Gunpowder Plot

A few will be aware I have been known to speak on various subjects over the years. Fundamentally these all revolve around my favourite subject of etymology. Have always enjoyed bringing this fascinating subject to others. It’s not for me to say whether the audiences have, although many have asked me to return.

Thought it might be worthwhile sharing a snippet or two from these presentations, continuing with the Gunpowder Plot. While the story of November 5th is retold year after year, what happened to his co-conspirators? As they flew from London and headed north to the Midlands, what became of them, who did they meet, and where did they eventually meet their end? In the hour there are a number of narratives, hear of betrayal, endurance, desperation, ghosts, and utter foolishness. There is a PowerPoint presentation to accompany this talk if required.

It is November 1605 and for the last three days Robert Catesby, Thomas Percy, Ambrose Rockwood, the Winter brothers and Kit and Jack Wright have managed to evade their pursuers. Lyttleton was a known sympathiser and so they headed there, seeking temporary sanctuary. Seventeenth century travel was hardly a leisurely journey on surfaced roads, this involved crossing miles of open country, woodland, marsh, fording streams and always evading population centres. The journey, along with November's inclement weather, had soaked through to their gunpowder, leaving them virtually unarmed should their pursuers, led by Robert Walsh, Sheriff of Worcester, overtake them. It may sound foolhardy in the extreme yet these were desperate men and, having reached Holbeche, they preceded to dry their gunpowder in front of an open fire. The inevitable explosion alerted the sheriff and his 200-strong body of men and they stormed the house. Inside chaos reigned, a couple of small fires were burning, smoke was filling the rooms, and several were injured including John Grant who had been blinded by the explosion.

As the two sides fought a confused battle Gideon Grove fled in panic. In truth the young groom was very unlikely to have been accused of anything and, had he stayed where he was, would have lived to tell the tale of the day the Gunpowder Plot conspirators were captured under his nose. However he feared for his safety and, quite understandably, he fled on horseback in the direction of Wombourne hotly pursued by the sheriff's men. Little more than half a mile into the chase the horse and his terrified young rider plunged into Himley Wood and almost instantly found themselves in a swamp and sinking fast. Closely behind were the sheriff's men, who dismounted and gathered around Gideon who called out and pleaded for their assistance. Their only response was a hail of musket balls which cut short the man's life.

If you think you know someone who would like to hear me speak on this subject, drop me a line.

Not the Normal Paranormal

A few will be aware I have been known to speak on various subjects over the years. Fundamentally these all revolve around my favourite subject of etymology. Have always enjoyed bringing this fascinating subject to others. It’s not for me to say whether the audiences have, although many have asked me to return.

Thought it might be worthwhile sharing a snippet or two from these etymological presentations, continuing with Not the Normal Paranormal.

Here the hour or so sees how I was introduced to the subject and began to write about same, how I research the stories, and my own experiences. A snippet or two from each of my paranormal books ends with the tale of the oddest of telephone calls (which I still don't understand) and then questions from the audience.

Perhaps one of my favourite stories comes from Birmingham and the Old Crown at Deritend. It is claimed to be the oldest pub in Birmingham, it has not always been a pub but is the licensed premises occupying the oldest building in the Second City. There are numerous ghostly reports from this place, but one stands out.

Today the pub offers a room for the night, but owing to building restrictions there are a couple of things which the Old Crown was unable to provide at the time. First there are no en suites in any of the rooms; next the shutters on the windows do not exclude all the light from the busy High Street outside; and finally there are no locks on the doors but a peg is inserted in the latch when inside the room. I mention these three key points as they are all relevant to the story.

A couple of thirty-somethings – we’ll call the Dick and Jane - opted for a weekend in Birmingham to liven up their marriage. After a meal and few drinks in the city centre, they returned to the Old Crown for drinks and an early night. Upstairs in their room, with shutters drawn and peg inserted in the latch, they did what comes naturally to couples in love. (That’s sex, if you don’t know or can’t remember.)

In the early hours of the morning Dick awoke and found he had to answer a call of nature. He tried to ignore it, having no en suite, but eventually had fold back the quilt, slide out of bed, slip on his trousers and, having removed the peg, managed to slip out of the room and pad quietly along the corridor to the visit the facilities.

Minutes later, suitably relieved, he padded back to the room but stopped when reaching the door which he had left ajar. Standing outside he could not believe his ears. From inside the room came noises, sounds he was very familiar with, and sounds he had heard earlier in the evening from Jane. Indeed, they were very recognizably from Jane.

Dick jumped to the conclusion that someone had taken his place in the bed. But for reasons I have never understood, decided to wait outside until the intruder emerged (the door being his only avenue of escape) instead of rushing in and coming to Jane’s rescue. But this plan fell through when, despite the ‘action’ inside the room clearly having reaching a conclusion, nobody emerged.

In rushed Dick (perhaps I should have chosen a different name) to gallantly defend Jane’s honour, only to find she was lying in bed exactly as he had left her and the bedclothes just as he had left them. Perplexed, Dick removed his trousers, slid into bed and, just as he pulled the quilt across, Jane turned over, three an arm and a leg over him and announced “That was the best EVER!”

Dick later told me he has never had the nerve to tell her he wasn’t in the room at the time.

Having related this story when giving this talk, I have been asked several times the room number and I can reveal this to be …… well you will have to read the book or book me for the talk to find out.

If you think you know someone who would like to hear me speak on this subject, drop me a line.

Superstitious Black Country Miners

It is no surprise to find those working in dangerous jobs as being among the most superstitious. As is often the case, while researching one thing another interesting snippet surfaces and I found the following seven omens of disaster.

Ghosts and spirits seen in the workings could be chased off with the Bible and a key held in the right hand while reciting the Lord’s Prayer. Remember, not that long ago miners worked with candles and such would readily have produced the eeriest of images.

Foul smells were a bad omen – certainly true as any detection of gases which could asphyxiate or, such as methane, potentially explosive would be very useful.

If Gabriel’s hounds had been about the works, then no work was done that day. Gabriel’s Hounds (also known as Gabriel’s Ratchets) are legendary spectral hounds associated with death and misfortune in folklore – sometimes described as a pack of ghostly dogs with human heads that fly through the air while yelping. Some have ascribed this belief to migrating geese at night – night flying geese is also a bad omen.

