THIS LITTLE PIGGY by Karen Maitland

I don’t know about you, but pigs are the last animals I ever expect to encounter as ghosts. They seem such solid, down-to-earth creatures. But there are a surprising number of accounts of ghostly pigs who appear around about this time of the year. At Andover, Hampshire, a ghost or demon pig appears at New Year, but is also seen whenever there is a bad thunderstorm. (Perhaps because pigs are supposed to be able to predict a storm and run around with straw hanging from their mouths when they sense it coming.) A litter of ghostly piglets are said to run across the road on Christmas Eve at Culcutt, Wiltshire and ghostly sow and piglets appear on All Souls Eve in Bransby, Lincolnshire and also at Merripit in Devon.

The Isle of Man has several legends of faery pigs, while both the church of Winwick and Burnley occupy their present sites because of demon pigs. According to legend, while they were being built, a pig kept moving them during the night to a new location, until eventually the villagers surrendered and left the churches where the pig had put them. The origin of these legends maybe the carvings of pigs on the walls of these two churches which may indicate the churches were built on an ancient sacred site. The boar was the most frequently sacrificed animal among the pagan Saxons. It was seen as a fitting gift for the gods because of its strength, bravery and fearlessness. In Viking, Celtic and Saxon cultures it symbolised strength and resolution.

Salted or smoked pork and bacon were the vital food that enabled peasant families to survive winter in the Middle Ages. It was food for free. In summer pigs, were fed on food scraps, waste from crops and even seaweed, and in autumn they were let loose in forest to fatten on the ‘mast’ which included beechnuts, acorns and roots. When the Normans prevented Saxon pannage by closing the forests to keep them just for hunting, they were condemning many families to starvation. The impression we get from Robin Hood movies is that it was being banned from hunting in the forest that the Saxons resented, but this was minor irritation compared to the life or death issue of the Normans preventing domestic pigs foraging in the forest. Not surprisingly the villagers’ right to pannage was bitterly contested right up to the reign of King John and with good reason.

Even in medieval towns, pigs would roam the streets feeding off the middens and market waste. There were attempts from time to time control this, but, after every crack down, the pigs would end up back on the streets. Officially, the only pigs which were allowed to forage freely in towns were St Antony’s pigs.

St Antony. Photographer: Andreas Praefcke

Around 1100, an Order of Hospitallers was founded at La Motte and named after St Antony of Egypt who died in 356. The mother house became a place of pilgrimage for those suffering from St Antony’s Fire which we know today as ergot poisoning. But the order soon spread. The Hospitallers, wearing distinctive black robes and the blue Tau (T-shaped cross), rode around ringing bells to collect alms. The pig was the saint’s emblem, because according to legend either St Antony was once a swineherd or a pig kept him company during his life as a hermit.

Householders would give the Hospitallers the runts of their litters, in exchange for their blessing for the health of the rest of their pigs. A runt became known as a tantony. These pigs were hung with a small bell, like their masters, and legally allowed to roam the streets of the towns being fattened by the scraps from the community. (Tantony also became the name given to the smallest bell in a peal.)

A tantony pig. Photographer: Wolfgang Sauber

So important were pigs in the Middle Ages that many laws were brought in to safeguard the meat, for example, it was illegal to drive pigs using a holly stick because, being inflexible it could bruise the flesh, which then would not take up the salt when being cured.

Villagers’ cottages and byres were often built so low that a pig carcass was too long to hang from the beams, so in many villages, the bloody dripping pig carcasses were hung in the church porch after slaughter.

As well as being used to cover jars, the bladder of the pig was one of the earliest emergency pluming tools at a time when many pipes were wooden. It would be floated down the pipe to the site of the leak, then blown out to inflate and seal the bore hole. Centuries later, the pig’s bladder was used for the same purpose in the early days of gas pipes.

But to end with another tale of ghostly pigs – most of us are familiar with the legends of a hell-wain drawn by black horses and driven by a headless coachman being an omen of impending death. But in Durham, John Burrow was said to have been warned of his death when he saw a black coach drawn by six black pigs. Maybe the pigs were finally getting their own back.

The Ghost Hunting Mobs of Victorian London by Imogen Robertson

Judging by the numerous sirens that go by my house every day, Bermondsey still keeps the Metropolitan Police pretty busy, but I doubt they spend as much time as they once did dealing with ghosts or with the crowds that went looking for them. Learning of the ghost hunting flash-mobs has been one of the many joys of The Haunted: A Social History of Ghosts by Owen Davies. It’s a scholarly work, brilliantly researched and thoroughly footnoted but it also has a lively style, an original take on the subject matter and a real sense of compassion and understanding of how we see and understand ghosts. It’s great and covers belief systems from medieval to modern times and across the country. 

