In Alpine nights of ages old,

A shadow stirred in winter’s cold—

Not kindly saint with gifts to give,

But Krampus, judging how we live.

A horned and hairy winter sprite,

Half-goat, half-demon, born of night;

With birch-rod switch and rattling chain,

He came to warn, not entertain.

Companion to St Nicholas’ round,

He trod the snowy village ground—

While Nicholas blessed the good and true,

Krampus dealt with the naughty few.

Yet far from peaks of snow and pine,

Where Central Europe drew the line,

His spirit wanders shores anew,

Where Whitby’s cliffs cut through the blue.

For not all tales here speak of fang,

Or Gothic fame the tourists hang—

Beyond the shadow of Dracula’s throne,

The Whitby Krampus stands alone.

Lanterns flare and drums resound,

Fur-clad figures cross the ground;

Through Abbey arches, wind, and sleet,

Ancient myth and modern meet.

So let the photos hold the night—

Of folklore’s fire, wild delight—

How Whitby welcomed winter’s guest,

And Krampus walked among the rest.

by polly_hermione #brighton

Sunday's visit to Newstead Abbey brought together festive atmosphere, rich history, and time spent with the incredible Rother Valley Working Newfoundlands. Newstead Abbey, the ancestral home of the poet Lord Byron, carries many stories, and one of the most heartfelt is his bond with his Newfoundland dog, Botswain (often spelled Bosun). Byron was devoted to Botswain, praising the dogâs loyalty, purity, and unwavering companionship.

When Botswain died in 1808, Byron paid tribute to him in a remarkable way. A large memorial was placed on what was believed to be the site of the High Altar of the old priory church at Newstead Abbey. Byron personally wrote the inscription, making the monument both intimate and significant. It still stands today. A powerful reminder of the deep bond between Byron and his Newfoundland.

The Rother Valley Working Newfoundlands carry that heritage forward. Known for their gentle temperaments, impressive strength, and natural aptitude for water rescue, they work as a dedicated team, demonstrating lifesaving techniques, supporting community events, and taking part in charitable activities. Despite their size, they remain calm, patient, and wonderfully people-focused.

Last weekend, the dogs brought joy to families by offering cart rides to children, showcasing both their power and their steady, dependable nature. Their presence created a beautiful connection between the Abbeyâs history and the living descendants of the breed Byron himself adored.

A day filled with heritage, warmth, and the unmistakable charm of these gentle giants.

Sunday’s visit to Newstead Abbey brought together festive atmosphere, rich history, and time spent with the incredible Rother Valley Working Newfoundlands. Newstead Abbey, the ancestral home of the poet Lord Byron, carries many stories, and one of the most heartfelt is his bond with his Newfoundland dog, Botswain (often spelled Bosun). Byron was devoted to Botswain, praising the dog’s loyalty, purity, and unwavering companionship.

When Botswain died in 1808, Byron paid tribute to him in a remarkable way. A large memorial was placed on what was believed to be the site of the High Altar of the old priory church at Newstead Abbey. Byron personally wrote the inscription, making the monument both intimate and significant. It still stands today. A powerful reminder of the deep bond between Byron and his Newfoundland.

The Rother Valley Working Newfoundlands carry that heritage forward. Known for their gentle temperaments, impressive strength, and natural aptitude for water rescue, they work as a dedicated team, demonstrating lifesaving techniques, supporting community events, and taking part in charitable activities. Despite their size, they remain calm, patient, and wonderfully people-focused.

Last weekend, the dogs brought joy to families by offering cart rides to children, showcasing both their power and their steady, dependable nature. Their presence created a beautiful connection between the Abbey’s history and the living descendants of the breed Byron himself adored.

A day filled with heritage, warmth, and the unmistakable charm of these gentle giants.

In Alpine nights of ages old,

A shadow stirred in winter’s cold—

Not kindly saint with gifts to give,

But Krampus, judging how we live.

A horned and hairy winter sprite,

Half-goat, half-demon, born of night;

With birch-rod switch and rattling chain,

He came to warn, not entertain.

Companion to St Nicholas’ round,

He trod the snowy village ground—

While Nicholas blessed the good and true,

Krampus dealt with the naughty few.

