Haunted Hampstead Walking Tour.

Hampstead is a delightful village perched on a hill 440 feet (135 metres) above sea level. There has been a settlement here for over a thousand years and from the Middle Ages onwards Londoners journeyed here to take the air, enjoy the fresh water or escape the plague raging in the city below. It was the arrival of poets such as Keats and Shelley and the artists Constable and Romney that helped establish Hampstead as a Bohemian village. Today it is still home to actors, film stars and writers. This walk is a relatively long one that begins with a stroll through the bustling village centre before striking off into the back streets in search of vampires and ghosts.

Much of the walk is spent crossing Hampstead Heath, which even today can be lonely, desolate and, if the conditions are right, quite frightening. Highlights include the eerie overgrown pathways of St John’s Church and a chance to unwind and seek out the ghosts at the splendid Spaniards Inn, once a haunt of highwayman Dick Turpin.

This quintessential Hampstead pub is cosy, snug and haunted. Local tradition maintains that a long time ago a doctor’s wife, for reasons long since forgotten, was murdered by her husband and bricked up in the lower depths of the house, now the pub’s cellar. Ever since, her ghost has rattled windows and slammed doors in the middle of the night, and generally disturbed the pub.

This section of the High Street is haunted by the ghost of a young girl who stands on the pavement looking sadly in at the windows of the pub. She wears a white shroud and her long plaited hair hangs untidily across her shoulders. She is said to be the phantom of a patient at a dental practice that once stood opposite. Following a particularly traumatic bout of oral treatment, the poor girl killed herself rather than keep her next appointment.

The graceful approach to the parish church was built in the 18th century and is considered the most attractive street in Hampstead. The writer William Makepeace Thackeray’s daughter Anne described it as ‘an avenue of Dutch, red-faced houses, leading demurely to the old church tower that stands, guarding its graves in the flowery churchyard’.

As it twists violently right and the ground beneath your feet changes to asphalt, you pass the tomb of the artist John Constable (1776–1837). Walk to the end of that path, go right and take the right uphill fork, passing beneath gigantic trees that give a shadowy stillness as you walk among the graves.

It has been suggested that this was the churchyard in which Bram Stoker (1847–1912) placed the vault that housed the undead Lucy Westenra in Dracula. The location is certainly eerie and sinister, and it is easy to imagine Van Helsing and Dr Seward standing by the tomb which:-

Once past the extension of the overgrown churchyard that lines the right side, you pass pretty Blenheim Place. The trim cottages that line the route date from 1813. Further on is the Catholic Church of St Mary’s, built in 1796 by and for refugees who fled their homeland during the French Revolution. Further on, a plaque on the wall at the junction with Holly Berry Lane commemorates the site of Hampstead’s first Police Station.

Turn right into Mount Vernon where, at Number 7, Robert Louis Stevenson (1850–1894), author of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, Treasure Island and many others, lodged on several occasions.

This gaslit, atmospheric old inn was once frequented by Boswell and Doctor Johnson. It also has associations with the painter George Romney, whose house still stands nearby. It was the stables of the house that became the Holly Bush Inn. The pub once had a long musical tradition, with jazz being played there on Sunday nights for many, many years. About forty years ago it was customary for a certain band leader to reward the pianist at the end of a performance with an encouraging slap on the back, a tradition still carried on by an unseen hand that the current piano player has felt across his back on several occasions.

If you choose to eat at the pub, and a waitress wearing a crisp white linen apron and a long dark skirt takes your order, don’t blame the staff if you have a long wait. ‘We don’t offer waitress service,’ says landlord Peter Dures. ‘People come up to the bar and order.’ Yet on more than one occasion Peter and his wife, Hazel, have found themselves confronted by irate customers, demanding to know why their lunch is taking so long to arrive. It transpires that they have given their order to a phantom waitress who, although very polite and obliging, never delivers the orders to the kitchen!

Number 5 was the home and studio of George Romney (1734–1802).

Admiral’s House, notable for its roof, which resembles a ship’s quarterdeck. It was adapted in 1791 by the then occupant, Lieutenant Fountain North, who used to fire a cannon from his roof to celebrate royal birthdays.

The property was immortalised by P.J Travers as Admiral Boom's house, Cherry Tree Lane, in her book Mary Poppins.

Next door, at Grove Lodge, John Galsworthy (1867–1933), author of the Forsyte Saga, lived.

Number 2 was the summer residence of John Constable and his family in 1821 and 1822. Constable completed several oil paintings here, including one of Admiral's House, and one of the shed in the back garden.

Judges’ Walk, traditionally held to be the place where justices came to take the air after they had fled London during the Great Plague of 1665.

This was Jack Straw’s Castle, a pub that was completely rebuilt following bomb damage in World War II. It was another favoured haunt of Charles Dickens, who spent many a happy hour at what he termed ‘a good ’ouse’ enjoying a ‘red hot chop for dinner’. Van Helsing and Dr Seward dined here before their midnight vigil at Lucy’s tomb. ‘Jack Straw’ was a generic name for farm labourers, and this was reputedly the rallying point for Hampstead labourers on their way to join Wat Tyler’s peasant revolt in 1381.

Sadly, the pub is now closed and is being converted into flats.

Spaniards Inn. This 16th-century hostelry was named for two Spanish brothers, joint proprietors who argued over a woman and killed each other in a duel.

Following this inauspicious start, the pub later became a reputed haunt of highwayman Dick Turpin, who is said to have stabled his mount, Black Bess, here, a remarkable achievement since Black Bess was a ficticious mount dreamed up by 19th Century author Harrison Ainsworth!

Fact, however, should never be allowed to get in the way of a good ghost story and so it is that her ghostly hoof beats are said to be heard galloping across the car park in the dead of night.

Turpin himself has been seen inside the pub – a shadowy, cloaked figure that strides purposefully across the bar then disappears into the wall. On the panelled first floor is Turpin’s Bar, where, in winter months, a roaring log fire crackles in an ancient fireplace, and customers have often felt an unseen hand tugging gently at their sleeves.

Two hundred years ago, this journey would have been undertaken only by the brave or the foolhardy. Records show dozens of attacks on travellers, many ending with murder. Even today you get the uncanny feeling that someone is watching from the dense woodland and bushes, waiting to pounce upon you at any moment.

Worse still is the ghostly, dark figure on horseback that comes riding from the thickets towards walkers. He has been seen by many people, including a Mrs Helen Steipel, who was so convinced she was about to be trampled to death by the horse’s hooves that she flung herself onto the muddy ground and waited for the impact. When nothing happened, she looked up to find both the rider and his mount had vanished. Only then did it dawn on her that, despite the apparent great speed at which they were travelling, there had been no sound from the horse’s hooves.

Vale of Health. This sleepy Hampstead corner acquired its picturesque name in 1802, when a malodorous, malarial swamp was drained to make way for the construction of numerous fashionable dwellings.

A grinning, toothless old man in a brown Norfolk jacket has been known to follow pedestrians along this stretch of road. So real does he appear that the first hint of his being anything more than living flesh and blood is his abrupt disappearance.

Cannon Hall, childhood home of the writer Daphne du Maurier (1907–1989).

Flask Tavern. This cosy old pub takes its name from the flasks that in the 18th century were sold here, to those who came to take the waters at the nearby springs.

It is haunted by a 19th-century landlord called Monty. A stickler for tradition, and totally opposed to change, he keeps a close eye on those who are now entrusted with the running of his pub. The 1997 redevelopment of the conservatory caused him considerable annoyance and he disrupted the work as often as he could. Upon its completion he made his disdain apparent by moving tables across the floor in front of astonished customers, and by switching off the lights.