As well as this weekly blog, the Haunted Generation is also a bi-monthly column in the Fortean Times magazine, rounding up new releases and forthcoming events. This was the most recent feature, from issue 383, dated September 2019.
THE HAUNTED GENERATION
Bob Fischer rounds up the latest news from the parallel worlds of popular hauntology…
“Being half asleep on the couch with German Measles, refusing to eat my Heinz Lentil Soup, with Crown Court on. Covered in calamine lotion. My mum had this old lady who came round to look after us, Mrs Wolf. She taught us how to make birdboxes in the cellar. Maybe Quentin’s obsession with birdboxes came from her?”
Listening to film-maker Sean Reynard‘s memories of his 1970s childhood is a wonderful stream-of-consciousness experience. It’s almost as woozily evocative as descending down the Youtube wormhole he has created; a channel devoted to Sean’s alter-ego “Quentin Smirhes”, a terrifyingly austere spoof 1970s television presenter with a predilection for elaborate birdboxes and antique crumhorns. I first became aware of Quentin in 2016, when I discovered Sean’s magnificent pastiche of the Picture Box titles, a “found footage” extension of the opening sequence to this disquieting 1970s daytime TV fixture. As the “picture box” itself gently rotates, the camera pans to reveal a hidden handle being cranked by the unsettlingly hirsute Quentin, sporting a disconcerting leer and a truly alarming pair of black underpants.
“It was all very reminiscent of Victorian austerity and secret rooms, and shadowy corners,” muses Sean, recalling the original Picture Box titles. “A sense of warm claustrophobia, slightly anesthetised, and then [presenter] Alan Rothwell, with his relentless, hooded eye contact. I’d always wanted to film a wider pan of those titles, and see the whole set-up…”
Since then, Sean has cultivated a cottage industry of gloriously strange viral films, all spoofing the dustiest corners of the 1970s regional TV archive; where puppet choirboys are taught the rudiments of medieval instrumentation, and where disembodied fingers poke from wooden Heath Robinson contraptions, accompanied by the wistful, wobbly strains of Erik Satie’s Gnossienne No. 1. Search for the ‘Quentin Smirhes’ channel on Youtube, or follow Sean on Twitter, where he’s @raghard.
Meanwhile, committed heliophobes may find respite from the unrelenting summer stickiness by immersing themselves in The Dark Is Rising, an imagined TV soundtrack to Susan Cooper’s classic childrens’ novel. This much-loved tale of ancient magic loosed upon a festive, snow-bound Buckinghamshire has cast its spell over Finland-based Teessider Rob Colling, aka Handspan. “I asked myself… what would the music sound like if the BBC had commissioned a mini-series when the book was published, in 1973?” he explains. “My answer was that they would have given it to Peter Howell or Roger Limb or Paddy Kingsland from the Radiophonic Workshop… and it would have absolutely scared the pants off everyone who heard it.”
The album is marvellously redolent of Kingsland’s work in particular, and the perfect musical realisation of a story steeped in traditional myth. “It brings together all kinds of English folklore, from Herne the Hunter to King Arthur,” muses Rob. “And it just caused melodies to start pouring into my brain. They felt like they were thousand-year-old folk melodies…” Combining swimmy, retro synths with “early” instrumentation (you have to admire the dedication of a man who can teach himself to play the Finnish kantele), the album is as crisply keen as the sweeping snowdrifts and slate-grey sky that lend the book such an air of forbidding, suffocating stillness. Following a limited – and quickly sold-out – release on cassette, The Dark Is Rising is now available as a digital download from handspanmusic.com.
Other musical gems that have caught my attention this month: the album Flora, by Polypores, is an ambient but melodic exploration of a tangled, fantastical woodland, released on the Castles In Space label with a cover that Roger Dean would be proud of; and Sizewell, composed by Robin Saville and Oliver Cherer, builds beautiful organic soundscapes from field recordings made in the natural environs surrounding Suffolk’s famous nuclear power stations. It’s available from the Modern Aviation label.
Those seeking oddness in more built-up areas, however, should investigate the latest publications from the Folk Horror Revival stable. Urban Wyrd, edited by FT contributor Andy Paciorek, comes in two volumes (Spirits of Time and Spirits of Place) and collects essays, reviews and interviews that celebrate – as Adam Scovell puts it in his introduction – “dark skulduggery and strangeness beyond the reasonable confines of what we consider part of city life.” Further contributors include such luminaries as Will Self and Iain Sinclair, with Paciorek himself providing his own share of quirkiness… his exploration of “wyrd Trumpton” tickled me, as did his ruminations on the haunted qualities of motorway service stations. Both books are available from folkhorrorrevival.com/tag/urban-wyrd, with all proceeds going to the Wildlife Trusts conservation charity.
The next Haunted Generation feature in the Fortean Times will be in Issue 385, on the shelves on 10th October.
