Sker House

by C. M. Saunders

  “Erm, a pint of lager and a large orange juice, please.” As the woman turned away to get the order he added, “I was just wondering, where's Mr Machen, the landlord?”

  “Mr Machen? Oh, you mean Mach. Don't call him mister, he says that's just for the...”

  “Tax man,” Dale finished. “We know.”

  The woman grinned. “Yes, that's right. He's just off seeing to something. Is there anything I can help you with? I'm his wife, Sandra.”

  Dale smiled. At last! Irrefutable proof that the lady of the house is alive and well. There were more than a few moments when he and Lucy had imagined Machen had murdered her and buried her somewhere in the grounds. “It's okay. I'm sure we'll catch up with him later.”

  As Sandra Machen handed over the drinks, she pressed a painted fingernail against her lower lip and said, “I recognise you from somewhere. Are you the journalists who wrote that article about us?”

  Dale grinned. Did somebody just call him a journalist? “You mean that one?” he asked, motioning at the framed picture. “If so, I guess we are.”

  “Then the drinks are on us. You know, after you published that article a couple of local newspapers picked up the story. Made quite a splash. We have copies ready for framing, but haven't got around to doing it yet. Things have been so busy lately, we haven't had time! A film crew from the Travel Channel is coming in next week to make a programme. Your article set the ball rolling, we can't thank you enough!”

  “It was a pleasure,” Dale said with his best 'aw shucks' shrug. “We're just glad more people have started coming here. You and your husband deserve it.”

  “Why, thank you for saying so,” said Sandra, with a polite little curtsey.

  “Thanks for the drinks.”

  Just then, Machen himself appeared. “Well, if it isn't our friendly journalists!” he said. Clean-shaven and sporting a new designer polo shirt, he looked a few pounds lighter and at least ten years younger. When he gave Dale a brief, brutal bear hug he noticed the landlord now smelled of aftershave rather than Jack Daniels. “I see you've met the missus, then!”

  “Yes, I have,” confirmed Dale. Behind Machen trotted Champ the dog, who also seemed to be new and improved. There was a spring in his step and a sparkle in his eye that hadn't been there before. Tail beating at the air excitedly, he trotted over and rubbed his damp snout against Dale's hand. There was another squeal of delight from Rolly's table, and the dog scampered off to greet Lucy.

  The whole atmosphere of Sker House seemed to have changed. The dark cloud that had previously settled over the property had lifted. Late autumn sunshine streamed through the windows, and Rolly was no longer drinking alone in the bar. A group of four men sat in a corner drinking beer and talking about sea fishing, a reserved-looking middle-aged couple were at the bar studying the menu, while a younger couple tried desperately to control their giggling, romper-suited toddler who seemed intent on climbing over as many tables and chairs as possible.

  “Do Ruth and Izzy still work here?” Dale was eager to catch up with them on his visit. Although they hadn't been such an integral part of events as Old Rolly and Machen, he and Lucy both felt a strong bond with the mother-and-daughter team.

  “Ruth does,” Machen replied. “She's in the kitchen cooking as we speak. A bit busy, she is. We just pulled up some nice looking onions from the veg garden. I'm sure she'll get a move on with your dinner when she knows it's you two, like.”

  “Good to hear, but we don't mind waiting our turn. And Izzy?”

  “Izzy's, gone,” Machen said stiffly. “Worked here all over summer, saved up enough money to pass her driving test and buy a car, then went away to college, she did. Chepstow, I think. Just like that, like.”

  He didn't want to show the landlord whose displeasure was obvious, but Dale was secretly happy for the girl. It was difficult for the older generation to understand the calling of the young. He sometimes wondered if it was borne out of a kind of latent envy, a result of wishing they could have another chance. If he did have another shot at life in the modern technological age, maybe Machen himself would choose to move away and spend some time in a different part of the world. For a young girl like Izzy, growing up in a tiny, isolated place like Nottage couldn't be much fun.

  “So will you be wanting a room, like? Or is it just dinner you're after?”

  “Just dinner, I'm afraid,” replied Dale. “We're on our way down to visit my parents for the weekend, then back to Southampton tomorrow night. Lucy's doing a post-grad course at uni, and I just started writing for a magazine in London. I love the job, but it's a long commute.”

