Regular readers will know that I’ve been on the trail of Dickie’s Skull for a while. A staple of books about ghosts and legends in the Peak District, the human skull sat on a windowsill at Tunstead Farm in Derbyshire for several centuries. Accounts differ of how and when Dickie (or Dickey) was found, and who exactly he was but most people agreed that if the cursed cranium was removed from its favoured spot or compromised in any way, terrible things would happen. The legend peaked in the 1800s when Dicky famously scuppered the building of a nearby railway. The story made it into the national press and there was a poem written about Dickie’s Skull, and even a play.
Courtesy of Buxton Museum and Art Gallery
On the trail of ghouls and goblins in and around the Peak District for many years, Dickie was a clear culprit for my investigations. The area around Tunstead Farm was already hot with accounts of monstrous wild cats and mysterious lights in the sky. Imagine then my disappointment when Dickie was not home, and the current residents of the farm knew nothing about the skull. And most strikingly, he had been removed without any obvious calamity.
A tip off diverted me to St. James’ Church in nearby Taxal, where Dickie had been given a Christian burial, and the curse laid to rest. However, it seems this fact may have gotten mixed up with the burial of an arm belonging to a man involved in a railway accident. I’d been sent on a wild goose chase (Wild skull chase? Wild arm chase?) As diversions go, Taxal was a lovely and atmospheric little place to visit, and apparently has a haunted house unconnected to Dickie, so I was okay with it.
Wandering around a churchyard, looking for Dickie
But the trail is still cold and I can only conclude that Dickie’s eventual fate is as mysterious as his origins. However, I was thrilled when Dr. David Clarke got in touch to put a little more flesh on the bones, pun intended. David is one of the UK’s leading authorities on legends and folklore and I’d already read some of his books and seen him on the telly.
For starters, David drew my attention to his 1998 thesis on the tradition and folklore of the severed human head in the British Isles, The Head Cult, in which he describes the notion of the guardian skull or screaming skull. It turns out that Dickie is only one of many grotesque talismans, placed on hearths or windowsills to protect homes in a time when superstition was more prevalent than science. David’s investigation into Dickie’s Skull is considerably more accomplished and scholarly than mine, and I recommend you read it for yourself online here. Pages 369-379 being the most relevant.
It does seem evident that Dickie was laid to rest a long time before me or even David strolled into Tunstead. Even ghost hunters in the 1980s discovered an absence of Dickie. Local historian Margaret Bellhouse confirmed to David in 1993 that the owners of the farm got rid of the skull because they were fed up of people turning up to see it.
Alas, Not Dickie, just my own personal skull
A mutual acquaintance of David and mine subsequently told us that his girlfriend used to borrow Dickie’s Skull from its owners in the 1970s, much to his astonishment (she obviously wasn’t too concerned about the legendary consequences). As one of the few people still alive who has handled the skull, he remembered that it felt and looked rather small, more like a child’s skull rather than an adult. Our acquaintance has handled quite a few skulls over the years as part of his work in archaeology and it’s a memory that has stayed with him for over forty years.
So there’s an end to the legend, albeit not a very happy or satisfactory one. David and I agreed that it was understandable that the owners didn’t want the bad bonce in their house but why not pass it to a museum? They could have tested the skull, determined how old it was, its gender, age, cause of death, even where the individual came from or what diet it had. For hundreds of years, the skull was respected, venerated and feared by local people and a museum could have continued the story, replacing some of the myths with forensic science.
Of course, if you know anything more about Dickie’s Skull than we do, especially where it was buried, feel free to contact me or Dr David Clarke and we might be able to bring a more pleasing conclusion to the tale. In the meantime, if you find any human remains, don’t put them on your windowsill to ward away evil spirits, call the police.
I’ve investigated many curious and creepy places over the years but despite being recommended to me several times, I had yet to go to Taxal and its unusual church. On a rare sunny day, I finally decided to take the plunge. However, as you shall soon find out, the church was not the only reason for a nervous glance over the shoulder.
