Edwin Waugh & the Gristlehurst Boggart

Edwin Waugh, the 19th-century dialect writer and poet from Rochdale, was a frequent visitor to Heywood and was well aware of the ways of the people there, and he wrote about them as well as anybody ever did. Waugh’s dialect writings are something of an acquired taste, as they are practically written in another language, but his descriptive powers were always evocative. He spent one summer afternoon in the early 1850s visiting Heywood Hall and the nearby woods, and was convinced by a friend to join him for a ramble up to Gristlehurst to the north. This quiet place, situated in Birtle off the Bury and Rochdale Old Road, is bounded to the north by Ashworth Moor and Knowl Hill and to the east by Simpson Clough, a two-mile wooded ravine running to the hills. The two men took the scenic route and arrived in the meadows of Gristlehurst in the late afternoon. They were enjoying themselves examining some of the ancient farmhouses there when they met an old weaver...
‘A hale old man, bare-headed, and in his shirt-sleeves, leaned against the door cheek, with his arms folded.  He was short and broad-set, with fresh complexion and bright eyes; and his firm full features and stalwart figure bespoke a life of healthy habits. He wore new fustian breeches, tied with black silk ribbon at the knees. Leaning there, and looking calmly over the fields in the twilight, he eyed us earnestly, as country-folk do when strangers wander into their lonely corners. The soft summer evening was sinking beautifully on the quiet landscape, which stretches along the base of Ashworth Moor. The old man’s countenance had more of country simplicity than force of character in it; yet he was very comely to look upon, and seemed a natural part of the landscape around him; and the hour and the man together, somehow, brought to my mind a graphic line in the Book of Genesis, about Isaac going out ‘to meditate in the field at eventide.’[i] 
They talked for a while as the old man told them in his thick accent about the history of the few old buildings around them. After a while his wife wandered down the lane and joined them...
‘She was a strong-built and portly old woman, taller than her husband; and her light-complexioned face beamed with health and simplicity. The evening was mild and still, and the old woman wore no bonnet, nor even the usual kerchief on her head. Her cap and apron were white as new snow, and all her attire looked sound and sweet, though of homely cut and quality. I knew, somehow, that the clothes she wore were scented with lavender or such-like herbs, which country-folk lay at the bottom of the ‘kist,’ for the sake of the aroma which they impart to their clothing. And no king’s linen could be more wholesomely perfumed. Give me a well-washed shirt, bleached on a country hedge, and scented with country herbs!’
Edwin Waugh.

As early sunset crept up on them, the old man was rambling on when he casually pointed out the spot, in a little hollow by a bend in the lane where an ash tree stood, where the ‘Gerzlehus’ Boggart’ was buried. This suddenly sparked Waugh’s waning interest. He examined the old man’s face for any sign of insincerity, but that face was apparently ‘as solemn as an unlettered gravestone’. Waugh later wrote their conversation in dialect form, which translated into modern English went along these lines:
‘Grizlehurst Boggart!’ said I, looking towards the place once more.

‘Ay,’ replied he. ’That’s where it was laid laid low; and quite a job it was. You probably haven’t heard of it before.’

The old woman now took up the story, with more earnestness even than her husband.

‘It’s a good while since it was laid; and there was a cock buried with it, with a stake driven through it. It wasn’t settled with little effort, I’ll guarantee you.’

‘And do you really think, then,’ said I, ‘that this place has been haunted by a boggart?’

‘Has been, - be fair!’ replied she. ’It is now! You would soon find it out, too, if you lived up on the spot. It would make your hair stand up on end, either with one prank or another. There’s not too many folk that like to go down there alone, after daylight, I can tell you!’

‘But, if it’s laid and buried,’ replied I, ‘it surely doesn’t trouble you now.’

‘Oh, well,’ said the old woman, ‘if it doesn’t, it doesn’t; so there needs no more. I know some folk will not believe such things. There is some that will believe nothing at all, if it isn’t driven into them by force, but this is a different case, mind you. Never name it; those that have to deal with it know what it is; but those that know nothing about it, - why, it’s like something and nothing talking to them about it...
‘Well, well, but stop,’ said the old man. ’You’re saying that it doesn’t trouble us now. Why, it isn’t about a fortnight since the farmer’s wife at the end there heard something in the dead time of the night; and who was almost thrown out of her bed, too, beside, - so then.’