  “Sorry to hear that. About the commute, I mean. But congratulations on the job. I would suggest having a little celebration, like. But I'm officially on the wagon now, as they say.” The landlord and his wife exchanged a look, leaving Dale in no doubt as to the origin of this drastic lifestyle change.

  “Good for you,” Dale said. “I couldn't, anyway. I'm driving.”

  “Well, another time.” The regret was evident, but the man seemed a lot more together now. Confident and controlled. The nervous ticks and awful habit of tripping over his words seemed to have vanished.

  “Hey listen, while we have a minute...” Dale began, and then stopped. He had no idea how to proceed. He didn't want to bring buried memories to the surface and jeopardize this friendly reunion, but he had to know...

  “What?” The landlord's eyes searched his.

  “It seems more relaxed here. Lucy and I were both kinda wondering how things are now. I mean, has all that... stuff stopped happening?”

  Machen looked perplexed. “What stuff?”

  “The.... you know... noises? The Shadow People, the activity.”

  “Oh, that! Nah, nothing untoward has happened 'ere since the night of the storm and that bloody power cut. No complaints from the customers, either, and there's been a few. You know, the more I think about it, the more I wonder how much of that was all down to the boozing, see. Wasn't myself back then, I wasn't. You can ask anybody.”

  Dale didn't need to ask anybody. He was there. The landlord could be right, maybe spending all his time at Sker a long way from sobriety made his experience different, more intense. His being drunk wouldn't begin to explain the vast array of phenomena the rest of them experienced, but if that was how he justified it, and it helped him reconcile certain things, so be it. Maybe he was trying to blame the demon booze for every negative in his life. And why not? At least it would help him stay away from it.

  “Anyway,” Machen said dismissively, “We had that trapdoor in the beer cellar blocked up. No need for anyone to go down there again. When we get around to it, we'll have them tunnels filled in, too. Permanently. They might lead to subsidence or something. Cost me a bloody fortune to put right, that would. Right now we're concentrating on getting that fourth floor finished. Get us up to full capacity, see. Looks like we're gonna need the extra rooms.”

  “Yeah,” Dale agreed. “Sounds like a good idea. Your wife and I were just talking about how busy the place is. Its nice to see her back, by the way.”

  “It is, indeed. It was almost as if she knew when the... when things changed for the better. Like she sensed it. That was when she came back. Not two or three days after you left. Just turned up one afternoon with all her things in suitcases, she did.”

  “Women are more spiritual than us,” Dale reasoned. “They just know stuff. Intuition, and all that.”

  “True enough. You know, looking back, I really can't remember much from the night of the storm. It's all a bit of a blur.”

  “Probably just as well.”

  The landlord chuckled, “True enough. Sometimes it's better not to know everything.”

  “Certainly is,” Dale said as he picked up the drinks and started off toward the table Lucy had commandeered. Later, when he thought about what Machen had said, he decided he was right. Sometimes, it's better not to know everything.

  Sker House:

  Th
e Fact & the Fiction

  The characters are fictional, but many of the events described in this story are matters of historical record. Sker House and Sker beach are both very much real. I visited the place with my parents many times as a child, and remember being wowed by all the tales of ghosts and spooky occurrences. I first became aware of the Maid of Sker legend when I read about it in a book I picked up in a gift shop. Wrecking was a grisly but all-too common practice along the treacherous Welsh coast (and elsewhere in the British Isles) and the tragic loss of the steamship S.S. Samtampa and the Mumbles lifeboat remains one of the worst disasters in British maritime history. The ghostly lights along the seafront, the phantom ship on the Black Rocks, the persecuted monks, and the legend of Kenfig pool, are all popular local legends. Skirrid Mountain Inn is another real location.

  Everything else, I made up. Well, almost everything.

  What follows is a revised version of an article I originally wrote for a now-defunct travel website a lifetime ago. I hope it serves to help distinguish the fact from the fiction, adds another dimension to what you've just read, and highlights some events in Welsh history which should not be forgotten.