Thanks to a meticulously-kept childhood diary, I can pinpoint exactly the moment when my friend Doug Simpson and I became convinced that dark forces were leading us to a hitherto undiscovered magical realm, in a secluded corner of our small, North-Eastern home town. It was Sunday 15th April 1984, we were eleven years old, and an aimless, post-beans-on-toast bicycle ride through the rural, cobbled streets of Yarm had led to the discovery of a winding, muddy track, meandering away from the pavement opposite the doctor’s surgery. It ambled beneath a canopy of rustling trees and into a small, deserted childrens’ playpark… complete with slide, roundabout and swings, as well as the ubiqituous DIY rope swing, tied to the branch of an overhanging tree, and known universally to all on Teesside as a “tarzie”.
By this stage, I’d lived in Yarm for seven years, and Doug had spent two lengthy spells in the town, but neither us had ever previously been aware of the existence of this mysterious, secluded idyll. With imaginations fuelled by the magical childrens’ novels and supernatural TV shows that provided us with a staple diet of early 1980s weirdness, we swayed gently on the swings, and jumped to the only rational conclusion available to us: that the track had never previously been there; that it had magically materialised from some no-place, and led us through a time portal into a liminal, Arthur Macken-esque parallel Yarm that clearly couldn’t exist amidst the ordinary, everyday mundanity of our familiar home town.
Similar childhood adventures through the undiscovered “edgelands” of his home town – and their accompanying, imaginative flights of fancy – provide the inspiration for Vic Mars‘ beautiful new album Inner Roads and Outer Paths, his third recording for the exquisitely-curated Clay Pipe Music label. Vic grew up in 1970s and 1980s Hereford, then spent many years teaching in Japan before moving back to the UK. The record – as the publicity notes evocatively state – “harks back to a period in Vic’s youth spent exploring the abandoned houses and factories on the fringes of his home town; the in-between places where nature either takes back, or loses its grip… it is a record of trails, roads and holloways, that lead you out along the river, through ruined arches and over railway lines, past crumbling stately homes and back into the centre of town.”
As such, it builds on the similarly nostalgic and bucolic themes that informed Vic’s 2015 album The Land and the Garden, also released on Clay Pipe…
Like its predecessor, Inner Roads and Outer Paths is a beautiful, elegant piece of work, with gently-plucked guitars, shimmering strings and woozy, old-school synths reinforcing a strong, emotional connection to the Herefordshire countryside. I asked Vic a little more about his childhood experiences and explorations, and the specific locations that inspired the album…
Bob: The album is such a rich encapsulation of that spirit of childhood adventure. Can you paint a picture of where exactly you grew up?
Vic: Hereford is a city that sits right on the border of England and Wales. The surrounding countryside is beautiful, and easily accessible… just a five or ten minute cycle ride from where my parents live. The River Wye runs through the city too, and on a good day it’s quite picturesque. Growing up, there were always abandoned houses, ruined barns, bunkers, woods for camping and weird local legends.
Bulmers Cider comes from Hereford, and there was a cider festival, which was a big thing… not sure how often it took place though!
My memories of being a kid in the 1970s and 80s are of towns being a little more wild and ramshackle than they are now… I grew up in a rural town as well, and it was full of overgrown wasteland and abandoned buildings. And my and my friends all played in them, without anyone ever questioning it! Was it the same for you?
Definitely. CCTV was probably still quite expensive in those days, and the lack of security signs made exploring easy. Of course, the Public Information Films sometimes put us off the more dangerous pursuits… like climbing into electric substations for frisbees! I remember being more cautious of stray dogs, farmers, white dog poo and glue sniffers than anything else.
Any memories of specific buildings or areas that were particularly special for you?
The munitions factory was the big one for us. A huge hangar, blast walls, bunkers, all sorts of stuff. And overgrown paths, so it was easy to get a bit lost in there… it covered a big area. There’s also a church nearby, and we were told they took the hands off the clock to stop the Devil visiting at midnight. Weird stuff.
And when I moved to Japan, I started exploring abandoned theme parks. Kind of carrying on the hobby.
Was part of the fun of being a child discovering new areas of your home town? I remember, aged 11, finding a new trackway into a tiny park with a slide, and I’d never seen either before. And I’d lived in the same small town for seven years at that point! It felt like magical forces were at work…
Yes… usually out of town though, like an abandoned house, a lake or a rumour of something like an old factory. Although there was a short time when I had the fear of going into woods, due to The Bells of Astercote and the Black Death.
(NB… I’d forgotten all about The Bells of Astercote, but it was essentially a childrens’ version of the BBC’s traditional Ghost Story For Christmas, broadcast on BBC1 on 23rd December 1980. Based on a 1970 novel by Penelope Lively, it sees two modern children encountering what appears to be a 600-year-old plague victim in their local woods. Archive TV enthusiast Tim Worthington writes about it here, and the whole programme is on Youtube…)
I assume you no longer live in your childhood town – is there, therefore, an element of longing to the album? Both for your childhood, and – I assume – for places that no longer exist, as they’ve been built on or knocked down?
It’s not really a longing, more a fond memory. The Muppet Show and Doctor Who on a Saturday, and that low feeling when you heard the theme tune to Last Of the Summer Wine… when you knew you had school the next day. Although I left a quite a while ago, it was the real end of an era when my parents moved out of the house where I’d grown up. Quite a weird feeling.
Hereford looked like a great place years before I was born, but it seems the council allowed some beautiful architecture to be knocked down.
