You are currently browsing the tag archive for the ‘UK’ tag.
And so, after studying numerous photographs, reading myriad charmless celebrity ghost stories and conducting extra research on our paranormal friends, we set out again in our never-ceasing search.
Looking For Ghosts travelled to the grand Apsley House on the corner of Hyde Park. Here, one of Britain’s biggest bastards has been seen as an apparition. And, for once, the person who saw the ghost isn’t some blithering eejit; it was our noble and forthright prime minister!
Arthur Wellesley was Tory Prime Minister (topical!) in 1832 when he caused outrage after opposing a Reform Bill. An enraged mob had gathered at Apsley House when, suddenly, the PM performed a U-turn and accepted the bill.
Why? Because of a ghost of course! Oliver Cromwell’s ghost obviously.
Legend has it that Cromwell appeared to Wellesley and cast his disapproving finger at the mob. Wellesley being quite the detective, deduced that this meant that he was making the wrong decision and thus, he gave an unexpected thumbs up to the bill.
Most probably the old Prime Minister didn’t want to be lynched by a revolting gang of ne’erdowells. What a wuss.
Unfortunately, we were far to eager in our ghost-gathering; we turned up too early to the house and it was closed. We will have to return another day to see the spot where Oliver Cromwell didn’t appear.
Footnote: Arthur Wellesley was the 1st Duke of Wellington who gave his name to the Wellington boot. Now, dear readers could a man with such sensible footwear really be mad enough to make up a ghost?
Most people may know that the UK faces a crucial vote next week in the general election. However, what a lot of you may not know, is that there is an even more crucial vote that is taking place right now.
Yes, that’s right, the Looking For Ghosts Grand Ghost Poll, is a mere click away. Scroll down to find the most intense and rigorous paranormal poll that humankind has seen.
We intend to enter the results from the poll into a big computer to aid our long-suffering, and so far futile, search for ghouls.
Please vote. It’s below on the left. Ta.
A lot of people like to drink alcohol. A lot of people like to get drunk. And a fair few people claim to have seen ghosts. See where we’re going with this?
Humans + alcohol = loads of bloody ghosts (H+A=GGGGGGGGGG!!)
Looking For Ghosts put this finely equated scientific formula to the test by taking ourselves on a “research expedition” around some of Hampstead’s finest drinking dens.
We began at The Spaniard’s Inn at the peak of Hampstead Heath. Reputedly the home of highwayman Dick Turpin, customers have seen a shadowy figure striding around the pub in a domineering fashion. Black Bess’ haunted hoof beats are heard in the car park, while ghostly tugs at sleeves have been felt in Turpin’s bar.
While it is a fantastic pub, which no doubt has seen a lot of history in its 500+ years, it’s hard to be spooked by it when it’s packed to the rafters with tourists, clumsy waiters and whining children.
We plodded over Hampstead Heath, making sure to avoid any ghostly horsemen and found ourselves in Hampstead village. We recovered from our trek across the heath in The Flask Tavern. This pub is haunted by Monty, a former landlord who likes to pay the occasional visit to his pride and joy. In 1997, some definitely-not-pissed customers saw Monty moving tables and chairs around due to his annoyance at a recent refurbishment. We didn’t see Monty unfortunately, probably because we didn’t stay for long.
The pub benefits from an idyllic location and attractive interior, but on a negative point, all the customers seemed to know each other from a recent bank robbery they’d committed. Monty would not approve.
We re-located to the William IV. Legend has it that a doctor murdered his wife here and concealed her corpse in the pub’s cellar. Her ghost has ever since been a-haunting here. Obviously gagging for a pint. Although, we didn’t see here; she must have had a hangover. We stayed for a few more pints here, waiting for the second of the pub’s spooks to arrive.
The spectre of a young girl in a white shroud has been seen looking up at the pub from the high street. She is supposed to be a suicide victim that killed herself after some particularly atrocious dental treatment in a cunning tactic to avoid her next appointment. Maybe her ghost stands on the pavement thinking “bugger, maybe I should have just got battered here before having my molar done”. We raised a glass or two to her.
A bit of bush
We then stumbled through the back streets of Hampstead to the Holly Bush Inn. We trekked through graveyards, deserted streets and winding alleys, up and down the area’s hilly terrain. The secluded nature of Hampstead really reveals itself when wandering the sparse streets at night.
We finished our night with a few at the Holly Bush Inn, which is frequented by a phantom waitress. She didn’t serve us.
Let’s cut to the chase. We had quite a few drinksssh a we didn’t shee a sshingle bloody ghossshht.
That’ssh becausshhe they don’t exisssht. Right? I’ll tell you another thing, hic… I jusht felt shomething on me leg… What wassh that? Oh no, forget it… I pisshed meshelf again.