  *

  Croeso y Cymru, the sign says. Welcome to Wales, the lush green mountainous region in the south-west corner of the UK often referred to as God's Country on account of its staggering natural beauty. A mysterious land steeped in myth and legend, Wales is a land of magic, superstition, dragon slayers and fairy-lore, and consequently has more than its fair share of paranormal activity. There are regular sightings of ghosts, lake monsters, spectral black dogs (collectively known as the cwm annwn) and a steady stream of UFO sightings. Naturally, there are numerous supposedly haunted castles and houses.

  Arguably one of the most infamous of these is the aptly-named Sker House, situated in Kenfig (or Cynffig to give it its Welsh spelling) on the rugged south coast near the town of Bridgend, Glamorgan. The Grade 1 listed building is widely regarded one of the most important historical sites in the country. The main structure, now radically altered from its original form, is a huge detached rectangular building fashioned from local limestone and constructed on a north/south axis overlooking the beach. In its construction the building is unique in many ways, one of its most peculiar features being that until comparatively recently it had no main entrance. Instead, the front of the house was fitted with two symmetrical towers through which visitors could gain access, making it reminiscent of other, more arcane structures elsewhere in Europe.

  The history of Sker House dates back almost a thousand years to when it was first built as a monastic grange to support Margam Abbey by monks of the Cistercian order, who made a living farming the surrounding land. After the dissolution of the monasteries, ownership of the estate changed hands several times in quick succession whilst remaining a refuge for renegade monks. In 1597, then-owner Jenkin Turberville, a staunch Roman Catholic, was allegedly tortured to death after being accused of promoting the 'Old Religion' in Glamorgan and in 1679, Saint Philip Evans was hung, drawn and quartered in Cardiff after being arrested at Sker House. Many dignitaries and prominent historical figures have spent time there, and visitors once travelled from far and wide to marvel at its spectral beauty. Over the years, witnesses have reported seeing shadowy cloaked figures on the grounds and hearing high-pitched screams and wails, and it is not unusual for visitors to experience feelings of crushing dread upon entering the residence. There have also been reports of poltergeist activity.

  As time marched relentlessly on, the estate passed through numerous different owners. Although in a prime location surrounded by vast swathes of arable land, Sker House seemed forever blighted by misfortune. As much as each successive new owner tried, they simply couldn't make a success of things. In the 18th century, it fell into the possession of its most famous landlord, Isaac Williams (1727-1766), whose daughter, Elizabeth, swiftly passed into legend as the original Maid of Sker. How much truth is in the tale will always be a matter of conjecture, but popular local folklore maintains that a young and beautiful Elizabeth fell in love with a local harpist called Thomas Evans. Isaac strictly forbade the prospective match and imprisoned his daughter in the house until she reluctantly agreed to marry a wealthy local man by the name of Thomas Kirkhouse instead. It was a marriage of convenience, with both families hoping to benefit financially from the union. However, Elizabeth pined for her true love, so much so that she fell ill and died at a tragically young age. Some versions of the story claim that she died of a broken heart, others that she starved herself to death. It has also been suggested that she was murdered by either her father or husband, who then concocted a ghost story to frighten locals into not asking too many questions. It is said that her ghost can still be seen gazing forlornly out of an upstairs window of Sker House, waiting in vain for her true love. At one time, the sightings were so frequent that many locals refused to believe that Elizabeth was even dead. For his part, the spurned Thomas Evans is credited with writing a folk song in Elizabeth's honour called Y Perch or Sker.

  His role in the creation of the Maid of Sker legend was not the only contribution Isaac Williams made to the long, tragic history of Sker House. During the Industrial Revolution, the Bristol Channel, the stretch of water it overlooked, was one of the busiest waterways in the world carrying a steady stream of vessels between Britain and the Continent. It was also one of the most perilous. As well as the strong currents and ever-shifting hidden sandbanks, just off the coast lies what is known locally as Sker point (otherwise known as the Black Rocks) submerged ranks of sharp rocks jutting up from the seabed that can literally tear ships to pieces. At that time, smuggling and looting were considered legitimate enterprises, and shipwrecks were so common in the area that they were seldom investigated in detail.

