TOUR OF TERROR
Jul 06, 2021
4 minutes
Words: Amanda Vlietstra.
![chatfateuk2108_article_052_01_01](https://article-imgs.scribdassets.com/8yu6r5pny88sbo72/images/fileSR7D7CHO.jpg)
![chatfateuk2108_article_052_01_02](https://article-imgs.scribdassets.com/8yu6r5pny88sbo72/images/fileK4FE2ZIZ.jpg)
![chatfateuk2108_article_052_01_03](https://article-imgs.scribdassets.com/8yu6r5pny88sbo72/images/fileOHVQ89NT.jpg)
![chatfateuk2108_article_052_01_04](https://article-imgs.scribdassets.com/8yu6r5pny88sbo72/images/fileOD2OOGI8.jpg)
Joanna Jackson Cowell from Nottinghamshire
There was nothing about the attractive, white-stoned inn that suggested I’d get anything other than a good night’s sleep there. My husband Pete and I had booked a night at The Old Ferryboat Inn in St Ives, Cambridgeshire for ourselves and my mum.
I was looking forward to a relaxing stay in this lovely inn – said to be one of the oldest pubs in the country.
‘Shall we go for a drink in the bar, love?’ Pete suggested, and I nodded eagerly.
We headed down to the bar – where, to my surprise, there was what looked like a gravestone built into the floor.
‘What on earth is that?’ I asked the bartender.
You’re reading a preview, subscribe to read more.
Start your free 30 days