Paranormal History

Dover Castle

Often described as ‘the gateway to Britain’ Dover Castle has stood up to the elements, and enemies of England, for almost a thousand years. The history of the site however goes back even further as the Romans used the landscape to their advantage, not by building a fortification but by building a lighthouse, what they named a Pharos. Although this headland would have been a natural defensive point it wasn’t until after the Romans left that its use became more militarily based when the Anglo-Saxons built a Burh, a fortified town, which had its own church, St. Mary-in-Castro. When the Normans invaded they quickly gained control of the south-east, using it as a base of operations in their conquest, the people of Kent were the first Anglo-Saxons to suffer the privations of their rule with Dover itself being given Odo, Bishop of Bayeux, he had the Bayeux tapestry created to glorify the Norman Invasion and the subsequent Battle of Hastings, its curious to note that this Tapestry would have been woven by Anglo-Saxon women who may have even known some of the men who had died on it, plus of course it technically isn’t even a tapestry. Odo, like all Norman overlords treated his new subjects harshly and soon they were in revolt, they found a strange ally, Eustace, Count of Boulogne, was even closer an ally to King William than Odo was, it was Eustace who had been responsible for carrying the papal banner in the Battle of Hastings. This banner was given to William by the Pope and was a big boost to William for it gave all men in Europe the idea that god would be on their side in the conquest of Harold Godwinson’s England, and so men from all parts of Europe flocked to Williams army, the idea of it being a French invasion is wrong for the composition of Williams forces were as ad-hoc as the army fighting the Taliban in Afghanistan is today. The revolt however ended in failure for Eustace who shortly after landing troops and trying to take Dover was driven back, when reinforcements arrived, along with Odo himself, Eustace fled back to Bolougne.

The main reason Eustace couldn’t take Dover was because William himself had ordered the strengthening of fortifications during a short stay there in Autumn 1066, the fortification seen today (with the exception of the Pharos and St. Mary-in-Castro) was mostly built in the later time of the reign of King Henry II (1154-89) who built many castles and fortification in England. Structures such as the Keep, known in French as a Donjon, where we get the modern word Dungeon from, the inner bailey and part of the outer curtain wall was built during Henry II’s reign with the rest of the curtain wall built during Henry III’s reign. It wasn’t until the 1740’s and the rise of the conflict with France began once more in earnest, the Seven Years War, the Napoleonic Wars and then the arms race between the countries during the Victorian period. In the 1740’s major works actually lowered some towers so they could take artillery and be more impervious to their effects, barracks were built and more tunnels dug. It was these tunnels which became the scene of action during World War Two, not in conflict with France, but that of Hitler’s Germany. In 1940 the British and French had been beaten in northern France and Belgium, the British Expeditionary Force (B.E.F) had attempted an armoured counter-attack at Arras which scared Hitler into stopping his Panzers chasing the B.E.F into the Channel, Goering, Hitler’s head of Airforce (Luftwaffe), boasted he’d level the port where the British were retreating to. The port was just across the channel from Dover and visible on good days without the need for any binoculars, the port being Dunkirk (Dunkerque in French). Operation Dynamo was launched, the rescue of the B.E.F its aim, the hope was for 30’000 men to be rescued, in the end almost 350’000 men were taken from the beaches and harbour installations of Dunkirk (one of them being my Grandfather). The operation was overseen by Naval officials based at Dover who used their platform to better see the action they were commanding.

Dover Castle today is a tourist attraction and has been for many years, its military use is now virtually non-existent, however during the Cold-War it would have been the Regional Centre of Government in the event of a Nuclear attack.

Dover Castle has had many different ghostly sightings in its history, most however don’t date back to its knightly residents but to more modern times, it is said that the ghost of a drummer boy haunts the Western Heights battlements, he has mostly been heard drumming along on dark nights, it is believed he was once murdered and had his head chopped off though the causes and evidence of this is sketchy at best. In a section called the Kings Bedchamber sightings have been reported of a spirit, however only the lower half of a man’s body has been seen, two members of staff witnessed this not so long ago, first seeing it in the doorway to the Bedchamber, on following the legs they entered the Chamber and could find no one in there. Similar sightings occur on a set of stairs to the Keep where a faceless ghost of a woman has been seen, she is known as the Lady in Red after the colour of her long flowing gown. She has also been seen in the Mural Gallery close by, though it may be a separate entity as another ghost dressed in Blue has been seen here, this Blue spirit’s sex has not been ascertained but has been seen on regular occasions, mostly by male members of staff, usually indicative of a female spirit. The most modern ghost comes from the Second World war period as both a man and a women dressed in Naval Uniforms have been seen, usually they are seen by tourists who are on a special guided tour, the tourists naturally enough believe them to be re-enactors and ask questions about them, only to be told there are no people dressed up in Uniforms in the tunnels (where they are seen). The faces of these people have not been seen, genuine reports always see them walking away, I say genuine because sadly several people also claim to see them waving at them but not dressed in a Naval Uniform but rather an Army Khaki Uniform, this may be true as during the war all services used Dover Castle as a headquarters, but the people simply making up rubbish can be distinguished as they claim the spirits wear Medical patches on their uniforms, due to an erroneous story that the Castle was used as a hospital during WWII.

Photographs abound of supposed spirits at Dover, this one is a good one, though do take peoples testimonies with a pinch of salt.

www.yourcounty.co.uk/Kent51/dovercastle.html

If you should visit Dover Castle do so with three things, a steady nerve, for parts are assuredly haunted, a keen respect in history, so you don’t upset the ghosts, and a good pair of walking boots, because the place is huge.

Thank you for your time.

CJ Linton.

It had rained for days, the dirt track roads were washing away beneath a grey sky, without doubt it was one of the worst summers any of them had ever known, they’d killed their King and now god had turned the world upside down, each and every Parliamentarian soldier in the Lord-General Cromwell’s army was shattered, exhausted, cold and wet. And still they marched. What had begun as a glorious invasion of the rebellious Scottish lowlands had turned into a disaster, at every opportunity the Scots had ambushed the beleaguered English, shots fired from copses of tree’s, ridges and mist shrouded vales had caused only a small amount of damage to the bodies of the English soldiers, but their minds were savaged, always frightful of the Scot in the mist or the moving tree which could be another attack. Every time the Scots appeared the English had tried to get to grips with them, but this was Scotland, their country, and an army led by Alexander Leslie 1st Earl of Leven was never going to be caught easily. His forces should have been able to overwhelm the invaders and yet at the very top was the Kirk Party who had dismissed much of his men as being un-fit to fight in what they considered a holy war, men who had fought bravely in the troubles had been sent home, men who would be needed in the days to come.

Oliver Cromwell knew this, and still his forces couldn’t bring the Scots to battle, only a few days before he and a group of cavalry had tried themselves to locate the Scots, find them he did, a small group of musket armed Scots ambushed the party of Englishmen, opening fire one musketball whined through the air close to the Lord-General’s head, thinking it had been a lucky random shot Cromwell cupped his hands and shouted “Had you been one of my troopers I’d have you cashiered for wasting a shot!” no sooner had the Scots fired than they began to flee back to the mist covered heather ridges, one of whom stopped and replied “I was with you Marston Moor Oliver, next time I’ll put a shot right between your eyes you Roundhead!” Turning to his nearest trooper Cromwell grimaced and shook his head “I do hate that word”.

The English were running low on supplies and smoke rose from the fields all around them, the Scot’s had burned everything and anything the English could use to their advantage, they were close to breaking, but they were also close to the sea, at Dunbar English ships could unload vital supplies to them as they trudged back away from Edinburgh to England, Alexander Leslie believed he had whittled away at the English, it was now time to cut them down. On the 1st September the English scouts reported back to Cromwell, Scots to the south on high ground, thousands of them. As he stood looking down onto the English camp at Dunbar Alexander Leslie rubbed his hands and smiled “we have them now, with gods grace we shall put an end to this” a group of men walked towards him and he spat on the ground in disgust, the Kirk Party committee had been a mill-stone around his neck since the campaign began, they wanted battle from the outset, here on Doon Hill Alexander Leslie would show them how a battle was fought and won. He was already sat in his chair when the committee entered his tent, the tallest of them approached “when sir, do you intend to attack” Alexander smiled, and then snorted into laughter “Attack? Attack? Are you serious, the English must come this way back to England, they have to push my 23’000 men off this hill with their own what? 10 – 11’000 men, men who are jumping at shadows, exhausted, weary and defeated, all they will do now is march onto my men’s guns and die” one of the men coughed and raised a finger while shuffling to the fore of the group “Sir, it is not your army, it is the Kirk’s, they are not your guns, they are the Kirk’s, we must attack, the committee has sat and taken advice on this, an attack will succeed because god wills it, he has seen the ways of Cromwell and his lackeys, his army will be crushed at Dunbar, if needs be… without you” Alexander Leslie raised an eyebrow, “without me? Who, by the grace of god, has the aptitude to succeed, with or without gods help I will destroy this enemy, but the men will not attack, they will defend, they will stand in defence,” he rose from his seat to continue, raising his voice as he did “ if they go forward they may falter, you bastards took most of my army away from me, and replaced it with a bunch of monks who don’t know which end of a pike to point at the enemy!” he was trembling now, aghast at what he was hearing, the thought, the very idea of someone else commanding was ludicrous, insane, this was to be his victory, before him the group all stared at him, again it was the tallest who spoke “So be it, Alexander Leslie, 1st Earl of Leven, you are dismissed from command of this army of the Kirk” No. He didn’t just say it, no, Alexander had heard wrong surely, no, no he hadn’t, he’d been, dismissed.

It was late in the afternoon of the 2nd, Oliver sat alone in the house at Broxmouth, his mind sullen, his depression once more to the fore. He read the letter back to himself, a pleading letter to his good friend Sir Arthur Haselrig, now the governor of Newcastle, a post put on him in the aftermath of Cromwell’s shake up of the Parliament. Haselrig was not only his friend and ally, but he also had garrison troops at Newcastle, just within striking distance of the Scots, it seemed to be Cromwell’s only hope, he read the letter once more and called for a rider to be despatched with it immediately, if the rider could find a way through the Scottish lines that is. Their position on Doon his was nigh impregnable, Cromwell didn’t know what to do, he could command men, force them, cajole them, even perhaps inspire men. He knew the word of god and yet he didn’t know what to do. He prayed that night in the little house next to the Broxburn as he’d never prayed before, for surely it was only a matter of time before he would have to order the inevitable, his men were dying of the flux by the dozen, if they fought, with god on their side, they had a chance. Cromwell knew and believed that god was on his side, he’d given Oliver the chances in life for glory, god had chosen poor humble Oliver Cromwell, he’d punished him in his early years, but now by gods grace he’d been made ruler of England. But this night Cromwell wept tears in prayer for the inevitable fight, he could almost picture them men trudging on blistered feet up the long hill, the roar of the cannon, the smell of the powder, the screams of the dying.

He awoke before dawn, his neck sore from it being laid on the table before him, his plans of battle stretched out before him; he had to get back to Berwick, back to England. If it meant sacrificing his army then so be it. He had drawn his men up with the cavalry regiments ready to charge headlong along the area with the road, if they could create confusion then perhaps he could break through any gap and spur away. Of course he’d not let his men know that, his infantry would never get away, the Scots cavalry were much better than his own, and they had much more of it. No, the Infantry will be slaughtered, as he dressed an officer entered with a large grin on his face “sire, the enemy, they appear to have come off the hill” Cromwell blinked in shock, then shook his head “its true sire, I have made a note of their new dispositions, they are much further stretched out, yet because of their numbers they will have no room for manoeuvre” Cromwell took all of this information in and nodded, looking once again to his own battle plan, perhaps he could even win this battle, it was well before dawn, his troops were in position, Overton’s Infantry were the southern most of his troops, really a blocking force making sure the Scots don’t get around his rear and catch him before he can escape. In the centre were Monck’s Infantry, with Pride’s infantry behind in reserve, his left and most northern troops were his horse under the command of Lambert, if they could punch a hole through the Scots line then Cromwell could ride on, to what end god had planned, escape or even victory.

Alexander Leslie’s replacement was David Leslie, a man who had previously been a captain in Alexander Leslies own regiment, David had acquiesced to the committee’s plans for leaving the hillside, his men would win, of that there was no doubt, he knew Cromwell for what he was, a coward, and a liar. Years earlier at Marston Moor the Scots had fought as Parliament’s allies and had won the battle, Cromwell had had his cheek burned by one of his own men who had fired their pistol too close to his face, Cromwell had fled the battle and not returned until the Scottish lancers had routed the Royalist Cavalry under Prince Rupert, Cromwell however had claimed the victory, coupled with Parliaments refusal to adhere to the rules of their alliance many in the Scottish Kirk and camp hated Cromwell, and now, on the 3rd of September 1650 the Scots would have their revenge. It was very early dawn, the new days light had not filled the landscape, his men were ready, well fed and must be feeling as their ancestors had for centuries, giddy at the thought of killing Englishmen, driving them into the sea, capturing that bastard Cromwell and forging a new alliance with the Stuart dynasty not seen since the days of the King James.

