Folklore of yorkshire

So... I've been pining for the homeland recently...

This intro is tricky as I try to keep this site light and humorous for readers, but I feel I want to write something more personal. And - rather than just delivering a tonne of Yorkshire stereotypes and jokes - whilst making this map, I had some time to explore some feelings about Yorkshire and "home". We don't need to launch into "On Ilkla Mooar Baht 'at" or talk about "Yorkshire born, Yorkshire bred", we don't even need to mention all the great things to come out of Yorkshire, the inventors, musicians, actors, or food, but needless to say life is better for Yorkshire's existence. And it is certainly better for Yorkshire Tea.

When you move away from your home region, it is easy to romanticise a place and a time. And, even though I live somewhere thats wilderness is epic, its people friendly, its ideology aligned with my own, and spend more time than ever in nature, it doesn't always hit the same. There isn't that feeling that permeates the core that you get standing on the top of Malham Cove - maybe some weird sense of ownership, or an old generational connection, that intangible something. Yes, I often have romantic visions in my head of some chocolate box Yorkshire, that I'm not sure exists outside of day trips.

A friend once told me that Yorkshiremen have elastic souls - we want to wander and explore but we always find ourselves being pulled back. I certainly own a copy of "Rubber Soul" by The Beatles, but whether I have an elastic soul remains to be seen. We are certainly proud of our region though that's for sure, even giving it the title "God's own country". Big claims.

"How do you know if a fella is from Yorkshire?"

"Don't worry he'll tell you."

This certainly rings true and in all my adventures I have had the uncanny ability to meet and befriend my fellow tykes, probably better than when I am actually in Yorkshire. I think we should start setting up outposts, Yorkshiretowns in a similar manner to Chinatowns, where you can get all-you-can-eat roasts, good ale, and have a grump about "if it ain't Yorkshire, it's shite" with other people who understand grumpiness as a subtle art and a form of bonding humour, and not simply being negative. It's a subtle dance. Admittedly one neither party wants to participate in, but you can point that out to your fellow moody shuffler and now you have common ground.

With these thoughts circling my head I let myself sink into it, to explore it through work, to spend some time immersed in it, bathing in it, potentially wallowing in it even.

I decided to make my first map looking into a region (rather than a whole country) focusing on wonderful Yorkshire, which has one of the country's greatest concentrations of myth and folklore. Initially, it was going to be one of my usual 'Mythical Beasts of...' maps but I found there were stories I wanted to include that didn't quite fit under that umbrella. It is my most jam-packed map yet, featuring approximately 50 stories - I usually try to cut it off around 35 as it balances better, but I found it hard to cut back that far. These stories are of home and even cutting down to 50 was painful. But when you have many stories competing for space on the page, you have to kill some darlings. Fortunately, Yorkshire is a big slab of a place which made squeezing so much in possible.

Ok, enough of the nuts and bolts - there's nothing as gip-inducing as a creative talking too much about "the process". Let us get into the stories, and you may want to bookmark this page as I warn you in advance, this is a loooooong post. I was aiming to make a little book/zine to accompany this map but the want to have the map out in time for Yorkshire Day was too great. I may revisit the book/zine idea as I have written a lot of it and I have some ideas for articles exploring themes and places. But for now here is the map.

I'd like to thank everyone for their ongoing support to keep this project going. And if you would like to pick up a copy of this map (or one of our other fine maps) for yourself or that special Yorkshire person in your life, click the banner. Heck if you want to buy one to literally shove how great Yorkshire is in someone else's face, that works too.

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Auld Betty

In the way these things usually, start some chap was feeling unwell and - in lieu of access to the NHS by more than a century (which is slightly longer than current waiting times) - had made the logical conclusion that he had been cursed by a witch. It is a similar logic that makes my dog think eating grass will somehow be medically beneficial. It isn't. Though she does end up at the vet and feels better soon after, she simply has the causality muddled. Needless to say, if you're feeling unwell, it is often better to seek professional help than go after witches - or eat grass.

The particular witch that he suspected was known locally as Auld Betty, and his intention to catch her would be made trickier as she was known to shape-shift into the form of a black cat. He knew he would need to trick her into revealing herself. He'd need to be sure; you can't go around accusing innocent cats of being witches, that would be mad. And he wasn't mad, though he wasn't feeling great after eating all that grass.

One night, he lit his fire, set a cake to cook on it, pulled up a chair, grabbed the fire poker and waited. As if waking from a daydream, he snapped back to reality aware of the pops, crackles and fragrant smoke from the fire. There sat the cat silhouetted by the gentle flames and smoke.

"Cake burns," said the cat.

Knowing he had to be patient, that he had to frustrate the witch; that if made anxious and transfixed enough, she would revert to her human form and turn the cake. Then he'd have his proof.

"Turn it then," he replied.

"Cake burns," said the cat.

"Turn it then," he replied.

"Cake burns," said the cat. The man offered the same response.

It was late and, after a long day, he grew less patient though he knew he had not to shout at the cat or to use any whole names. The stand-off continued; every calm response riled him until he lost his composure and jumped up swearing and cursing the witch's name. The cat sprang up and began to scamper up the chimney. He leapt after her and managed to get a good strike, though receiving a fierce scratch himself in the process.

The next day, Auld Betty had become ill and remained home in her bed for several days. Meanwhile, he felt great - like the curse had been lifted. So it worked. Either that or the grass - it's hard to be sure, causality can get messy.

Just a footnote here: it was common in witch beliefs that to break the curse you had to cause the witch to bleed - you were supposed to "draw above the breath" i.e. scratch on the cheek. This belief was widely practised and accepted up until the Victorian era where it did become legally recognised as assault, though the practice persisted into the 19th century. Alarming. It was viewed as a counter-spell which could remove a witch's power as well as heal the cursed individual.

Barguest / Padfoot

So a few things to say here are these two are kinda the same thing. Barguest/barghest are the more common term you will encounter but, south of Leeds, you will start to hear the name Padfoot being used. I could have just included a single black dog in the map of Yorkshire, but it is one of our most popular motifs and it has many variations across the region.

In Grassington, you may hear of black dogs with shimmering rainbow eyes. In Wakefield, they may be more muscular, appearing bear or ox like. In Whitby, you will hear of the Barguest Coach - a coach loaded with the skeletons of dead sailors pulled by headless horses that go out to pay their respects to fellow deceased sailors. The most famous barghest is the one that resides in Trollers Gill.

The tales are a bit more varied than in other regions, but usually they serve as a death omen - howling to indicate an impending death, or laying across the threshold of a house. To maintain its credibility as a furry Nostradmus, it may well kill you itself. Maybe just to make sure people still believe its omens. Or maybe just to satisfy its own imposter syndrome; "See, you said he'd die and he did. You did it buddy, well done! You got this, don't let the haters tell you that you can't predict the future. You said he'd die and that dude is definitely dead."

Barwick-In-Elmet Maypole

One of the largest maypoles in the country - tis a beast! 26 metres in all. It is the centre of a triennial festival, where it is taken down for inspection before being paraded back out and re-instated. A local lad is often encouraged to climb to the top and spin the fox weather vane, which will bring luck to the village. Ultimately as these things do, it all turns into a big folky party, with morris dancing, floats, maypole dances, stalls and, I think it is safe to assume, a large amount of beer.

Black Monk of Pontefract

A more recent development, but it has certainly gained attention. Starting in the 60's, a house in Pontefract has been host to a violent poltergeist. It is said to be the ghost of a Clunic monk, who was hung on the street for crimes that I won't go into detail for our younger audience. He seems to have taken all his awfulness into the afterlife as he mainly attacked the young girl of the family, as well as breaking things, scratching photos and generally being an annoying git by moving stuff to other places. The family did the right thing and got the heck out of that place. It was featured in a film and bought by the film maker, who refuses to spend a night there, but rents it out should you be daft enough to want a sleep over with a violent 500 year old ghost. I personally think he's making a new arty film and it's a damning take on the predatory nature of the housing market.

Boggart

Boggart is a bit of a generic term used to describe a whole host of beings, from the household hobs to more beastly creatures, even at times described similarly to a barghest. Sometimes hob and boggart are used interchangeably, and whilst sometimes a boggart is described in the benevolent hob style, more often a boggart is used as something to be feared, a bogeyman, or used as a warning to stay away from certain dangerous places.

I can't remember who wrote it, but I once saw boggarts described as "a hob that has turned to the dark side," and whilst not completely describing their nuances, it does seem to fit their general pain in the arse vibe. Most often they are being the ying to the hob's yang: whilst a hob will tidy your house, a boggart will trash it; when a hob would milk the cattle, a boggart would turn milk sour.

Tales of boggarts are one of the most numerous in Yorkshire, and you will still find a great many places that are named after them.

Bradford Boar

If you've been to Bradford, you may have noticed boars heads adorning various things across the city - the most impressive being the giant golden boar on top of "Ye Olde Crown" pub. It is part of the city's heritage and the story goes way back to the 1300s.

