When I was younger I was fascinated by ghost stories, devouring the A-Z of British Ghosts and hoping that spending time in old and dark places with plenty of history I would be fortunate enough to see something that Peter Underwood would want to include in one of his many books. It didn’t happen but I had some experiences that I will share in future posts when the time is right.
Shortly after starting this blog, I discovered that my
daughter had been reading it. I saw in her the fascination of the supernatural
that I had when I was her age. She would come to me with questions, share her
favourite bits and ask sensible questions of what I had experienced. It has
become clear that her intentions are to join her old man as a fully blown
member of the investigating team, telling me that she isn't a medium, she is a
small.
Small as she is, she is too young for the thrill of the
hunt. Instead, after a bit of research and persuading Mrs J that she would be
fine, a ghost walk was on the cards. So school holidays arrived and the
opportunity arose like a shape in the mist. We headed south west, landing on
the Jurassic Coast close to Lyme Regis. Famous for fossils, fighting and
failure to comply with the status quo, the picturesque Dorset seaside town is
quaint with its narrow streets lined with bakers, tea rooms and many a fossil shop.
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In the daylight, it’s a struggle to believe that the small streets once played host to an eight week long siege from Royalist forces, with Parliamentarians using garden walls for cover. A look out over the calm waters of the harbour, the Cobb seems a relaxed jetty out into the sea and not ground zero for the 1685 Monmouth Rebellion.
As the sun began to set, and dutifully fortified by dinner
at basecamp, the self-proclaimed Small and I set off into Lyme Regis, hoping
the rain would ease off, for her first initiation into the paranormal.
As always, the first job is to find coffee. Mary Anning (the
statue) visited and the sea looked at, we realised everything else seemed to
shut at five. All except our port in the storm, the Lyme Bay restaurant, where
we shucked our coats and ordered something to warm us. As we waited, we
overheard one of the servers behind us telling the patrons that the pub was
haunted by a young girl who played tricks, moved things and made noises when
the punters cleared off and left them to clean up at the end of the night.
As if on cue, our eyes were drawn to the front door, which
opened slowly, wide enough for a person to enter, before gently returning to
its original closed position. Small JP, wide eyed at what she had witnessed,
was about to have her first investigative lesson.
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The restaurant has double front doors, and it was the door on the right that had opened. Since we took our coffee to go, I asked her to open the same door. She gripped the pull bar with her might and the door didn’t budge. It was as if it were locked in place. Handing her a takeaway cup, I tried it myself, and it definitely felt as if the door were locked with a top bolt. Ever inquisitive, she was quick to ask, ‘how did it open then?’ I had no other answer than to get her to test the other, which swung happily open to let us out into the night.
So our first bit of evidence of a locked door that we had
both seen open and now we could not open it with no visible person was present
at the time was in the bag. A good omen possibly for the night ahead.
Our night was a walking ghost tour of Lyme Regis, I had
explained to Small JP that we would have a guide and be joined by a group of
people who would all be interested in the same thing – the darker side of Lyme.
We had equipped ourselves with sturdy footwear and, because of the weather,
many layers to keep warm and dry. Our guide would lead us around the town and
would tell us the stories of the places where we stopped. Unlike the tour of
Glastonbury with Extours (see Secrets of Glastonbury – Part 3) there was no
investigative element to Lyme’s, so we packed a K2 to see if we could add
anything else to our experience.
We were the first to arrive at the muster point outside the
Lyme Regis Museum and were soon joined by a rag tag motley crew of adults,
children and a couple of Canadians. Our Guide, Carl Holland, establishing
everyone was present and correct directed us to the sea wall and was soon
regaling us with tales of the Cobb – the long harbour arm that stretched out to
sea in the distance.
The light was fading and a strange mist was rolling in from
the void that once was the horizon between sea and sky. You would expect
strange cries and the disembodied calls of the Ferrymen of yesteryear to be
carried on the wind but all we could hear was Carl’s voice as he continued his
stories.
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Fireworks are now seen as a New Years Even tradition, but in the early hours of 1st January 1915 a torpedo fired by a German U-Boat was the cause of the explosion to bring in the new year. Striking the starboard side of HMS Formidable who was at the rear of the 5th Battle Squadron at 0220 hours. As boats raced to rescue the 747 men on board a second torpedo was fired on the portside of the stricken ship, 40 minutes after the first, causing the vessel to sink at 0430.
The escorting cruisers HMS Topaz and HMS Diamond managed to
rescue 80 hands, with a sailing launch and a pinnace from Formidable carrying
71 apiece. The launch was found by HMS Provident with all survivors managing to
clamber aboard before the launch broke up in the raging seas.
