The following piece of writing is taken from a part work series of magazines produced in the 80s and 90s. The publication was called The Occultaria of Albion and its chief aim was to explore the lesser known paranormal and preternatural occurrences from various locations across Great Britain. Recently I have been given access to the archive of this part work publication – by one of its original editors and creators. I thought that perhaps readers of this new publication from Ram Eye Press would find this excerpt of some interest, particularly if they were ever to find themselves exploring the environs of Thackford Reservoir…
Introduction The tremendous expansion of cities in the white heat of industrial revolution meant there was a vital need for clean water to be supplied to the new industrial centres; cities like Sheffield, Leeds and those in the East Midlands region had a particular thirst in the latter half of the nineteenth century. The solution to the problem came in the form of large civil engineering projects – valleys were dammed, rivers redirected, and reservoirs constructed. Like it or not, for many rural communities, change was coming and for an unfortunate handful of villages that change would take the form of complete obliteration. This edition of OA examines the consequence of this annihilation for one such village. As will be revealed, geographic trauma of the land and the psychic trauma of those that dwell upon that land can manifest as something terrible, something abominable. Today the river Yap still flows, yet its course was altered, and the village of Thackford on Yap became submerged beneath a large, new reservoir with a surface area of nearly six hundred acres. History The river Yap is a relatively small river which flows through the Upper Yap Valley, part of which lies in South Yorkshire as well as Derbyshire. It is far less known to today’s ramblers and walkers compared with other areas of the Peak District – but is just as scenic, with rounded hills and limestone gorges and areas of broadleaved woods. It was in 1902 that the construction of a dam and reservoir began. Before this, Thackford on Yap was an unremarkable village of around three hundred inhabitants. It appeared in the Domesday Book of 1086 as Thayke’s Ford, meaning a crossing place on the land of a family named Thayke. The village church of St John was built in the early 15th century with adaptations and rebuilds many times during its five centuries of existence. The most notorious rector of St John’s was probably the Reverend William Harold who served the civil parish from 1860 – 1869. Harold was an eccentric figure – often encouraging parishioners to bring livestock and pets with them to service. His sermons were theatrical, and he would frequently wave a sabre he claimed belonged to his father during the Napoleonic Wars. Reverend Harold felt that through his possession of the weapon it had become a sword of truth and light. For the most part his parishioners seemed to enjoy his eccentricities. No doubt it was Harold’s unusual character which prevented a theft and brought national news coverage to Thackford in 1863. Late one night in October, two thieves broke into the church intent on stealing whatever they could. The two men from Halifax had broken into several remote churches since September and had never been apprehended. As was usual they did not expect the vicar to be present, but Reverend Harold kept odd hours and would often work late into the night from a small desk in the vestry. Harold heard the two thieves and realised what was happening. Immediately he grabbed his Napoleonic sword of truth and confronted the intruders. One of the men attempted to wrestle with the vicar and lost two fingers for his troubles. The other, seeing the blood, made a run for it but was himself cut on his right leg and did not make it beyond the porch. At dawn, a constable from nearby Lower Bradworth arrived to arrest the two men. Harold had tied them to the font and kept watch for several hours. The vicar was considered a hero both locally and nationally and for the rest of his time at St John’s he would regularly incorporate the tale of his bravery into sermons. Upon his retirement in 1869 he bequeathed the sword to the church and the people of Thackford. For several years the sword was mounted upon a cork plinth opposite the font. In 1899 part of the roof of St John’s had to be repaired. It is thought that the sword and its plinth were moved into a storeroom behind the vestry and subsequently forgotten about. In 1902 construction of the reservoir began and the last service to be held at the church took place in early 1904. By then only a handful of residents were left in the village. It was in 1906 that St John’s, along with the rest of Thackford on Yap, disappeared entirely beneath the surface of the new reservoir. It was while the team of engineers and planners were in a boat on the reservoir inspecting their recently completed masterpiece that the head engineer, Thomas Keppel, noticed something in the water. As the boat drew nearer, they saw that the object appeared to be the handle of a sword. Gradually and, some were said to have remarked, just like Excalibur, the entire sword seemed to rise out of the water and remained floating, handle aloft. There was laughter from the engineers until Keppel stomped to the side of the boat saying, ‘get that bloody thing out of my reservoir.’ Witnesses say he went to grab it but lost his balance and somehow fell out of the boat. Some claim that the engineer managed to impale himself on the sword, though several deny this was the case. Others tried to come to his rescue, but Keppel had disappeared beneath the surface never to be seen again. Almost immediately the rumours began. Thomas Keppel was the man who had condemned Thackford on Yap. It could have been saved but Keppel would not hear of any changes and dismissed the village as an insignificant place not worth preserving. Many believed that the sword of truth and light had other ideas and had returned from the depths in order to take revenge. Even amongst the other engineers and the construction workers there was a belief that this might be the case. As far as many people from the Upper Yap Valley were concerned – Thackford Reservoir was cursed from its very beginning. And What Rough Beast In 1971 Kenneth Yorke was working as a male model. He’d been modelling since the mid-sixties and found a lot of his work in swinging London, but by the start of the seventies he’d grown tired of it all and decided to move back to his native Derby with dreams to set up a carpentry business using the money he’d saved. He didn’t turn his back on modelling entirely – Ramsley, a knitwear company based in Nottingham, booked Ken regularly for shoots. It provided him with an income whilst getting his woodworking business off the ground. The knitwear shoots were often done on location and one favourite spot used by photographer Dick Evison was Thackford on Yap. Dick spoke to us from his home in Spain: ‘It was a great place to shoot. Back then you could go a whole day without seeing another person and there were always new spots to explore. Got some of my best shots at Thackford. I remember I’d often meet Ken in Sheffield, usually with Mandy Jacques as the other model, then the three of us would drive over in my Austin Maxi with the radio blasting all the way. It was always a jolly old time!’ On the morning of Wednesday 28th April 1971 whilst on a photoshoot for Ramsley, Ken Yorke had an encounter that would change his life. On that morning he came face to face with what became known as the Thackford Beast. The three of them had arrived early at the reservoir – photographer Dick Evison, and models Ken Yorke and Mandy Jacques. They were joined shortly after by Vanessa Holland, an assistant at Ramsley who brought with her several garments to be photographed during the day. The shoot went well, though they had gradually wandered deeper into the woods at the southern edge of the reservoir. ‘I remember it vividly even now,’ Evison reflected. ‘We were about to break for lunch. Ken pulled his jumper off and said he needed to relieve himself. He was wearing a red shirt and I made some joke about it sticking out in all that greenery, y’know – like a red rag or something. Ken laughed and said he’d catch us up. A minute later there was this terrible growling sound followed by Ken screaming. It was awful. I ran back but there was no sign of him. He’d vanished into the undergrowth. None of us knew what to do. We were all terrified.’ Ken Yorke did return, but not until several hours later – he wandered into the small police station of Lower Bradworth, six miles away. His clothes were torn, and he was covered in cuts and bruises. The beast had taken him, he kept muttering. The beast had taken him! Over the next several weeks and months the full extent of Ken’s experience was revealed. A large, hairy beast had taken hold of Ken and dragged him away. Initially Ken claimed it to be like a bear or a large dog yet also capable of sustained bipedalism. He described its face as a sort of mix between a bear but with the eyes and upper skull of something more like an ape or a human. Ken said that at first the creature was aggressive, swatting him about the undergrowth with its large, clawed front paws. Eventually when Ken had begun to drift in and out of consciousness the thing calmed down, took hold of Ken and took him back to what was some sort of nest or den made from fallen trees and foliage. Perhaps the most striking thing was that Ken claimed the beast tried to communicate with him telepathically. Whilst lying in the creature’s den, Ken says that he heard its voice in his mind – a voice comprised of grunts, clicks and bleeps, almost like a dolphin. Ken believed the creature offered him some sort of food comprised of various leaves and berries. Ken blacked out again and then next thing he remembered he was sat in the police station drinking a mug of tea. Ken was changed profoundly by his encounter with the Thackford Beast. He gave up on modelling knitwear and ultimately gave up on his plans to become a carpenter. After a further eighteen months of research and preparations, he bought a piece of land on the edge of Lower Bradworth. From a nearby scrapyard, he purchased one of the large, tin buildings that were originally used during the construction of the reservoir. So it was that in the summer of 1973, the Thackford Beast Research Centre & Museum was opened to the public. The initial exhibits included photographs taken by Ken. He claimed to have found the nest where he had been taken. Other items included hair samples and scat which Ken believed was produced by the beast. In the beginning there was much derision for Ken’s project and few visitors took it or Ken seriously. But visitors there were – providing a small income which allowed Ken to continue. By 1977 another shack was purchased as the research centre expanded. The Thackford Beast had begun to attract the interest of cryptozoologists from around the globe. Then, in 1980 a further sighting took place by an American tourist, a sixty-two-year-old lady by the name of Doris Starkey from Spokane, Washington. She knew nothing about the Thackford Beast or any of the previous sightings, yet her descriptions matched almost exactly with Ken’s original abduction experience several years before. After what the cryptozoology community dubbed, the Starkey Event, far more credence was given to the beast – both nationally and internationally. In 1981 the popular ITV programme This Nation recorded an interview with Ken: ‘I have always been utterly convinced that what I saw was real,’ he told them. ‘And all my research since then has only gone on to make me more certain that there is a beast out in the woods and hills of Thackford Valley. I believe the creature is a corruption of nature, something that should not have survived but for whatever reason it has. It is both natural and unnatural and I know that one day the truth shall be revealed. In the meantime, my museum and research centre are open six days a week for anyone to come and learn the truth.’ By the early nineties interest in the Thackford Beast had waned – in part because of a lack of any new evidence or sightings. Ken Yorke continued to believe a creature was out there. He retired from active research in 1993 and sold the tin hut which had housed the museum for twenty years. Today the site is a tearoom. Ken makes chunky wooden coffee tables in his garage in Derby and sells them around the world. Occasionally he speaks at cryptid conventions and seminars. |