A bright light seen in the mine was a good reason to flee. Aside from the obvious sign of fire, there is also a link to ghosts and spirits. Black magic was supposedly possible in the depths of the shafts – and protecting themselves by placing a crust of bread and a piece of cheese alongside a cross made from a knife and fork at the mouth of the shaft, before reciting the Lord’s Prayer backwards would be sure to save them. Unless, of course, somebody dreamed of the bread and cheese being eaten. Bread/cheese and knife/fork dates back to lead mining.

Dreams of fire were harbingers of danger – and for obvious reasons.

If a woman was encountered at sunrise on the way to the pit, the men would turn on their heels and return to their homes. This goes back to the Staffordshire ‘plaguey woman’, another promise of doom and disaster. One colliery used a female ‘knocker-up’ – one employed to rouse the workers from their beds in the days before alarm clocks – which didn’t help the superstitious men in getting ready for work. Pit managers rarely accepted this reason for absenteeism.

To dream of a broken shoe foretold danger. Shoes feature regularly in Black Country folklore, but this would be a result of the Wednesbury miner who dreamed of his one shoe crumbling and ignored the warning only to be killed the next day.

Homonyms, Etymologically Speaking: X

Many words have two meanings, sometimes more, which are often very different. Such words have identical spelling and pronunciation, they are known as homonyms. Here I continue an A to Z list of such words and look at how that word came to have two different meanings.

X is for x ..... well it isn't for anything as there isn't a single homonym beginning with that letter. So let's have some fun with etymologies of words beginning with X and we will begin with....

Xenon, a gas named in 1898 by Scottish chemist Sir William Ramsay from the Greek word xenon meaning 'foreign, strange' and coming from the Proto-Indo-European root ghos-ti 'stranger, guest, host'.

Xylem is named from the German xylem and the Greek xylon 'wood'. It is the woody tissue found in the most evolved of plant life.

Xerox, the trademark name of a copying device, it held by Haloid Co, of Rochester, New York State. It comes from xerography, defined as 'photographic reproduction without liquid developers'. In 1965 the word became listed in the dictionary as a verb meaning 'to produce using a copier', and while the company strongly objected to inclusion in the dictionary, thus making it acceptable, they were ultimately unsuccessful.

That was not what I meant. (L)

With the original definition of 'lord' I might not want the title. I only said 'might', note.

Large today is the opposite of 'small', but when it first came to English in the twelfth century it was used more in the sense of 'liberal' or 'generous'.

Larva, that's the young of an insect, is the Latin word for a 'ghost, spectre'.

Ledger today suggests an accounts book, historically it was a book which remained in one place.

Legend may suggest a glorious tale or myth today, but its earliest use was specifically the story of a saint's life.

Lewd today is anything coarse of crude, but when first used in the sixteenth century meant anything but, for the sixteenth century usage would suggest 'lay' in the sense of 'not clerical'

Liaison means 'cooperation, communication', but came to English in the seventeenth century to refer to the thickening of sauces (especially using egg yolks) in cooking.

List is a column of items or notes today, but originally referred to the 'border, strip' on the page.

Literature is surely nothing other than the written word, but in the fourteenth century it was used in a much more general sense to mean 'learning, knowledge'.

Litter has two meanings today - multiple births for an animal, or rubbish - but historically it came from Old French and meant 'bed'.

Loaf today refers to the whole baked lump of bread, but historically was used as a synonym for 'bread'.

Loan has to be given back today, it's what the word means. But before the fifteenth century it referred to a gift, particularly one from a person of superior standing or a gift seen as coming from God.

Locket may be a small container worn as an item of jewellery today, but when it first came to English it referred to an iron bar across a window - designed, quite literally, to 'lock it'.

Lollipop is specifically a sweet on a stick, but before the eighteenth century it referred to any sweets.

Lord, as in the rank and not the deity, may be a member of the nobility today, but when first used in English described a hlafweard which literally means 'loaf ward' or 'keeper of the bread'.

Lot, as in a large amount or many, came to English meaning 'portion' as is still used in words such as 'allotted'.

Lucid is a synonym of 'clear, plain', but when it came to English from French in th sixteenth century, it meant 'shining'.

Indonesia Place Names Explained

Having blogged samples of my books on English place names and also examined the etymologies of the nations of the world and their respective capitals I thought it time I cast my net a little wider. As English place names share some links to other tongues it would be interesting to see if any of the elements contributing to our place names could be found elsewhere. Continuing an alphabetical tour of the world and a look at the largest Indonesian cities.

Jakarta is from Jayakarta, itself from two Sanskrit words meaning 'victorious deed', 'complete victory', or 'complete act'. It refers to the troops of Fatihillah driving off the Portuguese forces in 1527.

Surabaya is derived from the Javanese sura ing baya or 'bravely facing danger'. This refers to the psychic king who foretold of a fight between a giant white shark and a great white alligator. This is thought to be the prediction of the Mongol hordes invading under Kublai Khan in 1293.

Medan was originally said to come from the Tamil word maidham meaning 'ground' but latterly there has been the suggestion of the alternative meaning of 'get better, recover'.

Depok is an acronym standing for De Eerste Protestantse Organisatie Kristen Protestan Pertama of the 'First Protestant Christian Organisation'. However folklore would have us believe this is a Sundanese word meaning 'hermitage'.

Palembang's origins are disputed. Some think it from the Malay pe-limbang and 'the place to pan for gold and look for diamond ores'. Others opt for lembang, the Malay term giving 'the place where water leaks' (ie a constant supply of water). WHile folklore maintains this came from four brothers who survived a shipwreck when bound for a new settlement. As the vessel descended beneath the waves all they were able to save was a large wooden box which they utilised as a raft and paddled to safety. Not the safest mode of transport, the box wobbled under the action of the waves - limbang-limbang used to refer to this unstable raft.

Pekanbaru is thought to come from the Malay words for 'new market'.

Bogor is thought to come from the Javanese word for 'sugar palm' or bhogor 'cow'. When founded in the 7th century it was known as Pajuan Pajajaran meaning 'a place between the parallel rivers' of Ciliwung and Cisadane.

