North Yorkshire Folk Tales (15 page)

The rain fell all day. Then the clouds vanished and the shepherd, daring once more to look into the valley, saw no town at all, but only the low winter sun shining on the calm grey water of a lake.

Do not call it that! To name the Devil is to call him up, they say. Call it Dibble’s Bridge; that would be safer – and yet its evil builder, for once, claimed no deadly price for building it as he did in other places.

Take Kilgram Bridge, for example, that straddles the Ure between Thornton Steward at the lower end of Wensleydale and Jervaux Abbey. In the past, the villagers’ efforts to build a bridge strong enough to cope with the force of the river in flood kept failing. Wooden bridge after wooden bridge was washed away, leaving them and their animals stranded. In desperation, they turned to someone well known for his ability to build in difficult places: the Devil! There is hardly a dangerous valley in Britain that is not spanned by a bridge attributed to him. But he demanded a high fee: the life of the first being to cross. The Thornton Steward villagers were desperate; they agreed to his terms and the very next day they woke to find a splendid new bridge over the Ure. Everyone rejoiced. All that remained was to find a way to cheat the Devil of a human victim.

Attempts to get hens or sheep to cross ended in failure. Cats sat and washed themselves; dogs crept away with their tails between their legs. The villagers stared at their brand-new bridge in dismay. Would they ever be able to use it?

Then a hard-hearted local shepherd had an idea. He made his sheepdog, Grim, sit and wait at the entrance to the bridge. Then he swam over the river, climbed out and called to Grim from the other side. The faithful dog ran towards him but the moment he touched the further shore he fell dead. The bridge was thereafter called – if you will believe it – Kill Grim Bridge (now known as Kilgram).

A similar bargain made with the Devil is told about many bridges, but Dibbles Bridge is different. It was built because of a generous man and a tasty lunch.

The little village of Thorpe-sub-Montem (Thorpe Underhill) was once famous throughout the Dales for its cobblers. Odd though it might seem that such an out-of-the-way place should have so many, there were enough monasteries and abbeys in the area to make it worthwhile training up sons in the craft.

One of the best was Ralph Calvert, who made and mended the shoes and sandals of the monks of Fountains Abbey. It was said that he could make three pairs of shoes in the time it took another man to make two. He also made harnesses, belts and the delicate leather hoods worn by hawks.

Twice a year, at Christmas and Midsummer, he would load up a big wicker pack with all the commissions he had been given six months before, plus any new things he had thought of, and set off on the thirty-mile trip to the monastery. By Burnsall he went, and Langerton Hill, to Pateley Bridge and then on to Fountains.

His way took him sometimes on moor, sometimes on the high road, but there was one place he dreaded going through. It was where he had to cross the River Dibb at the dark bottom of a steep hill. There was a ford but he never knew whether it would be easy to cross or difficult, because the river could rise very swiftly.

He did not hurry. Sometimes he would break his journey halfway, sleeping out in the fields in the summer, or staying in a little wayside inn in the winter. The following day he would arrive at the abbey where he was always welcomed warmly and well looked after in the monastery’s guesthouse. The monks were good to him; they never haggled more than was polite over the prices he charged them and always paid him properly. Best of all, they liked a bit of a gossip quite as much as he did. Altogether it was a good way of life and he enjoyed it.

One summer’s day, having spent a pleasant evening at the abbey, he set off for home with a new load of shoes and sandals to mend. He was feeling happy, for the day was sunny but not too hot for walking, and, even better, he had a bag of food for the journey, put together by one of the monastery’s many cooks. The moors above Pateley were looking very fine that day, the heather on the verge of coming into flower and the gorse smelling sweetly after the heavy rains that had fallen during the night.

As Ralph descended towards the River Dibb, however, he became aware of the sound of roaring, and as he came down to the ford, he saw swirling water laced with foam. He realised that he would not be able to cross that day. He scratched his head. He could either wait until the water went down, which could take hours, or he could walk along the bank to Appletreewick and then double back to Thorpe – a long way. Neither option appealed to him but, being a cheerful soul who took problems in his stride, he sat down on a rock in the sun and began to unpack his lunch bag.

The monks had done him proud, with bread, meat, cheese, a small pie, boiled eggs, an onion or two, three apples and a small leather bottle of wine. As he unpacked, he began to sing to keep himself company (for people sang all the time in those days and didn’t give a fig who heard them):

Sing luck-a-down, heigh down,

Ho down derry

To his surprise there came an answer!

Tol lol de rol, darel dol, dol de derry!

Ralph had been sure there was no one around, but when he looked up he saw, standing on the riverbank, gazing at its foaming water, a tall, black-haired, well-dressed stranger. Ralph continued the song to the end, singing alternate lines with the stranger, who turned and smiled at him. When the song was ended, Ralph jumped up and went over to greet him properly. They commiserated with each other on the state of the ford.

‘I’m due in Grassington,’ said the stranger. ‘How about you?’

‘I’ve me wife and bairns waiting for me in Thorpe,’ said Ralph. They chatted about the weather and the state of the roads and then Ralph, taken with the stranger’s friendly and engaging manner, invited him to share his meal.

The stranger seemed a little taken aback, but ‘I don’t mind if I do. It’s more than kind of you!’ he said.

They shared Ralph’s sunlit rock and Ralph divided the monks’ food between them. The stranger seemed quite touched, especially when the bottle of wine was passed to him.

‘This wine is good!’ he exclaimed. ‘I don’t know when I’ve tasted better – and believe me, I’ve emptied a few bottles!’

‘It’s from Fountains Abbey.’

‘Ah yes. Those monks love their wine. I shall certainly remember to visit them!’