My journey to Taxal was cheerful enough, enjoying a short bus ride from the town of Buxton to the village of Fernilee, then walking for about a mile along picturesque if somewhat overgrown trails. The sun had risen to its zenith and I emerged from the trees, blinking in the light, my heart beating with both exertion and anticipation. I had been told that Saint James’ Church in Taxal was a spooky place and much to my amazement, I had marched straight out of the wilderness and into its churchyard without seeing anything else of the village first. I had suddenly reached my destination.
Expecting to wander onto something that looked like a Hammer Horror film set, I found both the church and the churchyard were quite pleasant and not remotely terrifying. Admittedly, the churchyard is proportionally generous for the tiny village stapled to it and much of it is surrounded by an impenetrable wall of wild, imposing trees. Parts of the church building date back to the 12th century and it drips with age, like a wise and silent methuselah. Likewise, some of the headstones are crooked with the passage of time. I can imagine at different times of the year, it takes on a different demeanour and therefore easier to envision Christopher Lee in a cloak, floating through the graves but at that moment, surrounded by butterflies gently fluttering around the foxgloves, it seemed perfectly peaceful.
As I wandered the churchyard, staring at graves from different centuries, the sense of antiquity grew, as did that of my own isolation. Since getting off the bus a mile back, I had yet to lay eyes on another living soul. I had been told that the grass of the churchyard is often kept under the control of two donkeys that have biblical names but my visit was donkey-free. Perhaps it was their day off? Or perhaps this was all a wind up? The people that had told me to go to Taxal and look out for the donkeys would suddenly leap out from behind the bushes, bent double with laughter. But no, still alone.
The big question was: Was Dicky here? A few years ago, I did my best to recount the local legend of Dicky’s skull. You can read that epic here or the short version is: A nearby farm was home to a mysterious skull for many years and the lore was that if anyone disturbed the woeful artefact, awful things would happen. Whilst researching this tale, someone suggested that the skull eventually found its way here, at Saint James’, to receive a proper burial, and hopefully, an end to the curse-ridden mayhem. However, a knowledgeable man called Andrew Lomas got in touch more recently and proposed that the information was incorrect and that it had become mixed up with another incident. In Andrew’s own words:
On reading the suggestion the skull had been buried in Taxal churchyard decades ago, it reminded me of an actual burial at Taxal. The severed arm of a worker on the Cromford and High Peak Railway at Shallcross Yard. The arm was initially buried over the wall on the day of the accident, hearing the news that evening in the Shepherd’s Arms pub, the Vicar instructed the man’s colleague to retrieve it in the morning and bring it to Taxal, where it was buried under the wall side. This would be around 1880 I think (maybe a little earlier). I have never heard the account of Dickie’s skull being buried in Taxal. My Grandfather was born in the Goyt Valley, at a farm long since demolished, to a large family of farmers all over the area. He talked about the skull quite often but never mentioned the Taxal Church burial, despite Taxal being the local church for the family. I just wonder if in the mists of time and memory, the arm story has become the explanation for the missing skull?
Andrew’s familiarity with the area seems a solid basis for a revaluation of the facts. It may be true that Taxal was the final resting place for a singular body part that had survived some horrific event but perhaps not poor Dicky’s bonce. The eventual fate of the blighted cranium may never be known but if anyone out there can shed any more light on the matter, please get in touch.
I decided to move on and investigate another of Taxal’s mysteries, which was much closer than I expected. In fact, Taxal is so small that it barely seems to exist. It does, however, most conveniently, have the most fantastic public loo. It’s right next to the church and very handy. In this day and age, where you are often forced to wander for miles before reaching a public lavatory in the largest of cities, the most diminutive of settlements turns out to be the most thoughtful. You can leave a financial contribution, as well as a biological one.
