Some would say it was a dream. I’m sure it was a premonition - it occurred during that odd limbo time just before the mystery of sleep claims us. I saw this amazing country cottage set in a glorious garden of summer flowers. It was not in the least familiar to me and I knew I had never been there - I had not an inkling of where it was situated. As I watched, the front door opened just far enough to admit the marmalade-coloured cat that had been sitting on the doorstep. Then it opened further - out stepped a small white-haired woman - she was cautious in her movements which betrayed her advancing years. That was it. I was wide awake. A brief, vivid but unforgettable interlude.
Several months later I was browsing the internet, idly looking at ‘houses for sale’ in my chosen areas, when suddenly a country cottage flashed up onto the screen. It was the exact one that I had seen in my premonition. On this occasion the front door was tightly closed but the marmalade cat sat next to the flower-filled pots on the doorstep. I felt spooked. Nevertheless, after I had perused the details, I contacted the agent to arrange a viewing for the following Saturday morning. He said he would meet me at the property at midday, so I decided to drive down to the West Country on Friday and stay overnight in a b&b. That would allow me time to recce the property prior to the viewing.
By Friday afternoon I was driving down a narrow but lush country lane in Devon on my way for a preliminary look at the cottage. It was much more isolated than I had anticipated. I parked in the gateway of a nearby field and walked to the property, which was exactly as I remembered from the premonition and later my computer screen. On cue the front door opened and the white-haired woman stepped outside, a pair of secateurs in her right hand, but this time there was no appearance of the marmalade cat. She looked up and caught me watching as she hobbled towards the rose bushes.
“Good morning,” she said, pleasantly.
“Good morning. I’m so sorry, you must think I'm very rude, but I will be viewing your cottage tomorrow. I’ve come along this afternoon for a sneak preview.”
The woman walked to the hedge and peered at me through her steel-rimmed spectacles. “I think there is some mistake, my cottage is not on the market.”
I opened my mouth to reply - but thought better of it. I knew this was the cottage that I had seen and that it was the one that I had arranged to view the following day. “I do apologise - I must have made a silly mistake. A pity, because your cottage is idyllic.” I smiled, turned and walked back to my car where I sat for some minutes, considering the strange situation. Should I ring the agent? Should I attend for the appointment tomorrow and see what transpires? I opted for the latter. After all, the woman, if she was the owner, was elderly and may be suffering from some kind of memory loss.
I spent the rest of the day investigating the surrounding villages and by early evening was sitting down to an inviting plate of scampi and fries in the bar of a local hostelry. The few elderly male patrons, obviously regulars, were chatting together good naturedly in their West Country jargon. An ancient black labrador lay patiently under the table in the hope of catching a stray morsel of food. The trio eyed me with interest. I smiled at them. They lifted their tankards in recognition. I sensed that it might not be easy to integrate into such a tight community.
The barmaid came over to clear my plate. “Would you like a pudding, my lovely? I have one portion of sticky toffee left with your name on it.”
The old men went quiet; I knew they were all listening and looking my way. The one who did most of the talking shouted across the bar in my direction. “Go on, have it. Jenny makes the best puddings in Devon.”
I smiled. “How could I refuse?” I said. There was much laughter.
It truly was one of the best puddings ever. After saying my farewells to Jenny and the regulars I left the pub feeling very full indeed. After a brisk walk I returned to my bed and breakfast accommodation.
The next morning, I woke early as warm sun rays beamed through the thin curtains. After a delightful breakfast of scrambled eggs, croissant, orange juice and coffee I set off to explore the village on foot and discovered the Community Shop. I noticed it sold newspapers and on entering realised it stocked a plethora of wares. There was a huge Notice Board advertising a variety of goods and services, interspersed with a range of village events. I bought my newspaper and several second-hand paperbacks from the Charity shelf.
On my circuitous walk back to the village I found myself outside the pub where I had eaten the previous evening. The blackboard outside was promoting that coffee was now being served. I went inside - Jenny was behind the bar - the trio of regulars were sitting in the usual place, almost as though they hadn’t moved.
“Mornin’,” said the talkative one. “You stayin’ nearby?”
“Yes, at the b&b next to the church. I’m here to look at ‘Robin Cottage’.”
The three men looked at each other. “What you mean, to look at Robin Cottage?” asked the talker, whom I now knew from conversation was Jethro.
I looked at each of them in turn - there was silence. “Why - what?” I asked. “You’re spooking me.”
