Travel Writing - A WriteNight Story

Last month, on 27th May 2019, at the monthly WriteNight meeting in MakerSpace, Colchester, I had a delightful experience, which took me completely out of my comfort zone - in a good way. 

Melissa Shales - award winning travel writer and Essex University PHD student led the session. She gave a fascinating talk on travel writing and on her life experiences connected with it. After that, she led us through an interesting exercise, which involved selecting a souvenir, which another member of the group had provided. 

• First of all, we wrote down an imagined travel story, inspired by our own perception of the object.

• Second, we wrote down what our own souvenirs meant to us and what the story behind the object was.

• Third, we shared the real story of our item with the person that had chosen it.

• Finally, we combined our imagined story with the true story behind the object, to create a new piece. 

Travel writing is not something I have tried before but I wanted to give it a go, as I find it very interesting to see what I can write, given a prompt that I might not otherwise have thought of. 

The object I selected was a beautiful oval shaped pebble. It was white with grey and black marks on it and it was remarkably smooth, without being shiny.

Here is the piece I wrote:

Heatwave

I reached into my pocket and held my favourite pebble; felt the smooth surface caressing my fingers. It comforted me: bringing me back to the moment when I first laid eyes on it. 

It was an unusual pebble - at least it was, if you looked closely at it. At a glance, it was a generic grey rock but much more attentive viewing revealed a micro-landscape of white, dappled with grey and interspersed with almost universally sized hair-like, black rock fibres.  The surface had been worn flat by years of bumping and grinding between the waves and the ocean floor. 

Every time I see or pick up the stone, it takes me back - right back to that day on the beach.

Charmouth - Summer of 2006. Hideous heatwave: totally unexpected for a UK Summer. When we booked the beautiful caravan with sea views for a holiday with our three children, we pictured lazy days on the beach and in the caravan park, splashing in the sea, kicking a football about, building sandcastles and searching through the tidal debris to see what treasure we might find. 

That summer was too hot for such energetic pursuits. Picture us - sweating and lobster-tinted, attempting to keep the kids cool in the water of the outer reaches of the English Channel. 

Dave spent most of the holiday, struggling to battle heat and hayfever in equal measure. Little Harry refused to take off his jumper, despite the fact that he has baking hot - Little Jacket Potato Man we called him. Lucy complained that the pebbles hurt her feet and the seaweed was trying to trip her up all the time.

All the while, we tried to escape the scalding furnace above us, until the cool night would ease our pain and suffering and our oven of a caravan would return to temperatures a human could tolerate.

In the midst of all this heat and chaos, I picked up a stone: a little pebble, just large enough to fit in the palm of my hand and just heavy enough to be pleasing to hold. It gleamed at me through the surf and the seaweed and I plucked it from its resting place, not realising, then, the significance it would hold.

Now, I hold it in my hand and I examine it: a dappled grey reminder of the fleeting moments of my children's youth, before adulthood swept them away, to create their own adventures. 
 
WriteNight meet on the 4th Monday of every month, 7:30 - 9:30pm at Colchester MakerSpace. The next meeting is tomorrow, led by the very talented Doug Smith. Please click the link below for more details. 

https://www.facebook.com/events/2369254296730535/ 

© Annie Bell 2019

Bread Tags - a Poetry and WriteNight Story

A few months back, I attended Colchester WriteNight for their session on performance poetry.

Led by Mark Brayley, this was a truly fascinating session. Mark spoke about how it is possible to convey very powerful emotions through the description of objects. He provided us with a selection of objects, including an hourglass, a clockwork robot, a cocktail shaker and others. He then instructed us to select one and write down any ideas, which came into our heads.

Next, we were asked to construct a poem, using some of those ideas.  

Strangely enough, I found myself obsessing on the subject of bread tags - the square plastic things that we used to close bread packets with, back in the 1980s, before we had to put up with the stupid sticky ones, which always seal themselves shut, and how I could use those to write about a memory that was painful for me.

This is what I came up with.

Bread Tags

by Annie Bell

She picks at the glued up tie on the bread,

stubbornly sticking. Her toast dreams are dead.

