The Cursed Goat's Head of Strumpshaw

The Mafia might have opted for a horse’s head in the bedroom, but in Strumpshaw, it was the haunted head of a goat that left villagers trembling for decades.

The Cursed Goats Head by Siofra Connor

For nearly 200 years, The Goat Inn was a cornerstone of village life in Strumpshaw, its name a nod to the rural setting rather than the cursed cranium that would come to define its eerie reputation. Yet, the strange tale of the goat’s head that refused to leave the inn where it was slaughtered became the stuff of legend in Broadland.

In 1908, Mrs. Newton, the landlord’s wife, was taken by a magnificent white goat brought to the pub by an itinerant pedlar. Enamoured with the creature, she bought it for half a crown. 

Years later, in a 1958 interview, 82-year-old Harry Thompson recalled slaughtering the goat to preserve its impressive head, which was then mounted behind the bar. With its long horns and beard, the goat’s head gazed balefully at patrons with unsettling black-and-hazel eyes.

But the goat’s tenure at the inn was far from peaceful. 

Landlord Frank Walpole, who took over in 1967, was far less enamoured with the relic than his predecessors. After a series of inexplicable occurrences—including mirrors flying off walls, the piano playing itself with the lid closed, and phantom figures appearing at night—he decided the goat had to go. 

His decision was cemented after a 17-year-old boy died in a car crash the day after touching the head.

“That made me think seriously about taking the head down,” said Frank. “Some of the regulars don’t like it, but it’s for the best.”

The Walpoles believed the malevolent spirit linked to the goat’s head might belong to Frank’s cousin Alfred, who died aboard HMS Harvester during World War II. 

The destroyer was torpedoed mid-Atlantic in 1943 after rescuing survivors from an American steamship: Alfred, just 26, was one of 183 men who perished. 

Seeking answers, the Walpoles consulted both a medium and a priest about exorcising the ghost.

Despite being removed and stored, the goat’s head couldn’t stay away. Regulars missed it, and two years later, it was reinstated - but misfortune followed its return. Family pets suffered tragic fates: a mynah bird dropped dead, a monkey succumbed to a head injury, one dog ran away, another died in labour, and its companion passed away shortly after.

In desperation, Frank removed the head once more. 

Strumpshaw Fen. CREDIT: Hugh Venables

On Valentine’s Day 1972, a local newspaper reported that he weighted it down and threw it into the River Yare, hoping to “drown the evil spell.” Within weeks, however, reed-cutter Alfred Stone spotted the goat’s head floating in Rockland Dyke, five miles from its watery grave.

The head passed to local farmer A. Loades, whose son Dennis decided to hang it in their barn, intending to start a museum. Misfortune struck almost immediately: dogs on the farm became aggressive, and Dennis’s grandmother suffered severe nosebleeds that required hospital treatment. The head was hastily returned to The Goat Inn, though no explanation was given.

By August, the goat’s head was discovered in a shallow grave at Strumpshaw gravel pit, described as looking “alive” in the ground. Spooky incidents continued—deflated tyres, a driver shot in the arm, terrified dogs—before the trail of the cursed relic finally went cold.

In 1984, The Goat Inn was renamed The Huntsman by new owner Paul Cornwall. Despite the pub’s rebranding, Cornwall was keen to restore the goat’s head to its former home. “I’m all for local superstitions,” he said. “I don’t believe in ghosts, but if you have to go, you might as well go by touching a goat’s head!”

Whether the head ever returned remains a mystery, but one thing is certain: Old Capricorn’s legacy still haunts Strumpshaw’s folklore.

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