MIKE HALLOWELL: Happy New....

Mrs H. was in hospital the other week for spinal surgery; always a risky procedure. She’s out now and the surgeons have neatly stapled the wound. She asked me yesterday what the scar – which is quite lengthy – looked like. I stared at the vertical column of gleaming metal strips (they’re being removed tomorrow) and told her that she looked not un-akin to one of the Borg. She did not try to assimilate me (ooh-er, missus!) but I reckon it was a close thing.

But there I go digressing again in the first paragraph, as I always do, before apologising in the second. Anyway, during my amble around one hospital – a truly impressive architectural fusion of Victorian splendour and 21st century futurism – I occasioned upon a nurse from whom I solicited directions. “Ooh, I know you!” she said saucily. “You’re that bloke off the telly and the radio, arncha?”

I told her that indeedy-doody I was, unless she was referring to Jonathan Ross or Jeremy Paxman, in which case indeedy-doody I wasn’t.

“But you are that bloke who does ghosts, aren’t you?”

This was not an easy question to answer. Did she mean in the literal sense? Was she suggesting that I “did ghosts” in the sense that a lot of people want to “do” their favourite film star, or did she mean that I “did” them in the way that the Mafia did? Honestly I’ve never had physical congress with a ghost or, indeed, ever harmed one.

But she meant it metaphorically, of course. And so, being the kind-hearted chap I am, I told her that I did “do” ghosts. But in a nice way. One thing led to another, and she informed me that she had once seen a strange creature near the infirmary. For some reason, cryptids (or things that may be cryptids) turn up in the oddest places in Geordieland.

It had been a cat. Or at least, a cat of sorts. The main difference between this and a domestic moggie was the size. This cat was bigger, tan-coloured and possessed a longer, thicker tail. It looked, she said, “like one of those mountain lions you see on TV.”

And when, pray, had she seen this, I enquired? “A couple of months ago”, she guessed, which placed the sighting somewhere in mid-October.

Had anyone else seen it?

“No; it was very early in the morning.”

Had it looked at the nurse or displayed any awareness of her presence?

“No; it just walked right past me.”

How close?

“About eight yards or so.”

And you’re sure it wasn’t just a large domestic cat?

“Oh, no. It was too big.”

And why didn’t you report it?

“People would have laughed.”

Fair enough, I thought: we Geordies can be a cynical lot at times and I dare say some of her colleagues would probably have extracted the etcetera, etcetera from her if you get my drift.

And you know what I’m going to do now, don’t you?

Oh, yes.

Don’t run off.

I’ll only find you, so you may as well get it over with.

Okay, then. Here we go.

There was this unidentified wildcat seen near a hospital. It startled one of the nurses.

“What’s a wild cat like you doing here?” said the nurse to the wild cat.

“I’m here for a CAT scan,” it replied.

There; that wasn’t too bad now, was it?

All the best for 2012, pip-pip!

MIKE HALLOWELL: The Bede Horseman

First of all I'd like to apologise for yet another long hiatus between my Geordie Monster blogs. This is due to severe on-going health problems – my own and others concerning Jackie, who is currently waiting for surgery on her spine. I'm hoping to post more regularly from now on.

Back in January I posted a story regarding a bizarre cryptid known as the Bede Horseman, a creature that is (or at least appears to be) human from the waist up, but is distinctly equine south of the border. The Bede Horseman is consistently described as having the legs of a horse or donkey.

Intriguingly, creatures of this kind can be found in many of the world's cultures including those of the Japanese, the Phillipinos, the Celts and the Arabs. In parts of Kenya the horse-man is called Mgou Wa Punda. The consistency of such reports leads me to think that it is the same phenomenon; the same species of cryptid.

So, what is the Bede Horseman and just where did he gain his odd monicker?

Well, South Tyneside also plays host to the finest local train system in the land, colloquially called “the Metro.” The carriages are always immaculately clean, the trains always run on time and the staff are incredibly helpful. I don't know what we'd do without it. The Tyneside Metro system serves the populace on both the north and south sides of the River Tyne, and is peppered with dozens of local stations. One of these, Bede Metro Station, can be found at Jarrow in the heart of an industrial estate. It is here where, allegedly, the Bede Horseman has made numerous appearances.

Firstly, I think it is safe to say that the creature is some sort of elemental entity. I have noticed that events of this kind tend to be more common at locations with a strong spiritual history attached to them. Only a stone's throw away from Bede Metro Station are the remains of Bede's Monastery and the ancient St Paul's Church, a place where the Venerable Bede, as he was called, penned a number of his memorable works. Adjacent to these is a park known as Charlie's Park – more correctly called Drewett's Park – which has a long history of hauntings and other ghostly phenomena.

In Arabia, particularly the Yemen, stories of a female creature called the Sayad abound. Sayad is a Jinn: an elemental creature that features heavily in Islam. Her upper half is stunningly beautiful, but her legs are those of a donkey. A similar entity to the Sayad is the Um Duwais, which also possesses the legs of a donkey or horse.

Intriguingly, the Sayad is said to disappear as soon as her secret – possessing the legs of a donkey – is discovered. The Bede Horseman is sometimes said to do the same thing. Personally, I believe that the Bede Horseman fits the description of a Jinni. The Jinn were, according to Islamic belief, created at least 2,000 years before humans. They are able to shape-shift and take on the form of humans, animals, plants and even non-living, inanimate objects. The human/equine presentation is a common one.

There is a story common in Islamic tradition about a farmer who was working in his field one day when he was approached by a man who asked for work. The farmer agreed to employ him but then noticed that his new-found labourer had the legs of a donkey. Frightened, the farmer realised that he was in the presence of a Jinn and ran away as fast as he could. After leaving his field he carried on running at full pelt down a nearby road. Then he saw someone walking towards him: a man in a long cloak with a hood, which obscured most of his face. He approached the man and in between gasps, related what had just occurred. “Honestly,” he said, “he had the legs of a donkey!” The man promptly lifted up his garment and said, “What, like these?” He too had the legs of a donkey and was also, presumably, a Jinni.

It may suprise some readers to hear me suggest that a elemental creature so intrinsically connected to Islam could pop up in an industrial estate in the north-east of Engalnd, and I sympathise. However, certain facts should be taken into consideration before rushing to judgement. Firstly, although it is generally accepted that the Jinn are divided up into clans and tribes, and are for a number of reasons restricted geographically regarding how far they can travel from their own area, they are believed to be a global phenomenon. Secondly, the Jinn do not restrict themselves to attacking (or even appearing to) Muslims. In fact, there is some anecdotal evidence that the majority of humans they interact with are not Muslim at all.


