Yesterday, on the penultimate day before Kielder Forest Drive closes for the winter season, I did what any self-respecting lover of eerie landscapes and seasonal hauntings would do and went straight into the heart of it. It was the kind of trip that felt half like an adventure and half like an omen.
The sky was grey and filled with rain when we set off, but by the time we were winding our way high into the forest, something shifted. It got colder and the rain turned to snow; the soft, drifting kind.
There was something undeniably magical about being caught in unexpected snowfall. The world narrowed and we were given a brief glimpse of how it might look during the months when the 12-mile stretch of road is closed to traffic.
When we’d first began on the forest drive, I’d noticed a sign that said ‘Witch Holes’. Now, any other person might shrug indifferently and carry on. But I write about ghosts and hauntings and all manner of spooky stuff, so my imagination immediately went into overdrive.
What on earth is a Witch Hole?
I still don’t know. Google doesn’t seem to know either. And the forest drive offered no explanation.
My first theory was the deep and plentiful potholes on the track. It’s a bumpy old ride, and probably not one for cars with low suspension.
But then we hit another Kielder feature. Zero phone signal. Vast digital silence.
And I couldn’t help thinking, maybe these were the Witch Holes. Little pockets of witchy interference where modern magic (4G and 5G) simply collapses. It certainly felt like passing through invisible patches of older power. The kind that doesn’t care about your sat nav or your need to check the weather.
It’s easy to imagine that, whatever they are, Witch Holes mark places where boundaries thin. Where the forest folds in on itself. Where something old watches from the shadows of the fir trees.
Driving that forest road on its second-to-last open day felt like slipping into a story that wasn’t entirely ours. A final glimpse. A door about to close. And it gave me a hint of winter ghosts to come.
R. H. DIXON 