Lambert was ready, he knew the plan, he was to attack, it was a simple plan he hoped the simpler it was the easier it would be, but god laughs when men make plans. With him were the cavalry of Fleetwood and Whalley, good veterans of fighting in the troubles, behind them came the Lord-General himself, Lambert hoped if they got out of this alive his rewards from the ever giving Lord-General would be a match for anyone in his favour. He gripped the reins of his horse, a myriad of jingling noises echoed around him as his men gathered into their lines of battle, the day was probably going to be a wet one, and no doubt a very hard one too. He wiped the sweat from his brow on a dirty handkerchief, a gift from his wife, she had embroidered her initials and his inside a heart, he kissed the emblem then raised his eyes upwards and said a small prayer, before encouraging his horse forwards, saying no words to his men, he knew most would not survive, he couldn’t dare to look upon them, not once did he ever wonder if he would survive or not, god had a plan for his life, if was to end her and now then so be it, for his god, his country and his Lord-General he moved forwards.

Colonel Strachan was chewing on a gristly lump of bacon, all around him his Lancers were donning their gear ready for the battle to come, their six foot lances were sharp, their swords each had a keen edge to them, and their ponies could traverse the countryside better than anything the English had. He heard them before he saw them, the jingling sound of men on horses, the sound of music, the music of death. “To arms!” he shouted after spitting the bacon from his mouth, “To arms! The god damn English are coming boys, get on your nags!” he quickly jumped on his own horse and drew his sword, around him his men were mostly already mounted and getting into position, each man in line with their lances held in one hand, the horses reins in the other. Strachan couldn’t see the enemy but he ordered a charge right away. Towards the sound of the jingling, his men drummed the earth with their ponies hooves, drowning out the enemy music of death with their own.

They saw each other coming out of the gloom of the early morning, cantering towards one another, barely able to order a charge each side crashed headlong into one another, Scottish Lancers and English Cavalry trying to keep in battle lines, pistols being fired from close range, men reaching out to touch the muzzle of their guns to an enemy chest and pulling the trigger, men skewered on lances or slashed at with swords, falling from horses and ponies to be trampled into the mud, animals shrieking and flailing in pain and terror, Cromwell’s Cavalry strike was stopped before it had begun.

Monck could hear the battle, and just about see the flashes of gunfire where Lambert had gone forward, he ordered his men to attack, to support Lambert by crossing the Broxburn and attacking the Scots opposite, orders rang out and the entire English centre began its march, Cromwell could just about see them go forwards, flags unfurled, drums beating, just like his visions of doom he prayed they’d not suffer for long. “God damn it” Monck swore, for ahead of him he could see Scottish infantry moving to support their own Cavalry, the flags beneath which the men marched belonged to Lumsden, they would be good men Monck mused, but fight he must. Again orders were shouted out, the Scottish officers had stopped their men too and faint orders could be heard on the morning breeze from across the deadly bit of no mans land separating Monck’s men from Lumsden’s. The pikemen stood firm, their 18 foot pikes ready to march forward, the musketeers on both sides raised their guns to their shoulders, some men blowing on their cords which they’d kept dry in the atrociously wet summer days. “FIRE” came the order, screamed from the dry throats of officers and sergeants, hundred of serpentines fell on the frizzen pans, a puff of smoke from the pan, a gout of white smoke from the muzzle, and the death, and the screaming, began in earnest.

Each side fired and stepped forwards, every shot bringing them a metre closer to one another, the musketeer’s faces were black with powder burns before they got close to their enemy, on either side the advancing men had to step over the dead and dying, limbs torn away by the powerful musket shot, head shattered and men screaming in agony and pain. In a few short moments each man’s mouth had dried in excitement and fear, some wet themselves uncontrollably, many Englishmen who already had the flux were soiling their breeches, but they still fought on, for god was on their side, and if god was for us, the who could stand against us. And then it happened, both sides touched pike and lunged, the musketeers backed off from one another, drawing swords and daggers, throwing their useless heavy muskets away, the barrels far too hot to wield as clubs. It was now the push of pike, the horribly deadly embrace of two pincushions of men.

Oliver heard the crunch of the pikes, he could just about see the battle unfolding before him, Lambert and Monck were stuck fast, no reports had come from Overton, he could hear the screaming too, every now and then a word could be distinguished, “Mother, please, god, no” he almost said the words out loud. His men around him were all itching to get forwards and join the battle, they’d have to fight soon, of that there was no doubt, but Oliver didn’t want to go forwards until the decision was inevitable, Colonel Pride’s men were moving forwards, Cromwell saw them go and remembered Monck’s men moving in the same direction, god how many of them would die, “please god let this day go well”. He could see Prides men getting into order of battle, Musketeers had begun recoiling back and reloading, meaning they were firing at the front, the flags were still flying high above Monck and Pride’s Regiments, Lambert’s men still fought on, but could they win?

Strachan was holding his own against Lambert, Fleetwood and Whalley, reinforcements were coming to him and soon he’d overwhelm the enemy, the sun was beginning to rise now, the darkness before him was opening up, he could see an infantry battle raging to his left but he had his own fight to worry about, groups of Scottish Lancers and English Cavalry wheeled around, fired shots at one another, clashed for minutes then retired in good order, he was holding the enemy, with more horses he would push them back now. And then the sun crept over the hill behind him and bathed the approaching English infantry Regiment in its full light “dear god no” he whispered, for the English had a full Regiment of Infantry to support their Cavalry, and he had not. He knew at that moment what would happen, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Oliver saw the light cast down onto the battle raging before him and he smiled, the enemy could not reinforce their battle line because they could not manoeuvre before Pride’s Infantry struck home, quick witted as ever he remembered the 68th Psalm, “Now let God arise and his enemies be scattered”. His men around him smiled.

Some of Strachans men were fleeing already, the new recruits, replacements for the veterans deemed unfit for duty were mostly the first to run, though most who could read a battle knew this one was lost, The redcoated English infantry were scattering the Scottish cavalry, allowing the forces of Lambert, Fleetwood and Whalley to gather and strike. Lumsden saw it too, his men pressed by Monck now began to flee, every man on a horse bolted and soon the entire Scottish army was fleeing for its life from a relieved and vengeful English horde. In effect Cromwell’s plan had worked; he’d smashed the Scottish line and now didn’t need to flee himself.

XXX

It had rained for days, the dirt track roads were washing away beneath a grey sky, without doubt it was one of the worst Autumn’s any of them had ever known, they’d lost the battle and now god had turned the world upside down, each and every Scottish prisoner was shattered, exhausted, cold and wet. And still they marched. On blistered, bleeding filthy ragged feet they marched, stumbling ever onwards. No food, nothing to eat or drink in days, many men had fled in the night time, of the 10’000 taken prisoner maybe half had fled, but for the 5’000 remaining souls the march from Dunbar to Durham had been pitiless and cruel, the English had beaten men to death, Berwick and Newcastle had been blurs to the memory, pain and exhaustion, some of the locals had thrown loaves of bread to them, despite being the loathsome enemy from the north, many Scots had broke into tears as the kindness of some of the English had shone through the darkness of many others, at Berwick and Newcastle the prisoners had rushed forwards to drink from the dirty rivers Tweed and Tyne, bodies littered the roadsides for miles, the flux had become rampant, men simply defecating on the march, not bothering to stop and relieve themselves in a more natural way,

Durham’s Castle and Cathedral looked down upon the Scots as they entered the Castle walls, its black windows looked down onto them with accusing eyes, blaming each and every one of them for the wars of the past, the English guards sneered, cajoled and forced the Scots onwards towards the Cathedral, under the Lord-General’s orders this once holy place was now to be the Scots prison. 3’000 men shambled into the Cathedral, each gazing about in awe at their surroundings, many bloodied and weary men dropping down exhausted and sleeping on the cold hard floor, relieved to be out of the rain and hopeful of some food. They would awake to be disappointed.

“What do you have?” asked the guard, in one hand he held a rotten lump of bread, grey and mouldy. The young Scotsman licked his lips, anything was better than nothing, if he could barter food he wouldn’t die. Every few days the guards threw rotten bread into the area where the Scots were being held, already men had died of the flux, moaning in pain as it gripped their stomachs, voiding their bowels in their rags of clothes. “I’ve got a piece of silver, its not much” it may not have been much, but it was enough, the youth, barely a boy let alone a man, hid the food beneath his clothes and kept it for later, it was safer to eat in the darkness of the night than try during the day and have one of the older prisoners beat you and steal it. Food, any food, the men were now licking the morning dew from the walls for water, they had been locked up for months now, over six hundred were dead, more were dying, taken to the nearby castle to die in agony, rumour had it that the English took the poorly away and killed them, some even said they ate the bodies whilst a few others said that the food given to them by the English was made up from their dead comrades. Many went mad, incarcerated in the massive structure of the cathedral, the wood inside had by now been burned in small fires to keep the men warm, men, hardly that now, the shrivelled walking corpses more reminiscent of a scene of hell taken from an old church wall, bones showing beneath waxen skin, sores an cuts untreated, faeces plastered to the rags of clothing. It was never silent, the winter weather was harsh, everyone had a constant cold, men died shivering and wet in the nights, their bodies freezing solid in the coldness. Some had even broken into the vaults within the cathedral, one man sporting an ancient tabard in blue and yellow, the colours of the hated Neville family, long time nemesis of the lowland Scots, the man didn’t care, he was a fraction warmer. The bones of the long since dead burned on the fire, anything and everything which could give warmth to the prisoners was used. Rings torn from the vaults and graves were used to buy food from the guards.

After three months inside Durham Cathedral the remaining men were marched to the coast, they left behind a thousand dead in Durham, they were now being fed on a more regular basis, the weather was improving and they were moving. Again wild rumours spread among the men, “back to Scotland!” said many “Nay, it’ll be London and a hanging for sure” said some more, few were right. The ship stank, it lolled in the harbour with seagulls wailing above the depleted ranks of what was once a proud army, many men were practically naked, women leaned from windows and whistled as they trudged past heading towards the boats that would take them to their final destinations. They could not go back to Scotland, they would tell of the horrors of their incarceration, they would not go to London, it could incite a rebellion against Cromwell’s loathed tyrannical government. They would instead go to the West Indies as slaves, working until they died from fever, hardship or age. For many they never saw land again, too weak from the flux, too tired from the march, too emaciated from neglect. They died, their life light spluttered and passed like a candle in the rain.

XXX

I’ve wanted to write about this part of history for a long time now, though I dare say what I’ve written will never be listed among the literary greats it does serve its purpose. There are no monuments in the grounds of Durham Cathedral to the men who died there in the winter of 1650-51, their suffering and degradation is ignored. I wonder what the world would be like in the future if the holocaust was forgotten, if Hitler was eventually seen as a “great statesman” (As sadly Cromwell is today by some). History doesn’t change, it cannot be changed, I’ve taken liberty with Cromwell’s plans for Dunbar, liberty caused by historical opinion, nobody knows for sure what he planned, how he planned it. He was very lucky to win the battle, yet win he did, no amount of opinion can change that, just as no amount of opinion can change the aftermath of the battle, the forced marches, the death and misery heaped upon the Scottish rank and file. The end for so many men caught up in a power struggle between a select few who didn’t give a damn about them would have been horrible, the flux (Dysentery) would have been rampant, the weather, the openness of the Cathedral and the brutality of the guards and the levels that inmates would go to just to get food in their belly staggers me in its horror, for this is what my article is aiming at, horror, the most horrible aspect of all is that it’s the truth, it actually happened, and it is being forgotten about.

Marston Moor, and its place in paranormal history.

As the sun ebbed away from the skies above Marston Moor on the 2nd July 1644 dark clouds rolled across the landscape, a sure sign that bad weather was brewing, a day to end with the thunderclap of a summer storm, and the fate of a nation decided.