On Tuesday last, I ventured out with John Triplow, Kelly Williams and Darren W. Ritson to see if we could espy the Bede Horseman. We did not. However, I did manage to take some pictures of our expedition, two of which are included. One is an artist's impression of the Bede Horseman as he is said to appear. The other is of John Triplow as he does appear. (The differences are subtle, but easily identifiable. John, for instance, isn't wearing his hood... :)

LAPIS 2011: An epistle from Michael of Geordieland (Mike Hallowell)

Now it came to pass that a call went out from the Pool that is called Black, for lo, a convocation was to take place at which the great and the good would gather for discourse. The gathering was to be a joyous occasion, for those who believed in the existence of phantasms, the mysterious flying things in the air and the great beasts of the sea could join together as one, and not feeleth ashamed. As the prophet Jon of Woolsery taught, “Lo, we may all be loonies, but we can at least be loonies together” (St Jon's Epistle to the SeeEffZeddites, 23;15)

Now it also came to pass that Michael of Geordieland received a call, for the masters of the convocation did desireth that he should address the multitude. And Oll of Lewis also spoke, and did terrify the crowd with his description of the Great Beast of the Sea, called Kraken. Although he pronounced it Kray-ken, for he is from the south, and speaketh weirdly.

Now on the sixth day the sky did darken, and St John of Nuttall did speaketh unto the multitude, saying, “Our work is done. We have caused great controversy and ruffled many feathers, as is our wont, for those who speaketh here are verily worky-tickets of the first order.” And lo, a huge feast had been prepared, including things of meat covered in crumbs of bread, and the Fries, which are French, unless you liveth in the USA, in which case thou shalt calleth them Freedom Fries. And there were sweet dainties of all kinds, and those in attendance said, “Verily, this is a bit of alright, is it not.” And it came to pass that it was.

Now as the night drew close, it came to pass that Oll of Lewis did speaketh unto Geordie Mike, and did say, “Wilt thou joineth my team for the quiz, which will soon taketh place?” And Mike did replieth, “Nay, for it is not really my type of thing, if thou gettest my drift.” But Oll of Lewis was a determined man of great fortitude, and he did say something like, “Look, matey, if thou doth not joinest my team it will not fare well for thou”, or something alongeth those lines. So Geordie Mike did yield, and sayeth, “Yea, verily, I will joineth thy team, but it will costeth thou a pint.”And Oll of Lewis did purchase Mike a bottle of the Ale which is Brown, and all was well.

Now amongst the multitude were many of great intellect, such as St Paul of Vella, Malcolm of Robinson and Rob of the Head which is White. And Mike did sayeth to Oll, “Lo, they all have five or so in their teams, and we have but two, thou and I! Verily, we are knackered before we even starteth!” But Oll did reply, “Fear not, for the spirit of the CFZ is with us, and yea, verily we will not faileth! Has not Richie of Freeman taughteth us well at the Weekend which is Weird, and honed our quiz-winning abilities till they are sharp, even like unto the sharp razory thing that doth stalketh in the night and whatever?” And Geordie Mike did concur, and yelleth, “For the CFZ! For freedom and St Richard!” And Oll of Lewis did counsel Mike that he may be drawing unto himself the attention which is undesirable, even like unto the hare which draweth unto itself...etc. And Oll also counselled Mike not to shout out into the crowd, “Eat my pants, Robinson!” or any such a thing, for yea, verily, it soundeth cheesy.

And so the quiz began, and Rob of the Head which is White did ask question after question of the multitude, and some in the crowd did cheateth, for beneath their cloaks they had the Berries which are Black, by means of which they could contact the Great Deity Google, and he would answereth them. Although, it must be said that I may be making this bit up-eth for the purposes which are dramatic.

Now Mike of Geordieland and Oll of Lewis called their team The CFZ Supremos and without fail or halt they did listen intently and answereth every question they could. And a stillness fell over the multitude as the scores were added up, and Mike did say to Oll of Lewis, “Yea, verily, I cannot see us winning, matey, for the Ale which is called Brown has dulled my senses, and lo, the room doth spinneth like unto the tawny owl which doth something or other on some mountain or whatever which to be frank I cannot remembereth.”

But lo, a miracle occurred, and it came to pass that the great and the good amongst the multitude did faileth, and Mike of Geordieland and Oll of Lewis did winneth! And they were carried aloft on the shoulders of the multitude – with some difficulty it must be said-eth – and their reward was an splendiferous skywatch kit which contained all manner of wondrous things, and even an tent for emergencies.

Now it came to pass that Oll of Lewis was carried away on the wings of angels, and the spirit of the CFZ did enter into his bosom, and maketh him desireth to sing. And Oll of Lewis did say unto Mike, “Lo, a karaoke taketh place, and it is sore long years since I did entertaineth the multitude with an hymn.” And so Oll of Lewis did taketh the stage, and did proceed to singeth an anthem, which was something by the Loaf which is Meat. And Oll proceeded to murdereth the song, and some in the multitude did say, “Yea, he exceedeth at the quiz but he singeth in a manner which is not unlike the screeching hyena which we knoweth nothing about, for it doth not liveth here.”And the crowd did depart all of an sudden, liketh unto the Bat out of Hell, in fact. But it mattereth not, for Oll was an hero and none dared challenge him.

Fin.

MIKE HALLOWELL: Geordie rock/frog story

We've all heard the story: man finds rock. Man splits rock open. Frog jumps out of rock. Man exclaims “Bloody hell, there's a frog just jumped out of that there rock.”

The point is that this sort of incident has happened not just once, but scores of times. I'm aware of at least two dozen such tales from Tyneside and Wearside alone. There are a number of points that need addressing regarding such events, so instead of simply rattling off yet another Frog Jumps Out of Rock story (although I will refer to one in just a minute) I'll cut straight to the chase and get to the heart of the issue.

But first, the aforementioned account.

