I moved to Farlington, a tiny village in the wilds of North Yorkshire, UK. I used to joke that our local pub, The Blacksmith's Arms, (now immortalised in the Obit: Sam Smiths Bans Live Music thread) was a bit like The Slaughtered Lamb fictional pub featured in the opening scenes of An American Werewolf in London. You know, the scene where the two hitch hikers stumble in from the storm and the whole place goes quiet and the locals stare at them. They then start asking awkward questions about why there is a pentangle above the fireplace and are ultimately asked to leave. While stumbling across the moor at night there is an eerie howl and they are attacked by (at that point) an unidentified beast. It doesn't take a huge leap of imagination to get to 'The Beast of Farlington'. This was also a nickname I gave to my neighbours Spaniel until he had 'the op'!