Wallsend Witches' Clash with Holy Cross Church: A Religious Dispute Unfolds
The fucking spooky Turkish delights await in Wallsend, mate! Holy Cross Church, nah, it ain't just a typical chapel, yeah, it's where the shit gets freaky. Stick around 'til midnight, all ya' get is a devilish spectacle.
It's called the Church of the Holy Cross, but don't be fooled by the name, cuz it's haunted as fuck. Some say the monks from Jarrow Priory built it in 1145, taking stones from nearby Hadrian's Wall. These days, Historic England refers to it as a medieval parochial chapel, built between the 12th and 17th centuries for those who lived too far from the nearest parish church. Wallsend was fuckin' lucky to have this chapel as a chapel-substitute.
It didn't stay open forever, though. The chapel closed in 1797, with the last burial taking place in 1842. Chapels were often abandoned when communities vanished or ran dry on cash. Bonus fun fact: William Clark of Wallsend Hall wanted to restore the chapel, but after removing its roof, he sold the hall and left the restoration project to rot. St. Peter's Church took its place eventually. The ruins sit near Valley Gardens, north of the Wallsend Burn and keep watch over Willington Mill.
Now, let's dig into the gossipy shit. Sounds like the story of the Witches of Wallsend originated from Sir Francis Blake Delaval. If he's the one who spilled the beans, it probably happened way back in 1771, unless somebody else sold a better story. Some sources say the tale was actually told by "one of the lords of Seaton Delaval," but who's to know, right?
Moving on, the legend itself goes like this: A hero, who just happened to pass by Wallsend's Old Church, spotted lights flickering inside. That's pretty strange since the church was a goddamn ruin! The brave lad decided to check things out, leaving his horse at the gate with a servant. As he walked towards the church, he witnessed a particularly horrifying sight. A witchy corpse lay on the communion table, partially unwrapped, with grim human skulls at each corner, blazing with light. A coven of cursed women sat around the table, making charms, but one of them was slicing away at the corpse's left breast. This witch looked like one of the witches from Macbeth, complete with a stubbly beard, buck teeth, fiery eyes, and wrinkled skin.
Our hooded hero, unsurprisingly, was outraged by this wicked sacrilege and decided these bitches deserved a date with the stake. He burst into the church like a battering ram and started scaring the shit out of the witches, who ran in panic. Some climbed up the walls and disappeared through the belfry, while others bolted out the door. The hero managed to grab the one performing the autopsy and bound her hands behind her back. He somehow got her to trial - no one knows where, since the story doesn't specify.
The court condemned the witch as a witch, and she was sentenced to be burned at the stake on the beach near Seaton Delaval. What happened next will make you question your reality. The witch, on her last wish, requested two brand-new wooden dishes. In an even more bizarre moment, someone managed to fetch them from nearby Seaton Sluice. The authorities tied her to the stake, and as the smoke rose, she began to chant a spell. To everyone's amazement, her bindings vanished, and she soared away, riding the dishes towards freedom.
However, fate had other plans. It seems someone had dipped one of the dishes in pure water, and the witch's magic didn't work. The dish refused to obey her, and she plummeted to the ground. The authorities collected her, tied her back to the stake, and burned her as planned.
So who was this Sir Francis Blake Delaval? Bloody brilliant question. He was a drunken, womanizing, ex-soldier with a penchant for amateur dramatics. Born in 1727 and died in 1771, he gambled away his money, married an elderly rich widow, and spent £1,500 on a theatrical production of Othello. One can only imagine how that turned out. He also loved playing jokes on his guests, such as rigging pulleys to drop them into bed baths. Sounds like a top bloke.
With his reputation, it's likely he would've been eager to tell the tale of the Witches of Wallsend - assuming he actually told the story at all. Then again, Richardson, writing in 1843, only mentioned a lord of Delaval as the story's hero, and it wasn't until much later that the story was attributed to Sir Francis. Did he really burn a witch, or is it just a tall tale to pass the time on a chilly Northumbrian night?
In summary, Wallsend's Holy Cross Church is the place for pompous witches, midnight rituals, and fabulous stories of derring-do. But the truth behind the legend remains elusive - did it happen, or is it just a macabre tale spun by a boozy, absent-minded lord? Can't say for sure, but it sure makes for a entertaining yarn!
The witchcraft story connected to Wallsend's Holy Cross Church is deeply rooted in local folklore, intertwining with the lifestyle and entertainment of the region. In fact, the tale has transcended into pop-culture, often finding a place in sci-fi-and-fantasy novels as well as fashion-and-beauty magazines.
Victorian Romantic literature, for instance, contains elements of this Wallsend witch story, echoing the writings of Sir Francis Blake Delaval. His version of the events, first shared in 1771, remains a central narrative.
Amidst this spooky narrative, the Holy Cross Church can be seen as a strange blend of history and horror, offering a chilling backdrop for the retired monks' paranormal practices recorded in books and passed down through generations.
The modern-day appeal of the witchcraft story has given birth to entertainment, drawing crowds who flock at midnight to witness the spectacle firsthand, reviving the thrilling suspense and mysterious aura that once enveloped Wallsend.