‘Ay,’ said the old woman, ‘such work as that’s scary in the night time... And they never could find it out. But I would know what it was in a minute. The farmer’s wife and me were talking it over again, yesterday; and she says says that ever since it happened she gets quite afraid as soon as it draws toward the edge of dark, if there’s nobody in the house but herself... Well, and one windy night, - as I was sitting by the fire, - I heard something like a-’

Here the old man interrupted her: ‘It’s no use folk telling me that they don’t believe such like things,’ said he, seeming not to notice his wife’s story. ‘It’s no use telling me they don’t believe it! The pranks that are played about this place, at times, would scare any soul alive that you tell!’

‘Never name it!’ said she. ‘I know whether they would or not! One night, as I was sitting by myself’ -’

Her husband interposed again, with an abstracted air: ‘Unyolking the horses, and turning carts and things over in the deep night-time, and shifting stuff up and down when folk are in bed, - it’s rather fearsome, you know. But then, I know, there isn’t any sense in wasting breath with telling such things to some folk... It’s no worse fertilising with sand and draining with cinders.’

‘And it’s buried over there,’ said I.

‘Ay,’ replied he, ‘just in the hollow where the ash tree is. That used to be the old road to Rochdale, when I was a lad.’

‘Do you never think of delving the ground up?’ said I.

‘Delve! no!’ answered he. ‘I wouldn’t delve there!’
The old woman broke in again: ‘No, he’ll not there, - not if I know it! No other man will dare lay a finger upon that clod. Joseph Fenton’s[iii] a very bold chap; and he’s roughened everything up around this countryside, almost; but he dare not touch the Gristlehurst Boggart, for his skin! And he’s a clever man, too, mind you!’

Waugh wrote that, ‘It was useless attempting to unsettle the superstitions of this primitive pair. They were too far gone’. The old woman correctly suspected the visitors did not believe her, and the subject was dropped rather sharpish.
'The Boggart' (P.J. Lynch)

Although some of the activities blamed on the boggart could just as easily be blamed on a ghost, the boggart was something physical that could apparently be caught, killed and buried. What actually was buried there at Gristlehurst is not known, but the practice of burying a bird with a boggart was linked by folklore historian Charles Hardwick to a ‘lingering remnant of the ancient and almost universal superstition that the soul departeth from the body in the form of a bird’. Hardwick wrote of another burial superstition, this time about the Hothersall Hall boggart, which was:
‘understood to have been ‘laid’ under the roots of a large laurel tree, at the end of the house, and will not be able to molest the family so long as that tree exists. It is a common opinion in that part of the country that the roots have to be moistened with milk on certain occasions, in order to prolong its existence, and also to preserve the power of the spell under which the goblin is laid.’
The Gristlehurst Boggart had been buried under an ash tree, which along with the rowan tree in the folklore of centuries past had been invested with mythical properties and possessed irresistible power over ‘witches, fairies, and other imps of darkness’.

After chatting further with the old couple about this and that, Waugh and his friend headed back through the woods to Heywood. Waugh had previously spent a lot of time listening to country stories of ‘boggarts, and goblins, and fairies’, but had never heard of the Gristlehurst Boggart. He thought about the old couple later that night:
‘By this time I knew that in remote country houses the song of the cricket and the ticking of the clock were beginning to be distinctly heard, and that in many a solitary cottage these were now almost the only sounds astir, except the moody night wind sighing around, and making every crevice into a voice of mystic import to superstitious listeners, while perhaps the rustle of the trees blended with the dreamy ripple of some neighbouring brooklet. The shades of night would by this time have fallen upon the haunted homesteads of Grizlehurst, and in the folds of that dusky robe would have brought to the old cottagers their usual fears, filled with - Shaping fantasies, that apprehend, More than cool reason ever comprehends; - and I could imagine the good old pair creeping off to repose, and covering up their eyes more carefully than usual from the goblin-people gloom, after the talk we had with them about Grizlehurst Boggart.’
Waugh noted that boggarts were not as common as they used to be in southern Lancashire because, ‘as the cotton trade arose, boggarts, and fairies, and feeorin’ of all kinds began to flee away from the clatter of the shuttles’.[ix] However, the local landscape in places like Birtle have not changed too much since that time, and if there is still a bend in Gristlehurst Lane, by a little hollow and a very old ash tree, maybe there lies the grave of the Gristlehurst Boggart.

