England’s Last Wolf

January 27, 2017

A few months ago I had reason to visit an ancient landscape that holds deep memories of a pivotal time in our history.

On a finger of land that reaches out into Morecambe Bay it is said that a final vestige of England’s wildness was destroyed and as I took my first tentative steps onto the rabbit shorn peninsula the weight bore down on me.

Under the blue streaked sky of a late summer’s afternoon a pastoral landscape appeared to mould itself to the rocky strata, the green velvet turf not quite stretching to the end of the white limestone rocks that met with the muddy sands of the foreshore.

Was Humphrey Head Point about to give up it’s secrets I wondered.

The Wolf Story

There are various stories woven around the stunted hawthorns of this wind battered headland and I share here the one that wears my experience as a close fitting cloak.

As you journey with me into the past bear in mind that other tales may have equal voice in the telling of this sorrow.

The year is 1392 and the local king of Cark had sworn to kill the last of England’s wolves, the bitch who roamed the fells and forests of his domain.

So keen was he to claim this prize that he declared that the man who should complete the task would win the much desired hand of his niece in marriage along with half of his kingdom.

Sir John Harrington had had his eye on this fine lady for a long time and in fact had quite a crush on her, however being a bit of a cad he’d displeased the local king and was sent away to war in a distant foreign land. It was assumed he was felled on some far flung battlefield as nothing more was heard of him.

However this was not the case and word of this challenge soon reached the ears of Sir John. He schemed up a plan to seize his chance and, disguising himself with a new name he returned to the Forests of Cartmell to win his bride. Delisle was now his name, for a while at least.

With his men at arms he reached the forests and his hounds soon picked up the lonely scent of wolf. The chase was on. The wolf led them through the forests, right up to the River Duddon and back down around Lake Windermere before heading west through Cark once more.

The niece waited for news, no doubt wondering about the man who may yet win her hand and happened to be walking on Humphrey Head Point as the wolf flushed by, running for her life.

Shocked, she followed the horsemen to witness the events that conspired at the lapping of the Irish Sea as high tide reached the tingle of sea pinks on the foreshore.

Delisle drove his mount over a limestone gorge knowing it would fail to make the leap and as the horse fell to it’s death he grasped the branches of a sapling and hauled himself to safety.

Unsheathing his sword he advanced down the promontory onto which the wolf had run and, accompanied by his men, hunted her down. Eventually he cornered her against the risen tide and spilled her blood on the limestone.

The king, bowled over by his success forgave Sir John Harrington for his past misdeeds and willingly gave his niece over to him, along with half his kingdom.

It is said that the couple lived happily ever after, but we all know that a part of England’s wildness died that day.

A Night on Humphrey Head

As I explored the landscape I made a decision that I would sleep that night on that last bit of land, just above the high tide line. I was aware of the heaviness of the place and wanted to see if I could dream the wolf into my being.

As the sun smouldered on the west horizon I found my place, surrounded by those same sea pink blooms, cushioned by soft sea blown turf.

In the middle of the night she came to me. Her amber eyes piercing mine she told me her story in a split second that hung in the night sky like a black hole.

Without words the dark tale flowed into my being as a thick syrup that took weeks to untangle and weave into language.

Here is what I witnessed through the eyes of England’s Last Wolf:

The edge of life met the rising tide as wolf ran headlong along the headland.
Panting her last dark breath to the dancing butterflies she fled on aching limbs.
The tang of sea pricked her eyes as shout and horsebeat followed.
Under twisted thorn and gnarly ash she lopped her last strides on this wild shore.
Deep inside she knew the curse of the death of England’s last wolf.

Amber eyes wise and sad, she saw visions of her kin,
watching in silence from the other realm as she ran to join them.

Shoulders heaving she made the rocks and turned to face her foes.
Sea pinks and stranded shells stood as witness to the new age about to dawn.
The Irish tide stilled at it’s zenith, a hundred eyes lowered.
A cloud of shame rolled in to cover the sun as darkness rent the air.
She knew the curse her death would bring as did the land whose love she felt.

