GHOSTS
Ancestors’ graves, secrets in the blood… and the most haunted pub in England
Should I perhaps save these writings for next year’s All Hallows E’en? No. Truly, I’m not going to tell too many eerie tales. Though, as I mentioned at the end of my previous post, accompanied by my brother Alan, and Cat Cooper — Sancho Panza to my Don Quixote perhaps? (Ouch, she hit me when she read that over my shoulder!) — we headed west to visit some of our dead.
First stop, Cheltenham. This lovely Gloucestershire spa town was home for at least a century to several generations of Humphreys. The first on record was a miller, John Humphreys. Two Richards followed, the family trade changing from the grinding of corn and wheat to the stabling of horses in what was then the local village of Prestbury, long since encroached upon by the main town itself. This was a lucrative profession in this horse-mad place, as the famous Cheltenham races have been held nearby every year since 1831.
My brother, on a previous trip, had discovered the Humphreys’ family plot in the graveyard of St. Mary’s, Prestbury so it was there we went first. It was a cold day when we visited — minus 7 Centigrade — and snow covered everything. Wonderfully scenic, but…