Yet far from peaks of snow and pine,

Where Central Europe drew the line,

His spirit wanders shores anew,

Where Whitby’s cliffs cut through the blue.

For not all tales here speak of fang,

Or Gothic fame the tourists hang—

Beyond the shadow of Dracula’s throne,

The Whitby Krampus stands alone.

Lanterns flare and drums resound,

Fur-clad figures cross the ground;

Through Abbey arches, wind, and sleet,

Ancient myth and modern meet.

So let the photos hold the night—

Of folklore’s fire, wild delight—

How Whitby welcomed winter’s guest,

And Krampus walked among the rest.

In Alpine nights of ages old,

A shadow stirred in winter’s cold—

Not kindly saint with gifts to give,

But Krampus, judging how we live.

A horned and hairy winter sprite,

Half-goat, half-demon, born of night;

With birch-rod switch and rattling chain,

He came to warn, not entertain.

Companion to St Nicholas’ round,

He trod the snowy village ground—

While Nicholas blessed the good and true,

Krampus dealt with the naughty few.

Yet far from peaks of snow and pine,

Where Central Europe drew the line,

His spirit wanders shores anew,

Where Whitby’s cliffs cut through the blue.

For not all tales here speak of fang,

Or Gothic fame the tourists hang—

Beyond the shadow of Dracula’s throne,

The Whitby Krampus stands alone.

Lanterns flare and drums resound,

Fur-clad figures cross the ground;

Through Abbey arches, wind, and sleet,

Ancient myth and modern meet.

So let the photos hold the night—

Of folklore’s fire, wild delight—

How Whitby welcomed winter’s guest,

And Krampus walked among the rest.

In Alpine nights of ages old,

A shadow stirred in winter’s cold—

Not kindly saint with gifts to give,

But Krampus, judging how we live.

A horned and hairy winter sprite,

Half-goat, half-demon, born of night;

With birch-rod switch and rattling chain,

He came to warn, not entertain.

Companion to St Nicholas’ round,

He trod the snowy village ground—

While Nicholas blessed the good and true,

Krampus dealt with the naughty few.

Yet far from peaks of snow and pine,

Where Central Europe drew the line,

His spirit wanders shores anew,

Where Whitby’s cliffs cut through the blue.

For not all tales here speak of fang,

Or Gothic fame the tourists hang—

Beyond the shadow of Dracula’s throne,

The Whitby Krampus stands alone.

Lanterns flare and drums resound,

Fur-clad figures cross the ground;

Through Abbey arches, wind, and sleet,

Ancient myth and modern meet.

So let the photos hold the night—

Of folklore’s fire, wild delight—

How Whitby welcomed winter’s guest,

And Krampus walked among the rest.

Unwrapping the cuteness! 🎁 Nori, my playful little Maine Coon kitten, couldn’t resist diving into the festive box full of wrapping paper and cat toys. Watch her curiosity shine as she explores her new favorite play space. Her fluffy fur and adorable antics make every moment a joy to capture. #MaineCoonKitten #CatPhotography #FestiveFun #KittenAdventures #CutenessOverload #MaineCoonLove #KittenPlaytime”

In Alpine nights of ages old,

A shadow stirred in winter’s cold—

Not kindly saint with gifts to give,

But Krampus, judging how we live.

A horned and hairy winter sprite,

Half-goat, half-demon, born of night;

With birch-rod switch and rattling chain,

He came to warn, not entertain.

Companion to St Nicholas’ round,

He trod the snowy village ground—

While Nicholas blessed the good and true,

Krampus dealt with the naughty few.

Yet far from peaks of snow and pine,

Where Central Europe drew the line,

His spirit wanders shores anew,

Where Whitby’s cliffs cut through the blue.

For not all tales here speak of fang,

Or Gothic fame the tourists hang—

Beyond the shadow of Dracula’s throne,

The Whitby Krampus stands alone.

Lanterns flare and drums resound,

Fur-clad figures cross the ground;

Through Abbey arches, wind, and sleet,

Ancient myth and modern meet.

So let the photos hold the night—

Of folklore’s fire, wild delight—

How Whitby welcomed winter’s guest,

And Krampus walked among the rest.

