The A 666 a trunk road that runs across northern England from Penrith to Scotch Corner providing a link between the old Roman cities of Carlisle and York which were respectively Lughavalium and Eboracum to Romans was always notorious for accidents. That many car drivers and motorbikers came to grief was no surprise, the road crossed the Pennines, the backbone of England and in places as it traversed the high moors the road wound through deceptively sharp bends some of which had adverse cambers. On other stretches it was exposed to crosswinds and a sudden gust could snatch a vehicle out of its driver’s control. When the winter nights were cold and frosty, ice was a hazard too. In spite of all this the A666 is a magnet for speed merchants on two or four wheels. 

Most of the accidents can be explained by the reasons above but there was one spot known locally as Blood Corner or to the more dramatically minded as Bloodaxe Corner. Though it should not have been hazardous, not being particularly exposed to extreme weather Bloodaxe Corner claimed more victims that anywhere else on the ancient roadway. The route, which followed ancient pack horse trails taken by Celtic and Saxon traders as they criss crossed the country was passing through a wide valley when it suddenly deviated. There was no logical reason why the road curved through a wide arc, no river, no farmhouse or mire, no boulder deposited by Ice Age glaciers to form an obstacle.

Legends said the road veered from its natural line to bypass the grave of Erik Bloodaxe, a Viking warrior King who ruled the region over a thousand years earlier. Such things give rise to superstitions and the travellers had believed bad things would happen to anyone who disturbed the warrior’s resting place. These things persist in the darker niches of the human psyche however and drivers who survived their wreck told of spooks wandering into the road, unseen forces pulling the car off the road and even stranger things.

It was a dry, clear autumn night, cold but not frosty, as I drove the Jaguar towards Penrith, heading home after a business trip. I was going a good speed (why else would one drive a Jaguar) but not driving recklessly as I approached the hazardous place. There was no traffic around, it was late, after eleven, and country people have to be early risers so I was not distracted as I dropped the Jag a gear ready to accelerate of the crown of the bend. Then as I reached the apex, there he was, without warning, without logic, outside of what is sane and realistic, a horseman dressed in medieval clothes, leather and furs, a broadsword and battle axe hanging from his saddle, a shield. He had appeared on the workings where surveyors were making out the new path the road would take under an improvement scheme and spurred his horse into the path of my car. This was 1976 and superstition had been overruled by roads safety considerations. Bloodaxe Corner was being straightened. Perhaps this madman was some sort of protester.