Mexborough & Swinton Times – Friday 19 August 1932
Lost On the Moors
Wombwell Hiker’s Eerie Experience
A Night in a Shepherd’s Hut
Anxious Parents
A Wombwell hiker has had an experience that only the genuine “roughneck” would envy. He knows what it is to spend a night on the lonely moors and will not forget it as long as he lives. Drenched to the skin, footsore and weary, aching in every bone, and hemmed in by a fog that nothing could penetrate, he sought shelter in a tumble-down shepherd’s hut.
Meanwhile his disappearance had caused widespread anxiety, and the police of two counties were making diligent enquiries for him. While search parties, on foot and awheel, were still searching the moors, he returned hungry and exhausted to his distracted parents. In the neighbourhood in which he lives smiles have now taken the place of looks of grave anxiety, but the hiker himself is not yet in the mood for smiling at his adventures.
His experience was anything but a pleasant one, and he states flatly that he is through with lone hiking.
Lost In The Mist.
The “hero” of this story is Maurice Beevers, the 17-year-old stepon of Mr. Fred Mitchell, miner, and an official of the Darfield Main branch of the Y.M.A., of 148, Hough Lane, Wombwell. He is the oldest of the family. Beevers told a “South Yorkshire Times” representative that last week-end he made arrangements to go for a tramp on the moors with three friends, Stanley Parrish and Aubrey and Arnold Davis, who live in the Barnsley Road district. In order that he could join his friends at the bus station at Wombwell he asked his mother to call him about 7 o’clock, but the family slept too long, and it was turned 8 o’clock before he got away. By that time Parrish and the Davis boys had gone ahead, making to Wombwell Main and Worsboro’ Dale to reach the moors. Beevers was somewhat annoyed at missing the ‘bus, but he left the house with a cheerful “Good morning,” and proceeded through Stairfoot to Barnsley with the idea of joining his friends. At Barnsley he took a Traction ‘bus, and eventually reached Langsett, from which point be struck across Midhope Moore and through Ewden Valley, keeping to the road round Bolsterstone and Bradfield.
As the day wore on he decided to turn round towards home, and accordingly , retraced steps with a view to traversing lovely Slippery Stones on his way back to the Flouch Inn, between Woodhead and Langsett, where he contemplated rejoining the ‘bus for Barnsley and home.
It is obvious from the details of his subsequent movements that he lost his bearings altogether and was wandering aimlessly for several hours in an endeavour to find a sheep track or a road of some description. He said that in no direction could he see signs of any habitation or any landmark with which he was familiar. Night drew on and then he had the unnerving experience of seeing dense clouds of white vapour rolling over the hills toward him. Soon he was completely enveloped and his vision was limited to a few feet. Blindly, he struggled on, sometimes stumbling over loose stones, and on one occasion at least he fell headlong into a rushing stream which was hidden by bracken, and the remains of an old well “For a few moments,” he said, “I seemed to be completely beaten by exhaustion and once when I fell down I thought I should not be able to rise again. I must have walked miles and miles and my feet were almost too tender to put to the ground. The fog seemed to penetrate my system, and then to add to my difficulties rain began to fall and I was quickly wet through to the skin. The bread I was carrying in my haversack was soon converted into pulp. At this stage I caught sight of what appeared to be a shepherd’s hut and realising that I was completely lost I decided to seek this shelter in the hope that when morning came round the fog would have lifted and I should be able to get to Barnsley again.”
Over Trackless Hills.
Describing this building Beavers said it was perhaps a little larger than an ordinary sized pigsty. The walls were low and broken, and only a small portion of the roof remained. The earth floor was grass grown in portions and litter had been scattered about, apparently with the intention of making bedding for the sheep. The wind whistled eerily through the cracks. Looking round for a dry place he failed to find one, but eventually found an even spot and tried to get rest. What little clothing he had he made the best use of, putting down his light mackintosh in an endeavour to make a dry bed, and wrapping his pullover round his feet. He had no jacket, no waistcoat, and no cap, and his trousers and shirt were wet through. To sleep in this condition was almost impossible but he managed to get a few snatches. Occasionally he peered out of the hut only to find that the fog was as thick as ever.