In all honesty I could write a million words to describe why England erupted into Civil War in 1642, and there are plenty of people who would disagree or fully agree with my views. Its causes are a hundredfold, its cost high and its gains perhaps even higher. The war was effectively fought in various regions, the South West, where two friends fought one another in a series of engagements, the midlands / south midlands, where the Kings main army was based in Oxford and supported by Wales, and the North, where the Kings main supporter, William Cavendish, the Earl of Newcastle (later Marquis) fought against the double act of father and son, Lord Ferdinando Fairfax and his son Sir Thomas Fairfax. Up until early 1644 the war in the north had gone well for the King, Newcastle had beaten the Fairfax duo, most notably at Adwalton Moor close to Bradford and had besieged the Parliamentarians in Hull. If the north could be conquered it could mean Newcastle bringing his men south and turning the tide of the war elsewhere, the Parliamentarians in turn needed a saviour in the north, and they found it in the form of an alliance with the Scottish. Promises were made by the leader of Parliament, John Pym, promises of money and that the Church of England would be run along the lines of the Scottish Presbyterian model Kirk, all of this was more of Pym’s lies however as the Parliamentarians never lived up to their promise, yet in early 1644 Scottish troops advanced southwards into the North-East. The Earl of Newcastle moved quickly, he did not have the manpower to defeat the Scots and hold the Parliamentarians inside Hull and so after retreating from the city of Newcastle to Durham, Cavendish decided to hold onto the largest of the North’s cities, York.

York was besieged by the combined Scottish Army under the First Earl of Levan, Alexander Leslie, Lord Fairfax’s Parliamentarian Army and another Parliamentarian Army under the Second Earl of Manchester, Edward Montagu. Inside York were the now Marquis of Newcastle’s veteran army as well as the York Garrison commanded by Sir Thomas Glemham, John Belasyse and Sir Henry Slingsby. There were a series of assaults made on York, most notably by the Scots and Manchester’s troops but both were driven off after very heavy fighting. King Charles was not about to let the city be lost, and with it his Northern Army and the War. In truth there was little he could do to prevent it, he sent his nephew, Prince Rupert of the Rhine to relieve the siege; he was probably the best General on either side during the conflict yet suffered from being on the losing side.

The letter which King Charles wrote to Rupert, ordering him to relieve York has been the cause of much debate, it is not clear if Charles wanted Rupert to fight the Allied army; that however is how Rupert read the letter. By the 26th June he had arrived at Skipton Castle, he had advanced through Lancashire in the hope of gaining troops from the large amount of Catholic’s in the North West, on the way his men massacred the garrison of Bolton after a delegation had been fired upon, in war at this time if a town or city did not surrender they were shown no mercy, yet it was still an act of wanton depravity. From Skipton Rupert went to relieve the siege by coming from the north, using Parliamentarian built bridges to cross some rivers. Rupert never entered York; he was too busy finding out where the enemy was, yet five different commanders now all faced the same question, should a battle be fought?

It was clear York had been relieved, the Allied army, camped on Marston Moor decided to move to Tadcaster where a good road network would bring reinforcements to them and allow them to flee if disaster struck. On the 2nd July much of the Parliamentarian army was well on its way to Tadcaster when Royalist Cavalry came to investigate their old positions in the vicinity of Long Marston. Immediately the Allied Army turned around to confront the Royalists, who in turn appeared on their side of Marston Moor in dribs and drabs, a regiment at a time. The last to arrive on the battlefield were the Scots for the Allies, and the men from York for the Royalists, these men had suffered during the siege and had gorged themselves on the food left by the fleeing Allied Army.

Battles in this period were really three separate battles, the Infantry took the centre, 2/3 of all Infantry carried Matchlock Muskets, the rest carried Pikes anywhere from 8 to 12’ long (some soldiers cut them down to make them lighter, they were the ones who died when coming to an enemy out of their reach). Infantry moved slow and purposefully towards one another, with pikes outstretched and ragged volleys of musket fire killing or wounding enemy troops. It is a myth to believe that when the push of pike came that men with Muskets turned their muskets around and used them as clubs, each Musketeer also carried a short sword, a far more lethal weapon in a battle than a lump of wood. On either wing (either side of the central Infantry formations) would be the Cavalry, another myth often presented on TV is that cavalry charged full speed into the enemy, in truth they trotted towards the enemy, keeping a strict formation in lines of men and horses, at the beginning of the war Rupert had trained his men to hold their fire (they were armed with long pistols and carbines) until they were on top of the enemy, everyone else fired from a distance then wheeled their horse to the back of the formation. By Marston Moor most Cavalry fought as Rupert’s did, Cromwell’s ironsides being the best on the Parliamentarian side.

Looking Northwards on a map of the battle would see the Allied Left Wing Cavalry headed by Cromwell, the Infantry in the Centre had no overall commander; each Regiment had its own leader, the Right Wing of Allied Cavalry led by Sir Thomas Fairfax. Opposite Fairfax on the Royalist left (looking South) was Lord Byron, the centre, like the Allies, was led by individual regimental leaders. The Right was taken by Lord Goring, Prince Rupert kept a body of reserve Cavalry, his own bodyguard of troops and veterans of a dozen battles and skirmishes. Alexander Leslie did the same with contingents of Scots who had been making their own way back to the battlefield. The Royalists soon discovered (if they had not already known) that they were drastically outnumbered, 18’000 men for the King, against a combined 27’000 strong Parlo-Scottish Army.

In effect it took so long for the Parliamentarian Foot to march back to Marston Moor and for Newcastle’s troops to arrive that it was already late in the day when Prince Rupert told William Cavendish that the battle would be fought on the morning of the 3rd. The Royalists Infantry had a long ditch to their front, a defensive position which they manned with a forlorn hope of Musketeers, at the end of the ditch was some flat ground and so they placed some artillery on that spot. It is unsure whether this artillery unit began firing at the Parliamentarian horsemen opposite, but what is known is that Oliver Cromwell ordered his Cavalry to attack. As his order went out the skies darkened, men looked to the heavens as large rain drops began padding onto the dry ground, a Musket needs a lit taper (Match-Cord, much like a shoe lace soaked in saltpetre so it burns) to be able to work, for it to fire the gunpowder and so shoot the Musket Ball. Rain spoiled all of that, it was not impossible to fire during wet weather, but it was very hard. Cromwell’s Cavalry crashed into the Artillerymen and Royalist Cavalry from Byron’s Command came to help their beleaguered comrades and soon both Royalist and Parliamentarian Cavalry were firing point blank at one another, often both sides resorting to sword fighting from horseback to decide the smaller battles inside the larger conflict. As all of this was beginning the Allied foot troops advanced, easily pushing the Royalist’s and their wet Muskets back to their parent Regiments. They had trouble getting through the ditch, which may have had hedges alongside it, out on the Allied Right though things had not gone well. Lord Goring had charged his horses forward, Fairfax’s cavalry did not last long enough to engage their enemy before they turned tail and ran, it has often been pointed out that Royalist Cavalry ALWAYS ran off after their beaten foes, at Marston Moor however Goring stopped many of his men from doing so, they wheeled round and organised a charged into the flank of the Allied Foot Regiments, if the Cavalry could panic the Allied Infantry then victory would be delivered to Rupert and the King. Lord Goring’s men advanced and came to the Allied Right hand Infantry, these men were not the fallible Parliamentarians however, they were Scotsmen, and instead of running and giving victory to the King they stood their ground and gave a brave death to any of Goring’s Cavalry foolish enough to advance against them.

By now Rupert and Cavendish had discovered that a battle was going on, for as the first shots had been fired lightning had forked the sky and thunder had rumbled through the moor. Rupert led his Reserve to the right where Byron was being beaten, but not by Cromwell. Early in the engagement a fellow Parliamentarian trooper had fired his pistol close to Cromwell’s cheek and the flash of gunpowder had burned his skin, Cromwell fled back to safety to have his “wound” treated. Alexander Leslie may well have seen Rupert’s banner rush to the flank and so he too sent Cavalry to that part of the Battlefield, Scottish Lancers (not armed with Pistols but 6 to 8’ foot lances) and more regular cavalry crashed into Rupert and Byron’s men just as they were getting the upper hand, this counterstroke proved to be decisive, Rupert and Byron’s Cavalry crumpled and began to flee back towards York through Wilstrop Wood, Rupert himself had hidden in a bean-field, Parliamentarian Cavalry troopers found his belongings, then murdered his pet dog, a hunting poodle named ‘boy’, which Parliamentarian Propaganda had claimed to be the devil.

Goring’s Cavalry could not flee to York for fear of running into the now victorious Allied Cavalry which was chasing Rupert, Goring instead fled to the south. Whilst all of this Cavalry action had been taking place the Infantry battle in the centre had slowly gone the Allied Army’s way, men began fleeing in small numbers, then whole Regiments turned tail and fled, one Regiment or Irishmen dressed in Green coats were caught in open order by Allied Cavalry in the region of Moor Lane, the Regiment was wiped out. The Marquis of Newcastle had brought his own Foot Regiments to the battle, comprising around seven separate below-strength Regiments, these men dressed in White Coats now stood alone, defeated, exhausted after weeks of siege inside York they now formed a defensive position inside an old walled sheep pen, known as White Sykes Close. There may have been as many as 300 men inside White Sykes Close; the Catholic members of the Regiment wore a large Red Cross patch on their Coats. No one knows who commanded this body of men; they could have fled, and like many Regiments could have survived. Instead they stood their ground, 300 men against almost 27’000 men. It was a miracle any of them survived, after numerous assaults by infantry and cavalry they still stood their ground, calls were made to surrender, returned with calls of victory, or death. Only 30 men, each badly wounded and unable to stand, survived the horrors of White Sykes Close.

The battle over Cromwell sent word that god had given him victory, thus many people believed (and sadly still do) that Marston Moor was Cromwell’s victory, it is not known if he returned to action after having his cheek burned early on, without the Scottish then Parliament would have been defeated, a fact forgotten, especially by Cromwell himself.

I have visited this battlefield many times, both on my own and with interested parties of people. I usually start a walk at the Sun Inn in Long Marston and walk down Marston Lane towards Tockwith, to the right is Marston Hall where Parliamentary officers were housed the night before the battle, it is said Cromwell himself haunts this place, though of course it could be, and more than likely is, a different Parliamentarian Officer who died in the fighting. Just beyond Marston Hall is the junction of Atterwith Lane, more on this later, next comes the Junction of Moor Lane, scene of the Irish Regiment’s disaster and also a place where ghostly soldiers have been seen many times in the past. Next to this is the Monument, where in 2006 I had my own strange encounter where I heard what I can only describe as someone running on gravel, I heard the heavy breathing and wheezing, as well as the rattle of various accoutrements which a soldier may have worn during the battle, I confess I was on my own and it was around 1:30 in the morning when this happened and it took me a good ten minutes to decide to look for an explanation, though I still found none. When walking the site I walk from the monument down Marston lane, on the right hand side is a hedge and beyond that would have been the ditch which proved to be a stumbling block to the Allied Infantrymen, I then turn right up Kendal Lane, it was here the fighting between Royalist and Parliamentarian horse started the battle. There is a public footpath on the right which takes me towards Wilstrop Wood, a very spooky place in the dead of night. Walking towards Wilstrop Wood along this pathway takes a walker past the Bean Field Rupert hid in. After being defeated Royalist Cavalry fled this way, aided by a young girl who opened a gate so they could pass through Wilstrop Wood, it is unsure how she died, some say she was trampled by accident by the Royalists, some say she was murdered by Parliamentarians, either way her ghost has been seen and heard screaming in this part of the battlefield. On through Wilstrop Wood brings you eventually to Atterwith Lane, a right turn here brings me to the main road once more, it is along this lane that Goring’s Cavalry advanced and beat off Fairfax, it is also midway along here that ghosts have been seen, mostly hiding in ditches or behind hedges, as the Royalists would have done so at the battles end. All over the battlefield men have been seen dressed as if still in battle, men and horses too have been seen around Cromwell’s Plump, which is a clump of tree’s opposite the Monument. If you’ve followed these directions and are still feeling fit then you may wish to find White Sykes Close, no one is sure of the exact location but in many guidebooks it is found if you walk up Moor Lane (next to the Monument) and turn left at the end.

It is thought 4’000 Royalists died in the fighting, which lasted less than an hour, perhaps as few as 300 Parlo-Scottish men died. After Marston Moor the North was lost, in truth though the Parliamentarians spent much effort and time defeating various strongholds in the North still loyal to King Charles, who in turn could never raise another Northern Army. Eventually a much depleted Royalist Army met its end at Naseby to a large Parliamentarian Army, by then the writing was on the wall, with the first marks being made in the mud, blood and carnage of Marston Moor. Men fought and died in these fields, their blood remains, their heroism and fates are recorded, regardless of their cause they deserve to be given credit for being the brave men we remember all soldiers to be, every year on November 11th.

