Yorkshire Oddities, Incidents, and Strange EventsBaring-Gould, S. (Sabine)
History
Yorkshire Oddities, Incidents, and Strange Events
Baring-Gould, S. (Sabine)
Legends -- England -- Yorkshire; Yorkshire (England) -- Miscellanea
Under such circumstances a man is tempted to allow himself to be that
which in a brighter hour he would repudiate--a fool. I remember mentally
expressing my conviction that I was an idiot, and indignantly asking
myself how I could have thought of setting out on a walk in an unknown
country without map or compass? My exasperation with self was by no
means allayed when I tripped over a stone and fell my length in a sludgy
patch of swamp. At the same time I became conscious of a growing pain in
my vitals, and was sensible of a vacuum in that region of the body which
is situated beneath the lower buttons of the waistcoat; and a vacuum is
what nature is well known to abhor. There was a dinner-tea spread for me
in the inn at Arncliffe: chickens and ham I knew had been promised;
trout I naturally anticipated would prove part of the fare in a famous
fishing district; veal cutlets perhaps, and mashed potatoes. Heavens!
and I not there. I know I groaned at the thought, for the sound as it
issued from my lips startled me. As I walked on with drooping head,
those veal cutlets and mashed potatoes rose up before me tauntingly. I
am a man of resolution, and finding that the vision only aggravated
matters, I beat the veal cutlets down; yet, when they vanished, a new
phantom rose to distress me. During the day I had examined on the slopes
of Coska, Fountains, and Penigent several of those curious pots which
are peculiar to the Yorkshire limestone moors. These pots, as they are
called, are natural wells, hideous circular gaping holes opening
perpendicularly into the bowels of the mountain. In rainy weather the
tiny rills which descend the fells precipitate themselves into these
black gulfs and disappear. Far down at the bottom of the mountain the
streams bubble out again from low-browed caverns. Some of these pots are
many hundred feet deep; some are supposed by the vulgar to be
unfathomable, for certainly their bottoms have not been sounded yet, and
a stone dropped falls and falls, each rebound becoming fainter, but the
ear catches no final splash.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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