Mottram for the evening, Nick went for a drink at the Bull's Head with other local tradesmen. They all had keen eyes for bargains and fair dealings, and they complained that George the landlord sold short measure. George denied it, but Nick and his friends Harry and Jack knew better, and so did the other tradesmen. So did George's wife.

“One o'these neets, George, th'Devil's goin' fer t' come fer thee an' drag thee down to 'Ell, way tha goes on robbin' folk!”

But George took no notice and went on selling short measure.

One day, when winter was setting in and the farmers were selling their stock for slaughter, Nick went to Castleton and bought a dozen sheep from his eldest brother, John.

John asked him, “Nick lad, would tha mind trekkin' yon owd tup? 'E's past 'is prime and 'e's a menace – canna trust 'im fer a minute. Ah doubt 'e'll be no use for nowt only mekkin' stock, but Ah'd be glad to see th'back on 'im.”

The tup was a big black animal with long curling horns and evil yellow eyes. Nick studied the creature and thought, and then he agreed. After a good meal and a night's sleep at John's house, he set off home with thirteen sheep, the dozen he'd bought and the old black ram with the long curling horns and the evil yellow eyes.

The village butchers along Nick's route home were looking for good quality meat on the hoof, so he'd sold every sheep by the time he reached Mottram – except for the old black ram with the long curling horns and the evil yellow eyes. None of the village butchers had wanted it. In any case, Nick hadn't wanted to sell it. He had other plans.

The weather had turned foul. It was dark night, and the wind was rising and sleet was falling by the time Nick reached Mottram, and was cold and wet and weary. But he wasn't too weary for a little fun. He crept to the back of the Bull's Head, driving the ram in front of him, and shooed it into the corridor and down to the cellar. Then he went around the inn and into the taproom through the usual door.

Old George and his wife were there, and Stephen Fullalove the parish clerk, and Tinker the sexton, and Nick's friends Harry and Jack. They were huddled round the fire, drinking by the light of a single candle, while the wind howled around the inn and sleet hammered on the shutters.

“Ah've 'ad a reet good day,” said Nick, “so Ah'll stand everyone a mug o' yer new ale, George.”

He placed a bag of money on the table and George's eyes lit up.

“Get down to th'cellar, woman, an oppen yon cask o' new ale,” he ordered.

Off went George's wife to the cellar, taking the candle, leaving the men in the taproom with only the fire to light them and the noise of the wind and sleet on the shutters to entertain them. A few moments later there came a loud scream and the poor woman rushed back into the taproom with her eyes staring and her hair on end.

“Oh, George, George, didna Ah tell thee as th' Devil 'ud come fer thee one o' these neets? 'E's i' th' cellar now! Ah've left th'candle on a barrel, - Ah darna go back down theere!”

George grumbled about stupid women and their stupid imaginations and stumped off to the cellar. He was back again in no time, yelling for the parish clerk.

“Stephen! Th' Devil's i' th'cellar aw reet! Go an fetch th' parson wi' th' Book and get 'im shifted!”

Stephen Fullalove the parish clerk was not prepared to disturb the parson without good reason, so he tiptoed down to the cellar to see for himself what might be seen. There among the barrels he beheld a black hairy beast with long curved horns and evil yellow eyes that glowed menacingly in the candlelight. He ran at top speed for the parson, and Tinker the sexton was close at his heels.

In the taproom, George's wife was shrieking at her husband, “'Ow many times 'ace Ah towd thee about them short measure pots, an' what'll 'appen if tha keeps on usin''em?” George was quaking in his boots. Nick sat quietly against the wall beside the fire. He winked at Harry and Jack.

They grinned.

The parish clerk and the sexton came back, pushing the parson in front of them, and everyone crept down to the cellar. There they saw the black hairy beast with the long curved horns and the evil glowing yellow eyes, trapped between two barrels, glaring balefully at the man of the cloth. The parson trembled, but he managed to open his Bible and started to read passages suitable for banishing evil presences from the cellars of public houses.

Now whether it was the words of the Holy Book, or the unexpected company of so many people, no one knows, but something made the old ram take fright. He wriggled from between the barrels and charged down the passage, bleating at the top of his voice, and knocked the parson down with his horns. The parson fell against George the landlord, who fell against Tinker the sexton, who fell against Stephen the parish clerk, who fell against the landlady, and the entire passage became a sea of waving arms and legs and a din of screaming and swearing and prayers for salvation and the noise of bleating ram and the howling wind and driving sleet. With one final unearthly bleat, the ram cleared the writhing bundle of prone bodies and fled into the winter night. Nick followed him and caught him in a nearby lane and took him home, laughing mightily.

