Norfolk Folk Tales

by Hugh Lupton

Overview

Norfolk is steeped in story. Whether we are treading fields, fens, beaches or streets, the landscape is pregnant with secret histories. The collective imagination of countless generations has populated the county with ghosts, saints, witches, pharisees, giants and supernatural beasts. Stories have evolved around historical characters, with Horatio Nelson, Oliver Cromwell, Anne Boleyn, Tom Paine and King Edmund becoming larger than life in folk-memory. This book is a celebration of the deep connection between a place and its people.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9780752492711
Publisher:	The History Press
Publication date:	05/13/2013
Series:	Folk Tales: United Kingdom
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
Pages:	192
Sales rank:	518,970
File size:	2 MB

About the Author

For thirty years Hugh Lupton has been a central figure in the British storytelling revival. He tells myths, legends and folk-tales from many cultures, but his particular passion is for the hidden layers of the English landscape and the stories and ballads that give voice to them. He has written poetry, several collections of folktales, and one novel, The Ballad of John Clare. He lives in Norfolk.

Read an Excerpt

Norfolk: Folk Tales

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By Hugh Lupton

The History Press

Copyright © 2013 Hugh Lupton
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-7524-9271-1

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CHAPTER 1

The Callow Pit Coffer

The north door of a church is commonly known as the Devil's Door. According to Medieval belief the Devil resides in a child's soul until the moment of baptism. At the touch of holy water to the head he makes a swift exit through the north door. The association between door and Devil is doubly strong in the church of St Botolph at Limpenhoe. The latch of the north door is turned by an iron ring that was brought from the nearby church of St Edmund at Southwood when it fell into ruin. It is a ring that has a history.

In the enclosure maps there is a pit marked on the border between the parishes of Southwood and Moulton that is called 'The Callow Pit'. It was a pit that, according to local legend, held a treasure deep in its dark waters. Tradition is vague as to what the treasure might have been. It was certainly gold, but whether it was a smuggler's fortune, a viking's trophy, an Iceni hoard or an offering made to the spirits of the water in some deep forgotten past ... no one knows. Of one thing the good rectors of Southwood were certain: it was not Christian gold, and anyone meddling with it was putting his immortal soul in peril.

But times were hard in the years that followed the English Civil War. Chaos ruled and harvests failed. Many families struggled to keep their bellies filled.

In Southwood the story was the same, and two men of the village – two brothers – tired of seeing their children going to bed with their bellies aching with hunger, decided to try their luck at the Callow Pit. They shared a flagon of ale to give them courage. Their wives cautioned them:

'It's a wicked old place. There's them that's seen a headless horseman riding out of it. There's them that say it goes down and down to the very gates of Hell.'

But the two men paid them no heed. They cut a long straight pole and fitted an iron hook to the end of it. The two wives watched and shook their heads.

'Well, if you're set on going, you mind you keep your mouths shut ... for whatever spooks reside in that place will be stirred by speech.'

The brothers shrugged; they went to the barn and fetched a long ladder.

'We know the pair of you well enough, we've heard you cuss and blaspheme when you've had a quart of ale. Well, you watch yourselves this night in that place and keep your tongues behind your teeth.'

The brothers grinned at each other. Each of them took a last swig from the flagon and they set off with pole and ladder into the black night.

There was just enough moon to see by. The path was familiar. They tramped in silence, one in front, the other behind, one carrying the top ends of the ladder and pole tucked under his arms, the other the bottom.

When they reached the Callow Pit, in its hollow of alders and stunted willows, it seemed to be an open mouth swallowing all light. The murky water gave no reflection; it drew the night into itself. They shuddered and set to work. They stretched the long ladder across the pit from bank to bank. They stepped out over the black water, rung by rung, one behind the other. The leading brother held the pole horizontally by its middle, like a tightrope walker. When they reached the centre they turned the pole upright so that the iron hook sent ripples across the murk. Then, slowly, hand over hand, they pushed it down and down into the water.

It was only when their hands and forearms clutching the top end of the pole were elbow deep in water that they felt the hook push into stiff, thick mud. Without a word, with the understanding that passes sometimes between brothers, they began to work the hook through the mud, twisting it, pushing, lifting, sliding it to left and right. They moved along the rungs of the ladder, poking the depths.