In Alpine nights of ages old,

A shadow stirred in winter’s cold—

Not kindly saint with gifts to give,

But Krampus, judging how we live.

A horned and hairy winter sprite,

Half-goat, half-demon, born of night;

With birch-rod switch and rattling chain,

He came to warn, not entertain.

Companion to St Nicholas’ round,

He trod the snowy village ground—

While Nicholas blessed the good and true,

Krampus dealt with the naughty few.

Yet far from peaks of snow and pine,

Where Central Europe drew the line,

His spirit wanders shores anew,

Where Whitby’s cliffs cut through the blue.

For not all tales here speak of fang,

Or Gothic fame the tourists hang—

Beyond the shadow of Dracula’s throne,

The Whitby Krampus stands alone.

Lanterns flare and drums resound,

Fur-clad figures cross the ground;

Through Abbey arches, wind, and sleet,

Ancient myth and modern meet.

So let the photos hold the night—

Of folklore’s fire, wild delight—

How Whitby welcomed winter’s guest,

And Krampus walked among the rest.

In Alpine nights of ages old,

A shadow stirred in winter’s cold—

Not kindly saint with gifts to give,

But Krampus, judging how we live.

A horned and hairy winter sprite,

Half-goat, half-demon, born of night;

With birch-rod switch and rattling chain,

He came to warn, not entertain.

Companion to St Nicholas’ round,

He trod the snowy village ground—

While Nicholas blessed the good and true,

Krampus dealt with the naughty few.

Yet far from peaks of snow and pine,

Where Central Europe drew the line,

His spirit wanders shores anew,

Where Whitby’s cliffs cut through the blue.

For not all tales here speak of fang,

Or Gothic fame the tourists hang—

Beyond the shadow of Dracula’s throne,

The Whitby Krampus stands alone.

Lanterns flare and drums resound,

Fur-clad figures cross the ground;

Through Abbey arches, wind, and sleet,

Ancient myth and modern meet.

So let the photos hold the night—

Of folklore’s fire, wild delight—

How Whitby welcomed winter’s guest,

And Krampus walked among the rest.

Immerse yourself in the festive spirit of London this holiday season! In 2024, enjoy iconic events like Winter Wonderland at Hyde Park, stunning Christmas lights on Oxford Street, and unique markets throughout the city.

Enhance your experience by staying at the best serviced apartment hotel in Bayswater—Grand Plaza Serviced Apartments. With spacious and comfortable accommodations, it’s the perfect base for your holiday adventures, offering easy access to all the seasonal attractions. Book your stay and create unforgettable memories in London!

In Alpine nights of ages old,

A shadow stirred in winter’s cold—

Not kindly saint with gifts to give,

But Krampus, judging how we live.

A horned and hairy winter sprite,

Half-goat, half-demon, born of night;

With birch-rod switch and rattling chain,

He came to warn, not entertain.

Companion to St Nicholas’ round,

He trod the snowy village ground—

While Nicholas blessed the good and true,

Krampus dealt with the naughty few.

Yet far from peaks of snow and pine,

Where Central Europe drew the line,

His spirit wanders shores anew,

Where Whitby’s cliffs cut through the blue.

For not all tales here speak of fang,

Or Gothic fame the tourists hang—

Beyond the shadow of Dracula’s throne,

The Whitby Krampus stands alone.

Lanterns flare and drums resound,

Fur-clad figures cross the ground;

Through Abbey arches, wind, and sleet,

Ancient myth and modern meet.

So let the photos hold the night—

Of folklore’s fire, wild delight—

How Whitby welcomed winter’s guest,

And Krampus walked among the rest.

In Alpine nights of ages old,

A shadow stirred in winter’s cold—

Not kindly saint with gifts to give,

But Krampus, judging how we live.

A horned and hairy winter sprite,

Half-goat, half-demon, born of night;

With birch-rod switch and rattling chain,

He came to warn, not entertain.

Companion to St Nicholas’ round,

He trod the snowy village ground—

While Nicholas blessed the good and true,

Krampus dealt with the naughty few.