The past creeps forwards; memory awakes.

An abandoned solution - such a mistake.

An ancient invention of plastic perfection:

Flat, square, with a hole and the corners lopped off.

Every piece of plastic that ever existed, still exists.

David Attenborough drones from the TV.

Her bread liberated;

Her toast duly plated;

Her hunger soon sated.

The flavour of Marmite and toast soothes her soul.

She thinks about bread tags:

His wonderful bread tags: 

The collection of thousands he kept in a drawer.

Each one representing Marmite toast

From that comfortable host,

Who hosts with toast no more.

Every piece of plastic that ever existed, still exists.

David Attenborough drones from the TV.

But he does not

Will not.

Not ever again,

Except in her memory.

 

The event I was writing about was the death of my Grandad, when I was sixteen. He always used to make us - his large collection of grandchildren - round after round of Marmite toast, until the bread ran out.

After his death, we found that he had a box filled with old bread tags in his kitchen drawer, which he had collected over the decades. I've always wondered what he was collecting them for.

It was wonderful to be able to convey my own sadness in a way that is so much more universal than what I might ordinarily have written. The session really opened my eyes to different ways of expressing emotions and I would like to explore this concept much more.

WriteNight meets on the fourth Monday of every month, 7:30pm - 9:30pm at the Maker Space, Trinity Street, Colchester.

For more information, please follow them on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/groups/writenight/ or Twitter: @ColWriteNight 

© Annie Bell, 2019

The Essex Serpent by Sarah Perry

It should go without saying that any book review carries the risk of potential spoilers - an enthusiasm for any given story might lead to accidental oversharing. I've done my best not to ruin the story for my readers in any way - but if you're concerned I might inadvertently reveal key plot points or twists, then be warned that you continue at your own risk! 

As regular readers will know I write historical fiction novels, set in my hometown of Colchester, or in the wider Essex area. I have written an as yet unpublished) novel telling the story of Charlotte White of Berechurch Hall, who lived there in the first half of the 19th Century. 

Click here to read more about Charlotte.

I really enjoy reading historical fiction - almost as much as I enjoy writing it. Consequently, I was excited when I heard about Sarah Perry's novel - 'The Essex Serpent'. Having seen its beautiful front cover design and knowing that it is set in my local area, it intrigued me immediately.

Set towards the end of the 19th Century, it tells the story of Cora Seaborne - recently widowed and, consequently, liberated from an unhappy home life. She moves from London to Colchester and then to the village of Aldwinter, where the superstitious residents are increasingly fearful of the Essex Serpent - a mythical creature, which many believe has returned to the area. 

Cora is a very interesting character, completely at odds with what was expected of a lady in the Victorian Era and I love her for this. Her intelligence, reason and independence, in a time when patriarchy was still so prevalent, pleased me enormously.

For my own part - without wanting to give anything away - I was most fascinated by Sarah Perry's portrayal of consumption and the appearance and experience of that illness. Regular readers of this blog will know that at the very beginning of my novel 'Charlotte - The Lady in White', the protagonist has just died from consumption and it was fascinating to read the well-researched details of this illness in 'The Essex Serpent'. The descriptions of the unwell character's enhanced beauty and fragility as the disease consumed her were haunting and gave a really ethereal quality to the portrayal of what was a deadly condition. It inspired me to revisit my own novel and double check my own research.  

In a more general sense, the prose in this novel is elegant and gorgeously constructed. The descriptions of the coastline around the Colne / Blackwater estuary are entirely evocative of the area. The characters are wonderfully realised and I found the story fascinating throughout. It addresses themes such as death and illness, religion vs science, friendship and love and I am very pleased to say, it surprised me at many points. 

To follow Sarah Perry on Twitter, please click here

If you have not already read this novel, I thoroughly recommend it.

© Annie Bell 2018

Jane's Walk - Monkwick Memories - A Charlotte White Story

Regular followers of this blog will already be aware of the extensive research I have carried out, into the life and afterlife of Charlotte White, nee Smyth, the daughter of prominent Colchester MP Sir George Henry Smyth, who lived at Berechurch Hall, Colchester in the first half of the 19th Century. Links to previous posts can be found at the end of this post.

