East Riding haven for fish and fowl

This is the largest freshwater lake in Yorkshire, being a mile wide and some two miles long; a walk round the privately-owned lake extends some five miles along public rights of way, although this takes the hiker some distance away from the water's edge.

It is only possible to reach the shore by visiting the public area near the edge of the town; here, a limited number of boats take to the water, there are some watersports and fishermen too, along with hundreds of water fowl.

Hornsea Mere is less than a mile from the sea and is a relic of the Ice Age. The townspeople are rightly proud of this distinctive stretch of inland water which lies virtually on their doorsteps, for one of its strengths is its fortunate lack of commercialisation.

Even if the town bears evidence of its role as a seaside resort, Hornsea Mere has avoided garish development and therefore retains its reputation as a haven for an amazing variety of fish and wild fowl. Although the distant water is dotted with swimming birds, some of the more daring ones hang around the public areas, waiting for scraps of food. So tame are they, that when squatting on the ground, they will not move to allow humans to pass by.

I was told that, in winter, when human visitors and offerings of food are scarce, an army of these birds will walk into the town to beg for scraps. In some ways, like Homsea itself, they have become dependent upon the tourist trade.

Having noted this aspect of Hornsea Mere bird life, it must be said that the lake is the haunt of many species of water fowl, among which are some rare ones; many of these never rely on humans for their daily bread and some visit the area only temporarily during migration.

Scanning the lake and its thousands of birds with my binoculars, I did not notice any rare visitors, however, although there was a sad and lonely whooper swan who had lost its mate. He lived among dozens of mute swans, but had learned how to charm visitors into caring for him and was extremely tame. He was easily identified by the bright yellow base to his beak, along with its black tip.

Salty stories

Hornsea, under constant threat from the North Sea, provides two charming stories, one concerning the mere, and the other a Christmas tale centred upon the Anglican parish church of St Nicholas.

First, the mere. It has always been noted for its fish, particularly roach, tench, perch and pike and it was the lake's complement of fish that led to an unseemly dispute between two abbots.

In 1260, William, the 11th abbot of nearby Meaux Abbey, claimed fishing rights in the southern half of the mere, only to discover that the abbot of St Mary's in York had done likewise. This led to the so-called Battle of Haraney, the old name for Hornsea Mere, and then meaning Hare Island.

Because neither abbot would yield, it was decided the matter could be resolved only by combat, with each abbot selecting a knight to fight on his behalf. The battle would be fought on the shores of the mere and the winner would determine who had fishing rights to the disputed southern half.

To prevent arguments about precisely which half was under consideration, a horse was made to swim across the lake on the boundary line in question. The brave and powerful knights fought all day with neither side being able to claim victory, but the Meaux champion eventually weakened and capitulated.

In this way, the York abbot won the right to fish in the southern half - and promptly allowed the monks of Meaux to do likewise.

The second story occurred on December 23, 1732, in the Anglican parish church of St Nicholas. The church is known for its tunnel-vaulted crypt which lies beneath the chancel, and this was often used by smugglers for hiding their contraband goods.

The parish clerk, however, was also a smuggler and he assisted his seafaring friends in disposing of their ill-gotten gains - hence the use of the vault.

On that particular night, the day before Christmas Eve, the clerk was secretly working in the crypt, determining how to capitalise upon the wealth of goods at his disposal. As he worked, a tremendous storm broke out and at first he ignored it, thinking he was safe in that sturdy crypt, but the hurricane winds sent trees crashing to the ground, it tore off roofs and demolished a windmill and even hurled rnillstones more than 150 yards. It also hammered the church with such force that the great east window was blown in, to be followed by tons of debris.

The terrified clerk literally froze with fear and lost all power of speech; he survived the wreckage but the local people regarded this as an omen - it was the wrath of God upon a man who had sinned and who had even dared to use the church for his devilish dark deeds. Never again was the crypt of St Nicholas' used as a smugglers' den, and the unfortunate clerk later died from a seizure, having never recovered from that ordeal.

Lost souls

I was quite surprised to learn recently that there is still a belief that if a picture falls from the wall of a house, it heralds the death of someone within that house. In some districts, the omen is not fulfilled unless the glass breaks and, in other areas, it seems the omen is valid only if the picture is a portrait of a resident.

I believe the same superstition was applied to photographs and this meant it was not necessarily connected only to the people living in the house. If a photograph of a near relative fell for some unaccountable reason, then it was an omen of death for that person.

It seems this notion arose because, in ancient times, people thought that a portrait somehow contained a portion or representation of the person's soul, a belief which remains within primitive tribes when they make models of people they wish to harm.

In the early days of photography, some people would refuse to allow their pictures to be taken, somehow believing it affected their lives.

In E and M A Radford's Encyclopedia of Superstitions, there is note of a football team which would not allow its photograph to be taken before an important match in the belief it would bring bad fortune - and, if we think that is an ancient idea, it happened in March 1958 (or is that in ancient times!?)

County towns

I was in the company of some people fairly recently when the name of Darlington cropped up during the conversation. The speaker went on to praise the town, with due reference to its huge role in the development of the railways, and then added: "Well, you can expect such things from a North Yorkshire town."

He was not the first person within my knowledge to think that Darlington is one of North Yorkshire's market towns or even part of the Yorkshire dales, and before we parted company, I made sure he knew it was firmly within County Durham.

This kind of misunderstanding often occurs in spite of county boundary signs, post codes and up-to-date maps but in relation to one's knowledge of geography, post codes do not always help. A very high proportion of people believe that Stokesley and Great Ayton are part of County Cleveland because their post codes begin with TS (meaning Teesside), while others ignore post codes and think Yarm and Guisborough are part of North Yorkshire.

Sturdy Yorkshire folk in those towns say they are still in the North Riding of Yorkshire, although presently lodging in the administrative county of Cleveland.

And this takes me back to Hornsea - was I then enjoying part of the county of Humberside, or was it in the delightful East Riding of Yorkshire