Skirrid Inn (Wales)

Author's note:

Although their distination was Ludlow, Laura was intrigued by a small village called Weobley (pronounced Webley). Considered to have one of the finest collection of black-and-white buildings to be seen anywhere, Laura was determined to find it.

Cradled into the side of a hill on the B4230, Weobley was indeed a lovely village surrounded by a rural England that still exists outside of imagination.

In the original version of the book, they stayed and over dinner at their hotel - The Elizabethian - they learned from their host a little Welsh history.

"You both might be interested in visiting the Skirrid Inn if you're interested in Welsh history, and ghosts. It's believed to be one of the oldest pubs in Wales and perhaps in all of Britain. It's also haunted. I'm sure of it."

Pulling his chair closer, Bill told his story. "About five years ago now, Jan and I looked at the Skirrid, thinking to buy it and run it just like this place. We got the whole tour, but Jan … well, she's a little bit psychic, I guess, because when we reached the top floor, she'd go no further."

"Cold it was," Jan added. "Bill, he said afterwards that he didn't notice anything, but I know he just said that so as not to frighten me. If you stand outside the Inn at the front you can see a small dormer window high up. That room is just off the top of the stairs and it was in there that prisoners were kept back in the old days before their trials AND before they were executed. I don't what to go into a room like that ever again. A room full of fear, that's what it was. A room full of fear. Bill, even you felt it, though it took you long enough to admit it."

"Yes I did and I'm not one for seeing ghosts and such like. It's said that Judge George Jeffreys got his start sitting in judgement at the Skirrid before he went on to bigger things at the Bloody Assizes of 1685, where he acquired the nickname The Hanging Judge."

Laura cleared her throat. "Well, it sounds interesting but we're planning to head north to Ludlow and ...."

"Oh, well then," interrupted Bill, "it's no great distance. Here, give me your map and I'll show you."

Laura handed him the map as she looked at Gail. Her bright eyes and eager smile made Laura's heart sink. She wanted to go. She hung on Bill's every word as he traced the route and nodded when he said that they would have to watch for a sign because the Inn was just off the A465 and, if they went as far as Abergavenny, then they had gone too far.

Not wishing to disappointment anyone, Laura agreed to think about it and shortly thereafter, Laura and Gail made their way upstairs, leaving their host and hostess behind to clean up and prepare for a new day.

Laura hid in the toilet closet but Gail was waiting for her when she finally came out.

"So, are we going?" Gail asked, undaunted by Laura's apparent lack of enthusiasm.

"You've determined that I have ESP or something and then you expect me to go to a place like the Skirrid Inn?" Laura shook her head in disbelief.

"If you don't, you'll regret it for the rest of your life."

This was a low blow. Gail was appealing to Laura's basic philosophy; that life was meant to be enjoyed, savoured, experienced to the full. Laura believed that the saddest thing possible was to lie dying with the words I wish I had .... on one's lips at the last. Regret was one emotion Laura couldn't handle.

"All right, I'll go but not to stay the night so if you're entertaining any ideas along that line, you can forget them."

"Agreed. A quick visit, then on to Ludlow." Gail beamed in triumphant.

"A very quick visit." Laura yawned. "At least we can say we've been to Wales."

*****

They crossed into Wales just passed Pontrilas. A large sign displaying the red dragon of Wales appeared by the side of the road just as it made a sharp turn to the right so Laura and Gail were only able to catch the briefest glimpse.

"You know," Laura said, shortly after passing the sign, "it was the Welsh who butchered Richard at Bosworth. The English held back, fearful at the end to lay hands on an anointed King, but the Welsh had no such compunction. Seems fitting doesn't it that the dragon is blood red?"

Just past Lianfihangel Crucorney, they encountered the sign for the Skirrid and were able to negotiate the turn. Just! Laura parked the car right in front, within inches of the stone wall to the right of the main door. There were no other cars. Gail went straight to the front door while Laura investigated the sign hanging from a metal post near the entrance. It depicted a lightning bolt hitting the side of a mountain. It meant nothing to Laura so she made a mental note to ask. Gail joined her moments later.