The pinnace, taking in water and with a damaged rudder saw
14 sailors breath their last, their bodies lowered into the surf to lighten the
load. After 20 hours at sea the pinnace landed on the beach at Lyme with the
help of the local community. 48 landed alive, 9 were not. Tommy Atkins, owner
of The Pilot Boat Hotel threw open its doors and residents helped by bringing
food, drink and blankets to the fatigued survivors.
The hotel’s cellar was transformed into a temporary
mortuary, and it was here those that did not make it were placed. Mrs Atkins
was the owner of a rough-coated collie called Lassie, who would not leave one
of the crew who had failed to respond to resuscitation. The body of Able Seaman
John Cowan was laid out alongside the others of his departed colleagues, but
Lassie would not leave this particular corpse alone, constantly licking at his
hands and face. No one had noticed the dog’s behaviour but they did notice the
faint murmur emanated from John’s lips, but only after they had responded to
Lassie’s triumphant barking.
Discovering that John was indeed alive medical assistance
was summoned and Cowan was taken to the Cottage Hospital on pound Road where he
made a full recovery – Lassie would not leave his side.
Praised as a hero dog, she was the subject of many news
reports around the world, received many awards and medals and featured at the
Crufts Dog Show before being enshrined in history by author Eric Knight in his
short story ‘Lassie Come-Home.’
But it would appear that Lassie never left home, as even
after her death the sounds of howling would come from the cellar of the hotel.
These howls occurred every so often with no natural cause being discovered,
until Atkins got a new dog, when they stopped.
The death of this new dog saw a return of the spectral howls
and from that time onwards The Pilot Boat Hotel always had a dog – in case of
shipwreck or medical negligence.
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There is a lone building, now home to an aquarium, that sits halfway along the Cobb its use posed as a question. Based on the knowledge that Lyme Regis was one of the busiest ports in England at one time Small JP made the educated guess, with a promise of a Sovereign as a reward, that it was something to do with Customs or Tax. Her answer was good but not correct, the Sovereign was returned to our guide’s pocket.
A clue was provided, the reward reduced to a shiny Farthing
that Lyme, unlike Weymouth only has blue plaques to indicate areas of its
history – where attached to 7 Custom House Quay, Weymouth is a black plaque
that reads:
The ‘Black Death’
entered England in 1348 through this port. It killed 30-50% of the country’s
total population
Now this is probably not the best brag a town could have but
sparked in Small JP an idea. Raising her hand and called upon for an answer she
said “Hospital?” to which she was now the proud owner of the shiny Farthing and
formed the prompt for the next tale.
The Cobb’s Quarantine Hospital and the crone that ran it had
a very effective manner of outfitting those who walked in through their doors
with a black sack and a watery final resting place. But this whitewashed
building served its purpose and is the reason that Lyme does not boast a black
plaque.
A year before a young man entered the doors to this hospital
he was lounging on his home towns beach after a morning’s fishing enjoying the
sun. That fateful day he was sighted by smugglers, who like the British Navy
were not beyond underhand tactics in crewing their ships. The smugglers
‘recruited’ the young lad by grabbing him, restraining him and dragging him
kicking and screaming aboard to serve as a galley slave.
After several months of slaving he spied the same beach from
where he had been taken and being a strong swimmer (and not very well guarded)
he dived overboard and swam home. Arriving on the beach, feverish from the
exercise in British coastal waters and coughing because of the saltwater he had
consumed in his epic dash to freedom, he was directed to lodge at the
Quarantine Hospital until his situation improved.
His mother would visit every day, providing food and gifts
and more importantly hope, bit the young man appeared sicker every day, until
he was only in need of hope and a black bag of his own.
Driven mad by his torment it is said the young man has never
left, and if you pass the aquarium on the Cobb you may be confronted by the
Cobb Ghoul whose howling and screaming can be heard as his claw-like
fingernails scrape at the top window in a desperate bid to escape.
As we set off to the next stop on the tour, Small JP
realised that the shiny Farthing was in fact a shiny 5p coin, the
disappointment evident on her little face. This expression was short lived as
we walked up Church Street passing the Marine Theatre where it turned into
excitement as she pointed at the K2 protruding from one of my many pockets
which was now flashing green and orange.
The theatre was not a stop on our tour but later research
discovered the tragic story of an actor called Amos. Amos had a brother,
Gilbert, who was his antithesis; tall, handsome, a hit with the ladies and had
an amazing ability to contort his face like a rubber mask. Amos believed that
the only way he would be a successful actor was to do it without his brother
and taking him on a fishing trip (not the one from Gavin and Stacey) he hit him
with an anchor before casting him overboard.
As Amos rowed away, he could hear his brothers cry for help,
but Amos continued eventually arriving at the shoreline and washing the blood
from his clothes. Amos in offing his brother became a successful actor but his
return to Lyme and the newly built Marine Theatre was to be his final performance.
