Boggarts Boggarts were most often found in the counties of Yorkshire and Lancashire. You may have heard the term most recently in the Harry Potter tales, in which a boggart shape-shifts to become the thing the person in front of it most fears. Well a real boggart can shapeshift too, except that until neglected or offended they'll shape-shift to be helpful. Beware though, once they are offended they become evil creatures, haunting houses and dales. There was one particular boggart. That of Hellen-Pot up on the Yorkshire Dales. I once encountered this boggart. I had been rambling around the dales with a friend, who had fallen one day up around the 'big three' peaks (known now simply as the 3 peaks - namely Ingleborough, Pen-y-ghent and Whernside) and broken his ankle. Not wanting to ruin his walking-partners walking holiday as well as his own, he pushed me into taking in the sights and sounds of the three peaks while he was in his convalescence, but bidding me to return to the inn before nightfall so we could sup together and speak of what I had seen. So I finds myself ascending pen-y-ghent alone, and once I reach the top of the mountain, I decide to have a bite to eat and a rest before beginning my ascent. I'm sure you could guess what happens next. While I am asleep, the clouds roll in and mask the light of day. I wake up and find myself alone in unfamiliar territory without having made compass and map points, and unable to see those landmarks I had mentally noted on my ascent. I believe that I can make an educated guess at the route I took to the peak, and therefore if I just retrace my steps I should be fine. Unfortunately I descend on the wrong side of the mountain, as I should have worked out when the sun dropped behind the peak instead of dropping in front of me. It was too late even by then to turn back though, I would not have made the top before nightfall and the cracks and crevices on the way up would have made even the most knowledgeable local wary of ascent in bad light, especially with low-lying cloud. Getting rather desperate in the fading light I found my pace quicken. Indignantly expressing to myself the opinion that I was a fool to have walked so far alone without map or compass in unknown territory. My exasperation with myself was by no means allayed when I tripped over a stone and fell my full length into a sludgy swamp patch. It was at this point I began to detect a pain in my vitals, and realised that I had not partaken of victuals for some hours. As I walked on, I called to mind, quite without design, the chickens and ham I'd been promised, along with the veal cutlets that were bound to be available, along with the salmon and trout undoubtably also a part of the spread in this famous fishing district. Finally regaining my composure and beating down the mouthwatering thought of this food, a new and more direct phantom arose inside me. During the day I had marked and examined the on the slopes of Fountain, Coska and Pen-Y-Ghent several of the curious pots which are peculiar to the Yorkshire limestone moors. These pots, as they are called, are natural wells. Huge, yawning holes opening perpendicularly into the bowels of the mountain in which they reside. In rainy weather the streams and rivulets coming down from further up the slopes precipitated themselves over the sides of these black gulfs and disappeared, finally bubbling out again through some low-browed cavern miles upon miles away. Some of the pots were measured at several hundred feet deep, and some were purported to be unfathomable, for their depth had not been sounded yet, and a stone would fall and fall but no final splash ever came. It is at this point that the feeling of being followed overtook me, and with a feeling of relief I realised that the character behind was endeavouring to overtake me. I stood still, eagerly awaiting the individual, expecting to finally be put in the right direction. The stars gave light enough for the figure to be made out, and it appeared to be a man, but it was impossible to discover any more. His walk appeared strange. A wriggle and a duck accompanying each step. The reason being, I ascertained on his catching me up, was that he was a cripple in both legs. "Good evening, friend," said I; "I'm a stranger lost on the moor. Can you direct me towards Arncliffe Inn?" "On, on with me," came the response. His hand waving as if to point forwards. "Dark night this," I continued, hopeful of continuing conversation. "Darker below," he muttered, as if to himself; "darker, darker, darker," "Shall we have a moon tonight, think you?" He made no answer. I turned to look at him, noting that the way he walked made me decidedly uneasy. When taking a step with his right foot he worked his body round so