Can I ask specifically about some of the places namechecked in the song titles? There’s ‘Evacuees at Arrow House’, for a start…
Arrow House was a house my Dad lived in as a child, in a small town called Kington, outside of Hereford. Hergest Ridge is just up the road, Mike Oldfield fans! They took in evacuees during the War, and my Nan kept in touch with the evacuated children for a long time afterwards. Only recently, I saw some great photos of them enjoying “country life” in Kington, and some old letters too.
(NB For those keen to explore further, the BBC”s Peoples War archive has memories from Kington evacuees here…)
You’ve got to tell me about the “Bric-A-Brac Shop” as well, as referenced in the opening track! Was it real?
It’s not one shop in particular. My grandma was an antiques dealer, and she had a stall in a creaky old shop along with other sellers, where she claimed to have witnessed the ghost of a butcher walking past her. I think that’s partly the inspiration for the track.
There’s “The Last Days of the Great House”, too… was this inspired by any particular building?
There were two or three empty stately homes… not really in ruin, but they could well have gone that way. I was reading about England’s lost houses, and how many were knocked down due to cost, or used by the army, or destroyed, sold off or burnt down. A favorite, Witley Court, was destroyed by fire, sadly. It’s a massive place in Worcestershire, the neighbouring county.
I love “The Fair Arrives” as well… the arrival of the travelling funfair was – and still is – an annual event of huge importance in my home town. Any specific memories of your own childhood experiences at this particular fair?
The fair was – and still is – a big occasion in Hereford. It happens in the centre of the city, and the roads are closed off. I can vaguely remember one of the attractions… basically a man in a monster suit, in a cage. This must have been the mid-to-late 1970s. Then, along with the Mexican or Witch’s Hat, the bumper cars, and the ghost train, there was a freakshow tent that had various mutations in jars. This was right up until the 1990s! Legend has it that someone stole the two-headed cow, and put it on the bonnet of their car.
Musically, it’s a beautiful album – and there are hints of the school music room in there, recorders and glockenspiels! Was that a deliberate attempt to evoke the sounds of music lessons?
Thank you! Yes, I find that sort of sound appealing… slightly out of sync, and wobbly. Sadly, music lessons at my school were uninteresting and lacking in any available instruments. I wanted a drum kit, but they were too expensive. When I was teaching in a Japanese junior high school, I was amazed at the amount and variety of musical kit they had, which anyone could use, any time.
The album has an epic feel, too… passages reminded me of the great pastoral British composers, of Elgar and Vaughan Williams. Were they in your mind at all when you were making this?
I would say always Vaughan Williams, but equally Gustav Holst. There is a statue of Elgar next to the cathedral in Hereford, and the Three Choirs Festival is not far away. I’ve read that Vaughan Williams and Holst went on walks around the area a bit, which kind of ties in… because when I see the Herefordshire countryside, I hear those two.
I wanted to ask about Alfred Watkins as well, who I know from his book The Old Straight Track, and his writings on ley-lines. And you mention him in the album’s publicity. Is he an important figure when it comes to documenting Herefordshire’s past? When – and how – did you become of his work?
Alfred Watkins is probably not as celebrated as he should be in Herefordshire. The Old Straight Track is a great book, and one that my Dad had for years. I came across that, and another book called The Folklore of Herefordshire by Mary Leather, at the same time. There’s some crazy stuff in the folklore book about local witchcraft and omens, and the author helped Vaughan Williams collect folk songs from the area.
Are you much of a ley-line believer yourself?
Ha! I want to believe.
This is your third release on Clay Pipe, and you and label owner Frances Castle seem to work really well together – her artwork compliments your music beautifully. Do you swap notes during the creative process?
Whatever Frances creates is always amazing, and it’s exciting when she sends over the artwork for the first time. Not sure how, but she seems to be able to capture the feel of the music every time. Not just the images, but the colour palette too. I know the artwork is in very safe hands, so I’ve more often asked about the music and what needs changing!
Inner Roads and Outer Paths is released on 4th October, but the limited vinyl edition is available for pre-order now, from…
Since 2014, Stephen Prince’s impressively comprehensive multi-media project A Year In The Country has exploring and documenting some of the lesser-trodden pathways between pastoral folk music and radiophonic electronica, as well as actively contributing to these genres with a succession of hugely enjoyable musical releases. The 2018 book Wandering Spectral Fields has hewn considerable dents in many a bank balance (including mine) with lovingly-written essays unravelling the tangled connections that bind an underappreciated welter of late 1960s/early 1970s acid-folk with the 21st century hauntology movement; via Kate Bush, Bagpuss, the films of Peter Strickland, Sapphire and Steel and the work of the Telegraph Pole Appreciation Society. Eighteen months on, my Amazon Wishlist is still groaning under the weight of a myriad of Stephen’s heartfelt recommendations.
With a new book – Straying From The Pathways– in the offing, and a new album – Echoes and Reverberations – freshly released, it seemed like an apposite moment to speak with Stephen, and discuss the lifestyle changes that led to A Year In The Country‘s inception, the childhood memories that have fuelled his explorations, and some of the music, TV and film that he has found to be especially affecting and inspiring…
Bob:Can you tell me how you started the whole Year In The Country project, and what inspired you to do so?
