The Spirits of the Sun Inn, Clun

Hidden away in the ancient and brooding landscape of the Shropshire hills stands an old country inn—timber-framed, oak-beamed, and heavy with age. Nestled in the heart of Clun’s winding High Street, this fifteenth-century building has seen centuries of life pass through its doors. But not all those who enter ever truly leave.

Once a simple barn—built when Norman knights still rode the land—the structure evolved over the ages. Now, it is a Grade II listed public house with a roaring fireplace, timeworn wooden panels, and the lingering scent of wood smoke in the air. A sliver of seventeenth-century wallpaper peeks from behind plaster in the lounge bar, a fragile reminder of lives long gone. But it is what cannot be seen that makes the inn truly unforgettable.

The first signs were subtle. Darts falling from a board on their own. Not once or twice—but regularly. Even when pushed in firmly, the darts would eventually drop, as though unseen hands plucked them free. One night, the peaceful silence of the bar was broken when the darts hit the floor once more—followed by beer mats peeling themselves from the walls, unsticking despite the strong tack holding them. The lights flickered. The room felt charged. Something, it seemed, was stirring.

There is a corridor that leads from the bar to the rear rooms—a quiet stretch of building, easily overlooked. But it is here where things grow stranger. The air becomes thick, electric. A faint tingling sensation creeps across the skin. Many have seen a fleeting figure pass through this corridor: a pale shape, cloaked in white. Not menacing, not angry—but watchful. She glides, often stopping momentarily as though peering into this world from another.

The kitchen staff feel her most. When she’s near, they pause their work, listening to a silence that suddenly feels too loud. The atmosphere shifts. There’s movement in the corner of the eye, followed by a breeze that has no source. Then she is gone.

But not all who linger here are so quiet.

From time to time, a shadow appears at the far end of the same corridor—a dark figure, not shaped by light but by the absence of it. One day, as preparations were underway in the kitchen, the white figure passed by in her usual fashion… and then something else emerged. A black shape, slow and deliberate. It paused. It watched. And it was aware. Its presence carried weight, dread, and a sense of ancient, silent judgment. Those who see it are often left shaken—some fleeing the room entirely, driven by instinct alone.

Further unease can be found upstairs, in the oldest part of the building. The rooms above the former bakery, long unused and untouched, exude a strange stillness. One guest, staying in the room at the end of the hall, reported nothing out of the ordinary—until morning. As she stood at the sink, brushing her teeth, a column of mist formed beside her. Dense and vertical, it wasn’t steam or condensation. Curious, she placed her hand into it. Part of her hand vanished into the white. It was cold. Still. Silent. She searched for explanations, testing the taps, inspecting the walls—yet nothing made sense. Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the mist was gone.

Another encounter came in the dead of night. An alarm clock, never used, suddenly burst into sound at precisely 3:00 a.m. As the startled occupant turned to silence it, she noticed the air had changed. Mist. Thick and swirling. It danced through the room, never still, curling around the bedposts, brushing against the furniture. She watched, frozen, as it slowly made its way toward her—before it simply faded into nothing.

But not all apparitions come with mist and shadow. In the lounge bar, where the fire burns low and the ales flow freely, a man has been seen standing quietly by the hatch. He does nothing—just watches. Yet those who glimpse him note the pointed beard, the dark clothes, and the eerie stillness. He belongs to another time—perhaps the seventeenth century. And woe betide those who stand too long in his place. A firm, invisible shove often encourages them to step aside.

And then, there is the woman in the snug.

She sits beneath the clock, quiet, composed, and always alone. At first, she seems like any other patron. But if one turns away and then looks again—she’s gone. Her presence is gentle, yet resolute. She is no stranger to the building. Some say she once ran the inn in life, and now, in death, she simply continues to do so.

The Sun Inn is more than just an old country pub. It is a place where time blurs, where echoes of the past spill into the present. Spirits linger in corners, drift through walls, and breathe life into the silence. And if you stay long enough, you may just catch a glimpse of something—someone—watching you back.