Denpasar is from the Balinese words den pasar or 'northern market'.

Malang may be uncertain but most often said to come from the Malay for 'God has destroyed the false and enforced the right'.

Samarinda is literally 'equal in height' and a reference to how the houses were built and rafts and were therefore generally of equal height.

Cimahi is also the name of the river here, this from the Sudanese meaning 'enough water'.

Pontianak is from Malay meaning 'ferocious female ghost'. Folklore refers to the story of how the army of Syarif Abdurhamman Alkadrie shot cannonballs into the nest of ghosts hiding in the cave until they dispersed.

Manado comes from the Minahasan language where manadou or wanazou means either 'on the far coast' or 'in the distance' respectively. This a reference to the two offshore islands.

Yogyakarta means 'a city that is fit to prosper'.

Cirebon is from a local tongue known as Jawareh and probably means 'mixed'. Yjis refers to a blending of Sudanese, Javanese, Arabic and Chinese cultures.

Note the spellings of the places are English as the piece is written in English.

Izaak Walton – The Compleat Angler.

December 15th 1683 saw the death of arguably the most famous British angler. On this, the 330th anniversary of his passing, I am reminded of a story which featured in my Paranormal Staffordshire.

Miriam

Across the M6 from Stone is the tiny hamlet of Shallowford. The watery reference is appropriate, for here is the former home of Izaak Walton, author of The Compleat Angler, first published in 1653.

Featured on the cover of my book, Walton’s black-and-white thatched cottage is now a museum, a testimony to the man who is known as a fisherman but loved the countryside as a whole. This delightful building throws its doors open to the public for only limited times of the year. Any activity outside the normal opening hours seems to bother Miriam, the resident ghost here. Lights and electrical equipment turn on and off without warning, while her presence is almost always accompanied by a distinct drop in temperature. Why she is referred to as Miriam is a mystery; indeed the only reason for suggesting she is female is down to a psychic stating she is a busy lady.

There is a second, less well-documented presence that has not been named. However, there is no doubt as to his gender, for he has been seen walking through a hedge and following the line of an old path before vanishing from sight. He wears a costume dating to the seventeenth century. Perhaps, if not the man himself, he is a friend and colleague of Izaak Walton. If so, he would be sure to have much information to add to the museum, although maybe this would further irritate Miriam.

As always I would welcome any suggestions for themes or subjects, or even specific words to examine the origins, meanings and etymologies. I’d be delighted to hear from you.

Northamptonshire Ghosts

Last week I mentioned two books in the pipeline, both a collection of ghost stories. Last week I covered Warwickshire, offered a story and appealed for personal experiences. This week the other volume, this time Northamptonshire, and again should anyone have any tales to tell within the county I would be delighted to hear from you.

As with last week I offer a taster, this time we travel to Abington and a very strange tale indeed. It is September of 2002 and a lovely antique china cabinet was purchased for Julia Warren by her daughter. Almost immediately problems began for Mrs Warren. Not wishing to appear ungrateful she tried to ignore the chills and difficulty with the doors but eventually was forced to admit defeat.

The cabinet doors were locked and, as the key was missing, seemingly would remain so. However on more than one occasion a cabinet door was found off its hinges. Yet the crunch came when Mrs Warren saw a figure standing alongside the now unwanted gift. She described this as a woman, very tall and gaunt, wearing clothing from the 1930s and appearing more miserable than anyone Mrs Warren had ever seen in her life.

Thankfully her daughter fully understood and advised her mother she had bought it from Trends on the Wellingborough Road. Hence one day manager Mark Kypta had a visit from Mrs Warren asking him to take the cabinet back. She required no refund, wanting nothing more than to get the cabinet out of her house and so the cabinet was, once again, back at Trends.

This was not the end of the story for no sooner had the cabinet been returned to the retail outlet than it began causing problems for Mark Kypta. At first he tried to find the previous owner but when that drew a blank he left it in his shop until he could decide upon his next move. It was then the cabinet began to create problems. On the second occasion the troublesome door was found wide open in the morning, when still no key had been found, he decided it had to go.

Hence the local press were approached to announce Trends were to auction off the cabinet, with the proceeds going to charity. Did anyone bid on a haunted cabinet? Was a key ever found? Does the cabinet still exist and is its guardian now content with their new home? Presumably as nothing has been heard the answer to all three questions must be in the affirmative.

I would welcome any suggestions for themes or subjects, or even specific words to examine the origins, meanings and etymologies. I’d be delighted to hear from you.

Warwickshire Ghosts

My last book of ghost stories appeared in 2011, Paranormal Staffordshire my fourth of this genre. I have always enjoyed re-telling the experiences of others, the settings and background to each I find equally as interesting as the event itself. As another couple of books are in the pipeline, no publishing date yet, I thought it time to throw appeal for personal experiences in the county of Warwickshire.

To whet the appetite I offer the following taster of what is to come with the story of John Smith from Gaydon.

While it is not true today, John has certainly been the most common male christian name overall. As a surname Smith remains the most common. Thus logically the most common man’s name is John Smith. Those who argue this is not the case as they have never met anyone called John Smith and that Mr and Mrs Smith would never call their son ‘John’ have clearly never been to Gaydon or the Gaydon Inn.

Once the pub was the headquarters for an infamous bunch of ruffians who had justifiably earned a reputation as thugs and thieves. Their leader was no other than one John Smith. Yet when he was caught and hanged the problems refused to go away, at best a temporary lull ensued until his son stepped up to continue in his father’s footsteps. He not only continued the family tradition but also continued the family name for he was John Smith Jnr. Again he followed his father in being caught, and eventually followed him in being tried at Warwick and hanged there.

First his captors took the wise step of holding him prisoner in the Gaydon Inn. To attempt the journey during the hours of darkness would doubtless have resulted in the rest of the gang freeing him within the first mile or two. His ‘accommodation’ for the night was the inn’s attic. Here, in 1789, John Smith Jnr spent some of his last hours carving his initials in a roof beam. The following day he was taken to Warwick where he met the same fate as his father. Well, almost the same.