Stephen: For a long time I’d been working in often very city-based, left-of-centre pop culture and also living in quite central urban areas. Without consciously realising it, after finishing a particularly big creative project, I found myself being drawn to more rural areas. Perhaps I found myself wanting a quieter pace of life, a sense of space and so on.
I listened to a friend’s copy of the compilation album Gather in the Mushrooms: The British Acid Folk Underground 1968-1974, compiled by Bob Stanley of Saint Etienne. I was wandering through a dimly-lit, post-industrial part of an inner city when I first heard Trader Horne’s “Morning Way” on the album, a song which begins with “Dreaming strands of nightmare are sticking to my feet” and I thought… this isn’t like any form of folk that I’ve heard before. I think it opened up something in my mind, and is part of what led me to start A Year In The Country in 2014, and its explorations of the flipsides of folk and pastoral culture.
Also, although again I’m not sure how conscious it was, I began to want to find some kind of catharsis for the shadows of Cold War dread that I’d been carrying around since childhood, something which for myself – because I was living in the countryside when I learnt more fully about the potential realities of the Cold War – was curiously linked with rural areas and ways of living.
Beyond Gather in the Mushrooms, I didn’t really know about what has come
to be known as hauntology, and the undercurrents of folk/pastoral culture, when
I started thinking about and planning A
Year In The Country. Maybe there was something in the air, as looking back
it was a time when, unbeknownst to me, that culture seemed to start flourishing
and finding an audience. Part of A Year
In The Country has been about myself
exploring, documenting and discovering this loosely interconnected culture, and
the people who work in it.
In some ways I wanted to create
a website or project that I would want to visit. One that explored all of the
above and hopefully could help to draw lines of connection between them.
Did you always foresee it as
the multi-media experience that it has become, or – at the outset – did you
simply intend to do a bit of gentle blogging?
Ah, a bit of gentle blogging
may have been a bit easier!
From week one of A Year In The Country, I began releasing prints, badge sets and so on, and I always planned and hoped that I would put out music. Which I began to do in the first year.
Along with the more directly cultural sides of work, I’m very much interested in the practicalities of releasing things into the world. It’s all part and parcel of the same thing to me. For me, all the different areas of A Year In The Country – the website, the books, the music, the prints, the artwork, the making of the physical releases, the practical distribution aspects, the theoretical sides of things and so on – intertwine.
In terms of releasing books, I was particularly intrigued by the last chapter of Rob Young’s book Electric Eden, called “Toward the Unknown Region”. That chapter discusses the likes of Ghost Box Records and the outer fringes of pastoral/folk culture and, in part, seems to capture a particular spectral/hauntological atmosphere, the sense of parallel world creation that often occurs in hauntological and related folk work. It also linked together (or at least showed that they can sit side-by-side) certain aspects of hauntology and the fringes of folk culture, alongside discussing how some of folk/pastoral culture has changed and wandered off down new and sometimes surprising pathways.
I think I thought to myself, about that chapter, “I want some more of that!” and I hoped, although again maybe not all that consciously, that at some point I would put together a book that continued exploring the pathways that “Toward the Unknown Region” had begun to walk down, as well as bringing together some of the other cultural reference points that I’d found myself wandering amongst.
Again, basically, at heart I
wanted to put work out into the world that I would enjoy myself, and that I
found myself looking for.
Did the founding of A Year In The Countrybegin with a genuine lifestyle change… you actually moved into the countryside, didn’t you? How did you find this affected your state of mind?
Yes, I had moved to the
countryside before the founding of A Year
In The Country, and that’s when planning for it began in earnest.
Although things have changed in
terms of rural access to culture – due to internet connections, expanded mail
order, and so on – there is possibly still a sense that there’s more space for
your mind to wander, with fewer cultural distractions. Even something as simple
as there being fewer flyposters or advertising hoardings makes a difference.
There’s also just a different pace of life, a slower, potentially more
contemplative one. Although at this point, I think it would be good to point
out that I’m not trying to say that either the countryside or cities are good
or bad, there are positives and negatives with both.
I think looking back, I had a
sense that pop culture, even in its more leftfield and alternative aspects, had
become a very busy, crowded and heavily-harvested area of culture.
In contrast, and accompanying that literal sense of space, there also seemed to be more space within the undercurrents of folk/pastoral culture and where they meet and intertwine with hauntology. At that point they hadn’t been all that intensively explored. They seemed to be at a remove from the spotlights of attention that pop culture is routinely subject to, and that accompanying sense of business or cultural hurly burly.
So, essentially, the countryside gave me and my mind space to rest and wander. The different character, rhythms and so on of folk and pastoral culture began to make more sense once I lived in the countryside, and I would often find myself reflecting on the differences between it and more urban culture as I was wandering across the fields.
Is the desire to revert to a
simpler, more bucolic lifestyle growing, do you think? A lot of people
(including me) seem to find 21st century life rather daunting and anxious…
There’s a sense that it may be
growing, although that’s based more on anecdotal observation than in-depth
Perhaps the way that people are drawn to it is an expression of wanting to find some respite from the modern world. If you look back to the 1970s, a time when some people were also drawn to bucolic and folk culture, that was a time when society in the UK was going through a period of uncertainty and turbulence, and bucolic ways of life may have offered an escape from that. Parallels could be drawn between then and now.
