# A strange encounter.



## Globalti (8 Feb 2011)

There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. A bitter northerly was throwing down stinging sleet so the rest of the family stayed inside to watch Christmas movies by the fire. Fed up with turkey I decided to go out and get wet anyway. You never knew; it might clear up later. Goretex top, overtrousers and W101s pulled on, a couple of flapjacks in the pocket, tape over the vents in my helmet peak. I set off to do my favourite reservoir circuit of 24 miles, up on the moors between Hebden Bridge and Haworth.

The first twenty miles went well, I had the wind behind me or across my path but I knew that as I was riding downwind would have to return, and it would be up hill for two miles of the return. For the moment I enjoyed being the only one who had dared venture out; there was a feeling of invincibility at being adequately equipped on my lightweight hardtail, a reliable bike for mountain travel with disc brakes, a light air fork and a carbon seatpost clamped into the titanium frame, giving me a smooth and comfortable ride. I stood on the pedals as I dropped down an old road, feeling the forks soaking up the rocky surface and enjoying the dry bite of the brakes, still unused to the novelty of not hearing my wheel rims being ground away to grey paste. In places the recent heavy rain had washed away the surface leaving me little choice but to drop the front wheel into a rocky gully running with water. Release the front brake, drag the rear and hear the tyres splash into muddy water then concentrate on keeping rolling over the mess of sharp rocks while looking for smoother ground. 

Stopping on a bridge I pitied the sheep huddled behind a wall in a sodden field. I chewed a flapjack and reflected that with the computer now showing 19.8 miles I had earned a snack, especially as I knew the next section was the crux of the whole ride. The bridleway, an old packhorse route connecting two settlements, climbed steadily up the moor in a north-westerly direction, gaining over four hundred feet before dropping steeply down by a series of difficult zigzags into a narrow valley leading back to the town. It would then be a short towpath blast back to a cup of tea and warmth. 

As I left the shelter of the river valley the wind hit me full on. I dropped down to granny ring and plodded upwards, my lower back beginning to ache with the unmitigated effort and seated position. Rain had got inside my collar and was trickling down my back. Gloves were soaked and socks beginning to squelch. The cold rain penetrated my helmet and chilled my scalp, making me feel a little giddy and out of touch. I’d had enough now and could do with finishing the ride. 

I had been riding like this for some time when without warning my nose picked up a scent, not a strong scent but an almost subliminal whiff, possibly no more than a few molecules of a fragrance, diluted in the blasting wind. Ah! Somebody there! I glanced up and sure enough, about three hundred yards ahead of me directly up wind, I could see the black shape of a human figure. The nose is at its most sensitive in cold wet weather, especially outdoors where it is cleansed by fresh unpolluted air. I am accustomed to smelling the perfumes of fabric conditioners and detergents on the clothes of other walkers or riders, especially as many wear polypropylene, which is retentive to odour. I had to admit to a feeling of pride that my brain had registered those few odour molecules from such a distance. 

I was looking forward to meeting my fellow sufferer and commiserating on the lousy weather. But as I approached the walker I began to wonder what he or she was wearing. The shape wasn’t the expected one of waterproofs and rucsac with big boots. This was looking increasingly like a woman out of a film, a wide grey skirt, tight-fitting black jacket and some kind of black shawl over her head. I couldn’t keep looking as I had to concentrate on placing my front wheel and not losing momentum against the wind. I had reached the top now and was moving faster; I would soon be in the shelter of a wall. Now I caught another whiff of perfume, clearer this time; an old-fashioned lavender scent mixed with the unmistakable odour of wet wool. Looking up I saw that I had nearly caught up with her. She could not have heard me as she was bent against the wind. She was no more than five feet tall and I was amazed to see that she was dressed like someone from the nineteenth century, quite clearly a full grey skirt that flapped in the wind, streaked with dark wet patches and mud. Above it she had a heavy black wool jacket tightly fitted over a drawn-in waist. I could see that she was wearing black leather fashion boots, clogged with mud. This was bizarre, I assumed she was part of some Christmas re-enactment or possibly on her way to a fancy dress party, but what the hell was she doing up here in this weather dressed in this way? 

Whatever, she was taking up most of the width of the track and I needed to pass. I called out a friendly “hello”, hoping not to startle her. 

The effect was as if she had been struck by lightning. She jumped and turned with a gasp. I will never forget her thin white face, her sharp nose, grey eyes wide with fright, mouth open, allowing one corner of the shawl that she must have been clutching between her teeth to flap loose. One hand covered her mouth as she stared at me and my bike in shock, the other hand held her thick jacket closed at her throat and I saw a silver ring with a brown stone, carnelian perhaps. I saw black hair plastered to her head, a centre parting. Her face was streaked with rain, or was it tears? 

At that moment I fell off. My front wheel got into a narrow rut and twisted sideways, throwing me across the track. I lay half in the sodden ditch, hearing the rustle of clothes as she moved out of sight. Embarrassed, I groaned loudly, hoping to win some sympathy. 

