So, I'm a frustrated writer. I have published numerous poems and short stories in literary magazines, journals and e-zines, but the novel has, as yet, evaded me. The big one, so to speak. It's like writing a single but not quite having the gusto to go on and write the album. I've had more false starts than Colin Jackson. Ripped up more manuscripts than a paper shredder. Brought to life enough characters to fill a large warehouse, then blown it to smitherines before any one of them escaped. I am the ultimate 'nearly-novel' man.
Nevertheless. What relevance has this got to Pendle Hill? Well, I'm constantly looking for inspiration. I like to drop myself in the middle of nowhere, look around, and start again. Today I decided it was time to visit the place where, almost 400 years ago to the day, three suspected witches were hunted down and caught, before being tried and hung at Lancaster Castle. I'd decided that if the myths and legends of our ancient countryside couldn't rouse the muse, then my pen would have to be next for the gallows. So, off we went.
Driving out of Southport was more like driving through a war-zone since the rain crashed against the windscreen with the force of tracer bullets. I kind of wondered what I was doing heading for a big hill when I could still have been lying in bed, or relaxing in a radox bath, or sat in a cafe reading a book, or at worst watching Judge Judy rip someone's head off whilst constantly reminding everybody how smart she is compared to every other life-form this side of the solar system. I was wearing a pair of jeans, some steel-toe-cap boots, and my 'going-out-jacket' , which puzzled me even further once half way there since such attire seemed extremely inappropriate, and to be perfectly honest, fucking ridiculous when considering I was about to hike up a bloody big mountain in Arctic conditions. Alright, ok, so it's not a bloody big mountain. And yes, I'll accept that the conditions weren't quite 'Arctic'. It's easy to admit that now I am sat next to a burning coal fire, but at the summit I'd have sworn it was true. Put it this way: if that was a hill, it will be a cold day in hell before I hike up a mountain. End of story.
And yet the story is only just beginning. After aqua-plaining off the A59 onto a country road barely wide enough to cycle down, I saw the brief glimmer of sunlight break through the clouds before the rain began to harden into snow. It was an obvious tease from above - or more a curse (since I think it's important to remain thematically relevant), resulting in me slumping back into my seat and turning Steely Dan on full blast. A car nearly hit us head on as we scraped round a bush at 30mph, causing a dual emergency stop, and then several seconds of utter confusion as both cars backed up and pulled forward with comic synchronicity. I looked to my left, being sat in the passenger seat, and saw nothing but bracken and brambles, and sheltered my face from the ensuing melee. Nothing, I thought, is ever simple in this life.
By the time we arrived in Newchurch - the supposed 'village' housing the famous witch shop - I presumed we must have got through the scrape unscathed. It was only when I exited the car that I realised that the paint was completely stripped off on my side. For our troubles we were now travelling in a half-purple Volkswagen Polo. And now for this 'village'. We drove past the two houses (one of which contained the famous witch shop, 'Witches Galore') several times before reluctantly accepting that this must be it. Twenty yards down the road from this expansive development lay a derelict cottage labelled 'the old slaughterhouse', and a little further down the hill a tiny church with a rather large graveyard (which, being perfectly honest, bemused and amused me in equal proportion; either hundreds of people had lived in these two houses all at once, or they had specifically requested to be shipped up the hill after croaking it to be buried in the wilderness). "How can this be a village?" I asked my friend Lenny sardonically. With an air of deserved disgust she said: "It's not a village, it's a hamlet." That, of course, settled that.