Much of Bradford once was a dense medieval hunting forest, and much of that land was owned by a chap called John of Gaunt. Johnny boy should have been pretty happy with his lot in life but, unfortunately for him, he was pestered relentlessly by the locals' selfish request for safe access to drinking water - the cheek of it. You see the water was on John's land and there happened to be a slightly concerning obstacle in accessing it, namely, a giant boar that would attack any parched fellow trying to access it.

Now John - unlike most hunt loving elites of yore - didn't go after the boar himself yelling something as predictable as, "For glory!" before stuffing the things head and mounting it on his walls as a trophy so he could look back in later life and contentedly think to himself, "Yeah, I killed that, go me! How strong and virile a man I once was. I mean am. What a big, big man I am." He worked much more like the modern elite and outsourced that work, offering a sizeable reward to anyone who could bring him the boar's head and save him the inconvenience of having to do absolutely bloody anything.

Many tried to hunt the boar but got charged and injured in the process. Enter the hero of the hour - a man named Northrop. He manages to kill the boar but finds himself with a challenge on his hands as that pig's head is absolutely huge. Thinking on his feet, he cuts the thing's tongue out - which looks way less impressive as a hunting trophy - and assumes John has some knowledge of how to estimate the size and identity of a boar by its removed tongue.

In the mean time, some absolute chancer stumbles across the dead boar and decides to try claim the reward for himself. He removes the head and mounts it to his horse, arriving back at John's before Northrop can on foot. He would have gotten away with it too if it wasn't for that meddling Northrop who turned up just in time with the boar's tongue. On investigation, John saw that the tongue had been cut from the head, realised that Northrop must be the actual hunter, told the chancer to sling his hook and rewarded Northrop as promised.

Brimham Rocks

Brimham Rocks are just visually amazing. If you're part of that crowd of people who like to look at old rocks on a weekend, and we certainly are, they do not disappoint. They are also associated with a wealth of folklore, from druidic associations to spirits residing in them. There is the wishing stone which will grant a wish if you place your fingers on your right hand in the hole whilst making the wish. The rocking stone can only be rocked by an honest man. There are also some great named rocks such as the Dancing Bear, the Idol, the Eagle, the Druid's writing desk, and the mushroom. The site's most famous story is of two young lovers; the girl's father didn't approve of their love so handled it in overbearing fashion and chased them - what the plan would have been if he caught them I don't know, presumably it wasn't going to be pleasant. In that bullheaded, young way of dealing in absolutes, they decided they'd rather die together than live separate so they flung themselves from the rocks.

Burning Old Bartle

"On Penhill Crags he tore his rags,

At Hunters Thorn he blew his horn,

At Capplebank Stee he brock his knee,

At Grisgill Beck he brock his neck,

At Wadham's End he couldn't fend,

At Grisgill End we'll mek his end!

Shout lads, Shout."

I'll never forget a certain Bonfire Night with my family. It was when my sister was attending college and had brought along a new friend who was an international student for "a little fire and food, with the family." What no one had explained to him was the tradition of burning an effigy of Guy Fawkes. I saw a very polite nice young man, new to the country, try to remain smiling and composed whilst these people he had just met proceeded to bring out an effigy of a man and set fire to it. The poor fella must have thought he'd walked into a scene from The Wickerman, though presumably he may not have seen that just yet, which was probably a good thing. What strange things we do.

Anyway, Burning Old Bartle is another effigy burning 'fun for the whole family' kind of event. An effigy of Old Bartle is carried through the village, stopping for drinks at various houses, before it is carried to the edge of the village whilst singing his creepy rhyme and set alight. The drinking, and singing of traditional Yorkshire songs go long into the night.

There are various theories on the traditions origins: some say Old Bartle is St Bartholomew due to its proximity to his day, and may have roots in a pagan anti-Christianity festival; others say Old Bartle was a sheep rustling pain in the arse who the village finally had enough of. I'm not sure which if either is correct, but either way it is a grizzly end for either of the individuals. It is an event that I really want to get to in the coming years.

Child in the Woods

This is a Grimmsesque fairy tale from Beverley - it tells of a wealthy landowner, his lovely family and an absolute rascal of an uncle. The family were all doing grand and life was passing by harmoniously until one day the landowner's wife suddenly passed. Heartbroken, he lost all love for life and fell terribly ill. He sent for his brother and made him vow that, if anything happened to him, he would look after his daughter and manage all his estates in her benefit. He agreed.

Ultimately, his prediction was correct and he too passed away, leaving the uncle to care for the girl and the estates. Which he did, for a while, until his greed kicked in. He saw the vast wealth he was managing for her and grew terribly jealous. Not having the heart to kill the girl himself, he decides he will bind and gag her and hide her in a hollow tree - which is totally different form killing her but if you don't see it happen, it didn't happen right? So he decided, presumably, that he could live with killing her in a bizarrely creative, slow and painful way, as long as he didn't have to look at it. So this is what he did.

To double down on his penchant for being dramatic and elaborate, he commissioned a wax model of the child and held a funeral - as you do. Meanwhile, a local gentleman woke from a dream and proclaimed to his wife, "I will see something that amazes me today." His wife is wary and warns him to stay home - presumably, she's seen that look in his eyes before and knows he's about to go off on one of his mad side-quests and she still hadn't figured out where to put the chickens and collection of shiny pebbles that he brought home after his last funny turn. Not listening to his wife, he saddles his horse and heads out for a spot of hunting.

Charging through the forest, his horse became suddenly spooked by a tree (which is probably not a good quality for a hunting horse if you mainly use it in an arboreal setting). He gets a servant to check out the tree, who looks shocked back at him before removing a child barely alive. He took her home and he and his wife tend to the girl, who cannot speak due to the complex trauma of losing all her family and being left to die in a tree by her uncle. The child was cared for but remained an enigma to the couple - that is until they held a Christmas party. At this party, one of the guests turned white as a sheet upon recognising the girl and explained that she was dead and buried. They went to the parish minister and explained the situation and asked for permission to dig up the coffin. He obliges and they dig up the coffin and *dum, dum, dum* there is the waxy figure.

The swine of an uncle's plan is revealed and he gets tried for his crimes. The couple are also asked if they would look after the girl as she has no one left and they had all become quite fond of each other. The couple having no children of their own are thrilled by the idea and gratefully accept. They all live happily after, though presumably a lot of the estate's value had to be spent on years of therapy.

Churnmilk Peg

Churnmilk Peg is one from a long line of beings that guard growing food from the sticky fingers of children. Particularly, she was in charge of stopping children eating unripe nuts in Mallhamdale - which is a job you rarely see come up these days. She was described as an old hag (unkind) with a pipe in her mouth, and if she caught children stealing unripe nuts she would say, "Smoke! Smoke a wooden pipe! Getting nuts before they’re ripe!’" which isn't explicitly an instruction. If little tea-leaf* children didn't pick up on the subtle subtext, she would take them to see 't'owld lad',** which just sounds creepy. Who is he? What will he do?

(*for our abroad readers, tea-leaf is slang for thief)

(** again for our abroad readers, t'owld lad = the old lad/man)

Crayke Castle

Now here is one for the fans of the Vikings TV series, as this is apparently where Ragnar Lodbrok/Lothbrook met his snakey end. After looting, pillaging and other unsavoury activities around the North of England, the Vikings had made themselves pretty unwelcome and Aella formed a large army to sort out the problem. His plans worked and the Vikings were soundly defeated, but Ragnar was kept alive as Aella was entering his Bond villain arc. Ragnar was brought back to Crayke Castle and lowered into a pre-installed pit filled with venomous snakes. (Ikea sells the Snekur Pyt - whilst not as sturdy as Aella's, it's stylish and you'll probably get a few years out of it whilst you save for a more long term solution) Ragnar was brought up to beg for forgiveness periodically but would use the opportunity to curse Aella, or make yo momma jokes. Eventually, Aella got tired of being made to look a fool so he sent him down one last time, but not before Ragnar had prophesised that his three sons would avenge him - which they totally did, as they sailed to England and killed Aella and his other lords. I hope someone looks in on those snakes, makes sure they've something to eat.

Cuckoo Day

Cuckoo festivals or days are quite popular across the UK as the cuckoo is viewed as a herald of spring. I know when I hear them in the woods, it makes me happy and I know the worst of the weather is now behind. Similarly, the arrival of the house martins building their lovely little bowled nests in the eaves of my house lets me know that the good weather is here... and that my windowsills will likely look pretty grim for the next few months, but they are a highlight of my year, so totally worth it.

