Chapter 15: Herefordshire

Rustic and basic, the ancient county of Herefordshire is world-famous for its big bulls. From Patagonia to Pretoria, cowmen praise the hairy, horny beasts for their dexterity and culture. The county is also renowned for its cider apples, which are grown in Europe. Canoeists bike through its gorgeous countryside every summer, when it’s hot, and walkers drive through its valleys in the winter, when it’s cold. The core city, Hereford, features a cathedral-sized church which houses the famous Mappa Mundi, the world’s first world map. All very nice – but the county also has its own fair share of ghosts, ghouls and other horrors…

The River Wye has many typical river-like qualities: it’s wet; it winds. Sweeping through the centre of Herefordshire, every spring children gather at its banks to watch swans dive for pennies. All very nice, but according to folklore, this friendly-looking waterway was born of the most ferocious nastiness.

It is said that, long ago, three sisters – Janet, Janice and Joplin – were squabbling about who among them was the most beautiful. Their vapid debate continued into the late afternoon until, by chance, a passing hag caught wind of the boring conversation. “Girls,” said the hag, “who cares who’s the most beautiful? Beauty’s very largely a subjective thing anyway; besides which, you all look pretty good to me. You’re young and fit and have lovely figures and so on. Stop yapping bollocks and enjoy your lives.”

Affronted, Janet retorted: “Wtf? We’re only fucking about. Can’t a girl talk rubbish in a field without being chastised? Get to fuck with you.”

Affronted, the hag retorted: “You’ve some lip on you, I’ll give you that. Reel it in, bitch.”

“The fuck I will,” retorted Janet, “who the fuck are you anyway? Some kind of passing hag?”

At this point Joplin and Janice, both affronted, also retorted, but what their retorts were have been lost to History’s opaque tides. 

“Ah,” grinned the hag, “ya all want some, do ya?”

At this point a melee began, right there in a delicate meadow thousands of years ago. Being old and weak, the hag was easily overcome, battered and, finally, killed by the much younger and more agile sisters. Coming to their senses, the slaughtering siblings were suddenly overcome with remorse and fear. “Poor hag!” yelled Joplin. “What have we done?” queried Janice. “We’re fucked,” concluded Janet. The three quickly resolved to hide the body by digging a big hole and tossing it in [to it]. Under the drooping late-afternoon sun, they clawed at the earth with their bare diggers, until…they struck a mighty spring. The highly-pressured subterranean waters gushed violently into the charming evening skies. Soaked and shocked the sisters panicked: “I think we’d better get the fuck out of here,” screamed Janet. The others agreed, so they all pegged it. In their cowardly wake, the punctured spring disgorged oceans of sparkling water that quickly pooled and began to sliver downwards, which water is wont to do to this day. Within weeks, a many-miles-long watercourse was merrily gushing its way, through the caprice of land and gravity’s authority, towards the sea. And thus, the Wye was born.

Today, the river is mostly phosphates, kindly donated by a number of enterprising American businesses that have buttressed its banks with chicken living quarters.