There they stood on the green, rabbit shorn turf, sunset blood glinting off cold steel blade.
Shod in silken hunting cape Sir Harrington held ground,
feet firm, face flushed, his work almost done.

His men at arms kept hounds at bay as his hot temper rose within.
Sword grasped firm he knew his time had come to rid the land of wild.
Somewhere deep roiled a serpent, a weakness took his knees.

He stared into the amber eyes that spoke ‘you know not what you do’.
He must keep face, a maiden watched, his mission would be done.
No bloody dog would take his grace, the death blow must be dealt.
Hind paws licked by sorry sea, she paused and caught her breath
Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, England what will you do!

The Irish Sea spoke softened words, as spirits mustered close
and in her own ocean of life 4 pups stilled and paused their play.
She faced him down, fire eyes, iron muscle, lope shank, queen.
The taste of blood stifled her final howl, that call to the underworld gods.
As blue steel cut into her heart rending the world in two.

Rich crimson stained the limestone rocks, smattering the pinks with a death hue.
Oh England what have you done, cried the sea goddess from her deeps
Silence fell over the realms as now the wolf was gone.
Wild blood sunk through the veins of rock to the fae realm
and there she waits. Her time will come. One day her wildness will run in you.

England’s shores were simply no longer fit to hold so sacred an animal. It became clear that this land with its boundaries, borders, hedges and laws had no room for her majesty.

She had to leave. Wolf had no place here any more. Yet I sensed that ‘her time will come’. That her wildness will return.

A Message of Hope

As I woke the following morning I was greeted with an exhilarating sunrise that engoldened the mudflats out into the bay and picked out the shapes of rabbits feeding on the sea-washed turf. There was without a doubt a message of hope held within the morning light.

We know how the return of wolf brings untold benefits to the landscape as biodiversity increases, this short video goes some way to explain the changes the wolf brings.

Not only did the wolf radically increase the number of animals and plants in Yellowstone National Park within a few years of their reintroduction, they also changed the course of the rivers.

If you’ve not already seen this story I urge you to click the link and treat yourself to 4 minutes of good news.

Bringing Home Our Wolf

So, what happens when we bring home our own wolf? One of our teachers, mythologist and story-carrier Dr Martin Shaw, speaks often about our wild twin. That version of us that is thrown out at birth, the you and I that wants to be truly wild and authentic. The missing part of us that we can spend our lives trying to find again.

Our wild twin is our wolf self, the part of us that needs to be heard and welcomed back as we begin to awaken and press against the confines of our invisible walls and cage bars.

Of course being wild doesn’t mean being abandoned, hedonistic and chaotically destructive.

To know this we need only return our gaze to the wolf community once more and watch how they care for their elders and their young, how they value community, play and are so fully connected to the life around them, bringing bounty and abundance for all.

Being wolf, being wild means being characterful, being true, walking our talk, owning our own power and having control of our own destiny. It also means not neglecting that which nurtures us and having a healthy degree of self love.

Perhaps by welcoming home our inner wolf we can begin to tune our lives with what it means to be truly human again, to find that part of us that was thrown out of the window when we were born and to live a full, stylish and honourable life.

We can take great comfort in the fact that over 30 million people have watched the return of the wolves video, it resonates so much with our deeper needs.

Preparing The Ground

Remember though that much preparation is needed before wolves are reintroduced to a land they’ve been missing from for many decades.

No doubt in Yellowstone years of meetings with farmers and other concerned groups would have smoothed the way. Surveys would have been taken, research would have been carried out and the landscape assessed for it’s readiness to welcome back such wildness. Otherwise it could have been a very bumpy ride for all concerned.

So what can we take from this. Surely we too need to prepare the inner landscape of our heart before we let the lead slip on our inner wolf.