Yesterday, I was honoured to have been asked to play a role in a 'Jane's Walk' that was taking place in Monkwick, Colchester. The walk promised to include information about a range of local history, including some of the places connected with Charlotte's life. 

It was a wonderful, sunny afternoon, just perfect for a stroll. Those, who had joined the walk, enjoyed stories of Monkwick's history and life growing up there, from Cllr Dave Harris and Wayne Baker. Please click here for images from the day.

When, about halfway through the walk, the participants were led into the gates of St Michael's Church, they were in for a surprise. 

They walked up the path, through the churchyard and into the Audley Chapel, where they were able to take in the various memorials and interesting architectural features, which have been preserved by the Churches Conservation Trust. One of those memorials is Charlotte White's memorial - a beautiful white marble relief sculpture with a wonderful epitaph.

As the walkers stepped out of the chapel, they were greeted by 'Charlotte' - me fully dressed as Charlotte and in character. 

I performed my poem 'My Past Existence', which expresses Charlotte's frustration at being sought as a ghost. It is the opening to my novel. 

To see the performance, please click below.

 

After I had disappeared, the walk continued, through Charlotte's Grove, until they reached the site where Charlotte's pool once stood. There, they were joined by Charlotte once more.

The group then listened, as I read them an extract from 'Charlotte - The Lady in White', in which it is her 10th birthday and her Daddy takes her into the woods and shows her the grotto he has had built for her. A video of the reading is below.

It was a real honour to be given the opportunity to bring some aspects of Charlotte's story and history to life in such a way and I owe Wayne Baker many thanks for giving me the opportunity to contribute to the walk he organised.

A note on the novel itself

Despite my hideous neglect of this page over the past two years, I have been working on my writing quietly and I am proud to be able to announce that I have a completed manuscript for 'Charlotte - The Lady in White'. Now, I am in the process of seeking an agent and / or publisher, so that her story can finally be released for the world to see. If anyone can help, please get in touch! 
Annie Bell on Facebook 
Annie Bell on Twitter

For previous posts on the subject of Charlotte White (nee Smyth) please see the links below.

Charlottes Pool - History and Legend
More on Charlotte White nee Smyth
My Past Existence - Charlotte White nee Smyth
Charlotte's Pool
Charlotte Exhibition Preparation Part 2
Charlotte Exhibition Preparation Part 1
Charlotte's Pool Colchester

© Annie Bell 2018

To purchase a copy of 'Charlotte -The Lady in White' a novel based on the Life of Charlotte White, nee Smyth, please click the link below

https://www.etsy.com/uk/listing/704533011/charlotte-the-lady-in-white-by-annie?ref=shop_home_active_1&crt=1

Remembering Uncle Ivan - an extract from Midnight

Sadly, on August 5th 2016, my beloved Uncle Ivan passed away, aged 88.

Like all of my Great Uncles, Uncle Ivan was a real character and a talented man. He was the keenest gardener I have ever met and he worked in people's gardens well into his eighties. His knowledge of plants was nothing less than encyclopaedic and his garden stands a testimony to his and my Auntie Hazel's skills and green fingers.

When he wasn't busy with his plants, Uncle Ivan loved to paint. I remember him showing me his painting room, which was piled high with beautiful paintings he had produced over the years. My personal favourites were his tree silhouettes against sunsets.   



 
Another vivid memory is of Uncle Ivan dancing his socks off at every opportunity, be it a party or a karaoke night. He loved to dance and was always a lot of fun!

I have very fond memories from a few years ago, of searching for haunted grottos in Friday Woods with Uncle Ivan and Auntie Hazel. We got lost in the woods, caught in a rainstorm and had a really entertaining and enjoyable afternoon together, laughing and joking. That's how it was every time I visited them. 

The sixth child of 8, my Grandad's little brother, Uncle Ivan was, like his brother Cecil, a mischievous child, who got into plenty of scrapes along with his brothers and who loved his sister Joan to pieces. The novel I am working on - 'Midnight' will tell the story of the effect World War II had on their lives. The stories he and his siblings shared with me, of those times are unbelievable. When I decided to write the novel, his enthusiasm for sharing his stories of life during that time was obvious and he seemed to enjoy the extracts I was able to share with him.