But back to the mobs. Grange Road in Bermondsey is not my first choice place to hang out of an evening, but in July 1830 people walked miles to spend the whole night just standing outside a house there. A rumour had spread that the ghost of a reclusive clergyman who had recently died had been spotted in his old house, still wearing his night-cap and smoking his pipe, as he had in life. Pretty soon the road was blocked with crowds of people willing to wait all night to get a glimpse. It was also said that one person who had dared enter the house had seen him vanish up the chimney. A whole police division were summoned to deal with a crowd of two thousand people, completely blocking the road and disturbing the sleep of the residents in a way that the ghost himself never had. An inspector made a search and found no ghosts, nor any sign of anyone pretending to be one. A guard was mounted to keep the crowd from gathering in future. (The Times July 8 1830)

In 1865 the trouble was outside St George’s church in Borough, with hundreds of people staying out from nine in the evening until three or four the following morning. A Sergeant Chenery arrested a costermonger called Henry Stanley for causing a disturbance. He’d been held for shouting ‘Here’s the ghost’, and refusing to stop doing so when asked. He claimed he was just one of the curious and was set free. I can’t help sympathising with the Sergeant. The crowds were so great they again had to draft in extra officers to keep the road clear. What the story of the ghost was, or even if there was one at all, we do not know. (The Times May 27 1865)

Then in 1868 hundreds gathered outside Bermondsey church yard to see a ghost that had been reported there. Inspector Mawson thought the cause of the trouble was that a drowning victim had been brought to the dead-house next to the church until an inquest could be held. For some of the local boys this was enough to start a story of a ghost and then the crowds gathered. A policeman got his helmet knocked off by an enthusiastic sensation seeker who was fined 2s.  (The Times August 1 1868) Now, of course, all we sensation seekers can stay in the warm and watch re-runs of Most Haunted. 

I understand the curiosity of the crowds and I love reading ghost stories, but I have never gone on any kind of ghost hunting expedition myself. It’s not because I think the whole thing ‘ridiculous’ as the Southwark magistrate who imposed that fine did though. I am sure that in the shared excitement of the crowd, looking for something above and beyond the day to day, a lot of those people did see ghosts. I am also fairly sure if I went on a ghost hunt I’d see one too. 

Let me be clear. I don’t believe in ghosts or magic or the supernatural in any form. It’s all just natural - though, now you mention it, while I was looking up these stories a Jehovah’s Witness turned up and handed me a leaflet called ‘do the dead return?’ which was a bit creepy - but anyway, just because I don’t believe in ghosts doesn’t mean they don’t scare the hell out of me. I’m professionally imaginative and rather good at thinking myself into all sort of odd states, including hearing voices which seem to come from somewhere other than myself. And I don’t want to see a ghost. I don’t think it would be any less terrifying just because I didn’t believe in it. My irrational mind would have put together the shadows and night noises, dragged in every ghost story I’ve ever heard and confronted me with something hellish and heart attack worthy while my rational mind was still going ‘Huh…?’ Our minds can be frightening places and I think it best I only encourage mine under controlled circumstances. Dark churchyards, ruins, cross-roads in the countryside and deserted manor houses are not controlled circumstances.

Though the imaginations of ghost mobs sometimes got a little help. In 1874 in Westminster crowds were also blocking the road outside a churchyard to see a ghost. A police constable hid in the churchyard and before long he had arrested the culprit - a labourer called Frederick Grimmond whom the constable saw climb over the fence and put a sheet over his head. It didn’t sound like it was a tough arrest. Grimmond made a dramatic dash across the church yard but fell over a grave and was taken before he could get up again. (The Times July 6 1874)

www.imogenrobertson.com

Ghostly Hands & Dancing Vicars by Karen Maitland

One of the great joys of historical research is the stumbling upon tales you weren’t looking for. Last week, I was researching the history of Greestone Stairs in Lincoln for my next novel. Greestone is reputed to be the most haunted street in the city. They are a long flight of stone steps which once linked the medieval dwellings in the lower part of the city, outside the city walls, to via the Postern or rear gate to which led into the Cathedral grounds at the top of the hill.

These steps are haunted by, amongst others, a Victorian woman and a monk who hanged himself from the postern archway. But perhaps most sinister of all, numerous locals and visitors alike have reported feeling someone grab their ankle as they ascended the steps, even in daylight, causing them to fall heavily and they have the bruises and cuts to prove it!

But when delving into the history of the steps and archway I came across an account written by A.F.Kenwick in 1928, which tells another story about the steps and postern gate –

‘... The cathedral towers, as well as the central one, were originally topped with tall spires of timber, coated with lead. The central spire had been blown down in a gale nearly two hundred years before it was decided by the cathedral body to remove those on the west towers, the excuse being that they had fallen into disrepair. The work of destruction was commenced on the 20th September 1726 or 1727. As the citizens in the town below saw the workmen engaged in this way, cries of indignation were raised, and towards evening a crowd of 500 men assembled to prevent the removal of the spires. The main gates of the minster yard were secured against them, but the small postern on the south side was apparently forgotten. To this the besiegers turned their attention, and, rushing up the Greestone stairs, they soon battered down the gate, and entered the close.

'One of "Old Vicars," named Cunnington, appears to have suffered especially at their hands, whether he was the chief culprit or not. He is said to have been dragged from his house in the Vicars' Court, and compelled to dance on the minster green in the midst of the mob. The crowd only dispersed on the promise that the spires should be allowed to remain.

'The next day, the Mayor and Aldermen were requested by the minster authorities to send the bellman round the city with the following message:— "Whereas there has been a tumult, for these two days past, about pulling down the two west spires of the church, this is to give notice to the people of the city, that there is a stop put to it, and that the spires shall be repaired again with all speed.” After which the mob with one accord gave a great shout, and said, “God bless the King!” … 

'A foolhardy feat was performed in the year 1739 by a man named Robert Cadman, who did fly from one of the spires of the minster, by means of a rope, down to the Castle Hill, near to the Black Boy public-house. Cadman met his death in the next year at Shrewsbury, while attempting a similar performance there ...’

 The spires were finally removed in 1807. I wonder if forcing planners today who make unpopular decisions to ‘dance on the green’ would encourage them to think again!