Ducking into the 'shop' was the first hurdle. Trying to find a pathway to the till through millions of hanging plastic witches was another. It truly was witches galore. "Welcome," somebody said, and I turned to see an old lady limping down a small staircase towards me covered in a huge grey shawl. It was quite a disconcerting moment to tell the truth - I fully expected to turn into a frog or end up in a broth within seconds. However, neither presumption came to fruition, and she turned out to be a very kind and friendly lady who told us enthusiastically about the legend of the tiny houses with millions of inhabitants. . . . . . . . . . I mean the Pendle witches. I couldn't resist acting like a typical tourist, buying a book and a replica of a 16th Century poster declaring that all ghouls and witches and werewolves and dishonest politicians should be hanged, or something like that. "That'll get framed and put on the wall," I told the old woman, knowing full well it wouldn't, and that within days I'd have probably lost it. She smiled at me, displaying her tooth, and then ushered us towards the 'cafe', which consisted of three two-seater tables, a frying pan and a sink. Oh, and there must have been a microwave and a kettle, because I had a hot lemon and ginger cordial (which was delicious) and some lentil and bacon soup (which wasn't). By this stage the old woman had put some directions on a piece of paper to direct us to the 'hamlet' of Barley - the village, sorry, 'hamlet' at the base of Pendle Hill. Why? So that we could climb up it and then climb down it again. Her husband, who had appeared from nowhere at the sink as I grimaced with my soup, repeated her every direction word for word, clarifying the fact that they were both in on it, whatever the 'it' might be. Look, I've been reading a lot of Sherlock Holmes recently. I felt I had a right to be suspicious.
Anyway, as in the film Hostel, (although admittedly they were dealing with beautiful Eastern Europeans in their twenties rather than decrepid looking old couples) we trusted their every word and set off for, firstly, the tiny church down the road where the old woman claimed "one of the witches is buried - the third grave against the South facing wall, underneath a brick that was made to look like God's eye to ward off evil spirits." So, I thought, let's get this right. I'm off to see a brick (which, incidentally, was the biggest anti-climax of the day so far bar the soup) that is supposed to look like God's eye to ward off evil spirits, and yet there is a witch buried right underneath it. Somewhere, I decided, logic has got lost in that story, but I smiled and nodded all the same. The eye, of course, was particularly demeaning to God if you'd have asked me - I'd have said a trip to SpecSavers wasn't out of the question. And as for the grave, which was supposed to be that of 'Alice Nutter of Roughlee' - one of the witches tried and hung - it was littered with other peoples' names, and rendered itself barely readable. I've been had off, I thought, as I wandered back to the car past the church and both of the houses.
We spent the next twenty minutes travelling the one mile to Barley, narrowly escaping killing several sheep at 5 miles an hour, and wondering what the weather held for us at Pendle Hill. Luckily the snow had held off, and the sun, believe it or not, threatened to break the gloom. "Are we going up to the top?" Lenny asked as we clambered over the first public footpath gate. "Well, I guess that's the idea," I replied before skidding ten foot across sheep shit and ice. The next hour, I must admit, was a total and utter ball ache. Aside from the fact that my jeans turned form blue to black, my boots felt like an unbalanced pair of skis, and the inner-linings of my gloves came out with my unimagineably sweaty palms, I felt like my heart was going to shoot through my chest into the sheep-shitty mud like a torpedo through the ocean. Now I wont lie to you. I am a sportsman gone wrong. It's not easy trying to balance rock and roll with keeping fit, and to be fair the latter has suffered of late. Actually, I'd better clarify: for about five years. So, before we have even made the 'base' of the hill, I've got the cold sweats, jelly legs, nausea, and severe lactic acid attacks. Early on I gave up putting on a brave face and let my jaw fall in the shit along with my clothes, staggering aimlessly through the slop, whilst occasionally sprinting on the spot to avoid hitting the deck. Lenny loved this, of course, until she began to realise the difficulty of the task ahead herself. From this point onwards we respectfully gave each other the camera as an admission of surrender, posing for unwanted photographs with trees and fences to hide the fact we were both fucking knackered.
Nevertheless. What relevance has this got to Pendle Hill? Well, I'm constantly looking for inspiration. I like to drop myself in the middle of nowhere, look around, and start again. Today I decided it was time to visit the place where, almost 400 years ago to the day, three suspected witches were hunted down and caught, before being tried and hung at Lancaster Castle. I'd decided that if the myths and legends of our ancient countryside couldn't rouse the muse, then my pen would have to be next for the gallows. So, off we went.