His brother John was right; the old ram proved to be no good for anything but stock. The meat was much too tough. But although Nick never told the whole truth about that night, the story quickly spread. And old George never again dared give short measure to a customer.

What a great little fable... I WOULD apologise to everyone for the accents I just butchered, but I regret nothing! I do feel sorry for that old ram though, whose only reward for his good work was to get turned into Black Phillip soup, but it's still an excellent story. The old Bull's Head of the story is sadly long gone now, which is a shame as I was left with a craving to see it. I may yet still make my way over to Mottram for a nosey about the place, though.

SECTION BREAK – Black Dogs, Plural

The Peak District, being quite a wild place, has perhaps unsurprisingly more than its fair share of Black Dogs of Britain. The Gabriel Hounds have been discussed in an older Derbyshire episode, and it doesn't seem uncommon for the older remote burial places to have their own Church Grim. However the wider Peak District also seems to have at least two individual Black Dogs of note.

The less worrying one is the Black Dog of Barber Booth. It isn't one that appears to have been seen all too well in eye witness accounts, something that appears to be down to its particular nature. It can only ever be glimpsed out of the corner of someone's eye, and as it seems to only appear to lone travellers it's never had a second witness to catch a better look of it. A great Black Dog sometimes reported as having glowing red embers for eyes, sometimes instead as having great reflective silvery pools.

This fae hound is thought to be a guardian of thresholds. Neither good nor evil, something common in the otherworldly nature of these strange folkloric canines, they will be a portent of change. A birth, a death, a disaster; sometimes they're also a sign a panicking unobservant traveller trying to catch a good look at a supernatural hound is about to get hit by a car. So stay calm, keep moving, take heed of coming change, and stop bloody wandering about on your own at night! Just in general, but definitely specifically here at this small Hamlet not too far from Edale Moor.

The Black Dog of Barber Booth is most often seen on misty October nights. Actually getting a good look at them is supernaturally impossible with maybe an inexplicable shadow being the best view anyone will get. It's the sense of being watched, and reports of an unnatural pressure in its presence, that will be the main sign you have crossed its path. It's apparently really good at stalking alongside someone, just the other side of a hedgerow. What you're supposed to do once you realise you have been visited by the Black Dog of Barber Booth is to stop, give an exaggerated nod of acknowledgement at the message you have just been given, then quickly walk away about your business. You're especially not supposed to suddenly turn around or chase after the hound for a proper a look at it, but if that's your first instinct in a situation like this you're probably beyond the help of my advice. Should you indulge an impulse that silly and survive? I expect you'll start paying better attention.

And yes, this was the less worrying of the two!

What lurks at Bunting Nook is the one to watch out for.

This isolated road near Norton, Chesterfield, has one spectacularly angry Black Dog of Britain. It's a large, shaggy Black Dog that snarls up a storm and unlike most of this type of Sidhe hound its eyes are not lit up in any way. They are instead bottomless black pits. Voids that stand out in the night by being unnaturally darker even than the mere absence of light. Its behaviour is simple, yet terrifying. The creature charges at a car that has a man in the passenger seat, causing the engine to completely cut out and the vehicle to stall. The passenger side door will then open itself to allow the Black Dog to drag the hapless victim out and badly maul them before it vanishes. The car will then work again as mysteriously as it had stopped.

I don't know what made this entity so mad at men in the passenger side of a car, but it is PISSED and its last reported encounter was as recent as 2007. Maybe drive yourself a while or else get into the back seat if you're a man who knows they'll be a passenger for a trip down Bunting Nook at night. This is an impressive grudge that a Black Dog picked up somehow. Given the duality of nature of these fairy creatures, it likely at least once caught someone who was guilty enough to deserve the savaging. The flipside being the fickle nature of such an entity may mean whoever made it this angry in the first place now has innocent people being caught in an ongoing rampage. Best to just be safe and take either the appropriate precautions or else a detour.