My Uncle Ivan was a joyous, cheerful and delightful soul, with an enormous capacity for fun and laughter and I loved him very much. As a family, we all loved him very much. He will be sorely missed by all who knew him. 

A few years ago, when we lost Uncle Cecil, I shared an abridged version of an extract from 'Midnight'. It is the tale of one of the many adventures shared by this pair of naughty boys. It's completely based in fact - you couldn't make it up! I wanted to do the same for Uncle Ivan. I hope you enjoy it.

Extract from 'Midnight'

by Annie Bell 

Left to Right - Cecil, Michael, Ivan

The sun beamed into the kitchen, as Cecil and Ivan gulped down their porridge (Cecil 'Hollow Legs' was already on his second bowl). I spotted them nudging each other, seeming a bit too quiet.

“What are you two up to?” I asked.

“Nothing,” Cecil beamed.

“Can we go out for the day?” Ivan blurted out. “We want to go to Brightlingsea.” 

Cecil scowled at him, adding “We haven't been there for ages.”

“I've told you before,” I scolded. “The coast is off limits, cause of the war.” I felt bad. They had been pestering for ages about the beach but what could I do?

“Mum...” they whined, smiling innocently, as though butter would never soften in their mouths, let alone melt. 

“No.” I insisted. “Mention it again, you'll have your father to answer to.”

“Humph. Ok … Can we play with Dennis instead?” asked Cecil.

“Yeah. That'd be fun,” nodded Ivan. “We're not stupid enough to go to the beach after what you just said, Mum.” 

I waved them off, despite my better judgement, and carried on peeling potatoes.

I later discovered that, within an hour of leaving, the boys scampered along the train tracks to Brightlingsea. As their naughty plan drew to its climax, they raced onto a swing bridge behind a train, risking being tipped headfirst into the estuary mud. How they weren't caught sooner, I will never know.

Reaching their destination, they ran to the now heavily altered beach. Dense structures of scaffolding, barbed wire and other unfriendly objects scarred the waterline. Our disobedient heroes ignored the warnings and raced off, dodging between the defences as if they were driftwood.

“Let's go crabbing!” cried Cecil joyfully, tramping through the sand. “We can practise forts too. Then we can beat the others, when the war is over!” As Cecil sped off, Ivan hesitated, my warnings ringing in his ears. “Come on Ivan!” yelled Cecil. “I want to catch a massive crab.” At that, Ivan forgot his concerns and followed, giggling, as Cecil's voice was drowned out by the roar of a Wellington bomber. They both stared skywards, their mouths hanging open as it flew over. Unfortunately, the Merlin engines stifled the frantic warnings from a soldier, who had just spotted them from a bunker. Too late, they heard him.

“STOP!” he yelled. “Minefield! Don't move!”

Both boys froze. My words echoed in their ears louder than ever but it was too late. Horrified, Ivan glanced at Cecil. Cecil stared back, lip quivering; tears welling up in his eyes. How would they get out of this scrape?

“Grab that stick!” the soldier barked at Ivan. “Prod the ground at an angle and move slowly towards him. When you're together, come to me.” Ivan nodded and tentatively inched forward. Cecil flinched each time the stick pierced the sand.

After several painful minutes, Ivan reached Cecil. 

“Walk in his footsteps,” the soldier told Cecil, as Ivan continued prodding the ground.  Both were scarcely breathing as they crept back towards safety. 

Ten feet from the soldier, “Oh my God!” Ivan shrank backwards, knocking Cecil off balance.

“What? What?” Cecil steadied himself.

“Mine!”

“Oh my God, Ivan! What do we do?”

“Look behind you. See the footprints?” the soldier advised. “Step back carefully and go round it.” Cecil stepped exactly into the marks in the sand. Ivan followed carefully. He prodded the ground a foot to the right of the mine. The coast was clear. A few breathless minutes later, they reached the sea wall.

