In February 1953, a letter was published in the National British newspaper The Times

with an extraordinary revelation.

The letter, sent by an associate of Ampleforth Abbey in North Yorkshire, England, gave details

of an ancient manuscript that had recently been discovered in the Abbey's archives.

The text, dating to around 1290 CE, described the various mundanities of the lives of the

Benedictine monks who were thought to have lived there at the time.

All fairly predictable, safe for one, startling detail.

Whilst preparing food for a feast, it was written that when Henry the abbot was about

to say grace, John, one of the brethren, rushed into the hall, claiming to have seen

a great portent outside.

The monks stepped out together, where moments later, they witnessed a large round silver

thing, like a disc flying slowly above them.

It is a story often repeated in the annals of ufology, right up there with Ezekiel's

biblical vision of glowing metal in the sky.

It was of course a hoax, fabricated by two schoolboys of Ampleforth College.

As it transpired, there had never been an Ampleforth Abbey as far back as the 13th century.

In later iterations, to accommodate this minor contrary detail, the story was changed,

swapping Ampleforth for the far more ancient and credible location of nearby Byland Abbey.

We might say that the mutation of such a story is evidence of its fictitious origins.

And yet, as a species of storytellers, we seem naturally predisposed to adapt our stories

in our endless retelling of them, regardless of their veracity.

Sometimes it is only in small ways, a slight change of detail here or there, but never

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