"We've got fifteen minutes to wait. It doesn't open until noon."

Laura nodded. Together they walked around the site then drew back to the other side of the road to view the Inn straight on. High above, the small dormer window, cut into the roof, was clearly visible, although shrouded in shadow at this hour. They delayed their entrance until 12:10.

Laura's heart sank as she came through the doorway. Modern music, a corrupted form of rock and roll, shattered any sense of atmosphere. Suddenly embarrassed by their mission, Gail ordered a glass of wine and Laura a coffee. They took their drinks to a table in the far corner, facing into the room. Above them a large bale of hay hung on a hook while just beyond a huge fireplace took up most of one wall. The usual brasses, pictures and local craft items were on displayed. The music continued, unabated. A black cat appeared from beneath the table, hopped up beside Gail and demanded attention. There was another room just off the bar and, it soon became apparent that this was where the locals congregated. Some of what was being said was not in English. Laura finished her coffee and began to roam about the room, inspecting the fireplace carefully. Gail joined her.

"What are you going to say?" Gail whispered, her back to the bar.

"Well, I want to know about the sign outside for starters and why there's a bale of hay hanging over our heads."

Confidently Laura led the way back to the bar only to be greeted with a wry smile from the owner. The hay was there to absorb the cigarette smoke. And the sign? Well, it seems that at one time a godless people lived in a town set on the side of a hill. A massive lightning bolt hit the hill above, sending rocks and earth down, burying the town forever.

By now, Laura and Gail enjoyed his full attention and two bar stools. To Laura's right was a staircase leading to the upper floors.

Leaning closer across the bar, Laura said as quietly as possible. "We have heard from a reliable source that the Skirrid has quite a history and may, in fact, be haunted."

"Oh aye, considering what's happened here back in time, I'd not be surprised. Haven't seen naught myself but I'm not much of a believer in ghosts and the like." Reaching beneath the bar he produced a printed booklet which he presented to Laura. "You'll find all the information in there."

Laura and Gail began to read, leaving their host to attend to his other guests.

The Skirrid was a new alehouse forty-four years after the Norman Conquest - roughly 1110. Set in the remote wilderness of Wales, the Skirrid became a natural place to hold trials and, conveniently, execute those found guilty. Its first victim was John Crowther who was hanged for stealing a sheep. A common crime repeated over and over again, as was the sentence. The courtroom was situated on the first floor although the booklet suggested that prisoners awaiting trial were housed on the 'mesne' floor halfway up the stairs.

Executions took place at the base of the stairs. Laura paused then and turned sideways. The area mentioned was only eight feet from where she sat. At one time a stout wooden beam crossed the stairwell and from this hung the rope. The booklet suggested that upwards of 180 persons were hanged at the Skirrid Inn between the 12th and 17th Centuries. Although the Master-Hangman, Judge Jeffreys is mentioned, there's no proof that he actually sat in judgement at the Skirrid.

Laura slipped from her stool and walked towards the base of the stairs. Gail followed close behind. Laura began to climb the stairs slowly but was interrupted by the innkeeper.

"Upstairs is for guests of the hotel only. Sorry, Miss."

Disappointed, Laura retraced her steps but remained within the well created by the stairs as they rose above, formed a landing, then rose again. The stairs and the railings were painted dull black. She began to concentrate but …

"Strangled they did .... slowly. Dangling from the end of a rope maybe a foot, no more, above the floor after bein' hauled up like. A long, slow, painful way to die." The innkeeper was inches away from Laura and when she turned to look at him, there was an almost maniacal look in his eyes.

Both Laura and Gail backed away, retrieved the booklet and left the Inn, its innkeeper and possibly the ghosts of many unfortunate individuals who died so horribly for daring to steal a sheep.

Once in the car they both exhaled, caught a glimpse of each other, and laughed.

"Wow!" Gail exclaimed. "I don't know about ghosts, but that innkeeper was sure scary! Did you get any vibes?"

"From the hotel? Not a thing. Maybe it works better if I don't know the story beforehand. I agree with you though, he was downright spooky. Just goes to show you, the living are a lot more frightening than any spectre could ever hope to be."