Although curiously and conversely, within hauntology and folk culture, being drawn to the bucolic often seems to be accompanied by exploring an unsettled flipside to it. Possibly due to a related and interconnected wish to, consciously or not, find a way of expressing and making sense of contemporary turbulent times and the connected sense of anxiety.
Connected to this, some of the
reasons for the current interest in wyrd folk, otherly pastoralism and
hauntology could be, as I mentioned above, that they give people the space to
create imagined parallel worlds or planes of existence, ones which variously
allow for a break from the contemporary anxieties, worries and day-to-day life.
It could also be because humans as a species seem to be fascinated by and have
a need to tell stories, spin yarns and create waking dreamscapes.
Related to 21st century life
being daunting and anxious, the level of input and output of culture today can
be potentially overwhelming. If I take myself as an example, I grew up in a
time when there was a scarcity of, and restricted access to, more leftfield culture
and some popular culture. You very much had to seek it out – which is almost
the polar opposite to today.
Back then, there were only
three – then four – television channels in the UK, one main weekly pop music
television show, three or so weekly alternative music magazines, and – until
the 1980s and the more widespread use of home video recorders – you couldn’t
easily watch a broad range of films at home. And the numbers and types of books
and albums you could read or listen to were quite limited by your personal
budget, and what could be found in the local library, or in book and record
Now there is an almost unlimited, constantly changing deluge of culture, available digitally and in other forms and often – particularly in the case of music – inexpensive via streaming services. I wonder if my brain, and those of others of my generation, is in some way still physically wired to times of cultural scarcity, and whether the way things are now can induce a sense of “not keeping up” – of there just literally, potentially, being too much input.
Also, growing up in a time of cultural scarcity can make you feel you have to pay attention to all and any culture when it does pop up. In my younger years, if I saw a rare and interesting single in a charity shop, I’d think that I would have to buy it and listen to it, as I might never see it again. That’s no longer the case, but perhaps some of that mentality lingers on in modern times. If that’s how you grew up, the ubiquity of access to nearly all culture can lead to a potential sense of being overwhelmed.
Accompanying which, there can be a daunting pace of change; there are theories that suggest that the development of human ideas, science, technology and creativity only really took off once there was a certain critical mass of people who weren’t living in small isolated groups anymore, meaning ideas could be more easily exchanged, passed around, developed and so on. To a degree, modern communication methods, travel, and information storage and retrieval may be supercharging that process, in a way that outpaces the human brain’s ability to process it. And so it can seem like the ground is constantly shifting under your feet, which doesn’t necessarily lend itself to not being anxious.
There is also economic and
unemployment uncertainty, and the potentially related fast pace of change; that
idea of a trade for life, and knowing that how you make a living now will be
the same in a few years, let alone decades, has – to a large degree – disappeared.
That applies in wider life and also within creative work, where traditional
funding methods and routes have been largely swept away, and we live and work
in a constantly changing cultural and economic environment.
Of course, at the same time I’m
wary of just being “Bah, humbug, in my day it was all green fields, just three
TV channels and an easier way of life.” The world changes and moves on and, to
state the obvious, there are often pros and cons to all such changes.
Does the music, art and literature involved with the movement give you a connection to your childhood memories? Rather nebulous memories of being very young in the 1970s seem to be a huge part of all this…
I think it maybe did more so in
the earlier days of A Year In The Country,
which had the shadows and memories of Cold War dread as something of an
underlying theme. As hauntological work often draws from such things, and a
sense of unsettledness in 1970s culture, that provided a connection to my
There were science fiction television series that I only saw glimpses of in the 1970s, dystopian science fiction and horror novels and films that I was drawn to, but which I was maybe too young to fully understand… or that I just saw covers of, and created my own stories around them. All of that became a kind of personal dreamscape from which A Year In The Country partly draws – it’s not always the actual culture, but more a half-remembered or misremembered, sometimes never fully-known version of it from my childhood.
That feeling of a childhood tainted by the terror of nuclear war (or even just the general unease/melancholy of 1970s culture and society) has become such a potent one. Do you think there was something unique about that period that produced those feelings, and inspired the wave of artists and musicians that have mined it for inspiration?
That period has a number of
characteristics which may have made it such an inspiration for hauntological work:
although this is a broad generalisation, the late 1960s, tipping over into the
1970s, can be characterised as a point in UK/Western society when post-war and
hippie optimism began to crumble, and – throughout the 1970s and early 1980s – society
entered a period of economic and societal disturbance and uncertainty. There is
a sense that the late 1960s to late 1970s was “a time before the
fall”, and that – consciously or not – it represents a time when post-war
progressive intentions and futures were fought for and lost. That, and the
culture produced around that time, has become a source for, and come to
represent, a sense of hauntological melancholia.
At the same time, in the 1970s, there seemed to be areas of freedom within, for example, large-scale mainstream cultural institutions such as the BBC, which allowed for the creation of at times very exploratory and left-of-centre culture. Penda’s Fen, the BBC Radiophonic Workshop, and so on. To a degree that continued into the 1980s, although looking back, by that point, they seemed more like flashes of rearguard resistance.
Given that we were so uneasy
during our childhoods, why do you think we now often find comfort in those
That’s an interesting question.