A woman by the name of Elizabeth Beere had followed him to Warwick. They had been lovers for some years and, as with any girl who had lost her heart to the bad guy, his death was no barrier and she steadfastly refused to abandon him. Normally the body would have been taken back to Gaydon, the scene of his misdemeanours, where he would be hung from a gibbet. The body would rot and, as flesh and bone broke away from the stinking corpse, would serve as a warning to others who may be tempted to break the law.

Elizabeth Beere was determined this would not happen to her beloved John and begged his body should be returned to her for why should she suffer the sight of his rotting remains when she had done nothing wrong? Eventually her argument won the day and she was permitted to dispose of the body as she saw fit. Obviously Elizabeth was quite certain she would be successful for she had brought a donkey with her to Warwick for the sole purpose of transporting the corpse of John Smith Jnr back to his home.

Elizabeth walked back to Gaydon, leading the donkey with its unusual load. The body was buried, although whether it was granted a grave in consecrated ground is unknown as there is nothing recorded. Perhaps one clue that it was not given a Christian burial is found in the attic of the Gaydon Inn. Over the succeeding two centuries many reports have spoken of footsteps heard as if someone was pacing the attic which, when examined, was found empty.

Is this the restless soul of highwayman John Smith Jnr? And is that the sound of him as he continues to carve his initials into the wooden beam?

I would welcome any suggestions for themes or subjects, or even specific words to examine the origins, meanings and etymologies. I’d be delighted to hear from you.

Haunted Worcestershire

With the interest shown in the excerpts from my other ghostly books I decided to pull this story from my Haunted Worcestershire. This was a particular favourite of mine and, even if you are unconvinced, it still makes for a good tale.

Hagley Hall is one of the loveliest stately homes in the land. Set in a varied and rolling landscape, new wonders are revealed at every turn. A delightful mix of flowerbeds, winding paths, woodland and water provided artists with inspirational views. Within the house itself more delights are found in every room. Architecture and decoration are among the finest in the land, the thousands of visitors each and every year are adequate testimony to the work done by the inhabitants since the Lyttelton's built the first house and laid out the original gardens.

The Lyttelton's have been around Worcestershire since the twelfth century and possibly longer. However our story starts on 30th January 1744 and the birth of Thomas, destined to be the second Lord Lyttelton. He was only in his third year when his mother died, his childhood overseen by a succession of tutors and distant family members. Reaching his adulthood he was a source of great displeasure to his father. He lived a wild life, given over to questionable conduct which, while not illegal, was not that befitting a man of his birth. However it was common among the young men of his age and he was by no means the worst of his generation. On the death of his father in 1773 the title passed to him, although his erratic behaviour in his early life led to him being more commonly referred to as 'The Bad Lyttelton' or even 'The Wicked Lyttelton'.

On his return from office in Ireland he was already suffering ill health, fits, headaches, and chronic indigestion which was more likely heart disease. His life was made bearable through medicines and regular bed rest, particularly following an attack. It was on one such occasion in 1779 that he retired early to bed on the night of November 24th. A servant brought him the medicine and left him when ordered to do so. Thomas was not alone for long when he was disturbed by the fluttering of wings within the room. He listened and heard footsteps approaching his bed whereupon he sat up and was stunned to see the loveliest woman he had ever seen alongside his bed. Clad all in white she had a small bird perched on her hand and she spoke to him. He was speechless as he heard her tell he was to prepare himself for death. When he enquired how long he had she replied by midnight on the third day.

Next morning his discomfort was evident and, over breakfast, he told his guests of the events of the previous night. He dismissed it as a dream, saying of how he had forgotten to release a robin trapped in the greenhouse a few days before which was clearly still playing on his mind. Any chance of convincing everyone else the matter was but a trivial one was made impossible by his evident stress and low spirits. Reports of two quite superb speeches in the House of Lords later that day suggested his mood was much improved. The second and third days also saw him in fine spirits, both in mind and body. Yet by the time they were seated for dinner the gloom was again descending.

His friends and colleagues, concerned that the woman in white's prophecy may lead to tragedy, contrived to get every clock and watch in the place put forward by thirty minutes. Thus when Lord Lyttelton retired at half past eleven, feeling drawn and exhausted, it was only eleven o'clock. As the appointed hour approached Lyttelton repeatedly checked watches to ensure they were still working. Eventually both watches read fifteen minutes after midnight and, confident that he was now safe, summoned his valet to bring him his medicine. From the next room the servant heard the unmistakeable sounds of laboured breathing, he returned to find the life ebbing from his master. Summoning help Lyttelton's cousins, including Lord Fortescue, ran to the bedside. They arrived just in time to see the death of Thomas Lyttelton at the moment the clocks all said half past twelve, in reality midnight - exactly as foretold by the ghost in white.

Meanwhile at that very same moment of his death Lyttelton appeared at the side of the bed of a Mr Andrews, one of his closest friends. Andrews thought it some sort of prank and rang for a servant to prepare a room immediately. By the time the servant arrived Andrews was alone. He dressed and organised a thorough search. However the only news of Thomas Lyttelton came in the form of a messenger, telling of the passing of the peer at the age of thirty-five.

It has been suggested that the woman in white was Lyttelton's mother. Yet although he could not have had any recollection of her as she died when he was very young, he would certainly have seen her portrait hanging around his home. Since that time there has not been any similar reports of hauntings at Hagley, so her identity remains a mystery.

I would welcome any suggestions for themes or subjects, or even specific words to examine the origins, meanings and etymologies. I’d be delighted to hear from you.

Black Country Ghosts

An excerpt from my book of a couple of years ago, my first look at such and a book which has recently been reprinted. I have chosen one of the best-known towns in the area but not its most famous building, Dudley Castle. Locals will be aware of the Station Hotel, which stands in the shadow of the castle and a venue for many tales including the following.

Dudley seems to be a magnet for spectral sightings, particularly the region around the castle and below at the Station Hotel. The coming of the railway in 1850 was a major boost to the prosperity of the region and the town grew steadily. Until the end of the 19th century the main place for visitors was the hotel named, somewhat predictably, The Castle.

By May 1898 the new Station Hotel had taken in its first visitors, most of whom arrived in horse-drawn vehicles. In these early days the main entrance was on the corner of Trindle Road and Castle Hill. Once a fountain stood on the site of the traffic lights, an impressive first impression for visitors and a welcome watering place for the horses. This fountain had been relocated from its earlier site at the top of Castle Hill.