The Marsden cuckoo festival is relatively new - only a couple of decades old - but rumour has it that celebrations of the cuckoo in the village go back way further. The narrative of the folklore is that the residents tried to capture the cuckoo so that spring would stay in Marsden and, unfortunately for Marsden, they failed and now have to suffer the same nonsense weather the rest of us in the UK have to endure (it's character building though). There are several tales but all involve essentially trying to trap the cuckoo by creating some kind of stone structure around wherever the cuckoo is residing - whether that's a tree, a field or a chimney - and ultimately, right as they are about to finish, the cuckoo frustratingly flies away. Symbolising the eternal frustration in the British psyche to just make the bloody rain stop.

Denby Dale Giant Pie

Denby Dale have a wonderful tradition of making absolutely ludicrous pies. I mean when I say giant, I mean giant! Some of these monsters have weighed up to 12.5 tonnes which, even for a Yorkshire man, is considered a decent-sized pie. There have been several of these pies and they all have their own stories, so let's just hit them off in bullet points.

1788 - The first pie was made to celebrate George III getting over some mental illness - which I think is a debatable topic, depending on what he had and if "getting over it" was ever actually possible. But anyway, people had deemed him at least improved enough to warrant the creation of a giant pie - which, conversely, is what I want to eat when my mental health is poor.

1815 - The second pie was made to celebrate Napoleon's defeat at Waterloo and was made from 2 sheep and 20 foul.

1846 - Things start to really escalate at this point. To celebrate the repeal of the corn laws, Denby Dale did Denby Dale and crammed into crusty goodness: 1 calf, 5 sheep, 63 small birds, 14 rabbits, 2 partridges - and, briefly, 1 person when they fell in due to the riots that started after the pie collapsed.

1887 - The second crumbing. Denby Dale wanted to do something to mark Queen Victoria's Golden Jubilee and - after a lot of deep thinking, discussions about clock towers, boating lakes etc, - went to their go-to method of celebrating and made another enormous pie. Unfortunately, it was left too long in the sun and - similar to other fast-food based pies sat under a heat lamp too long - it was deemed inedible and had to be buried in a nearby field. And I know what you're thinking here; how many people fell into this pie during the inevitable pie-based riot that followed? Well, I'm happy to say none - seemingly some generational wisdom had passed down and no one was engulfed in third-degree gravy burns, nor drowned in that rich umami liquid.

But, if we know anything about the people of Denby Dale, we know they weren't going to stand for giant pie being snatched away from them so cruelly by the fates. So they made 'the Resurrection Pie' and this time it wasn't going to be messed up because they put the women of the area in charge - and any Yorkshire woman will happily let you know who the real gaffer is. The pie was a success and over 2000 people were fed to bursting.

1896 - Another monster was made to celebrate the 50th anniversary of the repeal of the corn laws - and I am happy to report that, in a rare twist of fate, it occurred incident free. Let's see if that trend continues.

1928 - This pie was extremely ambitious, even for Denby Dale. It was created to raise money for Huddersfield Infirmary and took 20 hours to bake. It was so large it got stuck in the oven, leading to tense moments before 20,000 people were finally fed some pie and the largest riot in Yorkshire history was narrowly averted.

1964 - Made to mark four royal births, this pie almost didn't happen due to post-war rationing and the tragic loss of four of the organisers who died in an accident returning from London after filming a show about the pie. The bereaved partners insisted that the show go on and, in a great display of grit and unity, a pie was created that fed 30,000 people.

1988 - Things escalate yet again here. Perhaps as some form of savoury ancestor worship, to celebrate 200 years since the creation of the first crumbly monster, the citizens of Denby Dale - in a battle cry through the generations - create something ludicrous. A pie big enough that it will take two days and 170 people to feed the 90,000 people that it does. Yes - 90,000! It's so big, the Guinness Book of Records is there to record the moment.

2000 - The Millennium Pie. A pie so big that it should be soundtracked as if it were a Kaiju emerging from the depths. 40 foot long, 9 foot wide, 3 feet deep, 5 tonnes of beef, 2 tonnes of potatoes, 1 tonne of onions, and 200 pints of bitter. This affront to all that is holy breaks the scales at over 12 tonnes and fed over 22,000 people.

That was the most recent of Denby Dale's giant pies. But, tracking the dates and offsetting for Covid, I think we are due for another monster any time now. Come on Denby Dale, howl to your ancestors, slaughter a barnyard, fetch out the telegraph pole rolling pins, and show us your greatness! We are ready!

Dent Vampire

The story is of a man who, at the age of 94, passed away. This being quite remarkable in 1715, rumours began to abound. Though George was said to be a lovely man in life, unfairly mad speculation gets out of hand; the rumours started that the secret to his long life was he drank a glass of sheep's blood each day. Who knows? Maybe he did, maybe he didn't. It's not for me but maybe some people do - maybe it did help him live to 94, probably something to do with iron if so. Either way, no harm, no foul.

But then people start to see George still up and about, sneaking into the fields at the dead of night to drink blood from the sheep. One farmer shoots a black hare and follows the blood back to George's house to see him picking a bullet out of himself. And we'll ignore the obvious questions of was the hare sucking blood from the sheep? Isn't turning into a hare a witch thing? And we'll move right to the locals exhuming George's body, thinking it looked a bit too 'fresh' to be real and deciding he is definitely a vampire. They reburied him in the church yard with a stake driven through him. Apparently you can still go see the grave with the metal stake protruding from the top. Poor old George, if he was innocent of all this - which logic would tell me he is - it's a bit of a damning of his good name.

Note: We should mention that the village of Dent is actually in Cumbria. What! Panic! But...but... It was part of West Yorkshire until the 1970's, is still part of the Yorkshire Dales National Park, and the story is way older than the 1970s. So to be fair - and in concession to Cumbria who blatantly stole part of our land (those pesky Cumbrians) but not wanting to lose our stories - I have drawn Auld Georgie straddling the two. I think we can all agree that is fair, and that we will be seeking fair compensation from Cumbria... maybe one of their smaller lakes as we're a bit short on them.

Devils Arrows

The Devil's Arrows just look cool. They have the second largest menhir (vertical standing stone) in the UK - just behind fellow Yorkshire chonky boy the Rudston monolith, which we will come to later. But what makes them so interesting is that due to just how long they've been there they have grooves running down them from the millennia of rainfall. There used to be more of the Devil's Arrows but sadly a few have been messed with over the years by would-be treasure hunters.

It gets its name from the story of the Devil throwing rocks at Aldborough. Who knows what Aldborough had done to deserve this but the stones fell short anyway, so that was nice for them. There are possibly hundreds of sites across Yorkshire which have a similar tale; for some reason, the devil just loves throwing rocks - usually, it is in some peeing contest with a giant, or at a church, but it appears this time his thinking was simply, "eff Aldborough."

Dragon and the Golden Cradle

Castle Hill in Huddersfield is absolutely awash with history, and has been settled for at least 4000 years. In its time, it has hosted hill forts, motte and baileys, a medieval village, and is now home to the eye-catching Victoria tower. Due to its historical and geographic significance, it is no wonder it has drawn so many stories - the one I chose to illustrate was the Dragon and the Golden Cradle. There are many complex layers of symbolism to this story: in its simplest sense, there may be a literal dragon guarding treasure on Castle Hill (the golden cradle); in a more complex way, it could be that the golden cradle and the dragon are both metaphors relating to ancient deities and infant mortality. It's a tricky one to get a definitive answer on due to the length of time and the varied history of the site.

Dragon of Wantley

Here is a much more documented dragon story with a literal arse-kicking knight. It features your classic dragon, roaming around being a general pain the butt, however this one was particularly large and was not a fussy eater; apart from a dragon's regular diet of villagers and livestock, this one also enjoyed a munch on trees and buildings too. After a while, a local knight by the name of Moore decided enough was enough, you can't just go around chewing on people's drain pipes and gable ends. He acquired a special suit of armour from Sheffield that was covered in spikes.

Note: spiked armour is a common feature in Yorkshire dragon stories, though usually it plays more of a role in the dragon's demise than it does in this tale.

Nope, the Dragon of Wantley met a much more undignified end by receiving a sharp kick in its (and I quote) "arse-gut". Upon receiving this fatal blow, the dragon explains to the knight, with his dying breath, how this is his only vulnerable spot - in what must be the least noble last words, or dragon death ever; "Ooft me arse-gut, tis me only vulnerable spot. It's right delicate ya know, ya absolute bastard ye." I mean, there's no dignity to be found there and I imagine it took the sense of victory right out of Moore. What do you do with that? Wash your spiky boots, I guess.

Fairy Pin Wells

Do you want to receive a glimpse of your true love? Are you willing to be complicit in arms dealing with small and notoriously tricksy mythical beings? If you answered yes to these questions, you may want to visit a fairy pin well. There are a couple of fairy pin wells in Yorkshire, on the map I've located one at Brayton Barff near Selby.