When I told another man of knowledge, Patrick Sutton, that I was going to Taxal, he told me about Quarry Bank House, where he used to live as child. I can’t tell the story any better than Patrick:
My family used to live in the house Quarry Bank on Lanehead Rd. This is the first house on the right as you turn onto Lanehead Rd from Linglongs Rd. It has an old quarry in the garden, hence the name. We moved there from Buxton in about 1964. After a few weeks of living there, people in Whaley Bridge kept asking my parents if we were OK and happy in the house, we were, but it transpired that the house had the reputation of being haunted. The story goes that somebody had died in the quarry whilst it was still active. We only started to notice some odd happenings after we had lived there for a few months.
My father got up one night as he heard footsteps running down the road and onto our gravel drive. It was a bright moonlit night, but although he could track the sounds of the footsteps, he could see nobody. These running footsteps became quite regular, running from the moor and into the lower level of the house which was where the stone cutting equipment of the old quarry used to be and by then was then a garage and storage area. I remember as a teenager being in there one night cleaning it up in preparation for a party. I heard the steps, did not see anything, but had a very strong sensation that I had to leave the room, which I did. Not a pleasant experience.
These running steps from the moor to the house passed two other houses on the way. I had school friends in both houses and both of them and their parents had heard the running steps. We had a visitor one night who was leaving in his car and heard the steps. He stopped as he assumed he had left something behind and one of us was running to bring it to him. He saw nobody, but his car was buffeted as the steps passed.
The running footsteps became known as “poor cold Fred” by our family. Occasionally you would hear footsteps upstairs. Once when we had a friend staying, he heard the steps when he was on the upstairs landing and swears blind something whispered in his ear. He unfortunately was too disturbed by it, to remember what was said.
I only saw what I assume was him once. I woke up staring at what should have been the ceiling to see the face and upper body of an old man. Very distinctive with side whiskers and wearing a tweed jacket. I just laid there transfixed until my Mother entered the room. She said that she had sensed that something was wrong, so came to check on me. I had neither shouted nor made a noise. She did not see the apparition, but just saw me lying there staring at the ceiling. This could obviously have been a dream, but it felt very real at the time and it was odd that my Mother also felt that something was wrong.
My background in science and engineering leads me to be very sceptical about all things ghostly, but these were my experiences growing up at Quarry Bank and I have not really got any explanations for them.
I contemplated Patrick’s experiences as I walked past the house. I didn’t want to bother the current residents and I would urge you to do the same. Taxal is a quiet place so let’s endeavour to keep it that way!
My visit to Taxal was brief yet fascinating. It felt like a place slightly removed from the modern world and it was easy to contemplate the existence of the otherworldly. I walked on to the relative metropolis of Whaley Bridge in search of refreshments and as I took one final glance at Taxal, I had the sensation of gazing back into time, perhaps even into a dream. It occurred to me that I still hadn’t seen another human being since my arrival, which only reinforced my peculiar reverie. As I walked along the lonely country lane, I heard a rustle in the bushes and a curious critter emerged, looking a bit like a squirrel without a bushy tail. Not Poor Cold Fred, nor Dicky’s Skull, nor a donkey named Joseph, but weird enough.
If you have tales of Taxal, or anywhere, I’m all ears: email Darcus Wolfson at jayceebeejay@yahoo.co.uk or leave a comment It could be the basis for the next investigation!
Thanks to Andrew Lomas, Patrick Sutton and Isobel Jenkins
Anyone who has lived in the Peak District in the UK usually has a creepy story to tell about the place. Being a national park, the Peak has miles of wilderness, drenched in history and atmosphere.
Professional musician Matt Swindells now lives in San Francisco in the USA but he was brought up in Whaley Bridge, a small town on the western edge of the Peak. Whilst taking his dog, Toddy, for a walk one day in the early 1990s, Matt suddenly stumbled upon some wildlife that could hardly be described as indigenous. During a recent visit, he was kind enough to take me back to the location of his disturbing and unforgettable encounter.
