Back in the olden times, like way back, before even 1998 — we’re talking the 17somethings — salt, the stuff you might sprinkle liberally on your chips, was a valuable commodity with a similar value to iPhones, though mostly only because of the high taxes imposed on it by wigged gentlefolk in London. Often people would risk life and limb to smuggle small amounts to sprinkle liberally on their chips.

So it comes as no surprise that with such high value, chaps with tricorn hats would “import” the salt from the continent and transport it across foggy moors in the dead of night. Quite often with those square lead paned lanterns and pre-COVID fashion facecoverings.

This “trade” was rife in the north of England where it was often hazardous for law men to be arsed to do anything — especially because of its remoteness. However, on one particularly dark and stormy night, a savvy young customs and excise chap who could be arsed, got wind of salt smuggling shenannigans at the aptly named Saltergate Inn high up on the North Yorkshire Moors.

 Barging into the inn in the dead of night, as one does when dizzy on the power invested in you by law enforcement types, our erstwhile customs chap rumbles the dodgy geezers doing salty things — and, with the chips surely down — ends up being bopped on the bonce and buried under the hearth in case of other lawmen trying to cash in on the shifty salters. 

Of course, you can’t just bop someone on the bonce and hope they’ll stay buried. Therfore, it was agreed that a fire be lit in the hearth to keep any undead spooks arising and causing hoohars and, indeed, if you let the fire go out, then the undead will rise and cause no end of hoohars — and probably put you off your salty chips.  And there the fire burned — burned and burned — for many years. Even on my visit to the inn in 1998 — the fire was a burning — all peaty and lovely smelling. 

Then sometime in the past 20 years — the pub was abandoned and pulled down — the fire going out for ever.

I often wonder if the ghost of our canny customs officer is wandering around North Yorkshire moors wondering what the jiggery all those fast moving horseless carriages are and where he can get some decent chips from…you know…for the salt…