A girl was walking past the well one day before deciding to pause for a refreshing drink, and to engage in a bit of daydreaming about the local lad she fancied. As she sat, she felt foggy before falling into a sleep state and was transported into the fairy realm. When there, she met the fairies who posed a trade to her. The fairies would create an image in the well of any virtuous girl's true love, in exchange for a pin. The fairies explained that despite their many skills, smithing wasn't one of them. Up until now, they had been using the spikes of Hawthorn to create the arrows for their bows but they were inaccurate and often broke. They had experimented with Blackthorn as a form of biological warfare but that wasn't great either. No, what they'd really like were those shiny pins that the local girls use - you could really mess a sucker up with a few of them.

She awoke and, unsure if it was a dream, dropped a pin into the well and, sure enough, her beau's face appears. The word gets around and many of the girls and women of the village begin to use the well - and I imagine somewhere there is a lead fairy steepling his/her fingers and saying a very Monty Burns-style, "Excellent." So you can thank the ladies of Barton Barff for the arming of fairies, as we know no good comes from these deals. There doesn't appear to be a consequence in the story but they're up to something, you know they're up to something. I hope Dave's big face appearing in some water was worth it.

Felon Sow of Rokeby

The second story so far of angry piggies and nobility that refuse to do the deed themselves. This comedic ballad tells of a noble who had a particularly prickly porcine on his land. Instead of dealing directly with it himself, he very kindly offered it for free to the monks of Richmond - all you have to do is collect it. It very much reads like a precursor to Craigslist, and you know it's too good to be true. "A free pig, awesome! Wait, what's wrong with it? It's not murderously violent or anything is it?"

It's a long tale with many plot points but basically the sow kicks their arse repeatably, before the monks hire a couple of warriors and, after they also receive a good beating, the beast is eventually captured and turned into a feast. You can really taste the hate.

Filey Dragon

We've already talked about my spirit animal with a love for God's own food, parkin. So below is the text from the "Mythical Beasts of England map":

"My favourite find whilst doing this round of research. People will likely not know I am mad for a seasonally baked item known as parkin. For the uninitiated, it is a kind of dense oat, spices and treacle-based cake/gingerbread that, just like me and the dragon in this story, originates from West Yorkshire. Appropriately for a dragon story, parkin is most often baked for Bonfire night in the North of England. My lovely mother-in-law bakes me a tin of it every year and, every November, I gain about 8 pounds in weight - which would be worth it if age didn't make weight gain cumulative. Anyway enough about parkin, we'll save that for my forthcoming cookbook 'Baking with Beasties'. The story pertains to Filey Brigg which is a rocky outcrop stretching out into the North Sea. This area has been surrounded by folklore with various tales of the devil - but more interestingly dragons. The story varies from tale to tale, but the common theme is there was a dragon that terrorised the local community and only had one weakness: like all other dragons, it was greed. This dragon did not crave the usual gold, gems and hoard building - nope, this dragon's greed was for cake and I think we've all been there. Locals would lure it away from the village with delicious, tasty, sticky parkin. My lord, I want some parkin. Why's it only June? Anyway, the dragon finally met his end with varying degrees of stickiness. Some accounts say he was simply lured to a spot and killed; some say his jaws stuck together from the parkin and he died; some say it ate so much it died; other accounts say his mouth was sticky so he bent down to drink from the sea and seeing this the locals took their opportunity to drown it. And that was the end of the Filey Dragon. I can relate, this is probably how it's going to play out for me too."

Gabble Ratchett / Gabriel Ratchett

A particular type of spirit dog that chase through the sky emitting an awful noise. They are described in various ways: as the souls of unbaptised babies that fly around their parents home; as an aspect of the wild hunt; as an omen of death or misfortune. They can vary in appearance and often have a human face. I went this route as I love doing drawings like this. There has always been a trend of drawing characters that are human-like but have a cutesy animal head. A while ago, I thought I'd have a go at the reverse: cutesy human heads on animals... The results were horrific. Even rendered in a cute style, there was something deeply unpleasant about them. I kind of liked them but the focus group unanimously replied, "Oh hell no." But I don't learn.

Gormire Lake

Gomire Lake has a few fun myths attached to it; some say it's bottomless, contains a submerged village, or contains a portal to hell. The most popular story is of a knight who conned the local abbot to let him have a go on his rather lovely white horse, which was said to be one of the fastest in the land. The abbot allowed him, and accompanied the knight on a small ride but the pace increased and they started riding faster and faster until their ride had become a race. They raced on and on until the abbot showed his true form; the knight could now see the abbot was old Beelzebub himself which, needless to say, spooked the heck out of the horse. In its surprise, the horse couldn't stop before the cliffs and so the horse and the knight were sent flying into Gormire Lake. The devil then jumped in after them - at which point the water boiled and gave the water a dark appearance.

Another fun smaller tale tells of a goose that once disappeared in the lake and appeared at a well in Kirbymoorside with all its feathers missing. What had that poor goose seen?

Despite it's name translating as "filthy swamp," having a portal to hell, and being apparently "seething with leeches," it is still somehow one of the most popular wild swimming spots in the UK. It is said the lake is quite often warm which, being hell-adjacent, makes sense. So if you fancy a dip with the devil, maybe a trip to Gormire is on the cards.

Grindylow

Native to both Yorkshire and Lancashire, though I have found many more accounts from Lancashire. Designed to scare kids away from dangerous bodies of water - always fun to draw and clear in their purpose. The names of the various child-stealing bog dwellers seems to be quite fluid and interchangeable; your big names are Jenny Greenteeth, Peg Powler and Nelly Longarms, but you will find a litany of different names combining the various ones and occasional tales where something that is heavily associated with another region appears elsewhere (e.g. Jenny Greenteeth who is quite firmly in the Lancashire camp, suddenly appearing in Yorkshire). Given their purpose is the same and the areas are relatively close, it makes sense that we have so many versions with things in common and fun local twists.

Hail Mary Hill Treasure

Also known as Hell Mary Hill. Near the top of the hill is reported to be a cave containing an enormous iron chest filled with golden treasures - the only problem being that it is guarded by a giant and ferocious cat with a taste for human faces. If you do manage to catch the cat off guard, you'd still be out of luck as there isn't a rope strong enough to lift the chest out.

Hand of Glory

Hands of Glory are a particularly gruesome item in folk history and appear across Europe. Though the only known surviving one is at Whitby Museum, there are also a couple of famous tales of their use in Yorkshire - notably, 'The Spital Inn' in Stainmore and 'The Oak Tree Inn' in Leeming. The Hand of Glory was a tool used by thieves to put the owners of a house into a deep sleep. To make a Hand of Glory, you will need to find a man who is being hung for murder and, whilst he is still hung, cut off his right hand (the hand that did the deed) and then pickle it. There are additional steps and variations - some have you making a candle from the fat of a gibbeted felon or using their hair to make the wick - but you get it; it's a grim mummified hand from various bits of a strung up wrong'un.

The hand sometimes appeared as a clenched fist which you would use to hold the felon-fat candle but the one in Whitby is an open hand; with these ones you would light each finger and, if one refused to light, it showed that someone was still awake in the house. To extinguish the flames, you would need to use blood or milk - more often milk, for obvious reasons, but if you've gone this far then a bit of blood isn't that much of a stretch.

Headless Horseman

We're all familiar with headless horsemen - they are found the world over - and we have a few headless horseman myths in Yorkshire, though more often than not they are simply a spooky thing that you see on a country road and don't have too much of a story attached. Just a cliff-note in some old text mentioned nonchalantly like:

"Oh, Jimmy Farrow said he saw the horseman down the old lane t'other night."

"Did he now?"

"Aye. Horrid it was, he said."

"Aye?"

"Aye..."

"Pint?"

"Pint."

The most famous horseman apparition is that of Walter Calverley who is not headless himself but his horse is. Walter was an absolute horror and, in one fit of rage, killed his children and attempted to kill his wife. He then set off to find his oldest son to kill him as well but was chased by locals and flung from his horse. He was captured and tried for his crimes and was the last person in the UK to be executed by 'pressing.' It is said his ghost rides around Calverley on a headless horse.

Hob

Throw a dart at a map of Yorkshire and you will find hob folklore - they are probably the most abundant myths of the county. Just like the brownie or similar household spirits, they are lovely small chaps that will help around the house in exchange for very little (usually some milk and oats) and can be a great boon and joy to the household. However, angered hobs could take a turn and make it their life's mission to make yours a living hell: smashing up the place, creating absolute pandemonium, total chaos. Which just sounds like the duality of parenthood to me.

Humber Monster

The Yorkshire coast could have this type of sea serpent drawn all along it - the common long serpent-like creature with large eyes and of unusual size. The Humbers grew to fame and had peak sightings in the 1930's but you can also find similar stories at Grimsby, Filey, Hornsea and Bridlington.

Janet

Now this one is a bit close to my heart as I love Malham. I think a lot of us Yorkshire folk do, and if you can get there on a day when it's not busy, it is a truly magical place. For some reason or another, the place centres me more than any other place I have been. I know those hills and those views mean something deeper to me than I can rationally explain; there's just something about the place, the tree-lined streams, the view from the top of the cove and, of course, Janet's Foss.

