Reblogged from Mike Biles at A Bit About Britain:
Ghost stories have long been popular at Christmas, and Victorians loved them. In that tradition, and by way of a change from researching a factual article, I thought I would have a go at writing a spectral anecdote. So, in the unlikely event that you have a spare five minutes, and with a degree of temerity that surprises me, I offer you A Bit About Britain’s Christmas ghost story…it’s just a bit of fun.
Years ago, my business often took me up and down the country. When I could, I had taken to breaking the journey with good friends who lived in a little village in the Yorkshire Dales. Theirs was a comfortable stone-built home, with welcoming furniture, an open fire, the happy chatter of children; and, frankly, staying with them was infinitely preferable to camping in some impersonal hotel close to a client’s offices – unless I really had to. I would usually contribute a bottle or two of something-or-other; they would share their news and evening meal, and allow me to bed down on the sofa-bed in their study. A short distance down the road was the local pub, the Bull, to which the husband, Nigel, and I would occasionally repair for a couple of jars after eating. It was a convivial place and we’d join a sociable, intelligent, group of men who all enjoyed solving the problems of the world.
Generally, the conversation was light-hearted, but we turned up one May Day evening to find our associates in sombre mood. The limestone of the Dales makes it famous caving country and there had been a tragedy on the nearby moor.
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