For half an hour they worked, until their hands were numb with the cold water. Then, suddenly, they felt the iron hook meet something hard. It was scraping the surface of something smooth and firm. They twisted the pole and the hook locked into something that held it fast. They began to pull. They felt a tremendous weight. Hand over hand, kneeling on the rungs, straining their backs and arms, they heaved the pole up and up from the water. The ladder creaked and groaned, but it held firm. Slowly, by the thin light of the moon, they saw what they had caught.

The hook had snagged onto an iron ring. As they pulled it out of the black pit, they saw that it was attached to an iron lid, red and crusted with rust. Then, slowly a huge iron coffer emerged from the water, fastened with a lock of burnished brass. It was filled with something heavy that slid this way and that. The two brothers curled their fingers under the coffer and lifted. They set it across the ladder. There was a place where the lid had rusted clean away. Inside, there was no mistaking the yellow glint of golden coins catching the moonlight. The brothers could feel each other's grins, even if they couldn't see them. They threaded the pole through the iron ring. One stood behind, one in front. They heaved the pole onto their shoulders and set off, rung by rung, back to the bank of the Callow Pit, the coffer swinging between them.

When the first brother had set foot on firm ground he could contain himself no longer. He turned and shouted over his shoulder:

'We've got it safe now, by Jesus Christ and all the Saints, and damn me if Old Nick shall ever take it from us!'

No sooner were the words spoken than a reek of yellow sulphur began to seethe and bubble from the pit. The brothers coughed and spluttered. They scrambled up the bank. Behind them there was a splash. They turned their heads and saw an enormous black hand rising from the murk. It turned from side to side as though it had an eye in its palm, then it lunged. A hand, a wrist, a forearm, an elbow ... a whole arm emerged as quick as the crack of a whip. It lunged towards them. The black fingers curled around the coffer and pulled it back towards the water. The second brother flattened himself against the mud. The iron ring slid along the pole and caught once again in the hook. The two brothers seized the pole and pulled with all their strength. A terrible tug of war ensued. The brothers dug their heels into the willow roots and pulled one way, the black arm pulled the other.

Then came a crack, a sudden sharp clanking crack as the iron ring broke from the rusty lid of the coffer. The brothers fell backwards against the bank. When they sat up, the black hand had vanished, and all that was left of the coffer was a trail of bubbles breaking the surface of the Callow Pit.

And caught on the hook at the end of the pole, the heavy iron ring was swinging and dangling.

When they got home their wives were waiting for them with their hands on their hips. They looked at the iron ring and shook their heads.

'I don't suppose you broke silence and cussed, did ye?'

The brothers' shut mouths were all the answer they needed.

They took the ring to the parson who fixed it to the door of Southwood Church, and there it hung until 1881 when it was taken to Limpenhoe and hung from the door there, the north door of course, the Devil's Door.

CHAPTER 2

The Potter Heigham Drummer

The 9th (East Norfolk) Regiment of the Foot were also known as the 'Holy Boys'. This was because the regiment's badge, the image of Britannia, was mistaken by the Spanish and Portuguese allies during the Peninsular War for the Virgin Mary.

After serving with distinction in Spain, the regiment was sent to Canada in 1814 to prevent the United States' threatened invasion (America seeing herself as being in sympathy with France as a sister republic).

Between the Spanish and Canadian campaigns of the Napoleonic wars, there was a brief lull when the soldiers of the regiment were granted furlough or leave. Many of them returned to their villages in Norfolk.

One of them was a drummer from Potter Heigham. He'd been sold into the regiment by his pauper father when he was ten years old. He was now sixteen. He came home to find that his father was dead and his mother had remarried. There was no home for him to return to. But six years in the army had taught him resourcefulness. With his soldier's wage he bought an old canvas sail and made himself a tent on a piece of common land outside the village. Although it was mid-winter, he kept himself snug with a blazing fire. Every morning he would saunter into the village in his red military jacket with its shining buttons, and buy bread and tobacco.

The villagers recognised him.

'Old Jess Dyble's boy is back I see.'

'Yip, an' squatting on the common like a gypsy.'

There was something about the lad that they fought shy of. It wasn't just that he was the son of a pauper; it was something more dangerous than that. He'd seen more in his six years away from home than they'd seen in their lifetimes. It was clear in his face that had been tanned brown by the Spanish sun, and bore on its cheek a long scar. It was in his eyes too, that seemed to hold secrets they didn't want to enquire into. It was as though the war had left the boy both wounded and fearless.