Janet's Foss is named after the fairy queen said to reside in the small cave behind the waterfall. Janet gets a little bit confused and not too much is ever said of her. Some say there are simply benevolent and beautiful fairies living in the cave who come out to dance - lovely. Taking a step away from lovely, others hypothesise that it was a witch who resided there. Taking it a step further, you get accounts of the wraith. Now the wraith is a different thing entirely, described as a plume of green mist rising from the water that will dart around the water. Accounts tell of people bathing in the water when the mist appears and chases them. Those it has caught have all told the same story: that they saw something truly horrifying in the mist that they can't explain. Quite often, this is followed by misfortune or even death. I'll take the pretty fairies please.

My theory is that these aren't separate things. In more recent times, we have viewed fairies as Disney-fied Tinkerbells - in no small part due to another Yorkshire story, or rather hoax, 'The Cottingley Fairies'. However, traditionally and for centuries, fairies were viewed as a scary thing: they walked through different worlds; viewed humans as things to be played with; delighted in tricking or cursing people. Our ancestors knew not to trust them and they developed a whole litany of rituals to appease or baffle them. From leaving milk and bread for them; not cutting down special trees; staying clear of fairy forts; not building downhill from a fairy tree; carrying iron; turning your clothes inside out - the solutions are numerous but they let us know how seriously they were taken. So my thoughts are that both forms of Janet are congruent with fairy lore and that it isn't necessarily Janet the wraith or Janet the fairy queen - they are one and the same.

Jeannie Biggersdale

Described as a fairy, a wicked sprite, a hob, a hag, or a witch. It is hard to know what exactly Jeannie is meant to be, though through stories we can ascertain a few things for sure: she is a she (duh); she is reputably not the prettiest person/being ever (harsh); and that she has absolutely and categorically no desire to be bothered by people whatsoever.

Now this would all be fine if one fella hadn't got some odd notions in his head. The story deviates and, either way it goes, this chap is about to make a bad decision. He either: A - decided she was a beautiful fairy lady and a wooing he would go; or B - got smashed and made a bet with other drunkards that he would dare go see Jeannie. Neither are a great plan. Regardless of the setup, it plays out in the same way: he approaches Jeannie's cave and calls out to her; when she appears she is terrifying and carrying a wand; he loses whatever notions he held, gets on his horse and bolts but Jeannie is scary fast and is on his tail. He remembers his grandmother's advice that fairies and other such creatures cannot cross a running stream so he charges ahead making for flowing water. As he gets there, Jeannie catches up and either: simply kills the horse and he is thrown across the stream, escaping; or - if we want to get graphic - she hits the horse with her wand, splitting it into two equal heaps of dead horse with the chap and front half being flung to safety (well, for the guy at least). No one likes cold callers.

Jenny Gallows

Jenny is said to be the ghost of a girl who threw herself down a well in Flamborough. It is said, you can summon her by running around the well eight times - which can't be a good idea.

Kilgram Bridge

Kilgram Bridge crosses a notoriously treacherous bit of the River Ure. Nearly 1000 years ago, the devil appeared and offered to build an indestructible bridge over the river - though he would claim the soul of the first to cross it. So, we have a classic tale of the devil building something with an extremely vague contract which is susceptible to hi-jinks. Who will make the other look the fool this time? Well, it's the devil's turn to be tricked. A shepherd swims the river and whistles for his dog, called Grim, on the other side. Being a loyal and smart boy, he comes running and, when on the bridge, the devil takes the dog. Thus the name Kill-Grim or, as it has become, Kilgram. Poor Grim.

There may be ties to other grims of folklore, as often grims were spectral dogs said to protect sacred ground. It was believed in England that the first being buried in a new church yard would be duty bound to protect the church, so it became normal to bury a dog there first. Interestingly, in Scotland, it was said to be the last person to be buried there which seems fairer - share the load, do your bit, etc.

King Arthur

It is not often you get Arthurian Legend in this part of the world and thus why it pipped the Richmond Drummer Boy for the spot. Arguably, the drummer boy is more well known, but I'm taking King Arthur over a lad with a drum every time. Richmond Castle is one of the sites where Arthur and his knights are said to be resting, ready to save England in its greatest hour of need.

Tour guide moment: For another Arthurian spot, check out Pendragon castle just over Yorkshire's North border. Or, if you are in Richmond, get yourself up to the George and Dragon in Hudswell for their pies. Absolutely delicious and homemade - they make you feel like you're five years old and eating delicious homemade pies in your Gran's dining room. The King has eaten there but it is still a comfortable down to earth place. I have not been paid to say this by the way but, whenever I go to Richmond, I go there for lunch so they are psychologically interwoven, Pavlovian. If you say Richmond Castle, I get hungry and sitting there with a pie and cold drink in the sun sounds just about perfect right now.

Long Sword Dance

Long sword dances are a traditional dance of Yorkshire, featuring a team of dancers who perform an intricate dance holding the longswords until at the end the swords are held aloft in the form of the 'lock'. I won't go too into it here, as I am sure there are intricacies and meanings that I am not versed in, but information and organisations are out there. You can have the opportunity to see the longsword teams perform at various fetes through the year.

Loschy Serpent

The story tragic story of a knight and his loyal pooch. Peter Loschy was a famous warrior; his last quest was to kill a `monstorous serpent that was infesting nearby Loschy Wood - presumably named after this famous incident. He had heard that many had tried to kill it before but it would heal itself from any blow. Armed with this knowledge he set out with his faithful hound and a special suit of armour coated in razorblades - presumably on foot so as not to get through an alarming amount of horses, and being careful not to hug anyone on route.

Eventually, he encounters the serpent who wraps itself around him and tries to crush him. Thanks to the razorsuit, this doesn't feel too great for the serpent so it recoils from him. As it does, Loschy notices the wounds immediately heal and its vigour is replenished. A slug fest ensues with neither gaining much advantage over the other. Exhausted, Peter swings wildly and manages to sever a chunk of the beast's tail. His clever dog grabs the piece before it can reattach and runs it over to a neighbouring hill. They repeat this process again and again until only the poisonous head is left - which wonder pooch takes away also. When it returns, the knight bends down to praise his faithful dog who happily licks the knights face, and they are happy and victorious for a moment until they realise what they've done. In a Romeo and Juliet-like tragic ending, they both succumb to the poison and die. In Nunnington Church, you can see the tomb adorned with a sculpture of a knight lying down with a dog by his side; this is said to be our heroes' resting place.

Mary Bolles

Or Dame Mary Bolles Dtts, if we are to give her proper title, was an interesting character. She was most notably the first ever Baronetess - and there have only been another three after her, so you know that's not nothing. Her father passed when she was only 14; ten years later, a woman was accused of causing his death through witchcraft and was tried and executed. Dame Mary was known to be a bit eccentric but appears to have been a charitable soul and lived to the ripe old age of 82, passing away in 1662, which at the time is pretty astounding.

The reason she appears here is that, upon her death, there was a quite an elaborate funeral: she had laid on a considerable amount of money to entertain "kindred, friends and servants and other persons ordinary and extraordinary"; dropped big money on an effigy; and donated a lot to local charities, mainly to help children in poverty. Good one Dame Mary - sounds like she lived big and went out similar. There is just that one weird stipulation...

Seal up her bedroom forever. Just brick it up and ask no questions.

And they did. They respected the Dame's request and so the room was shuttered up. For many years, there had been rumours that she had dabbled in the dark arts - because any powerful woman at the time must be a witch, in cahoots with Satan, or mucking about with something unnatural. Regardless, people resisted the urge to open the room up for 50 years - which is waaaay longer than my inpatient curiosity would have allowed. Ever since, there have been ghostly sightings around the area. The door to Mary Bolles' room is currently held by Wakefield Museum.

Mother Shipton

Born during a terrible storm, which abated soon as Baby Shipton cackled her first gurgly cackle.

Mother Shipton is a global icon - whether you know her or not, some aspect of her has probably informed the witch or soothsayer stories that you are familiar with. She had a fascinating life and, surprisingly, there are plenty of accounts written down and even images of her. Mother Shipton is someone, if I had the time to create a book/zine, I would like to dedicate a decent chapter to and - due to the volume of information available - I shall not try to recount it here; it would be a poor job and not doing the great Mother Shipton justice. If you are interested in soothsaying, witches and some great stories, look her up - some are heartbreakingly sad, other are genuinely hilarious. She was certainly a character.

Old Stinker

There have been werewolf stories based around the Hull area for approximately ten centuries; the most famous of these is known as Old Stinker, on account of his foul breath. I've smelled my dog's breath enough and can only imagine the stank from an eight-foot werewolf who, I assume, isn't eating anything nearly as bougie as the stuff I feed my spoiled dog. Old Stinker is an enduring legend of the area and has been sighted fairly recently with a spate of sightings in 2016 - so many that concerned citizens organised a werewolf hunt. Unfortunately, bad weather caused it to be called off so I guess we'll never know. I hope he got through the pandemic ok - it was hard to adjust after the lockdowns and maybe he has become a bit socially awkward and that's why we've not seen him. Or maybe I'm projecting onto a big hairy stinky beast? Have I become the beast? Oh God...

