Show Notes and Transcript
Some useful links
The full poem, The Lady of the Lake by Sir Walter Scott can be read here.
A news paper article from Aberdeen Live about John Henry Anderson, pioneering stage magician can be found here.
If you’re interested in more history about Luton try Luton Heritage Society.
If you’re interested in more spooky stories about Luton try Luton Paranormal.
Episode transcript
A strange tale of the noontide hag
Welcome to a weird in the wade bonus episode. A shorter and hopefully sweet snapshot of something spooky or unexplained. A time for tales or deeper delves into the stories behind the podcast. Sometimes it’s just an opportunity to explore the history or the otherworldly in a shorter form.
I came across this account in a Victorian newspaper when researching the grey lady of Silsoe for last months mini episode. It was such a strange little article it made me pause and really ponder.
When this episode is released, I’ll be in Scotland visiting Edinburgh, Fife and Aberdeen and there’s a strange connection with Aberdeen in this little story, even though it’s set in Luton in Bedfordshire. I’ll explore that connection after telling you the strange little tale of a very unusual ghost.
I’m Nat Doig, and welcome to a Weird in the Wade bonus e pisode the noontide hag.
Our story takes place in Luton in November 1848. For the 1840s think women with ringleted hair, big bonnets and even bigger skirts, men went big too with top hats and tails. Though the characters in our story were not likely to be wearing such finery. The Hertford Mercury and Reformer runs our story on Saturday 18th November as it’s first, under the heading of Bedfordshire. The story is scant on detail and devotes almost half of the space to literary allusions, speculation on the nature of the apparition and wondering who may or may not be able to shed further light on it. But here is my reimagining of what took place, based on the news article.
The Story
It was a cold November morning when the children from the Luton workhouse made their way into the town centre, to attend a service in the rather grand St Mary’s church. They hurried down George Street, where just the other day there’d been a crash between two horse drawn carriages. The town was still a buzz with talk of it. One of the children Martin wondered about the crash as he walked. He’d heard that one of the injured horses had its legs bandaged with ribbons. He imagined the pony it’s legs like colourful maypoles trotting away in front of him.
He liked to daydream but was careful to not let himself get carried away. He needed his wits about him for life in the workhouse. It wasn’t his first time there; his father and younger sister Bess had been admitted with him on this occasion. His eldest brother James unable to support them all any longer; his father refusing to give up the drink, it was inevitable. They were more often in the workhouse than not, over the last couple of years. But he knew that once James was more established, he’d be back for him and Bess.
Martin could see Bess ahead of him, her fair head bobbing as she walked with the other girls, it was his only real chance he got to see her, when they came down to the church together. He watched her all the way. But once in the church Martin was positioned just out of sight of Bess so he concentrated on his singing and pretending to listen to the sermon, whilst he watched the winter light seep through the stained glass windows casting cold shards of blue on to the grey stone floor.
Martin was a good boy, he tried to be helpful and polite, and the masters, and the guardians of the workhouse recognised it. On this cold morning, master Goldstraw was shepherding them alongside a couple of trusted adult workhouse inmates. Impressed by Martin’s steady walking, the attention he paid to the sermon and in particular Martin’s sweet singing voice, Goldstraw decided to reward him by setting Martin the task of tidying up the church after the service. This was a particular privilege because not only did the task have to be performed alone, being alone was a rare treat in the workhouse. It also meant Martin would get to walk with Master Goldstraw back to the workhouse once the master had finished conversing with the curate.
Martin had been given this task before and he knew what to do. He had to lug the wooden forms, low benches like the ones in school, from the main church back into a large side chapel. These forms were what the youngsters sat on during these special services. During the rest of the week, they were kept in the chapel.
The forms weren’t too heavy for Martin to drag but it did prove trickier when he had to heave them up a couple of steps into the side chapel. But he got the first one up there and in place and scampered back down into the main church to grab the next one.
He liked the old church, how it made every sound, even the slightest rustle echo. He liked the strange statues of the dead that lurked about the church shrouded in shadow. He even liked the smell of the church: old hymn books, dust, candle wax and something else unique to churches. Something untouchable and distant. Maybe the smell of heaven he thought as he picked up the end of the next form.
He dragged the second form behind him, his feet pattering across the stone flags, the wooden form bumping along as he went. He reached the stairs and jumped up on to the first but something held him back. He nearly toppled backwards. He tugged at the form again, but it would not budge. It was hard to turn around in this position, him on the first step with the bench balanced behind him a little like a seesaw. But he turned his head as he lowered the end of the form he was holding on to the step.
Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw something at the end of the form.
Oh, that’s it he thought! Another boy must be holding it, preventing him from doing his work. A prank maybe. So, he swung around ready to address this meddler only to see an unusually tall, old woman, dressed all in white with long lank hair, sitting on the end of the bench, even though it was at an angle, on a slope and clearly not there to be sat on.
She was staring straight ahead, as if he was not there. Her straggly hair falling over the side of her face, obscuring it from him. She was no gentle woman visiting the church and she was not from the workhouse. He began to tug at the hem of his woollen jacket as he wondered what to do.
He tried to pick up the bench again, only gently. But the woman did not seem to notice nor to care.
He thought of Master Goldstraw returning, sherry on his breath and keen to head back to the workhouse. He had to get this job done swiftly. He tugged again at the form, but it would not budge and nor would the creepy old woman.
So, he gathered up his courage and in a voice that came out far louder than he had intended Martin said “Please, lady, can you move?”