it was facing me, and then he head jogged onto his left shoulder and reclined upon it. When stepping out with his left foot his body then revolved so that his back was presented to me, and the head jerked over to the right shoulder. I noticed that the head was never still, but sometimes dropped onto his breast, and once I saw it drop backwards. This left me thinking that the only way a man would walk thus is with neck and legs broken, if be any means the possibility were afforded him. "How far to Arncliffe?" I asked, but no answer was forthcoming. I tried another question or two but got no response. I lost my temper and laid my hand upon his shoulder to draw his attention, but he simply glided from beneath my hand and hobbled on. I had no choice but to follow him. He kept ahead of me and steadfastly refused to enter into conversation, even after I attempted to pay him to give me the information I desired. I was puzzled by my strange companion, and felt somehow uneasy. I felt he was rather uncanny, for want of a better word, both in appearance and manner. Presently we came near water as I judged by the sound, which was that of a beck, or stream, murmuring it's way through stones. Onward moved my conductor, picking up so along the watercourse that I had difficulty keeping apace with him. When he leaped upon the next stone or jutting hummock I would be presented with a sight of the horrible contours of his body in sharp relief against the faint moonlight. The sight invariably heightened my unease. Suddenly I missed him! I called after him, then stood still and listened for him, but no reply came. I called again, and again no reply. I called a third time, but again received no response. "I must follow the beck," thought I, "that will lead me to the river, and the river should guide me to some habitation," I stumbled over the water-worn stones, catching my feet often, bruising my shins and risking broken bones the amount of times I fell. I did not dare leave the watercourse, lest I should lose my way once more. Then a nightjar began to hiss from among the rocks, and I noticed the stream beginning to dash along more wildly. The banks rose higher, and before long I seemed to be walking along a cutting through the hills, similar to that of a railway cutting. I looked up, and saw the rugged outline of rock and turf on the eastern bank, and on top of a huge block of stone stood a distorted human figure. It was that of my strange companion! Down the steep slope he came with a wiggle and a jump, and before I knew it he had lifted me bodily off the ground with his strong, lithe arms and was carrying me further towards the western bank. After a dozen or so steps I heard the sound of the beck splashing into what I assumed must be a pot, and I then marked the black yawning hole open in front of me, and felt the man bending as if to leap down the hole, still carrying me. In my panic I tore my right arm loose and clutched a young rowan tree that was leaning over the gulf. At this moment a light flashed into my eyes. After the pitch coloured night this dazzled me at first, but soon I made out the small, yellow flame in front of me. It was just sufficient to illuminate the face of the bearer - a young woman, the countenance wondrously beautiful, but full of woe unutterable. The lanthorn - for thats what she was - passed over the open mouth of the pot. The moment they became visible the arms that clasped me were loosened and I saw the man sink down into the abyss, with the light reflecting from his upturned face. He went down it, not with the whizz of a falling stone, but slowly as you or I might sink into water. Thus I was able to observe his blanched face and wide dilated eyes fixed with horror on the lanthorn flame. Having recovered my feet my natural instinct was of course to ascend the slope and get as far as possible from the ugly well into which I might have been precipitated. My next was to look around for the young woman bearing the light. I saw light at some distance but could not distinguish the bearer. I called to her, and the light was raised so that the hand not holding the lamp came into view. It beckoned me towards it. Somewhat apprehensively given proceedings earlier in the evening I followed the light, which began to move away from me. I ran to catch it up but evidently the bearer did not want to be overtaken. If I stopped, it stopped and if I sped up, it sped up. Always keeping the same distance between us. In this way we must have proceeded a couple of miles when the light disappeared. A wave of panic hit me again before I realised that I was looking down on a farmstead. In less time than it took to write this I entered the enclosure and rapped hard on the door. A gaunt moorland farmer opened