Perhaps if you pull the monsters out from under the bed and shine a light on
them, it helps to – if not neuter them – then at least to weaken their power.
Although that sense of
unsettledness doesn’t just draw from
the Cold War, that particular conflict was a strange thing to live through: a
form of politics and foreign policy based on the complete destruction of global
civilisation, and the creation of weapons to do that. It could be seen as a
kind of collective madness in a way. To a degree, within mainstream society,
the reality of living through it and the potentially harmful psychological
effects aren’t really acknowledged, and that whole period has been sort of
swept under the carpet of history and become just another story from past
decades. Rather than something that directly affected people who are still
So perhaps the hauntological exploring
of those uneasy childhood memories acts as form of balm, a way of easing that
unsettledness by creating a space where they can be examined.
I’m intrigued by the new A Year In The Countrymusical release – Echoes and Reverberations. These are recordings inspired by film and TV locations, both real and imaginary. I actually went to two 1970s Doctor Who locations recently… Aldbourne, which doubled as “Devil’s End” in The Daemons, and East Hagbourne, transformed into “Devesham” for The Android Invasion. And I couldn’t look around either village without thinking of the terrible events that occurred there… but, of course, they didn’t. And the pub in Aldbourne has blurred reality further by placing a “Cloven Hoof” sign outside the front door… when, in actuality, it’s called The Blue Boar. Do TV and film locations almost almost become two places, one real and one fictional?
It sounds like you’ve been
doing some interesting wandering…
You could consider such places
to have two realities; a surface and an imaginary one, or a literal one and one
which exists in the mind.
That sense of places having an
alternate reality is one of the main themes of the Echoes And Reverberations album; it’s an exploration of the way
that places become layered with the stories and atmosphere of the films and
television programmes which were recorded there – with each track being by a
different contributor and focusing on a particular location and film or
Sometimes that layering may be
expressed overtly, if an area has become well-known as being a particular film
or TV location and a related tourist industry has built up around it, or it may
be more of a personal, private thing.
I wanted the album to explore how these places can become sources of personal and cultural inspiration, and also locations for a form of modern-day cultural pilgrimage. Partly as a marker of such pilgrimages, each track contains field recordings from such journeys.
The layering of different
realities and stories in a place is very much an abstract and, as I just said,
often a very personal thing. And so, as I wrote in the album’s accompanying
text, the tracks, their themes and the field recordings are a “seeking of
the spectral will-o’-the-wisps of locations imagined or often hidden
It is, in part, also an
exploration of the themes from these real and imaginary film and television
programmes, from “apocalyptic tales to never-were documentaries and
phantasmagorical government-commissioned instructional films via stories of
conflicting mystical forces of the past and present, scientific experiments
gone wrong and unleashed on the world, the discovery of buried ancient objects
and the reawakening of their malignant alien influence, progressive struggles
in a world of hidebound rural tradition and the once optimism of post-war new
More specifically, that takes in such hauntological and otherly-pastoral touchstones as Penda’s Fen and Quatermass, via Survivors, and onto the likes of 1991 science fiction series Chimera, and period drama Flambards.
And as you say, some of the tracks are inspired by imaginary film and television locations. For some people, places have become imbued with alternate realities and atmospheres related to stories that only exist in their own imaginations. In this sense the album also loosely interconnects with other work in hauntological areas/the undercurrents of folk, which also creates soundtracks to imaginary films and television, such as The Book of the Lost, Tales from the Black Meadow and The Equestrian Vortex, or the A Year In The Country-released The Shildam Hall Tapesand The Corn Mother.
Have you gone on similar
quests to find TV and film locations? How did they make you feel?
Sometimes I have more gone on
personal quests related to my own past experiences, rather than specifically to
a particular filming location.
For example, during the first year that I moved to the countryside I went out photographing a lot, taking the images I would use in the artwork, prints and albums in the first year of A Year In The Country. At the end of that year, to the day, I set off on a journey to take photographs in the small country village where, as a child, I first discovered and experienced Cold War dread, and dystopian science fiction, and saw glimpses of the children’s television drama series Noah’s Castle, which showed society collapsing due to hyperinflation. All of which fed into A Year In The Country.
Prior to that year, I hadn’t visited for a number of decades and it was a curious thing to wander amongst and revisit my own past via this literal landscape, one which had informed the mental landscape that created some of the roots that became A Year In The Country. As you suggested earlier, at such times it is almost as though places have more than one reality, and their different layers and realities intertwine.
Completely coincidentally, on the train route back, an arthouse cinema was showing Nigel Kneale’s The Stone Tapeand an episode of Beasts. Not something you expect to see every day or even once a year at the cinema, and so I stopped off on the way home to watch them, which felt like something of a cinematic/cathode ray rounding of the circle of that first behind-the-scenes year of A Year In The Country.
More directly related to filming locations, the first time I visited Portmeirion, which as you probably know was the location where much of The Prisoner was shot, I could tell that the younger, subconscious me who first saw The Prisoner was thrilled to be there. It was strange seeing the place in full colour, and in such real-world high-definition… I had first seen The Prisoner on a black and white television, and I think that memory of it had lingered with me. I think I had expected it to be more like a film-set facade, but the buildings were functional and very three-dimensional.