  Local landowners routinely claimed 'Right of the wreck', whereby they were legally free to salvage whatever 'lost' cargo washed up on their property. Some less scrupulous locals were said to engage in the sinister practice of wrecking – deliberately luring ships to their doom. Traditionally, this was done at night by tying lanterns to cattle or grazing sheep and leading them along the seafront. From a distance, especially to unfamiliar eyes in bad weather, the lights would look like those of ships lying safely at anchor. A cautionary tale often told is that of the Welsh wrecker who helped lure a passing ship onto rocks, killing everyone on board. While he busied himself looting the ship's cargo, the bodies of the unfortunate passengers and crew were brought ashore for burial. Only then did the wrecker see the body of his own son who was returning home unexpectedly after a long voyage.

  A pivotal event not just in the history of Sker, but in the practice of wrecking as a whole, occurred on December 17th 1753, when the French merchant ship Le Vainqueur was en route from Portugal when she struck Sker Point. It is generally held that Isaac Williams and his cohorts were responsible for the wrecking. No sooner had the ship hit the rocks, impoverished locals and respected nobility alike descended on the wreck and plundered it for all it was worth, stealing her cargo of fruit, rifling the bodies of dead sailors, and even setting fire to what was left of the ship in order to recover the iron nails that had once held it together. The Orangery at nearby Margam Abbey was supposedly built to house orange trees recovered from the doomed ship.

  Due to the delicate diplomatic relations between Britain and France at the time, the fate of Le Vainqueur was treated as a serious international incident. In the aftermath, no less than 17 people were arrested, including Isaac Williams, who was then an influential local magistrate. When questioned, he claimed to have placed goods from the wreck found in the cellar of Sker House there for safekeeping. Remarkably, he never went to trial, but his reputation was tainted forever and he died a ruined man. Of those who did go to trial, one man wasn't so lucky and was hanged by the Crown to set an example to others and reiterate new government guidelines proclaiming that, 'Looting wrecks was punishable by death.'

  In the years since wrecking was abolished
, countless witnesses claim to have seen ghostly ships out at sea off Sker. Also frequently spotted are orb-like anomalies flickering on the barren sandbanks and hillsides of the area and a single, solitary light hovering over Sker Point. Locally, this is taken to be a prelude to bad weather, but is eerily reminiscent of the much-feared Canwyll Corph, or Corpse Candle, prominent elsewhere in Welsh folklore. The Corpse Candles were disembodied lights appearing in the vicinity of someone who faced imminent death, the size and brightness of the light directly proportionate to the age of the victim. Sometimes, one could see a grinning skull in the soft glow, and several tales exist whereby terrified witnesses saw their own faces, or those of loved ones. When seen on open ground, the Canwyll Corph are said to follow the exact route of the victim's funeral procession, which intriguingly ties in neatly with yet another popular legend of Sker.

  One night early in the 19th century, a local man was returning home from work. His path took him along the beach, where out on the Black Rocks he saw the shimmering wreck of a huge ship. As he watched, a small group of translucent figures waded out to the vessel and carried something ashore. The man couldn't see what the object was, but guessed from its size and shape that it was a coffin. Fascinated, he followed the ghostly procession into town where, to his horror, it stopped outside his own house and vanished. A week later, a vessel was wrecked off the coast of Sker and among the dead was the man's brother. When his body was recovered and taken back to the family home, the funeral procession took exactly the same route as the ghostly one he had witnessed.

  Though the fate of the Le Vainqueur effectively put an end to the grisly practice of wrecking around Sker, the tragedies kept on coming. In 1947 the 7,200-tone US Liberty Ship Samtampa, constructed in Portland, Maine during WWII and carrying a cargo of crude oil, ran aground on Sker Point during a storm with the loss of all 39 passengers and crew. In the terrible conditions a lifeboat, Edward, Prince of Wales, was dispatched from nearby Mumbles, but the conditions and sheer amount of oil leaking from the wreck made rescue impossible. Witnesses later said the sea around Sker Point was black like molten tar. The lifeboat was also smashed against the rocks, killing all eight volunteers. The crews of both vessels were buried at nearby Nottage cemetery.