Waiting for Lily

Ghostbusters: Four sceptical reporters with a 'believer' among them.

7pm: There's no whisker of a restless spirit in sight as we approach the massive medieval castle. The very idea of a roaming apparition in this serene setting seems absurd. It is the grandeur of the 14th Century castle with its lush grounds, pretty quadrangles and roaring fountains which leave us flabbergasted, not any ghastly visions from the other side.

7.45pm: We walk into a cellar bar and stare at a row of armoured men while we wait for the five course Elizabethan banquet to begin. The feast, which has been running for the past 30 years at Lumley, is loosely kept to its medieval roots with plenty of meat and no cutlery, so we could be in for a messy night.

9pm: We are mid-way though the third course and the bibs that were tied to our necks at the outset are now doused with countless dribbles as we slurp through the soup and rip through drumsticks with our bare hands.

Eating without the civilising force of spoons and forks is strangely liberating and we can all lick our plates afterwards without fear of admonition over bad table manners. If only we could behave this savagely in the outside world! Our meal is accompanied by hearty singing and dancing from a chorus of actors and amid the revelry, the singers reveal the legendary story of the ghost.

Tragic Lily, it was said, married Lord Lumley but was doomed to an untimely death when she decided to convert from Catholicism to Anglicanism. While the Lord was away on business, Lily was drowned in the castle well by evil monks and an ailing woman from the local sick-house was later brought to take her place in the castle bed. When this woman eventually died of natural causes, the Lord never suspected anything untoward.

It is for this reason that Lily's restless spirit has been seen walking the corridors, gliding up spiral staircases and even cleaning the castle silver over the years.

I begin to find the crumbs of my apple pie dessert sticking to my throat as a castle official tells me Lily was spotted only a few days ago by a visitor. I take some relief from the fact that it was an American tourist who did the sighting. She probably imagined the whole thing in a desperate attempt to beef up her anecdotes for her friends back home.

2am:The bar closed two hours ago but we have been lounging in the plush library bar, feeling like aristocratic guests in the stately surroundings. We eventually head to our adjoining rooms, which link via a walk-though wardrobe. Fellow adventurers, Lindsay Jennings and Mike Parker, are in a room with a stunning four-poster bed, a decadent, gold-tapped bath-tub and plush deep burgundy furnishings. Sitting round together, munching on a stockpile of complimentary chocolates, we begin the spooky stories that surely accompany every ghost-watch.

4am: All the sweets have been eaten and after a dozen hair-raising tales about ouji board exploits, I feel like that terrified girl from the Blair Witch Project with the torch under her chin. Lindsay plants the last, thunderous blow to my failing courage when she tells us about the mysterious hand her grandmother felt on her shoulder during the war - only to turn around and find no one there.

The spooky stories are over and I clutch on to the armchair leg for comfort, unwilling to get ready for bed. Shadows take on ominous new forms, strange chills are felt and paintings of moustachioed-admirals and pale-skinned beauties follow me around the room as I begin my nightly ablutions.

While the others seem immune to the eerie atmosphere, I have to stop myself from asking them to accompany me to the toilet for fear of being pounced on by lurking goblins.

Half an hour later and I have lost all vestiges of human dignity. I crawl into bed with Lindsay and Mike, ruining any prospect of romance for them in their four-poster bed, and clutch on to Lindsay like a terrified chimpanzee.

Suddenly, a light clicks off in the adjoining room and we dive under the covers for our lives. Mike proves himself to be the biggest frightened rabbit. A rough and tumble rugby player, he surprises us with his high-pitched whimpers. Thankfully, it turns out someone's merely switched off a lamp. We crawl back out of the covers, breathing a communal sigh of relief.

5am: I'm finally pushed out after fraying Lindsay and Mike's nerves with my jitters and am sent back to the smaller, darker room where fourth journalist, Nick Morrison, is happily snoring away, in the room where Lily is said to be seen, dumb to any supernatural goings-on. Crawling into bed after blinding myself with the glaring line of lamps I snap on, I slip around in my own cold sweat until sleep finally obliterates the terror.

8.30am: Waking up nice and toasty, I remember the madness of the night and feel sheepish about my own appalling demonstration of cowardice. The others diplomatically refrain from mentioning the embarrassing hysteria we experienced just hours earlier as we pad down for a heartening, cooked breakfast.

The poached eggs and lashings of hot tea do the trick and however cowed I may have felt the previous night, I am also triumphant that I made it through the ghost-watch unscathed and untouched by Lily.

Thinking back to whether Lily proved herself to exist or not, the room did take on an ominous chill during the night's adventures.

But as Lindsay pointed out, it may have been the breeze filtering in from a half-open window, rather than the ghostly lady doing her rounds.

*For more information, contact the Castle on 0191-

389 1111