Somewhere or something associated with unexplained events, including haunted houses.
Britain, the haunted island Tracking down Britain’s most haunted places is a tough mission. The entire British Isles is a place of myths and legends, of ghosts and gods and spirits, where folk memories go back thousands of years. Travelling from the east, the first settlers found these islands at the farthest edge of Europe. […]
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The story of the Witches of Pendle is one of the most sinister and troubling tales to come out of Lancashire. It does not feature cackling old hags riding broomsticks across the night sky, but real living beings, victims of time and circumstance. The broad facts are well-known locally, but lest you be unaware, in
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It is a wild, wind-blown, rain-lashed winter’s night. A spectral horse gallops up to the moss-covered ruins of old Wycoller Hall, the rider a man dressed in early 17th century fashion He slides swiftly from the saddle, enters the house and dashes up long-vanished stairs. A door is flung open. Terrified shrieks pierce the pitch
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Unlike Balmoral, which is a private home, the Palace of Holyroodhouse in Edinburgh is the Monarch’s official residence in Scotland. And parts of it are open to the public. So, assuming you don’t get to visit palaces too often, you should pop in when you’re next in town. It is situated at the eastern end
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Ghost stories have long been popular at Christmas, and Victorians loved them. In that tradition, and by way of a change from researching a factual article, I thought I would have a go at writing a spectral anecdote. So, in the unlikely event that you have a spare five minutes, and with a degree of
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“I have endeavoured in this Ghostly little book, to raise the Ghost of an Idea, which shall not put my readers out of humour with themselves, with each other, with the season, or with me. May it haunt their houses pleasantly, and no one wish to lay it.” And so Charles Dickens modestly introduces us
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The first sight of Gawthorpe Hall may strike a chord with fans of Downton Abbey, the period soap-opera that followed the fortunes of the Crawley family and those that served them. I’m sure those of the true Fellowes’ faith will correct me, but doesn’t this Lancashire house look a little like Highclere Castle, the real
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The great tempest broke rapidly and without warning in the darkness. The sea around Whitby convulsed, waves rising in growing fury, over-topping one another, beating white-topped on the sands, rushing up the cliffs and breaking with great spumes over the piers of the harbour. Adding to the difficulties and dangers of the night, a huge
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There are several reasons to go to the little Northumbrian coastal village of Craster. It is famous for its kippers, offers several pleasant eating options, an art gallery and is a popular base for bird watchers, fishers and walkers alike. Our excuse was to revisit Dunstanburgh Castle, surely one of the most dramatic set of
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The first thing that struck me about Furness Abbey was how red it is. The second thing was the girl in the visitor centre and the third was drainage; but we’ll come onto all that later. For the moment, all you need to know is that the great red sandstone abbey of Furness was once
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Christ Church Greyfriars is one of those places you stumble across in London without meaning to. That’s exactly what I did a few years ago, anyway, drifting in search of somewhere to eat a sandwich after a tedious business meeting. Close to the Stock Exchange, I found myself in a peaceful garden planted inside the
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There was always an air of mystery about this place. When everything was new, and a car was a novelty, Dad occasionally took us out for Sunday afternoon drives. Passing along the lanes of the South Downs north of Chichester, he’d invariably comment, “Oh, there’s Racton Folly.” And there it was, a grim looking tower
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Scarborough Castle dominates the Victorian Yorkshire seaside resort from a massive precipitous headland bulging up from the North Sea. The fortress has a fascinating three and a half thousand year, often bloody, story to tell, but one of its more dubious charms seems to be that the ghost of Piers Gaveston, Earl of Cornwall, and
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The wind whips words away, yet the incessant piercing cries of thousands of seabirds all around Marsden Bay cut through every sound. To the best of my knowledge, England’s north east coast between South Shields and Sunderland features in few guide books to Britain, whose writers seem to skip from the North Yorkshire Moors to
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