The Longdendale Valley, in the north of the county and close to the town of Glossop is absolutely rife with myths and legends; probably more than anywhere else in the region. In fact, there are so many legends attached to this area that in 1906 the author Thomas Middleton wrote ‘LEGENDS of LONGDENDALE. Being a Series of Tales Founded upon the Folk-lore of Longdendale Valley and its Neighbourhood.’ This book comprises twenty three tales from the area. Why the Longdendale Valley is so rich in myths and legends is not clear. However - as its name would suggest - it is a very long valley and is part of a main east-west route that can be traced roughly from Hull to Manchester. This means that it has been extensively travelled, over many centuries and travellers leave tales behind. With that said, here is the tale of …
Picture credit. https://justhistoryposts.com/2020/11/30/mythical-creatures-a-history-of-european-werewolves/
THE WEREWOLF OF LONGDENDALE
The old abbot of Basingwerk flopped down into the ‘Abbot’s Chair’ and mopped his sweating and tonsured pate. It had been a long trek from his abbey, near the North Wales’ coast, but he had taken on the journey without complaint. The so-called ‘Abbot’s Chair’ was carved from a solid stone and set upon the western end of the great Longdendale Valley, just shy of the town of Glossop, which had but recently been gifted to the monks of Basingwerk by good King Henry. It was the abbot’s responsibility, therefore, to regularly make the sixty five mile journey, so he could tend to the troubles and woes of the good people who now fell under his jurisdiction.
The abbot spent the first half of his day collecting the tithes due to the abbey and listening to the woes and complaints of the local folk; mostly complaints about stolen sheep and wandering spouses, making the old abbot realise that Wales and England were not nearly so different as their inhabitants would like to think. As the sun reached midday, a bent old lady shuffled forward, her frame as crooked and gnarled as the hawthorn stick she leant upon, bent double double by the burden of woes she so clearly carried. The old lady’s tears flowed down the wrinkles in her ancient skin, like streams on the moors above Longdendale itself, as she told her sorry tale.
“Oh Father Abbot,” wept the crone “I have lately been beset by an enemy, who has delivered all manner of evil upon me and for what, I have no clue. First, my dear old husband died of an unknown malady, shortly followed by the deaths of my children of the same mysterious sickness. If this weren’t punishment enough, all my cattle have but recently withered and died too, just like my dear family. And only this morning I discovered all my crops have failed from a blight yet unseen in the parts.”
There were deep murmurings amongst the gathered crowd, many of whom seemed well aware of the evil the old woman had suffered and were crossing themselves accordingly.
“My poor child!” Replied the Abbot, clearly shocked by this evil news “And who, pray tell, is this enemy of whom you speak?”
“She is a witch!” An intake of breath, sharp as a winter wind, blew through the crowd “Her name is Black Anna, though none know where she lives and no living man has set eyes upon her and survived to tell the tale. For it is said that she can change her shape to any beast she wishes!”
This was a tale of evil such as the Abbot had never encountered before and even he crossed himself and kissed the rude wooden cross that hung at his breast. Ever a man of action, the old Abbot gave the crone money enough to pay her rent and help her through the coming year, then he pronounced a curse upon the witch:
“May the hand of Heaven fall upon this wicked mortal and in whatever shape she be at the present moment, may that shape cling to her until justice has been done!” He then proclaimed “Fear not, for the righteous wrath of heaven will fall upon this witch and a bitter death will assuredly be her portion, before she visits her eternal punishment in Hell!”
Now it just so happened that at the very moment the Abbot was proclaiming his curse, Black Anna was in the form of a werewolf, prowling the forests of Longdendale, looking for a hapless victim or two. By great fortune, Black Anna was not the only person in the forests at this time. King Henry II was visiting the Baron of Ashton-under-Lyne, Lord of Longdendale and, along with the king’s son, Prince Henry and various knights and noblemen, had gone on a royal hunt in the forests. At this time, Longdendale Forest was renowned for its rich offerings of game, being full of deer and - reputedly - the largest boars in the realm. As was the tradition, the hunters would scour every square inch of the forest, driving the game before them. Of course, if the Abbot’s curse were true, then the witch would not be able to change into a bird and fly away or change back to human form and appear as a harmless old woman or, indeed, simply disappear, instead, she would be forced forward with all the other beasts.
