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The white lady is an elusive yet somewhat prolific figure in local histories and superstitions. This female ghost is often associated with the haunting of a particular location and, as the name implies, she’s usually wearing a white dress. She has often been wronged and, in a bid for eternal vengeance, wrongs others. She exists across the UK in various forms, with The Paranormal Database, for example, citing over 25 entries for “woman in white”. My research narrows this to the region of Yorkshire, and a simple search for “white lady Yorkshire” brings up pages and pages of results showcasing her existence in Conisbrough, Sheffield, Thirsk, and Wadsley, to name but a few. The white lady or woman, then, seems to be a popular type of ghost.
The books on Yorkshire folklore cast scornful side-eyes at me from the shelves behind my desk as I opt for generic Google searches for my first and main research method. Yet, it isthis type of article that I am most drawn to discover, in which contemporary narratives existalongside a historical framework. What I find most interesting is folkloric legacy, and how lorecontinues to be passed on in a digital age: interest, intrigue, and so-named evidence continues toproliferate, not only in niche or strictly academic texts, but in popular news articles, blog posts,and across social media.
It was through one of these article deep-dives that I came across a scant piece of information from a 2005 comment on The Modern Antiquarian, who shared knowledge of a white lady haunting Danes Dyke, a nature reserve on Flamborough Head. Like the reserve, this spectral figure doesn’t appear to be well known or documented, though she does exist as a Jenny Gallows on The Paranormal Database, who cite her as a “pale female form” contributing to at least one death in the 19 th century.
Yet, as much as I was captivated by her (lack of) origins, I wasn’t familiar with her haunt. Danes Dyke is about an hour’s drive from my hometown, and whilst I frequented its nearby seaside locations, Flamborough and Bridlington, as a child, this particular cove was unknown to me. This lack of knowledge was quickly rectified through Instagram, as the rise of reels and videography has become a fantastic source for visual information - especially when becoming acquainted with the geography of an area.
I flicked through reel after reel of the white-pebbled beach, rock pools, calming waves, and endless blue skylines before stumbling across @the.yorkshireman’s, who offered a similarly idyllic view of the approaching forest and historic cove. It’s a breath-taking sight. But with all its beauty, there was an ugliness hidden beneath. In the comments, there were no heart-eye emojis and adjectives exclaiming how stunning, beautiful, and picturesque the reserve was, but hundreds of complaints decrying its social media exposure. Their claims of its potential ruin are not baseless, with frequent headlines over the year denoting the wreck of local beauty spots across the UK due to an increase of tourists. It seems that whilst social media brings with it the opportunity for shared knowledge, it also offers the more worrying potential for ruin. How could this secret place be uncovered to the masses? How can the heritage site remain a hidden gem, if revealed for all to visit?
Danes Dyke, as with many relatively unknown beauty spots, is not unlike the figure of the white lady: its existence comes with the perception that human presence will lead to its disturbance, to its unrest. And, like ghosts, hidden places do not want to be unsettled. Of course, despite these misgivings, I was encouraged to visit. From the car park, it was a relatively short stroll beneath a canopy of trees straight towards the cove. Sunlight peaked through the gaps in the leaves to form a spotlight walkway through to the beach, and when the treeline peeled away, the sky was a cobalt blue against the hilltops. I climbed up one of these mounds of earth to photograph the coastline. A council signpost at the entrance had stated that this cove was earthwork - a human-made bank - constructed during the Iron Age. It was near-impossible to picture the workmanship involved in the creation of such a bank, which stretches over 148 acres, and I couldn’t help but think that my - or anyone’s - photographs couldn’t capture the magnitude and depth of these cliffs. Below, red bricks and pebbles fell away to the palest chalkstone, which comprises the entirety of the beach at high tide. It was low tide when I arrived, however, and so the sand stretched out towards the retreating sea.
Two paragliders sailed above our heads with a seemingly effortless grace, veering away from the cliffs to hang over the water in what must be the greatest view of the cove. There were several families and older couples dotted across the beach; the odd paddleboarder bobbed along the water’s edge; a single kayak curved away from the coastguard’s yellow boat. But it was far from the crowded scenes I envisaged. Perhaps when the summer holidays are in full-swing, and the hunt is on to fill days with fun activities, it is far busier, but for now it still had the feel of a hidden gem. I cannot imagine returning anytime soon to find it so crammed with sunloungers and buckets and spades that the beach isn’t visible beneath.
Yet, I am fearful of how it might change. Could Danes Dyke be tarnished by the permanency of social media and its internet presence? In writing about it, am I, too, a small contributor in its future downfall? The perceived commodification of natural landscapes is also part of a larger debate fuelled by the growing intertwining of nature and social media. It questions whether the outdoors can truly be captured through the screen of a phone camera, and to what extent it encourages connection, rather than disconnect, with nature. There is a strangeness to watching others undertake a hike I might never experience - due to geography, training level, or financial means - or to view influencers engage with the natural world from inside the walls of my living room. Mostly, though, I find myself inspired by social media: with each new location or adventure I view second-hand, my list of places to one day truly experience grows larger, and my knowledge of the world, both local and widespread, continues to expand.
It returns us back to legacies, to shared knowledge. In a way, social media is just the latest form of haunting—residual reminders that recur over and over through analytics and algorithms. What must be ascertained is the delicate balance to preserve spaces through knowledge and to preserve their physicality. There remains only hope that the site is treated with respect for both its historical and current significance. The greater its preservation, the longer its legacy. In the end, the more opportunities there are to inspire people to explore new and often-overlooked areas of the northern coastline. For Danes Dyke in particular, it is a chance to marvel at the vastness of the sea, to learn about prehistoric communities, and - if you’re anything like me - to search the surrounding forest for the nooks and crevices in the landscape where a white lady might haunt, all in the hope she isn’t forgotten.
Links:
“Ghostly Women in White and White Women”, The Paranormal Database,
“Yorkshire Ghosts, Folklore and Forteana”, The Paranormal Database,
“Dane’s Dyke”, The Modern Antiquarian,
“The Yorkshireman”, Instagram,
“Danes Dyke Nature Reserve”, East Riding Coast & Countryside,
Header image: The beach at Danes' Dyke cc-by-sa/2.0 - © Maigheach-gheal - geograph.org.uk/p/606581
