One autumn night, sun sinking fast,

Wet, chilled, baht ‘at and grumpy,

Near to home below at last

I paused to sit, as in the past,

At Rocky Valley, on a tuffet somewhat lumpy.

There was a wierdness on the moor

And something dark, and giant,

Beneath me began to roar

A sound I’d never heard before.

I decided to be defiant.

The giant spoke, more a bellow,

“Eyeup, what’s tha’ doin’ oop ‘ere baht ‘at?

An tha’ din’t ee’n say ‘ello,

‘Ardly polite t’ any fellow.”

I quickly pulled on my skimpy hat.

“I’d not expect to greet a ghost up here,”

I said. “One I’ve not met until now, 

More something I’d expect to see in the Flying Duck, wi’ a beer.”

“Nah! Thah’ll not meet ‘em theer neethuh; they left t’poob wi’ a vow;

When ‘t name wuz changed – went oop t’t calf un cow.

“Thah’s dumb lad, ah’m not joost a ghost,

But spectre, aristocracy of ghosts as thah should know.

It’s set out clear so Ah don’t boast

Set down bi that Lewis chap long ago.

So if tha’ doesn’t show respect, thah’d better go”.

“Any ow, what’s them on thi lugs?

A proper ‘at ‘d keep out midgies und bi much wahmer.”

“They’re ear phones,” I replied, “not anti bugs,

And this performance is a stormer.

I’m listening to flamenco from an ace Ilkley performer.”

“Flamenco! Aye, tha’ knows ah’ve a friend fruhm Ronda

Who knows a bit aboot that style ‘uh guitar.

‘aunts there usual but tends t’ wander.

Tek a bit more thought t’ call ‘im from yonder,

But gi mi a mo’ und ah’l call ‘im frum afar.”

I watched amazed as another spectre began to appear,

More colourful with his glory much brighter.

“I’m El Tempranillo; why am I summoned here,”

He said. “Your valley is misty and cold, and whiter,

Than my El Tajo canyon, and much tighter.”

“Ma noo pal ‘eer likes flamenco

So ah thawt ee’d like t’ meet

You, a famous bandalero wot knows uh thing or two

Aboot that music, and set ‘im reet,

Though ah’m sorry we don’t have ‘ere yuh Andalucian ‘eat.”

Now I haven’t time to tell you the whole story,

We’ve been given only four minutes each.

I did think it might get a bit gory

But the bandit was soon out of reach.

Left quickly; too chilly for him to teach.

Anyway, you may not believe my tale,

Folks doubt many sightings on Ilkley moor

And my proof in this photo is admittedly pale.

But be warned, that spectre might get very sore

If doubted, be more than just scary, that’s for sure.