Hallowe’en is almost upon us, and I have a true ghost story for you. I know it is true because the events happened to me and some of my family a few days ago.

I observe all the common superstitions. For example, I do not put new shoes on tables, give knives to friends as gifts or bring hawthorn blossom indoors. However, I have never taken ghost stories seriously, no matter how scary they are. All my life I have been convinced that if the supernatural world does exist, it cannot affect the living. After what happened to me on a day out at the seaside, I am reconsidering this long-held belief.

A few days ago, my husband and I travelled from London to Kent to spend time with his daughter and son-in-law. The county of Kent, which is known as the garden of England, has a long coastline with several popular seaside resorts overlooking the English Channel. During our visit we made a trip to Broadstairs, which is a former fishing town with a seafaring tradition. It was a warm day for the time of year. We worked up a thirst walking along the cliffs with our dogs and decided to have drinks before lunch.

The venue we chose was built in 1600 and has been a public house ever since. It is so close to the sea that in the old days, returning fishermen and sailors were only a few steps away from a refreshing beer. The interior of the pub does not appear to have changed much since it was built. Dark wooden beams support the low ceilings of small, cosy rooms. It is not the kind of place where people stand up to drink. The customers were seated sedately at solid wooden tables.

Soon we were seated at a heavy rectangular table, some distance away from the others. My stepdaughter and her husband were sitting on a cushioned bench. Behind them a wooden partition screened us from the entrance door. My husband and I sat in low-backed chairs on the opposite side of the table from them. He was on my left, facing his son-in-law, and I faced my stepdaughter. In a cool spot a little way from our table, the Rhodesian Ridgeback and the black Labrador dozed on the floor. On the table was a menu in a holder and our drinks. My stepdaughter was enjoying a glass of gin and tonic, the men were drinking pints of beer and I had half a pint of craft ale.

While we drank, I looked around at the framed pictures on the wood panelled walls. Most of them were the usual kind of prints and faded photographs popular in local pubs, but one of them was different. I had never seen anything like the framed rhyme, decorated and hand-written in ancient style – ‘ye’ instead of ‘you’ and so on. The words were a polite and humorous request for customers to finish their drinks and leave when the landlord called closing time. Other than the language, nothing about the picture struck me as being very ancient. I suppose it might have been a hundred and fifty years old.

‘Look at that. Isn’t it funny?’ I said to my stepdaughter.

She could not see the rhyme, because it was positioned directly above her head, at the top of the wooden partition.

That was why I read the mysterious rhyme aloud.

Then I felt the table move and heard the clunk of a pint glass as it fell over on our table, knocking the menu to one side.

The next thing I knew, half a litre of beer was flowing in my direction.

Quickly I pushed my chair backwards. A splash of beer hit my knee, but most of it landed on the floor at my feet. My stepson-in-law, who is the last person you would suspect of knocking over a pint of beer, was looking gobsmacked.

‘I never touched it!’ he said.

I looked at my husband, who nodded. ‘It’s true. He didn’t touch the glass.’

Immediately the landlord was there with a cloth to wipe up the spill. A fresh, and free, pint of beer appeared on our table within seconds.

By now the larger dog was awake and on her feet. Her tail was wagging and her nose was on her master’s shoulder. ‘Could she have knocked your beer over?’ I asked.

Both men were adamant that the dogs had been lying down and nowhere near the table when the glass of beer fell.

‘It just went,’ said my husband.

I found this difficult to believe. ‘Something bumped against the table. Didn’t you feel it?’

All three of them shook their heads. I was the only one who had felt the table move.

Looking back on it, I am amazed that after our weird experience we stayed in the pub to finish our drinks. I think we felt reassured by the atmosphere. It was a sunny afternoon, and everyone was having a good time. The regulars we spoke to seemed unsurprised that a pint of beer had fallen over for no apparent reason. It did not occur to me that this was odd until a few days later.

The other thing I remembered afterwards was which craft ale I had been drinking.

It was called ‘Ghost Ship’.