Old Tup

Old Tup is a costume made up of a crafted sheep/ram's head on a pole held by a man covered in a sackcloth. Old Tup and a litany of vibrant supporting characters - usually a butcher, a person in drag and the devil - would walk the town knocking doors and performing in exchange for payment. It is performed around Christmas and I would hazard a guess that some drinking occurs.

Pace Egg Play

Pace egg plays are performed around Easter and are a very folky street pantomime, in the same style as mumming. Participants wear lovely colourful hand-crafted costumes made of anything to be found at hand: flowers, tinsel, old fabric scraps, feathers - it's all fair game to get the look. You got to love the DIY ethic in folk art and performance; it looks so great.

The performance can vary from town to town but it is usually a hero fighting a villain and, at some point, they are killed and brought back to life - usually by some comedic doctor - and sometimes he ends up with a fair lady. The play is a light, funny and festive performance and all ends happily. The performers are rewarded with decorated eggs or other treats.

Peggy Farrow

Peggy was a healer from Elloughton who was known far and wide for her knowledge of plants and her healing ability. By far the most well-known cure that she possessed was the ability to remove warts by rubbing them with a gold ring. Unfortunately, this didn't seem to work for her and she had many warts on her face, leading some to believe that she had lost her touch. Peggy became reclusive and refused to deal with the townsfolk. Around this time, it was said she was seen with a cauldron; accusations of her being a witch grew rampant and, when an epidemic hit the area, people accused Peggy of cursing them. Sadly, as so often happens in these stories, poor Peggy was hung. She is said to still haunt the area where it happened and the lane she frequents has been renamed 'Peggy Farrow Lane'.

Peg Fyfe

Peg Fyfe is called a witch but her other moniker, "the demon queen of England," would be more suitable. She didn't conjure and brew; Peg woke up and chose violence. Peg liked to steal things and, if anyone should stand in the way, she also enjoyed killing.

Peg had decided to steal a horse from the local stables and approached the local stable boy to play a quick game of "Guess what you're an accomplice to?" She informed him of her plans and said he best stay pretty darn quiet about the whole thing or she would skin him alive. Despite Peg's threats, the boy informed his master - which was probably a poor choice on his part. The heist went sideways and Peg laid low for a while, biding her time before she found the boy and did exactly what she had promised to.

Peg was arrested, tried and sentenced to be hung. They strung Peg up but she refused to die, having placed an item in her throat to prevent the noose from choking her. This would have been a good plan had some knights not been passing and finished the deed with their swords. A violent end to a violent individual.

Peg Lantern

Peg lantern is a Yorkshire term for a will-o'-the-wisp: the ephemeral glowing lights that lead travellers astray in boggy marshes. In Bronte country, wisps have been talked about for centuries - even getting mentioned in Jane Eyre. I always enjoy a day in Haworth and it is an area teeming with folklore and ghostly goings on - it also happens to have gorgeous old cobblestoned streets and is full of interesting shops. It has a similar vibe to Whitby; they both have this gorgeous gothic atmosphere, they're both very beautiful, and have a strong literary connection. There is probably a reason so much folklore has developed around them both.

Penhill Giant

Another from our "Mythical Beasts of England" map:

"You know those people who are just relentlessly the worst, well the Penhill giant makes them look lovely. His story is quite long so I won't be able to sum it up here, though it is worth a read. He is essentially a descendent of Thor who terrorises the locals, kills their herds for giggles, is a bit of a sex pest, smashes women with clubs, abuses then kills his dog and beats his workers. He is given a warning by a hermit, which he ignores and the entire thing resolves with the ghosts of his past returning to see him dead - including his dog who is more than happy to oblige in seeing him over the edge of a cliff."

Robin Hood

OK, now some people from Nottinghamshire are flipping tables. But Yorkshire may - nay, does - have many claims to the British hero. This is a fiercely debated topic and people have dedicated large chunks of their life and written books researching and discussing Robin Hood as he is such an important figure in England, up there with Arthur... And now the Arthurian fanatics are flipping tables.

Due to the massive scale of debate on the subject, I won't say which I think is true but I think you can hazard a guess at which side I'm rooting for. I shall simply say that Robin Hood has been around for centuries and appeared in many guises in various ballads and tales, so I can see how Nottingham may have got it twisted... *ahem* I mean, why there might be some confusion or conflicting information. But, a lot of them seem to point to him being a Yorkshireman as well as placing a lot of the supporting cast at sites around Yorkshire so, you know, time for some statues.

Robin Roundcap

Not to be confused with a Redcap, which is an altogether different and much scarier being from the borders of Northumberland and Scotland. Robin Roundcap is a much more mellow character, matching the description of a household spirit (hob).

He seems to have helped with the chores around Spaldington Hall for a great many years before becoming slightly unruly. Tales of offended hobs becoming a liability are many and usually there is an event that triggers this. It has been conveniently left out of these accounts but a hob doesn't just go bad, man. So whatever may or may not have transpired to instigate this change, Robin begins to cause the usual hob chaos: a subtle blend of mild annoyance; creating exasperating tasks; and very light criminal damage - mixing grains up, kicking over milk pails, putting out the fire etc. Eventually, he is given a lengthy time-out and is trapped in a well by 3 monks.

The more I read of hobs, the more it sounds like the mood swings of a young child: one minute, helping and being lovely; the next, absolute rage over the slightest and often weirdest thing and completely unreasonable and inconsolable. Come to think of it, in hob stories, the trigger is usually not giving them their daily porridge and milk - and I have one hundred percent seen a meltdown over those exact things being done "wrong". There may be something here, if not it's an interesting thought for the day. Anyway, moving on from the Parkinson unified hob and child porridge theory...

Ripon Wakeman

The Ripon Wakeman is one of the longest ongoing traditions in the world, dating back to 886 AD (you have to put an AD or BC there, dates with only three numbers just look wrong). The story goes that King Alfred the Great was travelling the country to reassure everyone that Vikings aren't as horrid as they appear, but best keep an eye on them anyway. To this end, he gifted Ripon a Royal Charter and a big old horn to alert anyone should any Vikings be trying to raid the village - which they absolutely won't but, you know, just in case.

So, from then on, the horn was blown by the Ripon Wakeman every night to let people know that he was on duty and keeping an eye on the city. I don't know about you but there's nothing I find more reassuring than a large horn being blown just as I'm settling on an evening, I wouldn't find that startling at all.

Rudston Monolith

The UK's tallest megalith, it even has a fetching lead hat to protect it - I like to think that it is a crown for its achievement of being the biggest of the big rocks. The common story is that the devil was annoyed at a church being built on an important pagan site so threw a giant stone javelin at it. Fortunately for the church, despite the many accounts of the devil throwing rocks at things, he never seems to have developed much of an aim.

Screaming Skull

Yorkshire has a few screaming skull hauntings, which do exactly what they say on the tin. The one that I have placed on the map is the story of Elizabeth from Burton Agnes Hall. Whilst the hall was still under construction, young Elizabeth was attacked and wounded by cut-throats; she slipped into a fever and died a few days later. Her dying wish was to see the hall completed so she asked her sister to take her there so she could see it complete. How about no? As much as I love you, and you've had a trauma, there is a line, there are legitimate last wishes you can make - say a nice meal or get my things in order. Cutting off your sibling's head and sticking it on the mantelpiece whilst it decomposes over the presumably long time it takes to make an Elizabethan manor house is not one of them.

They make the hygienic decision to have her buried. But, oh, she wasn't having that. It wasn't long before they could hear wails and strange noises from the grave, which gets annoying after a while, so they dug her up and collected the skull - which had conveniently removed itself from the body and shed any trace of flesh. When the skull reached the house, it became peaceful and remained so until, one day, a servant heard the story. Calling BS, they wrapped the skull in linen and threw it in a wagon and, as the wagon left the estate, it began to shriek so loud that the horse startled, the manor shook and all the pictures fell from the walls. They bring the stubborn skull back and seal it in a wall because they are over Elizabeth's penchant for dramatics and could do without the headache. Rumour is that it's still in there, but no one knows where.

Semerwater

Lake Semerwater is one of the only two natural lakes in the Yorkshire Dales, so most of us are familiar with it. I have spent a great many days up here paddle-boarding and can tell you from experience, "that lake ain't right." I love Semerwater but, if you are ever fortunate enough to be on the water by yourself in early Autumn, it is a bit creepy. The water is very dark, it is eerily quiet, and the level rises to submerge nearby vegetation whose branches poke out like little dark fingers. I have definitely freaked myself out up there before.

