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Strange character in woods Malin Bridge

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We were visiting Sheffield this week and went for a walk along the river through the woods from Malin Bridge to Rivelin paddling pools area. Between Malin Bridge and the fishing pond we came across a dark figure just stood staring. He just seemed to appear from nowhere. He was probably about 60ish dressed in dark clothing, hood up and a ruck sack. We were a bit unnerved but carried on towards him. When we got to him I said hello so as not to feel intimidated. He just stared straight through me, no emotion. We carried on a bit quicker now and kept looking back, he was still just standing there. Just wondered if anyone has seen him before or knows anything about him.

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sounds a bit odd,could be homless or a druggie

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Thing is we had just walked past the place where my husband's great grandfather had drowned in the river 1902. Understand why we were a bit spooked? This bloke had modern clothing on, not a cloth cap and clogs like his great grandfather.

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I new a lad (whose not with us anymore) who acted in exactly the same way as this . Pretty sure he was diagnosed as schizophrenic . He was harmless

Edited by hackey lad

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It was probably Pat Dickinson looking for a new camping site.

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It was probably Pat Dickinson looking for a new camping site.

 

No it can't be. He would have been stood in the river and you can't stop him talking! :hihi:

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Thing is we had just walked past the place where my husband's great grandfather had drowned in the river 1902. Understand why we were a bit spooked? This bloke had modern clothing on, not a cloth cap and clogs like his great grandfather.

 

Did he drown because of The Sheffield Floods ?

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It was probably Pat Dickinson looking for a new camping site.

heh i was gonna mention Pat

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This reminds me of my long lost brother.

 

It was a dark moonlight night and the strong sunlight burnt my neck as I hurried on down the steep sloping uphill valley side in the meadow, by the stream, above the tree line. I heard the distant church bell chime 8 o'clock and knew it would soon be getting dark as dawn had broken, the sun had long since sunk behind the last sand dune, the morning dew had burnt off the barren mountain peaks that surrounded me and the tide had ebbed leaving the estuary dry as the boats bobbed in the gentle breeze.

 

I paused at the kissing gate to let a long line of weary travellers weighed down by their heavy packs yet each leading a single mule burdoned by bounty bound for the Far East, negotiate the gate before me. Some engaged me in conversation regarding the next train due in and what was the fastest broadband, though I misunderstood and heard greyhound, but fortunately, I was completely alone with not another soul to speak to as I patiently answered each question in turn regarding the winner of the Derby Epsom and where they could buy salts.

 

And there he stood before me. A woman of some tender twenty or so years, lithe and bent with age, almost completely naked save for a single pair of clogs and top hat, a fur coat made of heavy woven material, thick wolled [ it was a new fashion of rolled and woolen] stockings that showed the reddened skin beneath, bare footed, a soiled vest, gaberdine, fishing waders, fur lined parka, cycling mits and full face helmet, hooded with a pony tail hanging down her back. The long silken dark hair shaven to within millimetres that shone golden in the moonlit afternoon sun as it hung loose, tied tightly in a bun, with sausage and red sauce.

 

It struck me as odd. Why not brown sauce I wondered? And the top hat clearly bore the marks where a miner's lamp had once been. It seamed I had to dig deeper.

 

And then as if by magic the pony walked away and the tale was gone. The mists that surrounded us evaporated as quickly as Tuesday follows Thursday and a voice whipsered down the valley clear as a ball above the howling wolf and wind swept desert with a cherry on top, that my labotomy had been a complete success and each window looked out on the gentle circles of rising trout that gathered in the car park below.

 

Gluttons may scoff but its true. I may have bitten off more than I could eschew.

 

As for my Grandad, if only he hadn't gone on that fateful day to the Old Mill, he'd have lived to marry my mother and given birth to himself and been my own brother.

Edited by Owethemnowt

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