Thank you for your time.

CJ Linton.

Old Bell Inn & D Lefferty & Sons, Derby.

The Old Bell Inn is one of the oldest pubs in town, dating back to the 1680’s it shows an older appearance due to its Tudor style timbering but these were additions done to the building in the early part of the 20th Century. There are many reported sightings of ghosts at the Old Bell, downstairs there is a Victorian Lady seen dressed in Blue, she stands quietly waiting to be served then when staff go anywhere near her she vanishes. Poltergeist activity has been reported downstairs too, with objects being moved or disappearing and reappearing days later. One unfortunate Barmaid was actually struck on the back of the head by a coat hanger as she left a certain room, she knew immediately it was paranormal because she was the last person to leave the room. Upstairs the Inn has its own ghost too, this is a serving girl who was supposedly killed by Jacobite supporters of Bonnie Prince Charlie when his army stayed in Derby for two days in December 1745, however local church documents do not record any deaths by foul means whilst the largely Scottish Army was billeted in the town, so this story may have been yet another Victorian fabrication designed to fit in with the sightings of a young serving girl, whoever she is and whatever age she comes from she has been seen by many people, in the 1930’s the Landlord’s infant son was in his room when he suddenly developed a fit of coughing, the Landlord raced to the bedroom and on opening the door he saw the shade of the young lady standing over the child, who it seemed liked the ladies presence for his coughing fit had stopped. Roughly twenty years later and the same room was used by another landlord as a nursery for his young child, the landlords wife was busy changing the child’s nappy one day when she had to leave for a brief second to get some nappy pins, as she returned to the room she too saw the ghost of the young lady, this time stooping over the child as if to pick the baby up, many now believe this is not a serving girl at all, but perhaps a nursery maid who was put in charge of a youngster who perhaps passed away whilst in her care, it seems that for any young child staying at the Bell Inn they have a guardian looking after them round the clock.

The public house currently known as D Lafferty and Sons has the reputation as being the most haunted place in Derby, a big reputation indeed. I say currently known because in recent years this pub has had its fair share of name changes, to anyone with an indulgent passion in the paranormal it is better known as the George Inn. This public house was originally constructed around 1693 at a time when the social standing of Derby was increasing; its use was as a coaching Inn where people travelling from all over the country would stop over for a nice warm bed and a hot meal. It has also been home to Derby’s own Militia named the Derby Blues, this unit of armed and trained men were formed just before Bonnie Prince Charlie came to town, and when news reached the Blues’ commander, the Duke of Devonshire, of the imminent arrival of the Jacobite army he gave the order that the “Derby Blues shall retire” and thus open warfare never came to the streets of Derby. The George has also seen its fair share of Royalty, though rarely has a British Monarch stayed here. In 1763 Prince Viktor Friedrich Von Halt-Benburg stayed at the Inn, as did the Duke of York and King Louis the Ninth of Hesse-Darmstadt in 1771. Workmen digging in the cellar in 1992 uncovered a grisly reminder of Derby’s more troubled times. A skull was uncovered, just a Skull, a few animal bones, decayed shoes and bits of leather, naturally everyone has their own belief as to who this skull belonged to and why it was in the cellar. No one knows for sure, the Skull dates back many centuries and is a female skull, yet that is all that is truly known about this grisly find. Because the George stands on Iron Gate and Sadler Gate I believe the remains come from a Viking “midden”, which is essentially a hole in the ground where household rubbish would be dumped. Vikings named their street’s Gata, where we get Gate from, though not known for sure this is my opinion. The main haunting in the George itself is of a man dressed in a blue coat of the 18th century fashion, perhaps the Duke of Devonshire making the sad decision to run away rather than fight, this ghost has been seen many times and has also been blamed for poltergeist activity within the building, crockery in the Kitchen has been seen flying through the air, only to land on the floor without a scratch. As frightening as the ground floor is in the George it is nothing when compared to the level of poltergeist activity within the refurbished cellars where metal buckets and plastic stoppers for beer kegs have been thrown at people working down there in the recent past. Yet what frightens the staff most of all are the groans and moans of a dying man which is heard within the cellar and sends an icy chill through the people who hear it. Over the years the George has had many different uses, even a dentist and a stop-off for a corpse on his way to burial.

Just a taste of a new book i'm writing on the various places around the country known as our "Ghost Capitals".

CJ Linton.

Tredegar House

Tredegar House stands today as an impressive late 17th century building, both the building and the grounds cover around 90 acres of land and tell the history of this part of Britain for many centuries, but mainly for only one family, the Morgan’s.

For five hundred years the Morgan family lived at Tredegar House, obviously their first home would have been a much different affair than the grand manor home we see today. In 1402 Llewellyn ap Morgan held the land and had a house built on the site, this time period, and indeed this year of 1402 was during the period of the Welsh uprisings headed by Owain Glyn Dwr (Owain Glyndŵr) and as a result of this the English passed a series of laws against Welsh people, known as the Welsh Penal Laws. This forbade welshmen from holding senior official titles, the bearing of arms or buying Property in England. Education of Welsh children was forbidden as well as people being allowed to gather for public assembelies, these rules applied to Englishmen who married Welshwomen too. Overall they were designed to stop the Welsh from gathering together and heading off to give the local English lord a bloody nose. It is debatable if this system worked or even if it was implemented to its fullest extent, the laws were ended in 1535-42 by the Laws in Wales Acts. However this highlights the question, were the Morgan’s Welsh?

The answer is… probably, it is thought the Morgan heritage actually goes back as far as 1089 when Bledri, third son of Cadifor Fawr Lord of Cil-Sant, was on good terms with the Norman conquererors of England. They in turn gave Bledri lands in Monmouthshire, where his name appears as one of many witnesses to a church grant to Bassaleg of Glastonbury. So where does the Morgan name come in? Well sixth in line from Bledri is Llywellyn ab Ifor who marries the sole daughter and heir of Sir Morgan ap Maredydd and their children inherit the lands of their grandfather, of which Tredegar is named.

The Morgan family seem to have kept themselves to themselves during the turbulent times of the Welsh Revolts, in fact despite laws preventing Welshmen from doing so it seems the Morgans took part in political goings on in this period, Llywelyn ap Morgan himself sat on a jury in this time period. Llywelyn passed on Tredegar to his son Jevan, who in turn gave tredegar to his son John, known in welsh as “Y Marchog Tew”. He is remembered in a bard written in 1460, this story / poem tells of his trip to Jerusalem where we was created a Knight of the Holy Sepulchure. Sir John came home to once more find the land in trouble, for it was the time of the Wars of the Roses and although it seems his family had always tried to stay on the fence Sir John Morgan instead fervently supported one side, or rather one man. Luckily for the Morgans that man was Henry ap Tudor who won at Bosworth (with Morgans help) and went on to create the Tudor dynasty. Sir John Morgan, despite going to Jerusalem and fighting in the Wars of the Roses still found time to father ten children! His eldest, Sir John Morgan was knighted after the Battle of Blackheath. The lands and house of Tedegar passed from father to son and some of these men lived truly remarkable lives and held various Welsh titles and estates, from Sherrifs to Sea Captains. In fact one Morgan, Miles Morgan, married Catherine Morgan, a relative of his and died when his ship, the Red Lion, sunk in a colonizing expedition to the America’s in 1578. When Miles’ ship went down he had no heir, but in his will (written before he left) he gave the lands of Tredegar to his brother in law Thomas Morgan, he was both Sheriff of Monmouthshire and a member of parliament, as was his son, who in 1603 was knighted Sir William Morgan. Again a Morgan found himself in a land beset by civil war, the Morgans this time chose the wrong side and opted to support the King in his fight with Parliament.

Or did they? King Charles stayed at Tredegar on the 16th and 17th July 1645, no doubt he was in much remorse for his main army in England had been destroyed at Naseby in June, however at this time there was still hope for Charles as in Scotland the Royalists there, under Montrose, had fought well at the battle of Alford in Aberdeenshire. If Montrose could come south then Charles would still have an army in the field to perhaps salvage victory from defeat, in the end Montrose’s men were defeated in August at Philliphaugh and the war was truly lost. But what part did any Morgan play in this, well in the aftermath of Naseby people within the Royalist army began to look for reasons for their defeat, one of these scapegoats were the Morgans who were branded as “Hinderers” to the Kings cause, both Sir William Morgan and his son-in-law Sir Trevor Williams were arrested on the 11th September by orders of the King. It was Charles however who lost his head before anything could become of Sir William and so Sir William Morgan was reinstated as MP for Monmouthshire in 1654, his lands and title were passed to his eldest son by his first marriage, Thomas Morgan MP passed on to his third son his position as MP, also named William Morgan. There was also a Sir Anthony Morgan of Kilfigin who was not allowed his lands back post civil war because he was a “Papist delinquent”. Sir Anthony was a son of Sir William, but by his second wife, where as Thomas and William came from his first wife.

Thomas was succeeded by his eldest son William, who married his first cousin Blanche Morgan (do these people have three ears?) Next in line was another Thomas Morgan, who gave Tredegar to his brother John when he died without an heir, He was appointed custos rotulorum for Monmouthshire in 1700 and Lord Lieutenant of Brecknock and Monmouthshire in 1715 . He was a strong supporter of the Whigs and represented Monmouthshire in Parliament from 1701 till his death. In the late 1600’s and early 1700’s the reign of Britain was taken from James II to William of Orange and his wife Mary. In other words from a Catholic family, to a Protestant one. John Morgan, who held Tredegar at this time, amassed a fortune and was known as “the merchant” for his trading empire, with these funds he rebuilt Tredegar House from its fifteenth century base to the house we can still see today, as well as the house there are stables and an orangery, this was a place where exotic citrus fruits could be housed during winter, a little like putting that exotic palm fern into a modern day greenhouse today.

Thomas Morgan passed on his estate and fortune to his son William Morgan who was MP for Monmouthshire, his brothers had died before him and as he had no children the Tredegar lands went to his uncle, Thomas Morgan of Rhiwpera (an estate bought by Thomas “the merchant” Morgan). Thomas Morgan of Rhiwpera was also known as “The general” and was MP for the Borough of Brecon. His eldest son was also named Thomas Morgan, this time with the nickname Thomas “the Younger”. This Thomas was also an MP, firstly for Brecon and then for Monmouthshire. Devoting his life to politics meant that Thomas never took a wife and so he left everything to his brother Charles Morgan of Dderw who also took up positions at parliament for both Brecon and Brecknock. Charles lived as his elder brother did and died without an heir, therefore the estate of Tredegar (among other estates) passed to the third brother and son of “the General”, John Morgan. John Morgan’s right to being MP for Monmouthshire was at first contested by a “nabob”, Valentine Morris of Peircefield. Morgan won and became the MP for Monmouthshire. For a brief period the Morgan line died out as after John Morgan the line of succession passed through his elder daughter Jane, she had married Charles Gould. This Charles Gould held very prominent positions within the government of Britain, including being MP for Brecon.

Charles Gould was knighted and given a baronet in 1779, the day after he changed his name to Charles Morgan, thus re-establishing the Morgan name in the region and country at large. Charles and Jane passed on their wealth and estates to their eldest son, also named Charles; he in turn passed on everything to his eldest son, again another Charles Morgan. This Charles was famed for his liberal views and in protecting his agricultural workers in the Brecon and Monmouthshire regions; he was the first Baron of Tredegar. This Charles had three sons and split the estates between all three, his first son Charles was MP for Brecon, his second son Godfrey became Baron and Viscount of Tredegar whilst his third son Frederick took control of Rhiwpera Castle. Godfrey and Frederick, unable to enter parliament as their elder brother had took to the military to better themselves. Both fought during the Crimean War with Godfrey being commissioned as Captain in the 17th Lancers, a Regiment involved in the “Charge of the Light Brigade” episode of the battle of Balaclava. Godfrey passed on Tredegar to his nephew (after dying unmarried in 1913) Courtenay Morgan. Courtenay lost the Vicountancy when his uncle died but he still became Baron Tredegar, his son however took the Tredegar title and became Viscount F.C Morgan in 1926. This Morgan in turn passed on Tredegar to his only son, Evan Morgan who lived until 1949.

After the death of Evan Morgan the lands of Tredegar never had a Morgan in control again, a sad end to a long and illustrious succession. Tredegar house became a school for around 20 years before being taken over by Newport County Council who still hold reign over the property today.

