Ghost Tour of York - Not As Corny As It Sounds...

Intensive research by the Ghost Research Foundation International (GRFI) concluded ten years ago that York is the most haunted city in the world.  Currently, it has 504 recorded hauntings – and counting. 

As you might expect, there are a handful of groups who have capitalized on this title and have started ghost tours.  We chose to go on a tour that started at 8 pm, as I assumed there’d be fewer children on said tour (heartless…I know – whatever).  Turns out I was right on the children (none showed up) but wrong on the weather – it was pouring and we had no raincoats.  Determined not to be sissies about this, we joined Lee as he began to tell his stories.  Lee is probably just in his sixties with white hair and pure talent for storytelling.  He has the kind of look that says he could be your grandfather so you have a sort of automatic trust that he’ll take care of you.  I went with that feeling as he began to tell stories of York, just how old it is, how many folks have held it, and stories of it’s checkered past.  He has lived in York all of his life and these stories are stories of his family members – stories they have experienced first hand in some way or stories of the history of York.  History, ghosts – I’m in.

 Told in front of a dimly lit and stately home, one of the most compelling tales is that of Harry Martindale, who in 1953 was an apprentice plumber installing a new central heating system of the Treasurer’s House beside the Minster.  As the story goes, Harry had to lay down his tools and stand to one side while a column of Roman soldiers marched through.  He gathered his tools after they had passed, climbed out of the basement, and chose never to return to the site - or the profession.  Martindale, still alive and a resident of York today, reported that the men wore green tunics and carried round shields – but at the time, that didn’t match what historians knew.  He told only close friends and family and asked them to keep his story quiet, which they did.  A few years after his encounter, a site nearby was unearthed, and the discovery was made that the Romans who lived there used round shields – and wore green tunics.  It was only in recent years that Martindale shared his story with the city of York, a story that has allowed York to stake claim to the “Ghosts of the Greatest Longevity” title given by the GRFI.

 Of the dozen stories told, one has stayed with me over the last week since our visit to York.  While walking through the Minster with her father and a Priest who was guiding the two around for a look, a young lady strayed from her father and walked towards the altar of the Minster with her guide.   At the altar stood a handsome young man dressed in the uniform of a naval officer.  His face and hair were wet, and he was obviously quite upset.  He walked directly up to the girl and whispered one sentence into her ear. “There is a next state.”  He then walked away from the pair and was not seen again.  A few minutes later, the girl’s father found her and scolded her for getting separated from him – something she had been instructed not to do (the Minster is HUGE, I can see his point).  He asked where the two had wandered off to and she replied with a casual – “I felt a bit sick so I had a walk around.”  Satisfied, her father walked away.  Because the girl still appeared quite upset, the Priest asked her why she didn’t tell her father of the man in the navy uniform.  He was also burning with curiosity over what the navy officer had whispered into her ear.  “The reason I did not tell my father about the man was because I did not want to upset him.  That navy officer was my brother, who has been away at war for months.  He and I used to have lengthy discussions and debates about religion and the afterlife, conversations that we could never find agreement on.  We made a vow that when one of us dies, we would come and let the other know the answer.  “There is an after” are the words he spoke to me a few moments ago.”  The Priest, quite shaken at this, stared at her in disbelief as she rejoined her father and continued to walk around the Minster at his side.  A few days later, the girl’s family received a telegram from The Office of the Navy with the news that he had been lost at sea a few days prior.

 Then of course, there is the story of Guy Fawkes.  I’m embarrassed to say that I did not know much about him until a year ago when I watched the fireworks over Oriental Bay in Wellington on Guy Fawkes Day.  Guy Fawkes was born and educated in York, in the house behind where we stood. Throughout his education, Guy was fascinated and disgusted with the mistreatment of Catholics throughout history, and aimed to someday displace the Protestant rule that was so oppressive to members of his faith.  A founding member of a group now referred to by historians as “the restorationists” Guy created the Gunpowder Plot.  He and a small group of men began collecting gunpowder in small amounts and storing it in the basements of the House of Parliament.  Their aim was to blow up the entire place while King James I (and the entire Protestant aristocracy and nobility) was inside during an upcoming event. 

It sounds like Fawkes might have succeeded had one of his co-conspirators not found out that his brother in law would be attending said event.  He alerted his brother in law (in secret) that he should not, under any circumstances, be near the king or House of Parliament on this particular day.  Suspicious, the brother in law alerted police and eventually Fawkes (and the gunpowder) was discovered and taken into custody.  As you might suspect, King James I did not take this lightly.  Guy Fawkes was tried in London where he was charged with treason and sentenced to a gruesome death.  We’ve all heard the term “drawn and quartered” – but in Guy Fawkes’s case – it was particularly brutal.  (Faint of heart, you should probably stop reading here).  Fawkes’s arms and legs were tied to four posts then tied to two horses going in opposite directions.  This began the stretching process where his bones were broken slowly and brutally as he was literally stretched and disjointed.  Next came the disembowled section of the torture.  His stomach was dislodged with a small hook on the end of a long wooden stick – a stick that then fished around in his insides and dislodged large sections of his small intestines.  The executioner made sure to do this in a way that would keep Fawkes alive throughout the entire process.  This of course went on for quite some time.  Eventually, Fawkes’ fingers, toes, and even his penis and testicles were chopped off in front of his eyes and thrown into the woods beside him.  Finally, he was literally cut into four pieces and then beheaded.  His head was put on a post on traitor’s wall as a symbol from the king – basically, don’t mess with me or you’re next (video games are starting to look less and less violent…). 

Along with these stories were your typical stories of haunting – The Golden Fleece B&B (you can book a room there for 90 pounds a night if you’re brave) where, among many other ghosts, there’s a second world war airman who wakes guests by touching them with an icy hand.  Or the Dean Court opposite the Minster where reports of guests being woken up with the odd sensation that someone has been trying to drag them from their bed…Imagine two hours of these stories in a wet, cold, and particularly dark night on the streets of York.  And then imagine a walk/run back to the car and a foot on the gas pedal out of town.  No, I wasn’t scared at all…