The day’s hunting proceeded well for the royal party, with them slaying several ‘British Tigers’; a name for the striped wild boar of the medieval forests, in those days. The greatest glory, however, fell upon the shoulders of Lord of Longdendale, who, after slaying many boar, finally slew what all agreed to be the greatest boar ever seen, in the county. Now, young Prince Henry was quite jealous of the Baron’s hunting prowess and set himself upon trying to exceed or, at least, emulate the Baron’s trophy. Now history will tell you that Prince Henry was a gracious and generous prince, but it will also tell you that he was vain and irresponsible too; lacking his father’s shrewd intelligence. With this in mind, the young prince quietly headed into the gloomiest part of the forest.
Prince Henry had not gone far under the dark canopy, when, erupting from the dense undergrowth and skeletal roots of gnarled oaks sprang a gigantic werewolf; red in tooth and claw, if ever a beast matched the saying. At the first lunge, the prince’s trusty steed, causing the werewolf to miss them by a talon’s breadth and crash into the bole of a nearby tree. The supernatural beast recovered almost immediately and turned for its next attack. Vain and irresponsible Prince Henry may have been, but he was also a skilled warrior and he thrust his hunting spear twice into the werewolf’s side. The beast howled in pain, but not as a wolf would, for its voice was more human than that. The werewolf staggered back, ripping the spear from the prince’s grasp and from out of its side, bringing to its jaws where it bit the weapon clean in half. Shocked, but not cowed, Prince Henry drew his hunting and buried it hilt-deep in the beast’s chest, as it made its next attack. Again another humanoid scream erupted from the beast, chilling the prince’s heart to its core.
The battle between the prince and the werebeast continued unabated, with neither side giving nor expecting mercy. Eventually though the prince began to tire, for he was but a mortal man and not a beast of dark magic. The werewolf finally dragged him from his horse and they fell to grappling upon the ground. The prince had his gauntleted hands around the werewolf’s throat, but his strength was fading fast. All seemed lost, until the thunder of hooves shook the forest floor and the Baron of Ashton crashed into the scene of battle and finally hewed the wolf’s head from its shoulders, ending its evil once and for all.
From the Forest of Longdendale the werewolf’s carcass was transported to Baron’s castle at Ashton-under-Lyne, whereupon it was cut asunder and from its belly dropped the heads of three infants, which it had consumed that very morning. Later that day, the Abbot of Basingwerk arrived and told that royal and noble party of his curse upon the witch. Upon hearing this, a forester stepped forward and claimed that he had been hiding in the wood that very morning, all the better to flush game, when he had seen a giant wolf, walking as a man, but tearing at its skin as if to undress from it. All the while it moaned and cried, not as a wolf, but as an old lady might. All agreed that it was undoubtedly the witch and that the Abbot’s curse had indeed trapped it in its werewolf form. Not strange to say, but the witch was never seen nor heard of in Longdendale again, from that day to this.
© Simon Unsworth 2025
The old abbot of Basingwerk flopped down into the ‘Abbot’s Chair’ and mopped his sweating and tonsured pate. It had been a long trek from his abbey, near the North Wales’ coast, but he had taken on the journey without complaint. The so-called ‘Abbot’s Chair’ was carved from a solid stone and set upon the western end of the great Longdendale Valley, just shy of the town of Glossop, which had but recently been gifted to the monks of Basingwerk by good King Henry. It was the abbot’s responsibility, therefore, to regularly make the sixty five mile journey, so he could tend to the troubles and woes of the good people who now fell under his jurisdiction.
The abbot spent the first half of his day collecting the tithes due to the abbey and listening to the woes and complaints of the local folk; mostly complaints about stolen sheep and wandering spouses, making the old abbot realise that Wales and England were not nearly so different as their inhabitants would like to think. As the sun reached midday, a bent old lady shuffled forward, her frame as crooked and gnarled as the hawthorn stick she leant upon, bent double double by the burden of woes she so clearly carried. The old lady’s tears flowed down the wrinkles in her ancient skin, like streams on the moors above Longdendale itself, as she told her sorry tale.
“Oh Father Abbot,” wept the crone “I have lately been beset by an enemy, who has delivered all manner of evil upon me and for what, I have no clue. First, my dear old husband died of an unknown malady, shortly followed by the deaths of my children of the same mysterious sickness. If this weren’t punishment enough, all my cattle have but recently withered and died too, just like my dear family. And only this morning I discovered all my crops have failed from a blight yet unseen in the parts.”
There were deep murmurings amongst the gathered crowd, many of whom seemed well aware of the evil the old woman had suffered and were crossing themselves accordingly.
“My poor child!” Replied the Abbot, clearly shocked by this evil news “And who, pray tell, is this enemy of whom you speak?”