Driving out of Southport was more like driving through a war-zone since the rain crashed against the windscreen with the force of tracer bullets. I kind of wondered what I was doing heading for a big hill when I could still have been lying in bed, or relaxing in a radox bath, or sat in a cafe reading a book, or at worst watching Judge Judy rip someone's head off whilst constantly reminding everybody how smart she is compared to every other life-form this side of the solar system. I was wearing a pair of jeans, some steel-toe-cap boots, and my 'going-out-jacket' , which puzzled me even further once half way there since such attire seemed extremely inappropriate, and to be perfectly honest, fucking ridiculous when considering I was about to hike up a bloody big mountain in Arctic conditions. Alright, ok, so it's not a bloody big mountain. And yes, I'll accept that the conditions weren't quite 'Arctic'. It's easy to admit that now I am sat next to a burning coal fire, but at the summit I'd have sworn it was true. Put it this way: if that was a hill, it will be a cold day in hell before I hike up a mountain. End of story.
And yet the story is only just beginning. After aqua-plaining off the A59 onto a country road barely wide enough to cycle down, I saw the brief glimmer of sunlight break through the clouds before the rain began to harden into snow. It was an obvious tease from above - or more a curse (since I think it's important to remain thematically relevant), resulting in me slumping back into my seat and turning Steely Dan on full blast. A car nearly hit us head on as we scraped round a bush at 30mph, causing a dual emergency stop, and then several seconds of utter confusion as both cars backed up and pulled forward with comic synchronicity. I looked to my left, being sat in the passenger seat, and saw nothing but bracken and brambles, and sheltered my face from the ensuing melee. Nothing, I thought, is ever simple in this life.
By the time we arrived in Newchurch - the supposed 'village' housing the famous witch shop - I presumed we must have got through the scrape unscathed. It was only when I exited the car that I realised that the paint was completely stripped off on my side. For our troubles we were now travelling in a half-purple Volkswagen Polo. And now for this 'village'. We drove past the two houses (one of which contained the famous witch shop, 'Witches Galore') several times before reluctantly accepting that this must be it. Twenty yards down the road from this expansive development lay a derelict cottage labelled 'the old slaughterhouse', and a little further down the hill a tiny church with a rather large graveyard (which, being perfectly honest, bemused and amused me in equal proportion; either hundreds of people had lived in these two houses all at once, or they had specifically requested to be shipped up the hill after croaking it to be buried in the wilderness). "How can this be a village?" I asked my friend Lenny sardonically. With an air of deserved disgust she said: "It's not a village, it's a hamlet." That, of course, settled that.
Ducking into the 'shop' was the first hurdle. Trying to find a pathway to the till through millions of hanging plastic witches was another. It truly was witches galore. "Welcome," somebody said, and I turned to see an old lady limping down a small staircase towards me covered in a huge grey shawl. It was quite a disconcerting moment to tell the truth - I fully expected to turn into a frog or end up in a broth within seconds. However, neither presumption came to fruition, and she turned out to be a very kind and friendly lady who told us enthusiastically about the legend of the tiny houses with millions of inhabitants. . . . . . . . . . I mean the Pendle witches. I couldn't resist acting like a typical tourist, buying a book and a replica of a 16th Century poster declaring that all ghouls and witches and werewolves and dishonest politicians should be hanged, or something like that. "That'll get framed and put on the wall," I told the old woman, knowing full well it wouldn't, and that within days I'd have probably lost it. She smiled at me, displaying her tooth, and then ushered us towards the 'cafe', which consisted of three two-seater tables, a frying pan and a sink. Oh, and there must have been a microwave and a kettle, because I had a hot lemon and ginger cordial (which was delicious) and some lentil and bacon soup (which wasn't). By this stage the old woman had put some directions on a piece of paper to direct us to the 'hamlet' of Barley - the village, sorry, 'hamlet' at the base of Pendle Hill. Why? So that we could climb up it and then climb down it again. Her husband, who had appeared from nowhere at the sink as I grimaced with my soup, repeated her every direction word for word, clarifying the fact that they were both in on it, whatever the 'it' might be. Look, I've been reading a lot of Sherlock Holmes recently. I felt I had a right to be suspicious.