The Opera House opened opposite the hotel a year later, bringing the upper classes and their money to the town and, of course, to the Station Hotel. Even today the splendour of those early days is still evident, although what is seen inside today is largely the interior following the extensive refurbishment just prior to the second World War. The height of the ceilings instantly dates the place, while the broad and ornate staircase is as much of a delight to descend today as it must have been soon after it was first varnished. Doors of the rooms at this time were numbered and named using a method of embossing. These numbers are still visible when the light catches them from the right angle, as are the doors leading to the public cloakroom and water closet. The colours in some of the windows are mirrored in the glass of the light shades and are also from around this time. Both must be cleaned with care as replacements would have to be hand-made and thus tremendously expensive.

This refurbishment of the hotel coincided with the building of The Hippodrome, a brand new and modern theatre replacing the Opera House which had succumbed to a devastating fire in 1933. The hotel further enhanced its reputation with a guest list of stars from around this era including Laurel & Hardy, Johnnie Ray, Bob Hope and George Formby who, it is reported, appeared on the balcony of his suite where he performed a song or two to a crowd of fans who had gathered outside hoping for just a glimpse of their idol.

In the Swinging Sixties the hotel underwent yet another major facelift. A cocktail bar was opened, while the function room boasted 'the longest bar in the country' at that time. Still the place was considered very desirable and delightful way to round off the night after enjoying a show at the Hippodrome. However the place was still out of the reach of the pockets of most of the locals.

When I visited the hotel the former grandeur of the place was still very much apparent. I was treated to a tour, which took in the seemingly endless succession of passages and side rooms which formed the cellar. My guide allowed me to take the lead into one room, the murder scene. Here too is a disused passage which reputedly leads from the cellar to Dudley castle, the latter having closed that end shut many, many years ago. Yet there is no record of anyone ever having attempted to follow this subterranean route and, with the two famous buildings occupying entirely different moments in time, it seems this is a tunnel tale of folklore rather than fact.

My reason for visiting was the extraordinary number of reported ghosts here. Indeed a number of visitors here come simply to see if they have a ghostly experience, there is even a 'Spook Book' for those who wish to record any of their experiences. Those who hope to encounter something will reserve a room on the third floor where the vast majority of sightings occur. Dudley may well be able to warrant a ghost book of its own, if so the Station Hotel would figure at least seven times - for that is the number of regular visitors reported in this place.

I was taken on my tour by Sarah, a charming young lady who had worked here for a few years. This is a hotel and open twenty-four hours of every day, which means it needs to be staffed every moment of every day. Because of the shift system in operation the staff sometimes find it necessary to take advantage of the rooms themselves. It was during one of her overnight stays that Sarah had her visit from Eliza.

It was the early hours in the morning when the door, which had been locked and secured, opened and in walked a woman. This woman was wearing a drab brown woollen dress of full length, with a white apron. She was of small build, only about 5ft 4in tall, and wore a mob cap over a noticeable bun. Understandably unnerved by the intrusion Sarah challenged the woman, who made no response but simply disappeared into the ensuite bathroom.

Sarah refused to move from the bed until, after what could only have been a few moments, the mysterious woman emerged again and let herself out through the door. After regaining some of her composure she got out of bed, first to check the door and then to examine the bathroom. She instantly noticed the towels, which were once on the floor and now neatly folded. It was this that gave Sarah the clue to the identity of the woman. It seems that a former maid regularly pays visits to the rooms during the night and tidies up. There have been reports of clothes, which have been left on the floor where they fell, being found in the wardrobe on a hanger the following morning.

The woman she saw did not glow, was not transparent and, apart from her obviously dated attire, seemed a perfectly normal individual. Sarah was and remains sceptical about the existence of ghosts, despite her experience. However she did admit those towels went untouched. Her shower that day was followed by the use of a towel she collected from the reception desk.

The most frequently told tale of the hotel is that of George Williams - sometimes given as Williamson. A former manager of the hotel he was having an affair with a maid employed by him by the name of Elizabeth Hitchen. It seems the young Miss Hitchen, having discovered she was pregnant, confronted her employer demanding to know what he intended doing about this situation. She is supposed to have been less than impressed by his lack of interest and had threatened to reveal everything to his wife during a particularly vehement confrontation in the cellars. He snapped.

In a fit of rage he brutally murdered his mistress. Elizabeth is said to have been stabbed and strangled, her body lay in the cellar while Williams attempted to cover his tracks. Eventually he is said to have moved her body out via the chute and trap door which were used for the delivery of barrels and crates. Presumably this was achieved by pulling her body up by means of a rope, as the empty barrels would have been, for it is impossible to climb up this chute - especially while holding a lifeless corpse. Reports suggested it was here, under a patch of grass at the front of the Station Hotel, that the murderer concealed the body of his victim and former lover. During the recording of a recent television program the presenter, himself a medium, reported the body was still there.

However in recent years a guest came to the hotel, a woman who hoped to experience something of the paranormal activities. Indeed she was hoping to find she was visited specifically by either the perpetrator or his victim, for she had her own particularly good reasons. It seems that this crime was of particular interest to this lady, for she had undergone regression. This is where the individual is put into a hypnotic trance and taken back in time to see if they have any recollections of a former life. This was where this person had learned of the murder of Elizabeth Hitchen, for she claimed to have been her in a former existence. She had little waking memory of the events she had divulged during her regression, however she did report a feeling that she was in water. This suggests the body had been dumped in the nearby canal, not buried.

While this woman did not meet up with her former self, nor her attacker during her visit, others have reported seeing things which seem to point to this macabre event. For example there are numerous reports of hearing a woman screaming, wailing, or sobbing and clearly greatly distressed. In the part of the cellar where she was murdered a number of people have reported feeling chills, terribly uneasy, even scared with no apparent cause for this anxiety. There is also a report of a man seen cowering in the corner of the cellar, head in hands, sobbing. Could this be the guilt-ridden murderer? Nobody has ever been traced nor did George (or anyone else) face charges for the crime. Indeed we would be unlikely to known anything of these events had it not been for another George, who recorded this story and left his own mark on the hotel as we shall see in the following narrative.