On the morning of Wednesday, April 18 1827, several workmen were engaged in their duties at Fulwell Quarry, Sunderland. At some juncture they happened upon a large block of limestone that needed transporting to another place, the exact location of which I haven't been able to determine. The problem was that the boulder was simply too large for them to lift onto the cart. By employing the creative genius for which we Geordies are known across the globe, they figured that if they split the rock into two, each piece would weigh only half of the original, and that lifting two smaller boulders onto the cart would be infinitely easier than hoisting up one big one.

And so they set about the boulder with their sledgehammers, and eventually cleaved it into two pieces. Now I know what you're thinking: a frog jumped out of the remains of the boulder, right? Wrong. What jumped – or rather slithered – out of a recess in one part of the rock was a 5-inch-long snake with “a brown back and a freckled belly”. Five inches isn't incredibly big for a snake, but there again, if you'd been trapped inside a rock since the Triassic era you'd probably have lost a bit of weight yourself. I know I would.

Anyhoo, here are the knotty issues – and questions - as I see them.

1) How can an animal be encapsulated in rock, which, presumably, must have been molten when the event occurred, without being fried to a crisp?

2) In the event that such a thing is possible, how could the animal survive for hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of years without food, water or air in anything but negligible amounts, if any at all?

3) If the above two points make such an event impossible, how have so many people reported being witnesses to them?

4) If it is physically impossible for a creature to be encapsulated in rock in such a manner, then what other explanations are available? Are all the witnesses lying? A ridiculous suggestion. Are they all mistaken? That's hard to imagine, as the cavities from which such animals have emerged often fit their body shape and size perfectly, and are hard to explain away if the animal in question was never inside the cavity in the first place.

If you'll excuse the pun, we're caught between a rock (with or without a beast incarcerated in it) and a hard place, for on one hand the events as described seem impossible, whilst on the other the sheer volume of witness testimony makes them hard to deny.

Answers on a post-card, please....

COMING SOON FROM MIKE HALLOWELL AND DARREN RITSON

Double click on the image to enlarge

MIKE HALLOWELL: A miscellany of odd Geordie tales

A miscellany of odd Geordie tales follows, all of which are true because a) their provenance is well attested in learned tomes penned by our nation's greatest scholars, and b) I like them.

On June 1 1853 a young fellow by the name of George Wallis was fishing near the rocks at Tynemouth. Tynemouth is an ideal spot to fish at, for the sea is there. Now George was not fishing for fish, but for crabs. And he found one, scuttling in amongst the rocks. But this was no ordinary crab. What was it then? One of the legendary South Shields Devil Crabs from across the river, as detailed by the eminent Ronan Coghlan in his splendiferous tome A Dictionary of Cryptozoology? Nay; t'was a quite unremarkable crab, save for the fact that it had, welded to its back, a silver sixpence. This shocked young Wallis for, as everyone knows, crabs are wont to keep their sixpences in a purses made by Versace or wallets made by someone in China.

The author of The Historical Register of Remarkable Events, Mr T. Fordyce, attempted to explain the conundrum thus: “The coin had probably fallen upon the crab when its outer covering was in a soft state, as the shell had grown considerably over the edge of the piece”.

Mr Fordyce's explanation is as good as any I can come up with, but I'd appreciate it if any colleagues out there who specialise in either crabology and/or sixpencism could explain to me just how the coin stayed in place long enough for the shell to grow around it.

And another: on March 9, 1842 a butcher by the name of George Watson, from Stockton, was driving a rather obese cow from the market when for reasons not clear, the animal decided to take a right turn into a narrow alley called William Street. There she found an open door. Curious, she poked her bovine snout inside and espied a stairwell.

“Ooh”, she exclaimed, “a stairwell!” Then, all excited like, she proceeded to climb the stairs and without warning or ceremony, intrude upon the living room of a flax dresser named Franklin. Mr Franklin, who seems to have worked from home, was dressing flax for all he was worth, assisted by his able wife and several children.

“Here”, said Franklin, all authoritative like, “We're flax-dressing in here, and you can't come in”.

Unfortunately, Daisy – for that was her name – was already in, and had no intentions of being out. Not long after, Mr Watson arrived and in a state of high dudgeon, said that he was right annoyed, like.

“You're annoyed? I'm bloody annoyed! I've spent all bloody night dressing this flax, and - “

“Excuse me”, interrupted Mrs Franklin, “WE'VE been dressing this flax all bloody night!”

“Oh, alright, keep your hair on”, retorted her beloved. “Anyway, look at the mess. This flax looks like its been dragged through a hedge backwards. That cow of yours has trampled it to bits and eaten half of it”.

“What's the damage, then?”

“Five shillings should cover it.”

“Done. Here's five shillings; now help me get Daisy down the stairs before she decides to 'drop the kids off at the pool' so to speak, and covers your precious flax with a pat."

With some difficulty, the flax-dresser and the butcher managed to entice Daisy back down to the alley where, chuffed with her little adventure, she proceeded on her way.

Postscript: the Franklin family, just one week later, are gathered around the table for Sunday lunch.

“Here”, says young Benjamin, “this stewed tripe is a bit of alright mother, but why has it got bits of semi-digested flax in it?”

“That's 'cause your eating Daisy”, said Mr Franklin, with some satisfaction. “I knew I'd see my day with that gate-crashing bovine b*****d”.

Alas, a radio interview beckons, so I must dash, but I'll be back with more Geordie crypto-lunacy as soon as poss....

MIKE HALLOWELL: Geordie horse-ripping (Naomi do not read)

Some animal-related unpleasantness to report from Geordieland, I'm afraid.

Bill Quay is a pleasant little community just north of Hebburn and just south of Wardley, the nearest large town being Gateshead. Driving through Bill Quay, one of the pleasing sights to greet one's eyes is that of horses ambling in fields; a touch of rurality in an area renowned for its industry.

But then Sunday came along and things changed.

Mark Taylor and Lawrence March owned three horses between them. Lawrence was the proud owner of two gypsy cobs; Mark, a seven month-old foal named Jacko. All three had the run of a field just off Wardley Lane. On Sunday morning the men went to the adjacent stables to visit the horses and were devastated at what they found. The two cobs had been attacked, their manes and tails cut off.

