Upstream of the Cartford Inn, where the river bends, a stile and a gate lead into a field. On the right stands a thicket of trees, marking the spot where Ike the rat catcher (renowned for his wonderful stories, especially the unrepeatable tale of the farm girl and the hunchback) once lived. A few Novembers ago a workman was tidying up the car park at dusk when a sturdy figure came wobbling and creaking on an ancient bike. The workman noted that the bike seemed to be strewn with bags and bundles. The cyclist lumbered past. The workman saw him reach out to unfasten the gate, then fade into the mist. Curiosity aroused, the workman followed. There was no cyclist, there were no tyre tracks in the mud and the gate was firmly and rustily padlocked. The workman legged it to the warmth and safety of the inn. A local veteran recognized the description, down to the creaky bike and the bags of traps and poisons hung about it. The cyclist had been, without a doubt, the long-dead Ike.
Ike has been seen several times, always in November. So should you leave your car on that car park, pause for a moment and listen. The creak and rattle you hear may be the faraway echo of a seventeenth century stagecoach – or simply a memory of Ike coming home for his tea.
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