The Ghost Room

I was in Canterbury two days ago with my cousin Rosemary, and as usual we had afternoon tea and cake at Tiny Tim's Tea Room. Here are some shots of the place, taken at various moments from 2018 onwards:

It has an upmarket feel, and you can in fact have a rather posh and full-blown formal afternoon tea here. Very suitable for, say, someone's birthday treat. The premises, on three floors, are full of character, with a lot of it genuinely old - no surprise, as Canterbury is full of very old buildings. Oak beams in the ceilings, naturally, and there is a somewhat Jacobean winding stair that connects the floors, with the kitchen halfway up, and toilets at the top. It's a modern construction, but very much in that sixteenth century style, all pointy finials. Very reminiscent of spooky Chastleton House in Oxfordshire, which has just such a winding staircase, one that must be frightening in the darkness when lit only by a flickering candle that might go out in the draught. Even in late afternoon, around sunset, the Chastelton House staircase is full of menace:

You get the idea. I have of course tweaked some of these pictures to bring out the spookiness, but Chastleton House really does have that staircase, and you can easily imagine how fearful a nervous person might be if need drove them upstairs after dark. It must have terrified little children and old maids. 

The stairs at Tiny Tim's were replacements for the originals after the building was badly damaged by fire in 1964, but only modern bright lighting distinguishes them from the much older stairs at Chastleton. 

I'm not used to stairs, and avoid them if I can, as my knees protest. But I wanted to go to the loo, so up I went. At the top, beyond the toilet, was a room. It was well-lit, and looked like a comfortable sitting-room with its own fireplace. 

Some of the framed pictures, photographs and texts on the walls explained the reconstruction work necessary after the fire in 1964. There was information on an Elizabethan pirate called Sir Geoffrey Newman, who, after many years of pillage on the Spanish Main came to own a long 999 year lease of the house. But that is nothing to the point. On a side door was this notice:

It seems that when carefully investigating the walls of this room and the next, some mummified remains were found, plus various articles. The remains included the bodies of three children. Now it was once not uncommon, centuries ago, to inter cats and other creatures in wall cavities, in order to bring the house good luck. Bad luck on the cats, of course; I do hope they had already died, but maybe not. When in Lincolnshire last summer, I visited Ayscoughee Hall in Spalding, and they had a mummified cat in a cabinet, interred for just this purpose:

Well cats are one thing; but children? And were they victims of the kind of fatal illnesses one encountered back in the the sixteenth century, or youngsters done to death for some reason? Why would you hide children inside walls? And how could this bring the house 'good luck', if that was the intention? Strange and disturbing. 

This area of Canterbury was the abode of Hugenot refugees from the late 1500s. Apparently the locals didn't like them, because Kent had suffered from French raids for a very long time, and many Hugenots spoke French. So, grudgingly, they were given run-down accommodation in the unhealthiest parts of the town. Given that, it wouldn't be surprising if children died from some pestilence or other, and being denied proper burial (despite being Protestant), had to be walled up in the house. All supposition, but perhaps not implausible.

And therefore many several centuries later, the workmen repairing and modernising the premises came across these mummified children. But then, so the story goes, things began to happen. Little things mostly. Whisperings, infant voices, things being moved. The top floor of the building acquired a reputation for being haunted. 

Of course, that reputation was an asset. Many people are intrigued by ghost stories.  Tiny Tim's thus became not only a great spot for tea and cake, but a focus for ghost-hunters and anyone interested in the paranormal. Rather an odd combination of attractions, but it hasn't put off anyone. There are not many places where you might cock an ear for the sounds of ghostly children while sitting on the loo! And if you did, what a frisson you'd get. Needless to say, I heard nothing. Indeed, so well-lit was that upstairs room and landing that it was at first difficult to feel any disquiet. Not that little children, ghostly or not, should have been a threat of any kind. No surprise, then, that in this photo I looked scornful and full of bravado, snapping my fingers, so to speak, at any possible danger. 