Sadly, we ended the day ghost-less. Half cut we flagged down the nearest ghost bus, paid the spectral driver and headed back to LFG HQ to hold each other’s hair as we vomited the night away.
Ever had the feeling you’ve been cheated?
When Johnny Rotten said this, we here at Looking For Ghosts know exactly how he felt.
For this is how we also felt when, on hearing about a haunted tree in Green Park, we were sorely let down by a thoroughly unspooky quest to find said frightening foliage. Imagine our chagrin when we discovered not one, but hundreds of trees in the royal park. All with branches. Gnarled branches.
The Tree of Death (whichever one it may be) is said to emanate a woeful feeling of melancholy. It has reputedly been the site of many suicides and, to add to an impressive list of questionable paranormal accolades, it is the source of a low unexplained gurgle and is avoided by even the parks animal residents.
Oh, and standard ghost-hunting fare; a shadow figure has been seen darting behind it on occasion.
We can report to you EXCLUSIVELY that none of these things happened while we prodded and inspected every bloody tree in the park. Seems like ghosts still don’t exist. What nonsense next? A ghost bus? Never mind the bollocks, here’s the ghost hunters.
Next on our ongoing search for paranormal friends, Looking For Ghosts visited Eaton Place in Belgravia. Sandwiched between the dim opulence of Knightsbridge and the gormless splendour of Sloane Square, it is no surprise that the ghoul that haunts this grand terrace is a posh div.
In 1893, Admiral Sir George Tryon was floating about in his boat Victoria off the coast of Syria. Our hero gave orders for his ship and the nearby Camperdown to sail merrily into each other. Clever move George.
Four hundred men died, including the loopy Admiral himself. Apparently, his last words were: “Oh bugger”.
At the exact time of his comeuppance, his spectre was seen by a room of party-goers at his home in Eaton Place. Preposterous really isn’t it? At the exact time we read this tale of idiocy on the high seas, we felt this spooky sensation of nauseous disbelief.
A load of old poop-deck.
More recently, Eaton Square has been home to more famous names: sexy food botherer Nigella Lawson and her husband Charles ‘artoholic’ Saatchi; professional eyebrow-raiser Roger Moore, Scarlett O’Hara (or Vivien Leigh to her friends), Roman Abramovich, Lord Boothby (he of questionable acquaintances), Neville Chamberlain, Jose Mourinho and last but not least, Sean Connery.
The City is the oldest quarter of London, yet now houses some the most modern skyscrapers in the metropolis. Old churches, pubs and cobbled streets are hidden from view by these new, towering structures, giving their existence a strange, off-kilter existence.
One of these older structures is St Botolph’s Without Bishopsgate, which sits behind Liverpool Street station and lies just opposite London’s newest skyscraper Heron Tower.
We visited St Botolph’s, hoping to catch a glimpse of this ghost.
Top right. On the balcony. Yeah, trust us. That’s supposed to be a ghost. That “ghost” was taken by Chris Brackley in 1982 while his was photographing a church that he says was only inhabited by him and his wife. Which begs the questions… Is his wife see-through?
Allegedly, a few years later, coffins were found in the wall of crypt revealing a preserved corpse of a woman who bore some sort of resemblance to the figure in the picture. Details are sketchy and wholly unconvincing.
So, Looking For Ghosts searched for this wispy madame but, unfortunately, did not find her. Probably because it was a smudge on the lens or, for want of a better word, bollocks.
Formerly a gothic church, the ruined gardens situated between the Old Bailey and St Paul’s Cathedral are allegedly the home to some feisty female ghosts.
This site was the last resting place of Isabella of France – the wife of Edward II and the mother of Edward III – who was given the dubious moniker of ‘She-wolf of France’. The conniving Queen consort plotted to depose her husband and, one night in September 1327, the King met with a death most foul. According to a rather teeth-clenching account, the monarch met his maker by way of ‘a kind of horn or funnel…thrust into his fundament through which a red hot spit was run up his bowels’. Hot stuff indeed.
Isabella was imprisoned by her son and died incarcerated. She was buried in her wedding dress at Greyfriars with the heart of Edward II on her chest. Lucky she was dead; red stains are a bugger to get out of white.
Apparently, Isabella’s beautiful but angry ghost can be seen at twilight still clutching her old man’s beating heart. Hell hath fury…
If one paranormal pin-up wasn’t enough for you, then maybe Lady Alice Hungerford will satisfy your needs. Alice, considered a great beauty of the Tudor Age – a time when false teeth and small pox scars were de rigueur among many high-class women.