“She is a witch!” An intake of breath, sharp as a winter wind, blew through the crowd “Her name is Black Anna, though none know where she lives and no living man has set eyes upon her and survived to tell the tale. For it is said that she can change her shape to any beast she wishes!”
This was a tale of evil such as the Abbot had never encountered before and even he crossed himself and kissed the rude wooden cross that hung at his breast. Ever a man of action, the old Abbot gave the crone money enough to pay her rent and help her through the coming year, then he pronounced a curse upon the witch:
“May the hand of Heaven fall upon this wicked mortal and in whatever shape she be at the present moment, may that shape cling to her until justice has been done!” He then proclaimed “Fear not, for the righteous wrath of heaven will fall upon this witch and a bitter death will assuredly be her portion, before she visits her eternal punishment in Hell!”
Now it just so happened that at the very moment the Abbot was proclaiming his curse, Black Anna was in the form of a werewolf, prowling the forests of Longdendale, looking for a hapless victim or two. By great fortune, Black Anna was not the only person in the forests at this time. King Henry II was visiting the Baron of Ashton-under-Lyne, Lord of Longdendale and, along with the king’s son, Prince Henry and various knights and noblemen, had gone on a royal hunt in the forests. At this time, Longdendale Forest was renowned for its rich offerings of game, being full of deer and - reputedly - the largest boars in the realm. As was the tradition, the hunters would scour every square inch of the forest, driving the game before them. Of course, if the Abbot’s curse were true, then the witch would not be able to change into a bird and fly away or change back to human form and appear as a harmless old woman or, indeed, simply disappear, instead, she would be forced forward with all the other beasts.
The day’s hunting proceeded well for the royal party, with them slaying several ‘British Tigers’; a name for the striped wild boar of the medieval forests, in those days. The greatest glory, however, fell upon the shoulders of Lord of Longdendale, who, after slaying many boar, finally slew what all agreed to be the greatest boar ever seen, in the county. Now, young Prince Henry was quite jealous of the Baron’s hunting prowess and set himself upon trying to exceed or, at least, emulate the Baron’s trophy. Now history will tell you that Prince Henry was a gracious and generous prince, but it will also tell you that he was vain and irresponsible too; lacking his father’s shrewd intelligence. With this in mind, the young prince quietly headed into the gloomiest part of the forest.
Prince Henry had not gone far under the dark canopy, when, erupting from the dense undergrowth and skeletal roots of gnarled oaks sprang a gigantic werewolf; red in tooth and claw, if ever a beast matched the saying. At the first lunge, the prince’s trusty steed, causing the werewolf to miss them by a talon’s breadth and crash into the bole of a nearby tree. The supernatural beast recovered almost immediately and turned for its next attack. Vain and irresponsible Prince Henry may have been, but he was also a skilled warrior and he thrust his hunting spear twice into the werewolf’s side. The beast howled in pain, but not as a wolf would, for its voice was more human than that. The werewolf staggered back, ripping the spear from the prince’s grasp and from out of its side, bringing to its jaws where it bit the weapon clean in half. Shocked, but not cowed, Prince Henry drew his hunting and buried it hilt-deep in the beast’s chest, as it made its next attack. Again another humanoid scream erupted from the beast, chilling the prince’s heart to its core.
The battle between the prince and the werebeast continued unabated, with neither side giving nor expecting mercy. Eventually though the prince began to tire, for he was but a mortal man and not a beast of dark magic. The werewolf finally dragged him from his horse and they fell to grappling upon the ground. The prince had his gauntleted hands around the werewolf’s throat, but his strength was fading fast. All seemed lost, until the thunder of hooves shook the forest floor and the Baron of Ashton crashed into the scene of battle and finally hewed the wolf’s head from its shoulders, ending its evil once and for all.
From the Forest of Longdendale the werewolf’s carcass was transported to Baron’s castle at Ashton-under-Lyne, whereupon it was cut asunder and from its belly dropped the heads of three infants, which it had consumed that very morning. Later that day, the Abbot of Basingwerk arrived and told that royal and noble party of his curse upon the witch. Upon hearing this, a forester stepped forward and claimed that he had been hiding in the wood that very morning, all the better to flush game, when he had seen a giant wolf, walking as a man, but tearing at its skin as if to undress from it. All the while it moaned and cried, not as a wolf, but as an old lady might. All agreed that it was undoubtedly the witch and that the Abbot’s curse had indeed trapped it in its werewolf form. Not strange to say, but the witch was never seen nor heard of in Longdendale again, from that day to this.
© Simon Unsworth 2025