He delighted a sold-out performance with his most famous
roles, repeated curtain calls and autographs before he fell asleep in his
dressing room. A nightmare ensued featuring an anchor to the soundtrack of his
brother’s desperate final cries for help. On waking and trying to leave he discovered
the theatre exits closed and locked.
The house lights were suddenly extinguished leaving only the
ghost light on stage. Groping his way toward the solitary light, Amos was
grabbed by invisible hands as the spectral figure of Gilbert repeatedly re-enacted
his final violent moments.
Being missed at a celebratory dinner with the mayor, Amos’
fans found the theatre locked and in darkness and he had not returned to his
hotel.
Amos was found the following morning, by the cleaner,
swinging from a rope from the lighting rig with a contorted, terrified
expression on his face.
Could it be that Amos was trying to attract our attention to
his story that our guide had missed with the tiny flickers of coloured light
from my pocket? Or could it be something more sinister that was drawing us
forward to St Michael’s Church yard.
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After Carl had arranged us on the steps leading to the graveyard, he began the next story which like the body that was discovered right where we now stood was in two parts.
The moon was all that Sam Hodder and his friend to light
their path as they trudged home from work at the shipyard, with his customary
pit stop at the Ship Inn. It was close to dinner time when Sam alighted the
steps we were now stood on, having to stop himself from tripping over a hard
sack-like object that was blocking his path.
On closer inspection he found the uniform of a soldier,
still being worn by the soldier’s body, the man’s head was not where it should
have been which really hindered finding out who the uniform belonged to. The
John Doe was taken to the vicar of St Michael’s Church and subsequently buried
in the pauper’s end of the graveyard, such was the end of part 1 of this tale.
For part 2 we moved up to the graveyard proper and our
attention was diverted from the stones protruding from the ground to the top
right window of the house opposite. The blue painted sash window belonged to
the once renowned ‘most haunted room in Lyme Regis.’
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Even in the time of decapitated soldiers people would pay money to stay in haunted locations, and it was a common challenge laid down amongst friends to stay the night alone at the old Monmouth Hotel.
Those that did stay (and many not for the whole night)
reported the sounds of horses, carriages, running footsteps, firing of musket
and screams coming from within the walls. In the silences between these sounds
would come sudden cracking noises as if a large object had been deliberately
dropped.
For those that could hold their nerve through this
soundscape described the odd behaviour of a grandfather clock. Around midnight
it would suddenly chime wildly and the dials would rapidly spin until the door
snapped open revealing a hanging man with a distorted face rather than the
brass pendulum that would be expected. The clock was not the only furniture to
act strangely, as the bed would slowly rise from the ground before shaking vigorously.
Due to the bad Trip Advisor ratings the hotel was getting
from this room, it was eventually locked up and abandoned.
The troubles in the room ceased quite quickly after a
thatcher was employed to repair the roof. He and his mate discovered a false
wall in the attic space which when removed uncovered a sealed metal casket. The
casket, believed to contain treasure, was removed for later pilfering.
Expecting gold or money or jewels, the thatcher was disappointed to discover a
soldier’s helmet, and horrified to see that a head was still wearing it.
The contents of the casket were bought to the vicar at St
Micheal’s, who remembered that he was a head short of a body from a few years
ago. The body was exhumed from the pauper’s grave, the head placed where heads
generally live and both parts reinterred into the original hole.
As we walked through the church yard I checked on Small JP,
who had warmed up a little with the walk and deeply enthralled in the dark
history. She told me she didn’t want the tour to end as she was enjoying it as
we arrived opposite Number 13, The Gables. Back in 1897 it was known as Lyme’s
cottage hospital and including an operating theatre installed by Lord Lister
(of Listerine mouthwash fame). The area attracted seasonal work and as such
Timber Hill was known for its Gypsy encampment. Whilst the men laboured, the
women sewed and the younger girls would come down the hill to sell flowers to
the hospital visitors.
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One tragic season an eight-year-old girl known as Little Rose was involved in a fatal accident after a horse drawing a carriage ran over her. This death ended the Gypsy’s relationship with the town but not Little Rose’s, who was reported as returning to the hospital with a gift of violets and kind words to a very sick woman. She recounted this to her son and that night fell asleep never to wake again. The son wanting some closure on the story enquired with the nursing staff about the girl. They told him that many of their patients before they would die would tell them of a little girl who would bring them words of comfort and a bunch of violets.
Carl ended this delicate tale with a joke that tickled Small
JP, who was still laughing after the short walk down Monmouth Street to a green
space outside of Monmouth House.
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Taking a photograph whilst we waited for the group to reassemble, I later discovered the interesting points of light captured in the image.
