The Ghost of John Buckle: Inkberrow’s Most Haunting Tale

 

The Ghost of John Buckle: Inkberrow’s Most Haunting Tale

It’s funny how a place as peaceful as Inkberrow can carry such chilling stories beneath its quiet beauty. You walk through the village today, framed by rolling Worcestershire fields and timeless hedgerows, and it’s hard to imagine anything sinister ever happening here. But every countryside inn, every winding lane, and every moss-covered milestone has its stories. And one of Inkberrow’s most enduring is that of John Buckle, a farmer whose spirit is said to roam the lanes between the Bull Inn and Kington to this very day.

I first heard the tale from a local who swore blind it was true. “Ask anyone in Inkberrow,” they said. “They’ll tell you about John Buckle. Lost his head, he did - and still rides the lane when the wind’s up.”

That’s the sort of thing you can’t quite leave alone, isn’t it? So let’s take ourselves back to a stormy night in the late 1700s, when the roads were mud, the lamps were oil, and the Bull Inn was the beating heart of this small Worcestershire village.

The Ale, the Storm, and the Long Ride Home

John Buckle was a farmer from the Hamlet of Kington, not far from Inkberrow. A sturdy man, broad-shouldered from years on the land, known to be good-humoured and a bit of a storyteller himself. He’d been at Alcester Market that day, selling grain and livestock, and the plan was to meet a friend at the Bull Inn afterwards.

But that night, the weather had other ideas. The wind came in wild from the west, and rain lashed the thatch and timbers of every building. The lanes turned to rivers of brown water. His friend, wisely, stayed home.

Still, John Buckle wasn’t one to waste a good evening. He tied up his horse and cart in the courtyard and joined the regulars by the fire. The Bull Inn, even then, was known for its warmth and ale. Tankards clinked, laughter echoed, and the storm outside was almost forgotten — almost.

Time slipped by, as it does in good company. When John finally stood, the clock was nearing midnight. The fire was dying down, and the last few embers glowed in the grate. The landlord, they say, warned him to stay the night. The roads were treacherous, and the rain had made the yard slick.

But John laughed it off. “I’ll be fine,” he said, pulling on his greatcoat. “The horse knows the way better than I do.”

Those, as it turned out, were his last words.

Death in the Courtyard

The night was black as pitch. No moon, no stars, just the flicker of a lantern and the sound of the wind howling between the eaves. As John led his horse out into the courtyard, something startled the animal — a crack of thunder, perhaps, or a gust that rattled the shutters. The horse bolted, the cart jolted, and before anyone could reach him, the cart overturned.

When they found John, it was a sight no one would ever forget. The wheel had crushed him, severing his head clean from his shoulders. His body lay sprawled in the mud, his lifeless eyes staring up into the storm. His horse stood trembling nearby, its breath steaming in the cold night air.

They buried him a few days later, quietly and quickly, in the churchyard not far from the Bull Inn. The vicar said prayers, the villagers shook their heads, and life in Inkberrow carried on — at least, for a while.

But a death that violent doesn’t rest easy. And that’s where the haunting begins.

A Hundred Years Later

For a century, the story of John Buckle lingered like a shadow in village memory. Children dared one another to walk past the Bull Inn after dark. Travellers spoke of strange sounds on the lanes — the creak of wooden wheels, the clop of unseen hooves. But no one claimed to see him.

Not until Frederick Rice, that is.

It was the late 1800s, and Frederick was cycling home from Worcester on a misty autumn evening. The countryside was quiet. Just the rustle of leaves and the faint hum of his tyres on the damp road. By then, horse-drawn carts were a rarity. The world was changing fast, and bicycles were the new marvel of modern transport.

But somewhere near Inkberrow, as he rode through a narrow lane lined with elms and hawthorn, Frederick heard it — the steady rhythm of hooves on the road behind him. At first, he thought little of it. Perhaps a farmer late from the market. Yet the sound drew closer, faster, louder. The rattle of wheels joined in, and the air seemed to vibrate with the weight of something approaching.

Frederick turned his head to look.

And there he was.

A ghostly figure, dressed in 18th-century garb, seated upright on a wooden cart. The horse’s eyes glowed faintly, its form half-transparent, steam rising though there was no warmth. And on the driver’s lap — cradled like a grotesque child — rested a head. The pale face of John Buckle stared straight ahead, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, as though he were about to speak.

Frederick froze. Then panic took him. His bicycle veered, the wheels skidding in the wet mud. He tumbled into the ditch and lay there trembling as the spectral cart thundered past, its wheels silent yet deafening, its driver headless and terrible.

When they found him the next morning, he was still in that ditch. Drenched, shivering, and muttering incoherently about the ghost of a man with his head in his lap. His hair — once dark as coal — had turned white overnight.

The Haunting of Inkberrow

Since that night, the ghost of John Buckle has been part of Inkberrow’s lore. Locals will tell you that on wild, stormy evenings, when the wind whips across the fields and rain drums against the windows, you might still hear the rattle of wheels echoing down the lanes. Some say they’ve glimpsed a flicker of light near the Bull Inn courtyard, as if a lantern sways in unseen hands. Others speak of a cold chill that grips the air near Kington, where John’s farm once stood.

The Bull Inn itself, now a welcoming pub and a favourite stop for visitors exploring the Worcestershire countryside, still carries whispers of the past. The courtyard, cobbled and charming, looks innocent enough by daylight. But stand there at midnight, when the moon is hidden and the mist curls low, and it’s easy to feel watched.

The story of John Buckle isn’t just a ghost tale — it’s a reminder that the countryside holds its secrets close. The lanes that lead between villages, the hedgerows that seem to breathe in the dusk, the very air has memory.

A Walk Through History

If you ever visit Inkberrow, you’ll find it’s not hard to imagine this story unfolding. The village sits on the old coaching route between Worcester and Alcester, surrounded by rolling farmland and the gentle rise of the Vale of Evesham. The Bull Inn still stands proudly at its heart, with its traditional beams and low ceilings, its fires burning bright in the colder months.

From there, a walk or cycle along the narrow country roads takes you past ancient oaks and meadows, fields of wheat, and cottages that have likely stood since John Buckle’s time. As dusk falls, the light softens into gold, the mist rises from the hollows, and the past feels very near indeed.

For those who love a bit of eerie history, there’s something magical about it. You can almost hear the echo of hooves on the lanes, the creak of wood and iron, the low murmur of voices long gone.

Inkberrow’s Living Legend

Every village in England seems to have its ghost — a lady in white, a lost monk, a headless horseman. But Inkberrow’s tale feels different somehow. Maybe it’s because John Buckle was an ordinary man. Not a villain, not a noble, just a farmer making his way home on a stormy night. And maybe that’s why his story endures.

It’s not just about fear. It’s about the thin line between the living and the dead, between what’s remembered and what’s forgotten. It’s about the countryside itself — a place of beauty, yes, but also of mystery.

Next time you find yourself in Inkberrow, stop for a pint at the Bull Inn. Sit by the fire, listen to the wind outside, and raise your glass to John Buckle. And if you hear the faint rumble of a cart on the road as you leave, don’t look back too quickly.

After all, the lanes of Worcestershire have long memories.

Would you dare to walk them at midnight?