Ghosts of course abound in this old house, of course not only would the Morgan family call Tredegar home but also the army of servants would too. Up in the attic, where many servants would sleep, the spirit of a Victorian or Edwardian period man has been sensed by mediums, he is said to be annoyed at people being in the area. Within the attic is the Architects office where there are stories of a haunted hat-stand. A man named Vernon Morgan worked there in the 1980’s, one day he placed his coat on the hat stand, at which point his co-worker told him it was a waste of time as it would fall off, surely enough the next time either of them looked at the stand Vernon’s coat was indeed on the floor. The hat stand was moved to a smoking room further below and the strange phenomena stopped, presumably whatever was throwing coats about is still in the office.

Whilst as a school a pupil reported being moved in his bed (again as a boarder his bed was in the attic area). He claims to have seen a man in waistcoat and round glasses standing over him whilst he was trying to sleep. Other parts of Tredegar are haunted too, namely the Bells passage and Family Dining room are both haunted by a little girl in a white dress, she has been seen and sensed in both these areas many times, in fact this little girl has touched people, pulled on fingers and peoples dresses though it may only be women she is capable of communicating with in such ways. In the corridor leading to the bachelors staircase people have reported hearing their names, or other words called out. Despite the name of the location within the building the voice has been reported as that of a lady, and not as you might presume that of an inebriated young bachelor dragging himself from the billiard room to his bed. A woman has been seen dressed in white here too, but not for around 90 years.

Rumour has it the woman in white could be named Gwyneth Erica Morgan, sister of Evan Morgan the last Morgan in possession of Tredegar. Gwyneth lived in London in the 1920’s and one evening simply left her home and was not seen for some months, she finally reappeared floating dead near Lime House Dock. Many stories abound as to how and why she met her death, it is thought her pockets were full of stones and she had committed suicide. It is believed she haunted Tredegar because her father (Courtenay) refused to bring her body home and bury it at Bassaleg, the ancestral family burial grounds. Suicide at this period of history was worse than Murder and Courtenay could not forgive his daughter for this shame she had supposedly brought on the Morgan family.

It is also said the ghost of John Morgan “the Merchant” haunts his old bedchamber, strange goings on have been reported here, especially when it comes to camera batteries (in fact this happens in other parts of the house too). One medium on a tour of the location suddenly developed a limp, complained of a bad back and went blind in one eye. Only one member of staff knew that these symptoms were also suffered by John Morgan some 300 years previously and the only place this information was kept was in a box at the Wales National Library.

So why do so many ghosts call Tredegar home? Obviously it’s a very old building with lots of occupation, both in its own walls and on the site in general. However it is believed by some that when people practice the occult it draws spirits into locations, and it is this reason which may point to Tredegar’s supernatural goings on. The last Morgan in control of Tredegar, Evan Morgan, was a keen practitioner in the occult, during the late Victorian age all the way to the late 1940’s people living in stately homes would often attempt séances after the grand dinner parties, usually more for their entertainment than any actual attempt at contacting the dead. Evan Morgan however was different, he took the séances to a whole new level and even had his own “magic room”, this meant a room full of curiosities such as hairy fish or skeletons of mermaids, all fake of course, in fact many people wrote in their own diaries about visiting Tredegar and being part of Evan’s strange occult practices.

Aleister Crowley, probably the best known practioner in the occult at this time period described his visit to Tredegar in his own journal, an excerpt of which states the house had “the largest and best equipped magic room that I have ever seen”, praise from Caesar indeed! Occult images and adornments were said to have festooned the entire house and upon Evan’s death they were all taken out by a loyal footman and buried in the grounds somewhere, just like the exact location of Evan’s magic room the place where these are buried is a mystery.

In fact Tredegar is just that itself, a massive house of mystery, history and ghosts.

Thank you for your time.

CJ Linton.

Ghosts beneath the waves…

If someone said to you “tell me of a haunted location” you may know of a few castles, manor houses or pub’s which have ghostly tales attached to them, ghosts it seems like dry land, or do they? If ghosts exist in places they have lived, loved, fought or died then why not at the bottom of the sea on the endless number of shipwrecks found in every sea and ocean. Judging from the varied reports from around the world it may seem to hold true that ghosts do indeed haunt vessels where ever they are, be it the Endeavour birthed at Dundee, what remains of the Mary Rose in Portsmouth, or even the many wrecks within the Chuuk Atoll in Micronesia. The Battle of Truk is something I have covered previously for a documentary and so I know much of the operations and the history of the Island, including the local (Trukese) beliefs in spirituality, essentially they believe everyone has two souls, one of which is kind, benevolent and good, the other is not, the good is seen as a mans reflection, the bad is his shadow. In Anthropologist Ward Goodenough’s 1963 book on Micronesian Spiritualism he states about the people of Truk that “a soul may… possess someone and thereby become a spirit active in human affairs.” Essentially a person can be good or bad because his good or bad soul is possessing him to be so.

However a Trukese spirit medium can sever this possession by eating preserved breadfruit, which apparently the soul’s spirits find repugnant. The German Capuchin Laurentius Bolling also wrote of the exact same practice in 1927. He also wrote of a ghost story before the events of February 1944, it tells of a man from Tol Island marrying a woman from Moen Island (Tol and Moen being two of the Atolls many Islands), because of the tribal warfare the young men of Moen didn’t like this so they killed him. He appeared before his own islanders, and his wife, and told them of his murder, it is said that, “As the sun arose in the morning sky, his spirit drifted on the wind until he had vanished”.

Chuuk Atoll today is a pleasant place, almost an island paradise; sandy shores, palm tree’s and the warm waters of the Pacific Ocean greet many visitors to the Islands. Today we call if Chuuk, in the 1940’s it was called Truk (Chuuk being the Trukese word for Mountain). From 1942 to 1944 it was the headquarters of the Japanese Combined Fleet, within the atoll hundreds of ships came and went with supplies and troops, it was a very important place for the Japanese for they could reinforce other pacific islands which were under attack by the Allies, The Japanese believed Truk to be too heavily defended for the Allies to attack. In February 1944 the American’s launched Operation Hailstone to prove the Japanese wrong, to the Japanese this became known as トラック島空襲 Torakku-tō Kūshū, which means “the Airstrike on Truk Island. Vice Admiral Marc A. Mitscher had at his disposal Task Force 58, comprising many different naval assets, this was no invasion, this was to be an assault to destroy Truk Island, its infrastucture, its operations, and its defenders. Task Force 58 had as its aerial spearhead the carriers Enterprise, Yorktown, Essex, Intrepid and Bunker Hill, supported by the smaller carriers Bellau Wood, Cowpens, Cabot and Monterey. In total close to 600 aircraft to assault Truk where the Japanese had Cruisers, Destroyers, many transports and around 350 aircraft.

The attack lasted two days over 17th and 18th February 1944 and consisted of air assaults from the carriers as well as bombardments by the heavier battleships of Task Force 58. Japanese losses were devastating, in total 47 vessels (including 3 Cruisers and 4 Destroyers) were sunk inside or just outside the Atoll. The Japanese also lost 270 aircraft, most destroyed on the ground or shot down by better trained and better equipped US Navy and Marine pilots (it had been the other way round earlier in the war). The Americans lost just 40 people killed, 25 aircraft destroyed and no ships (though a battleship and an aircraft carrier were damaged just prior to the assault). A second raid in April 1944 destroyed what the first raid had missed. It wasn’t until the 2nd September 1945 that the Japanese surrendered Truk Island to officers from the USS Portland. It is said the Japanese left on Truk were close to starvation by their surrender, as Truk had been a Japanese possesion before the war there were some civilians who called it home too, many of them native Trukese, it wasn’t until late 1947 that American troops and sailors were allowed to go into the same areas as the Japanese and Trukese because of the hatred which they still felt towards the American personnel.

Many visitors come to dive the plethora of wrecks found in the vicinity, many people have reported seeing men standing on the decks of the ships, some manning now corroded anti-aircraft guns, some seen pointing as if to the sky. Some have reported hearing engine sounds from some of the ships or the sounds of screaming and shouting. It is possible that there is a natural explanation for all of this, and the many similar reports from wreck around the world. Nitrogen Narcosis is something which occurs on a regular basis when scuba diving, it is similar to being drunk on alchohol and can make people feel a variety of emotions from anxious to deeply at peace. In actual fact it follows the “Martini Law” of diving, that for every 10m down a person goes is the equivalent of drinking one Martini (seriously).

There are many siimilar stories from all over the world with regards underwater apparitions, for example beneath Lake Superior in the Great Lakes of North America lies the Emporer, an Iron ore transport Steamship which sunk in 1947 taking 12 men to their watery graves, divers here have seen a man lying in his bunk, another man in the engine room (where a body was recovered in the 1970’s) as well as the noise of engines and voices.I think I’ll leave the strangest story last, In 2007 holiday goers diving from the Wind Dancer close to Grenada were joined by a felow scuba diver, all the divers from the cruise ship had the same gear on, their visitor wore a white tee-shirt and had different dive gear to them, they thought nothing of it at the time, they were diving a shipwreck which was well known. When they came to the surface the three people (of a group of around twelve) who had seen the man in the tee-shirt were talking about it when they noticed that their fellow diver had come with them, they then noticed the only boat was their own and the only way onto the boat was the way they had come. The men (Doctors) were adamant they saw a man in a white tee-shirt diving with them, despite none of the others seeing him, even the dive co-ordinator said it would be impossible for someone to swim from shore to the wreck site. It remains a mystery what, or who these people saw.

Thank you for your time.

CJ Linton.

Fordham Universities Haunted History.

The Bronx, New York City, New York State. A place more associated with Italian-American gangsters or the legendary films Ghostbusters 1 and 2. Yet in one of the greenest areas of the Big Apple lies Fordham University, its own history goes back to 1841, yet it was built on top of much older buildings, one being Rose Hill Manor House where Robert Watts built his home, he was a Scotsman who had made his fortune as a merchant in New York. The other building was a hospital, a place which conjures up images of dark corridors, a smell of carbolic, and a sense of death. Right on top of these two buildings was built a magnificent University, its gothic architecture and cobbled roadways have featured on many films, the perfect setting for mysterious goings on, and scary deeds. Yet what many fail to realise is that Fordham University has no need of Hollywood Spirits, for it has plenty of its own ghost stories to keep many a student awake in the dead of night.

Fordham University was so named in 1907, before that it was named St. Johns College, Fordham being adopted when the College grew to become a University, its name is taken from the area of the Bronx where it is thought a ford crossed the Bronx River close by (Ford near the Hamlet) though it may be a reference to an Anglican priest named Rev. John Fordham, no one is too sure. In many ways Fordham is like every other University the world over, it is a place of frantic activity, students busying themselves with various forms of social activity, whether its studying a specific subject, playing a certain sport, playing a set role in a play, or drunkenly dancing badly with the a member of the opposite sex. What all of this activity, all of this emotion, and all of this passion may give birth to is still unknown, it is said that where a man or woman has walked, a spirit will call it home. In a University where hundreds of thousands of people have walked, imagine the possibilities for Paranormal Activity. Fordham University does not disappoint!

At first the University was for Jesuit’s to study, one man synonymous with ghostly tales is Edgar Allan Poe, he was a good friend to many of the first Jesuit students, it is claimed when he wrote of “The Bells” in 1849 he was referring to the bells of Fordham. Keating Hall is an impressive structure, built in the gothic style from the outside it looks imposing and yes, it looks haunted. Inside it is no different, on the First Floor of Keating Hall there are some seating area’s where students can relax, many do so, and some do not. In the same area are relics of the history of the University, belongings of Jesuit Students from over 100 years ago are kept on display, could it be these holy men who cause people to feel uneasy, as if being watched by unseen eyes, cold spots are often felt here too, perhaps most un-nerving of all are the dark shapes, almost like shadows, which have been seen fleetingly in this area. By no means is spirit activity held in this one place, on the Third Floor people walking have felt a cold hand placed on their shoulder, whilst some have reported seeing a ghost manifest in the “Blue Room”. The Auditorium of Keating Hall has a staircase to the rear of it, actors on stage have heard a crashing sound from this staircase, on rushing to the scene they find a chair at the bottom, upon reaching the top of the stairs they find no one is there to have thrown the furniture down the staircase, again cold spots have been felt in this area, as well as on stage. Martyrs Court of Keating Hall houses students, in a shower room a blonde woman has been seen, she does not move, does not respond to the shocked onlookers, she simply stares straight ahead and then vanishes, another ghost has been seen on this level, a man this time seen walking past doorways, only to disappear if anyone takes a look outside to see who it was. Perhaps most un- settling of all is the basement, it is believed to be on the site of the morgue of the older hospital building, it now houses books and seating areas. In the early 70’s a security guard stopped to rest his tired feet, as he sat in a chair rubbing his sore arches he heard the door slam shut, he knew he was alone, it could have been a draft, but then chairs started to move, they too being slammed into the walls, pushed by some unknown force. The Security Guard screamed and fled, and never returned to his job, it is even said he left his shoes where he had taken them off.