The soldier, now purple with rage, grabbed the boys' ears and dragged them kicking and screaming to the police station, depositing them with the constable.

“Found these two playing in the minefield,” he scowled at the two miscreants. “Lock 'em up and throw away the key!” Ivan and Cecil, terrified at the thought of rotting in jail, both burst into tears.

“I'm so sorry,” Cecil sobbed. “Please don't put us in prison. Please.”

“No, please don't,” Ivan wailed. “We didn't know. Sorry.”

“Hmm …” the constable pondered. “Get in the car, before I change my mind.” He followed them out to his police car and drove them home, to tell me what they had done; none the worse for their ordeal but eating humble pie like there was no tomorrow. 

© Annie Bell 2013

WriteNight meeting 8th July

On Monday night, WriteNight met for our fortnightly meeting.

As regular readers will know, WriteNight is a group for writers, from the Colchester area, who love writing and want to spend time with like minded, writerly people.

This time, we met at the Castle Pub and we spent about an hour working on a writing exercise.

Using the WriteNight anthology (available in paperback or ebook here), we took 15 of the stories, went to the seventh line and noted down the seventh word. We then shared the list of words with each other and selected an opening and closing line at random. 

The results were interesting! We ended up with a random selection of topics, many of which seemed to focus on the current difficulties people are suffering, under austerity. It was interesting, as always, to see the different ideas everyone came up with.

If you want to have a go at the exercise yourself, here are the words.

sweet, paradox, dicks, riding, rustle, master, look, washing, mumps, instrument, research, general, mind, away, I.

Opening line: "Eventually we went from village to town, throughout our homeland but the war was everywhere."

Closing line: "Death would come quietly."

Below is what I came up with, which links in with the novel I am working on, about my family, during World War II ('Midnight'), which you can find out more about if you look back through this blog.

If you love writing and would like the company of those who love it as well, then come and see us! We meet on the 2nd Monday of the month at the Castle Pub, Colchester and at 15 Queen Street Colchester on the 4th Monday of the month.

Grandad

by Annie Bell

"Eventually, we went from village to town, throughout our homeland but the war was everywhere." Grandad paused for breath, his ruddy cheeks glowing with exertion. "Do you want a cup of tea?" he grinned, shaking my leg brusquely, eager for refreshment.

"Love one, Grandad," I grinned, scribbling notes in my book, along with the date - 3rd February 2013 - and pausing my dictaphone. Grandad groaned, as he hauled his tubby frame from his seat, staggering a little, as he gained his balance, before shuffling off into the kitchen.

I was so loving having the opportunity to research my family's role in World War II. Prior to this, Grandad had never spoken of his role in the war. I had only discovered it, after a chance conversation with Grandad's brother - my Uncle Cecil - had led me to the graveside of my Uncle Ken in Northern Germany. I had decided to write the book and Grandad had suddenly opened up, sharing tales of army cameraderie. No longer remembering the names of the other men, they were all Toms, Dicks and Harries, trying to master bridge building with the complex instruments involved; washing in ditches, whilst thinking back to the sweet ladies that awaited them at home.

I had shared in Grandad's heartbreak, as he revealed the darker side of the war; the bloated corpses of horses, formerly the riding horses of German soldiers, killed and dumped at the roadside, to prevent them becoming the tools of the Nazis. Jerry, he called them. He remembered the rustle of leaves in the bushes, as they broke their cover; the look in the enemy soldiers' eyes, as they breathed their last; the horrible paradox of knowing they were no different really - just pawns of their respective governments. Generals had sent them out to kill indiscriminately. The Germans, fighting in the name of a flawed and dangerous regime; the British in the name of a freedom, which now, in the time in which we now live, is being eroded away by our own representatives.

"Course, I caught mumps, whilst I was out there, Darling," Grandad's voice broke my reverie, as he shuffled in, with two mugs of steaming tea in his hands. 

As he sat, I noticed gravy stains down the front of his shirt - signs of his increasing frailty; he was 92, after all.

*   *   * 

I awoke, tears streaming down my face. It was all too real but it was all in my mind.