For the girls of the village, it was a different story. That combination of wounded and fearless was a potent brew. They watched him cooking over his fire, self-composed and contented, whistling to himself. They watched him leaning over the bridge by the boatyards, smoking his pipe and spitting into the river. They watched his red jacket among the smocks and grey fustian overcoats of the village boys. Every one of the girls was smitten, but it was Eliza Rust, the prettiest and boldest of them all, who went up to him first.

'Are you one of the Holy Boys?'

He smiled at her.

'I am, Lizzie ...'

She gasped.

'How did you know my name?'

'Because I remember you from before I marched away. A soldier never forgets a pretty face. Don't you remember me, Nathan Dyble ... little Natty?'

She looked into his eyes.

'So you are – I'd clean forgot you. You was sold into the army and your father drank away the shilling the night you was took.'

'That'd be me. Now, what would you say to a ribbon for that hat of yours?'

And so it was that Nathan Dyble walked Lizzie Rust to the village shop, pulled out his purse and bought her a ribbon that matched his jacket. The next day he walked her along the towpath by the river. The next day he borrowed a boat and rowed her out onto the broad.

It was there that her father saw them, talking and laughing and looking into each other's faces like a couple of sweethearts. As soon as she came home, he called her: 'Eliza, you come here.'

He was standing by the fire, trembling with rage.

'You leave that boy alone. He ain't no good. He ain't got a roof over his head ... and we all know what stock he come from. A redcoat on furlough has only one thing on his mind ... and no daughter of mine will be a soldier's whore. You'll not see him again, do you understand, not never!'

But her father was too late; poor Lizzie was completely smitten by Nathan Dyble, and Nathan had no intention of giving up on her. When one of Lizzie's friends came to his tent on the Common and said: 'Lizzie Rust's been warned off you, and her Dad says you and she are through for good and all.' Nathan seized her by the hand and whispered: 'You tell Lizzie Rust this: if she loves me as I love her, then she's to wait for me at Swim Coots tomorrow night. If she don't come, then I'll up sticks and bid farewell to Potter Heigham, and she'll never see me no more.'

That night was bitterly cold; in the morning there was a skin of ice on Hickling Broad that thickened with every hour that passed. By the time the sun set, it was strong enough to take a man's weight.

Lizzie Rust lay in bed, waiting for her parents' breathing on the other side of the thin partition wall to grow steady and even. When she was sure they were asleep, she slipped downstairs. She had hidden warm clothes beneath the wooden settle. She dressed herself and pulled a thick coat over her woollen clothes. She pulled back the bolt and slipped out of the cottage. It was frosty, and there was a strong moon. The world was black and white and silver. The grass crunched beneath her feet. She made her way along the lanes that ran beside the icy marshes to Swim Coots. She held herself against the bitter cold, looking out across the smooth wide expanse of the frozen broad. There was no sound; no sign of life. She waited and waited.

And then, suddenly, from the middle of the broad, there came a sound. It was the rattling and the rolling of a military drum, the crisp tattoo of a military parade. And then she saw him. He was skating towards her across the frozen lake in the full uniform of the Ninth Regiment of Foot, every button burnished in the moonlight, playing his drum as though a thousand men were marching to its rhythm. As he approached her, he lifted his drum-sticks to his forehead and crossed them. He stepped nimbly onto the frozen ground, unfastened his skates and took her in his arms. His face was flushed, and his body was warm from the exertion. She folded herself against him. Their mouths met. He unbuttoned her coat and threw it down onto the white grass. And there, beneath the clear winter moon, they lay down together, and all of her father's worst fears were realised in an hour of unbridled happiness.

When they parted he whispered: 'Tomorrow?' And she replied: 'Tomorrow.'

Night after night they met at Swim Coots. Night after night, he came skating across the broad with the tan-tan-tarra of his regimental drum. Night after night, they pitted their warmth against the bitter February chill.

But then one night she saw him coming towards her across the ice. He was beating his sticks against the skin of his drum but there was no sound. He stepped onto the ground and took her into his arms. She found herself shuddering at his touch: 'My love ... you are so cold.'

Without saying a word he unbuttoned her coat. She wriggled out of it and dropped it onto the ground. She seized his hand to draw him down ... but her fingers closed around water. Her hand was wet with ice-cold water and where he had been standing there was nothing. Nobody. She was quite alone.