Superficially, the incident seemed to be a simple case of animal cruelty: some wack-job attacks horses; end of story. But it's actually a little more complicated than that. The police believe that the horses must have been chased before being assaulted, which tends to mitigate against the idea that this was simply a random act of violence carried out on the spur of the moment. Whoever did this was determined and went about their vile business at some considerable risk. Not only is the field near a busy road, but it is also only yards away from Hebburn Fire Station. (1)

The incident caused a furore in the neighbourhood, naturally. But things were to take on an even more sinister hue. Taylor and March discovered the plight of the two horses on Sunday morning. The following day they went to check on the horses again, only to find that Mark Taylor's foal, Jacko, had been killed. The perpetrators had struck on two successive nights and managed to carry out the attacks without being seen or heard on either.

The way in which the foal was dispatched was sickening. Its neck had been twisted 180° - “like the girl on the Exorcist”, said Taylor (2) – and the two men were left wondering what on earth had made their horses the target off such wanton cruelty.

There is, as far as I can see, nothing that explicitly points to this being anything other than the actions of a twisted personality with a hatred of horses; or perhaps I should say personalities, in the plural, as it is unlikely that one individual could have been responsible for the first attack involving two gypsy cobs.

But you never can tell. Animal mutilation, but not of the extraterrestrial kind. The work of cultists? Or just sick bastards? Hopefully they'll be arrested, and then we'll find out.

References:
1) The Shields Gazette, Thursday, January 6, 2011.
2) The Evening Chronicle, Thursday, January 6, 2011.

MIKE HALLOWELL: Footprints in the Snow (Not)

Okay, I apologise in advance for going off-topic, as they say, as this blog has absolutely nothing to do with cryptozoology. However, I wanted – nay, needed – to share the following experience with See-Eff-Zedders in the hope that someone out there may be able to offer some sort of explanation for a conundrum that has Mrs H. and I completely baffled.

On Tuesday December 7th 2010, at approximately 6.20 pm our next-door neighbour knocked at the door and asked if any parcels had been left at our house for her whilst she'd been out. I told her that I'd been in all day and the postman hadn't left any deliveries for her at all. We chatted for a few minutes about the weather and other matters and then she returned to her home. Several minutes later I realised that I had to retrieve a book from my study upstairs. My wife was already upstairs in the bedroom, vacuuming.

As I reached the top landing I happened to glance out of the window at the front garden, and noticed something decidedly odd. I instinctively shouted for Jackie, “Here...come and look at this...” Without pausing for so much as a second she replied, “I know what you're going to say – the footprints in the snow.” She had already looked out of the window and noticed the anomaly before I'd ascended the stairs. I immediately went and got my camera and at exactly 6.32 pm took a series of photographs.

So, what was so odd that my attention was riveted to such a degree?

The front of our house was covered with a thick blanket of snow; pristine, glistening and completely undisturbed except for our neighbour's footprints. And that's where the problem lay. In the snow we could clearly see the prints leading up our neighbvour's own garden path, at which point she'd turned right and crossed the two parking bays between our respective dwellings. You could see her footprints in the snow there, too. But then they stopped at the top of our path. There wasn't a single footprint in the snow between the top of the path and our front door. This was inexplicable, as she'd walked up to the door only minutes earlier.

Jackie and I tried to come up with a rational explanation, but couldn't. More, there wasn't a sign of any footprints leading from our door back to her own house, which there obviously should have been. It wasn't snowing when she knocked at the door, and it didn't snow between her visit and my taking the photographs minutes later. To this day we have absolutely no explanation as to why her footprints ended at the top of the path. How on earth did she walk from the top of the path to our door without leaving prints in the snow, and how did she walk back to her own home without leaving a single trace either?

Another oddity is that as the footsteps get closer to our path they seem to get smaller and sit much closer together.

Using Serif Panorama Plus and Serif Photo Plus, I seamlessly stitched the pictures together. The result left us more baffled than ever, as the enigma can be seen even more graphically.

I'm just prepared to accept that there may be a rational explanation for this, but I'll be damned if I can come up with one. If any readers of this blog can assist, I'll be delighted to hear from them. END

MIKE HALLOWELL: The Horse Man of Bede

Firstly, I'd like to offer my profuse apologies for the hiatus between this blog and my last one, which has been caused by both my ill health and Jackie's. I've had a couple of nasty falls due to my narcolepsy, and they took the wind out of my sails a bit. Still, I'm feeling a bit better now and determined that any future falls will be strictly alcohol-induced ones.

Some time ago, a correspondent who reads one of my newspaper columns sent me an extraordinary story, which was duly published. This prompted an e-mail from another correspondent who told me yet another bizarre tale even stranger than the first, the substance of which will take up the rest of this blog.

First, though, some background information. South Tyneside is the smallest Metropolitan Borough in the UK (some say the second smallest, but we won't quibble), and unusually for such a small place, claims no less than three anthropomorphic cryptids, all of which I've dealt with in this blog over the last year or two. There's the Cleadon Critter – a Bigfoot-type hairy hominid – the Splitback Demon (an odd “lizard man”) and a hairless, blue-skinned, blue-eyed weirdo called, well, Blue Eyes.

Now South Tyneside also plays host to the finest local train system in the land, colloquially called “the Metro.” The carriages are always immaculately clean, the trains always run on time and the staff are incredibly helpful. I don't know what we'd do without it. The Tyneside Metro system serves the populace on both the north and south sides of the River Tyne and is peppered with dozens of local stations. One of these, Bede Metro Station, can be found at Jarrow in the heart of an industrial estate. It is here where, allegedly, a fourth anthropomorphic cryptid has been seen on several occasions.

With the help of the afore-mentioned correspondent, I managed to track down one of the witnesses, who said that he had no problem telling me his story as long as he wasn't mentioned by name. Some years ago, he happened to be driving through the Bede Industrial Estate near Bede Metro Station with a colleague when, to their surprise, they saw a man standing in the middle of the road. He was wearing a long, black coat with a hood. They slowed to a halt as the chap approached their vehicle and without warning, banged on the bodywork with the flat of his hand. He also shouted something, the details of which I cannot recount here as to do so would just possibly allow readers to identify the witness. Suffice to say that it was not relevant to the substance of the story and under other circumstances would certainly not have led the witnesses to think they were being addressed by anything other than a bona fide member of the human race. Because the man had thumped the vehicle with his hand and shouted, though, I asked the witness if the chap had seemed angry. He said,”No, not angry exactly...just odd, you know...weird”.

