The other afternoon, about 16.45, I was walking the dogs down the first jitty (there are two in the village and we differentiate between them through the application of this cunning number-based naming convention). It was a tad gusty, but a clear day, in fairly bright afternoon sunlight, with broken cloud cover.
I heard movement behind me, a familiar sound, one I’ve heard dozens of times before. My hearing told me that it was a cyclist. I turned my head just a fraction and my peripheral vision picked up and relayed to me: a female cyclist on a butchers bike (you know the sort of thing, heavy-looking, a frame on the front for a basket, black colour). She was wearing either a long dress/skirt, or a drizabone-type full-length coat. Whatever she was wearing, it was brown. She also wore a straw boater-type hat.
I stepped to the right, turned 90° towards her to create room for her to pass and she wasn’t there. Nobody was there.
When I got home, a good 40-minutes later, my heart was still racing.
There is a history of ghostly apparitions hereabouts; the old part of the village has a rich history which includes a disappearing manor house, nefarious activities in the former coaching inn (haunted, and also the scene of a murder). The shame is that I am unable to get valuable information from one of the village’s oldest residents (who has previously provided Sam with some excellent historical stories. I’ve spent quite some time wondering how I could have a chat with her.
Do you believe in ghosts, then?
I certainly wouldn’t have thought you the type.
“It’s very easy to tell if your house is haunted: It isn’t.” – Jimmy Carr
I believe in everything. Except for the things that I don’t believe in. It’s my Celtic nature, see? I come from the land of Llyfr Gwyn Rhydderch, Llyfr Aneirin, Historia Regum Britanniae, Breuddwyd Macsen Wledig and, of course, Mabinogion. And we’ve all heard about Jimmy Carr.