Jethro cleared his throat. “It’s - well, it’s been empty a long time - people don’t want to touch it with a barge pole after, you know, what happened there.”
“No, I don’t know what happened there. Perhaps, you can tell me. Put me in the picture, so to speak. I talked to the owner yesterday, she seemed very nice, but denied it was for sale.”
None of the men spoke. Jenny, the barmaid, who had been listening to the exchange, intervened. “It’s not up to us to say. Suffice to say, it was a bad do - if I was you, my lovely, I’d steer well clear.”
I drank my coffee. I felt that I’d stumbled unknowingly, into a mysterious situation and vowed to myself that I would tread very carefully indeed.
With some trepidation I met the estate agent, who introduced himself as Vince Waters, at noon, as arranged. He seemed relaxed and pleasant enough as I followed him down the overgrown path to the front door. I definitely hadn’t noticed the state of neglect the day before.
Vince Waters put the key in the lock. The door seemed a little reticent to open and he gave it an extra push with his shoulder. The first thing I noticed from within the cottage was the damp, musty smell. The hallway was empty except for a few dead leaves on the floor and multiple spiders’ webs in the corners.
“What I don’t understand, Mr Waters, is that this house is obviously uninhabited and yet only yesterday I spoke to a person who I believed to be the owner, in the front garden. Can you explain?”
Vince Waters looked me in the eye. If what I had just said had shocked him, he certainly wasn’t showing it. “No, I can’t explain that. This house has been empty for around eighteen months since Gwen Pope died. Of course, what happened here has made prospective purchasers a little wary.”
“Will you please tell me what happened here? I’m afraid I’m totally in the dark,” I said.
Waters looked uncomfortable. “I’d really rather not discuss it, if you don’t mind. I’ve said too much already. Ask around in the village. I'm sure someone would fill you in. If you ask me, most of it is mumbo-jumbo. People believe what they want to believe.”
“Well, Mr Waters, I for one would want to know - already I’m beginning to think I’ve seen a ghost. The more you evade the subject the more unsettled and goose pimply I feel.”
After a cursory viewing of the obviously empty accommodation, I was more than ready to leave and never to return. There were too many unanswered questions. As Vince Waters opened the front door a large, marmalade-coloured cat took us both by surprise and ran between our feet and raced up the stairs.
“Sod that cat. He tries to get in every time I come here,” said Waters, as he rushed up the stairs in hot pursuit.
“It seems he is anxious to live here”, I said. “What’s the story?”
“He’s part of the problem. He is supposed to be living up at ‘Hornbeam Farm’ now”, said Waters as he came downstairs clutching the struggling animal.
Once outside I turned to Waters. “Thank you for showing me around Mr Waters, but I won't be taking any further interest in ‘Robin Cottage’.
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” he said. He walked away towards his car.
I was far too disturbed to continue any interest in the cottage and decided to return home as quickly as possible. The following day I researched Gwen Pope on the Internet. There were a few of them but none seemed to be connected to ‘Robin Cottage’.
Four weeks later…..
It was a sunny Friday morning. I was at a bit of a loose end when my mobile rang. To my surprise it was a call from Vince Waters, the Estate Agent. “Good morning,” I said. “And no, I haven’t changed my mind about ‘Robin Cottage’.”
He tittered. ‘“I’ve just been instructed to put a beautiful cottage on the market and I instantly thought of you. It’s in the same village as ‘Robin Cottage’ - similar accommodation - charming garden, although it does need some work. The upside is that it doesn't, to my knowledge, have a resident ghost, nor a visiting cat”.
“Ok,” I said, thoughtfully, “send me the details and I’ll take a look. Oh, and by the way, are you going to spill the beans on ‘Robin Cottage’?”
There was a pause - which I had come to expect. “Still on the market, although I have had some interest from the U.S. of A. The thing is…” he lowered his voice. “It’s the backstory I’m afraid. A horrible inexplicable death occurred there just after the first world war - ever since, whoever has lived there has met a sticky end, including Gwen Pope, the last owner. She was found lying dead in the bathroom by her cleaning lady. The odd thing was there wasn’t a mark on her - the Coroner couldn’t ascertain a cause of death, only that she may have died from shock. Her cat returns to ‘Robin Cottage’ on a regular basis, appears to be looking for her. Most locals won’t even walk past the cottage after dark and certainly won’t go inside. Basically, the property is believed to be haunted. So - there you have it. Make of that what you will.”
I felt chilled to the bone - I know what I saw.
Liz Gynn 6 March 2025