Up to this juncture, the witnesses were both under the impression that the man was simply an “odd-ball” or an eccentric. Nevertheless, his behaviour, whilst not overtly aggressive, was bizarre to say the least and prompted the chap who was driving to put his vehicle in reverse and pull backwards to place as much distance between their vehicle and the stranger as possible. It was then that both witnesses noticed something truly extraordinary. Although from the waist up the stranger looked reasonably conventional, from the waist downwards he was anything but. He had two legs, but they were not human legs; they were actually those of a horse. Naturally, this changed the perspective of the witnesses radically. They realised that they were not dealing with someone who was nothing more than mentally unstable, but with something that wasn't fully human. They drove away from the scene as fast as they could, and both were deeply traumatised by the incident. “Even now, when I think about it, I get the shivers,” the witness I spoke to told me. “I haven't a clue what it was, but I know for certain what we saw; a man with the legs of a horse”.

I was later to learn that the two witnesses were not the only ones to have a run-in with the Bede Horse-Man. A relative of the afore-mentioned correspondent told her of another encounter. Seemingly, a number of workers at one of the units on the Bede Industrial Estate were going about their business when a man entered the premises, stopped and stared at them. They in turn looked at him, and were astonished to see that his feet were not those of a human, but actually hooves like those of a horse. He promptly turned around and left the building. The workers followed him outside, only to find that he had disappeared.

As both incidents took place in extremely close proximity to each other, I found it hard to imagine that they weren't connected in some way. However, I made a number of calls to colleagues and other regular correspondents and asked them if they'd heard of these two encounters. No one had, but one associate told me that he was actually aware of a third incident, which, to my mind, reduces the possibility of coincidence to zero.

At approximately 11 pm on New Year's Eve 2007, two young men were making their way to a party. Their route took them past Bede Metro Station. As they walked down Monksway, they saw a man standing at the junction of the road and a small drive that leads to an industrial unit. As they drew close to him they noticed that his feet were actually hooves. At this juncture they both bolted under a nearby underpass and ran for at least a mile without stopping. Both of the men admitted to having been drinking – it was New Year's Eve, remember – but vigorously denied that they were drunk.

There are a number of things about this whole affair that trouble me. The first is that, despite having written up South Tyneside's Forteana for decades, I had never heard of these extraordinary stories before. I found it hard to imagine that every one of these encounters had so far managed to fly below my radar, so to speak. However, having talked to the first witness I have to say that I am convinced of his sincerity and truthfulness. Perhaps the events are just so bizarre that the witnesses refrained from discussing them with others out of the fear of being ridiculed.

Regarding the latter encounter, I also found it strange that the two teenagers were walking through an industrial estate at night, allegedly on their way to a party. Its not difficult to get a taxi in South Tyneside, even on New Year's Eve. Nevertheless, there could be any number of explanations for this. I also wondered why the correspondent who told me this tale hadn't thought to mention it to me before, knowing how fascinated I am by this sort of event. These are questions for which I have no answers, but in the final analysis we are left with this: several witnesses on no less than three separate occasions have apparently seen a man with the legs of a horse in the vicinity of Jarrow's Bede Metro Station.

Working on the presumption that these encounters really did take place, the next logical question has to be, what on earth did they see? My guess is that the creature was some sort of elemental entity. I have noticed that events of this kind tend to be more common at locations with a strong spiritual history attached to them. Only a stone's throw away from Bede Metro Station are the remains of Bede's Monastery and the ancient St Paul's church. Adjacent to these is a park known as Charlie's Park – more correctly called Drewett's Park – which has a long history of hauntings and other ghostly phenomena.

One colleague suggested to me that the “half-man, half-horse” description could have Celtic connections. Perhaps he's right. I'm going to write up the story in one of my newspaper columns and ask if anyone else out there has encountered the Bede Horse-Man – or its kin. Any readers of this blog who can shed light on the matter should get in touch.

MIKE HALLOWELL: The Ghost Cat of the Grotto

A couple of weeks ago I received an e-mail from a journalist on a local paper I column for, attached to which was an e-mail the paper had received from an old colleague of mine. I'd not seen Billy for years, not since we both worked together in the Crime Prevention Department of Northumbria Police (E Division).

Billy had no direct way of contacting me and hence, penned his epistle for my attention to the journalist concerned. Billy wanted to know if I was attending a “ghost hunt” at the legendary Marsden Grotto Inn, a strange pub in a cave that nestles at the base of a large cliff at Tyneside's Marsden Bay. Both Marsden Bay and the Grotto Inn are known to myself, Jon Downes and Richie Freeman. Jon and Richie visited the pub years ago when we were filming a documentary entitled Anatomy of a Haunting. The documentary was the work of filmmaker Gary Wilkinson, and concerned the wide range of bizarre phenomena that take place in the vicinity. I wrote the script and did some of the presenting, whilst Jon and Richie did a very spooky intro.

Later, I went on to write an entire book about the pub (The House That Jack Built: Amberley Publishing, 2008), and I've taken part in no less than five documentaries about the place and penned over twenty articles and columns on the same subject. Hence, I was intrigued about the forthcoming ghost hunt.

I telephoned Billy and we spent at least half an hour catching up on old times. I confessed to him that I knew nothing about the forthcoming event, and normally didn't have much enthusiasm for this sort of thing, but if it was taking place at the Grotto then I might be persuaded. I then rang the chap who had organised it and he said he'd be delighted if I'd go along and perhaps help inform those in attendance about the history of the place and some of the odd characters who had been associated with it over the centuries.

Then the event took place, and I watched with fascination as thirty enthusiasts not only hunted for the Grotto ghosts but also attempted to make contact with them via ouija boards and sundry other means.

But it was during a break in the proceedings when my curiosity was truly heightened. A cameraman was filming me as I moved from location to location and in between shots we found ourselves standing by the main entrance, which leads out onto the patio outside. The cameraman suddenly turned and looked down towards the ground, obviously distracted by something.

“That's weird,” he said, “I've just felt a cat brush against my legs, but there's nothing there...”

I must confess I was delighted, for I wondered if the legendary Grotto Ghost Cat (GGC) was back.

The Grotto Ghost Cat first appeared, to my knowledge, in the mid 60s when patrons playing the “one-armed bandits” reported having the same sensation as the cameraman: the unmistakeable feeling that a cat had just brushed against their legs. What intrigued me more was the fact that the gambling machines used to stand only six feet away from where we were standing now.