Yet far from peaks of snow and pine,

Where Central Europe drew the line,

His spirit wanders shores anew,

Where Whitby’s cliffs cut through the blue.

For not all tales here speak of fang,

Or Gothic fame the tourists hang—

Beyond the shadow of Dracula’s throne,

The Whitby Krampus stands alone.

Lanterns flare and drums resound,

Fur-clad figures cross the ground;

Through Abbey arches, wind, and sleet,

Ancient myth and modern meet.

So let the photos hold the night—

Of folklore’s fire, wild delight—

How Whitby welcomed winter’s guest,

And Krampus walked among the rest.

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In Alpine nights of ages old,

A shadow stirred in winter’s cold—

Not kindly saint with gifts to give,

But Krampus, judging how we live.

A horned and hairy winter sprite,

Half-goat, half-demon, born of night;

With birch-rod switch and rattling chain,

He came to warn, not entertain.

Companion to St Nicholas’ round,

He trod the snowy village ground—

While Nicholas blessed the good and true,

Krampus dealt with the naughty few.

Yet far from peaks of snow and pine,

Where Central Europe drew the line,

His spirit wanders shores anew,

Where Whitby’s cliffs cut through the blue.

For not all tales here speak of fang,

Or Gothic fame the tourists hang—

Beyond the shadow of Dracula’s throne,

The Whitby Krampus stands alone.

Lanterns flare and drums resound,

Fur-clad figures cross the ground;

Through Abbey arches, wind, and sleet,

Ancient myth and modern meet.

So let the photos hold the night—

Of folklore’s fire, wild delight—

How Whitby welcomed winter’s guest,

And Krampus walked among the rest.

Unwrapping the cuteness! 🎁 Nori, my playful little Maine Coon kitten, couldn’t resist diving into the festive box full of wrapping paper and cat toys. Watch her curiosity shine as she explores her new favorite play space. Her fluffy fur and adorable antics make every moment a joy to capture. #MaineCoonKitten #CatPhotography #FestiveFun #KittenAdventures #CutenessOverload #MaineCoonLove #KittenPlaytime”

In Alpine nights of ages old,

A shadow stirred in winter’s cold—

Not kindly saint with gifts to give,

But Krampus, judging how we live.

A horned and hairy winter sprite,

Half-goat, half-demon, born of night;

With birch-rod switch and rattling chain,

He came to warn, not entertain.

Companion to St Nicholas’ round,

He trod the snowy village ground—

While Nicholas blessed the good and true,

Krampus dealt with the naughty few.

Yet far from peaks of snow and pine,

Where Central Europe drew the line,

His spirit wanders shores anew,

Where Whitby’s cliffs cut through the blue.

For not all tales here speak of fang,

Or Gothic fame the tourists hang—

Beyond the shadow of Dracula’s throne,

The Whitby Krampus stands alone.

Lanterns flare and drums resound,

Fur-clad figures cross the ground;

Through Abbey arches, wind, and sleet,

Ancient myth and modern meet.

So let the photos hold the night—

Of folklore’s fire, wild delight—

How Whitby welcomed winter’s guest,

And Krampus walked among the rest.

In Alpine nights of ages old,

A shadow stirred in winter’s cold—

Not kindly saint with gifts to give,

But Krampus, judging how we live.

A horned and hairy winter sprite,

Half-goat, half-demon, born of night;

With birch-rod switch and rattling chain,

He came to warn, not entertain.

Companion to St Nicholas’ round,

He trod the snowy village ground—

While Nicholas blessed the good and true,

Krampus dealt with the naughty few.

Yet far from peaks of snow and pine,

Where Central Europe drew the line,

His spirit wanders shores anew,

Where Whitby’s cliffs cut through the blue.

For not all tales here speak of fang,

Or Gothic fame the tourists hang—

Beyond the shadow of Dracula’s throne,

The Whitby Krampus stands alone.

Lanterns flare and drums resound,

Fur-clad figures cross the ground;

Through Abbey arches, wind, and sleet,

Ancient myth and modern meet.

So let the photos hold the night—

Of folklore’s fire, wild delight—

How Whitby welcomed winter’s guest,

And Krampus walked among the rest.