We've had some perfect winter walking weather in Yorkshire over the past couple of weeks - cold and crisp.
We went on a circular walk around Spofforth, near Harrogate, where I was hoping for chills of a supernatural kind. Last Christmas (The Tractate Middoth and The Thirteenth Tale) and this December (Remember Me and The Haunting of Radcliffe House), the seasonal TV ghost stories, have failed to freak me out. Is it my age? Have I, at long last, outgrown my fear of phantoms? I still remember the ghastliness of Schalcken the Painter, (here), Christmas, 1979 - I don't think I'd dare to watch it ever again, even with Mr N to hold my hand and a cushion to hide behind.
So we walked onwards, to Spofforth Castle, to test my dulled nerves. It has its own ghoulish legend of a woman, of a strange bluish-white hue, who appears at the top of this tower. She (allegedly) hurls herself down, the spectacle made even more scary by the fact that only the upper half of her body falls to the ground. I prepared to be spooked...