At first, she stayed perfectly still, and Martin was about to open his mouth again, when with a sudden jerk the woman snapped her head round to face him. Then Martin saw that this was not a woman, nor a mortal human. The tangled strands of drab hair framed a skeletal face, later Martin would say if there was skin on that face, it was the colour of old bones. He could see no eyes just wells of darkness which at their very pit glowed with an ember not of light but of something even blacker than the darkest night. As the creature opened her mouth, her lips were that shade of yellow that you only ever see in old bruises and they seemed to stick together with a stringy gunk. Martin never heard what she rasped at him because the sound was like Satan himself raking the ashes of hell, and he fell into a swoon and fainted.
Master Goldstraw found him, and the boy was so pale, and collapsed in such a strange aspect, half on the steps half off, that he felt genuine concern for the boy. Goldstraw called for help and his friend the curate came running. They carried Martin over to a pew where after some time he came around groggily.
The newspaper article
And it is at this point we must leave Martin’s point of view. As the article gives us scant enough detail of him as it is. What we do know is that someone tells a news reporter of what Martin witnessed. And this someone has decided that Martin saw the “Noontide hag.”
Now my Master Goldstraw and his curate friend are my inventions as is the name Martin for our workhouse boy, the article refers to him only as a workhouse boy. He has no name to them. He is not important. And to be honest the noontide hag herself is not that important to the writer either, he provides no description of her. I got to run riot with my imagination to conjure up a creature worthy of creating such fear in a workhouse boy, who must have seen his fair share of horrors. I based his story on that of my Great grandmother and her siblings who as children often spent time in the workhouse at different times to each other.
What the reporter does seem to be interested in is telling us how well read he is on the subject of ghosts.
The author of the article flourishes his literary and historical knowledge to tell us that Sir Walter Scott has written about such a noontide hag but that the reporter has struggled to find mention of such a creature in the works of Reginald Scott’s demonology nor in the pages of the periodical Blackwood, he also claims that the Great Wizard of the North does not mention such apparitions in his extensive works. He goes on to joke that maybe next time if she could oblige them by sitting on the aisle end of a pew during service the congregation will be able to lay hands on her and get evidence of her corporeal form.
It’s clear that he’s mocking those who have fallen for this ghost story. Demonology was a 16th century tome considered a relic by the rational Victorians. Blackwood was a magazine famous at the time for printing gothic and horror fiction. It inspired the Bronte sisters and Charles Dickens. Edgar Allen Poe even satirised its style. And the Great Wizard of the North was a famous stage magician of his time, who took to exposing spiritualist charlatans towards the end of his career. In short it would be like if someone today saw a ghost, that they claimed was a noontide hag saying to them
“Right well I’ve consulted an old Alistair Crowley book, Danny Robins, weird in the wade podcast and Derren Brown but none of them have heard of this noontide hag!”
Like the reporter I also tried to find out what I could about noontide hags.
And as the reporter notes, Sir Walter Scott mentions them in the Lady of the Lake, a poem published in 1810 set in the Trossachs in Scotland and part of it concerns a druid hermit, called Brian. I’m guessing Brian was a more romantic and unusual name in Scotland in 1810 than it is today. Brian must face a challenge in the desert (a metaphorical one I assume as I think he’s still in the Trossachs at this point) where he has visions of frightful things:
The desert gave him visions wild,
Such as might suit the spectre’s child.
Where with black cliffs the torrents toil,
He watched the wheeling eddies boil,
Jill from their foam his dazzled eyes
Beheld the River Demon rise:
The mountain mist took form and limb
Of noontide hag or goblin grim;
The midnight wind came wild and dread,
Swelled with the voices of the dead;
And so, we have our reference to the noontide hag. Even in Scott’s own extensive notes on the poem we don’t find out much more other than:
The ‘noontide hag,’ called in Gaelic Glas-lich, a tall, emaciated, gigantic female figure, is supposed in particular to haunt the district of Knoydart.
I’ve searched for further information on the noontide hag and have found extensive references in eastern European, Ukrainian, Russian, Slavic and even German legends. They’re fascinating and deserve their own bonus episode, which I plan to do. But I’m yet to find any specific mention of a noontide hag in Scotland or anywhere else in the British Isles other than by Sir Walter Scott.
Maybe you have heard legends which fit with this apparition or creature and can shed some light on it. Do get in touch with me on social media or through the blog.
Finally, I mentioned a link to Aberdeen, where I’m visiting in June. Remember our Great North Wizard, the famous stage magician and debunker of fake mediums? Well, his real name was John Henry Anderson, he was born in Aberdeenshire in 1814. He is credited with popularizing magic as a theatrical experience. In 1840 after extensive tours with theatrical companies he opened the Strand theatre in London. He also opened a theatre in Glasgow, the city which burned down within a year and cost him much money. He performed in front of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, Czar Nicholas I and sell out crowds in America. He inspired Hudini who was born in 1874 the year Anderson died. It seems appropriate that Anderson was given his stage name, the wizard of the north by Sir Walter Scott. Anderson had a turbulent personal life with mistresses and illegitimate children whom he acknowledged and supported, so at least he did the right thing by them if not his wife! He’s buried at St Nicholas’ church in Aberdeen so maybe I’ll visit when I’m up there.
If it wasn’t for this curious little ghost story set in a church in Luton, I would never have read about this pioneer of theatrical magic who also dedicated his time to unmasking frauds who claimed they could contact the dead. He largely did this by demonstrating how their tricks were performed.
We’ll never know what happened to that workhouse boy who saw the noontide hag in Luton’s St Mary’s church and I’m guessing he would never have thought that 175 years after his experience we’d still be talking about it today.
Thank you for listening to this bonus episode of weird in the wade. I really appreciate all of you who listen and if you want show notes, behind the scenes information or just more weird stories please visit the blog at weirdinthewade.blog
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