SECTION BREAK – A Traditional Sermon

The many individual regions of the British Isles can be wildly diverse. Not even as simply as the divides of the countries that make up the Isles, or even going county by county within a constituent country; we're talking one village to the next can be very different. Unusual traditions abound, even highly specific and unique ones. Certainly the unorthodox can surprise the unwary, and in some situations an open mind is needed for your own good. This is a tale found in the other primary source for the episode, a zine I picked up in Nottingham called 'Peak District Folktales: Book One – Folks'. If you're unfamiliar with the term a “zine” is typically a small magazine that's either from a small press or an independent production. This collection is the work of Sheffield author and artist Joe Winstanly, in a section he called Sermon For The Dead.

This was something of a strange even by small village standards tradition that is now long gone by merit of being long drowned. Derwent Village, and its attendant Derwent Church, is one of the flooded villages that can be found across the UK. It's now at the bottom of the Ladybower Reservoir, one of two villages that were lost to serve the wider area with water. The other lost village, Ashopton, was levelled before the works were completed but Derwent can apparently still be seen if the water levels fall low enough. The area is now a tourist destination that, joined with the other two reservoirs it was added to complete, makes for the largest body of water in the Peak District National Park.

The former parish of Derwent Woodlands had a strange tradition with its church. No one would go into the West Gallery. No matter how full the rest of the church would become, that area was always left well alone. That is not to say that the West Gallery was never filled, only that the living left it for someone or something else to use. Before the abandonment, and the waters claimed that land, a new pastor by the name of Robert Walden came to Derwent. He renovated the decrepit church, and while he was known to be well liked by the locals – considered by them to be a good man – he soon came into conflict with them over the West Gallery.

What for a while was just a strange quirk of his congregation became a full on conflict with the pastor. As winter was becoming Christmas, a former churchwarden took Walden aside and explained to him a special sermon he would need to give. Come the first Sunday after Christmas there needed to be a sermon told to give comfort to the dead of the year ahead. This was, in fact, why the West Gallery must always be left free: Those seats are reserved for the dead. More than just the recently passed or else lost souls, if you looked into the West Gallery you could see the faces of those who would be dead before the next Christmas should come around – the souls of those doomed to die soon could stand aside from their living body to take their part in the strange service. The special sermon is to comfort the already dead and those whose death was now coming. The local tradition became a point of contention as this, to Walden, was witchcraft and an affront to his work in selecting the sermons he should give. Being accused of witchcraft confused the locals who would try to prepare the pastor, as this was just something that had always been done in Derwent.

This led to something of a falling out between the pastor and his new parishioners, as he wanted nothing to do with their pagan rites in the house of the Lord. So come the Sunday in question, Walden was ready with a reading from Deuteronomy warning of how superstition and ignorance was the enemy of faith. The locals, having had his feelings made clear to them, filled the church up with a sense of apprehension. Although as ever, not a single one went into the Western Gallery.

From here, things would go incredibly wrong for Robert Walden. He had struggled with a cough his whole life, tuberculosis that had remained with him for years, and as he took to the pulpit a coughing fit layed him low. The words of scorn he had readied for the congregation could not leave his lips. Struggling to regain his breath to the point attendees were becoming ready to step in and help him, Walden looked up and to his horror he saw the ghostly figures he had been warned about, the attendees in the West Gallery. Worse, among their pale faces, he saw his own, and knew that the cough which had long plagued him would finally claim him in the year to come.

This didn't fill the pastor with crippling fear, however. It filled him with resolve, and the cough left him so that he may stand tall and speak loud. He changed the sermon, away from his scornful reproach and instead into a reading of the Book of Job that preached hope and comfort for the year ahead. This pleased all attendees, the living and the other. As Walden was warned, however, this would be his final year. The cough did indeed claim him before the next Sunday after Christmas sermon. The tradition presumably continued until the end of the village. Although the church yet stands to some extent beneath the water, and with it the West Gallery that someone other than the living would fill. Maybe the service yet continues each year, just where no one from above the waters can join in?

Joe Winstanly presented this in a style similar to a dramatised short story, and I definitely recommend tracking down a copy of his zine for yourself. His website is www.studioskai.co.uk and his Instagram is @studio.skai, skai being “S K A I”. He's presented the stories he has found as wonderful little shorts with accompanying art he created to go alongside them.

SECTION BREAK – And Now For The Haunted Pub Stop

We began this episode with a fun morality tale set in a pub, but a British location based LukeLore always needs a proper haunted pub to investigate, and as ever we've got a great one to share!