Occasionally drinkers in the Grotto would not only feel the cat's presence but actually see it. It was invariably described as black and white, although a couple of witnesses have also seen a completely black cat, so maybe there are two Grotto Ghost Cats.


The first witness I ever interviewed who had actually seen the GGC was the former landlord of the Grotto, Nick Garvey. Not long after taking over the pub, Nick spotted a cat in the kitchen. He said it looked “large as life” (a weird expression, for to my knowledge you don't lose height when you're dead) and tried to catch it, as he didn't want a run-in with the local council's health and safety people. He bent down and tried to pick it up, but was astonished to find that his hands just passed straight through it. The phantom cat then simply walked through a nearby refrigerator and disappeared.

I've actually been in the Grotto when other patrons have complained to the manager about “that cat in the bar” but when the landlord investigates it has inevitably disappeared into the ether.

There's no doubt that a spectral cat of some kind haunts (if that's the word) this old public house. However, is it a ghost or some kind of zooform cryptid? Its hard to say, to be honest. In some respects it acts like a conventional, run-of-the-mill ghost (if there is such a thing) but one or two incidents make me wonder. In November 2000 a witness who saw the GGC claimed it had “bright, glowing red eyes”, and others have heard it “meaowing”. Another witness I interviewed said that as the GGC leaped from a table onto the floor it seemed to change shape. Maybe it is a cryptid off sorts, then.

I've been told that someone has a photograph of the GGC, and I'm going to try and track it down. If I'm successful, I'll post it here, so watch this space....

MIKE HALLOWELL: A Bloggy Comic or Comicy Blog from Mike

MIKE HALLOWELL: The Gold-bearing haddock

On May 27 1856 a woman sat near a location known as Comical Corner in South Shields. Naturally this caused considerable outrage, for in Geordieland women are not allowed to sit down, but instead are supposed to busy themselves with tasks such as the polishing of coal and the repairing of long johns. In this case, however, the lady in question was spared the customary horrific punishment – banishment to Sunderland – because she was found to be gutting a haddock for her husband's supper. Her industriousness saved her neck.

Now as she removed the intestines of the fish – which, traditionally, are kept and used in the ancient Geordie divination technique called filletomancy – a truly curious thing occurred. A glint caught her eye (she only had the one) and there, nestling in the innards of the haddock, were two golden earrings.

Oh, I know, we've all heard these stories before, about people who cut open fish and find everything from mobile phones to false limbs inside them. Fish swallows stuff, person guts fish and find stuff; its no big deal, really. But how the hell did the haddock in question manage to swallow two golden earrings? Were they joined together for safekeeping? If not, how did the fish manage to swallow two earrings at once? Surely, as soon as they entered the water they would have separated. Unless, of course, both fell to the sea bed and were found and devoured by the same fish.

This must definitely be the Fortean equivalent of “Buy One Get One Free!”

I fancied tracking down the woman and interviewing her, but more than one colleague has suggested that as the incident occurred in 1856 the fishwife in question is unlikely to be alive. They're probably right, as the life expectation of Geordie women is 26, or 14,000 pasties, whichever comes first.

The local paper, The Shields Gazette, covered the story but the earrings were never claimed.

MIKE HALLOWELL SENT THIS

Jacquie Hallowell took this pic of Mike (right), Steve Jones and some fat bloke at the Unconvention on saturday morning....

MIKE HALLOWELL: The Bishop Auckland boars

Cryptozoology is a funny old business, involving as it does the passionate study of something that almost all experts agree we know precious little about. Sensible people study animals that are known to science and easily accessible. We cryptozoologists detest conventionality, far preferring to take the difficult route by studying animals that few people have ever seen and just about nobody has ever studied. Insane? Probably, but its far less painful than haemorrhoids and (usually) unlikely to get you arrested.

Cryptozoology is difficult enough, then, but it gets even tougher when experts in the field can’t even agree about what monster it is that they’re trying to catch. The Bishop Auckland Boars are a wonderfully typically example of this dilemma.

Essentially there are two “monster” legends attached to the Pollard’s Dene area of Bishop Auckland. Superficially they seem to be the same, the only important detail that changes being, to quote a phrase, the nature of the beast. In one version of the story the creature is a large, aggressive dragon or “wyrm”. In the second version the beast is a large, aggressive boar, or “brawn”. Both are said to be the meanest critter ever to have walked God’s earth. If they ever met, it would be a great match; a classic case of the unstoppable force meeting the immovable object.

The boar was an animal indigenous to Britain. The wild boar (Sus scrofa) was populous throughout much of central Europe, and was hunted in Britain by the Romans who loved to dine upon its succulent flesh. Over-hunting eventually led to its decline, and by the 13th century it was rarely seen. Some scholars have suggested that it was actually extinct by then, but this is unlikely. Sightings were reported in the north of England as late as the 17th century. However, not long after that it really did become extinct, although it has now been reintroduced and at least two breeding populations are known to exist in the wild.

This gives us a clue as to when the legend of the Bishop Auckland boars originated. Until the 13th century, the presence of a boar in the countryside would not have caused much of a stir. After the animal’s decline, however, it would have caused a degree of alarm in exactly the same way as the Bishop Auckland boar was said to have done. Its very scarcity would have made it a beast easy to be both feared and misunderstood. This suggests that the Bishop Auckland Boar story probably found its way into the currency of folklore between the 13th and 17th centuries, the 14th century being the one I would plump for if I was forced to choose. Here’s why:

In St Andrew’s South Church at Bishop Auckland there is an effigy of a knight carved from oak. His identity is unknown but under his feet there is a subdued boar. Few doubt that the effigy may well be connected to the Bishop Auckland boar legend and experts have dated it to circa the year 1340. I think it is highly likely, then, that the effigy was commissioned during the 14th century after the decline of wild boar had already begun and the legend had already become established.

How the wyrm and boar stories became confused is not hard to work out. The boar was sometimes referred to as the gewurm, a Teutonic word meaning “dangerous animal.” Almost inevitably, then, gewurm and wyrm would become confused. Truth to tell, though, it is not so much the taxonomy of the Bishop Auckland boar that gains it an entry into this book, but rather its terrible nature and unusual size. These two features alone catapult it firmly into the environs of cryptozoology, and for that we should be truly thankful.

