First things first…
I’m not one for jumping straight in with conclusions but the recent spate of missing hens makes one wonder if it is all just down to foxes.
I think the mysterious daubing of blood on windows and some front doors along with strange ritualistic looking amulets makes one wonder. I mean these objects look crafted out of animal bones as well as twigs bound together and dressed with feathers. Come on, it stretches the imagination to try to blame this on some cunning foxes. We’ve a coven practising magic somewhere.
I knew of a group feeling the wrath of some farmer many years ago. The farmer had discovered a group daubed head to toe in butchered hen’s blood banging on a Tom-Tom adorned with a necklace of feathers. A rather heavy aromatic smell of pot filled his barn. Gawd! Was he mad.
It didn’t help according to the news report of the leader telling the farmer to ‘chill out man.’ Not the sort of thing to say to a wound up, high blood pressured farmer, ready to blast shot from his weapon of choice that early morning. I believe the farmer’s about 18 months left on his sentence.
You know I’ve still got that lion’s paw, don’t know where the Magus is to give it back. It’s all very reminiscent of that story – The Monkey’s Paw. Anyway, at least I wasn’t holding the damn thing when I made that unguarded wish.
I do come across some unusual things regarding folklore and superstition, not sure if this would fit into old folklore but let me run this by you for the moment.
I’m told if you take a photograph of someone and judging by the outcome of this I assume you’re taking a snap of somebody you don’t particular see eye to eye. Take the picture you’ve printed, or in my day received a set of box brownie unfocused, under-exposed, amateurish set back from the developers. Take the 6×4 prints and display it upside down. Apparently the subject will then have a blinding headache. Why am I telling you this?
Right, well that wasn’t a bad cup of tea out of Brenda’s thermos flask, let’s see if Seth Spindlestone is in this time. I’ve tried a few times to catch him in his house. I’m sure he said meet me at eleven.
I’m in Ilkley by the way trying to meet up with Seth. I’ve only spoke with him on the telephone. Ah, it looks like I’m in luck; I bet that’s him sat on the garden bench. I’m approaching the cottage terrace, its beautiful catching a warm sun across its face.
“Seth Spindlestone, Willoughby Bedford.”
Silence.
I don’t seem to be getting a reaction. Maybe I’ve got the wrong man.
“Willoughby Bedford, here to meet a Mr Spindlestone.”
I wait for the reaction while he puffs on his pipe.
He’d a white natty fedora hat with striped band, off white linen jacket and high-waisted, belted trousers. I’d say he was 80; a well-rounded person would be a polite way to put it.
A few more puffs on his pipe and then the pronouncement.
“…’appen you are… na then… whe’d tha ‘bin I’ve bin wai’n on yur.”
I thought better not to challenge a Yorkshire man.
“I can tell tha’s not from Yawkshire.” He remained sitting and me standing.
“Spot on.” I said.
“You never ask a man if he’s from Yawkshire ’cause if he is he’d told yur already.”
He offered me the seat next to him and we gazed out on a tranquil scene of cottage flowers and shrubs placed in terracotta pots.
“What a lovely place you’ve got here, so unspoilt.”
“Aye champion.”
The pipe smoke hung around us, a not unpleasant aroma, but still rather strong. I coughed a little. Mr Spindlestone turned to face me exposing teeth clenching pipe in place.
“Na’ then, yur say thee no brass, ah well, sounds loike gaffer ain’t got owt to give. Go on I’ll tell yur tale now yur ‘ere.”
Not so much a ghost tale but more a strange tale of UFO’s and ET. I sat with Mr Spindlestone in the peaceful south-facing corner of his cottage terrace, sipping homemade lemonade without a charge for it and heard his tale.
“I’d a friend who’s a retired police officer. Went on t’ moor to take a picture of queer lights reported o’er tops. Anyhow seems he’d prepared well, got reight film stock for low light or sommut loike tha.”
He stopped a moment attending to his pipe. It had gone out again.
“Bacca’s na bin stored proper, gotten damp.”
He looked at me as if it were my fault.
Finally getting the pipe glowing he continued.
“Anyhow, it were back-end of year. Reight foggy up there. Seems he wa’ frie’ten’d by spotting a little grey man. Loike nowt he’d ever seen. Them wrap round eyes.”
Seth started to gesture to emphasis the point.
“Big head, three fat fingers on each hand and V shaped feet. I’d been fair capped wi’ ‘im. Run a bloody mile ne’r mind taking a photo of it, eh Willoughby.”
I didn’t answer.
“Anyhow, seems he’d got a photo of tha’ critter. Reckons he got taken on board one them flying saucers.”
He puffed on his pipe deep in thought.
“I’d have clouted little bugger if tha’ ‘ad been me.”
“What of the photograph Mr Spindlestone?”
“Were tested by labs apparently. Yur know Kodak or was it Agfa, dunno even sent it to America.”
“What was the result do you know?”
“They reckon photograph hadn’t bin interfered with. Na than, what do ‘ur make o’ tha, Willoughby? Little grey men on t’ moor.”
Well it made an interesting tale I continued to talk with Mr Spindlestone and provide the following link to the story make of it what you will… Ilkley Moor UFO
by Willoughby Bedford/John Riley
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