We need to ensure our own environment is ready to welcome the rich landscape that is our own future possibility and tend the ground in preparation for the walk of those sacred wild paws.

How can we do this? As we explored this topic in our drumming circles five words came forth from our groups. Creativity. Community. Connection. Celebration. Ceremony. Perhaps by stepping more fully into each of these five areas we can begin to prepare a room in our heart that will welcome our own inner wild. As the future unravels we’ll be bringing these elements to the fore as we build our clan.

The time for your wildness has come.

Wolf portrait by Nigel Rowe-Greene

About the Author


Jason has been a visual storyteller all of his life and follows an animistic, shamanic path from his ancestral lands of Anglezarke on the edge of the West Pennine Moors.
Formerly a professional photographer and film maker he now uses his art to help others fall in love with the land that little bit more.

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  1. I realise with gratitude that I have been led here. To learn of her, her fight, her grace as she transitioned to her relatives was heart breaking, heart warming and empowering. What a gift that she came to show you. Your retelling is done with such magic and dignity. Thank you. I resonate deeply with my wolf relatives – I strongly feel a connection by being led here to dwell on my new pathway taking me from the north west across the Irish Sea. She spoke to me – I am so grateful for her spirit. I am so grateful for your sharing.

  2. Beautiful words, eloquently written,
    Heartfelt ?
    I live in Newcastleton with my Pack of Husky/Malamutes
    Canines are my Spiritual Guides,
    I will have to make a Pilgrimage to Humphrey Head Point to pay may respects.

    Thank you,
    Love and Peace

  3. I learned recently that the old English word for the howl of the wolf is ‘ull’. We have Ullswater, Ullapool, Ellesmere, all places where there once wolves. I am fascinated by Malamutes, dogs with more than a hint of wolf about them:


    Malamute dog
    your eyes are blue.
    Wolf is your middle name.
    You inhabit your skin strangely;
    your fur twitches when I touch you.
    Your dreams are of faraway snows
    and geese flying to freedom
    over the tundra.

    In your belly is the beast;
    on your paws the scent of jasmine lingers.

    Your eyes are blue.

    O Malamute,
    my dress has come undone.
    My middle name is vixen.

    My skin shrinks when you touch me;
    my dreams are of huskies chasing
    over the pure impossible snow,
    and the white hare is dead.
    I hear you calling,
    Malamute, further and further away,
    and wolves howl in the darkness of the forest.

    My eyes are blue.

      1. Thanks!
        There are not many poems about wolves – perhaps I should write some more. They are (in story and legend anyway) cunning, hungry,
        loveable, ruthless, and loyal. Man’s best friend gone bad. Another poems:
        The Terrible Tale Of The Three Little Pigs
        The three little pigs lived in the wood
        Nibbling acorns as good pigs should.
        But there was a wolf, bold bad and strong
        Who liked to eat piglet, though he knew it was wrong.

        When they heard about Wolf they decided to act
        And build themselves houses in case of attack.
        They built themselves houses as if demented
        Of straw, wood and what not (before cement was invented.)

        The wolf fancied pork for tea, and blew the first house down.
        The second house fared no better. The piglets fled to town
        Where they learned about the properties of quick-setting cement
        And made another house so strong Wolf gave up pork for Lent.

        Then Wolf became a builder of houses made for pigs.
        At first they were suspicious but the piglets needed digs,
        So Wolf became their landlord and started charging rent.
        Then one pig disappeared one day and they wondered where he went.

        That Wolf was a real villain they quickly did discover
        When Piggy Three’s half chewed remains were uncovered by his brother.
        The other pigs accused the Wolf of this disgusting deed
        And Wolf just smiled and licked his lips; he was very pleased indeed.

        So never trust a landlord who eats bacon baps for tea
        If you’re a pig in need of lodgings and a wolf gives you the key.

  4. Thank you Jason. Your writing is so moving and the photography is beautiful.
    Inner wolf and wild twin are new concepts for me, but ones that offer me hope for the new phase my life has entered. Much to think about!
    Thank you.

