Tip’s Ghost

There are many tales that take place high up on the moors of the Peak District, though only a few ever return back down to the ears of the village folk.

Countless people have been pixy-led in the fog, never to be seen again. Their feet swallowed by bog. Forever lost in a realm of marsh and peat. These poor folk have become the ghostly winds that constantly wail across these moors.

For those that do return, and this is a mere handful, strange tales of the supernatural and otherworldly follow them back.

Our tale takes place on Howden Moor.

Just below it, along the banks of Howden Reservoir, stands a stone memorial in memory of Tip, a sheepdog whose servitude and loyalty became a story of miracle and astonishment amongst the community who knew her and her master well.

Joe Tagg was a well-known figure in Derbyshire and even more so in the dwellings of Bamford and the Upper Derwent Valley - folk here called him ‘Old Joe’. He lived with his niece, Miss Helen Thorpe, at Yorkshire Bridge and had known these lands all of his life.

Born near Ronskley Moor, Old Joe was well accustomed to the wilds.

We join him in our tale at the age of eighty-six; a man hardened by the harsh winds and torrential rains of the Dark Peak; a man who had seen many Suns and many Moons rise and fall in this special part of the world. He could have been considered one of a few who truly knew these hills like the back of his hand.

Folktales are subject to elaboration through their retellings, yet what we are about to hear is largely all true. This tale is not about giants or magic, or spirits and gods. This is a humble tale about a dog looking after her master, but to an extent that might aswell be considered giant, magic or even saintly.

This story has no middle - least not one we can retell. It remains a mystery for those who remained in the safety of their homes that day.

We know the life of Joe and Tip. We know about their friends and family. We also know the exact dates when this event happened. But what happened high up on the moor in the Winter of 1953 could only be told by Tip.

Old Joe would often be found high up in the wilds of the Derwent Valley area on long walks or tending to his flock of sheep and on many occasions he would take refuge in fellow sheep farmers’ houses if he was ever caught out by Wind, Rain, Fog and Snow - the spirits that govern The Moorland.

On the 12th December, 1953, Joe and his trusted companion Tip headed out.

Some believe he was attempting to bring his flock down to lower pastures for safety, others believe he was heading towards his birthplace near Ronksley Moor.

Joe set off and only this tale would return.

Hours passed and light faded.

Something wasn't right.

A search party gathered in the valley and would soon set out in search of Joe and Tip.

But this would prove an impossible task.

The blasting tundra quickly disorientated even the most well-navigated minds and what was once home was now a bleak, white wilderness where voices were sucked in to the biting Easterly; paths and tracks were smothered by snow drifts; thick clouds merged with the ground.

They could not go on further for they too would have succumb to Joe and Tip's fate.

That was that.

The man who was born out of the moors had fallen victim to them. His final breath frozen in the air that was home to his first.

Winter would eventually loosen its icy-grip on the valley and by the end of March, the ice had begun to thaw.

Since Joe’s disappearance, no one had dared venture up in to the deep-snow but now The Moors were once again returning to their purple-green tones and the bogs were squelching. They were alive again.

On the 27th March 1954, two water-board men named Joe Shepherd and Samuel Bingham were out on Howden Moor.

Though Spring was on her way, Winter still held a grip on large sections of The Moor. The two chaps followed a soft track of sphagnum moss which squelched beneath their boots. Frozen heather and cottongrass flittered in the wind. Far away in the distance a mountain hare watched.

They soon discovered a strange mound.

This was no moorland species. Wool and grass had welded together.

It was sadly the body of Joe Tagg.

In some sort of bittersweet full-circle, Joe had become a part of the moorland.

Something was moving nearby which disturbed the lads.

A strange, feable creature hobbled and dragged itself towards Samuel.

Skeletal and chewed by the elements.

It was Tip.

For fifteen-weeks, in the harshest Winters this land had faced, Tip had not left her master's side. Loyal to the very end, and thereafter.

Tip was brought back down to civilisation much to the civilised’s surprise. She spent the rest of her days in Miss Thorpe’s care, she was happy and healthy but died a year later.

It is believed that the ghost or spirit of Tip still roams the area, continuing to protect the community she knew so well.

Many folk have reported to have seen her by the fire of a local pub - an omen that a harsh snowfall was approaching.