it and looked at me in surprise. I requested shelter for a while, and some food, to which he opened the door wide and bade me enter. He sat in a large seat by the fire and indicated that I should do the same. "Sit here, come 'ere; sit thee darn there," said he, then called out "Gi'e 'im some ale lass." "A'm boune to, lad," came the reply from the kitchen, and looking over my shoulder I saw there was a woman in the lean-to back room bustling round by the light of a rush-candle. "Thou'rt none boune to Arncliffe to-neet?" said the farmer, slowly drawing his pipe from his mouth. " I am, if you'll be so kind as to direct me," said I, "for I have a friend there who is expecting me, and who will be sorely put out at my none appearance at supper." "Humph!" He smoked for ten minutes more, while I drank down the ale that was brought to me. "An whit brought thee to this road?" he finally asked. "I will tell you," I replied, and I recounted the tale in full of how I'd lost my way, and as soon as I mentioned my strange companion- "It's 't Boggart lass, he's gotten agait leading folk astray ageen." When I spoke of the flash of light before which this Boggart had quailed, and which had revealed the face of a woman, pale and sad, bending over it- "Weel done, Peggy! 'Tis no but Peggy wi't lanthorn lass!" He called out to his wife. "She a good 'un," came back the reply. I asked who the Boggart and Peggy were but this great Yorkshireman did not reply. He simpy gazed into the fire sucking on his pipe every so often. "So't Boggart thowt to ha' hugged thee down't pothoile!" Then he laughed, "I reckon," he mused, "I reckon he were a bit flayed to see Peggy come anent him that road!" "I wish that you would recount to me who these people are," said I. "So I will laddie, bi'm bye, if thou'rt boune to Arncliffe to-neet." He then offered me a bed to sleep on that night, but I explained that I really must depart for Arncliffe as soon as possible, given that my friend would be beside himself by now. "Gi'e us a leet, lass," he called to his wife, who brought him out a lanthorn. He knocked out the ashes of his pipe, picked up a cloak and made to the door. His good woman lit the candle and he shut the lantern door and turned to me and said "Now, if thou'rt boune to come, come on." I rose and followed him out of the door, bidding his wife a good evening. He led the way out of the farmstead and onto the little road, and as we walked towards Arncliffe recounted this little tale:- "Some hundred years ago there lived a yong woman in a cottage near Kettlewell. A strange man came into the neighbourhood, gained her affections, and married her. They settled at the farm in which my latest walking companion now resided with his own wife. They had not lived a twelvemonth together before the constables entered the house one evening, and took the man up on the charge of bigamy. It transpired that he had a wife and family living in Bolton. As they were carrying him off he broke from them and fled over the moors and was never retaken. By some it was said that he'd managed to escape to America, but by others that he'd fallen into one of the pots and perished. His poor second wife, heartbroken, wandered the moors all that night searching for him, and was found dead on the side of Pen-Y-Ghent the next morning. And they say," added my guide, in a low voice "that she seeks him still; and when she's gotten him she'll tak' him before the throne of God to be sentenced for having ruin' her happiness, and been the cause of her death. Thats why he so 'fraid o' meeting wi' she, and sma' blame to 'im." "So you think the wretched man perished in one of the pots then?" I asked the big man. "I reckon he did. And I also reckon that he'll never have his rest til his bones are laid in't churchyard, and that'll never be." "Farmer," says I, after a pause, "Have you plenty of rope about your house?" He grunted in assent "Then I will descend the pot on the morrow." I am sorry to state that my gruff companion was so completely thrown off-balance by this announcement that he swore. "Shall you perchance have time to assist me?" "I'm not particular thronged," he replied in the affirmative. "Some additional help will be required too, " I continued; "if you have a workman or two disposed to earn a day's wage by being useful to me, bid them be ready with all that is requisite at the mouth of the pot tomorrow." "Aye, I reckon if we can addle us a bit o' brass that road we're the chaps for thee. But I reckon thou'rt no but makin' gam' of me." "I am not indeed," I responded, "get plenty of rope ready, and a true stout pole laid across the mouth of the pot and I will go down tomorrow." I was as good as my word. Keene (my friend) accompanied me on crutches to the farm in the