When I disentangled myself from the bike and got up she had disappeared. A few yards further along the stone wall was a narrow gate; she must have passed through there. I wanted to apologise for startling her so I picked up the bike and hurried after her. I was also curious to find out why she was dressed so inappropriately and anxious to make sure she was all right. There was a dismal puddle of wind-rippled water with a few flat rocks in the threshold of the gate, so I stood on a rock and looked over. No sign of her. I thought I would open the gate and check if she was sheltering behind the wall so I reached for the latch. Like so many Pennine gates, this one had been fastened with a short length of chain hooked over an iron peg and it took a fair effort to lift the gate enough to be able to unhook the chain. She couldn’t have got through in the short time I had been in the ditch and there was no sign of her. I could see open moor for a hundred yards; she simply could not have crossed that wet tussocked ground in a few seconds. I let the gate slam and looked up and down the bridleway. No sign of her there or on the open moor my side of the wall. I called out. No answer. Perhaps she had fallen into a gully? I checked the moor around me but could see no dip in the surface. I called again. Assuming she must have run down towards the town, I rode on, baffled and worried. I did not enjoy riding the final zigzags. 

But I never saw her again. This is the first time I have ever told anybody about this experience. To this day I still worry about her. She was crying, I’m sure of it.


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## aberal (8 Feb 2011)

Clearly one of them time warp things one hears about.  

Whatever - enjoyed reading it. Well written.


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## Zoof (8 Feb 2011)

Riders tales, should be called Charles _Dickens corner. _ 

Very well written

Cheers Zoof


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## Ravenbait (8 Feb 2011)

Maybe she was a ghost and wasn't used to being seen? Good story.

Sam


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## Alan Whicker (8 Feb 2011)

Where in't Pennines was this? I'm from the Yorks/Lancs frontier.


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## Globalti (9 Feb 2011)

'Twas on the old Hebden Bridge to Howarth coach road, sir....


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## Mad Doug Biker (9 Feb 2011)

Great, I now have the tune from 'Tales Of The Unexpected' playing in my head now, THANKS!

Good story by the way.


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## ColinJ (9 Feb 2011)

Spooky! It reminds me of the old Scottish ghost stories that my mum used to recite to me and my sisters when we were young.

If it wasn't a ghost then perhaps it was a woman hiding from an irate husband/boyfriend after a particularly bad burning-the-Christmas-dinner row?


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## mickle (9 Feb 2011)

Brilliant! Can I publish it in Cyclorama?


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## Alan Whicker (9 Feb 2011)

> 'Twas on the old Hebden Bridge to Howarth coach road, sir....




Blimey. Just up the road from Keighley, where I was born. Can you remember exactly where it happened? I'd love to go and have a look - i'm very interested (OK, obsessed) with ghosts and folklore.


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## Globalti (9 Feb 2011)

Er.... it was somewhere at the top of the hill!


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## Alan Whicker (9 Feb 2011)

I live in London now, so I forget where stuff is. Would that be on the 'old road' off the A6033 near Pecket Well? Spooky round there at the best of times.


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## ColinJ (9 Feb 2011)

Alan Whicker said:


> I live in London now, so I forget where stuff is. Would that be on the 'old road' off the A6033 near Pecket Well? Spooky round there at the best of times.


Up there and over the top!


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## 661-Pete (9 Feb 2011)

She was surely expecting *Heathcliff*, not you. Maybe you weren't gloomy and taciturn enough? Anyway, it's "Haworth", not "Howarth", despite the pronunciation.


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## Gerry Attrick (9 Feb 2011)

What's in that flapjack?



Good writing, sir.


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## ColinJ (9 Feb 2011)

661-Pete said:


> Maybe you weren't gloomy and taciturn enough? Anyway, it's "Haworth", not "Howarth", despite the pronunciation.


True, but a lot of people make the same mistake ...



Haworth.org said:


> The name Haworth is said to originate from "hedged enclosure" or "hawthorn enclosure" Records are said to date back to 1209 when it was recorded as a settlement. The name is often misspelt as Howorth and Howarth. The 1771 map (left) records the name as Howorth, later maps revert back to the original spelling.



Even companies based there get it wrong!


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## 661-Pete (9 Feb 2011)

ColinJ said:


> True, but a lot of people make the same mistake ...
> 
> Even companies based there get it wrong!


Aha! And I'm not even a Yorkshireman! Though I did live for some years in Bradford...


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## Globalti (10 Feb 2011)

661-Pete said:


> She was surely expecting *Heathcliff*, not you. Maybe you weren't gloomy and taciturn enough? Anyway, it's "Haworth", not "Howarth", despite the pronunciation.



Damn you're right! Thanks.


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## theclaud (10 Feb 2011)

Ghost-tastic! Have you investigated whether there are any local legends that tie in with your apparition?


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## Globalti (10 Feb 2011)

Local legends? Perhaps Colin in drag?


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## ColinJ (10 Feb 2011)

Globalti said:


> Local legends? Perhaps Colin in drag?


I'd _never_ wear my skirt up there in those conditions - I'd die of exposure! 

I told a friend your tale and she said "The poor woman was probably busting for a pee and was just about to squat down in the middle of nowhere when some bloody mountain biker appears out of the mist and almost catches her at it. No doubt she ran off behind some hillock while he was picking himself back up!"

Not as much fun as the idea of the ghost though is it!


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## Alan Whicker (10 Feb 2011)

Have to say, if somebody was going to make a habit of wearing a 19th century outfit, they'd do it in Hebden Bridge.


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## Spuddle (10 Feb 2011)

Maybe she was so startled she jumped into the nearest hedge / over the nearest wall until you had got up out of the ditch and carried on going?


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## hondated (31 Mar 2011)

Great story and it certainly gets you thinking.


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## Flying_Monkey (1 Apr 2011)

Great story. Whether it's a 'ghost story' or a 'real' encounter, it can't help also remind me of all those little occasions when I didn't stop, you know the ones where nothing much seemed to be wrong but then later you get a nagging feeling that it wasn't quite right and perhaps you should have taken a closer look.


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