Anyway, as in the film Hostel, (although admittedly they were dealing with beautiful Eastern Europeans in their twenties rather than decrepid looking old couples) we trusted their every word and set off for, firstly, the tiny church down the road where the old woman claimed "one of the witches is buried - the third grave against the South facing wall, underneath a brick that was made to look like God's eye to ward off evil spirits." So, I thought, let's get this right. I'm off to see a brick (which, incidentally, was the biggest anti-climax of the day so far bar the soup) that is supposed to look like God's eye to ward off evil spirits, and yet there is a witch buried right underneath it. Somewhere, I decided, logic has got lost in that story, but I smiled and nodded all the same. The eye, of course, was particularly demeaning to God if you'd have asked me - I'd have said a trip to SpecSavers wasn't out of the question. And as for the grave, which was supposed to be that of 'Alice Nutter of Roughlee' - one of the witches tried and hung - it was littered with other peoples' names, and rendered itself barely readable. I've been had off, I thought, as I wandered back to the car past the church and both of the houses.
We spent the next twenty minutes travelling the one mile to Barley, narrowly escaping killing several sheep at 5 miles an hour, and wondering what the weather held for us at Pendle Hill. Luckily the snow had held off, and the sun, believe it or not, threatened to break the gloom. "Are we going up to the top?" Lenny asked as we clambered over the first public footpath gate. "Well, I guess that's the idea," I replied before skidding ten foot across sheep shit and ice. The next hour, I must admit, was a total and utter ball ache. Aside from the fact that my jeans turned form blue to black, my boots felt like an unbalanced pair of skis, and the inner-linings of my gloves came out with my unimagineably sweaty palms, I felt like my heart was going to shoot through my chest into the sheep-shitty mud like a torpedo through the ocean. Now I wont lie to you. I am a sportsman gone wrong. It's not easy trying to balance rock and roll with keeping fit, and to be fair the latter has suffered of late. Actually, I'd better clarify: for about five years. So, before we have even made the 'base' of the hill, I've got the cold sweats, jelly legs, nausea, and severe lactic acid attacks. Early on I gave up putting on a brave face and let my jaw fall in the shit along with my clothes, staggering aimlessly through the slop, whilst occasionally sprinting on the spot to avoid hitting the deck. Lenny loved this, of course, until she began to realise the difficulty of the task ahead herself. From this point onwards we respectfully gave each other the camera as an admission of surrender, posing for unwanted photographs with trees and fences to hide the fact we were both fucking knackered.
The higher we got, the steeper it got, the worse my language got, and the more I prayed there was going to be something worthwhile at the very top. You know, like a cauldron, or a haunted castle, or the mutilated remains of a witch who had been hung in 1612. Needless to say, there was none of that when my shattered body reached the summit over an hour later; in fact, there was little more than a small stone to commemorate the legend. That and twenty students from a St Helens college who were getting bollocked by their tutor for smoking whilst talking about shagging. The legend of the Pendle Witches, I thought. Fucking marvellous.
If this major anti-climax, coupled with violent passive smoking, wasn't enough to peturb me, the trip back down certainly was. Many suitably attired fell-walkers stood aside as my limbs zig-zagged me through the treacherous ice and snow - a sheer drop on my left hand side constantly reminding me of my mortality. It had been quite a long time since my body had felt so utterly incapable of anything but slumping in a heap - probably the last time I did any serious exercise actually; so, yes, ages ago. I had resigned myself to the fact that I was going to end up in a puddle of shit before I got down, which only exaggerated my astonishment when I arrived at the bottom relatively unscathed. Even the sheep applauded. I sank into my seat in the half purple Polo and inserted Paul Weller's Wild Wood album. The song Can You Heal Us (Holy Man) provided little comfort as we pulled out of Barley the wrong way, passing a 'Welcome To Yorkshire' sign within minutes. Once again, I thought, nothing is ever simple in this life. . . . .
So. There probably isn't a novel in it. There's a suprise. Although it would make a pretty good episode of Extras, or at worst, Monty Python. Or, maybe, a decent first installment of a new blog. What do you think?
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1 comment:
Very amusing and only a little Artistic License!! However, I'm disappointed you didn't mention the funeral party that prevented the pint in the pub - shame on you!
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