Suddenly she was filled with a chill terror.

'Nathan!'

She ran out onto the ice, but it creaked and groaned and heaved under her weight so that she was forced to return to the edge of the broad. She ran along the edge of the broad, but thick cloud had covered the moon and she could see nothing. She made her way back to the village, not daring to say a word, knowing that if her father guessed the truth he would throw her out of house and home. She slipped through the door and climbed the stairs to bed. When she woke, a cold rain was battering the window-panes. She told her mother that she was feeling indisposed and stayed beneath the bedclothes. She slept fitfully through the day, and as it grew dark outside she came downstairs to the kitchen fire. Her father was warming his feet at the hearth. He looked up at her.

'Well Lizzie, it's just as well you done as I told you and didn't go breaking your heart over poor Jess Dyble's son.'

Lizzie paled.

'Why's that?'

'They've just fished him out of the broad, drowned as a rat. He'd gone through the ice they reckon ... though why he should have been dressed in the full uniform of the Holy Boys is a mystery no one can unravel ... and if he hadn't been strapped to that drum of his they reckon he'd have sunk to the bottom ... what's the matter Lizzie ...'

'She ain't well, poor child', said Lizzie's mother, 'Now you get back upstairs to bed, my sweet, and I'll bring you up a bowl of gruel.'

* * *

It is said that Nathan Dyble's ghost is still seen on Hickling Broad, but only in winter when the ice is beginning to melt. An old wherryman, recorded in 1906, put it this way: 'The folks ha' a notion that th' Hickling drummer lad go skaten' round Swim Cutes, a-beaten o' his drum ter show that th' ice ain't safe.'

And if you want to see a drum of the 9th Regiment of Foot, then go to the Royal Norfolk Regimental Museum in Norwich Castle where there's one on display.

CHAPTER 3

The Ploughman and the Pharisees

Three of the greatest traditional singers recorded during the folk-music revival of the 1950s, '60s and '70s have come from Norfolk: Walter Pardon, a carpenter from Knapton; Harry Cox, a farm labourer from Catfield; and Sam Larner, a fisherman from Winterton. All three had huge repertoires of song, much of which is available to us still thanks to the recordings made by folksong collectors over the years.

The cottage in Bulmer Lane, Winterton, where Sam Larner lived and died is marked by a blue plaque. He was the most exuberant of the three. He first went to sea when he was eight, signed on as a cabin boy aboard a sailing lugger when he was twelve, and spent most of his working life on steam drifters, following the shoals of herring.

The singer Martin Carthy remembers hearing him sing in 1959. 'His impact was immediate and electrifying. This was a man in command, utterly accustomed to performing. He pointed at his audience, he teased them, he pulled words out of the air ... I took away an impression of someone utterly at home with what he was doing, for whom every song was personal ... and 'The Lofty Tall Ship' ... with its endless variations, was as exotic as anything I had ever heard.'

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Norfolk: Folk Tales by Hugh Lupton. Copyright © 2013 Hugh Lupton. Excerpted by permission of The History Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

Contents

Title Page,
Dedication,
Introduction,
1 The Callow Pit Coffer,
2 The Potter Heigham Drummer,
3 The Ploughman and the Pharisees,
4 The Three Ungrateful Sons,
5 The Lie of the Land – Hills, Mounds and Hidden Treasures,
6 Holy Wells and Holy Relics,
7 The Peddlar of Swaffham,
8 Sir Thomas Erpingham,
9 Witches,
10 Four Ballad Tales,
11 Bells,
12 Stone Hearts,
13 William of the Strong Hand,
14 The Wild Boy,
15 Tom Hickathrift,
16 My Sister, My Mistress, My Mother and My Wife,
17 Edmund, King and Martyr,
18 Old Shuck,
19 Cock and Bull,
20 Tom Paine's Bones,
21 The Green Lady,
22 Anne Boleyn,
23 The Dauntless Girl,
24 Seafarers,
25 The Grey Goose Feather,
26 Little Saint William of Norwich,
27 Six Norfolk Ghosts,
28 Sir Thomas Browne and the Hollow Cane,
29 John Skelton and the Miller of Diss,
30 The Visions of St Fursey,
31 Fiddlers and Tunnels,
32 The Sandringham Pals,
33 Sir Berney Brograve,
Norfolk Place Names Index,
Bibliography,
Websites,
Copyright,