Semerwater carries with it a couple of folk stories: there is an incident of the devil and a giant having a rock fight but, more famous by far, is that there is a sunken town underneath it. The story tells of a hungry hermit who requested somewhere to stay and something to eat all around the town, but was turned away by every single person. The hermit left the town and asked at a nearby cottage and they obliged him. The good night's sleep did nothing to sooth the frustration of the previous day, so he cursed the town: “Semerwater rise, Semerwater sink and bury the town all save the house where they gave me meat and drink.” And that's what happened - a great flood engulfed the town all the way up to the kind host's house, who had just bagged himself a peaceful lakeside property, score! You just have to try and forgot the horrors of all your neighbours drowning, and the nearest shop being a bit further away, but a lakeside property in Yorkshire is pretty rare so you move on.

Serpent of Kellington

The serpent of Kellington features your regular sheep munching dragon, causing havoc on the flocks around Kellington. All the local shepherds got together and decided something must be done, before fixing their eyes on a shepeard name Amroyd who must have responded, "Yeah let's hire a knight right... Right?". Unfortunately for Amroyd, that was not the plan and, as the bravest of the shepherds, he set off with his dog and crook to fight a dragon - which is not how he thought his Tuesday was going to play out. Against all odds, he succeeds but it is little comfort as he loses his life in the process, as does his dog. His descendants are gifted land, and a monument featuring a man, a dog, a crook and a serpent can be seen at the local churchyard.

Sessay Giant

There are a few stories of Cyclops-style giants dotted around this area of Yorkshire. The one I chose to use was the Sessay Giant - mainly because we have a better description of his appearance, and it features the luckiest chancer of a hero.

In the area around Sessay, lived a horrid giant: a huge brute with arms and legs as thick as an elephant's; a mouth as wide as a lion's, filled with sharp teeth; in the centre of his forehead was a single eye; he was attired in cow hides; and he carried a tree to use as a club. So he wasn't particularly a friendly-looking chap and, in case you wondered if he had some redeeming features or inner beauty waiting to burst out, the answer is a definite nope. He would eat a cow from the local heard every day, and steal oats from the mill which he'd mix with the blood of the aforementioned cow. If he got bored of this diet, he would also take a local girl, or even a baby.

At this point, a soldier named Guy came to woo a local wealthy girl in the hopes of making a power couple by joining their two estates. Unsure at first, she agrees but on the condition that he rids them of this terrible scourge. He agrees and, when buckling up his sword, they both witness the giant reaching in the mill to steal some more oats. In Three Stooges-style, the giant steps back as the mill sail is coming round, which knocks the giant square in the head and he falls to the floor in a daze. Not believing his luck, Guy runs up and sticks his sword in the giant's eye, killing him. There were celebrations and presumably they wed. It was hardly a chivalric dual or particularly noble, some may even call it a sucker-punch, but you take the opportunities you are presented with.

Sexhow Worm

The Sexhow worm was a bit of a weird worm - it didn't take sheep or cattle for its quarry but would drink the milk of nine cows every day. Milk theft is a surprisingly common theme in folklore - there are no shortage of stories of snakes taking milk from nursing mothers - but it is unusual to get a full-scale dragon/wyrm subsisting exclusively on milk. The other strange thing about the worm was that it is described as pestilent/poisonous, like the more old version of dragons, but it is also said to breath fire. It is not often you get both in one scaly package.

Another strange part of the story is that it was killed by a pretty nonchalant knight. The knight was just passing through the area, killed the dragon and then immediately sodded off. No showboating, no trophy, no rejoicing villagers, no swooning ladies. Just killed it, gave it a poke, mumbled a quiet "Yup," and rode off to do who knows what. Badass.

Slingsby Serpent

Capping off our trinity of dragon slayers with tombs that feature dog, hero and dragon: Sir Wyvill, said to be the slayer of the Slingsby Serpent. The beast is said to have lived in a divot in the land and preyed on passersby - which is a bit more concerning than the previous milk thief. Sir Wyvill and his hound set out to kill the beast and succeed but, in very familiar Yorkshireman and dog vs dragon fashion, passed away shortly after.

Staithes Mermaids

It seems that Yorkshire hospitality took a long time to develop - or that it isn't extended to mythical beings.

A long time ago, a fierce storm was churning the waves near Staithes. Two mermaids had found themselves caught in it and could not escape. They agreed that their best chance of survival was to head for Staithes beach. Fighting all the way, they finally made it to the beach before succumbing to exhaustion. When they awoke, they found themselves trapped in fishing nets and strung up in the centre of the town for the gawping privilege of the locals. They were met with mixed responses; some took sympathy and brought them food and water, others would poke them or even throw objects at them. This went on for months until the locals hardly noticed them anymore - the mermaids then either convinced a sympathetic sailor to free them, or escaped during a big festivity. Either way, they were pretty damn annoyed by the entire process and cursed the town: "The sea shall flow to Jackdaws’ Well." And, due to coastal erosion, it did exactly that. Needless to say the mermaids never came back and left a scathing 1 star review on TripAdvisor: "If I could give it 0 stars, I would."

Strid Kelpie

Near Bolton Abbey is a stretch of water known as one of the most deadly in the world: the Bolton Strid. The River Wharfe is a winding and gorgeous river but, as it approaches Bolton Abbey, limestone rocks create a pinch point narrow enough to almost stride over - but don't. Just don't. The Strid has no time for bravado, as the river essentially flips onto its side, forming a powerful and deep body of water, that is full of vortexes and underwater caves. No one who has fallen in has ever come out alive.

It is no surprise that an area such as this has acquired a few myths - it is obviously haunted as all heck but, apart from that, it has been said the Strid has a Kelpie. Yes, a Kelpie - the Scottish water horse that will drown you, and possibly eat your innards. It is strange to hear of such a thing so far south of the Scottish border. I have no idea when the word Kelpie became attached to the site, certainly a water horse would be a suitable beast to attach, but 'Kelpie' is such a Scottish term. Regardless, it fits the theme perfectly and I'm always interested in how myths travel. In the global scheme of things, Scotland to Yorkshire isn't such a leap - heck, I make the trip several times a year. I wonder if the Strid Kelpie is a Scot? Maybe retired down to Yorkshire? Who knows, I'm not getting in the Strid to ask it.

The Ebbing and Flowing well

The ebbing and flowing well is located in Giggleswick and is still there, though it is not great to visit due to its proximity to a busy road. It also ebbs and flows less than it did in its prime - but, hey, don't we all? The strange behaviour of the well gave way to a few local legends; it is said that the well was created when a nymph was being chased by a satyr and prayed to the gods for help. They helped but not likely in the way she was hoping, as they turned her into a spring that ebbs and flows with her breaths. It may have been preferable for them to send someone to have a word with the satyr about appropriate behaviour and boundaries, rather than liquifying her. Clearly, whichever gods she prayed to require you to be very specific with your prayers. Also what on earth are a nymph and a satyr doing in Yorkshire?

The Golden Ball

Once there were two lasses who saw a chap who caught their eye - indeed, it would have been hard for him not to catch their eye as this chap was dressed in a gold cap, with gold on his fingers, gold on his neck, gold around his waist and a golden ball in each hand. Which I'm sure we can all appreciate is a powerful look; it would certainly qualify as peacocking. He gave a ball to each of the girls with the warning that, if they ever lost it, they'd be hanged. So not really subtle enough to be a Chekhov's gun, but the stage is set and we know where this is going.

One girl lost her ball whilst paling. (And yeah, I have no idea what that is. My best guess is it relates to paling fencing, maybe throwing the ball at the fence and catching it?) Anyway, she stuffed it and the ball went over the paling and towards a house and disappeared inside. Oh bugger. Well, she had lost her ball so there was only one thing for it, hang her. Seems legit.

Now, fortunately for the lass, she had a beau and she sent him to seek out the ball. He, of course, obliged and so commences the most high-stakes game of "Can I have my ball back?" since you had to go ask your grumpy neighbour if you could retrieve your Frisbee after already bashing his car when rollerblading that morning. The young chap approached the house when an old woman appeared out of a ditch - which is not where you usually expect to find old women - so he is a bit startled. She told him that, if he wanted the ball, he had to sleep three nights in the house. This didn't seem like a particularly difficult request so he replied that he would and she then disappeared - probably cackling, there's usually cackling.

He searched the house but no ball so got into his pjs, ready to get night one ticked off. No sooner had his head hit the pillow did he hear strange noise from outside. Bogles, bloody bogles, and lots of them, making all kinds racket. Then, he heard loud footsteps coming up the stairwell. He concealed himself and waited. In walked a giant, five times his height, who bent down to look out of the window at the bogles; as he did, the lad cut him in two - his torso falling through the window to land outside with the bogles. At which point, they say, "Oh hey master, say lad, can we have the other bit?" The lad sees no practical use for a pair of giant legs, and they add nothing to the decor, so he obliges and shoves them out the window too. It all goes quiet and he gets some rest.