Poor Grandad. He never got to tell me his tales, as his brothers did.  Aged 73, on February 3rd 1996, as he carried his laundry through the car park of the Silver Oyster pub, a heart attack had ended his days. For this war hero, there was no Remembrance Day parade and no big commemoration. For him, death would come quietly. 

© Annie Bell 2013

WriteNight the Anthology - The launch

Do you feel the need for an injection of culture in your life?  Then come along to the launch of WriteNight the Anthology - Colchester.

Yesterday, I posted about the WriteNight anthology about Colchester, which is now available to purchase here.

The exciting news is that WriteNight will be launching the anthology, officially, on Friday 28th June 2013 at 15 Queen Street, Colchester from 7.30pm. Come along, to hear extracts from the anthology, read by the authors, who penned them.  You will even be able to get your hands on a copy of the book itself! 

 

We look forward to seeing you there!

Colchester WriteNight - The Anthology

Ever wondered what Colchester might have been like, had Boudicca not attacked? Could there be a secret underground room of treasures still concealed beneath Colchester Castle? Are you intrigued by the ghosts, which haunt the streets of this ancient town? Are you hungry for a slice of everyday life in Colchester?

Whether you want to know more about the Witchfinder General and his victims or explore time travel, 'WriteNight, the Anthology - Colchester' contains something for everyone.

Regular readers will already know that Colchester WriteNight is a group of local writers, who meet twice a month to discuss writing and to write together. I am a member of this amazing group and I love being a part of it.

The brainchild of Emma Kittle, this group began with Colchester people meeting for NaNoWriMo write-ins in November 2011 and we have been meeting regularly for eighteen months now, completing writing exercises; discussing writing; encouraging each other through NaNoWriMo, during the month of November and writing in general the rest of the time. All in all, it is a really supportive and fun group of people to spend time writing with.

Last year, we embarked upon the somewhat daunting task of putting together our first anthology of short stories, on the subject of the town we meet in – Colchester.

The end result is a really interesting and diverse anthology of work by sixteen writers, showcasing the broad range of styles, ideas and imaginations, which make up WriteNight.  To read and enjoy all the stories we had so much fun writing, plese click on the link below.

To purchase a copy of the anthology, 

click here or scan the barcode.

If you love writing and would be interested in coming along to WriteNight, we meet regularly at 15 Queen Street, Colchester.  For more information, click on the links below.  We welcome writers of all abilities ... you just need to enjoy writing!

www.facebook.com/groups/writenight  

Twitter: @ColWriteNight

Charlotte's Pool - History and Legend

You may have heard the legend of Charlotte; the Lady in White of Berechurch Hall, in Colchester. Certainly, if you read my blog regularly, you will be aware of her story and my journey in investigating her history and her legend.

As I have examined in past posts, the paranormal database is a good place to start, when researching supernatural phenomena. This is especially useful, when the phenomenon in question is as well documented as that of Charlotte. Charlotte appears, as you might expect, on the database, named Charlotte with the White Robe. The sighting logged there is dated around 1930 and claims that she is to be found in the environs of her pool in Colchester.

Are you afraid of ghosts? Do you even believe in them? I'm certain there is a healthy sprinkling of cynics and believers amongst you, who would fight tooth and nail to have your point of view listened to but that is not the point of this exercise.

I am keen now, to move onto the historical aspect of this sad tale. After innumerable visits to the Local History Department of Colchester Library, trawling through microfilm editions of the Essex County Standard, parish records and so on, I was able to discover that Charlotte was, in fact, Charlotte Smyth, daughter of Sir George Henry Smyth. Does that name ring any bells with you? I'm guessing not but you will be fascinated to learn that Sir Smyth was, in fact, the MP for Colchester and a very popular and respected man, in his time. Charlotte – born in July 1813 – was a beauty with long, blonde hair, who grew to be well respected in Georgian society.

Charlotte was the apple of her father's eye. When she was a young teenager, her father had a pool built for her, along with a small changing room or grotto, where she could change, without compromising her modesty. The pool was ornately decorated with handmade red bricks and oyster and scallop shells. Nowadays, all that remains of the pool is a sunken hollow but if you scrabble about beneath the exposed roots of the enormous horse chestnut tree, which marks the site, you might be lucky enough to find a relic of what once stood there.