  5. Thank you for sharing the story of the last wolf her spirit lives in all when we choose to walk our path, stand in our own power and not conform by keeping the wildness within our soul.

  6. A good while ago whilst camping in the woods at Manjushri Buddhist Centre whilst on the spring retreat, I was in my tent when I was visited by a wolf spirit. A dark shadow with piercing eyes, who bared his or her fangs at me!! Was I frightened? More wary to be honest, though I remember my hairs standing up on the back of my neck. I asked him or her, if they wanted something to eat, and at that point they disappeared! Prior to this event I was visited regularly in my dreams by wolves chasing me, but was lucky enough to be protected by trees who picked up the wolves and threw them away! Since the tent incident I have not been troubled by wolf spirits. Any connection? I am not sure, but it is not too far from Silverstone from Morecambe!

    1. What an interesting story Mark. I’m not sure if there’s any connection here but who knows. There could well be. Thank you for sharing.

  7. You put me on the edge of tears, so filled with sadness at your tale. I have been in Yellowstone, I have seen the wolves and the bison and the splendid diversity they claimed the wolves would destroy. They were wrong. I hold in my heart a vision of the Great Caledonian Forest, with wolves and beaver and wild boar living free. I was told it once by someone who carried this vision and believed he could make it happen. I choose to know he was right. Keep telling your tale, to any and all who will listen. It is so important. Blessed as a Bard be you.

  8. It’s been an honour Jason to share what you were given. I see her wearing the necklace of daisies from my journey that night.. And yes, out of her sadnes she brings us hope and understanding to learn. Blessed Be X

  9. Thanks for sharing your re-telling of the Last Wolf story and your personal experiences and for your wonderful photos of Humphrey Head. I’d agree with your words that a part of England’s wildness died with that wolf. I find it intriguing that wolves haunt us so much, like they’re howling from the realms of the dead to be remembered. Coincidentally as well as writing a Last Wolf poem recently, I’m planning to re-tell the story of ‘how wolves change rivers’ at a local festival in April.

    1. Thank you Lorna. Yes, they do howl from the other realm don’t they. There must be many other places in our landscape where the memory of wolf roams.

  10. What a beautiful poem Jason you have a great talent for capturing the atmosphere and emotion which complement your stunning photographs. You trully are an inspiration, thank you so much for sharing your knowledge of England’s last wolf, I’m grateful. X

  11. There are many things that could be reintroduced. Scotland used to be covered in forests, when I see the barren hills and mountains I can’t help but envision them thick with trees and wildlife. As for the wolf which I respect and love so much, bringing them back to the land I fear would only bring back the hunters subjecting them yet again to the cruel madness of the ego fed blood lust. Hunters are still encroaching the borders of Yellowstone funded by neighbouring farmers. I didn’t know the story of the last wolf in this country it made me feel sad and sickened about how some aspects of certain people haven’t changed even to this day. However, what a wonderful experience to connect with the wolf’s spirit albeit tinged with regret, hope I feel is in absorbing the wolf characteristics to have a better understanding both of wolves and ourselves and move forward in that way. The photos as usual are stunning.

    1. Thank you for your thoughts Linda. Yes, such enigmatic beings as wolves will always have their persecutors and detractors which is very sad. Likewise as we step into our wild truth we will attract criticism, but our strength will help us overcome it.

  12. What a story that is, glad l am able to read it, as you told it, the demise of such a high order, respected by those in the know. I wonder how the land would be if wolf were here as then?

    1. I wonder that too Chris, and ponder on the spine tingle of wolf howl during walks on the remote places of our land. It would certainly add a touch more humility to our time outdoors

  13. Thank you for sharing Amber’s Story England’s Last Wolf. A few years ago on holiday I ran to Humphrey’s Point and now I know the reason for the sadness I felt there.

    Love and Peace to all Linda

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