Simply coincidental? The country mysteries that cannot be explained

It would appear from recent conversations that there are many country folk with tales to tell of odd happenings. Some defy explanation and are perhaps quite rightly dismissed as coincidence. BB quoted an example some time ago of a claw-shaped birthmark on a child, following a confrontation between the pregnant mother and a large cockerel.

“Explain that away if you can,” wrote BB in Shooting Times, “and yet, I put it down to coincidence.”

There is nothing else for it but to accept it as just that – unless you believe in the supernatural. And since I’ve lived on the edge of a village, instead of on the edge of a town, I have been reminded of odd occurrences that are in no way connected with superstition. How do you explain the story told to me in all sincerity by a retired keeper recently?

He accepted an offer of a new position with more money, and a better cottage than his present one, but was forced to leave eventually because of the opening door. While he was present in the house, it never happened. But when his wife was left alone, the living room door opened of its own accord. It was a latch-type door, he said, and he simply did not believe his wife’s story in the beginning.

He finally accepted it as fact when he left his wife and another lady for an hour, after making sure that the latch was pushed down. On his return, the door was open and both ladies swore they had not left their seats in that time. There was an explanation somewhere, no doubt. But finding it is beyond my powers.

Why some waters demand solitude and others frighten

It will be easy to say this particular tale was made up, but I know better than that. Strange things have happened to me out in the country and at the water’s edge. I cannot explain them. There is no explanation. I cannot, for instance, explain why I am not only uneasy, but plain scared stiff to spend the night alone on certain waters. Whereas a night spent on the little Cumberland Esk almost demands complete solitude and I’ve never felt the slightest hint of apprehension there; I have preferred being alone and the dawn has always come too quickly.

If someone asked me whether or not I believed in ghosts, I’d have to hedge a little. I cannot find any logical explanation for what happened to my brother Ken and my cousin Joe at Wadhurst Lake in 1954. Those two stalwarts decided they would like to fish from the island, so Derrick Davenport and I rowed them across. They pitched their tent among the ferns and cut a clearing to the water’s edge. They used the cut ferns for bedding and settled in for the night.

Behind the tent was a vast area of jungle, mostly ferns but with some brambles. In the early hours of the morning, they heard what seemed to be an enormous animal approaching the tent. The footsteps were slow and they could hear the undergrowth being crushed, as whatever it was drew near the tent. Both said they were petrified as they waited for the tent to be flattened. But then the footsteps stopped and the creature responsible turned and retreated whence it came.

Had there been a boat available both swore they would have vacated; as it was they moved to the water’s edge and waited for the dawn. The odd thing about the whole episode is that there were no footprints in the undergrowth the next day and no sign whatsoever of any disturbance among the growing plants. The island, as I remember it, was not unduly large, and it could hardly have accommodated a deer – which seems the likeliest possibility, apart from the absence of tracks.

How are such things explained? There was no suggestion of a joke involved. We three were closely related and close to each other. I know, too, that the duo did not imagine it all.

The badger that put its head inside my tent

I’m aware that the darkness can play tricks. I know only too well that the familiar tree of the daylight can take on a frightening appearance at night. I know that the rustling of a vole, the padding of a fox and the snorts of a badger are magnified at night.

I once had a badger put his head inside my tent at night when I was fishing for carp at Woldale. And here’s an odd fact. I had with me my then 11-year-old daughter who wanted to fish the night through with me. I would not have fished there alone, but with my young daughter present I was relaxed and content. Why should I not be scared, as I would have been if alone, simply because I was not alone? I could hardly have relied upon her for my protection.

Logically, the inquisitive snorting of a badger in the tent ought to have scared me. As it was, I felt only deep regret that Valerie had not been awake to see it. She was fast asleep in my sleeping bag.

A railway carriage in the sky over Leighton Buzzard

I can recall one other complete mystery associated with night fishing. It concerns what I have to refer to as a UFO. Joe and I were returning home from a short night stint at a gravel pit in Leighton Buzzard. We had fished until 1.30am and were cycling home when we saw what we’ve since referred to as a “railway carriage in the sky”. It made no sound and appeared to have lit-up, porthole windows.

It was difficult to see whether it was moving or not. But we stopped and looked at it for a full minute or perhaps a little longer. Gradually, the thing pulled away and finally disappeared into the darkness.

There’s no doubt that we both saw the same object and we have many times tried to explain this away as a low-flying aircraft. But why was there no engine sound?

Unlike superstition, these things cannot be put down to coincidence, but there is surely an explanation somewhere. Isn’t there?

This article was first published in the 2 August 1979 issue of Shooting Times.