Could this phenomenon be attributed to Maggie Wylde, or as
the locals called her “Mad Meg”, who besotted at the sight of the Duke of
Monmouth as he marched through the town, at the start of his rebellion, was
eventually imprisoned and publicly humiliated every market day for her
devotion. Her passion remained even after her death with her high-pitched calls
being heard by people passing through the square and answered by an appearance
of the Duke himself sat upon a black charger one arm up as if greeting his
adoring fans, the other arm cradling his severed head.
The stories of tragedy that surrounds those who lived,
worked and visited Lyme Regis continued as we made our way to the town’s Mill. As
did some activity on the K2 prompting an opportunity for Small JP’s second
lesson – debunking the evidence.
Handing Small JP the black box we started to look at the
road surface for what could cause the electromagnetic energy. We identified
that there were gas lines, water lines and electric lines running under the
road as well as Wi-Fi coming from houses and phone signals from those around
us, so a lot of possible contamination. She identified that the orange LED
would blip on one particular line and it was here she learnt her third lesson –
Dealing with false positives.
As we finished talking about power lines we entered a small
courtyard which contained the town water mill. Here the story of the
overprotective mill owner, whose daughter fell in love with a smuggler struck a
chord. The owner having to leave Lyme to travel to Doncaster for business felt
the only way to protect his daughter from the machinations of the criminal
classes that she was associating was to lock her in the mill. Leaving her with
food and water, he turned the key and took a carriage out of town. That night a
fire swept through the timber framed buildings engulfing the mill and
extinguishing the life of the daughter.
The owner returned to the town the following morning, the
smell of smoke still present in the air. He soon discovered his fatal mistake,
the screams of the imprisoned child still float on the breeze around the area
to this very day.
As the story sunk into the group I may have held Small JP’s
hand a little tighter as we made our way to the final stop on the tour. We
grouped around Carl for the final time as we arrived outside the Town Mill
Bakery on Coombe Street.
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| Credit: SJP |
The river that feeds the waterwheel to the mill also runs under the houses on Coombe Street and was an attractive solution to smugglers who would boat along the river knocking on trap doors and exchanging their tax free merchandise for a few coins. Another use for this aquatic pathway was the movement of Catholic Priests in times when having that particular religious persuasion was frowned upon.
Father Joseph was an elderly priest who remained in hiding
rather than flee his intensely puritanical and Anti-Catholic hometown in the
wake of Catholic exclusion legislation. On entering the tunnels he crossed
himself and pulled the grey woollen smock a little tighter over his vestments
against the cold. His destination, the same every week, belonged to a prominent
Puritan alderman who on a Tuesday night would be found at the town meeting.
Carl assured us that he had checked and the only time in the
history of this meeting this fateful Tuesday was the only meeting where they
ran out of things to say. Father Joseph was mid Mass when the alderman returned,
who in a rage grabbed a knife and plunged it into the priest’s throat. Father
Joseph left the house the same way he came in and was thrown through the
trapdoor into the freezing waters below. Father Joseph was joined in his watery
grave by the alderman’s wife, who charging at her husband screaming descended
through the trap door, choosing the same fate as her beloved priest.
As Carl was telling this story the K2 was flashing red with
Electromagnetic Activity, punctuating every word Carl said, the same colour
that women washing their clothes the following morning reported they had
turned. Small JP had remembered lesson 2 and was checking for explainable
sources of the activity. Finding none her eyes lit up and it was this point she
knew she wanted to be a paranormal investigator.
The sound of chanted Latin punctuated by the sounds of a man
and woman screaming have been reported coming from the river, with the lucky
witnesses reporting seeing an apparition of a priest with his hands folded and
a woman dressed in black drifting above the water’s surface as in deep
conversation.
Carl’s Ghost Walk around Lyme Regis displayed this
picturesque town in a very different light, he presented his talk in an
entertaining manner, raising a few laughs among the tales of the tragically
departed.
Carl had told us that he was the third guide to do this walk
which was originally devised by Chris Lovejoy, whose book The Cobb Ghoul
contains the stories we experienced on our walk (as well as many more), and a
read that I would recommend adding to your library.
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| Credit: SJP |
The Lyme Regis Ghost walk was suitable for all ages, and it was really nice to see the level of care and inclusion Carl showed in making sure as much of the route was accessible to all.
And what of the newest member of Samuel James Paranormal? I
think she may have been bitten by the paranormal investigator’s bug – so stay
tuned for Small’s Ghouls special posts coming soon to SJP.
If you would like to book The Lyme Regis Ghost Tour that runs every Tuesday click here
You can find a copy of Chris Lovejoy's brilliant book The Cobb Ghoul here or any good book shop.
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