We were on our way from Buxton to Scotland, the drive stretching out ahead of us, miles and miles of open road. We’d been talking for hours about everything and nothing, the usual banter, when suddenly, there it was – a sign for Escomb Saxon Church.

I don’t know what made Si turn off the main road, but something about it, the old name, the promise of something ancient, called to us. We’d been making good time, but we both agreed that a quick detour wouldn’t hurt. A piece of history, a bit of the unknown – it sounded perfect.

The winding road took us through the kind of countryside that makes you feel like you’ve stepped into another time. As we approached the church, I half-expected a set of knights on horseback to come charging past. It’s set on its own in the centre of the village, surrounded by graves and trees, quiet and still. You’d almost miss it if you weren’t paying attention.

The church itself was small, but you could feel the weight of its age as soon as you arrived. The stone walls were thick and cool. It was so peaceful – so calm – that you couldn’t help but imagine how it must’ve looked in the 7th century when it was first built. You could almost hear the prayers echoing from centuries ago, or maybe that was just me, letting my imagination run wild.

As we walked further into the churchyard, the temperature seemed to drop. I swear, it felt like we were being watched. I couldn’t explain it, but the air had changed. It felt… alive with something, like the church had its own history still walking around. I did some quick digging later and found out that Escomb Church has a few ghost stories of its own.

The most famous one is about the crying child. Apparently, it’s the spirit of a young boy who was lost in a raid all those years ago. His family, desperate for comfort, came to this church, but he never made it out. Locals say you can hear his crying at night, wandering the church, searching for his family. Some say it’s just a legend, others swear they’ve heard it too.

Then, there’s the monk. Some folks believe the spirit of a monk still roams the church, guarding it, keeping it safe from the world outside. Apparently, he was a protector back in the day, standing watch over the church and its people. Now, his footsteps echo in the stone halls, long after the church has fallen quiet. You could almost feel his presence, like he was just on the edge of your vision, watching, waiting.

And if that wasn’t strange enough, there’s the bell ringer. The story goes that he tragically fell from the tower during a late-night ringing. Since then, people say they can hear the faint sound of the bell tolling at odd hours, even though the bell hasn’t rung in years.

We didn’t hear it ourselves, but the air definitely felt like it was holding something back – like a secret waiting to be told.Despite all the stories, there was something peaceful about Escomb Church.

The ghosts – if they were there – weren’t threatening. They are just part of the church’s story, not something to be scared of. The place has a quiet, welcoming energy now. Like a memory that’s settled into the stone, something that doesn’t need to be feared, just remembered.

We didn’t stay long – just enough to let the stories sink in before hitting the road again. But Escomb Saxon Church, tucked away in that quiet corner of the countryside, definitely left an impression.

And if you’re ever passing through, it’s worth stopping, if only to experience a place where history, both human and spectral, still lingers.