But looking a little closer in the Ghost Room, I found this odd-looking print of a man with a misshapen head:

It was entitled 'Marcel' - a French name - and he could have been one of those Hugenots who were compelled to live in what was then a decaying and plague-ridden slum house, injurious to good health. Had a man like that been the father of the three dead children? 

I grew less confident that the whole thing was a load of baloney, and merely a tourist tale. What had actually killed the children? Was it still there, in the fabric of the building? It wasn't now so hard to imagine walking up those Jacobean stairs when the lights were dimmed, climbing slowly to the top with anxiety mounting, and meeting whatever was up there with a scream.

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Evie and the Broch

Now two Orkney experiences on the same evening: one rather social, the other rather sublime.

It was the 7th May 2025. I'd arrived in Orkney the day before. I wanted to eat out at somewhere special. On my previous visit to Orkney, I had dined (with two touring medical professors from San Diego in California) at The Foveran, a country restaurant south-east of Kirkwall and overlooking Scapa Flow. The Foveran, it turned out, was plush and upmarket, locally regarded as a sophisticated venue for special occasions. I really enjoyed it - and the company - but this time I wanted something more bohemian; and not fine dining, but a good pizza. Research before my holiday suggested that the Eviedale Bakehouse in the northern part of the Orkney Mainland, would be worth checking out. This I did on 7th May. 

This is the Bakehouse brochure.

And here are three location maps. Click on them (and the pictures that follow) to see the detail clearly.

Evie is a strung-out kind of place, with a village atmosphere nevertheless. Here's what you see as you pass through from south-east to north-west on the A966 - a mixture of my own shots and Google Street View's.

That's a view looking back, and the Eviedale Bakehouse is on the right.

Another view looking back, though we are proceeding in a north-westerly direction. Presumably he too thought the village was worth contemplation. Or maybe he didn't want his face on Google Street View. Me, I'd wave back at the roving camera, and generally cavort like a superstar. 

This is the Post Office and Stores at the north-west end of the village centre.

It looks plain and nondescript, but inside it stocks most things you could want without driving into Kirkwall or Stromness. That's usually the way with stores that serve scattered communities. I like to pop in and explore them. This one didn't disappoint. It had virtually everything you'd need on a day-to-day basis.

Going back to the maps, sharp-eyed readers will have seen that Evie has its own beach - the Sands of Evie - accessible at each end by two separate roads. The western-end road ends at toilets and a boathouse. The beach wasn't up to Caribbean standards, but was nice all the same, and enhanced by the view of the big island of Rousay offshore. (Rousay is famous for its dolmen-like prehistoric stone tombs, so many that you'd need several days on the island to see them all)

We'll do the eastern-end road later in this post. At sunset - of course!

So I turned Sophie into the yard at the Eviedale Bakehouse, parked in the courtyard, and had a look around. 

The restaurant was shut, but the owners appeared and I could explain what I wanted. I was told that it was absolutely essential to book, as the Bakehouse was only a small restaurant. Well, I only wanted a table for one! They'd see what they could do, and text me. 'Good luck,' said a cock and hen.

It was all right. They could fit me in. Table for one on the 9th May. I looked forward to it very much. I don't live on pizza, but I do enjoy the occasional big plate, and it ought to be very good here.

On the night, the courtyard car park was packed. However, there was one space left, although it needed careful reversing to get into it. A young woman watched me with justifiable concern, as I had to manoeuvre quite close to her car. I let her help me, and we managed it nicely. Then we walked in. 

It was a Friday evening. The place seemed full of young Orcadians. I hoped I didn't look too fuddy-duddy. I was wearing a leather jacket over a sleeveless summer top and leggings.

Oh well, hey ho. I studied the menu and selected my pizza. Basically a veggie one, with a large glass of wine to keep it company. Here is a shot of the owners working their way through the food orders. Good aromas came from that oven!