However, it was not so much the actual village of Portmeirion that seemed to capture a sense of The Prisoner for me, but rather a deserted beach area next to it that I came upon by accident, and which summoned up endless visions of No. 6 trying to escape before being recaptured by the Rover.
Perhaps the beach and its more abstract connection to The Prisoner allowed my mind and imagination to wander more. Whereas the buildings and giant chessboard in Portmeirion village were great to see, they didn’t allow for that mental space so much, as they were a more literal representation of the series and my memories of it.
All of this feeds into the
new A Year In The Country book, too…
As with A Year In The Country: Wandering Through Spectral Fields, Straying from the Pathways explores the undercurrents of folk/pastoral culture and where it meets and intertwines with the lost futures and parallel worlds of hauntology, including a fair few of the themes we’ve discussed above.
It includes writing about some
of the core culture from such things while, as I say in the introduction, I
also wanted to push back the boundaries and look elsewhere for where hauntological-esque
spectres, lost futures and re-imagined echoes of the past might be found.
To semi-quote from the cover,
it wanders amongst eerie landscapes, folk horror, the dysfunctional utopian
visions of Brutalist architects and hazily misremembered cultural memories,
taking in the likes of the faded modernity and “future ruins” of British road
travel, apocalyptic “empty city” films, dark fairy tales, the political
undercurrents of the 1980s and idyllic villages gone rogue.
My first published article in theFortean Timescame as the result of Worms, Witches and Boggarts, a radio documentary that I made for BBC Tees in 2014, investigating some of the stranger little corners of traditional North-Eastern folklore. A tweet ahead of the programme’s broadcast led to the magazine’s editor, David Sutton, inviting me to contribute an article about “hobs”, the mischievious, hobbit-like figures of the North York Moors, to the FT’s Forum section. Since then, the feature has been adapted into a talk, which I’ve been delighted to give at the Weird Weekend North conference, as well as Hartlepool Folk Festival, Whitby Musicport Festival, the Pint of Science festival, and ar a folklore season at Middlesbrough Central Library. I’m always happy to take it on the road, if anyone is in the market for a very real hairy, short-arsed Northern man talking enthusiastically about his more mystical ancestors.
From the Fortean Times issue 330, dated August 2015, here’s the article in full…
HOBNOBBING WITH THE HOBS
Bob Fischer wonders whether North Yorkshire is falling back in love with its mystical, moorland hobs…
I’ve spent pretty much my entire life wandering idly around the rugged idyll of the North York Moors, but had never heard of the legends of the local hobs until 2010. Which seems odd, as they’d been around for a long time by then. Possibly – as we’ll discover – over 1000 years. And, to boot, I was brought up in the 1970s, when it seemed almost compulsory for primary-school age children to be steeped in all manner of rustic oddness as part of their daily education. So how did I manage to read The Hobbit at the age of eight without anyone telling me that my favourite moorland walks were filled with their own breed of dwarf-like, mischievous, hairy-footed men with a tendency to lurk around simple farming communities?
It took the chance discovery of a distinctive marker stone on windswept Gisborough Moor (O.S. Ref. NZ 646 124, if you’re that way inclined) to bring these enigmatic creatures to my attention. Carved into the stone is the legend ‘Hob On The Hill’ and – on the other side – the date 1798. It was the beginning of my ongoing fascination with these mercurial beasties. Many of whom, as documented in Jennifer Westwood and Jacqueline Simpson’s folklore bible The Lore of the Land, were as domesticated as their literary near-namesakes:
‘In Yorkshire, notable hob territory, they included spirits who “lived in” and did household chores… and some who, like the hobman of Marske-on-Sea, lived outside human society and safeguarded the community’.
Tales abound of hobs attaching themselves to remote Yorkshire farms, merrily threshing corn in barns overnight for no reward other than a bowl of milk, and becoming mortally offended – usually never returning – if farmers attempted to repay their efforts with labourers’ clothing to cover their customary nakedness. Although other hobs were more mischievous in their intent; indeed, one tale – referred to widely as the ‘Ay, we’re flitting’ story – tells of a household hob so disruptive that the family attempted to move house in order to escape him. It’s a story that Ryedale Folk Museum, an idyllic miniature village of pre-industrialised Yorkshire nestling in a nook of Farndale, has now claimed as its own, applying it to the dale’s resident hob, Elphi. The story is told in a pamphlet available in the museum…
‘The hens stopped laying. The milk turned sour. The butter wouldn’t churn no matter how long the wife turned it… the family decided they would have to leave and try their luck on another farm. They made all the arrangements and loaded their furniture and belongings onto the cart ready to go to their new home. By the gate, a neighbour passes and asked “Now then, is tha flitting?” Before the farmer could answer, a voice came from the depths of the cart. “Aye, we’re flitting”. They looked in horror, there was Elphi, the hob, going with them’.
So when did these tales begin to circulate? Clearly by 1798, belief in hobs was widespread enough for the stone on Gisborough Moor to bear their name. But it seems that their influence had been deeply felt in the region for many centuries before that. In his evocative 1891 book Forty Years in a Moorland Parish: Reminiscences and Researches in Danby in Cleveland, the Rev J.C. Atkinson recalls his visit to an elderly, female parishioner who regaled him with the couplet:
Gin Hob mun hoe nowght but a hardin’ hamp He’ll come nae mair, nowther to berry nor stamp.