morning. I counselled him to stay, but he would have no word of it once I'd recounted my full tale twice for him to grasp the whole of it. As the sun was shining I felt no fear whatsoever, and to the surprise of my company I laughed and chatted whilst a belt was strapped around my waist, another under my arms and the cord passed beneath them. Before descending I took up my geological bag that I'm brought down with me today and slung it round my neck. I also took up a hammer. "You may be sure I'll find some magnificent stalactites down there." "Are you ready?" asked Mr Keene. I sat on the edge of the gulf under the mountain ash to which I'd clung for life the night before. I directed my eyes downwards and saw the little stream lose itself in spray after a leap or two. How awfully black the abyss now seemed. "Now then!" I slipped down, and the windlass slowly unwound. Click, click, click I heard it sound as I descended... ...the air about me was cold and damp, as you may expect. Beautiful ferns and mosses flourished on every ledge. Presently, however, I got beyond the fern zone. I was in darkness. The spray of the falling stream was so finely comminuted that it was more like mist than spray. The walls of the pot were green with lichen, and now I was below the region of mosses. Here, on a patch of Marchanta polymorpha, I found a poor butterfly, a purple emperor no less. It had probably fluttered some way down the chasm in the giddiness of the moment, it's wings had been clogged with spray, and it has been buffeted lower and lower till at last it had alighted, dripping and chilled, without hope of seeing sunlight again, on a small ledge. I rescued the poor insect and put it inside my hat. I began then to swing like a pendulum, and was hard put to not to swing into the sharp rocks at times. Further down and I could not even see the walls now. I couldn't hear a thing, not even the creak and click of the windlass, save for a peculiar wind that swept up from the depths below me at odd intervals. All about me was black as black can be. No sign of the bottom. Even further down white terraces began appearing covered in stalagmite. With my hammer I broke off a large mass of deposit formed by the droppings of water largely impregnated with lime. I dropped the deposit and listened but even from this depth could hear no splash. I shouted - but only faintly as the belt about my chest was exerting to much pressure to allow me to do any more, but the whole well still seemed alive with echoes. I tried to turn my head to look skywards but could not. The darkness and chill began to tell on me, and an agonising cramp contracted in my legs. I managed to place my feet on a wider ledge and stand up for a short time. Those working the windlass, feeling that the strain had gone, let out no more. When the cramp left me I cast myself off again, and dropped below the ledge I'd been stood on. Now, after another time I began to hear the sound of falling water, and in a few minutes passed an opening in the side of the pot, out of which gushed a dark underground stream, endlessly pouring out into the chasm. Now I became conscious of an even larger ledge below me, extending considerably out into the well, contracting it's size. I fancied I spied something out of the ordinary in amongst the stalagmites and fragments of stalactites laying there. As I moved down lower and peered into the gloom I saw something stir - at that same moment a dread of fear took me as something black rushed toward me. In one second I saw the face of the Boggart flash up at me full of hideous triumph. I felt him grip my waist and then around my neck. My head swam and I felt dizzy. I lost all conciousness. When I came to I was lying in the sunshine on the slope above the Hellen-pot with Keene and the farmer bending over me. "I'm all right," I told them in a quiet voice, and in a couple of minutes I'd come around enough to have a drink and a bite. I took off my hat and away flew the butterfly I'd rescued, oblivious to the hours of darkness and misery it had passed through. "Did you reach the bottom?" asked Keene. I shook my head. "We let out all the rope we had," my friend told me, "and then we pulled up again, and found you at the end in a dead faint. I see you have not been idle," he added, indicating my geology bag. "Full of stalactites I suppose?" "No," I said, shaking my head, "I put nothing into it." "Then how comes it filled to the top?" he asked. "Why, halloo! what have we here?" and as he spoke he emptied out of it a heap of human bones and a shattered skull. How they got into the sack I shall never know. The remains were very old and were encrusted with stalagmite. They lie now in Horton churchyard. I believe the Boggart has never been seen since.