It really was a small restaurant, with an intimate feel. I'd been very lucky to get a table at such short notice, especially as it was the only high-class evening eatery in this part of the Orkney Mainland. A natural for any young couple who didn't mind a drive to get there. I was perhaps the odd one out, being on my own, and much older. In fact I was probably by some margin the oldest person there.

In the view that I had over the menu, there was a table of student-age girls, and - on the right edge of the picture above - the young woman who had helped me park, and her partner. She saw me and soon beckoned me over to join them while my pizza was being cooked. I took my wine. Her name was Emma. Her partner's name was Sigurd. They didn't mind my taking souvenir pictures of them.

There's nothing like a convivial atmosphere to get people talking together, and we had a jolly good chinwag. It seemed to me that Orkney locals were very friendly people indeed, eager to know all about you, and very easy to get on with (as further chats with other people, day by day, confirmed). Emma had a friend who was an artist, by name of Lorraine Bruce. She showed me this friend's Facebook page. Let's give her a plug.

I have to say, I was reluctant to return to my own table to tuck into the pizza when it came. It was delicious though, and the wine washed it down perfectly. 

Of course, I treated myself to a dessert: some ice cream. This is what I chose.

Eventually Emma and Sigurd said goodnight, and gradually everyone else finished their meals and left too, so that I could see the place without people in the way. 

I was left with the lady owner. Her name was Philippa. We had a good talk about the demands of running a business, but also the compensations of life on Orkney. She was kind enough to take a picture of me at my little table, and let me take one of her. 

I'd had an excellent evening, and said so. And I wanted photographic souvenirs of it. 

It wasn't quite sunset. She said she sometimes took her dog for a walk down to the shore, where there was a fine broch in the care of Historic Scotland, the Broch of Gurness. (A broch is an ancient round stone tower, built as a defensible homestead way back in Pictish times, over 2,000 years ago) She explained how to get there. It wouldn't take me long to drive to the spot. It would be my sunset destination.

I set off in Sophie, and kept stopping to take a shot. It had to be one of the best sunsets I'd seen for some time, with the sun sinking into the extraordinarily calm orange-blue sea, and the islands of Eynhallow and Rousay offshore, mysterious humped shapes. 

It was utterly peaceful and completely sublime. 

The Broch was staffed in daytime, with an entrance charge, but you could simply walk in after hours. I had the place to myself. There was much to see. I took a lot of pictures, and will only show a selection.

The information boards were attractive and gave you a good idea of what the Broch and its outbuildings had been like to live in. It had developed into a kind of village, though presumably most of the inhabitants had been, or were loyal to, one family. Although the sun had gone down, there was plenty of light to see by. Twilight comes on only very slowly in early summer so far north. 

I was very impressed by how much had survived since the Broch was abandoned so many centuries ago. And I was enraptured by the sunset afterglow, slowly fading, and the fine views over the water. 

I was now in the centre of the tower. It would have been cosy and windproof in its heyday, though not necessarily leakproof in heavy rain!

The moon was rising. You can see it as a small dot in the sky above my head. It was exactly 9.30pm. I decided to use the 10x zoom on my Samsung Galaxy S24 Ultra phone to take a photo of the moon. I rested the edge of the phone on the Broch, to steady it. I have of course used my post-processing skills to crop the shot, darken it, and to tweak contrast. Even so, the phone did most of the work, and I'm rather pleased with the result.

I could easily have sat down and lingered until the light faded entirely, but I wanted some more pictures. 

Nearly time to go. I made my way out and for a while watched the gentle waves lap on the shore in the last of the light. A balm for the soul.

You could fall in love with a place that offered this. I'd had a good meal with great company. And now this almost mystical experience. 

I did eventually fire up Sophie, and drove thoughtfully away back to Stromness. I saw many interesting sights during my week on Orkney, and did a number of memorable things. But the serenity I felt at the Broch of Gurness has stayed in my memory as one of the highlights.

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