The Gristlehurst Boggart Revisited

Three decades after Waugh wrote of the Gristlehurst Boggart, a long letter appeared in the Heywood Advertiser from a writer who signed themself as ‘Retsrofessim’ (or, backwards, ‘Miss E Forster’). She gave a fond description of a visit to Ashworth Valley, and one section revisited the tale of the old boggart. Her tone made it clear that as the 20th century approached, boggart folklore was a thing of the past.  
‘Ghosts or boggarts are of an old and awestriking family. They belong to all nations and have played important parts in the histories of kings and dynasties. They have a power to make their presence felt, and our grandmothers aver that when they were young every old ruin and the site of almost every old hall had its ghost. The one that did watch and ward over the site of the old hall at Gristlehurst was a quiet inoffensive ghost. It occasionally caused the hair of a man who saw it to stand erect and lift off its own hat in deference to it, and young women taking a walk at night would cling still closer to their male companions as they passed the place where it was said the boggart had been seen. 
The Gristlehurst ghost was a quiet country boggart who knew its business and attended to it, and cared not to shine above its station, as many who have not yet become ghosts embitter and spend their lives in striving to do. Had the Gristlehurst ghost been given to travelling we might have thought from its quiet, inoffensive, and harmless nature that it was the one that in the form of an old man warned James the Fourth of Scotland not to undertake the invasion of England for which he was then preparing which ended in his death and the destruction of his army and the flower of his nobility on the battlefield of Flodden. James would not listen to the warning, he would fight, and fighting fell. The Gristlehurst ghost was a silent one; it did not divulge family secrets as some of them are said to have done, nor did it flit about camps to frighten the souls of fearful adversaries. It was the connecting link between the past and the present and had rendered long suit and service to the family of which it was the only survivor. 
Boggarts have a great objection to gas light, and although there was not a lamp near the usual haunts of the one at Gristlehurst it saw too much and became disgusted with the boisterous hilarity and the unseemly carryings on of young people returning in the evening from Ashworth Valley. It held its position for long after most of the boggarts of the neighbourhood had vacated their post and their unappreciated occupations. There has been a complete exodus of boggarts from Lancashire; where they have located themselves is now unknown. They were too sensitive for the times in which we live. 
They could not stand the enemy which Board schools and schools in general were raising up against them. They had no bond of union and no power of resistance, and they were forced, through too much intellectual light being thrown upon them, to emigrate from the scenes of their ghostly life, where for generations some of them had settled, to seek for settlements in localities where the belief in ghosts still lingers, and where they are treated with the deference they have long been accustomed to receive - where Board schools and the standards to which youngsters are now raised are unknown. 
The Gristlehurst boggart was much maligned and charged with criminal and mischievous propensities that were quite foreign to its nature. On one similar occasion a taproom toper who would have just a pint at the Bird-in-Hand before leaving there late at night in a somewhat obfuscated state, took the wrong way and got into Gristlehurst Lane. Coming round a bit, he realised the fact that he was near the haunt of the boggart. Thinking he saw ‘summot,’ he left the lane and sought his home, where, on arriving, he both saw and heard summot that wanted to know what he had done with his wages. He did not accuse the boggart, which he told his wife he had seen, of having picked his pockets, but he assured her that after he had seen summot he found he had less money in his pocket than he had when he went into ‘Th’ Bird’. 
Other charges were often brought against the boggart. If the milkmaid stumbled and spilled the milk she was carrying from the shippon, where she had milked the cows, the blame was laid upon the boggart for having startled her. When she came home at night and was asked who the young man was that they had seen accompanying her, she would say it was a friend of hers who had come with her to see her safe past the boggart. If the farmer’s wife found a number of eggs addled when she expected a brood of chickens the blame was laid upon the boggart for having frightened the hen from the nest. Whenever anything went wrong with cows the boggart was charged with being the cause. These and other false accusations made its very existence a burden to it. Modern innovation at last forced it from the place. It was as faithful to the family of the Holts of Gristlehurst as is the Banshee, which haunts the ruined halls of Shane’s Castle and wails over the ruined fortunes of the kingly house of the O’Neills.’ The boggart has gone...’
The land around Cheesden Brook, north of Birtle, near
Heywood. (Alexander Kapp)

Cuckoo Nare, Birtle, 2011. (Neil Clifton)

Gristlehurst Lane, running between Top o'th' Wood
and Birtle, 2008. (Michael Ely)

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