Our story begins when hunters around Bishop Auckland – and particularly the area of Pollard’s Dene – began to report encounters with a boar of truly terrible disposition. Initially it was said to be around eight feet in length, which is certainly not outside the bounds of possibility. However, although boars are by instinct bad-tempered creatures, particularly when disturbed, this particular beast was truly ferocious. Several hunters reported that it would charge their horses and knock them (and their riders) to the ground.

A number of attempts were made to catch the creature but were wholly unsuccessful. On one occasion a tragedy occurred and this seems to have made the local populace more determined than ever to catch the beast. The tale is historically dubious but basically tells of a certain knight, resplendent in a heavy suit of armour, who went into the woods one evening at dusk. Some versions say he was hunting for the boar itself, others that he was there for other reasons; it matters not. The important feature of the tale is what transpired when the noble warrior and the boar met.

Seemingly, on entering a clearing the knight was confronted by the beast, which immediately charged him. The horse was badly injured and the knight was unable to get up from the ground and defend himself due to the incredible weight of his armour. The creature rammed him repeatedly with its tusked head until he was dead. Enough was enough, and it was decided that something needed to be done, and quickly.

At this juncture the story becomes a little confused. Some versions ascribe the killing of the creature to Richard Pollard, a brave but penniless knight from nearby Bishop Middleham. Others claim the beast was slain merely by “a brave young hunter.” The effigy in the church indicates that the man was certainly of noble bearing but my own feeling is that Richard Pollard was actually responsible for the demise of the Pollard wyrm, and not the boar, although it is just conceivable that he killed both. Whoever was responsible, the legend states that the hunter confronted the creature at a hollow near a place called Byers Green and slew it by repeatedly hacking at its neck with his sword. The rest, as they say, is history.

Inevitably, stories relating to the size of the boar became exaggerated with the passing of time. If the creature was, as some reports state, over twenty feet in length from tail to snout, then we simply cannot be dealing with a regular boar, but surely one of unknown taxonomic provenance. It is also interesting to note that in some accounts the Boar is said to possess huge, glowing eyes.

Alas, as the whereabouts of the remains of the creature are unknown (if indeed they still exist) we simply cannot be sure what type of animal we are dealing with. All we know for sure is that it terrified the life out of the good folk of Bishop Auckland. In one version of the story, the boar that killed the knight was accompanied by a youngster who also joined in the attack. This suggests that there may have been a breeding population ensconced in the vicinity. If this was the case, then the herd undoubtedly died out before too long, as reports of boars in that area petered out soon after.

Now that Sus scrofa has been reintroduced to the British Isles, the day may not be long in coming when the Bishop Auckland boar may once again live through its historical (if not biological) descendants. It would be nice to think so.

MIKE HALLOWELL: Northern Long-tailed White-hooped Squirrel

The other day I was told an interesting tale by a reader of one of my newspaper columns, informing me of a curious encounter she had whilst out shopping. I've had a few curious encounters myself whilst getting the groceries in; normally with police officers, obnoxious children and those seeking donations for obscure charities. I have never, however, had an encounter with a cryptid as this woman allegedly had in the vicinity of her local Netto store.

Her tale goes something like this: at 4.30pm last Wednesday she parked her car and walked towards the entrance of the supermarket, fully intending to purchase a range of exotic fayre with which to please her spouse and offspring, of which she had one of the former and three of the latter. Her mission was interrupted, however, by the appearance of a decidedly odd thing. The thing, she said, was something like a large gerbil but it had a very long tail and two white hoops encircling its nut-brown coat. The creature – which I have provisionally named Geordicus loonyata, or the Northern Long-tailed White-hooped Squirrel – scampered off in the direction of ASDA (possibly preferring their two-for-one deal on frozen peas) and was never seen again.

To all CFZ bloggers and readers, I would make an appeal: can you tell me what this creature was, what the hell it was doing in Tyneside and most importantly, would I be given a bloody big reward for catching it? END

MIKE HALLOWELL SENT THIS

MIKE HALLOWELL: The Geet Wind Disaster of '16

Birds are renowned for their psychic abilities. Mrs H, for example, always seems to know when I'm pinching things from the fridge or about to purloin a tenner from her purse.

Seriously, though, birds – the feathered variety - do seem to possess a sixth sense and an uncanny ability to predict the future. On September 10, 1816, a remarkable event occurred that supports this notion.

At that time there stood a rather ugly edifice at Byker Hill, Newcastle; a corn mill with huge iron wands that dominated the landscape. The wands were sturdy but not sturdy enough to withstand the attentions of a "tremendous hurricane" wending its way across North Tyneside. The "geet wind" (translation: stiff breeze) blew the wands off and no doubt caused great consternation to anyone who happened to be standing underneath them. Ironically, this was the third time in less than two years when a "geet wind" had dislodged the wands from their housings.

Simultaneously, other buildings throughout Newcastle were also succumbing to the hurricane. Many fell down, some lost their roofs and a few suddenly found themselves without their satellite dish. Or would have done, had satellite TV been invented then. Which it wasn't. Or at least, I don't think so.

Now at the end of Westgate Street, in the westerly corner of the vicarage garden, there stood an ash tree of great antiquity. For decades the tree had played host to rooks, who found the tree to be a particularly attractive nesting spot. However, on the morning of the "geet wind" the rooks all flew their nests and departed. Locals were dumbfounded for these rooks had lived there as far back as anyone can remember.

But then the "geet wind" blew the ash tree down, and the locals knew that the birds must have sensed something. It seems extraordinary that the rooks should have taken flight just before the tree was blown over after spending so many happy years there. Psychic? Or was this merely an incredible coincidence?

Answers on a post-card, please, and address your correspondence to "The Geet Wind Disaster of '16"…which is not to be confused with the "Great Bee Swarm of '33", the "Great Fly Invasion of '33", the "Terrible Cockroach Incursion of '56"…etc. etc., all of which are part of Geordie Cryptozoological history.
END

MIKE HALLOWELL: The Pixie of Bold Street

This is the 44th Geordie Monsters blog, and therefore a time to celebrate. 44 is a very special number in the Hallowell family as it represents the greatest number of consecutive summonses we received for non-payment of Council Tax before actually being prosecuted.

I recently promised Mr Downes – also known in some quarters as The Great Evil One, although this is somewhat exaggerated – that I would do my best to pen a number of blogs on the "Imp" theme, which is proving to be quite popular.