An historian about whom more is known regarding his family and working life, than is known about his writings. He seems to have written the vast majority of his articles and reports anonymously. However it is known that what was written about the murder of Elizabeth Hitchen (see previous item) came ostensibly from the pen of Mr George Lawley.

George was a regular visitor to the Station Hotel, always sitting in the same place. Today this large round table is known as George's table. Indeed when bookings are made regular patrons often ask for this table by this very name. It is George's table which has been known to throw cutlery around the restaurant - thankfully so far this has only happened when the staff have been there and not when the place was full of customers.

However George is better known for his nightly patrol of the bar area of the function room. Apparently at twenty minutes to midnight a sudden chill is felt passing through from the direction of George's table through the bar in the direction of the reception area. This effect is highly localised, reports of just one side of the body or even just an arm or leg being affected are quite common.

George died in 1935 and, as far as anyone has managed to ascertain, his official record of the murder has never been seen since soon after it was written. Certainly nothing has ever been found in print. While his regular appearances through the bar can be unnerving for some, George Lawley's appearances are seen as an old regular keeping his eye on the place when he patrols his favourite haunt nightly. Indeed George is rapidly becoming seen as much a part of the place as anything else. Hopefully George will continue to watch over this part of history for many years to come.

I would welcome any suggestions for themes or subjects, or even specific words to examine the origins, meanings and etymologies. I’d be delighted to hear from you.

Sir Laurence Tanfield

Such was the popularity of a recent post covering one of the many ghost stories in my (to date) four books, I offer up another chilling tale from my book Paranormal Cotswolds. The following story comes from Burford in Oxfordshire. I selected this narrative as it was so well received when I was invited by BBC Radio Oxford to record five stories to be broadcast in the week leading up to Hallowe’en in 2009.

Sir Laurence Tanfield’s career encompassed lawyer, politician and landholder, a highly prominent figure in the country between 1583-1625. Born around 1551, his earlier years are something of a mystery but we do know he was admitted to the bar of the Inner Temple in 1569 and his success enabled him to purchase an estate at Burford in 1583 and later lands at Great Tew. Burford Priory was built at his behest on his lands where a mental hospital had previously stood.

In 1584 he entered parliament as MP for New Woodstock, twenty years later he was returned for the county of Oxford and knighted by James I. The king had been a guest of Tanfield's en route to London in the autumn of 1603 and clearly enjoyed an excellent rapport with Tanfield. In 1607 Sir Laurence was Chief Baron of the Exchequer, a position he held until his death.

However, while his professional career was undoubtedly successful, in Burford and Great Tew the inhabitants had a revealing story to tell. By 1617 as Lord of the Manor of Burford, he and his wife were involved in a number of disputes with both the inhabitants and the local administration. Indeed the reputation of Lord and Lady Tanfield for being greedy and corrupt remains a part of Burford folklore. Having stripped Burford church of every valuable, purported to be in settlement of a dispute with the then vicar, although the circumstances regarding the dispute and the supposed agreement are suspicious, the people thereafter saw him as 'the very devil among us'. So reviled was he that the people of Burford celebrated his death by burning an effigy of Lord Tanfield around the anniversary each and every year and continued to do so for over two hundred years.

It was probably unwise for his widow, who herself died three years later, to return to the church of St Catherine's and erect a quite astonishingly outlandish monument to her husband, which also allowed for room for her when her time came. The craftsmanship of the sculpture is unquestionable, the design ugly and clearly not the result of anyone with the talents to produce such work but undoubtedly produced exactly to the orders of the widow. However perhaps the sculptors, embarrassed by the work they had likely charged an exceptional sum of money to produce, made their own comment on the memorial. Bending down to look underneath the carving one will see a frail skeleton, invisible to the casual observer and unlikely to have been part of the widow's thoughts. Is it suggesting that, in death, no money and power can save any from the same inevitable end?

Yet the story does not end there, for Sir Laurence is still said to be about today. He has been seen driving a coach pulled by four impossibly black horses in a number of places around his former estates. It is claimed that each and every one of these witnesses suffered bad luck following the sighting of the phantom coach and its notorious driver, although how the vision of the coach and horses is identified with Sir Laurence is unclear.

Furthermore it has been suggested that the skeletal carving beneath the sculpture was not created by mortal hand but a warning added by the lord of the manor announcing his return to this world after his wife's death.

As usual I would welcome any suggestions for themes or subjects, or even specific words to examine the origins, meanings and etymologies. I’d be delighted to hear from you.

The Devil’s Churchyard

Near my home, and dominating the view to the north when travelling along the A5, is a wooded ridge. On the Ordnance Survey Map it is named the Devil’s Dressing Room, although I have never been able to discover why. Access is restricted, making close examination impossible. Yet this does not seem to be particularly ancient woodland. Thus either the name is comparatively recent, and therefore a created name, or where trees had been cleared and have regrown and thus an ancient name and one which was not recorded on very old maps.

To link the Devil to minor place names is not unusual, indeed it is surprisingly common which may be a clue how these names rarely refer to Beelzebub himself but to someone seen as wicked or known for some evil deed. Whilst I have no idea of the origin of his Dressing Room, from Minchinhampton, near Stroud in Gloucestershire comes a story which I do know. I suspect the story was told in an attempt to explain why there was no local church but this depends upon whether the story predates the name or vice versa – and that is something we will never know.

Hyde Farm gets its name from that Saxon measurement of land, the hide. Most often said to equal 120 acres, this is simply an average because the ‘measurement’ refers to productivity and not area. It is extremely difficult to quantify a hide, the reason can be seen in the accepted definition of “the amount of land required to feed one family for one year” where there are so many variables – the size of the family, quality of the soil, skills of the farmer, choice of crops, all have to be taken into consideration.

During the twentieth century Hyde Farm has been associated with flight. Today it is owned by the local gliding club but was once a base of operations for the Royal Air Force. This military presence had the effect of isolating the farmworkers as much as it did the official personal who had made it their temporary home. Even after the end of the Second World War rationing remained in force for a number of years, making life hard for all and particularly so for those who were just starting on married life.

