The Blue Ball Inn

The Blue Ball Inn is an old coaching stop on the cliffs overlooking the Bristol Channel. It is an ancient place, one that has provided warmth, hospitality and refreshments to travellers on the Lynton to Porlock road for many years. Nowadays, it is a dog-walker's paradise, a place to stay and rest after long hours traipsing across Exmoor. Needless to say, it is haunted.

I first visited during a summer's day. Down at nearby Lynmouth, the weather was fine and sunny, which was enjoyed by the many holidaymakers visiting the pretty seaside village. Emma and I had taken advantage of the sunshine ourselves, by sharing a picnic on the stony foreshore. This consisted of crackers with homemade pate, vegetable crisps, various local cheeses and hunks of bakery bread. Washed down with glasses of Emma's own elderflower fizz.

We had work the next day, which meant a quick visit to an interesting country pub before driving home. This was how we found ourselves at the top of Countisbury Hill, sitting outside the Blue Ball Inn. The sun was shining, the beer garden offered gorgeous views coastal views and all was good in the world.

Until the weather suddenly changed...

Astonishingly, a bank of mist rolled in from nowhere, climbing the hill inexorably as it engulfed us in eerie silence. The temperature plunged as we were held in an icy grip. Obviously, this was nothing more than a natural phenomenon, a freakish weather event of the kind that can happen on the moor. All the same, had it occurred in a ghost story, the reader might have shook his head in disgust at such a cliché being employed.

Lynmouth Harbour During the Summer

We were forced indoors, where we quickly finished our drinks before leaving for home. But despite the sudden change of climate chasing us off, the Blue Ball Inn had made a favourable impression. We decided to return during the autumn, and stay overnight.

The Blue Ball Inn in November 2017

It was a cold, dark November night and we enjoyed a cosy drink before one of the inn's numerous fireplaces. Emma sat with her back to an open doorway, which led to the hotel reception and staircase to the guest rooms; also a front door for the exclusive use of those staying over. To her left was a window and the pitch-black night, to her right the aforementioned fire. We shared a charcuterie plate and cheese feast, a glass of wine and game of Scrabble. All very relaxed and, admittedly, a little prosaic.

The Same View, Once Darkness Fell

Imagine my surprise when a shade suddenly appeared behind her. It was best described as a shadow of a person, inexplicably tall and...I guess, elongated. Although it boasted no definite features, I had the sense that it was an elderly man that I saw.

He paused behind Emma, seemingly as intrigued by her presence as I was with his. He peered down at her for a moment before continuing his progress towards the inn's front door. This is the door you see on the far left of the picture above. Before he reached the entrance, he disappeared into thin air. One might say he evaporated.

Catching me gazing at something over her shoulder, Emma nonchalantly asked if an old man stood there. Although she saw nothing herself, of course, she had sensed his presence. Not a ghost, you understand; indeed, nothing untoward at all. Simply an old man, as might be expected of such an establishment during the low season.

So there you go, proof that the Blue Ball Inn is haunted. I saw so much with my very own eyes.

The Fire We Sat Near...Did This Boar See Anything Unusual?!?

THE BALLAD OF CHARLOTTE DYMOND

It was a Sunday evening,

And in the April rain,

Charlotte went out from our house,

And never came home again.

Launceston was home to Charles Causley, a poet described by Ted Hughes as the best laureate we never had. A bachelor, Charles wrote about his town and duchy in many verses; perhaps his most famous poem of all is The Ballad of Charlotte Dymond. It tells the tale of an horrific murder during Victorian times.

Her shawl of diamond redcloth,

She wore a yellow gown.

Carried a green handkerchief,

She bought in Bodmin town.

About her throat her necklace,

And in her purse her pride,

As she walked one evening,

Her lover at her side.

Matthew Weeks was that lover, a half-crippled farm labourer who had grown infatuated with the beautiful girl. However, she had another suitor, one perhaps more favoured by birth. His name was Thomas Prout and he was a relative of the woman on whose Bodmin Moor farm she worked.

It is hard to keep a secret in the countryside and Charlotte's infidelity was discovered. Her illicit affair had tragic consequences. Fatal consequences. For the jealous Matthew plunged a knife into her young chest and murdered her.

The next morning, poor Charlotte's corpse was found in a stream flowing at the bottom of Rough Tor. Matthew fled to Plymouth, where he was apprehended by the police. Tried at Bodmin Assizes, he was hanged outside the town gaol.

Charlotte she was gentle,

But they found her in the flood.

Her Sunday beads among the reeds,

Beaming with her blood.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, the spot where Charlotte died is said to be haunted by her restless spirit. Many people claim to have seen her ghost there, near a memorial plaque that mentions the cruel act which took her life.

Bodmin Gaol is also said to be haunted. Indeed, one can spend the night there, amongst its eerie ruins, in the hope of seeing something frightening.

Myself, I walked to the old gallows pit one sunny afternoon, where I experienced something very unsettling. The temperature plunged and a strange feeling overwhelmed me. It was as though something very evil inhabited the place. A voice within my mind told me to leave. It seemed to say, "there is nothing here to keep you".

P.S. My novel, The Children of Powerful Men, features the characters of Matthew Weeks, Charlotte Dymond and Thomas Prout. They are reimagined as people living in the modern age. People who may have been involved in a terrible miscarriage of justice.