In the Nation of Geordieland, Imps were quite popular at one time, and were known to inhabit more rural locations in Northumberland, although they would also visit urban settings if the mood took them. Geordie Imps were neither wicked elementals nor paragons of virtue; they were somewhat like human beings, manifesting a wide range of personalities and demeanours. Generally, they had a reputation for being mischievous and in the north of England today it is not uncommon to hear adults refer to precocious youngsters as "cheeky imps."

One of the pranks Imps would engage in – and still do, I reckon – was to waylay travellers and confuse them regarding their surroundings. This was also a favourite pastime of pixies, which led to the phenomenon being referred to as "pixie-led" by some. Those who found themselves "pixie-led" or "imped" would suddenly realise that they had no idea where they were or how to get to their destination. They would wander around in a daze until the imps tired of the game and set them free.

Now this party-trick of the imps sounds like a quaint piece of folklore, but it isn't. Being imped or pixie-led is a real phenomenon. I have spoken to people who have experienced it and wouldn't you know, it actually happened to me once.

As I recall, several years ago a number of correspondents wrote in to the Fortean Times with similar tales. If my memory serves me correctly, one reader detailed a very strange experience indeed. The reader’s friend had got lost in a park on her way to an appointment and turned up twenty minutes late in a rather distressed state. There is nothing inherently strange about this, except that the park was only one quarter of a mile long and one eighth of a mile wide. How can someone become lost in such a small area, particularly one they are familiar with? Quite easily, it seems.

My own experience occurred some years ago. I used to be a member of the Board of Directors of The Weston Spirit, a charity founded by Simon Weston the Falklands veteran. The charity had its head office in Liverpool and once a month I'd journey down for meetings. I normally had a few hours to kill before the meeting started and would often take the opportunity to stroll around the city centre. One of my favourite places was Bold Street, a long stretch of shops which has great character. I used to love walking up and down the street, taking in the sights and sounds of bustling pubs, grocery stores, Asian supermarkets and "everything for a pound" outlets. There is something truly magical about Bold Street.

On one occasion I walked down to the bottom of the street and then retraced my steps on the other side of the road. Now, Bold Street is a street of considerable size but for some reason it seemed to be taking an inordinate length of time to get back to the top. I kept walking but weirdly, didn't seem to be getting any closer to where I wanted to go. At first I just passed this off as my imagination but after several minutes I knew that something was seriously wrong. I was passing the stores one by one but the end of the street stayed as far away as ever.

I decided to have one more try. I would walk briskly towards the top of the street. If within, say, two minutes I was no closer to where I wanted to go, I would turn around and walk back-over in the hope that this may break whatever bizarre spell had captivated me. At first nothing seemed to happen and then, suddenly, everything returned to normal. Before long I had left Bold Street and was heading back to my hotel. Back in my room I had a sudden urge to photograph the city centre in the direction of Bold Street from the window. I don't know why. There is nothing unusual about the picture but the urge to take it was so overwhelming to this day I can't explain it. I've attached it to this blog anyway.

Cases like that above are not rare. I investigated one myself several years ago in which a man also said he could not find his way out of a long street of shops. No matter which direction he went in, he kept finding himself back in the middle facing the other way. It’s easy to laugh at stories like this but Eric Wilson was genuinely traumatised by his experience:

“I started to sweat and my heart was pounding. I wasn’t imagining this. It was a good fifteen minutes before I reached the other end. It was just crazy. I kept walking, but the end of the street got no closer. I was in a real panic.”

Eric's experience? It happened in exactly the same street, in exactly the same city as my own. I find it hard to believe that this is merely a coincidence.

I know others who have been "imped" or "pixie-led" in this way. Two members of a paranormal research group I once belonged to visited a remote spot in rural Northumberland that by tradition played host to an entrance to the subterranean Northumbrian Elven Kingdom. They hoped to find it but did not, which sceptics will not find surprising. However, at one point they climbed to the top of a small mound and suddenly found themselves with absolutely no idea where they were. This was odd as the car they'd arrived in was clearly visible no more than 150 yards away. Discomfited by this odd sensation of being lost, even though they really weren't, they decided to head back to the car. And that's when the trouble started, for no matter how far they walked the vehicle never seemed to get any closer. Concern turned to panic but then, without warning, the sensation left them as quickly as it had came. They vowed never to go back to that spot again.

There is an old legend that those who find themselves "imped" or "pixie-led" can reverse the process by removing their coat or jacket, turning it inside-out and putting it on again. This, allegedly, confuses the imps who can no longer recognise their victim, and the spell is broken. I'd be interested to hear from anyone who has been imped, particularly if they tried this remedy. I'd love to know if it worked.

Whether this phenomenon is really precipitated by pixies or elves, or is explicable by more prosaic notions, I do not know. However, I truly believe it exists.

Inebriated Forteans who are having difficulty finding their way home from the pub could always try turning their jackets inside out, but I make no claims that it will work and the act may draw the attention of Her majesty's constables, who, imp-like, could well offer you alternative accommodation for the evening….
END

MIKE HALLOWELL: A Verdant interloper

This year I suggested to Jackie that we camped at the Weird Weekend instead of staying at a B&B or a hotel. This shocked Mrs H as she knows that I am not the world's greatest outdoors person and that I am as keen on camping as I am on athlete's foot, which is not very much.

We booked up with the Dyke Green Camp Site in Clovelly, which is managed by a thoroughly nice chap called Mr Johns. We had a terrific time, except for the wasps. Jackie doesn't mind wasps but I can't stand the little buggers. Bees are different for like the German Stukas of WWII, they have a siren that warns you of their imminent approach. Wasps are different. They are silent but deadly, and serve no useful purpose other than to piss off this blogger.

On a regular basis they would fly into our tent via a small aperture at ground level and buzz around my head. Mrs H asked me why I didn't simply, "psychically tell them to go". I said I'd much rather physically twat them with a rolled-up newspaper.

But we also had another little visitor. On Monday morning, just before we set off for home, Jackie noticed what she at first thought was a grasshopper in our tent. On closer examination, however, we realised that it was nothing of the sort. It was, in fact, a ladybird-like beetle the likes of which we'd never seen in Geordieland. It was grass-green in colour and quite happy to walk about on your hand.

Our verdant interloper was quite cute, actually, but we haven't a clue what it is. I've attached two photographs, and I'd be interested to hear from readers regarding what it might have been….

MIKE HALLOWELL WROTE THIS LETTER TO THE NORTH DEVON GAZETTE