They ate and drank in companionable silence until at last the stranger said, ‘You’ve been right kind to me, Ralph, so I feel that I owe it to you to reveal that I am actually Old Nick.’

Ralph was a bit surprised, but he was not one to fluster easily. ‘Thoo’s niver!’ was all he replied, passing the bottle. Then he added, ‘Well, what I say is, Old Nick’s a gentleman and I’ll niver hear nowt agin him again.’

The Devil wiped away a boiling tear with a spotless linen handkerchief. ‘You’re a good fellow. Might I have a bit more pie?’

‘Help thaself,’ said Ralph but he was thinking what a wonderful tale this would make. Him, Ralph Calvert, supping – well, picnicking – with the Devil!

‘Only thing is,’ he said, thinking out loud, ‘who’ll believe me?’

‘Believe that I’m the Devil? I’ve just told you I am!’

‘Yes, but how do I know that thoo’s tellin’ truth? Thoo’ll have to prove it, thoo knows.’

The Devil was slightly miffed. ‘No problem!’

‘Go on then!’

‘What do you want me to do?’

Ralph knew that he was pushing his luck, but he was not easily daunted. He looked around for an idea and his eye fell on the river.

‘Gi’us a bridge here!’

The Devil considered. ‘I could I suppose,’ he said. ‘Hmm, well, I like you and you’ve been very generous to me – a rare thing. All right, you’re on. In four days’ time, there’ll be a bridge here. You can bring your little friends to see it. I’ll waive my usual fee, too.’

‘What were that then?’

‘Mind your own business.’

‘And do I get to keep ma soul?’

The Devil looked offended. ‘Would I take your soul after we’ve broken bread together? Certainly not! What do you take me for?’ He stood up and stretched. ‘And so we must part.’ He held his hand out tentatively. ‘I don’t suppose you’d shake hands with Old Nick, would you?’

Ralph held out his own hand. ‘Reet willin’. Thoo’s a grand ol’ lad.’ They solemnly shook hands, then the Devil took three steps and disappeared in a small puff of black smoke. Ralph packed up thoughtfully, swung his pack onto his back and trudged off along the river on the long detour to Appletreewick.

His wife would not believe the story, of course. Who would?

However, Ralph kept telling her that in four days the bridge would prove him right. ‘It’s a long walk theer!’ she complained, but in the end her curiosity got the better of her. She told their neighbours the tale and they told their neighbours, and pretty soon there was no one in Thorpe who did not know about it. Naturally their curiosity also got the better of them and so by the fourth day it was a large crowd that set out on the road to the ford of Dibb. The local priest insisted on going with them, very dubious about the whole thing.

As they came down the valley the small boys running ahead began to shout and point. Soon everyone could see it: a fine, high, white-stone bridge spanning the river above the ford. Everyone rushed towards it but before the priest could remind them about Kilgrim and the Devil’s usual price, several people had crossed and re-crossed it with no ill effects. It seemed that the Devil, true to his word, wanted no payment.

The priest insisted that the local stonemason carve a cross on each end of the bridge, just in case, and then everyone went home, well pleased with Ralph.

The next Christmas when Ralph was making his way, dry-shod and safe, over the swollen winter river, he paused in the middle of the new bridge and thought about his summer meal with Old Nick.

‘Thoo’s a Devil o’ thy word,’ he said, ‘God bless!’

Now it may be that several thousand years ago, the witches of Yorkshire worshipped the Horned God or the White Goddess and danced naked in a frenzy of creative joy, but all that had ceased by the time their descendents were frightening folk in North Yorkshire in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. It was then that nearly all of the considerable number of North Yorkshire witch stories were collected. Sympathetic listeners like Richard Blakeborough heard first hand from grannies and grandfathers about the well-remembered old women of their youth who had cast spells on their cousins, cattle, bairns and so on. Their accounts of witch-strikes tell of real people who, for one reason or another had been labelled a witch.

It seems that the easiest way of acquiring such a reputation was to look suitably ugly and walk past people. Story after story relies on the bewitched just ‘feeling that summat was not right’ or that ‘summat overcome me!’ as they met a suitable candidate. Often the presence of witchcraft was merely determined by popular opinion that something unnatural was happening. It is unpleasantly similar to African tales of being bewitched by witch children.

However, witches there undoubtedly were; that is, people who believed themselves to have power, not just over the natural world but over the future as well. Some of these women were clearly genuinely nasty people who enjoyed the power given to them by their neighbours. Others acquired the more reputable title of wise women – a status always a little borderline. They were feared perhaps, but also consulted. There were wise men too, though no male witches: all the witches in these accounts appear to have been solitary females (though it is possible they once had families). There do not appear to have been any covens.

Fortunately, the cure for being witch-stricken was less draconian in Yorkshire than in other parts of the world – at least latterly when magistrates refused to prosecute for witchcraft. You first visited a chosen wise man or woman – the stories show that there were plenty to be had, all named and well known in their area – who would first determine if your problem was actually caused by a witch and then if so, which witch. He or she would then prescribe a counter spell. These mostly involved burning something horribly smelly, driving pins into bullock’s hearts and perhaps sacrificing a black cat or cock. Bits of cloth torn from the clothes of a hanged man might also feature, and wicken-wood (rowan) was essential. Quotations from the Bible or folk spells might be chanted. It seems the witch normally got off with nothing worse than a bit of unpleasantness as her spell backfired on her. In only one story is a witch ducked and that just seems to have been added for extra excitement. It may be that the women who actually held themselves out as witches were a secret social resource, consulted about sexual matters, love potions, getting revenge or pregnant, and so on.