Keating Hall is not the only location at Fordham which is haunted, far from it, Finlay Hall was originally a medical school, where students would dissect cadavers, in recent past it has changed to house students for other colleges found in the University. Many of those students have woken at night with the horrible feeling of someone gripping their throat with ice cold hands. In O’Hare Hall a worker during construction had an accident and died, he is said to continue hammering on walls in the dead of night. In Hughes Hall locked doors have been seen to open on their own with force, a little boy has also been seen and heard in this area, particularly on the upper floors of the building. Not only is the Auditorium in Keating Hall haunted, but also the Collins Auditorium is haunted too, here a ghost has been seen in the balcony above the stage, whilst on stage actors have been frightened by hearing whispering voices as they work, on more than one occasion the ubiquitous cold spot has been experienced. The Administration Building is possibly the oldest on site; it is of course haunted, this time only by a smell of cigar smoke which has been experienced on numerous occasions.

Fordham University is undoubtedly one of the most haunted locations in the world; with thousands of people calling it home it is no doubt that ghosts will do so too, perhaps because like many people, University was the best time of their lives.

Thank you for your time.

CJ Linton.

The Battle of Shrewsbury 1403

Henry, the fourth King of England to bear that name was shaking, sweat dripped from his nose and streamed down his cheeks, his mouth scorched dry had clusters of salty sticky residue at its corners. Either side of him stood hundreds of men bearing the same weight of armour and the same sense of foreboding, and dread, his left hand resting on the top of his sword, held to his side by a loop of leather, its scabbard left behind in his baggage as it was known men had tangled them between their legs in the heat of battle, and to slip onto your face in the midst of the killing ground was one of the worst things that could happen. His flag fluttered just behind him, its whip crack making him turn to see the men beside him, all staring ahead, some bent at the knee making prayers to god for them to live this day. Henry had already said his prayers, not just for his own life, liberty and victory, but also for his son, named Henry too, who commanded a section of troops this day, separate from his father. He licked his lips and looked ahead, before him, up a slight rise in the ground, stood an army, a force of Englishmen come to remove him from his crown, a crown he had usurped in the past, a crown which, if he could speak the truth openly, had been nothing but a burden to him.

The men to his fore were once friends, the Percy family, lords of Northumbria, had long been allies of the Bolingbroke’s, so much so that Henry had been marching to assist the Percy’s in their defence of the north from the Scot’s. Then days before news had reached Henry that Percy was marching south west to Wales, to link up with another rebel, Owein Glyn Dwr, and march on London. Henry had left his son to guard this area of land while he moved northwards, now both Henry senior and junior were poised, ready to begin the battle, the test to the House of Bolingbroke, a test of strength, a test of wits, and a test of arms.

Taking a swig from a sack of wine to quench his thirst he looked round for a young page boy, handing the wine to him he smiled and the child smiled back. Henry drew his sword and men now looked to him, with one fluid motion he pointed the blade to his enemy battle line and then faltered, he did not want to attack, his men would have to move uphill into a force of not French, Welsh or Scottish, but Englishmen, armed as his men were, many with war bows, the same which had devastated the French at Crecy. Henry knew of their danger and yet he too had bowmen, whose arrows could penetrate six inches of hard wood, yet move he would have to, Glyn Dwr was no where in sight, Henry could not allow his enemies to join forces, he had to beat them one at a time. Still with his sword pointed ahead he raised his voice skywards and shouted “forwards!"

The Battle of Shrewsbury had begun.

The reasons for the Battle of Shrewsbury are in fact quite simple. You never forget who your friends are. When Henry Bolingbroke took the throne he did so with the help of many lords of England, lords who gave him financial aid, or even fought for him. One such family was the Percy family, hereditary lords of Northumbria, where for centuries they defended that part of the country against invading Scottish armies. Which in fact is a simple and slightly wrong way to term their defence of Northern England, what usually happened was that a Scottish army would invade; the lords of the North (not just the Percy’s) would hide in Newcastle, Bamburgh or some other such fortified place. The Scots would raid and pillage (sometimes as far south as Bradford) and then head back home, loaded down with as much loot as possible, it was then the lords of the North would decide to act, either blocking the Scots road home (meaning the Scots would have to fight their way home) or simply falling on the rear of the fleeing Scottish troops. In the majority of battles fought in the north the English won and the lords pocketed all of the plunder taken by the Scots, meaning the Percy’s (as well as others) became very rich, money of course provides influence in national matters which Henry Bolingbroke used to his full advantage to turn the tables on King Richard II, a King who was hated by many nobles of the land.

In 1387 Henry Bolingbroke and Thomas of Gloucester (uncle to both Bolingbroke and Richard II) rebelled against Richard, but things for the rebels did not go well, the two nobles had created a group of dissatisfied barons, named the Lords Appellant, Richard had Gloucester murdered and Henry banished to France, Henry spent his time in France making friends back in England, in 1399 Richard II was in Ireland putting down another rebellion, Henry now came across the channel and met Richard near Pontefract, Henry’s forces won the day and the crown passed to Henry Bolingbroke of the House of Lancaster. Richard II was imprisoned, and then murdered in Pontefract Castle, leaving Henry Bolingbroke of the house of Lancaster, Grandson of Edward III and cousin to Richard II as King of England and Ireland.

By 1403 Henry had many troubles. Owein Glyn Dwr’s rebellion had previously met with some success and defeated English armies, it was rumoured the Scots would invade England and so Henry moved north to support the Percy’s in their defence of the north, whilst this was occurring the Percy family had finally become dissatisfied with their new King, they believed they had helped him to his throne and in doing so should have been given new lands in Cumberland, this had not happened and so Thomas Percy, Earl of Worcester (and other leading members of the family) publicly renounced the King, charging him with perjury, claiming they did not know he would take the crown but had supported him in his bid to reclaim his estates, whether it is true or not is not really known, but what happened is fact, and that is that Henry “Hotspur” Percy in 1403 marched from Northumbria to Worcester (where his uncle Thomas Percy held land as the Earl). At first Hotspur could only gather 200 men to his side, then more followed and a trickle turned to a flood in Cheshire (still loyal to Richard II and had provided him with a bodyguard of archers). Hotspur wished to join forces with Owain Glyn Dwr, who at the time may have not even known Hotspur’s plans, however most historians agree that he would have joined Hotspur had he not been held up by floods and enemy troops in Carmarthenshire. As soon as the King heard of these events he moved from Burton-on-Trent towards his son, Henry, Prince of Wale’s who was guarding the Welsh Border against Glyn Dwr.

Both sides manoeuvred into position on the 21st July 1403, the King had around ten to twelve thousand men though the rebels while Hotspur had eight to ten thousand men, all veterans of border warfare or fighting in France, each side also contained the most feared weapon on a medieval battlefield, large numbers of large men wielding large bows, today we called them long bows, or war bows, and yet in the period they were simply known as bows. When placed together in large numbers bowmen could win a battle, Shrewsbury would be the first time each side had large amounts of these troops, and the results would be devastating. Local priests and even the Abbot of Shrewsbury tried to persuade both sides to back down, it was no use, rebellion had to be stamped out.

The deadly hail fell amongst the Kings troops, each man now had his visor down to protect his face and yet here and there a man went down with an arrow shaft piercing his plate armour or finding a space to plunge into the man causing flesh to be torn open and bones to be shattered, the King dared not pause to look left and right but he could see in his peripheral vision men fall down, some others stopped to help their fellows but they too were battered by the force of iron tipped rain, and rain it was, a man didn’t walk into the arrow storm, he had to lean into it as if it were hail on a cold wintry morning, just behind the King the bearer of his banner cursed as another arrow bounced off his plate, the force enough to stop him in his tracks, wielding the banner was difficult in armour, almost impossible now it was stuck with a dozen arrows. The Kings men trudged on, not only hit by the force of arrows but held up by the arrows beneath their feet, protruding from the ground and causing one or two to stumble and fall. The tightly packed group of men in heavy armour had almost reached the enemy line and now they could see more easily their foe, men looked for the banner of Hotspur whilst the rebels looked for the Kings banner, to capture a noble in battle was to receive a large ransom, some men had built castles and estates on the ransom of a wealthy noble, or even better, a King of England. The deadly rain not only fell on the armoured knights and men at arms but also on the archers themselves, hundreds died as they loosed arrows on their counterparts, arrows clashing in mid-air wheeled over and over in the bright sun lit sky, men screamed as they were struck by arrows, men without armour struggling to grasp the arrows sticking in them, their hands slick with their own blood trying in vain to break the wooden shafts, a priest tried to pull wounded men from the field to attend to him, other holy men said prayers for the dead and dying while young boys darted too and fro brining fresh sheaves of arrows to the archers, or pulling on their fathers and elder brothers bodies, already dead, already lost.

The Arrows stopped and Henry blinked sweat from his eyes, no man raised his visor, despite the heat, fearful of an arrow in the face. The King now looked around, plenty of men had made it through the arrows and were now shuffling into some sort of order so their attack could hit the rebel line and force their foe backwards. Henry’s banner, with the King beside it was in the centre, the rebels looked to have lost men too for on the ground were bodies, being pushed and kicked forwards to impede the Kings attack. A man yelled towards the back and more men picked up the call, “For Henry and England” shouted the Kings men, “A Hotspur, a Hotspur” cried the rebels as the first of the Kings men reached the rebel line.

The Battle of Shrewsbury was fought like many battles of the period, a simple slugging match between armoured knights who before they could get to grips with the enemy had to get through a storm of arrows, in battles between the Scots and English the Scots had suffered horrendously, sometimes even not making it to the English men. The French too had tried too beat the English with armoured cavalry and men on foot, all to no avail as the dreaded bowmen had killed and disordered any attack coming. The only thing different at Shrewsbury was that both sides had significant amounts of bowmen, and as in most battles the side who attacked first lost a lot of men. King Henry’s men had to attack up a slight rise, he had split his forces into three “battles”, this is where we get the military unit of Battalion from. It is though the King commanded the lead Vanguard Battle whilst Prince Henry commanded the second Rearguard Battle, a third was led by Stafford though thi smay have been a large force of archers. Hotspurs forces were also split into two or three Battles, with Hotspur in command of the Van and his uncle Thomas Percy Earl of Worcester commanded the Rear, the rebels however, defedning a rise in the ground, where drawn up in full battle formation, that is to say one large block of men. Also fighting for the Percy family was the Scottish Earl of Douglas, he had been captured by the Percy's at the battle of Homildon Hill, losing an eye in the process, he had decided to fight for the Percy's, perhaps to gain his freedom, he did gain his freedom when captured, though he lost on of his testicles during the Battle of Shrewsbury, a high price to pay.

Henry’s Battle struggled up a slight rise in the ground to attack the enemy army, taking heavy casualties from arrows they still managed to get to grips with their foes. Single combat was extremely rare in Medieval combat, no doubt you’ll have seen Braveheart where its all confusion and both sides mixed together, in fact it was more of a Rugby match, two lines of men pushing and prodding at one another, not wanting to leave the safety of their comrades next to them, men died, but not on a truly massive scale, it was when one side broke and ran that the slaughter came, men cannot defend a sword thrust to the back when they are running. In the end the pressure was too much for the Kings men, the Percy’s battles held the high ground and took the full force of the Kings assault, it looked like the King would lose his crown.

Prince Henry could see his fathers banner waver and falter up ahead, he struggled in his own armour as arrows began to fall amongst his own men, at first the rebel bowmen had targeted his fathers battle, a tactic which had worked as men now turned and fled from their foes, the Prince could not bear it, his men had not yet reached the enemy line, up ahead he could see banners he knew, men standing beneath them who he had met, some even played with as boys in France. More men now began to leave his fathers battle, he knew he had to do something, he knew he had to stop the rout.

The Prince blinked away the sweat from his eyes, inside his helm his head was boiling, he raised his hand to his chin strap to release his visor, a man next to him protested but the Prince Henry ignored him and raised his helm to shout at the men retreating, screaming “how could you turn from your oaths, your fealty, your country!” men stopped to see him, startled by the youth and his words, which cut into the honour of their very being. Some joined him from the ranks of his father’s battle, Prince Henry, still shouting order began to swing his own sword about his head and point it at the enemy, his own troops grimaced in their armour, grunting and grinning as they neared the enemy, following the Prince, their Prince, their leader. Suddenly the Prince went down, an arrow hitting him in his unprotected face. Men around him screamed as if hit themselves, screaming in fury at the rebels, the scream echoed along the line of men as the Princes troops crashed into the enemy, fury in their hearts and curses on their lips.