Eventually, as we all do, Charlotte grew up and, aged nineteen, she married Thomas White; a handsome young man, who came and lived with her at Berechurch Hall. I'm sure you can imagine how happy she was but how long could it last?

All fairy tales have happy endings, don't they? So did lovely Charlotte live happily ever after? What do you think? 

Sadly, this is no fairytale. Charlotte bore six children. It is clear from the historical evidence, that she was a well loved lady. As such, it is easy to imagine that she would have been a devoted mother. It is also written that Charlotte did her husband a wrong. Whilst the nature of the wrong she did him is unclear, it is said that he forgave her and purchased for her a white satin robe, trimmed with swansdown – a token of forgiveness? Unfortunately, Charlotte was unable to forgive herself. Not long after, the family moved to Wethersfield, near to Braintree, where she lived a few years before her tragic death in 1845. She contracted consumption - TB to you and me - and died, aged 32. As you might expect, her family were devastated by her loss and her father went to great pains to have a piece of sculpture made, to form part of her memorial stone. Wouldn't you, in his situation? The monument still stands in the Audley Chapel of St. Michael's Church. Charlotte's effigy in white marble lies in relief, beneath two hovering angels. Her epitaph tells of her sweet nature and Christian values. It is easy to read her family's profound grief, from the words written.

I hope this is not about to scare you too much but this was just the beginning of Charlotte's story, for this is where the ghost story begins.

At the risk of losing the attention of the sceptics among you, I must say that, throughout the 168 years since her death, there have been – wait for it – at least six – SIX - recorded sightings of Charlotte's ghost. I am going to tell you about a few of them.

In the 1930s, a lady called Mrs Chilvers, who, with her husband, was caretaker of Berechurch Hall, had a conversation with another lady. The lady asked her if she had encountered Charlotte yet. Can you imagine Mrs Chilvers' shock, when the lady went on to explain that Charlotte was the resident ghost. As the story goes, Mrs Chilvers took no notice of the lady, dismissing her comments.

A week later, Mrs Chilvers went to the front door, to let her cat in. As she stood, waiting, she saw a white figure, walking up the drive. I bet you're a bit scared now. As the figure approached, she realised the figure was transparent. As Mrs Chilvers stepped back in shock, the figure rose into the sky and vanished. Can you imagine how she felt? 

I bet you're champing at the bit for some more. Well now, I will move forward about ten years. During World War II, Berechurch Hall was used as a camp for German prisoners of war. One of the commanding officers, on duty one night, was quite surprised, when he found two of the prisoners passed out in the yard. When they eventually came to – you guessed it – they described seeing a lady in a white dress, who appeared out of nowhere. How could two different people, ten years apart, have seen the same person?

As a child, I heard about the story of Charlotte, her ghost and her pool, from my primary school teacher. I bet you can imagine how terrified I was. When I decided to research this story, I can tell you, it was not without a good degree of trepidation.

As I researched, I came across a poem, which put my mind at rest. It described a young boy, who claimed to have seen Charlotte's ghost, near to the remnants of her pool, in 1980. He was in no doubt as to her nature. Did you imagine she would be malevolent? You would be wrong. The poet described her as peaceful and loving. On that basis, how could anyone really fear her?

There are numerous other tales of Charlotte's ghost, which are to be found in local books of ghost stories. I have even heard rumours of sightings of her in the new block of flats which has now replaced the great Berechurch Hall.

So to conclude, it is clear that you must make up your own mind as to the truth behind this story. Did Charlotte's ghost remain walking the Earth, after her death? Is the legend just a story, designed to intrigue and inspire ghost hunters? It's up to you.

To purchase a copy of 'Charlotte -The Lady in White' a novel based on the Life of Charlotte White, nee Smyth, please click the link below

https://www.etsy.com/uk/listing/704533011/charlotte-the-lady-in-white-by-annie?ref=shop_home_active_1&crt=1