Alice, like Isabella, was in a murderous mood. In 1523, she bumped off her husband with a dose of poison. She was put to death by boiling, which, even though it was nearly 500 years ago, seems like a ludicrous punishment. She too was interred at Greyfriars and she too spooks the graveyard.
Now this is were it gets saucy. Many years later, during the reign of Old Queen Vic, the spectral stunners were seen to be catfighting by a night-watchman. Ladies please. Let me loosen my tie.
So, when the Looking For Ghosts team turned up at Greyfriars in our dinner jackets, armed with red roses and Belgian chocolates, we were disappointed not to catch the slightest glimpse of these nocturnal nymphs.
Whilst we were in the City, we continued our search for ghouls by walking the short distance from Cornhill to Threadneedle Street and the Bank of England.
Standing outside these imposing metal doors many questions were racing through our minds. What dark secrets lie within? What of the strange, cryptic symbols emblazed on the doors? What time do you open? I’ve got a cheque to pay in.
The Bank of England houses one of the most famous London ghost stories of all time, that of the Lady in Black (or Black Nun) Sarah Whitehead.
We were confident of catching a glimpse, with us being something of a hit with the ladies and all…
In 1812 Philip Whitehead, a clerk at the bank, was found guilty of forgery and hanged. His sister, Sarah, was not informed of her brother’s execution until one day she turned up at the bank to ask of his whereabouts.
The news left Sarah devastated and she refused to accept his death, opting instead to turn up at the bank every day dressed in funeral attire to ask staff where her brother was. Eventually, the bank got so tired of her daily visits that they offered her a large sum of money to go away and never return.
A woman of principles, Sarah kept her promise. However, in death she was not so virtuous.
For several years after she died, late night city workers regularly encountered a lady, dressed in black robes, on Threadneedle Street or by Bank station always asking the same sorrowful question: “Have you seen my brother?”
Predictably, we didn’t see her. Either she was immune to our charms or, more plausibly, she never existed. Either way, our ghost count still stands at a paltry zero.
Now that we were suitably prepared, it was time for the Looking For Ghosts team to embark on our first hunt. We figured that a promising starting point would be the City of London itself, known as the “Square Mile”, whose grim and lurid past surely means that thousands of ghosts from centuries past spill out of every church, crypt and alleyway hidden away among the capital’s financial district.
With this in mind we stumbled across St Peter upon Cornhill, an ancient church curiously nestled between modern city buildings and designer boutiques, and soon discovered it boasts an interesting history.
According to an inscription in the churchyard, it is the oldest Christian church in Britain, with the original site founded by King Lucius in 187 AD.
Even if this is not the case (several churches in the UK have stated similar claims) the building, re-designed by Christopher Wren in 1687 after the original building was destroyed by the great fire, houses a more provocative tale.
In the nineteenth century, a vicar at this church noticed that plans for a building next door encroached on to church territory by a slight margin.
A bitter legal dispute ensued, with the architect forced to re-draw his plans. By way of revenge, he added three sinister stone gargoyles to the building to sneer down upon the churchgoers below.
The intimidating devil looming over the church door is said to be created in the image of the fastidious vicar (who by all accounts got just what he deserved for being such a kill-joy).
Verdict: whilst this building is of some historical significance (and the gargoyles are an unsettling sight on a gloomy Sunday afternoon in a largely deserted city), it’s no more haunted than your average branch of HMV. Ghost count so far stands at a pitiful zero. But we shall continue!
Catharine Arnold’s grimly fantastic book Necropolis: London and it Dead states that London is “above, a city thriving with life. Beneath, a city filled with the dead”.
Which is lucky, as the Looking For Ghosts crew – all two of us – happen to live in this very Necropolis. Spooks aplenty surely?
The coming posts will explore London’s most haunted buildings and areas. And, hopefully, we will be able to strecth our budget to reach further into the UK’s haunted regions.
Before we began our spooky search for the existence of ghosts, we referenced another book to find out what equipment we might need to help us catch sight of our intended targets.
How to be a Ghost Hunter by Richard Southall claims that a good ghost-hunting kit should include:
Tape Recorder
Microwave Radiation or Electromagnetic Detectors – oh yeah just happened to have them in my bedroom
Pad of Paper and Pen
Compass
Watch or Stopwatch
Laptop Computer – Mr Southall obviously wants us to be prime mugging targets
Flour – to bake a cake for any hungry ghosts?
Thread – for extra jumpers in case of inclement weather?
We studied this list and decided that our eyeballs and and a couple of cameras are the most useful tools at our disposal. Don’t expect any terrifying photgraphs of ectoplasm-dripping phantoms but we’ll try. Oh, and if we get bored we might chuck a bag of flour at a ghoul or two.