Prince Henry should have died at the Battle of Shrewsbury, as he began his own assault an arrow ricocheted off another mans armour and hit him in the face, no ones sure if he had his visor up and for what reason, there was a detailed account of the operation and even a drawing of the device used in removing the arrow from his face, done by the surgeon in charge, John Bradmore. He bore the scar for the rest of his life, in battles to come when he was King, he did so with the remembrance of those who fought for him and his family. He didn’t make the same mistake his father did. Prince Henry’s men won the battle of Shrewsbury for the King, despite King Henry’s men faltering the Prince's troops smashed into the rebels and pushed them from the hilltop, attacking on the side of the Percy’s line they had successfully outflanked the enemy, a tactic which cost many lives for the royalist troops, and then the rebels turned and ran, it was now the Percy's turn to suffer the slaughter and massacre.

Hotspur died fighting, his Uncle’s fate was decided afterwards and he too was killed, along with other prominent rebels they were hung drawn and quartered, their heads displayed on London Bridge.

On the site of the battle King Henry paid for a church to be built, as many other monarchs have done, to atone for the loss of blood. Battlefield Church was built as a simple chapel, in 1460 it was re-built as a church and again in 1862 was renovated. Burial pits have believed to have been unearthed close by.

Shrewsbury has a rich history of ghostly activity, however reports from the battlefield are almost non-existant, perhaps its true that King Henry’s building fo the Church has indeed appeased the dead from that bloody day over 600 years ago.

CJ Linton.

Shildon, the cradle of the Railway.

The town of Shildon is best known for its Railway heritage, when in fact the history of this location goes back much further, as far back as the year 821 when the land was given to the church, back then it was known as Sceld dun (or Scyld dun) meaning shield/refuge hill. Between the years 1175 and 1547 the area of Shyldon came under the ecclesiastical laws of the Priory of St mary at Neasham. With Henry VIII's usurpation of holistic powers the land was transferred to the local gentry, therefore in 1547 the land had passed to the Thickley Punchardon Estate under the lordship of the Lilburn Family. The Lilburn family's main claims to fame were their opposition to royal authority, John Lilburn being a member of the 1569-70 Northern Rebellion against Queen Elizabeth's reign, there was also a member for the Lilburn family who signed the death warrant of King Charles I to have him beheaded at the end of the first civil war.

The Lilburn's of Shildon were often at loggerheads with the Byerley's of Middridge Grange, especially during the Civil War when Anthony Byerley commanded a Regiment known as Byerley's Bulldogs. By 1717 the Thickley estate was sold by the Lilburn's, they would no doubt have needed money in the wake of King Charles II's return to power and the years of monarchical upheaval with the Glorious Revolution and Jacobite Rebellions. In the late 18th century and early 19th century coal began to be mined in vast quantities in the region of what was to become known as the Auckland Coalfield, Shildon however was still a small hamlet with only around 100 inhabitants, yet in the period 1820-50 all that was to dramatically change.

Shildon's rise was due to it being situated at a point where horse-drawn wagons of coal were transferred to coal driven locomotives, here sprung up workshops for repairs and maintenance, as well as the rise of the workforce in the New Shildon works there was a massive influx of foreign immigrant labour, mostly from Ireland (in nearby Eldon Lane one street was named Paddy's Row). People brought the many vices associated with a labour force of mixed social, political and religious backgrounds, many times simple disputes were turned into almost riot conditions. Drunkenness was rife in many parts of the area, most immigrants lived in tents until proper accommodation could be built, by the 1850's the population had risen to around 3000 people.

It was 1825 that saw the largest change in Shildon's fortunes, two names being at the forefront of this change, Stephenson and Hackworth. George Stephenson was born in Wylam, just under ten miles from Newcastle upon Tyne, in 1781. He was uneducated in his early life, his father (Robert) worked as a fireman at Wylam Colliery, at the age of 17 George began work as a Brakeman for Water Row Pit in Newburn, his job was to stop the winding gear at the pit head, he soon saw the relevance of education and so paid for his own teaching in reading, writing and arithmetic. During this time of his life he travelled and worked on various Collieries in the north east of England, he also suffered greatly in that his wife Fanny (Frances) Henderson whom he married in 1802 lost a daughter in childbirth, she too then died of consumption, a term which covered a range of diseases in the Victorian period, though they had successfully gained a son, Robert, in 1803. George decided to leave the area and so moved to the north of Scotland, he returned from Montrose only a few months later after his father had been blinded in a pit accident. In 1811 an incident occurred which changed not just Stephenson's life forever, but the history of the world too. At the High Pit in Killingworth the pumping engine had broken down, Stephenson offered to fix it and did such a good job that he was given the role of Enginewright for Killingworth and probably all collieries in the north east. It was whilst studying steam driven engineering that his life began to change. In 1818 he began to design a safety lamp for miners, at the same time a London scientist was also looking into a solution to the risk of naked flames in gas filled mines, Sir Humphry Davy and George Stephenson's designs differed in that Davy used a gause to shield the flame whilst Stephenson used a glass screen, Davy was awarded ?2000 for his design, though Stephenson proved he had worked independently and had not stolen the design, Davy however was adamant he had stolen the design and could never believe a low born man such as Stephenson could have came up with such an idea. This gave Stephenson a healthy dislike for London and it's so called theoretical scientific experts.

Richard Trevithick designed the world's first Steam Engine Locomotive in 1804, ten years later George Stephenson designed his own for hauling coal from the Killingworth Colliery, he named it Bl?cher after the Prussian General who was Wellington's ally at the Battle of Waterloo. In total he built 30 Locomotives whilst at Killingworth, then in 1821 the Government passed a parliamentary bill allowing the building of the Stockton and Darlington Railway, designed to connect all the various coalpits in the Auckland Coalfield to a single railway to take coal to Stockton on Tee's. Originally the plan was to use horse drawn transport however the man behind the scheme, Edward Pease, met George Stephenson and radically changed the plans to allow locomotives to do the work. Edward Pease, George Stephenson, Michael Longridge (of Bedlington Ironworks) and Robert Stephenson (George's son) set up a locomotive building works in Newcastle, their first locomotive was originally named Active, but it was changed to Locomotion, they built three others in short succession, Hope, Diligence and Black Diamond. It was the Locomotion which first hauled passengers inside a carriage known as Experiment, along with an 80 tonne load of coal and flour for nine miles in two hours, inside the carriage were local dignitaries and people associated with the Stockton and Darlington Railway, the first Passenger train had arrived.

Although Locomotion was George Stephenson's first engine it is thought he was ably assisted by Timothy Hackworth, a man he would have known from his Wylam Colliery days. Timothy Hackworth was the head engineer for all of the Stephenson works, he lived in Shildon and oversaw the building of many engines in his time, most notably the Royal George and the Sans Pareil. He was a staunch Methodist and in hsi time as overseer at the New Shildon Works he set forth the following rules.

1. The meal times allowed are from 8 to half past 8 in the morning and 12 to 1 for dinner throughout the year.

2. Overtime to be reckoned at eight hours for a day, but not until a whole regular day has been done.

3. Every workman to put on his time board with his time, the name of the article or articles he has been working at during the day and what engine or machinery they are for.

4. Every workman who is provided a drawer for his tools, with lock and key, the drawer and key to be numbered, and all his tools to be marked with the same number as well as the letters SDRWC; the key to be left in the office every night when the man has left work.

5. Any man who is longer than a quarter of an hour after the bell is wrung will lose a quarter of his daily pay.

6. Any worker who does not call for his time-board in the morning and return it to the office in the evening, or when done work, will be fined sixpence.

7. Any workman leaving his work without giving notice to the clerk or to the foreman will be fined one shilling.

8. Any workman swearing or using abusive language to a shopmate will be fined one shilling.

9. Should anyone or more send for Beer, Ale or Spirits into the works (without leave) to be fined one shilling.

10. Any man introducing a stranger or any person to the works (without leave) to be fined one shilling.

11. Any man giving in more time than he has wrought, to have double to time taken off that he has overcharged.

12. The companies timepiece at the shop to be the guide for the workmens time.

13. Any workman taking tools from a lathe or other piece of machinery to be fined one shilling.

14. Any workman not returning taps or dyes, or any general tool, to the person who was in charge of them, to be fined sixpence.

15. Should and person leave their work for the purpose of drinking, in working hours, he will be considered as having forfeited his position.

Timothy Hackworth was obviously not a drinking man, yet he was a very charitable man, he paid for the building of a Sunday school close to his home at the Soho Cottages where local children could be educated along religious lines. Today the entire area of the works is a large scale museum, from Hackworth's home and Sunday school, his works shed down to the old sidings which have now been turned into a museum housing many trains and carriages from all over the world. It is well worth a day out and you may be lucky enough to catch a ride on an old locomotive on the site of the very first passenger train in the world.

CJ Linton.

“Remember the Alamo!”

In early 1835 Texas, then a part of Mexico, erupted with a revolutionary zeal, its cause was to extricate itself from the governance of Mexican President Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna. He ruled Mexico as a dictator, centralising power and quashing anyone who stood in his way. By October 1835 armed uprisings in Texas as well as other parts of Mexico, supposedly a Federation, had turned into war, Mexican Federal troops were fired on by civilians at what was later called the Battle of Gonzales, though only 18 Texan’s took part in this brief encounter in which a Mexican Cannon was stolen, when the Mexican’s said they wanted it back they came under fire. The Mexicans from Gonzales fled to San Antonio de Bexar (pronounced Bay-har) which is modern day San Antonio. At the time San Antonio de Bexar was a small town, the Spanish Missionary dominated the skyline, today it still stands, surrounded now by much higher buildings, the business and commerce of a modern day city almost seem to overlap the older building, yet no one in their right mind would tear down this old building, originally built in 1718 as a Spanish Catholic Mission it was never completed, for this missionary is the Alamo,, a place which had changed hands time and again during the Texan Wars, and a place still lodged deep in the hearts of every Texan, and many other Americans too.

After their victory at Gonzales the Texan’s formed a volunteer army, this small force travelled down the Texan coastline, taking on larger Mexican forces at Goliad and Fort Lipantitlan and defeating them again and again. The Texan Army, bolstered every day by fresh recruits, not just from Texas but the US and Mexico, split up after Fort Lipantitlan, the majority of the men went with General Stephen F Austin to lay siege to the Alamo and capture not only the Mexican troops of its garrison, but also its cannon. After a number of small skirmishes around San Antonio de Bexar the Texans forced the Mexicans to surrender, whose General Martin Perfecto de Cos was allowed to parole his troops, meaning they were allowed to leave Texas with the proviso they do not fight again. It was mid December when Cos’ men fled to Mexico from San Antonio de Bexar, many Texans believed the war won and the volunteer army splintered, many men returning to farms, and families, some of the men from the other US States and Mexicans who fought for the Texans began to settle in new lands, to everyone in the region the fighting was over.

Everyone except Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna that is, he began to plan an invasion of Texas to suppress the revolution in a tide of bloodshed, he planned this even before the loss of Cos’ garrison. It iss also right to say that some Texans had decided to invade Mexico for Colonel Frank Johnston and Dr James grant had begun planning their own invasion by first attacking Matamoros, this plan was hotly disputed by Texan general Sam Houston, who was supposedly removed from his post because of his opposition to the planned invasion. The rest of the Texan Volunteer Army which had not gone home during the winter of 1835-36 had been split in two between the Alamo Mission in San Antonio de Bexar and the Presidio de Bahia in Goliad. After crossing the Rio Grande Santa Anna split his forces, this was a tactic favoured by Napoleon Bonaparte, for Santa Anna believed himself to be the ‘Napoleon of the West’. One part of the Mexican Army of Operations was led now by General Jose de Urrea, he moved towards Goliad, beat Johnston and Grant at San Patricio and Agua Dulce, the other part of the Army under the command of Santa Anna headed for San Antonio de Bexar, and infamy.

Three men who defended the Alamo have passed into legend, Lieutenant-Colonel William B Travis, Colonel James Bowie and Colonel David ‘Davey’ Crockett. Bowie arrived on the 19th January to begin dismantling the Alamo Mission and taking away the precious cannon, he soon found out that was impossible as there were no draught animals up to the job of carting away the artillery. Instead he wrote letters telling his superiors how vital the location was, and how he would defend it to the last. William B Travis arrived on 3rd February to reinforce the defence of the Alamo, he brought with him 30 men, the same amount which Bowie had brought with him yet still not nearly enough to defend the mission, not that they believed it needed defending. On the 8th February David Crockett arrived with more reinforcements, still more was needed. Men left to find more reinforcements and to find more provisions, the Mexican Army however was also having problems, they marched in snow sometimes three feet deep, they were short of food, dropping dead with disease and to top it all off Comanche raiders had killed many men under Santa Anna’s control. Still they marched on. When they reached the Medina River on the 21st February the Mexicans were only 25 miles from the Alamo, the defenders had no idea such a large force was so close at hand and a fiesta was organised in San Antonio de Bexar, with many of the garrison in attendance it was the perfect opportunity to catch the Texans unawares, the perfect Napoleon masterstroke.

