I SPENT my childhood in a moorland village said by Arthur Mee to be “cut off from the world by the moors”.

That was Glaisdale which could have been considered remote until it was jerked into the industrial age by the erection of three blast furnaces that processed the iron ore mined locally.

It was then despatched to the rapidly growing industrial Teesside. That industrial era of Glaisdale was short-lived, starting in 1866 and terminating in 1876.

By the time of my birth in 1936, however, that industrial site had concluded its role and the site was reverting to agricultural land although, in the meantime, the village had been expanded by houses built to accommodate the iron-ore workers. Quite suddenly, the village was busy with shops and inns, the latter attracting salmon fishermen to the River Esk.

Quite amazingly, the transformation from industrial site to tourist destination was swift and effective although one of the inns, for a time owned by my grandfather, was known as The Three Blast Furnaces. Wisely, Grandad Rhea changed its name to Anglers’ Rest, but it is now a private house.

With the disappearance of its short-lived industry, Glaisdale reverted to a peaceful and calm community in the depths of the North York Moors, halfway along the River Esk that flows from Esklets near Westerdale into the North Sea at Whitby. It is a flood-prone journey of about 24 miles, but is the only river in the North York Moors to flow from west to east.

Despite the many changes to Glaisdale it retains a remarkable amount of folklore ranging from the 17th century Beggar’s Bridge that spans the Esk to the story of the Hart Hall Hob.

There is also a collection of wrongly-named witch posts and tales of Robin Hood and his Merry Men hiding in nearby Arncliffe Wood that spreads towards Egton Bridge.

The folklore of England has an amazing capacity for survival in spite of the arrival of television, the use of handheld radios, computers, mobile phones and other gadgets.

In the past, it was books that helped discover folklore although word-of-mouth remains an effective way of perpetuating such tales.

However, sales of books are declining so whether our folktales will survive in the face of such change is debatable. As libraries continue to close, so the number of book sales declines.

It is arguable whether folklore is fact or fiction – for example, did such creatures as hobs actually exist? Is the romantic story of Beggar’s Bridge really true and did Robin Hood and his Merry Men regularly hide in a cave in Arncliffe Wood?

And if the so-called witch-posts were not installed to keep the house free from witches, then what was their purpose? And ghost stories are not usually featured in collections of folktales.

Here is a brief look at some moorland folklore. Moorland hobs are recorded at Hart Hall Farm, Glaisdale and at a Farndale farm, in caves near Sutton Bank and one in a cave at Runswick Bay.

In all cases, they are dwarf-like little men who worked at night in secret without wearing any clothes except a rough sark (shirt). They demanded nothing in return for their labours and grew angry if someone donated clothing or food as a thank-you. All they asked for was a glass of fresh cream when their work was finished. So did they really exist?

Robin Hood gave his name to Robin Hood’s Bay, but did he and his merry men actually hide in Arncliffe Wood when the Sheriff of Nottingham’s men got too close at Robin Hood’s Bay? And did he excavate a tunnel between the Bay and Glaisdale?

With regard to Beggar’s Bridge at Glaisdale, was it built to allow Tom Ferris to meet his girl friend without getting his feet wet? Or was there a more practical purpose? It allowed laden packhorses to cross so perhaps Ferris, a powerful businessman, had an eye on profits?

And finally, the witchposts of the moors did not acquire that name until the 20th century although the posts were in place in the 17th century.

Contrary to many reports, they are not made of rowan wood, a witch deterrent, but are of solid oak and feature on inglenook hearths only around the North York Moors, except for six in Rawtenstall, Lancashire.

My research indicates they are the work of the Egton-born Martyr of the Moors, Father Nicholas Postgate (c1599-1679) who used the X-mark to symbolise the Five Wounds of Christ.

It has appeared on altar stones, tunics of the Crusaders and other locations to signify oppression of the Catholic Church. And Postgate’s assistant during his Mission of the Moors was Father John Marsh of Lancashire – and I have found similar X-marked posts in Holland where they indicate Catholic households.