It was a warm day when one farmworker broke for lunch. Recently married, both he and his wife worked long hours and would have looked forward to the few hours each day they spent together. Perhaps that was where the young man’s mind went when he entered a small copse away from the heat of the sun and cab of the tractor to open his lunch box. Having just taken a second bite his thoughts were interrupted by a most awful noise from the depths of the copse. Looking up he saw a mist and, as he watched, it began to gather into a most unnatural form. This was enough for the poor man who fled, leaping into his tractor and driving off as fast as the lumbering farm machine would allow.

Not being a local man he was unaware of the reputation of the copse as a place of evil. An area where no bird was heard to sing, of inexplicable darkness, where chills were felt on the warmest of days. Many years before the community, tired of trecking to neighbouring villages for Sunday worship, had asked for their own church to be built and this field had been selected. Agreement was reached and eventually work started.

Foundations were laid down and walls rose reaching half their eventual height. During the night something happened and the sight which greeted the workers when they returned next morning astonished them. Before them were no walls but a collection of stone blocks strewn around the site but not seemingly having fallen. They built them back up again but, once more, they returned next day to find the walls dismantled. Four more times this happened and the workers abandoned the site.

No reason was ever found for this act of superhuman vandalism, yet the community soon offered their own explanation. Ever since this field has been known as the Devil’s Churchyard.

I would welcome any suggestions for themes or subjects, or even specific words to examine the origins, meanings and etymologies. I’d be delighted to hear from you.

An appeal to the Brummies

With the finishing touches being put to my next ghostly offering, here is a taster of what will be the latest look at the ghosts and ghouls, spectres and spooks, unexplained and unearthly goings-on in Birmingham. With time running short before deadline day this is your opportunity to add your own experiences, be they personal or second (even third) hand. Full credit will be given or, if desired, you can remain anonymous. I look forward to hearing from you and can reached by email paranormalbirmingham@hotmail.com.

The year is 1840 something and a minor officer of St Bartholomew's Church in Edgbaston is awoken late at night to hear the bells ringing. This was way beyond any hour when such should be heard and so he pulled on his coat, lit his lantern and headed off to investigate.
Entering the church, places of worship remained unlocked in those times, the feeble light from the lantern caught a figure lying at the foot of the stairs to the belfry. He recognised it as Thomas Jackson, a man of the parish known for his mood swings and whose sanity had been called into question on several occasions.
Closer inspection revealed his head was almost severed at the neck and the copious amounts of blood were still warm. In his hand Jackson was clutching a cut-throat razor, the blood still dripping from the blade. It took a great deal of coaxing to prise the blade from the fingers of the man, showing how he had sought to take his own life. By now others, also alerted by the toll of the bells, had arrived and together they carried the still bleeding Jackson to the nearby Plough and Harrow public house where he died soon afterwards.
On the darkest and most inclement of nights Tom Jackson is still to be seen walking around this area. Now wearing a scarf his awful neck wounds are hidden, however he can still be recognised by the blood-stained razor and wide eyed stare off into the darkness.

Paranormal Staffordshire

Latest publication appearing in October 2011. Just in time for Hallowe'en, Paranormal Staffordshire contains a mix of stories old and new.

Writing Memories on a Lichfield Walk

Soaring Heaven on Earth is a somewhat overly dramatic title for a walk on the northern edge of the city of Lichfield. This was not a walk I anticipated would bring any great satisfaction. I like a distant sound of traffic and little or no tarmac. However this proved a pleasant albeit brief distraction, particularly so when I found myself reunited with areas of my native county which I had visited previously when compiling four of my books: Staffordshire Place Names, Staffordshire Privies, South Staffordshire Street Names, and the forthcoming Paranormal Staffordshire.

I started the route at a different point on the walk, solely because parking was impossible on that day. Soon I was trying to recall the meaning of a number of street names as I started off at Cross Keys, itself taking the name of a former public house, itself named from the symbol representing St Peter. Passing through Lloyds Walk, named after the bank which owns the land, I turned into Dam Street, a reminder of where the water flow feeding the mill was controlled. Here is Dame Olivers, the school where Dr Samuel Johnson learned his first lessons.

Nether Pool is of lesser importance than Stowe Pool. Crossing Bird Street, known as Byrd Street in 1506 and named after a local family, we come to Beacon Park, a name transferred from Beacon Street which we shall encounter very soon.

Skirting the park we approached Townfields, the name explains itself. It was here that a former resident allowed me to photograph the building which had once served as the privy before modern plumbing was installed. The solid brick building certainly smelled better when I photographed it, for one wall and the roof were covered in honeysuckle and its heady sweet perfume.

Shaw Lane is an old name found in the landscape, one referring to 'the enclosure', leads to Beacon Street, which was known as Bacon Street until 1836 and tells us this was where meat was cured. Along here is Erasmus Darwin House where I heard of the unexplained events of cellar lights being turned on moments after being turned off for the night. Another man in period costume appeared to a member of staff and was thought to be playing a role for the museum until she realised he had vanished and that no costumed characters were on site that day.

A side road on the left is The Close, the road associated with the cathedral, and here another phenomenon seemed keen to allow aromas of cooking to permeate into the upstairs of one person's house when nobody was cooking. The buildings on either side seem to frame the magnificent Lichfield Cathedral with its three spires known as the Ladies of the Vale. Briefly touching Dam Street again we turn left along Reeve Lane, a reeve was a Saxon officer appointed by the lord of the manor to see to the running of the estate in his stead.

This path brings us to the single circuit of Stowe Pool, from stow which has several meanings and is best defined as simply 'place' as 'special place' makes it sound of greater significance than it actually was. The path leads off and up the ramp and back to my waiting car.

The walk brought back memories of facts and narratives I would never have remembered had I tried to recall them from a question or a reminder of a name.