Instead heavy rain stopped the Mexicans capturing a virtually empty Alamo, by the 23rd San Antonio had become a ghost town, its residents now knew the Mexicans were upon them and they fled on anything that would carry them away. Travis and Bowie had eventually come to an agreement that they would share command, neither man liked the other yet they put aside their differences as best they could to defend the Alamo. Travis was not convinced by the scouting reports of the closeness of the Mexicans, he ordered a man to stay in San Antonio de Bexar and ring the church bells when the Mexicans came in sight. Late on the 23rd February the bell rang loud, the Mexican Army was just a mile and a half away.

Santa Anna had 1’500 men under his command and as they marched into San Antonio de bexar he had raised the blood red flag, the colour of martyrdom for the Catholic Faith, a signal that no mercy was to be shown to the rebels inside the Alamo. Travis ordered the forts largest gun to fire in response to the flag, Bowie was outraged that he was not asked about the commencement of firing and so he sent an emissary to speak with the Mexicans. Travis was also upset that Bowie had sent an offer of surrender, and so he sent his own emissary, both met with Mexican Colonels Jose Bartes and Juan Almonte. Despite Bowie asking for good terms of surrender the Mexicans told them there would be no chance of surrender unless it was unconditional, which meant probable death to many in the fort.

After learning of this both Travis and Bowie agreed to the commencement of firing on the Mexican troops now opposing them. The next day Bowie collapsed from some illness, more than likely typhoid pneumonia, one of the many conditions which during this period fell under the guise of “Consumption”. Over the next few days both sides traded artillery fire, the Texan Artillery ably Captained by Almaron Dickinson, whose wife Susannah and children were still inside the fort on its fall, on two occasions Texan troops ventured out to burn some small shacks which provided cover for Mexican troops, during both times Texans from the fort provided covering fire for those burning the shacks, a handful of men on both sides became casualties. Upon taking sole command on the 24th Travis wrote a letter ‘To the people of Texas & All Americans in the World’ in which he wrote “I am determined to sustain myself as long as possible & die like a soldier who never forgets what is due to his own honour & that of his country. VICTORY OR DEATH.’

The Mexican Army did not have enough men to fully surround the Alamo and messengers and reinforcements came and went with relative ease, it is thought Santa Anna wanted this so he could crush the whole Texan Army in one fell swoop, Colonel James Fannin set out from Goliad with 320 men and a few cannon to reinforce the Alamo, this force travelled less than a mile before Fannin ordered them to turn back, both he and his officers blamed one another for shirking their duties and causing the relief to be abandoned. On the night of 27th February men from Gonzales, tired of waiting for Fannin and under orders from a courier sent by Travis arrived at the Alamo to reinforce the garrison, they were few in number at around 28 men strong and as they neared the walls the Texans believed they were Mexicans and opened fire, the curses from a wounded man convinced the

Texans that they were shooting at their own men and so the Gonzales men were allowed inside.

On March 3rd a great cheer arose from the Mexican camps as around 1’000 men arrived as reinforcements, giving Santa Anna around 2’400 men under his direct control, more reinforcements arrived for the defenders that night as David Crockett and two other men were sent by Travis to find out where Fannin had got to (they still did not know he had turned back). Instead of finding Fannin the three men found a force of Texans numbering around 50 men. Crockett led most of these back into the fort, though some fled when Mexican troops began firing on them.

Santa Anna now began to plan an assault, although he could have waited for the 7th March as this was when it was hoped two large guns, 12 pounders, would arrive, with these he could batter the Alamo into submission. Instead he ignored all advice from more seasoned members of his staff, it is thought he became even more impatient to assault when a relative of James Bowie, his cousin-in-law Juana Navarro Alsbury, pleaded with him to allow the defenders to surrender. The next day he ordered his men to assault the fort, where inside the men had been given an ultimatum, not by the Mexican’s but by Travis himself. He had everyone arranged in the courtyard of the mission, he told them that the Mexicans were going to assault (they could see ladders being built) and so he drew a line in the sand and asked for any man willing to defend the Alamo to the last to cross the line and stand with him. All except one person did. (this is disputed by some historians)

During the siege the Mexicans had bombarded the fort nightly, at 10pm on the 5th March the guns fell silent and many inside the fort caught their first uninterrupted sleep in days. There were to be three separate assaults, with Santa Anna commanding 400 men as reserves in San Antonio de Bexar, Colonel Duque commanded 400 men and they made the most direct assault, Duque died early on and Colonel Castrillon took over, Colonel Romero also had 400 men but fewer ladders, Colonel Morales had 125 men and just two ladders. Mexican troops wore essentially French Napoleonic uniforms, consisting of Shako, Coat, Jacket, Breeches and leggings, coloured of course Blue, for the Napoleon of the West was always wishing to copy the great man himself. Mexican Cavalry (also wearing copied French dress) patrolled around the Alamo to not only stop any Texan’s fleeing but also any nervous new Mexican recruits who had been forced to join the army.

The Texans had sentinels positioned outside the Alamo, men on their own in small pits with a wall of small stakes to fire behind, the three sentinels had fallen asleep like many, if not all of the defenders, they were bayoneted in their sleep before they could fire to signal an attack, and so the Mexican’s were able to advance rapidly over ground which should have been strewn with their bodies had the Texans been awake, in fact the Mexican’s were the ones who awoke the defenders when assaulting troops began shouting “Viva Santa Anna!” Travis rushed to his post, seeing masses of enemy bayonets glistening in the moonlight, he is reported as shouting to his fellow defenders “Come on Boys, the Mexicans are upon us and we’ll give them Hell” he also called out in Spanish to the Mexican men defending the Alamo “No Rendirse, muchachos!” (No surrender boys!).

The first shots were fired, and the first men died in the assault. Texan Cannon had no canister to fire at the enemy, Canister being large musket balls packed in a tin can or a cloth bag, when fired from cannon the can disintegrates or the bag tears apart and the musket balls act like a shotgun blast. Instead of Canister the defenders hacked up old horseshoes, cutlery, anything metal they could find including door hinges and bed springs. One blast of cannon’s improvised canister killed “Half a company of Chasseurs from Toluca” according to their commanding officer, Jose Enrique de la Pena. As if being torn apart by bed springs was bad enough many Mexican troops were simply men pressed into service, attacking in a column only the front ranks could fire safely, however many in the rear ranks fired blindly forwards, killing and wounding many of their own men in the process. The assaulting blue-coated Mexicans crashed into the walls, ladders being held aloft passed overhead to the wall, the Texan’s having to lean over the wall now to shoot at the enemy beneath, as Travis fired his shotgun at the mass of enemy below he was hit between the eye’s and died immediately, he was one of the first to die in defence of the Alamo.

With Bowie in his death bed and Travis dead the command now fell to the third in line, the little known John Hubbard Forsyth, although he had been a Captain in a Kentuckian Cavalry unit he was born in Avon, New York and was 38 years old, he was also the third highest ranking officer and now took command, however at all parts the Mexican numbers overwhelmed the defenders, the Texan’s did not spike their guns as they fled backwards and the Mexicans turned the artillery on their previous users, Texan’s defending fortified buildings had walls blown open by their own guns, then Mexican infantry rushed in to finish the job with cold steel. In the Sacristy many women and children sought refuge, some men fled there, the last of the Texan positions to fall was an artillery unit inside the Chapel itself, behind them the doors were being hammered by axes of Mexican troops, the commander of the gun, Captain Dickinson, ordered the gun to be turned around, a blast of improvised canister killed the Mexicans on the other side of the door, more Mexicans broke in and the gunners now grabbed muskets, before being bayoneted to death around their gun. One of the men to fall alongside Dickinson was Francisco Esparza, his brother was a junior officer wearing a blue coat attacking the fort.

Also finding his life end at the tip of a bayonet was Jim Bowie, it is thought he had been given two handguns to fire on anyone who came into his room, however it is not known and some say he shot himself, whilst others believe he died fighting. Other men died in less honourable ways, possibly the last defender to die was Jacob Walker, he had fled to the Sacristy where the women and children were, hiding behind Susannah Dickinson (wife of the gun commander) he was found, dragged away a metre or so and bayoneted in front of the rest of the women and children. Around seven men of the garrison are believed to have survived the assault by surrendering. Santa Anna was outraged and ordered the surviving soldiers to be executed, it is believed by some that David Crockett was amongst those survivors to be executed.

As the dawns light crept over the battlefield it was clear that losses had been horrific, the Mexican dead were buried, the Texan dead were burned and their ashes are supposedly held in a coffin in San Fernando Cathedral, however it is more than likely they are buried elsewhere, Juan Seguin, who had left the Alamo to get more reinforcements, returned and claimed he had gathered the ashes together and buried them in a peach orchard, which has never been found. Only one of the defenders was allowed a proper burial, Gregorio Esparza was a member of the last gun battery to fall inside the Chapel, his brother wore a Mexican uniform that night, Francisco Esparza being an Officer in the Mexican Army. It is believed by many that Henry Warnell escaped the battle, he died of wounds a little later though, one man, Brigido Guerrero had defected from the Mexican Army and joined the defenders, when he saw the cause lost he locked himself in a room and claimed he was a prisoner of the Texans. By 6:30am the Battle of the Alamo was over, Mexican troops had suffered badly, around 50 to 75% of the number of assaulting troops had died, perhaps as many as 600 Mexicans, with the defenders numbers unknown for sure, anywhere from 150 to 300. Enraged Mexicans began bayoneting dead men, firing into dead bodies, calls by Mexican officers, even Santa Anna himself, could not stop the blood letting, it took fifteen minutes for the men to calm down, by then a few Mexicans had killed one another in the carnage and confusion.

It was a miracle anyone had survived, in fact it was a matter of inches that the women and children survived in the Sacristy, Texan defender Robert Evans was tasked with destroying the gunpowder stores in the event of the fall of the Alamo, his body was found dead with a lit torch in his hand inches away from a gunpowder trail leading the store room, if the gunpowder had exploded then hundreds more, including the women and children, would have died. As it was the women were now widows, and the children had lost their fathers. One civilian had been shot when Mexicans saw movement beneath a blanket and opened fire, they thought it was a Texan hiding, instead it was a child.

After the Alamo had fallen Santa Anna grouped his forces and pressed on, as news of the Alamo (and Johnston and Grants defeats) reached their ears many Texans became refugees, fleeing the barbarity of the Mexican Army. Sam Houston now reinstated as the head of all Texan forces commanded what remained of the Texan Army, they too fled with thousands of refugee’s and even the Texan Government, Houston ordered Fannin to leave Goliad, Fannin instead fought the Battle of Refugio where he lost, he then began his retreat to find Houston’s Army and link up with him, on his way his forces fought the Battle of Coleto, a disaster for Finnan as he and around 300 of his men were captured. The Mexican’s executed the prisoners, including Fannin, when news reached the rest of Texas it caused a bigger shock than the Alamo.

Almost every man, woman and child in Texas was fleeing with Houston, Santa Anna was hot on his heels with his blood thirsty army, something needed to be done, the Mexican’s had again split their forces in their pursuit, this was what Houston had been waiting to hear, he stopped his Army from running, and turned back to confront Santa Anna. The resulting Battle has gone down in legend. The Battle of San Jacinto lasted 18 minutes, the Texan’s, enraged by the massacre at Goliad and stirred by the calls from Sam Houston charged into the oncoming Mexican Army. 18 Minutes later and the Mexican Army was utterly destroyed, Sam Houston rousing his men with calls of “Remember the Alamo! Remember the Goliad!”

Santa Anna was captured, dressed in an ill fitting Sergeants coat he had tried to flee (again disputed), in return for his life Mexico would never rule in Texas, it wasn’t long before Texas became part of the United States of America, a state born in bloodshed, yet honoured because of the men who defended the Spanish mission in San Antonio de Bexar, where everyone remembers the Alamo.

I plan on writing a list of defenders and survivors of the Alamo, as well as a seperate post on the many ghostly stories associated with this enigmatic, and humbling location.

Thank you for your time.

CJ Linton.