When daylight came the atmosphere cleared somewhat and he noticed that he had a number of companions. Rabbits appeared from the rocks all round, and frightened grouse that had escaped the early guns fluttered about as though they were thoroughly scared. During the night he had heard not a sound save for the fitful soughing of a wet wind and the distant bleating of sheep. By this time he was beginning to feel the effects of long exposure and, gathering a few dry sticks and bracken together he decided to make a fire. His heart fell when he discovered that the three matches he was carrying in his haversack were soaked with rain and would not strike. He got down again to wait for the fog to lift. The rising sun brought a clearer atmosphere and, partly recovered from his exhaustion, he struck out again in an effort to find a road. “I stumbled along over trackless hills,” he said, “for about six hours and I must have travelled many miles over mountains and streams before I caught sight of a farmer haymaking in a distant field. After much more scrambling I managed to reach him, and he must have been amazed at my appearance. He was very sympathetic. I first asked him which was the best way to Langsett, and he replied. ‘You will never get there to-day lad, it is nearly 30 miles to the Flouch.’ I realised then how far I had wandered out of my course. The farmer’s wife offered me food, and when I told her I had only ls. 5d. in my pocket she said, ‘I could not take anything from you lad!'”
A Strange Meeting.
At the farmer’s direction, Beevers then made his way towards Ashopton and, strange to say, the first person he met on the way was a personal acquaintance, Alfred Brown, of York Street, West Melton! Brown, who is a member of the Wombwell F.C. Supporters Club along with Beavers, works at Manvers Main Colliery and was enjoying a run on his bicycle around the moors. Like a good Samaritan he gave Beavers food and afterwards stopped a motor car in which a commercial traveller took the wanderer to Sheffield. It was now late in the afternoon. Beevers had not sufficient money to get to Wombwell by train, so he decided to go round by Rotherham and Rawmarsh, taking the tramcars as far as he could. When he reached Wombwell in an unkempt condition late in the evening he was instantly recognised by friends who had been informed of his disappearance.
A man named Fred Anderson said, “They are looking for you.” His unheralded appearance at home was a great relief to his mother who had been in a state of tearful anxiety all day.
Beevers’s boots testified to the severity of the ordeal through which he had passed. They were practically new when be set off, but when he returned the soles were hanging from the uppers. He had been on them for 36 hours and had travelled some of the roughest country to be found anywhere. Interviewed on Tuesday when he was back at his work at the Gas Works Show Rooms in High Street, he said that apart from a stiff neck and sore bones he felt none the worse for his experience. Unable to get a pair of boots his feet he had had to turn out in sandshoes. He said he had only a limited experience of hiking and the next time he went it would be with friends. He said he would never have attempted to cross the moors alone on this occasion except that he felt confident that he could find the track which he traversed with his friends last Easter. Also he had an idea he would come across the other three youths. He had no watch and had no idea what time it was until he reached Sheffield.
On Sunday night Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell were too anxious to go to bed and the first thing they did on Monday was to inform the police, who readily undertook to get in touch with the police at Langsett and Derbyshire. Friends quickly rallied round and a number, including George Askew, George Thorpe, Irvin Taylor and Stanley Parrish, set off to scour the moors on bicycles. Mr. Askew, who is an ambulance man had not ridden a bicycle for six years, but with a borrowed machine he toured the moors in the Flouch district and covered altogether about 50 miles and was very exhausted when he returned. When the party gathered at Mr. Mitchell’s house on Monday evening cares had been dispelled and many a hearty laugh was enjoyed over the day’s adventures. Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell asked us to express appreciation of the helpfulness of the police and all others.