My Hallowe'en Story

With Hallowe'en on the calendar this weekend I thought I might offer up an offering from my forthcoming book on the paranormal. Entitled Paranormal Birmingham, it covers the traditional narratives alongside the personal experiences of those who have lived and worked in this city of 1.2 million individuals.
No book on any aspect of the history of Birmingham would be complete without a mention of the Old Crown. There is no doubt this is one of the oldest buildings in the city, if not the oldest, while the actual date of construction is difficult to tie down. Early research suggested a date of 1368, however this is based on estimates from surviving records and not actual facts.
In the fourteenth century one Robert o' the Grene is documented as a co-founder of the old church of St John the Baptist. This meant they no longer had to travel to Aston parish church to worship and that he, as a founder, was earmarked to whomever owned the building which is now the Old Crown. This shows the building was here before the church and has also outlived it.
A substantial property was given as a wedding present to the daughter of Robert 'o the Grene. It is most tempting to think this was the Old Crown, indeed it would be difficult to see two such sizable buildings here which was, and remained for many years after, smaller than neighbouring Aston. When the original local historian and antiquary, John Leland, came through here in 1540 he reflected upon the 'praty strete' and its 'mansion howse of tymbar'.
Queen Elizabeth I is said to have stayed here for a single night, perhaps William Shakespeare's eyes saw the large wooden building on one of his journeys, and Prince Rupert may also have admired the even then old building when he came to Birmingham during the English Civil War. We may have to guess as to the identity of many of the historical figures, however more recent visitors and employees have documented their experiences in the Old Crown Ghost Book, a record by the individuals themselves on their personal experiences. These individuals, who shall remain anonymous, may well have been introduced to others whose memory still remains within the walls of this historical building.
Our first two stories come from downstairs in the where the public wander freely. It was November 1998 when a member of staff was taking a hard-earned break on the other side of the counter. Her mind was elsewhere, perhaps planning ahead for the coming festive season, and gazing aimlessly in the direction behind the bar by the till. Suddenly, and with nobody near, a bottle of Martell Brandy fell. It had been nestling in a wine rack to the right of the till, but came crashing down with a bang which, as the witness reported, was somehow far too loud for a breaking bottle.
Around the corner is the restaurant area. Here in September of 1998, when most of the customers had finished their meals, a doorman took the weight off his feet on the stool at the end of the bar. As he sat there he clearly saw an indistinct grey figure, difficult to say it was male of female, walk across the fireplace and into the kitchen area. It never paused when passing the lit fire, nor was it seen by the kitchen staff still tidying up after the evening meals. It had simply vanished.
However it is upstairs in the guest rooms where the most disturbing reports originate. As a member of staff pointed out, these reports have something in common. Nearly all occur between the hours of 2:50am and 3:30am, although the time does not seem relevant to the experiences, as we shall see.
It is May 2007 and in room number three a visitor from the other side of the world was spending his third night at the Old Crown. Previous nights had passed without incident, yet this was to be his last night here and he moved on to another hotel in the city centre. He was greatly disturbed when he awoke in the middle of the night and had the feeling he was not alone. Opening his eyes he turned over to see a man in his early fifties. A hazy, greyish silhouette, the stranger was not himself particularly frightening, indeed the guest said he had a kind face. Perhaps the stranger was more scared at being discovered, for he took a single step back and then vanished.
However the most activity seems to occur in room number five. On two consecutive nights in February 2000 the guest had awoken, the figures on the alarm clock glowing red at 3:26am both nights. On the first night he awoke feeling cold and wet, his first thought being he had wet the bed although this proved not to be the case. The following night he woke again feeling cold and wet, yet this time he opened his eyes to the sight of an old woman above the bed weeping bitterly. She vanished but left him wondering it had been her tears which had made him feel wet.
Our last story also comes from room number five and is rather different. Nothing was seen, so far as we are aware, although something was most assuredly felt as we shall see. It is September 1998 and two twenty-somethings were spending the night in that room. The boyfriend was awoken, needing to answer a call of nature and had arisen, leaving his girlfriend sleeping. When returning he distinctly heard her voice, not speaking but the tell-tale little moans and gasps he was quite familiar with. He crawled back into bed and she snuggled up to him, arms around one another.
It was then he was taken aback by her commenting on how that was, in her words. "The best willy ever!" He resolved never to tell her he had been otherwise engaged at the time!

Wartime Memories

While researching this week I uncovered the following which I thought I would share:

Fradley Aerodrome or RAF Lichfield, as it should correctly be called, opened in 1940 and was initially was a training base. During the earliest months of the base newly fledged pilots were not permitted to go on bombing raids but were sent with a propaganda payload. Leaflets containing messages designed to raise French spirits were dropped across northern France.

Later they were permitted to take the large Wellingtons across the North Sea and the bombing raids on Germany. Locals could not fail to be aware of these massive craft taking off and returning to the base. At over 64 feet in length, with a wingspan of 86 feet and a top speed of 235mph, fully laden they could weigh as much as thirteen tons at take off.

One night a resident was awoken by a Wellington returning from a bombing raid. Nothing unusual in this, the aircraft were so low over the roofs of these homes that the man of the house had remarked on more than one occasion of how they would ".. take the bloody roof off one night, gal.... ". Weeks passed and the man woke to a frightful noise, the spluttering, straining engines of the bomber were clearly struggling to keep the massive craft airborne. Dragging his wife from their bed and virtually throwing the two of them down the stairs, they took refuge under the kitchen table - not quite as futile as it sounds, furniture was solidly built in those days. To their disbelief the noise levels peaked and then ebbed away as the aircraft landed.

Next morning the man awakened before his wife. Off he toddled bleary-eyed and barely awake to answer a call of nature. Shortly afterwards he returned to their bedroom and woke his wife, taking her to the window he threw open the curtains. Instead of seeing the wooden privy at the bottom of the garden there was a gap in the fence and, beyond the fragments of broken wood in the field beyond. The pilot may have missed the house, but the undercarriage had ripped the tiny wooden shed from their garden and deposited the barely recognisable fragments in the neighbouring field.

Another accident had with tragic consequences. Taking off from the airfield one evening it was soon realised an engine was on fire. Abandoning the mission the four airmen, thought to be Australains, turned for home. The tight turn and lack of manouevrability made handling the craft very difficult and, as they turned it stalled. On impact the flames engulfed the fully-fuelled plane killing the crew. As the ground crew neared crash site the five hundred pound bomb they were carrying exploded, injuring four of them.

Since that time there have been a number of reports of men dressed as pilots being seen wandering around beside the busy A38 trunk road here.