Fitz

Stoker even bases the cargo of his Demeter on that of the real-life Dimitri, which was carrying a ballast of silver sand. Although Bram added to this a number of wooden boxes of earth, or mould, as it is sometimes described, from the Count's homeland.

Stoker even bases the cargo of his Demeter on that of the real-life Dimitri, which was carrying a ballast of silver sand. Although Bram added to this a number of wooden boxes of earth, or mould, as it is sometimes described, from the Count's homeland.

The real Dimitri was from Narva which is in modern day Estonia but back in the 19th century the ship really was referred to as a Russian schooner or brigantine and although it was not in fact steered by the hand of a dead man its dramatic entry into port and subsequent wreck was still shocking to local onlookers and would have been the talk of the town for a long time.

The real Dimitri was from Narva which is in modern day Estonia but back in the 19th century the ship really was referred to as a Russian schooner or brigantine and although it was not in fact steered by the hand of a dead man its dramatic entry into port and subsequent wreck was still shocking to local onlookers and would have been the talk of the town for a long time.

In fact, it was still fresh in the memories of locals when Bram Stoker was doing his explorations and research, and he was told all about the event during his conversations with Whitby residents. And with overtones of foreboding baked into the real-life event, it's small wonder it ended up finding a place on the pages of Stoker's novel.

In fact, it was still fresh in the memories of locals when Bram Stoker was doing his explorations and research, and he was told all about the event during his conversations with Whitby residents. And with overtones of foreboding baked into the real-life event, it's small wonder it ended up finding a place on the pages of Stoker's novel.

We found these accounts of the real event on Heritage Gateway's Historic England research records. Severe Gale, Whitby A storm of great violence visited the north-east coast on Saturday, accompanied by torrents of rain. About an hour after the stranding of the Mary and Agnes, another vessel was sighted a few miles out, flying signals of distress.

We found these accounts of the real event on Heritage Gateway's Historic England research records. Severe Gale, Whitby A storm of great violence visited the north-east coast on Saturday, accompanied by torrents of rain. About an hour after the stranding of the Mary and Agnes, another vessel was sighted a few miles out, flying signals of distress.

The gale was then at its height, and the sea even more dangerous than before. Another lifeboat, the Harriet Portith, was got out. A little excitement prevailed among the thousands of people on shore, for it seemed certain that if the vessel was cast upon the rocks, she would be immediately dashed to pieces and the crew drowned.

The gale was then at its height, and the sea even more dangerous than before. Another lifeboat, the Harriet Portith, was got out. A little excitement prevailed among the thousands of people on shore, for it seemed certain that if the vessel was cast upon the rocks, she would be immediately dashed to pieces and the crew drowned.

The craft, however, steered straight for the port, and by good seamanship got into the harbour safely. Two pilots were in waiting, and at once gave instruction to those on board, but meanwhile the captain, not realising the necessity of keeping on her steerage, allowed her to fall off and lowered sail, thus causing the vessel to swing towards the sand on the east side of the harbour.

The craft, however, steered straight for the port, and by good seamanship got into the harbour safely. Two pilots were in waiting, and at once gave instruction to those on board, but meanwhile the captain, not realising the necessity of keeping on her steerage, allowed her to fall off and lowered sail, thus causing the vessel to swing towards the sand on the east side of the harbour.

On seeing this danger the anchor was dropped, but they found no hold and she drifted into Collier's hope and struck the ground. She was purported to be the schooner Dmitri of Narva, Russia, Captain Siki with a crew of seven hands, ballasted with silver sand.

On seeing this danger the anchor was dropped, but they found no hold and she drifted into Collier's hope and struck the ground. She was purported to be the schooner Dmitri of Narva, Russia, Captain Siki with a crew of seven hands, ballasted with silver sand.

During the night of Saturday the men worked incessantly upon her that her masts went by the board, and on Sunday morning she lay high and dry, a broken and complete wreck, firmly embedded in the sand.

During the night of Saturday the men worked incessantly upon her that her masts went by the board, and on Sunday morning she lay high and dry, a broken and complete wreck, firmly embedded in the sand.

Throughout Dracula, the Count assumes many forms, including those of a bat, of mist, and, as we see here, of a large black dog. Some of these forms are based on vampire folklore and legend, but the dog harkens back to a legend that's deeply entrenched, not just throughout Yorkshire, but across many areas of England. From county to county, details change, the law, the description and the name.

Throughout Dracula, the Count assumes many forms, including those of a bat, of mist, and, as we see here, of a large black dog. Some of these forms are based on vampire folklore and legend, but the dog harkens back to a legend that's deeply entrenched, not just throughout Yorkshire, but across many areas of England. From county to county, details change, the law, the description and the name.

In other towns, we may call it Old Padfoot, Guy Trash or Shuck, but here in Whitby, it's called the Barguest. In times past, just the mention of this harbinger of doom would be enough to send a shudder down people's spines. For sighting one of these huge black beasts with their infernal flaming red eyes was almost always a portent of ill fortune.

In other towns, we may call it Old Padfoot, Guy Trash or Shuck, but here in Whitby, it's called the Barguest. In times past, just the mention of this harbinger of doom would be enough to send a shudder down people's spines. For sighting one of these huge black beasts with their infernal flaming red eyes was almost always a portent of ill fortune.