The mysterious case of the Wizard of Windermere

There can be little doubt that ancient and atmospheric areas of England such as the Lake District provide fertile soil for myths and legends of all kinds.

I recently had the privilege of a short break to the picturesque town of Windermere in Cumbria, where such folklore is plentiful, and the pleasant folk who live there are only too willing to recount strange tales to boggle-eyed visitors.

However, not all of these stories are from yesteryear. Some, as I was to find out, are still alive and kicking to this very day.

There are many activities in which one can whilst in this beautiful corner of Albion, and I made a promise to myself that as soon as I had unpacked, I would venture forth to one of the many real ale taverns to be found dotted around the breathtaking countryside.

Luckily for me, the hotel I was staying at had a shortlist of all the best watering holes in the general vicinity, and I made it my goal to down copious amounts of ale, in a relatively short space of time, in as many of them as I could find.

I had to start somewhere, so I opted for the Old Bell Cheese Inn, which at the time of writing, was Windermere's hottest local nightspot. It was about eight in the evening and I was only on my fourth pint of Loud Mouth Soup, when a curious gentleman approached my table and asked to join me.

"You're a stranger round here aren't you m'lad?" the man asked, as he sat down at my beer soaked table without waiting for a reply. "I can tell y'know, spotted ya the minute ya staggered in."

"Yes," I answered. "Such is my general demeanour, it would therefore be logical to assume your character analysis is in some way, shape or form, correct."

As I struggled to comprehend just how I managed to spit that last sentence out after nearly four pints of Windermere's' strongest ale, the man replied: "Err, yeah. Whatever mate."

"Johnson's the name, and weird goings-on is me game," he continued. I promptly identified myself and the reason for my being in Windermere.

"Ah, thought so, you city dwellers love to get away from it all now and again don't you?" Johnson retorted. Such was the intensity of his truism, I decided the muscles of my mouth would be better suited to swallowing another gobfull of Loud Mouth Soup rather than vocalising a response.

"Anyone mention the wizard to ya yet?" Johnson enquired, appearing to ignore my previous rudeness.

My curiosity got the better of me and I placed my nearly empty pint glass down in puddle of goo on the table. "Wizard? What's that about a wizard you say?"

Johnson reclined, nearly losing his balance, regained it, faltered, nearly lost it again, and then sat back up with a knowing smile. "Ahh, they haven't have they? Ok, well, best ya hear it from me then..."

I was all ears...

Johnson lit a Camel Dung cigar, adjusted his groin, lent forward, and began: "I first heard this here story I'm gonna tell ya some years ago. Like you're probly gonna do, I didn't believe the fecker meself.

"Back in the days of yore, an old man much like meself, used to live out on the other side of the lake. He lived alone and rarely spoke to anybody. As his years came to an end, it is said he started doin' the witchcraft shit. Strange lights used to come on and then go out suddenly after a period of hours in his old knackered house. Folk started noticin' strange orangey floaty objects on the lake near his place, and feared the worst."

Johnson paused to relight his fading cigar, and after violently breaking wind, resumed his fascinating story, oblivious to the fact that I was now standing at the bar paying for a bottle of Barf — Windermere's own take on the alcopops market.

I bobbed and weaved back to our table to catch him saying...

"....thought he was a nutter. He was always wearing this stupid fecking hat. Twas a big pointy one with stars on it like them wizards wear in the Disney flicks. Anyways, folk had 'ad enough of his weird ways, and occasional sheep-worrying, and decided to confront the old beggar."

"Well, it weren't much of an argument, turns out by the time the townsfolk got to his 'orrible little house, he'd bleedin' scarpered!"

I punctuated his last sentence by spitting out a large mouthful of Barf all over my trousers. I tossed aside thoughts of dry cleaning bills and urged him to continue.

"Yeah, straight up. That's what I'm tellin' ya. Done a runner good and proper," Johnson confirmed. "But that ain't the end of it, not by a long shot!"

"Long after the old blighter had disappeared, folk around here still kept seeing strange floaty things on the lake. God knows what he was doin' all them years by himself. He must've cursed the lake or something."

Johnson then slowly leaned toward me and whispered, "And folk still often see an old man walking around the lakeside on dark and spooky nights!"

"Wow!" I exclaimed, utterly gobsmacked. "Really?!"

"Really..." Johnson said rather soberly.

"You've given me the creeps you old sod! Ha ha!" I laughed, and Johnson joined in with a rather disturbing rasp of his own.

"You think I might see him? This 'Wizard of Windermere'?" I enquired.

"Ya never know me ole mate," Johnson said wistfully, "You just never know..."

At this point my bladder was the size of an enormous balloon of piss ready to burst, so I made my excuses, thanked Johnson for the story, and got up to hit the toilets.

"Ah, that's ok matey, I was just off meself," Johnson said wearily. "Been a tough old day today, I think I'll go for a stroll then hit the hay."

I told him that might be a good idea, and waved to this strange man from the toilet as he made his way to the pub door.

He waved back, and as he moved toward the coat and hat rack that was just by the main door, I caught sight of what he was reaching for.

It was a large pointy hat with stars on.