Baffled? Don’t worry, so was Canon Atkinson, because – despite appearances – not all of this archaic dialect belongs to North Yorkshire folk-speech. It’s essentially another warning not to offend your resident hob by leaving him work clothes, but the words ‘berry’ (meaning to thresh) and ‘hamp’ (a peasant’s smock), reports Canon Atkinson, ‘had no actual meaning to the old dame who repeated the rhyme to me’, concluding that ‘the word (hamp) seems to be clearly Old Danish in form and origin’.
He was left in no doubt that his older parishioners, even on the cusp of the 20th century, firmly believed in the veracity of stories whose telling, he implies, had been equally relished by Scandinavian invaders over a thousand years earlier. ‘It was impossible to doubt for a moment her perfect good faith’, he writes. ‘She told all with the most utter simplicity, and the most evident conviction that what she was telling was matter of faith, and not at all the flimsy structure of fancy or of fable’.
In March 2015, Tees Archaeology‘s Peter Rowe met me in his Hartlepool office, and cited the descriptive nature of names like ‘Hob on the Hill’ as further evidence of a Danish influence. ‘The Anglo-Saxons, and the Scandinavians after them, were very keen on descriptive place names,’ he told me, ‘and you pick that up in a lot of local places. So “Hob on the Hill” is a hill, and it’s associated with the folklore of hobgoblins. There’s nowhere that you’ll see this written down in the history books, as these places weren’t really connected with settlements and nobody was taxing them, but I would say there’s a good chance that the hob place names are Anglo Scandinavian or Anglo Saxon. So we’re talking around 600-900 AD’.
If Peter and the good Canon Atkinson are correct, it appears that widespread belief in the North Yorkshire hobs persisted for at least a millennium. So when did their influence begin to wane? The turn of the 20th century, it seems, was something of a hob watershed, and by 1905, even the once-legendary Elphi was firmly residing in the where-are-they-now file. That year saw the publication of Gordon Home‘s The Evolution of an English Town (the town in question being Pickering), which reported – after discussions with local folklorist Richard Blakeborough, who’d done the legwork – that ‘after most careful enquiry during the last two years throughout the greater part of Farndale, only one person has been met with who remembered hearing of this once widely known dwarf’.
Hardly surprising, therefore, that by the time I’d started exploring the moors 70 years later, stories of the humble hob had ceased to seen as factual local history and had drifted into the fantasy realms of Tolkien and his ilk.
But are they making a comeback? I sense a whiff of a hob revival in the air. In 2010, two Teesside artists, AJ Garrett and Rebecca Little of the Peg Powler Art Collective, became so fascinated by these relatively obscure nuggets of folklore that they ran a ‘Mop Top Hob Shop’ in an empty shop unit in Stockton-on-Tees, encouraging local children to draw their own impressions of the local beasties. ‘We couldn’t find anything about them on the internet,’ Rebecca told me, ‘so we went to Middlesbrough Reference Library, and searched through books for hours.’
‘Kids take to it,’ chipped in AJ. ‘They say “So there are these little creatures in the middle of the countryside, and some of them are good and some of them are evil… OK!”, and they just go for it’. AJ and Rebecca still have many of the pictures drawn that day, showing an ingenious variety of hobs sporting horns, fangs, pointed ears and – in one impressive application of artistic licence – what appears to be a stetson.
Then there’s the small matter of Elphi’s second wind. Ryedale Folk Museum now plays host to ‘Elphi’s Trail’, a treasure hunt of hob-related artefacts designed to gently guide younger visitors around the attraction’s exhibits. The museum’s director, Jennifer Smith, followed the trail with me, and I couldn’t help but notice that one of the stopping points, ‘Elphi’s House’, was a tiny cottage whose roof had been constructed from an old hardback edition of Forty Years in a Moorland Parish. It seems Elphi, at least, remains as mischievous as his reputation suggests.
‘It’s a really lovely way to get children to engage with the museum’s collection and the area’s history,’ Jennifer told me. ‘I think museums have got more astute in realising that people are interested in things that you can’t see or touch, so they’re doing more about that intangible heritage, and sharing these stories in all manner of different ways. There is absolutely a resurgence of interest’.
Meanwhile, over on the North Yorkshire coast, professional storyteller Rose Rylands finds that the guests on her regular folklore walks are equally fascinated by tales of the coastal hobs dwelling in the region’s various caves and coves. I met Rose on the windswept beach of Runswick Bay, where a benevolent hob with the power to cure whooping cough lurks in a darkened recess of the cliff face; and we spent an idle afternoon wandering slowly up the coast to Boggle Hole, another renowned hob hotspot.
Rather strangely,’ Rose insisted, ‘I had an e-mail last spring from a gentleman who swore to me that, when he was a child, he was walking down this very stairwell when he saw a man-cum-creature… and he described, exactly, a hob. It ran across the path in front of him. It was there, and it was gone. I have to confess that I haven’t followed up this particular enquiry, but sometimes it’s good to leave a mystery right where it is’.