Do you believe in ghosts or spirits...not old blokes tramping around castle turrets with their head tucked neatly under their arm, dragging rattling chains behind them...or wistful girls draped in white, who wring their hands and wail in murky graveyards. They are silly sorts of ghosts altogether...
I once watched a programme...it was a series, but one episode was enough for me...it was presented by that smarmy Derek Acorah...all quiff and hair grease and dripping in gold jewellery...he used to go ghost-hunting with a female presenter who squealed every time she heard the slightest noise and I could have cheerfully smacked her.
Derek used to hunt famous ghosts...he didn't bother about the little serving maid who died from TB and over-work...he only sought out the rich and famous of the time, as if he thought for one minute they'd appear when he had a camera crew and all that entails trailing along behind him.
And he very nearly wet himself when he saw 'orbs' on a staircase...I looked orbs up afterwards and discovered they are a very common glitch when using digital cameras...little balls of light that bounce about...
But what about proper spirits...that feeling of vague unease or of some undisclosed happiness that can be felt when visiting certain places...lay your hand on a tombstone warmed by the sun with a barely decipherable name and date inscribed upon it...feel that faint drift of happiness coming down from Tomas, whose body lyeth here...1719. Tomas perhaps lead a good life...he had a wife and children and work and died in his sleep while dozing by the fire...
There are other tombstones I cannot bear to even stand in front of and read...I don't care if they date way back to the 1700's...I don't care if someone else's plastic flowers have blown onto the rough grass and I don't kneel down and try to puzzle out the inscription...those graves give me a feeling of dread for absolutely no reason at all...
We were once investigating an old burial ground near our home...it is the site of a very early Christian community, though little remains now but for the foundations...something brushed my shoulder while I was reading a head stone which listed many children of the same family...all of whom died before adulthood. There was nothing there...no bushes or trees...no large birds flying away...but the touch was enough to startle me.
It doesn't have to be a graveyard of course...it can be an area or a house...a castle or a street...knowing an event which was traumatic or bloody gives you some fore-knowledge I suppose...visit Glen Coe in Scotland and the screams of dying men and horses practically fill your ears. Would it be the same if you were unaware of the terrible battle which took place there...would you feel those restless spirits then.
The very minute a person announces a place is haunted my cynical side comes out...Rubbish! I say...so why did I see three small children walking down the boreen which led from our first cottage down to the road...a sunlit afternoon and I was sitting on the front doorstep with a cat on my lap thinking about nothing in particular when I saw two little girls and an older boy...they were barefoot and the little girls had shawls around their shoulders...they all turned towards me and smiled. Happy smiles.
I saw them just once more in the same place...the boy had his arms around the little girls...they turned and waved...then simply faded out of sight.
Wondering about my sanity, I asked a neighbour if there were ghosts perhaps around that cottage and she answered immediately...and of course there is the poor Nun. You've seen the poor Nun? I said I hadn't, but what was the story of the poor Nun...she'd been the elder daughter of the people who lived in the cottage a hundred and fifty years ago...and she'd fallen in love with an unsuitable lad so her Father sent her to the Convent. She'd only been there for one month when she hanged herself...
Many local people had seen her apparently...she'd wander about in front of the cottage dressed in her long black habit and white wimple. We never saw her...not once.
I told no-one about the children, though I've often written about them and can see them still in my minds eye on those beautiful end of summer warm afternoons...