The second night, another giant appears but the boy is ready and chops him in half as soon as he enters the room. The legs keep walking, they walk straight into the fire and right up the chimney. He turns to the giant's upper body and says, "You might want to go catch up to them." The giant agrees and follows his legs into the fire and out of the chimney.

Night three gets even stabbier, but has fewer giants. In fact, it was all quiet until just before he fell asleep when he heard the sound of a heavy object being rolled to and fro. Peeking under the bed, he saw two bogles rolling the golden ball back and forth. This goes on until one bogle sticks his leg out from under the bed - immediately, the boy chops it off. Not being the brightest creatures, the other bogle sticks his arm out and the same happens to it. This bizarre experiment of "Oh, I wonder what would happen if I stick my left leg out?" goes on like a grim hokey cokey until the bogles run out of limbs to shake all about. Eventually, they waddle - or potentially roll - off, wailing about the injustice of it all, leaving the golden ball behind. And, for reasons I'll never understand, this never became a level on the Crystal Maze.

There is a lengthy and ultimately pointless part of the story here where we return to our imperilled lass about to be hung. There is a call and response where she tries to delay the hang man by saying,

"Oh, here comes my mum! Mam, have you got my ball?"

"Nope."

This repeats with her sister, father, uncle, aunt, cousin - which does kill a tremendous amount of time, which for her is great but for us as readers not so much. Anyway, eventually, she spies stabby lad and says, "Ye better have that bloody ball!" to which he replies, "Aye," and they all live happily ever after.

Tom Dockin

Tom is a Sheffield-based bogeyman - sometimes described as a fairy or a bogart, but functioning entirely as a bogeyman - with the usual good parenting approach of "Be good or this horrific thing will come to snatch you." Tom had terrifying iron teeth - which do appear in folklore (notably Jenny Wi' the Airn Teeth in Glasgow) - though you'd think, it being Sheffield, they should have been steel but maybe Tom Dockin pre-dates steel manufacturing in the city?

Tommy Knockers

Tommy knockers are diminutive little subterranean beings associated with mines. You find variations of not only across the UK but in Europe and the USA too - maybe even further afield but I haven't got to them yet. Working in mines was a dangerous way to make a living, and it is no wonder superstitions and beliefs form in these environments. Yorkshire has a deeply proud mining history so you know we have a bunch of these stories.

Tommy knockers can be quite beneficial and can guide miners to rich seams or warn of a cave-in, but they can also be cheeky and steal food or extinguish lights. It can be dangerous to mock or ignore a tommy knocker, and sometimes small gifts of food would be left for them. They particularly like bacon apparently, but that goes for most of the population - if you leave bacon out for me, I am more likely to be helpful.

Upsall Castle Treasure

The tale tells of a fella named George from Upsall who kept having strange dreams that if he went to London Bridge, he would be told something important. Curious George set off to London and, when there, stood in the centre of the bridge - and there he stood for a while, confused and frustrated. It took a long time for someone to approach and check in with George because, well, it's London, it is notoriously not the friendliest place. Eventually, he is approached by a friendly Quaker who asks if he is ok. George says he feels a bit daft and explains his dreams. The Quaker gives a chuckle and confides in George that he has experienced a similar repetitive dream; in his dream, if he goes to somewhere called Upsall and digs under an Elder Bush in the castle courtyard then he will find gold.

"Say that's your neck of the woods, George. Have you ever heard of it?"

"No... Sorry, can't say I have."

George returns home and digs under the bush immediately and - would you believe - the Quaker's dream was correct and he finds a pot filled with gold. The pot's lid has an inscription on it that is written in some strange unfamiliar language. George stashes the coins at home but gives the found pot to the local pub which, like pubs all these years later, love a bit of bric-a-brac all over the place. One evening, he's having a drink in the pub and hears a visitor enquire as to why there is a pot with writing in the "old language." (Which just makes it sound ominous, why wouldn't you say Latin or whichever language it was? "Old language" makes me think of old gods, or that something Lovecraftian is about to be summoned.) The locals don't really say much but, to try and engage them, he asks, "Do you know what it says?" They admit that they don't, so he lifts it down and reads it: "Look lower, where this stood lies another twice as good." Oh damn! George didn't even finish his pint before leaving.

George heads up to the bush in the dead of the night and digs and digs until he finds a second jar. It is twice the size of the first and, by the time he gets home, he collapses exhausted. The next morning, he empties the gold and sees the same inscription: "Look lower, where this stood lies another twice as good." He dug and dug and dug and eventually found a third jar, twice the size of the last. He had made his fortune and was set up for the rest of his days.

It's a bit of a dull ending - there is no twist, no boggart arrives, he doesn't die from the exhaustion trying to find the third as a warning about greed, so where's the point? I think the story is pretty front-loaded and may have a message about quite literally following your own dreams, or trusting your intuition. Or that, despite what you may have heard, you will be able to find at least one friendly person in London.

Wade and Bell

Wade and Bell were giants whose marriage - and in particular its falling-outs - were responsible for creating some of the geographic features of Yorkshire. The Hole of Horcum was said to be created when Bell got angry at Wade so grabbed a hand full of dirt to throw at him, fortunately missing and creating Blakey Topping (a nearby hill). Now admittedly this doesn't sound great - not exactly what you'd call a stable relationship - but, if it makes it any better, they would throw worse at each other when they were on good terms.

Wade and Bell were said to reside in Mulgrave castle which Bell had made. At the same time, Wade was building Pickering castle - presumably, in case everything went bad and he ever needed his own place, or maybe to get some Airbnb money, I'm not sure. The problem was that they only had one hammer between them so would throw it the 22 miles between them. They would yell a warning before doing so - still, I don't think that would be an appropriate solution on a risk assessment form. Also, if your ex can throw hammers at you from their house, you've clearly not moved far enough away.

WerewolVEs

Whilst our main star of the werewolf genre is undeniably Old Stinker, Yorkshire is replete with plenty of no-name-badge werewolves. There is an area known as the Wold Newton Triangle which is like England's answer to the Bermuda Triangle only, instead of things disappearing, it is an area absolutely bristling with werewolves, fairies, boggarts and other such mad things. So nothing like the Bermuda Triangle - except that it's a kinda triangle and weird.

Wharram Percy Revenants

Wharram Percy is a site I love. It is one of the UK's best deserted Medieval villages; the site could have been inhabited since prehistoric times, but was mostly occupied for the 6 centuries leading up to its abandonment at some point around 1500. The story you will hear most often is that it was the plague, though this isn't the case as the village was still functioning for centuries after. The most plausible explanation is that, as it became more profitable to farm sheep than grow crops, the Percy family began to evict more and more tenant farmers to demolish housing to create grazing land. Heartless.

Though what you think you'd lose in creepy charm from not having the black death connection is more than made up for by a recent discovery. At Wharram Percy, bodies were found showing some of the earliest evidence of people in Britain trying to stop the dead from rising out of their graves. Skeletons were found decapitated, burnt and broken in ways to prevent them from rising and spreading death and disease to the village. Creepy.

William, the hermit of Linholme

I found a lovely little piece written for 'The Gentleman's Magazine' in 1747 by Rev. Abraham de la Pryme, F.R.S. I am assuming "gentlemen's magazines" were quite a different offering than such magazines today and that TGM was not some precursor to FHM, who were not known to include a large number of articles written by reverends. But anyway, the piece reads:

"Within a humble lonesome cell

He free from care and noise does dwell,

No pomp, no pride, no cursed strife,

Disturbs the quiet of his life.

A truss or two of straw's his bed,

His arms, the pillow for his head.

His hunger makes his bread go down,

Although it be both stale and brown.

A purling brook that runs hard by

Affords him drink whene’er he’s dry,

In short, a garden and a spring

Does all life's necessaries bring.

What is’t the foolish world calls poor,

He has enough; he needs no more.

No anxious thoughts corrode his breast,

No passions interrupt his rest,

No chilling fear, no hot desire

Freezes or sets his blood on fire,

No tempest is engender'd there,

All does serene and calm appear.

And 'tis his comfort when alone,

Seeing no ill, to think of none,

And spends each moment of his breath

In preparations for his death,

He patiently expects his doom,

When fate shall order it to come.

He sees the winged lightening fly

Through the tempestuous angry sky,

And unconcerned its thunder hears,

Who knows no guilt can feel no fears."

Lovely. There are also a few other tidbits attached to William: one is that young couples would come to drink from the spring before being wed; another being that he predicted his own death and so dug a hole and rigged a giant stone to a support that he could release to bury himself. That's confidence.

Yordas Cave

A cave near Ingleton is said to derive its name from being inhabited by a giant named Yordas. But could also come from "Jörð á" meaning earth stream - which would make a lot of sense given the pools that form inside it and the cave waterfall - but, shhh, print the legend.

Thank you for joining us on this trip through Yorkshire folklore. Copies are now available.

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