I have a good friend who, enjoying the fruits of a somewhat more remunerative career than I, maintains a house in France as well as several in the United Kingdom....
Paul (who has already appeared several times in these memoires ) bought his ancient Bretagne farmouse some years ago, and often spends his free time alone at the property continuing the somewhat protracted modernisation process that will eventually have created a valuable and unique rustic retreat.
My friend, it should be said, is of a somewhat stoic nature: he maintains what might be typified as an 'open mind' about the paranormal and, while he has experienced a number of outre occurences during his 55 years, he still considers himself yet to be persuaded of their significance.....
But some months ago, Paul's convictions were stretched to their limits in the following fashion:-

Having spent two or three uneventful days and nights at the farmouse, Paul awoke and rubbed his eyes open to find himself looking at a totally unfamiliar vista. Instead of the expected stripped pine, minimalist Ikea furnishings and chrome down-lighters, my friend was surrounded by what he could only later describe as a scene from medieval France: rich tapestries hung at the walls: dark, bare floorboards were strewn with hay and rushes, while gone was the velux double glazing, to be replaced by small, wooden-shuttered window-slits.

Unfamiliar (and not over-pleasant) aromas assailed his nostrils, while a haze of wood smoke hanging in the air stung his eyes. These, Paul rubbed furiously to stop the smarting: on reopening them he found everything had returned to normal. Each morning of his further four days, this amazing experience was repeated! Paul has yet to summon the courage to leave his bed without blinking to see what might lie beyond the bedroom door!

Recently, I received a letter (with the promise of more tales to come!) from a Welsh soldier by the name of Gareth:-

Hi David!
Sorry for the delay, I've been climbing all weekend and am absolutely kn**kered, but here goes!

In March of 1990 I was on exercise with my unit at an old World War One camp in Crowborough, Sussex ( Think that's the correct spelling) . The camp itself had been an embarkation camp early on in the War and later a convalescent camp for the wounded, as its rural location was perfect for hiding the soldiers away from the public eye.

Since then it has been in more or less regular use by the army. The majority of the old huts had long been demolished by the time I visited, but some of the original ones remained. The two that stick in my mind most of all were the NAAFI and the Washrooms, both relics of the first World War, and in the case of the Washrooms utterly untouched and still in use.

I am fortunate enough to come from a family that has long regarded the spirit world as been a fact of life, in the same way as one may regard meeting a friend on a street. So I don't disregard what I see, but I also don't sensationalise it either:- it's just a window on to another plane.

Anyway, I was shaving in the washroom one morning by myself.... As I lifted my face up to the mirror, my eyes were taken away from the foam on my face to a figure standing behind me to my right. I found myself staring face to face with a man about six feet tall, with a ginger moustache and wearing a World War One uniform. I remember focusing on his eyes and they were the saddest eyes I have ever seen: an almost deep penetrating pity radiated from them. As I say, I don't faze easily with the spirit world, but this one was different in a way that I cannot explain. My initial thought was that his eyes were sad because he had left this camp never to return, and that somehow he had remained here after death. All this must have gone on for about thirty seconds before I put my head back down to the basin and then looked up again. The man had gone and I was left standing alone in the old washroom with a very definite chill down my spine.

I never did see him again, but I often wonder about those eyes. You see, it wasn't long after that the first Gulf War occurred, and I wonder if those eyes were sad not for the past, but for the future........

Although I live in the South east now, Iam originally from just outside Glasgow. When I was about 8 or 9 my parents decided that we should look for a new home. They took us to look at a large cottage on the edge of an estate, which had once been a gatekeepers house and was now on the open market.

I can't remember that much about the house itself, but when it came time to look around upstairs, I do remember standing at the bottom, looking up and saying to my parents that I was not going up there! When I looked up, there was a file of people coming downstairs and I was afraid that I would get pushed and somehow fall down. I was really upset, and I can remember crying as my father tried to persuade me to go up the stairs.
Needless to say, we didn't buy the house!

Years later, as an adult, I reminded my dad of the cottage we went to view. I asked him if it was some sort of open house day, for there to be so many people there. His reply stunned me:

Recently, after a split with my husband, I went to have my cards read and the lady who did them made a point of asking me if i realized that I was extremely spiritual. I relayed this story to her and she told me that I had indeed seen a group of lost souls. This was not the only incident like this that happened to me as a child. The psychic told me that one of my many guardian angels is a sister of mercy and I do believe that I have seen her in my room, again around the same age. Hope you find this tale of some interest.....