Matt returns to the lair of the beasts
Matt and Toddy were crossing a field that borders an old abandoned quarry; a fairly common feature in this landscape. Gazing down into the quarry, Matt was shocked to see a group of “Alsatian-sized” cats lounging around amongst the rocks. It was hard to determine their exact breed but Matt recalls that the cats were coloured differently and appeared well-fed and content; their tails “swishing around”. Unlike domestic cats, they had very pronounced scapulas or shoulder blades. He watched the creatures for five long minutes, fascinated and scarcely able to believe his eyes. Usually eager to give chase, Toddy was clearly distressed or as Matt describes him; “in survival mode”. More out of concern for his canine companion rather than himself, Matt decided to beat a hasty retreat.
Despite repeat visits, Matt never saw the mystery moggies again. Upon viewing the old quarry for myself, I certainly found the scenario easy to imagine. A few hares bolted from cover upon our arrival, providing an instant answer to what such large carnivores might include in their diet. The place seemed good shelter from the elements too and remote enough to stay hidden from humans, with the exception of the occasional plucky dog walker.
The perfect hiding place?
Although Matt’s story is outlandish, a quick search of the internet will tell you that sightings of big cats in these parts are far from unknown. My own Aunty and Uncle witnessed an enormous black cat crossing a field more recently. The creature was walking towards King Sterndale Hall in the heart of the Peak and they noted its distinctive feline gait and tail. What disturbs me is that my Uncle is a native; a pragmatic type who was raised on a Derbyshire farm. In other words, he is not prone to flights of fancy or in danger of misidentifying an animal.
The Park Authority officially denies the existence of big cats despite the fact that people have confessed to releasing them into the wild back in the 1970s when laws on keeping animals changed. On the nearby border of Staffordshire, in a place called The Roaches, a variety of beasts were set free from a private menagerie and survived for some time, most notably a colony of wallabies. Bearing this in mind, is an itinerant group of feline predators an impossible stretch of the imagination?
Wallabies in the 1960s, probably hiding from Jimmy Savile
Oddly enough, big black mystery animals of The Peak are not exclusively cats. Chicago-born tattoo artist and musician Jori Lakars had a frightening confrontation with a different kind of monster in Grinlow Woods, Buxton.
Jori was walking her puppy, Piper, for the first ever time. They were on the path up to Solomon’s Temple, above Poole’s Cavern, when a huge black dog came bolting towards them. Not unusual until you consider that the brute’s eyes were blazing red! Afraid they were under attack, Jori scooped Piper up in her arms, but the demonic hound just ran past. Nevertheless, Jori was understandably stunned:
I stood there shaking for a minute, thinking that his owner would be by shortly and I could mention he/she should keep a beast like that on a lead, but there was no one. I’m pretty sure we were the only ones in the woods at the time; we didn’t see a soul except for the beastie. I haven’t seen it since, and quite glad for it! I do get some funny looks when I recount the tale, people think I’m making the red eyes up, but I swear I saw them. Not looked much into the history of the demon dog, but if there really is a legend, it’s definitely what I saw!
Aw, Shucks! Piper the dog
Not commonly associated with Buxton but unearthly black dogs have been reported around the British Isles for centuries, usually going by the name of Black Shuck. Did Jori come face to face with a legend? It was certainly one hell of a first walk for poor little Piper. Grinlow Woods in Buxton does keep cropping up as the location of curious encounters and I’m starting to get very suspicious about the place. I even have a couple of my own incidents that you can read about HERE.
If big cats and big dogs were not enough, there are werewolves in the Peak District too, if you delve deep enough. In 1925, writer Charles Hoy Fort (as in The Fortean Times ) felt the need to mention events that occurred in Edale, in the north of the Peak, in his book Lo!
