Nothing to see here... or is there?
When darkness falls on midsummer’s eve, legend and locals say that strange goings-on occur on this north Lakeland fell. It was as good an excuse as any for a wild night on the hill...
Trail goes in search of the midsummer ghosts of Souther Fell in the Lake District.
Its bloodshot eyes bulged as they stared unseeingly at me from an awkward angle. Its disembodied head sent a prickle of unease up my back and I wondered what on earth could have eaten half a Herdwick? It looked fresh, too...
The dead sheep was a stark contrast to the pleasant and soothing meadowed summit of Souther Fell on midsummer’s eve. Cotton grass swayed in the warm breeze and the late evening sun bathed the rolling hills with a peaceful golden glow. It was unseasonably warm for June in the Lakes, but I shuddered a little as we scurried away from the gory remains for our intended wild camp spot.
Despite the idyllic location, my imagination stubbornly insisted on conjuring up silhouettes of prowling beasts looking for sleeping prey in the middle of the night on a quietly lonely fell-top, where no one would hear their cries of anguish. I shook my head in an effort to banish the paranoid thoughts, and reassured myself that photographer Tom in his bivvy bag would surely be first pickings for whatever beasties were out there anyway! Snapping back to reality, the sense of excitement and anticipation washed back over me. Finally it was a gorgeous summer evening when I didn’t have to retreat to the suffocating cocoon of a house – tonight the hills were mine. And what a night it was.
We weren’t just there to enjoy the evening though. We were in search of the Ghost Army of Souther Fell. Well, Tom was. I was just along for a fell-top wild camp on a gorgeous summer’s night. Apparently, it had been a long- held ambition during Tom’s 20 years of photographing the British mountains to spend midsummer’s eve on Souther Fell to witness this spectral army for himself. Usually a down-to- earth sort of chap, I had eyed Tom with some skepticism when he suggested it in all seriousness and with just a little too much earnest.
On midsummer’s eve in the 1700s there were many sightings of entire armies marching five abreast along this 2km-long fell-top. The first in 1735 by two farmworkers, then, in 1745, the year of Scotland’s Jacobite uprising, mounted troops and infantry were again seen on the fell marching in columns. These visions continued until darkness fell and there were 26 sober and respected witnesses who testified under oath to magistrates to what they had seen. Concerned that some kind of organised rebellion was imminent, the next day Souther Fell was climbed and not a foot or hoof print was found on the soft ground of the ridge.
Now, although I don’t believe in ghosts, it’s all too easy to get the heebeejeebees on a mountain in the middle of the night, so I’d steered clear of too much prior reading of these stories. It took me a little by surprise then, when we bumped into a lone local walker who knew the Ghost Army story too. Maybe there was something in this local folklore, after all. And did they have Herdwick sheep for breakfast?
“THE SUN WAS STARTING TO SET BEHIND THE CLOUDS ATOP BANNERDALE CRAGS, AND SHARP EDGE LOOKED IMPOSSIBLY STEEP FROM THIS ANGLE”
“THE SOUND OF A LEGION OF FOOTSTEPS SEEMED A DISTINCT POSSIBILITY IN MY HALF-CONSCIOUSNESS...”
Using my new, very-much-21st- century toy, a GPS watch, I found the highest point of 522m on the long broad summit and pitched my tent. With Tom’s bivvy laid out and stove lit, we stopped to take in the view. The sun was starting to set behind the clouds atop Bannerdale Crags, and Sharp Edge looked impossibly steep from this angle, veering up to Blencathra at a scary angle. To the east, the promise of a fabulous sunrise lay in wait in the vast expanse of lowland stretching out to the Pennines in the distance.
Camp meals warmed and eaten, hot choccy on the boil and hip flask drained, there was no sign of any ghost army though. In fact, the fell had a homely, comforting ambiance. Not ghostly at all, decapitated sheep aside! I wasn’t disappointed, but Tom, still holding out a glimmer of faith for midsummer’s dawn, when some had also reported sightings, set his alarm for 3am (just in case), then 4am in readiness for a dawn march.
The night was cosy, tucked up in my sleeping bag, protected from the unknown by the fly-sheet of my tent. Blissful sleep ensued, then snippets of the total stillness of the night invaded my consciousness in the slightly fitful rest that comes with camping. I barely saw darkness on this midsummer’s eve, as with sunset at 21.51 and sunrise at 04.37 the night was short indeed.
Then, a low rumble disturbed my slumber. There were the early indications of dawn light already seeping through the tent. Did I dream it? The sound of a legion of footsteps seemed a distinct possibility in my half- consciousness. I held my breath and listened... All I could hear was my heartbeat, which seemed to have become louder and quicker. I rolled my eyes up to the roof of the tent, fully awake now. It was still. There was not a breath of the wind that had flapped the sails of the tent the night before. I breathed. But there it was again. I scrambled out of my sleeping bag. I could hear Tom shuffling around outside. Surely, there would be more of a reaction if the Ghost Army were approaching!
Bleary- eyed and struggling to wriggle into my trousers in the close confines of the tent, nothing was happening very quickly. Then there it was again. A long, low, guttural rumble.
I unzipped the tent and squinted to where Tom had bivvyed. He was up with his camera out, looking expectantly in the direction of sunrise. “Did you hear that?” I said. “Hear what?” Tom replied, still looking into the dark clouds that should have been a spectacular dawn.
We listened. There it was again. “Did you hear that…?!” Now, Tom is quite old, but the rumble in the distance was clear... and coming from the ominouslooking rain clouds heading our way. “It’s thunder,” I said. This time a louder clap of thunder echoed around the valley for even Tom to hear. “And it’s getting closer,” I said, looking at my tent sat on the most exposed point of the hill.
“Better get out of here,” said Tom, looking slightly dejected, perhaps partly at the prospect that our ghost hunt adventure was over, and partly at the fact that it was 4am with no chance of going back to bed.
Packed up and chased off the hill, not by a Ghost Army, but by ever increasing raindrops and the threat of lightning, I felt uncharacteristically exuberant for this time of the morning. This was one magical midsummer’s night in the hills I will never forget.