Growing up on Dartmoor in the seventies, fairies, witches and ghosts were woven in to the fabric of country life. Superstitions and folklore lingered longer in these remote reaches of England, and we were raised on tales of unwary folk who had wandered dangerously into fairy rings or were bewitched into mires, meeting their doom because they failed to heed the warnings of the old ways.
It was only when I left for university and the wider world, that I realised that not everyone grew up in a house where things moved on their own or had stories that began with ‘the witch in our village..’.
The magic that is palpable on Dartmoor makes it natural to believe in things that go bump in the night. My own ghostly encounters over the years have been consistent enough for me to be convinced there is something hidden in the quiet places and liminal spaces of our normal lives.
If it is fairy, goblin or ghoul, I couldn’t say.
Meg and I had our own ghostly encounter a few years back.
Our usual evening route takes us through a very prosaic housing estate on the edge of the village bordered by fields, chosen as the irregularly spaced out street lights mean I don’t end up tripping over in the dark when I forget my torch.
This early November evening was clear and full of stars, with not a scrap of wind as the stillness of the tree branches attested. We were walking from the darkness of the lane towards this first pool of light, when suddenly, Meg froze, staring intently at the gate to a cow field about 10 yards ahead.
We both watched as a cloud of mist swept across the field, just above the ground. When it reached the gate, it poured over as though in a science experiment from some B movie, forming a man-sized column in the road in front of us. I held my breath, half-expecting a ghostly figure to emerge, but then, the mist simply dissolved, leaving nothing behind.
Meg shook herself and continued walking. I needed a little more encouragement.