London Daily Express, Oct.14 1925 – the district of Edale, Derbyshire. Something “black in colour and of enormous size” was slaughtering sheep at night and “leaving the carcasses strewn about with legs, shoulders, and heads torn off; broken backs and pieces of flesh ripped off.” Many hunting parties had gone out but had been unable to track the animal. “People in many places refuse to leave their homes after dark, and keep their children safe in the house.” If something had mysteriously appeared, it then quite mysteriously disappeared.
I’ll be waiting for you in the woods
Considering the predatory big cats, red-eyed Shucks and untidy werewolves, the next time you’re out for a walk in these parts and you hear something rustle in the bushes behind you, you might want to quicken your pace!
If you have a tale to tell of your own mystery beast of the Peak, please get in touch, and I may feature it in part two.
One of the creepiest spots in my hometown of Buxton, Derbyshire is also one of the most mysterious. Overlooking the northern edge of the town is a damaged Bronze Age burial mound called Fairfield Low. You could be forgiven for missing it; despite occupying one of the highest points in Buxton, it is encircled by a thick crown of trees on private farm land. Some locals are aware of its existence but know it as Skeleton Wood or Skellybob Wood (whatever a skellybob is!)
Local antiquarian Micah Salt excavated Fairfield Low in 1895 on the night before Halloween. He discovered human remains, noting that the sight had been previously disturbed, probably by lime burners. The skull now sits on the desk in the town museum’s Boyd Dawkins study. It belonged to a man who died in middle age. It seems likely that Micah Salt’s morbid discovery is the culprit for the location’s eerie nickname.
Intrigued, I set off to investigate the sinister place for myself. The summer of 2015 has been generally cold and wet in these parts, hardly like a summer at all. As you can see by my companion’s photographs, it was my good fortune to enjoy an uncommonly warm and sunny day.
Most of modern-day Fairfield is a vast labyrinth-like housing estate and it is easy to get lost unless you know your way around. Quizzing several residents as to the whereabouts of Fairfield Low did not help. As I’ve already mentioned, they call it Skellybob Wood. I focused my attention on the trees on the highest hill, rising above the multitude of rooftops. Finding it was not impossible. Getting to it was a different matter!
Note unfortunate position of umbrella
Stumbling onto the right path was sheer luck. There are no sign posts and the first part winds its way round the back of a large industrial estate and through a maze of allotments. Here we encountered an elderly lady who had heard of Fairfield Low but by this point we were in its shadow. The lady was perturbed by the gun I was carrying. I explained that it was actually an umbrella.
There is no public access to Skeleton Wood and by climbing a couple of walls, we were technically trespassing (apologies to the owner). The cows that know the wood as home did not seem particularly impressed that we were there. One bovine occupant in particular had the most intimidating stare I’ve ever seen on an animal; so much so that we felt compelled to circumvent it. Even when we reached the tree line, we discovered further resentment from a group of tracksuited teenagers who were loitering around in the wood.
Despite the opposition, I was pleased to find myself in the footsteps of Micah Salt, on top of what was clearly a burial mound. The ancient tomb is so well hidden by the trees, it is impossible to see it until the final ten metres of the climb. There is a deep gouge into the hillock. Whether this is the product of Salt’s excavation, the work of lime burners or a more supernatural disturbance is unclear. Skeleton Wood certainly has a very tangible and peculiar atmosphere. The warmth of the sun is replaced by a chilly breeze that gently rustles the leaves. The trees are old and twisted and command a solemn reverence, like graves in a churchyard.
We felt no need to linger but before departing, I noted the unfamiliar view out towards Dove Holes. Dotted around the landscape are several other mounds that looked suspiciously man-made. The Neolithic henge called The Bull Ring is in that direction too. It strikes me that there was a lot of activity in this area thousands of years ago. The hills and dales evidently resonated with significance for our ancient ancestors. Standing here, I can’t help but wonder who they were and what they would think now, looking upon the sprawl of Fairfield estate. In Skeleton Wood, their ghosts linger, whispering forgotten secrets amongst the trees.
world of wolfson 