Quite appropriately enough, this is a location at the start of the Pennine Way, so could be your entry into the Peak District. At a town called Edale, we have the Old Nag's Head. Established in 1577, it's well known as a historical curiosity. What history exactly that is may be why this is also known as one of the most haunted pubs in the region.

Obviously, creeping up to your 5th Centennial means a building will have Seen Some Things, but on at least one significant occasion the Old Nag's Head has been pressed into emergency service as a mass morgue. That bodies get stored on their way to somewhere else has been a strangely common event for the pub, it was well placed enough that anyone who died at the nearby quarry would be stopping on their way through to a more dedicated resting place. It was an old public house, it had many jobs, and the area had a tradition of coffins being carried out by hand over the hills until relatively recently. The infrastructure just wasn't there at first so a group would have to lift and then walk the dead out to a nearby better connected hub where it could then be collected.

Where this additional community service the pub offered became of urgent use was in World War II. In October of 1943 the Halifax bomber HR727 was returning from a raid over Germany, and it wasn't in good shape. Badly shot up enough to lose its communication equipment, the bomber somehow limped its way back to England, but it was wildly off course. This was all occurring at night when they hit bad weather on top of everything else, an emergency landing on safe terrain was their only hope. They managed to find Edale Moor which may have looked like a good prospect in the dark, through the rain. But the key to a controlled crash landing is safe terrain, and this was the Peak District. Jagged foundations of stone do not safe terrain make, and these specific hills are also known as the Dark Peak.

The bomber was obliterated in a conflagration of hellfire, detonating all remaining fuel and any remaining munitions on contact. The locals rushed out to no avail, there were only corpses of all aboard to be found on the moor, lit by the disaster that claimed them. The Old Nag's Head took the bodies in ahead of proper handling in the light of morning.

From that time, Edale Moor would infrequently baffle locals and travellers alike. A fire can at times be spotted out there from a distance, only anyone who attempts to reach the light cannot find it and come the next day there are no signs of any burning. Those who look close enough at one of these phantom fires swear they could also see stumbling figures in the light, people who appear confused and disoriented. Men in old RAF uniforms, perhaps. While signs of fresh fires are never found, should you go searching this area Southeast of Kinder Scout, there are still some remains of that fateful crash preserved there.

This isn't the only place the lost airmen have been seen in the years since their tragic end. They can also turn up at the Old Nag's Head. While likely not the only ghostly inhabitants there, shades of the bomber crew can be spotted wandering the pub aimlessly. Their last place in death seems to be a stop they yet remain.

Other activity in the Old Nag's Head is likely to be more spirits than just these poor souls. Its part time role as local mortuary may have some quarry workers hanging out there, and a public house of 50 years will come with plenty of drama - let alone the 500 to be found here. Poltergeist activity is common with drinks and empty glasses moving or falling on their own, sometimes taking a small journey along a table apparently unassisted with multiple witnesses. One regular even swears that his full pint was launched clean up into the air before he could pick it up for a first sip! Either a spectral prank, or possibly a benevolent intervention depending on what may have been in that drink. Flickering lights are common, although possibly perfectly natural in a building that old. Footsteps echoing out on their own along the corridors late at night are less likely to be down to old wires. Staff find that when it comes to closing up the basement will ring out with an assortment of bangs and knocks, although this doesn't seem to be reported as something frightening. An old landlord is thought to check everything is in order, doing the rounds of somewhere he loved in life that he wants to still succeed. Locals even take all this late night activity to be a sign there are unseen residents who never want the place to close, the community hub never quite lying empty even when the living have all gone home for the night.

So, if you want your historic pub to have been a wartime mortuary? Come hang out with the poor confused RAF lads at the Old Nag's Head. Maybe offer to buy them a drink, it seems like they need it.

SECTION BREAK

Finally, at long last, I have completed the planned and much delayed Peak District episode! We are far from done with the stories available in the area, but this will do for the time being. We are now heading into the holidays, with strange seasonal traditions to uncover and should all go as planned a ghost story for Christmas Eve. I also have something big I'm attempting for the New Year I don't want to promise until I'm sure I'm ready to get it done, so this news will have to stay vague... Although should that mystery topic slide, there will always be more folklore to share, and I'll get to it eventually! Something of a return to the beginnings of LukeLore, with a whole lot more to say about a topic I find fascinating. Feel free to confront me online over that vague allusion, see if you can guess what I'm up to.

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